by Jim Case
“The Sunni Moslem Mourbitoun are a group backed by Libya and Yasser Arafat’s PLO.
“The Islamic Jihad, or the Islamic Holy War, is a fourth band Fighting for a homeland. This is a shadow group of Shiites loyal only to themselves. They are Moslem super-fundamentalists closely tied to Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini, and display all of his radical, extreme tendencies.
“The Druse Moslems are a group who vow to fight President Gemayel to the death.
“The only force that is friendly to the Western world is the Christian Lebanese Forces, who control most of East Beirut. They are led by Elie Hobeika. All of the previously described groups are Moslem and they all fight the Christian Militiamen. It makes for exciting times on the streets.
“This Lebanon situation is unlike anything most Westerners have ever seen. It is not a civil war, it is like six civil wars going on at once. Generally the only security you will have as Westerners will be in the east half of Beirut. It’s easy to tell the east. There is a line of blood called the Green Line that separates East Beirut from the west.
“Almost constant fighting takes place along and across the Green Line. There might be a fourteen-year-old boy firing a fully automatic rifle across the line at random. There could be a blooded killer of eighteen firing a rocket-propelled grenade at a moving car or truck. The fighters then return home and play with their toys, try to feed their families, and argue. For the moment their war is over.
“In Beirut, trust no one; your best friend is your loaded SMG, and the U.S. Government has never heard of you if you are captured or come under some foreign nation’s official jurisdiction.
“You may have any weapons you want. You may order more or different arms on your flight. It all will be ready for you at your final landing point, the U.S. Embassy in East Beirut. You each will have plenty of cash, in U.S. dollars, Israeli shekels, and Lebanese pounds. Your team leader is authorized to draw up to five-hundred-thousand dollars if needed for equipment that may be needed later. Are there any questions?”
“What is our exact mission?” Cody asked.
Lund leaned forward.
“You are to proceed to Beirut as directed, locate the missing hostages of Flight 766, then penetrate the area and rescue the hostages, removing them with the cooperation of Israeli Air Force choppers. You pick up liaison and radios for Israeli contact in Beirut. The Israelis will operate from Haifa, only seventy-five miles from Beirut.”
“The rescue of the hostages, then, is our major concern?”
“Absolutely. We are not opposed to as much retribution as required to discourage the terrorists; however, their annihilation is not our prime objective.”
“Understood.”
The Marine bird colonel lifted his hand at Cody. “The President has asked me to tell you that you have his strongest possible support on this mission. If you need anything and can’t get it through channels, call me direct. My number is in your briefing papers.”
Lund stood. “Thank you, Cody; men. This is what we hope is the start of a new attack on terrorism by the United States.”
“Good luck, and good hunting.”
A half hour later, Pete Lund sat in the Oval Office with the President and his top advisor on military operations. The advisor was Brigadier General Will Johnson, in mufti.
“I still don’t like it, Mr. President,” growled Johnson. “Sure, this Cody has a good record, he gets things done, has had military combat duty, and worked with the CIA. But it still doesn’t seem right.”
The President turned to Lund. “Comment?”
“Absolutely, Mr. President. Will, you haven’t been on the ground. You haven’t fired a shot in thirty years. You are not thinking logically when you say a battalion-sized landing party in Beirut would do the job simpler, and better. You could never gear up a battalion to move in forty-eight hours, let alone put them on-site.
“You could not determine the reception of the dogfaces or Marines on the objective. Cody will go in, do the job, if it can be done at all, and get our people and the other passengers out of there with minimum losses. And we do not stand to get our noses bloodied in any fashion.”
“People already know about his move,” Will protested. “I had a call from a reporter asking about our task force to Lebanon!”
“He was out fishing, Will,” the President said. “No, there would be nothing covert about sending in even a thousand men. That would create a worldwide flap we might never live down.”
“But four men, Mr. President?”
