Acts of War oc-4

by Tom Clancy

  Hood felt sick.

  A moment later one of the Syrians stepped over the body. He was a big man, about six-foot-five, with a white kaffiyeh and a full, black beard. The 9mm parabellum at his side was smoking slightly, and there were two bullet holes in the chest of his khaki jacket. He stood there, his frame filling the doorway on all sides.

  "You are Hood?" he asked in stilted English. His gravelly voice seemed to come from a cave.

  "Yes," Hood said.

  The man kicked over the gun that had belonged to the dead man. It spun over on a sheet of blood. "Keep this," he said as he pulled the bottom of his kaffiyeh across his face. "Use it if you must."

  Hood picked it up. "Who are you?"

  "Mista'aravim," he replied. "You stay here."

  "I want to go with you," Hood said.

  The man shook his great head. "I was told that Mr. Herbert will personally kick my ass if anything happens to you." He pulled a fresh ammunition clip from the deep pockets of his pants and replaced the spent clip in his parabellum.

  "What about the others?" Hood asked.

  "Look for videotapes in here," the big man said. "If you find them, take them."

  "All right," Hood said. "But the ambassador, my associates—"

  "I'll see to them," the man said, "and I'll be back for you." With that, he turned and walked back along the corridor.

  There was a sudden surge of gunfire in other parts of the palace. Save for the man's heavy footsteps, it was unnervingly quiet in this wing.

  Hood returned to the monitor. He watched as the big man rejoined the others. The Mista'aravim were deep-cover Israeli Defense Force commandos who masquerade as Arabs. Herbert had very close contacts with the Israeli military, and had probably asked for help here. Their undercover nature was why the operative wanted Hood to look for tapes: There mustn't be a record of his face.

  The five men stood along the wall on either side of the reception room door. They had divided into two groups and were putting something on the marble walls. Hood suspected that it was C-4. They'd use the plastic explosive to distract the Kurds while at the same time creating an opening through which they could fire.

  Hood began searching for the tapes. He found two half-inch videotape machines in a cabinet under the console. He popped the tapes from each. Then he stopped and swore.

  The tapes weren't the only records of the Mista'aravim. The Kurds had seen them too. For that, they would have to die. And to make absolutely certain that they did, the Israelis would probably pepper the room with gunfire before they went in. That was how the Israelis worked. Sometimes the good had to be sacrificed with the bad for the benefit of the rest.

  But that wasn't how Hood worked. He picked up the phone.

  "Warner," he whispered, "if you can hear me, stay put. I think all hell's about to—"

  An instant later all hell did break loose. The alabaster walls exploded chest-high on both sides of the door and the masked Israelis stood at the openings. As the Kurds opened fire on them, the faster, more powerful Israeli rifles replied with one, deadly voice.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Tuesday, 3:43 p.m.,

  the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

  When he saw the spray of blood, Phil Katzen screamed curses at Kurds. Oblivious to the sharp pains in his side, he tried to crawl up the slope to the roadway.

  Falah laid his guns down. He put his arms around the American's waist and held him back. "Wait!" he cried. "Wait! Something is not right—"

  Katzen pressed his forehead to the dry earth. "They killed her. Shot her without a thought!" He pounded his fists slowly on either side.

  "I don't think so," Falah said. "Shhh I think I hear her."

  Katzen quieted. He heard the grinding of gears as the ROC drove off. Then he heard whimpering from the ledge. "Mary Rose?" Katzen wondered aloud. Other than the sobbing, there was absolute silence. Katzen glanced over at Falah. "If she's alive, something must have happened to the man who was going to shoot her."

  "That is true," Falah said. He retrieved his guns. "It was probably his blood we saw."

  "But how?" Katzen asked. "I don't see how any of the other prisoners could have escaped. There were iron grates on those pits."

  "No one escaped," said Falah. "If they had there would be shouts, running around. Just the opposite has happened. No one is moving." He looked off to the south. He squinted. "If it was the Kurd who was shot, he had to have been picked off. I shut down the radio an hour ago. That would have enough time for a quick 'go' decision and rapid-deployment ingress."

