Barracuda 945 am-6

by Patrick Robinson

  "Okay, sir. I'll start some inquiries right now. It's almost 0800 in London."

  The Following Morning Director's Office, Fort Meade

  Captain Wade stood before the Admiral, bearing a sheaf of papers and two maps. The first showed the Republic of Sierra Leone, which sits on the Atlantic coast of Africa's top half. To the north and east lies Guinea, to the southeast is Liberia.

  Sierra Leone is substantially smaller than South Carolina, but it has more intense revolutions, the most recent and most persistent being the relentless, bloodthirsty forces of the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) against the ruling President Kabbah.

  This truly ghastly African war saw 50,000 people lose their lives, generally because the forces of the RUF, led by the savage Foday Sankoh, conducted years of terror against civilians, raping, pillaging, and mutilating.

  Back in the year 2000, Sankoh's brutal hordes actually managed to capture 500 United Nations troops in the towns of Makeni and Kailahun. They stole their vehicles and weapons, adding them to their own formidable arsenal, purchased with income from diamond mines they controlled deep in the western interior of the country.

  This was too much for the Brits, the old Commonwealth Masters. They sent in a force of 700,1st Battalion Parachute Regiment, to begin evacuating British and European citizens. The paratroopers captured a large hunk of the capital, the coastal city of Freetown, including the airport.

  But there was fierce fighting. The British paratroopers forced the release of most of the hostages, and hammered away at Sankoh's jungle fighters, utilizing helicopter gunships, driving the RUF back into the hinterlands.

  Sankoh would not let go, however. They attacked again, and suddenly seized six soldiers of the Royal Irish Rangers, holding them hostage deep in the interior. These characters called themselves the West Side Boys, and they held the British troops captive in a very strong position either side of the Rokel Creek.

  Whitehall considered there was an obvious risk the men would end up with their throats cut, or worse, unless the British Army moved very quickly indeed.

  Captain Wade now showed Admiral Morris a detailed plan of this grotesque little theater of war, around the village of Gberi Bana, north of the Creek, and Forodugu, to the south.

  "The Brits sent in the SAS right away, sir, " he said. "D-Squadron. And they infiltrated this area right here, high above the river, five observation posts, brilliantly camouflaged in the brush, while the Special Forces made their assessment of the problem.

  "Their Commander masterminded the entire operation. He talked in five helicopters loaded with British Paratroopers, who landed downstream along the creek and attacked on either bank, knocking out the machine gun positions."

  Captain Wade adjusted the map and pointed out the direction of the onrushing British Paratroopers. "These guys right here, sir. They drew the West Side Boys' fire… Then at the correct moment, the SAS commander gave the order, called up the gunships, and led his men into the attack…

  "Right here, sir," said Scotty. "SAS D-Squadron stormed out of their hides at first light, and rampaged down the north bank of Rokel Creek. They swept into the village, gunning down anything in their way, and freed the men. They blasted a path back to the waiting helicopters, leaving twenty-five dead RUF rebels behind them, eighteen wounded and captured. Only one SAS man died in the action.

  "Admiral, I've really checked this one out. We're looking at a classic Special Forces operation right here. I guess I don't need to tell you the SAS Commander was Raymond Kerman… "

  "Jesus!" breathed George Morris. This Kerman was someone to be reckoned with. Without a word, Morris picked up his telephone, and dialed the White House on secure line direct from Crypto City.

  "Get me Admiral Morgan," he said.

  Kathy O'Brien, the stunning red-haired secretary to the National Security Adviser, picked up the telephone and heard the familiar voice of George Morris, the one voice in the entire country Arnold Morgan would always answer.

  At the time, she was standing between her desk and the big wooden door to her boss, and, knowing he was alone, she walked across and pushed it open.

  "George is on the phone," she said. "Shall I put him through?"

  "George who?" grunted the Admiral absentmindedly, staring at a pile of documents. "George Washington? George Patton? George III?"

  "Christ!" said the future Mrs. Arnold Morgan, knowing full well he knew precisely who she meant. "Admiral George Morris, Director of the National Security Agency, located in Fort Meade, Maryland, five miles north of the Beltway, latitude thirty-nine spot one zero."