“Depends on the men, Will,” Lund said quickly. “I’ll put Cody and his four up against a platoon of regular troops any day.”
“Gentlemen, this is moving us nowhere. When is their plane set to take off, Lund?”
“It left ten minutes ago, sir. I checked just before we arrived here.”
“Enough. We have made a committment. I thought then it was the right move, and I still do. We support them all the way. If something goes wrong, it’s only four Americans not connected with the government in any way. Now, on to other, more pressing matters.”
Lund listened, but his thoughts were with Cody’s Army team in that B-52 heading for Cairo, Egypt. He prayed real hard that this would not somehow prove to be another double-cross—the way Cody had been set up in Nicaragua.
CHAPTER
TEN
Officially, the four civilians on the Air Force B-52 bomber were hitchhikers. Unofficially, the flight had been arranged to take Cody’s Army from Edwards Air Force Base to an Egyptian airfield just outside of Cairo.
Time was the essential consideration. At first they had toyed with the idea of using jet fighters with two seats, but when they took a second look at Rufe Murphy and his 260 pounds of muscle, they changed their minds.
The B-52 could make the 5,200-mile jump to Cairo in a little under eight hours, depending on the headwinds. The four passengers flaked out on the floor of the big bomber and slept, later sat in jump seats and talked. It was the longest flight any of them could remember.
They were going as civilians, wore mufti, and had suitcases, and there was not a single weapon among them, not even a knife. They would be picking up their working “tools” at the American Embassy in Beirut, from the Marine detachment on guard-duty there.
It was 05:32 when they landed at dawn at the Cairo airbase, where they were met by the U.S. Ambassador to Egypt. Cody had not realized what a high priority this mission had until then. They had lost seven hours in transit. They were driven directly to the Cairo civil airport, where they had been booked on a 07:00 Alitalia Airlines flight. The Italian commercial jet would take them to Beirut in under two hours, nonstop.
Cody stared out the window at the desolate landscape and knew he would soon be fighting on land that was much the same: hot, dry, and with little natural vegetation. He disliked the idea that they could not bring in familiar weapons. But it would cause too many problems. They could go with new tools from the Marines.
He preferred his own weapons, but it would simply take an hour to become familiar with the SMGs and other tools they had ordered. He hoped the Marines had come up with all the right weapons. Some of his crew were particular about the tools they used.
As they turned on their final approach to the runway at Beirut, Cody could see three different downtown buildings smoldering. There was probably no water pressure to put out the fires even if there happened to be any firemen still on duty.
What once had been the jewel of the Mideast, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, lay a gutted, defiled ruin. He knew it would look even worse once on the ground. This was simply the continuation of a 400-year-old war. How could a people survive with only occasional stretches of peace, freedom, and prosperity?
He looked around as much as possible as they taxied toward the terminal, but he could not see the captured airliner. It probably had been towed to a far corner of the field. They moved quickly down the ramp and into the terminal. At the incoming gate three Americans waited—the
ir reception committee. Their suitcases were claimed from the baggage check, and they moved through customs with no trouble.
Cody knew dozens of men from the CIA, but he recognized none of the three They could be from the skeleton diplomatic staff at Beirut.
The airport terminal showed scars, pockmarks, in some of the concrete and plaster exterior walls. One room had suffered bomb damage, and one section of wall lockers was still twisted and warped where the explosives had been set off. Blast marks showed on the ceiling and smoke stains marred the walls.
The three embassy men had said little in the terminal. Once in the embassy cars, moderate-size European-made rigs, they relaxed a little. Each embassy man carried a snub-snouted Ingram submachine gun under his coat on a strap around his neck. They were so small as to be practically invisible.
It was 09:12 hours.
Cody’s team traveled in two cars. The embassy type with Cody nodded tiredly once the car door was shut.
“So far, so good. We were afraid something might have leaked and you would have a hotter reception. This place has been wired for action ever since the hijack.”