  Striker, Katzen thought. He followed Falah's gaze.

  Before Katzen could scan the trees for movement, someone shouted from above. He was yelling in English, threatening to kill three hostages.

  "He's not talking to us," Falah said. "Someone sniped the killer. He's talking to them."

  "If that's true," Katzensaid, "the ROC may spot whoever's out there."

  "We can't even take the ROC out," Falah said. "It seems the Kurds have moved it." He climbed over Katzen and handed him one of the guns. "You stay here. I'm going to try and find them, warn—"

  Before he could move farther, there was a faint pop and then a whistle from the southeast. Katzen looked up as a small, black projectile rocketed toward the cave. Another came seconds later, followed by a third. They exploded in rapid succession, sending out thick copper-colored clouds.

  "Neo-phosgene!" Katzen said.

  "What?" Falah asked.

  "A new lung agent," Katzen said. "It induces asthma-like effects for about five minutes. Striker's the only team that has it."

  At full dispersion the gas seemed to freeze, like cotton. Within moments the liquid content evaporated and the remaining vapor sunk to the ground in a thick pancake. The edges of the pancake crept toward the edge of the slope and spilled over. The men watched as Mary Rose fell forward. Her torso dopped over the ledge and she lay there gasping for breath.

  "Come on," Katzen said. "The cloud itself will turn white and non-toxic in about two minutes. We may be able to get our people out before the Kurds recover."

  "No," Falah said. "You stay here. Your broken ribs will slow us both down."

  "Horseshit," Katzen said. "I'll look after Mary Rose, but I'm coming up."

  Falah agreed, and began clawing up the slope. His speed and dexterity momentarily took Katzen aback. Being out of the field so much these days, he sometimes forgot the breathtaking skill with which indigenous people maneuvered in their native terrain.

  Stretching out his leg on the side with the broken rib, Katzen tried to immobilize that side as much as possible. Tucking the gun in his belt, he began crawling up. All the while he cast looks above, to the south, and below. Despite being out of the field, he didn't forget the swiftness and surprise with which Striker struck. If neophosgene gave them a five-minute window to get in and wrap things up, they'd be here with everything wrapped up in five minutes or less.

  As he was looking south, Katzen heard footsteps on the road above. He looked up. Falah was still climbing and the gas was still brownish, still potent. He couldn't see the road itself, but he saw the edges of the cloud swirl as though people were moving through it. Then someone appeared beside Mary Rose. He was wearing a camouflage uniform and a gas mask. He knelt beside her, put his arms around her shoulders, and carefully pulled her from the slope. Then he put her over his shoulder and was gone.

  Falah practically vaulted up the last few yards to the ledge. Standing just outside the clearly defined edge of fire gas, Falah looked back at Katzen. The Israeli smiled enthusiastically, gave Katzen a thumbs-up, then ran in the direction of the cave.

  There was no longer any need for Katzen to continue his climb. With pain stabbing him from jaw to waist, he gladly settled belly-down on a soft patch of grass. He breathed using the "Buddha" technique he'd learned in first aid. He expanded his belly rather than his chest to minimize the pain of the broken rib.

  As he lay there, contentedly listening to a concerto of fain
t but regular wheezing and the stop-and-start crunch of boots on dirt and pebbles, he was shocked alert by the sound of gunfire. From the echo, it sounded as if it were coming from deep within the cave.

  Pulling one knee and his palms underneath him, Katzen struggled to drag himself the rest of the way up the slope.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Tuesday, 3:45 p.m.,

  Damascus, Syria

  Mahmoud had been leaning with both hands against a table beside the mahmal when the wall of the reception room blew in. He'd wanted to be a part of the defense of their small bastion, but he hadn't the strength. He hadn't even been able to check the room for stragglers who might have survived the blast engineered by their suicide bomber, Saber Mohseni.

