Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Turning to Roger Allen, he blurted out, “Sir, requesting permission to use all means necessary to defend my men on the ground.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the Global Operations Center. Most of the personnel present had been there the day Eva had used a Predator to save Zephyr’s life. They had seen Zalinsky go ballistic, and they could only imagine how the CIA director was about to react. But Allen didn’t hesitate.

  “Permission granted,” he said, his eyes glued to the screens.

  Zalinsky was stunned. He wasn’t the only one. All eyes were on Zalinsky as he just stood there for a moment, unable to react.

  “Well?” said the director, growing impatient.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the president?” Zalinsky asked.

  “That’s my problem,” Allen responded. “Not yours. Now get moving before it’s too late.”

  “Yes, sir,” Zalinsky said, and he turned and began barking out orders to the Predator operators.

  DAYR AZ-ZAWR, SYRIA

  The only option was to move forward, David concluded. Aiming the MP5 ahead of him, he moved around the cab. Following the trail of blood, he hoped to find Crenshaw at the other end, but now he could hear a full-blown shoot-out under way on the other side of the semi.

  David quickly glanced around the front end of the cab. To his relief, he saw Crenshaw. The man was covered in blood and clearly in great pain, but he was holding his own. He was crouched behind a pickup truck and using an AK-47 to try to hold back a half-dozen Syrian police officers moving toward him. Never surrender.

  David’s first instinct was to run to Crenshaw’s side and fight it out with him to the bitter end. But just as he was about to sprint for the pickup truck, he had another thought. A better one. Rather than rush forward, he pivoted and began to work his way through the flames and searing heat and blinding smoke down the “safe” side of the semi—or what was left of it. Most of the truck had been consumed by the raging fire and had essentially melted in place. But for now, at least, the leaping, licking flames were creating a shield between him and the six Syrian officers.

  Above the roar of the flames he could hear more sirens. He knew reinforcements were coming. But he had to save Crenshaw. If he could, then together they could get back to the warhead, and he could dismantle it while Crenshaw gave him covering fire. Otherwise, David would be completely exposed while working on the warhead and wouldn’t last two minutes.

  David looked down Rue Ash ’Sham It was a snarled traffic jam for a kilometer or more. He could see the flashing lights of police cars trying to weave their way through the mass of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and humanity. He could also see a helicopter gunship. It was about two kilometers out but coming in fast.

  Once again he was forced to shift gears. As much as he needed to take out these Syrian officers, he couldn’t leave his team—whatever was left of them—exposed to death from the air. There was no way he could take out the gunship with an MP5 or an AK-47. But seeing the doors of their SUV still open, he had an idea. He made a break for it.

  As gunfire erupted all around him, David moved low and fast toward the SUV, zigzagging through the abandoned cars and realizing that this end of the street was completely deserted. Everyone had fled from the war zone it had become. Bullets whizzed over his head, smashing car and store windows and ripping into the brick walls of the apartments around him. Reaching the SUV, he opened the trunk and found the case he needed.

  The Russian-built Mi-24 Hind helicopter gunship was closing fast. He could hear the roar of the rotors and knew the Syrian pilot was going to open fire any moment. David ripped open the case with the RPG launcher and started to load it, but there wasn’t time. The helicopter was approaching too quickly. Dropping his weapons, he also dropped to the pavement and did his best to crawl under the hood of the car next to him. And then he heard the gunship’s twin 30mm cannons let loose as the pilot opened fire. The rounds destroyed one car after another as the chopper blazed up the street, barely clearing the rooftops at more than 250 miles an hour. All David could do was press himself to the pavement, cover his head and eyes, and pray.

  With a rush of wind that felt and sounded like a tornado, the gunship passed immediately overhead, and in a moment it was gone. David began to breathe again, but he knew he had no time to waste. The pilot would circle around and come back through, and he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Next time he wouldn’t fire the 30mm cannons, David was certain. He would fire Russian-made antitank missiles, and David would be instantly incinerated.

