Falah had been too young to serve in the 1982 invasion, but he'd worked undercover in Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq, and dangerously in the open in Jordan. The Jordanian assignment had been the last, not to mention the shortest and most difficult. While patrolling a border sector in the Jordan Valley after a terrorist attack on the town of Mashav Argaman, Falah had gone ahead of his small force of soldiers. He noticed that a hole had been cut through the thick rows of concertina wire which had been stretched along the border--a sign of infiltration. The single set of tracks led back into Jordan. Afraid that he might lose the terrorist, Falah raced ahead alone, pushing a quarter mile into the desert hills. There, following the footprints and his nose, he entered a gully. Moving ahead cautiously, he spotted a man who fit the description of the assassin who had shot a local politician and his son. Falah didn't hesitate. One couldn't in this part of the world. He swung his CAR-15 around as the Jordanian turned and aimed his AK-47. The guns fired simultaneously and both men went down. Falah had been wounded in the shoulder and left arm. The Jordanian had been killed.
Hiding from a Jordanian patrol which had heard the shots, Falah waited until nightfall before crawling back toward the border. He was pale and weak when his unit finally found him inside Jordan.
Falah was told he'd get a medal. All he wanted was coffee laced with cardamom. He received both--the coffee first, happily. He recovered quickly, and in nine weeks was back on active patrol. When his hitch ended, Falah decided it was time to pursue another line of work. He hadn't considered becoming a police officer. Though there was a great demand for military-trained personnel, the pay was low and the hours long. But Master Sergeant Vilnai had arranged this job for him. It was such an open display of personal concern that Falah could hardly decline the position--even though he knew that Vilnai's real motive was to keep his dischargee in good physical condition and close to the Sayeret Ha'Druzim's regional base at Tel Nef.
The ride to Tel Nef took just over a half hour. Once inside the nondescript base, Falah was driven to a small, one-story brick building. It was empty. The real office was in a bunker ten feet below reinforced concrete. There, it was safe from Syrian artillery, Iraqi Scuds, and most any other conventional weapons which might be hurled at it. During its twenty-year history, most of those weapons had been fired at the base.
Falah passed through the staircase checkpoint and walked into the small office shared by Major Maton Yarkoni and Master Sergeant Vilnai. An orderly shut the door behind him and left the two men alone.
Major Yarkoni was not present. He was usually in the field with his troops, which was why Vilnai spent so much time here. Falah was convinced that whereas everyone else in the brigade got too much sunlight, Vilnai got far too little. That would help to account for his chronic bad humor. Studying maps and communiques, keeping track of troop movements, and processing intelligence in this dark, stuffy hole would have made even a Desert Prophet cross.
The barrel-cheated Vilnai rose when Falah entered. The former infantryman accepted the sergeant's hand as he offered it across his metal desk.
"You're not in the service anymore," Vilnai reminded him.
Falah smiled. "Am I not?"
"Not officially," he admitted. He held his hand toward a wooden chair. "Sit down, Falah. Would you care for a cigarette?"
The Israeli frowned as he took a seat. He knew what the offering meant. Falah only used tobacco when he was among Arabs, most of whom were chain-smokers. He selected a cigarette from the case on the desk. Vilnai offered him a match. Falah hacked as the first drag went down.
"You're out of practice," the sergeant observed.
"Very. I ought to go home."
"If you'd like," Vilnai said.
Falah looked at him through the smoke. "You're too kind."
"Of course," Vilnai said, "you'll have to crawl under the barbed wire and through the minefield around the base."
"I used to do that for my daily warm-up," Falah smiled.
"I know," Vilnai said. "You were the best."
"You flatter me."
"I find it helps," Viltrai said.
Falah took another drag on the cigarette. It went down more smoothly. "The master puppeteer works his marionettes," he said.
Vilnai smiled for the first time. "Is that what I am? A master puppeteer? There is only one puppeteer, my friend." He shot a look at the white ceiling as he sat down. "And sometimes--no, most times--I feel as though Allah cannot decide whether we're performing in a tragedy, or in a comedy. All that I do know is that the play is as unpredictable as ever."