  "Vague," he grunted. 'Too vague." Then Admiral Morgan sprang to his feet, chuckling, walked across the room and hugged her, told her he loved her and, "to put that clever old bastard through right away," and could he have some coffee, and where the hell was the Washington Post.

  Kathy returned to her desk and connected Admiral Morris on the secure line.

  " 'Morning, George." Arnold greeted his old buddy with equanimity, knowing he would never have called if it was unimportant.

  "Hello, sir," responded Admiral Morris, granting the President's right-hand man full respect before lapsing into "Arnie," which thirty years of friendship, most of it in the U.S. Navy, plainly permitted.

  "Can I come over and see you?"

  "Sure, is it urgent?"

  "No. But my team has turned up a situation I don't like and neither will you. Can you give me an hour early afternoon?"

  "Come for lunch, George. White House. About 1300."

  "Perfect," said Admiral Morris. "I'll be there."

  Right on time, the staff car from Fort Meade pulled up outside the West Wing, and the agents escorted the NSA Chief to the office of Admiral Morgan. The two men chatted for a few moments and then went directly to a small private dining room, the table set for two.

  Vice Admiral Morgan poured them each a glass of fizzy mineral water, and hit a button to alert the waiter.

  "Okay, George. Lay it on me."

  "Right. I'll start with a question. Did you know the Brits lost an important SAS Commander in that battle in Hebron last spring?"

  "Can't say I did. You mean dead?"

  "I thought I did a few days ago, although there was no evidence of his death. He just disappeared, and there's been no hostage demand. But I don't think he's dead any more. I think he's alive, and he may have A) deserted, and B) joined Hamas."

  "He's WHAT! An SAS commander joined a terrorist group? Christ. That's bad. But at least in Hamas they pretty well restrict themselves to the Middle East. So it's not life threatening."

  "No. Not yet. But this character is unusual. He's called Ray Kerman, which sounds Jewish. But he's not. He was born in Iran, and his parents are Muslims. He used to read the Koran."

  "What's his rank?"

  "Major. He was the SAS Commander who rescued everyone in that action in Sierra Leone three or four years ago."

  "Was he? I remember that. Hell of an operation. Didn't the Brits charge across the river and blow the place apart?"

  "That's the one, and Ray Kerman was in charge. You'll remember they hit suddenly, at dawn, got everyone out, killed or wounded around forty people, and escaped. Lost only one man. Textbook Special Forces."

  "Yeah. Big surprise. Big stick. That's the way to do it," replied the Vice Admiral, approvingly.

  At this moment the waiter came in with two bowls of lobster bisque and placed one in front of each Admiral.

  "You remember to put a splash of dry sherry in each bowl?" asked the Vice Admiral.

  "That's good. Don't want my guest to think my standards are slipping."

  As they sipped their soups, Morris filled Morgan in on everything he knew, concluding with the spectacular bank robberies.

  At the end of this, Morgan just said, "Holy shit! These guys ran off with $100 million in old bills, and no one's even made it public? That's amazing. But more amazing is the fact that two crimes in Israel that brilliant must have been planned and executed
by professionals. Someone in there has serious military training — and the officer who did it, must be a very talented man."

  "My thoughts exactly, sir. We got a goddamned tiger out there, in charge of a very organized group. And we must surely not discount the fact they may not restrict their enemy to just Israel."

  Just then the waiter returned to clear the soup bowls. "Everything okay, sir?"

  "Nectar," replied the Admiral.

  The two medium-rare sirloin steaks that followed were also perfect. Between luxurious bites, Vice Admiral Morgan assessed the situation, trying to judge firstly whether Ray Kerman was in fact a spy of the very worst type who had somehow infiltrated the British Army.

  He was inclined to dismiss that, on account of the known wealth of the Kerman family, still living in London, still highly respectable. "Sounds more likely, Ray had a sudden fit of conscience. Were there any suggestions to that effect?"

  "Not really. But the house the dead SAS guys were in was in the middle of the battle zone, and it did previously contain a family. The Israelis found two quite young children, under nine, both shot dead. The father was also dead. The mother escaped, and has been found. She says she knows nothing of any SAS officer. For what it's worth, the Brits don't believe her."

