FATAL eMPULSE

by Mark Young

  In the belly of the aircraft, he found the system he had been searching for. “Eureka,” he whispered into his mike. “Found it. I’ll take a few photos and clear out. Copy?”

  He heard his transmission acknowledged, snapped the shots he needed to have the system verified, and worked his way back to the stairs, pausing just long enough to hide his last remaining tracking microchip. As he climbed into the Jeep, Max looked back at the aircraft. Something did not seem right. This whole operation to board the plane had been too easy. Where was the security that should have been near this aircraft? Just before a major mission, this place should be hopping with armed guards. But there was nothing. Not a soul in sight. No wonder these Syrians were so pathetic in war. They had not the sense of mission.

  Now, all they had to do was wait.

  Chapter 59

  March 16

  Al Horjelah, Syria

  Kadar Hanano felt the gusty wind swirl clouds of dust in the air. He could not see the dust, but he could feel, taste, and smell it in the air. His phone vibrated. Snatching it out of his pocket, he pressed the Send button to accept the incoming call. “Did the Jews take the bait?”

  The caller sounded gleeful. “Yes, sir. We almost missed them until our guys found the Jeep. Our people watched them board the plane, look around, then leave.”

  “Good. Good. They did not spot you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Stay on them. I want to know where they go to hide. They will lead us to the Americans. And what about Raed?”

  “He’s still at the airfield. Visited the American scientist once, and then went to another building. Lights turned out. I assume he is asleep.”

  “Watch him. If he leaves—arrest him.”

  “Do you want us to search the aircraft to see if they left anything?”

  “No. Just don’t let that plane take off.”

  “What if Raed’s people board it?”

  “Move in and arrest everyone. We will sort this out later.” He killed the connection and returned to the bunker.

  The trap had been set. If everything played out as he planned, he and his men would be able to swoop in and take them all out—Israelis, Americans, and the Muslim Brotherhood. He felt like a cat playing with a mouse—a deadly mouse that could strike back at any time.

  “Sir, we’ve picked up surveillance.”

  Max almost jerked the car into a ditch when one of his men yelled out that information. “You sure?”

  “The vehicle has tailed us since we pulled away from the airport. They’ve been following us for several miles.”

  He was glad they had taken the long way around to the farmhouse. “They? More than one vehicle?”

  “At least two. One has been shadowing the first for as many miles. They’re spaced about a quarter mile between vehicles, running without headlights.”

  Max looked into the rearview mirror, although he knew he’d see nothing. “They must have night vision capabilities like ours. Any eyes in the sky?”

  “None that I can see or hear.”

  In this wind, it might be hard to have aerial surveillance. “Okay, we are going to head to a more populated area, try to lose them, and hotwire a new ride back to the farmhouse. We have a few hours before daylight.”

  Max turned off the main highway as they entered the outskirts of Damascus. “They must be keeping this quiet or we’d have Army units swarming us right now. Keep an eye out for an ambush.”

  As soon he reached a heavily populated part of the city—towering apartment buildings, businesses, and a hotel—he accelerated and cut back, zigzagging from block to block. “Are they still behind us?”

  His spotter in the backseat answered. “After you left the highway, they took the exit but you made enough turns I don’t think they’ve caught up yet. Can’t be too far behind.”

  “Good.” Max gave the steering wheel a hard yank to the left. The car bottomed out as it crossed a sidewalk and entered a congested parking lot. As soon as he found a parking space, he slammed on the brake and turned off the engine.

  He slipped out of the driver’s seat and joined the others, crouching behind the nearest parked car. Even here, hard gusts of wind swept over them. The weather—favorable to them back at the airport—worked against them now. They could not hear anything.

  Max leaned over to the man next to him and whispered, “Have the other two start working on getting us another set of wheels. You and I…recon that street, see if we lost them.”

  The man nodded and passed on Max’s instructions.

  They crouched between the cars, leapfrogging each vehicle for cover as they approached the entrance to the parking lot. Max saw movement farther down the block and patted his partner’s arm. “Here comes one of the cars.”