Thoughts of his own well-being evaporated as Falah regarded his former superior. "What's happened, Sergeant?"
The master sergeant splayed his fingers on his desk and looked at them. "Shortly before phoning you, I was on a conference call with Major General Bar-Levi in Haifa and an American intelligence officer, Robert Herbert of the National Crisis Management Center in Washington, D.C."
"I've heard of that group," Falah said. "Why?"
"They were part of that New Jacobin takedown in Toulouse."
"Yes," Falah said enthusiastically. "The neo-Nazi hate games on the internet. That was a beautiful piece of work."
Vilnai nodded. "Very. They're a good outfit with a superb young strike force. Only they managed to stumble down a well in Turkey. You heard about the terrorist attack on the Ataturk Dam."
"That's all they're talking about in Kiryat Shmona," he said. "That and a raw diamond old Nehemiah found in the sand at the kibbutz. It was probably dropped by a smuggler, but everyone's convinced there's a vein under the settlement."
Vilnai looked up sharply.
"Sorry," Falah said. "Please continue."
"The Americans were field-testing a new mobile intelligence facility in the region," Vilnai said. "Very sophisticated, able to access satellites and listen to every form of electronic communication. On their way back to Syria, the Ataturk terrorists--at least, the Americans believe it was the same terrorists--came upon the facility and captured it. Along with this Regional Operations Center, the Syrians were able to take its crew." Vilnai consulted his notes. "There were two strike force soldiers, a General Michael Rodgers, a technician who helped to design the mobile unit and can help the Syrians run it, two NCMC officials, and a Turkish security officer."
"As the Americans would say, a grand slam," Falah obselved. "Damascus will be celebrating tonight."
"Damascus does not appear to have been behind this," Vilnai said.
"The Kurds?"
Vilnai nodded.
"I'm not surprised," Falah said. "There have been rumblings about a new offensive for over a year now."
"I've heard those rumblings too," Vilnai admitted. "But I discounted them. most everyone did. We didn't think they could put aside their differences long enough to make any kind of effective union."
"Well, they have. And this was an impressive show for them."
"An impressive first act," Vilnai corrected. "Our American friend Mr. Herbert believes that the van containing the equipment and his people is still in Turkey but headed toward the Bekaa Valley. A strike team has been dispatched from Washington to try and take it back."
"Ah," Falah said. "And they need a guide." He pointed to himself.
"No," Vilnai said. "What they need, Falah, is someone to find it."
* * *
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 12:45 a.m.,
Barak, Turkey
While Ibrahim drove the twenty-five miles to Barak, Hasan had been busy taking inventory of the ROC's cargo. Mahmoud, meanwhile, sat in the passenger's seat, four of his prisoners at his feet. He was teaching himself how to use the radio. Any questions he had were passed from Hasan to Mary Rose. Rodgers had instructed her to answer. He didn't want to push the terrorists again. Not yet. Within minutes, Mahmoud had discovered the frequency used by the Turkish border patrol. Mary Rose showed him how to communicate with them. But he didn't.
The Turkish border town of Barak lies just
west of the Euphrates. By the time the ROC arrived, the floodwaters had covered the floors of wood-frame homes, stores, and a mosque in the northeastern sector of the village. The town was deserted, save for a few cows and goats and an old man who sat on his porch, his feet in the water. Apparently, he just hadn't felt like going anywhere.
Ibrahim passed south through the near-lifeless town, then stopped the ROC less than three yards from rolls of barbed wire strung between six-foot-high posts. The driver said something to Hasan, who nodded and walked over to Rodgers.
The general had been tied between the computer station chairs. He was kneeling and facing the rear of the van. Private Pupshaw was still draped over the chair, and Sondra had been returned to hers. The only concession the Syrians had allowed was to let Phil Katzen to tend to Colonel Seden's bullet wound. Though the Turk had lost a good deal of blood, the wound itself wasn't grave. Rodgers knew that they hadn't done that simply out of mercy. They probably wanted Colonel Seden for something important. Unlike some terrorists who soften toward their hostages as time passes, these three didn't seem to understand concession or compromise. They certainly didn't practice mercy. To the contrary, they had demonstrated their willingness to hurt or kill. On their home ground, with their comrades, there was no telling what they would do. Even if the hostages weren't killed, there was a good chance the men or women would be seriuously abused.