  Quickly scrambling to his feet, his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his face, David heard footsteps approaching fast. He raised the MP5 and was about to fire when he realized he was staring into the eyes of Steve Fox.

  “Steve? You’re alive.”

  David couldn’t believe it. His colleague’s head was bleeding. The man’s hands were bloody and raw. His face was covered with soot. His IRGC uniform was ripped and covered in dirt. He had no machine gun with him. No pistol. No weapon of any kind. But Fox had fire in his eyes.

  “I killed them, sir—all of them,” Fox said without emotion.

  “Hand to hand?” David asked.

  “Eye to eye.”

  “You okay?”

  “No, but I’m alive, and I need a gun.”

  “Good; take this one,” David said, handing him his MP5. “There’s a box of extra magazines in the backseat. But you’d better move fast. That gunship is coming back.”

  As they both looked up, they could see the Mi-24 banking hard to the right and preparing to roar back down Rue Ash ’Sham. Fox went for the extra ammo while David went again for the RPG launcher. He screwed a propelling charge on the end of one of the warheads, then began loading the assembled artillery onto the end of the launcher as Fox turned back to him and asked for new orders.

  “I’m good—where do you need me?”

  “Go help Nick,” David said. “He’s pinned down behind a pickup truck at two o’clock. Last I saw, there were six Syrian hostiles firing at him. Take them out, get Nick, then join me at the ambulance. We need to disable that warhead.”

  Though clearly in tremendous pain, Fox smiled and nodded. “Done, boss. See you soon.”

  “Good luck, Steve.”

  “You too.”

  As Fox ran off, David could see the gunship leveling and beginning its strafing run. He quickly mounted the rocket launcher on his shoulder, looked through the sights, and pulled the trigger. Instantly, the RPG exploded away and streaked into the sky. The Syrian pilot must have seen the flash because he suddenly jerked the chopper to the right, but it was too late. The RPG smashed through the glass of the cockpit and detonated. The chopper exploded in midair as David reloaded and raced to catch up with Fox.

  As he came around the corner of a pharmacy at the end of the street, he saw a nightmare unfolding before him. Fox was sprawled out on the ground. He wasn’t dead, but he was bleeding profusely, and the air had erupted in gunfire again. David wanted to stay with Fox and assess his wounds, but he was forced to dive behind the pharmacy for cover. The Syrians started shooting through the shop’s plate-glass windows. David could see that Fox had killed two of them, but four remained. And two armored personnel carriers of additional Syrian troops were already pulling up to the scene.

  David wasted no time. He hefted the launcher onto his shoulder again, pivoted around the corner, and squeezed the trigger. Once again the grenade exploded from the tube and streaked toward the Syrian police officers, who now dove for cover as well. But again it was too late. The grenade exploded, killing all of them.

  That was it, though. David had no more RPGs. The back doors of the APCs were opening. Dozens of Syrian troops were about to emerge, and David had no way to stop them. Nevertheless, he ditched the rocket launcher, took the AK-47 off his shoulder, and raced forward to Fox’s side.

  “Go get Nick; I’ll be fine,” Fox groaned.

  “Forget it
,” David replied. “Where are you hit?”

  “My left leg,” said Fox. “I think it’s shattered.”

  “All right, listen,” said David. “I’m going to pick you up, fireman’s carry. It’s going to hurt, but stay with me.”

  Fox nodded. David first slung both machine guns over his right shoulder. He was lifting Fox and putting him over his left shoulder when he heard an intense, high-pitched whistling sound. He looked up and saw two contrails streaking down from the sky. Assuming they were air-to-ground missiles from a Syrian MiG-29 or equivalent fighter jet, David began to run as fast as he could toward the ambulance and away from the pharmacy. He stumbled twice but finally got to the side of the bullet-strewn vehicle just as the missiles hit their marks. But they did not hit the pharmacy, nor the spot where he and Fox had just been. Instead, the missiles scored direct hits on the two armored personnel carriers, destroying both with a deafening roar and two searing fireballs.