“What do you have?”
The man in the backseat with Cody held out his hand.
“My name is Gerry Oxe, cultural attaché. Damn little, I’m afraid. Not much that will help. Your cover is as a TV news team, right? We’ve got some equipment for you, and an expert to show you how to use it enough so you can get by.”
“What about our working tools?”
“We have everything you asked for. The Marine Corps armorer is at your disposal, and you can test and fire-in any of the weapons you want to. We have an underground range. Your contact will be Jack Gorman.”
Gorman.
And the past hurled in to punch Cody in the gut. Lund had neglected to mention Gorman back at Andrews…
The diplomat let a smile creep over his face.
“I see you know and love Mr. Gorman, the fair-haired boy of the Mideastern section of the Company.”
“I won’t work with Gorman,” said Cody. “Radio Langley that I want a new contact.”
“No time. He’s your man, like it or fly home.”
Five minutes later, Cody and his men milled around a table inside the embassy that held coffee, beer, and snacks. Cody looked up as Gorman walked into the room.
Gorman saw Cody, and a sneer twisted his face as he started to say something, while at the same moment Cody fought down an impulse to finish what he’d started eighteen months ago in Nicaragua. But just then the ambassador himself scurried up.
His name was Stewart Tabler; an excellent money-raiser for the party and a wasted diplomat in an impossible situation, he appeared oblivious to the brittle atmosphere between these men.
“We’ve got troubles,” he blurted without preamble.
“My number-two man will brief you and your crew, Cody, on the political situation here.
“In Lebanon, everything is politics. Don’t expect to move with any freedom in the western half of the city or in the countryside; it’s all hostile territory.
“Even the east section is not always safe for Americans.”
“We’re Australian.”
“Yes, that’s right. So, let’s get at it.”
The political briefing took fifteen minutes and covered much the same material they got in Washington. Then all four went to the weapons room.
The Marine sargeant in charge was in his forties, an E-12 with stripes all over his sleeve. He had red hair and a big grin. He stood with his fists planted on his hips in front of a folding table that held the weapons each man had requested. In back of them were two dozen other assorted handguns, automatic weapons and SMGs.
“Understand you boys know how to use these tools,” Paterson growled. “Damn well better. You fuck up these weapons and you’ll answer to me.” He grinned then and waved at the table. “Take your pick. I can get almost anything else you want, domestic or foreign. Problem is, though, I’m fresh out of Sharps, Spencers and Gatling guns.”
“I think we’ll get along,” Cody acknowledged.
The men went to the weapons. Each had a silenced Uzi 9-mm submachine gun. This model had a blowback system and an overhung bolt that reduced the overall length of the unit.
Cody picked up two of the 32-round magazines and a clip that fastened them together so that when one of the clipped-together magazines was dry, it could be pulled out, flipped over, and the second magazine, still filled, was slammed home for thirty-two more quick rounds.
Cody liked the Uzi. It spat out 900 parabellum rounds a minute, about three seconds of sustained firing per magazine. The Uzi was a close-in weapon with a maximum effective range of 200 yards. Cody figured most of their work would be eyeball-to-moustache anyway.
He took a trusty Colt Commander .45 as a sidearm, and then began picking out a collection of knives and specialty weapons for his kit, including a garotte wire with wooden handles on each end and a half dozen other silent killers.
“We standardize on Uzi’s,” Cody instructed. “Pick out another SMG if you want one, but keep it a 9mm parabellum so our ammo will match.”
Cody added an M-203 grenade launcher attached to an M-16 rifle. The rifle and launcher could both be fired at the same time. The launcher gave him a 380-yard throw with the small 40mm grenades.
Cody test-fired his Uzi in the adjacent firing range. With the spray effect of an SMG there was little need to fine-tune the sighting. The Colt Commander was different. At twenty yards, he wanted to know where the cluster of hits would be on the target. Cody blasted off six rounds and had the target brought up. The weapon fired slightly high and to the left. He would remember that.