Rodgers realized that he was going to have to try to move quickly against their captors.
Hasan looked down at Pupshaw. "You will come with me," the Syrian said as he cut the bonds around Private Pupshaw's legs.
"Where are you taking him?" Rodgers asked.
"Outside," Hasan said as he led the American from the van.
When Rodgers saw Hasan tie Pupshaw's hands to the door handle on the driver's side, and heard Hasan tell him to stand on the narrow running board, Rodgers knew what the Syrians were planning.
There was just over a quarter mile of "no-man's-land" between this fence and the one situated at the Syrian border. Rodgers knew that both wire fences were electrified. The Syrians probably knew it too. If they hadn't known it before they arrived, the baked-on insects were a giveaway. Cutting the wire at any point would break the circuit and set off an alarm at the nearest checkpoint. Turkish guards would respond by land or air before anyone could cross in either direction. In this case, Rodgers didn't know whether the sight of hostages would deter the Turks from attacking the van or whether it wouldn't make any difference. They probably wanted to stop the Ataturk bombers so bad that they would shoot first and check IDs later.
Rodgers debated with himself whether or not to tell the Syrians another of the ROC's capabilities. If the terrorists knew, it would be even less reason for them ever to return the van. But the lives of his crew were at risk.
When Hasan returned for Sondra, Rodgers called him over. He had to tell him.
"You don't have to do this," Rodgers said. "Our van is bullet-proof."
"Not the wheels."
"Yes, the wheels," Rodgers said. "They're lined with Kevlar. Nothing is going to happen to the van."
Hasan thought for a moment. "Why should I believe this?"
"Test it. Fire a bullet."
"You would like that," Hasan said. "The Turks would hear."
"And shoot us all," Rodgers said.
Hasan thought again. "If this is so and your tires are bullet-proof, then we can just ride over the wire. Correct?"
"No," Rodgers said. "When the van hits, the metal chassis will still conduct electricity. We'll all be killed."
Hasan nodded.
"Look," Rodgers said, "having my people tied to the side isn't going to stop the Turks. You know that. The border patrol will shoot right through them to try and get to you. Keep them inside and we'll all be safe."
Hasan shook his head. "If the border patrol comes, they may not shoot. They will see one of their own people tied to the outside. And they will want to question us." He bent over Sondra and began to untie her.
"I know these people," Rodgers yelled. "I tell you, they'll try and cripple the van and they won't lose sleep over who dies in the process, even one of their own. And what'll you do if they chase you into Syria?"
"That is the Syrian military's problem."
"Not if we get caught in an artillery cross fire," Rodgers said. "If you'll just give me a little time, we can get across without the Turks even being aware of it.
Hagan stopped untying Sondra. "How?"
"We keep insulated cable in the van for patching into satellite uplinks when we have to," Rodgers said. "Let me rig an arc across the barbed wire so we don't break the circuit. Then I'll cut the wire and you can drive right over the cable. Once we cross the field I'll do the same thing on the other side. It'll be quiet. No alarms and no patrols."
"Why should I trust you to do this?" Hagan asked. "If you were to break the circuit, we wouldn't know until the Turks arrive."
"I don't gain anything by bringing the guards down on us," Rodgers replied. "Even if they don't shoot us, you'd probably kill my people in retaliation. That defeats the purpose."
Hasan considered this, then reported to Mahmoud.
There was a short conversation, after which Hasan returned to the back of the van.
"How long will it take to make these connections?"
"Three quarters of an hour at the most," Rodgers said. "It'll take less time if you help."
"I will help," Hasan said as he retied Sondra and began to untie the general. "But I warn you, if you try to get away, I will kill you and one of your people. Do you understand?"
Rodgers nodded.