  Already weakened by a bullet in the leg and another in his left side, Mahmoud was shaken to the ground by the blast. Though shamed by his infirmity, he avoided the scythe of gunfire which slashed once across the room chest-high, and then once back again knee-high. The other Kurds were not so lucky. They'd taken up positions behind chairs and columns in the center of the room, braced for an attack. But the powerful Turkish-made G3 rifles cut them apart.

  Lying with his cheek on the cold tile, Mahmoud listened as the gunfire died along with his troops. Unhurt in the latest fusillade, he left his eyes open just a crack. He stared across the floor covered with shattered crystal and broken bodies. He watched as a face appeared in each of the wall-openings. The bottom of their kaffiyehs had been pulled across the nose and mouth of each man. Mahmoud had suspected that these were not the President's elite bodyguard. Now he was certain. These men did not wish to be identified. Also, the President's bodyguards didn't shoot to kill. They used gas to debilitate foes so they could capture and torture them. The Syrian President liked to know about possible conspiracies and his inquisitors couldn't question a dead man. Finally, these men had shot blindly into a room containing the holy mahmal. No Muslim would have dared commit such sacrilege.

  No, these men were not Syrians. Mahmoud suspected that they were Mista'aravim, Israelis who masqueraded as Syrians.

  Mahmoud's gun was lying beside him in the dark. He picked it up. He could still help to make the goal a reality. His fingers tensed around the butt. His index finger slid through the trigger guard. There were still Syrian Kurds in the building and they were fighting on. So would he.

  The men strode into the reception room. One man remained behind to watch the corridor while the others fanned out. Two men moved along the northern wall, two along the southern wall. They were all walking toward him as they peered through the dark, quickly checking the bodies as they made their way to the rear wall. They seemed to be looking for someone.

  Mahmoud was dizzy from the loss of blood, but he fought to stay alert. The men were about twenty feet away. The two walking along the southern wall were making toward an alcove in the rear. The men moving along the northern wall passed a pair of ottomans. The backs of the divans had been splintered by their rifle fire. There were two small cedars in ceramic planters, one on either side of the ottomans. The trees had been chewed nearly in half.

  Suddenly, something stirred behind the farthest tree.

  "'Watch out!" a voice cried in Syrian.

  The voice was drowned out as Mahmoud opened fire on the two men near the planters. He put two rounds into the leg of the man nearest him. Then he shot at the second man, who fell, a bullet in his thigh. But as Mahmoud turned to fire at the men on the other side of the room, a dark form descended on him. A strong hand pinned Mahmoud's gun hand to the floor while a fist struck his jaw.

  "Get back!" a different voice yelled.

  The dark form jumped away. Mahmoud saw two rifles swing toward him. A moment later a shower of 9mm shells ripped into his body. His eyes closed reflexively as bullets punched his right shoulder, his back, his neck, his jaw, and his side. But there was no pain. When the shooting ended there was no sensation of any kind. Mahmoud was unable to move or breathe or even open his eyes.

  Allah, I've failed, he thought as he was overcome by sadness. But then consciousness gave way to oblivion and failure, like success, no longer mattered.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, 3:51 p.m.,

  Damascus, Syria

  Warner Bicking rose. He held up his hands, one of which was bloodied from the punch he'd delivered to the Kurd's prominent jaw.

  "I'm on your side," Bicking said in Syrian. "Do you understand?"

  A short man with a high, scarred forehead hoisted his rifle into his armpit. As he walked toward Bicking, he motioned for his companion, a giant of a man, to go to the others. Bicking stole a glance to the right as the big man effortlessly picked up one of the men who'd been shot in the leg. He tossed the man over his shoulder, then lifted up the second.

  "I'm an American," Bicking went on, "and these men are my colleagues." He cocked his head toward the planter, where Haveles and Nasr had also sought refuge. They rose.

  The man standing watch at the door turned suddenly. "People are coming!"

  The short man looked at his big companion. "Can you manage?"

  The giant nodded as he shifted the weight of the man on his right shoulder. Then he held his rifle so it was pointing straight ahead, between the man's legs.

  The short man turned to Bicking. "Come with us."