Twenty minutes later all four men had picked their weapons. Caine went for a Beretta, Hawkeye grabbed his ordered .44 Automag.
Caine held the big weapon and almost dropped it. The 6.5-inch barrel made the overall length 11.5 inches.
“You really going to carry that anchor?” Caine bellowed. “Thing weighs a ton.”
“And it will stop a charging bull elephant,” Hawkeye gloated. “Fires a 240-grain slug with a muzzle velocity of 1,650 feet per second. The round is produced by mating a .44 revolver bullet with a cut-down 7.62 NATO rifle cartridge. Closest by-damn thing to a rifle you can get in a handgun.”
Caine went with Cody to another table, where they selected the latest plastic explosive, the Army’s C-5, and the necessary detonators and timers. Cody let Caine finish that part of his job and thanked the sergeant.
They moved their weapons and ammo to a room that would serve as their home base.
Next came a briefing by a TV newsman. He was a reporter for CBS and looked them over for a moment.
“Sorry, men, you just can’t fake it as on-camera reporters, and you don’t want to carry around a twenty-pound sound camera. Let’s make you advance men for the reporting team. You’re looking for locations, hot spots, trying to set up interviews. That you can get by with. You’ll need an Arabic-speaking translator unless you can jabber the lingo.”
That briefing was over and Cody sat down across a table with Gorman, who had stayed well removed from Cody’s group the whole time.
“Kill any nuns and children lately, Jack?”
“You’re not a professional, Cody, you’re just a killing machine with no brains. You want this assignment or do I fire your ass right here?”
“You can’t, but I can clout you to death. Now tell me what else you know about the hijacking and then I never want to see you again…alive.”
Gorman paused a minute
“All right. Truce for now. We know damn little. This is a new splinter from the PLO. We have no location for them, no headquarters. All we know is that Majed Kaddoumi is the current front man, the negotiator who is supposed to know where they are.
“Farouk Hassan is their leader, and he works with an ice-cold killer called Abdel Khaled. Our best contact is a real TV reporter named Kelly McConnell. She’s trying to find Kaddoumi with
the hopes she can locate the hostages.”
“Any idea where they took the passengers?”
“Not a prayer. They could be anywhere in the west sector, or they could be in a village or halfway to Tripoli or Damascus.”
“We need a starting point. You must have something.”
“The McConnell woman is your best lead. She stays at the International Hotel. You might try her there by phone. Outside of that, you know as much about it as we do. Incidentally, our countdown clock has now been running for almost eighteen hours. We have a little over thirty hours before the next hostage is scheduled to die. It’s now 11:36 hours. Now stay out of my way.”
Cody found his men back at the room.
“Our problem is intel. We don’t have any. I’m taking Caine with me to try to find our contact. We’ve got two cars to use, with drivers who know the lingo. Just cool it here for a while.”
Minutes later they were in the car driving to the place where Kelly McConnell had told the switchboard she would be if anyone tried to contact her. As the old Fiat pulled away from the American Embassy, a vintage Chevy slid away from the far side of the grounds and followed the Fiat, holding well back in a professional tail-job.
Kelly McConnell sat in her Volkswagen bug parked near a one-story building that had been blasted into rubble by a bomb or an artillery shell and waited. She was good at waiting. She poured a cup of coffee from a steel vacuum bottle and handed it to Cal Vanloo, her cameraman.
“You sure this is the spot, Kell?”
“As sure as I am about anything in this crazy town.” She sipped the steaming coffee, light blue eyes squinting against the perpetual sunshine. She was a tall, slender woman, just over five-nine, with a Figure she tried to tone down and a mind sharp enough to have earned her the top spot in her graduating class at the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism just three years ago.
She wore her free-flowing blonde hair as a badge in this brunette world to advertise that she was an American. It had helped her nail down more than one good news story.