Hasan finished removing the restraining rope, and shoved it into his back pocket. Then he retrieved the wire shears from the tool chest in the rear of the van. Rodgers held out his hand, and Hasan hesitated. Mahmoud upholstered his gun and pointed it at Mary Rose. Hasan handed the shears to Rodgers.
While Hasan collected the cable, Rodgers used a staple gun to make a protective, insulated mitt from a pair of rubber mouse pads. When he was finished, he went outside with Hasan.
Rodgers worked quickly under the glow of the headlights. As he bent beside the fence, he couldn't help but think about what he was doing. Not about rewiring the fence. That was rote. He and Hasan cut the cable into two ten-foot lengths, stripped the ends, and used the mitt to wrap them carefully around the two separate but intermeshed coils of barbed wire. Then they laid the cable on the ground and cut the barbed wire. Rodgers used the mitt to pull it aside and staple the end to the post.
No, what Rodgers thought about during those twenty-seven minutes was the fact that it was his job to try to stop these bastards. Now here he was, helping them to escape. He tried to justify his actions by telling himself that they would probably get away regardless. This way, at least, his people wouldn't be hurt. But the idea of being a collaborator, for whatever reason, stuck in his throat and refused to go down.
When they finished, Hasan gave an okay sign to Mahmoud. The leader motioned them back inside. As they entered, Rodgers removed his mitt. He paused to cut Pupshaw free.
Hasan pushed his gun against Rodgers's temple. "What are you doing?" he asked harshly.
"Letting my man back in."
"You presume a great deal," Hasan said.
"I thought we had an agreement," Rodgers replied. "I wire the fence, my people ride inside."
"Truly," said Hasan, "we have this agreement." He pulled the shears away from Rodgers. "But it is not for you to give freedom."
"I'm sorry," Rodgers said. "I was only trying to hurry things along."
"Don't pretend that you are on our side," Hasan said. "Your lie insults us both." Hasan lowered the gun. He used it to motion Rodgers inside.
Rodgers watched the gun from the corner of his eye. As he stepped up on the running board, his sense of duty began to gnaw at him again. That and the humiliating reality of having just had a gun pressed to his head. He was a United States soldier. He was a prisoner.
His job should be to try and escape, not to take orders from a terrorist and abet enemies of a NATO ally.
Rodgers quickly considered his options. If he turned and threw himself against Hasan, he might be able to get the gun, shoot the Syrian, then turn the weapon on the other two. Certainly in the dark, on the ground, he'd have a decent chance of success. And if he waited until Pupshaw was free, the private would seize the initiative and probably tackle Mahmoud, who was right behind him inside the van. With luck, the only ones who would be at risk were himself and Pupshaw. Even if they lost their lives, the others were still valuable hostages. The Syrians probably wouldn't kill them.
Action was clearly on Pupshaw's mind as well. Rodgers could tell from the way the private's dark eyes followed him, waiting for his lead. Rodgers knew then that if he didn't act, not only would he hate himself, but he'd lose the respect of his subordinates. He had only an instant to decide. He also knew that if he managed to get the gun, he wouldn't be able to hesitate.
Mahmoud said something. Hasan nodded, then pulled the rope from his pocket. He pushed Rodgers in the small of his back.
"Turn around," Hasan said. "I have to tie you up until we reach the next fence."
Shit, thought Rodgers. He'd been hoping they'd leave him free while they transferred Pupshaw inside. Now, if he acted it would have to be alone--with Pupshaw tied up in the line of fire. Rodgers glanced at the private, whose gaze was unwavering.
Rodgers extended his hands toward Hasan. The Syrian tucked his gun in his waistband and slipped the rope around Rodgers's wrists. Rodgers's hands were held palms-together. Slowly, imperceptibly, he curled the third and fourth fingers of his left hand slightly so that the tips of all four fingers were even. Then, pressing the fingers one against the other, he drove the solid line of fingertips into Hasan's throat. The Syrian gagged and reached for Rodgers's hand. As he did, Rodgers's right hand shot down and grabbed the gun. He fired twice into Hasan's chest. As the Syrian tumbled soundlessly to the ground, Rodgers stepped into the van and aimed at Mahmoud.
Acts Of War (1997) Page 21