  "Who are you people?" Haveles asked. The ambassador stepped forward unsteadily. He reminded Bicking of a car-crash victim who was in glassy-eyed shock but still insisted that he was okay.

  "We were sent to collect you," the short man said. "You must come now or remain here."

  "The representatives of Japan and Russia are in the room as well," Haveles said. "They're in the alcove over—"

  "Only you," the short man said. He turned toward the door and motioned to the man standing who was there. The man nodded and headed left down the corridor. The short man turned back. "Now!"

  Bicking took the ambassador by the arm. "Let's go. The palace guard will have to handle the rest of this."

  "No," said Haveles. "I'll stay with the others."

  "Mr. Ambassador, there's still fighting—"

  "I'll stay," he insisted.

  Bicking saw that there was no point arguing. "All right," he said. "We'll see you later at the embassy."

  Haveles turned and took stiff, mechanical steps toward the dark alcove which doubled as a bar area. He joined the other men who had sought safety in the shadows.

  The big man headed to the door, followed by the smaller man.

  "Our train is pulling out," Nasr said as he walked past Bicking.

  Bicking nodded and joined him.

  The man who'd gone down the hall returned with Paul Hood. Hood handed the videotapes to the short man, and the group started down the hall. Two of the masked men were in front and the giant was in the rear.

  "Where are the ambassadors?" Hood asked. "Is everyone all right?"

  Bicking nodded. He glanced at his red knuckles. He hadn't punched anyone in six years. "Almost everyone," he said, thinking about the Kurd.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The Kurds are all dead and Ambassador Haveles is slightly shaken up," Bicking said. "But he decided to stay. Our escorts here were pretty specific about who they were willing to take."

  "Only our group," Hood said.

  "Right."

  "And it probably cost Bob Herbert a lot of chits to get that."

  "I'm sure," Bicking said. "Well, diplomatically, it's probably the smart thing for the ambassador to have done. There'd be a major international shitstorm if a rescue attempt favored Washington. Not that Japan or Russia would spit on an American diplomat if he were burning."

  "You're wrong," Hood said. "I think they would."

  The men continued down the corridor to a gold door. It was locked. The man in front shot off the knob and kicked the door in. They entered, the man in the rear closed the door, and the man in front turned on a flashlight. The group proceeded quickly through a grand ballroom. Even in the near-dark Bicking
could feel the weight of the gold drapes, smell their long history.

  There was a sudden clattering of boots outside the door. The three men of the Mista'aravim froze, their weapons turned toward the hallway. The flashlight was doused and the short man hurried back to the gold door.

  "Continue straight ahead and wait by the kitchen," the giant man whispered to Hood, Nasi, and Bicking.

  They did as they were told. As they walked, Hood looked back. The small man peeked through the hole where the knob used to be. When no one entered, the masked men rejoined them.

  The small man said something to the others in Syrian.

  "Presidential guards," Bicking translated for Hood as they ran through the enormous kitchen.

  "Then this whole thing was a kabuki, as the ambassador suggested," said Nasr. He pushed back his wavy gray hair, which had become disheveled in the excitement. It immediately fell back over his forehead.

  "What do you mean?" asked Hood.

  "The Syrian President expected this to happen," Nasr said, "just as Ambassador Haveles predicted. He allowed his stand-in and the foreign ambassadors to take the heart of the attack, protected only by palace guards—"

  "Who are like museum or bank security personnel in the U.S.," Bicking interjected. "They're trained for one-on-one response. If there's big trouble they have to call for help."

  "Correct," said Nasr. "When the President was certain the Kurds had sent in the bulk of their force, he had his elite guards close the door on them."

  "The President uses other nations as a buffer against his enemies," Bicking said. "He uses Lebanon to throw terrorists against Israel, Greece to fight Turkey, and helps Iran to create trouble around the world. We should have been prepared for him to do the same with people."

  The sounds of gunfire increased. Hood imagined phalanxes of well-armed soldiers moving through the corridors, gunning down any and all opposition. Though wounded Kurds would be captured, he couldn't imagine any of them surrendering. Most would find death preferable to incarceration.