  "Well," Morgan said, "the only thing I can imagine is that Ray Kerman had a sudden attack of conscience and went over to the other side."

  "Arnie, I understand that is a possibility. What brings me here is to discuss what we should do in the event he moves on from the Hamas groups fighting in the Holy Land and decides to have a go at the rest of the Western World."

  "Christ. I guess we better find him before he gets that far. But I don't think anyone would be stupid enough to plan a mass murder of civilians any more. Not after 2001. There's no doubt the U.S. military scared the hell out of the entire Muslim world when they pulverized Bin Laden's forces, but we gotta keep our guard right up. Because this Kerman character is, in my view, about ten times more dangerous than Al-Qaeda. And right now he's only practicing. And I think he might already have grabbed $100 million of our money."

  "That's what we think. But we don't know where he's put it, and we don't know where he is. So far as I can see, we can only keep a sharp eye on big crimes and bombs in the Holy Land."

  "Well, George. I think we should alert the Mossad and Shin Bet as to our suspicions and fears for the future. They're pretty good at finding people. Right now I'd be 90 percent certain those robberies were carried out by a military professional of Major Kerman's caliber. And talking of caliber, I would not be surprised if the bullets that hit the SAS Sergeant were from the same MP5 as the one that hit the alarm system in the Tel Aviv bank. SAS weapons are customized and highly coveted. Once you own one, you'll never give it up. Maybe they could check."

  "I'll do that this afternoon, Arnie. Meanwhile, do we let the Brits know we are onto something?"

  "Might as well. But they'll be on the leading edge of this inquiry. The Brits only sound stupid. It's part of their weird upbringing. But they always know a lot more than you think."

  The two Admirals sat in silence for a few moments. Then George Morris asked, "How do you think a new recruit like Major Kerman would get from a back street in Hebron to running operations for the Hamas?"

  "Well, you know they'd be extremely suspicious, right from the get-go. He's probably on a trial right now, but I guess those robberies proved a point real quick. Kerman's probably already in touch with the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, which is strong down in the Gaza Strip and has a very moderate agenda, centering on the total destruction of Israel and the immediate creation of a Palestinian State."

  "Nothing serious?" said Admiral Morris, chuckling.

  "Hell, no. Just the brink of World War III… and remember, the Jihad is pretty ruthless in its fight against Israel. They were the guys who killed or injured a hundred people in the shopping mall in Tel Aviv a few years back. It has four main Palestinian factions, and one of them operates up near the Lebanon border with Hezbollah.

  "The key, George, may be a guy called Sheik Biud Alt-mimi. He's from Hebron and is known to be supported by Iran, Kerman's homeland. But none of it's easy. An awful lot of those Fundamentalist military leaders are already in jail, in various countries like Egypt, but especially in Israel.

  "A man like Major Kerman would be the best thing that could ever happen to those kinds of terrorists. With a leader like this SAS Commander, they could still launch very destructive attacks on the West."

  "Well, right now we can't do much except to alert everyone to keep a very careful watch on the situation in Israel."

  "Yeah," said Admiral Morgan. "And stand by for the unexpected. I doubt Major Kerman's $100 million is sitting idle."

  3

  Wednesday, April 27,2005

  The Golan Heights

  (Five Miles Inside the Syrian Disengagement Line)

  There's tension up here, even in the quietest hollows. Even five miles behind the Syrian border patrols, there is always that simmering Arab resentment along the ridges of the looming natural fortress of Golan.

  The greatest tank battle the world has ever seen was fought here, in the 1973 Yom Kippur War. Israel won it, leaving behind 1,200 blasted Syrian steel hulks. And amid the debris of war, there was the rage of an ancient nation, the custodians of Damascus, the oldest continuously inhabited city on this earth.

  The Golan Heights is a dark and formidable range, a green-and-granite landscape, strewn about with black basalt boulders, possibly placed by the Devil himself, on this centuries-old battleground of the religious faiths.