  David’s heart leaped. Stunned, he looked up at the sky. The Americans had arrived. Zalinsky had come through. Langley was watching their backs after all, and David could hardly believe it. He wanted to smile. He wanted to laugh. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. He propped Fox up against one side of the ambulance and gave him back the MP5.

  “Shoot anyone you don’t recognize—you got it?”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “I’ll be right back,” David promised, then took his AK-47 and raced to find Crenshaw.

  “Nick!” he shouted as he ran through the flames and smoke and toward the pickup. “Nick? It’s me, David. Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” Crenshaw shouted back. “Is that really you?”

  “Yes, it’s me, Nick,” David replied. “Don’t shoot. I’m coming around.”

  He was glad to hear Crenshaw’s voice, but when he got to his colleague’s side, all the color drained from his face. The man had been shot multiple times. David counted two bullet holes in his chest and several more to the legs.

  David groaned and bit back a curse. “What happened?”

  “I’m fine,” Crenshaw lied. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” David replied. “We need to get you out of here.”

  “Did you see those missiles?” Crenshaw asked. “Those were Hellfires. I thought we were toast for sure when those reinforcements arrived. But somebody up there is taking care of us, eh?”

  “They certainly are,” David said, but he was worried his friend was slipping into shock. Crenshaw’s voice was actually quite strong. But he was losing blood quickly and didn’t seem to be focusing on the issue at hand: survival.

  “I’m going to pick you up now,” David said. “Steve is over by the ambulance. We need to get you over to him. Now hold on tight. Let’s go.”

  As David picked up Crenshaw, the man began writhing in pain. For a moment, David doubted the wisdom of moving him at all, but he had no choice. His only shot at disabling the warhead was keeping the team together. He hoped Crenshaw could hold a weapon for a few more minutes and provide at least some covering fire, as more reinforcements were sure to arrive at any moment.

  Despite Crenshaw’s shrieks of pain, David heaved him over his shoulder and ran him to the ambulance as well, shouting ahead to Fox to let him know they were friendlies. Fortunately Fox heard them and held his fire.

  David lowered Crenshaw down on the other side of the ambulance and gave both men orders to watch his back. This was it. He needed five minutes. No more, but no less either. Despite their severe injuries, both men gave their word.

  47

  Once again David and his team could hear the distinctive, high-pitched whine of an incoming Hellfire missile. All of them pressed themselves to the ground and covered their heads and faces and felt the ground shake violently as another massive explosion erupted a few hundred yards to the north. As David looked up, he could see that Zalinsky had struck again, this time taking out the Syrian special police unit that was just about to overrun them.

  Still, there was no time to breathe easier. David asked Crenshaw and Fox if either of them still had their satphones with them. Fox had his and handed it over. David speed-dialed the Global Operations Center at Langley.

  “Don’t say thanks,” Zalinsky said when he came on the line. “There isn’t time.”

  “I know,” David said. “But thanks anyway.”

  “You’ve got more special forces units rolling from the air base. You need to get this warhead disabled and then get your men out of there.”

  “I’m with you on that,” David said.

  He tried to open the back of the ambulance, but it was stuck. He tried to pry it open, but to no avail. Then he used the butt of his machine gun to smash what was left of the rear window and tried to jimmy the door open, but it still wouldn’t work. Abandoning that approach, he entered through the front door and crawled into the back, opened the protective steel case, and found himself staring at an actual, viable, fully armed Iranian atomic warhead. He used a Swiss Army knife to carefully unscrew a plate on the side and within seconds was looking inside the heart of the weapon.

  The problem, however, was that there was no angle by which the cameras on the Predator could see what he could see. Thus, Zalinsky and the nuclear weapons experts at his side back at Langley were at a severe disadvantage, unable to assess the weapon’s precise design or possible security features.

  Zalinsky ordered David to begin describing everything he saw. David shuddered. He’d broken out in a cold sweat and his hands were shaking.

  “It looks a lot like a W88,” David began, referring to the U.S.’s most advanced thermonuclear warhead.

  “It can’t—Khan’s design wasn’t that advanced,” said Zalinsky, referring to the plans that A. Q. Khan, the father of the Pakistani nuclear weapons program, had sold to the Iranians several years earlier.

  “Then Saddaji improved it,” David insisted.

  He described to Zalinsky the key components he saw one by one, beginning with the Primary at the top, the bomb’s initial explosive trigger, designed to create an implosion that would begin to release the thermonuclear detonation.

  “Is it spherical?” Zalinsky asked.

  “No.”

  “Two-point?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hollow-pit, fusion-boosted?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the Secondary?” Zalinsky asked, referring to the weapon’s additional explosive trigger, whose function was to accelerate and intensify the implosion and create a maximum thermonuclear blast. “Do you see that, too?”

  “I do.”

  “Is that one spherical?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “All-fissile, fusion-boosted?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Uranium or plutonium pit?”

  “Looks like the core is plutonium-239, sir,” David replied. “But it’s got a uranium-235 spark plug and a U-235 pusher as well.”

  “What about high-explosive lenses?”

  “I see two of them.”

  “How about in the lower left corner, down near the base of the warhead?”

  “There’s a booster gas canister,” David replied. “And there’s a small metal pipe going from the canister into the heart of the Primary.”

  “And the metal casing around the whole device? What shape is it?”

  “I don’t know,” David said. “It’s kind of curved—like an hourglass or a peanut.”

  Zalinsky cursed. “They really did it,” he sighed. “This thing could take out all of Tel Aviv.”

  “Or all of New York,” David added, his heart pounding so hard he thought Zalinsky ought to be able to hear it.

  “You can’t let it ever get that far,” Zalinsky ordered.

  “I won’t, sir,” David replied. “I promise.”

  Suddenly fresh gunfire erupted.

  “What is that?” Zalinsky asked.

  David frantically looked around through the windows of the ambula
nce but couldn’t see clearly.

  “I don’t know,” he told Zalinsky. “I don’t have a visual.”

  He called to Crenshaw, but Crenshaw said he didn’t see a thing. Just then, however, another burst of automatic gunfire erupted, then a second and a third.

  “Steve, man, you okay?” David shouted.

  “No,” Fox shouted back. “I’ve got three hostiles approaching up Highway 7. And another dozen moving up the street—maybe more.”

  “Can you hold them off?”

  “Not for long,” Fox shouted. “Not without help.”

  “Do your best, brother,” David replied. “I’ll be right with you.”

  David picked up the satphone and took it off speakerphone. “I need some more help down here, Jack. We’re not going to make it more than a few minutes.”

  “I see it and I’m on it,” Zalinsky replied. “You just stay focused. I’m going to walk you through this.”

  Fox opened fire once again. Then, to David’s surprise, he lobbed two hand grenades at the Syrian forces coming up Rue Ash ’Sham. David hadn’t realized Fox had any grenades with him, but the successive explosions shook the ambulance violently. Seconds later, the car shook harder as another Hellfire missile streaked down from a Predator and created an even more enormous explosion at the head of the street. It likely bought them a few more minutes, but David’s hands were shaking badly now, and he wondered if any of this movement could set off the warhead.

  “Steady, Zephyr, steady,” Zalinsky ordered. “Take a deep breath. Wipe your brow. Wipe off your hands, and focus. The last thing you want is sweat dripping into the interior.”

  “Got it,” David said and followed his orders. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Good. Now, you need to find the wires coming from the power source,” Zalinsky said.

  “There are all kinds of wires here, sir,” David replied.

  “Atom bomb makers use pure gold to make their wires because gold is most conducive for electricity,” said Zalinsky. “My experts here say the Pakistanis typically insulate these wires with yellow plastic. Do you see any yellow wires?”