  Doves become hawks up here. For just a very few miles to the west lies the Syrian Disengagement Line. And then, five miles on, across No Man's Land, there is carved in the mountains, another line, along which the hated Israeli conquerors guard the spoils of war, vast lands which were once as Arabian as the towering Citadel of Damascus.

  Today there were almost 100 armed warriors gathered in an old Syrian military camp. Their fifty-foot-long open-sided tent was new, and it was set beneath new camouflage, netting and brushwood, in a remote vale between two granite rises, through which the snowcapped crown of Mount Herman could clearly be seen. The old compound was ringed with its original sandbag walls four feet high. Four manned machine gun nests punctuated those walls. There were lookouts in the surrounding hills. Each man had a cell phone and a loaded MP5 carbine at the ready. The place was on a strict war footing, in the tradition of the Golan Heights.

  Three unmarked military trucks were parked outside. Beyond them was a rough, wooden building, with a tin chimney jutting from its roof. Outside the rear entrance was a broken-down tanker truck, filled with fresh water. But it was still obvious there were more men here today than those actually living in the compound.

  Inside the tent there was a long trestle table, behind which, supported by two easels, was a large-scale cork-board holding three wide maps and two charts. The assembled armed men sat on ammunition crates, making notes, listening to two Syrian officers, who were lecturing them on the least visible point of entry into No Man's Land, and into Israel.

  Between the two instructors sat the Commanding Officer of the 1st Battalion, Hamas Assault Force — General Ravi Rashood, formerly of D-Squadron SAS, Sandhurst, and Harrow. Promotion had proved to be swift for the best Western officer ever to offer his services to a Third World terrorist group. Major Ray Kerman no longer existed.

  Today he wore battle fatigues, and around his head and shoulders was the black-and-white headdress, complete with the two-stranded cord. He looked what he now was, a battle-hardened desert fighter, descended from Bedouins, operating on behalf of an Islamic nation. In his pocket he carried a handwritten note that read in Arabic: "Dearest Ravi, Please take care of Ahmed. You and he are all I have left now. Allah go with you both. I love you, Shakira."

  The young woman who had saved his life running through those blasted Palestinian streets almost a year ago was now his only personal rela
tionship. She and her brother had hidden him, and then smuggled him north to the isolated little Druze village of Mas'ada, just a few miles from the Hamas compound.

  Several weeks later, after Ray Kerman had been accepted into Hamas, it was Shakira who had befriended a senior clerk in the Jerusalem bank and mapped out the floor plan and security system; Shakira who had somehow penetrated A. M. Schwartz National Locksmiths in Hebron and drawn up the diagrams of their most secure gate and door systems. After that Ray Kerman had made his position clear. He would either take complete command of the operation or it would not happen.

  With some reluctance, and a little suspicion, the Hamas commanders decided they had nothing to lose by agreeing. They could always shoot him. But by the evening of December 26, they knew they had a brand-new military leader. And in a dusty cellar hideaway, on the outskirts of Bethlehem, Ray was commissioned in the field, appointed General Rashood, Commander-in-Chief, First Battalion, Hamas Assault Force.

  Shakira had been there, and they had sat the night out, huddled together against the stone wall, sharing a blanket, talking through an adrenaline high with the sixteen other Hamas freedom fighters who had hoisted $100 million out of the two banks. Ray found the conversation unusually agreeable. He liked his companions, and he was falling in love with the beautiful Shakira, whose life he had saved, as she had saved his.

  When they had all prayed together the following morning, he had felt at home, here in this sandy dungeon. He remembered the words of the Koran, spoken to him long ago by the North London Mullah:

  For you were enemies

  And He joined your hearts together

  And now you are brothers…

  Burdened by the death of her two young children yet free of the strain of an arranged Muslim marriage to a nice man she had never loved, Shakira now devoted her time to the planning of Hamas attacks on the Israelis. She still wore traditional Arab dress, and she remained a devout Muslim. However, she had taken to arriving for work among the Hamas military wearing boots, jeans, and a combat jacket. Such was her reputation, and so sharp was her mind, no one ever questioned this break with tradition. Shakira of the Desert had become a law unto herself. And she truly worshiped General Rashood, whose word had now become everyone's law.