  They proned out on the ground beneath a vehicle and watched the approaching vehicle from the undercarriage. There were no streetlights in this part of the city, which made their night vision more acute.

  Several men piled out. A moment later, the second vehicle approached and parked. Men from both cars were now on foot. They must have figured out where Max and his men took cover.

  Max whispered into his mike a warning to the other men farther back in the lot and hugged the ground, watching their trackers approach, a team of four, all heavily armed, all wearing night-vision goggles.

  This was not your typical Syrian Army unit or even local police. These guys were decked out in plainclothes, drab Army jackets, and soft-soled shoes. By the way they moved and the equipment they carried, these gunmen must be highly trained. The only advantage Max enjoyed at the moment was the fact he knew where they were and they had not spotted him—yet.

  How did these guys know he and his men pulled into this parking lot? He gripped his handgun, realizing that they must have placed a tracker on the car. But how? Where had they tagged it?

  He thought back over the night and remembered how easy everything seemed to have been. Light security, their ability to get on the base with no detection, it all made sense. It was a trap. They could not have followed them from the farmhouse, since the place had been under constant guard and the only suspicious activity had been the lone Army patrol they encountered. They must have been waiting at the airport. Someone must have given the order to let Max and his men leave so they could be track them back to the farmhouse, back to their hiding place.

  So why did they let them board the aircraft and see what they stashed on board? They must know that Israel could not let that aircraft take off. Unless…

  Footsteps came closer as the Syrians moved from car to car, weapons drawn, looking for Max and his men. The game plan must have changed. They wanted to try to covertly follow Max and the others to their base. So they did not know about the farmhouse. But when he pulled off the road and entered this parking lot, the Syrians followed to make sure this was not their hiding place. Once they knew Max and his men alerted to their surveillance, then there were only two options left—capture or kill them.

  Max might have another advantage. These Syrians, for whatever reason, were trying to keep this quiet. They seemed to want to take Max’s team out without using outside sources. Who were these guys and why did they want to keep this quiet?

  Max patted his partner on the arm, motioned that he’d take the two men to his right, and his partner would take out the two on his left. Each of Max’s men carried silencer-equipped handguns. At least the attack would be quiet on their end.

  His partner crouched, weapon in hand, and glanced back at him. Max slowly raised one finger at a time. As the third finger raised, Max and his partner sprang up and began firing. Surprised, the Syrians fired wildly, missing their targets. Max and his partner leveled on them, going for head shots and legs because of the body armor their attackers wore.

  Moments later, all four Syrians lay on the ground. One remained alive, screaming into the night. Slowly the screams lessened, until Max knew the man was dead.

  Max raised himself to see if any of the gunmen m
ight still be alive. He heard no sounds and saw no one moving. Quickly, he scanned the immediate area—apartment windows above them, any pedestrians on the street, any lights coming on because of the attack—and saw only darkness. No one poking their heads out in curiosity, wondering what the commotion might be about. No red lights from activated cameras or recorders. Just stillness.

  “Let’s see what they’re carrying,” he whispered, moving toward the bodies. The street seemed empty, and he still saw no movement from the apartments. He knelt by the first body, rummaged through the man’s pockets and under his coat. Locating a radio clasped to the man’s belt, he unclipped it and gathered in a wire leading from the radio to an earplug in the dead man’s ear. His partner did the same, gathering the other three radios while Max gathered weapons.

  After they completed their search, they moved on to the suspects’ cars. They tossed each one but found nothing of interest. He pressed his own transmission button to make contact with the other two team members. “Ayln! Hurry. Bring the new car up and let’s get out of here.”

  Lights from the stolen car flicked on. The driver pulled up as Max and his partner removed their night-vision scopes and leaped inside the car. As they neared the highway once again, Max kept looking over his shoulder to see if any vehicle was following. Nothing seemed to be moving. Only a lifeless street amidst darkness lay in their wake.

  It appeared safe to return to the farmhouse.

  Chapter 60

  March 16

  Gerrit kneeled in the bed of the transport, bracing himself against the side panel as he peered through a small hole he cut in the camouflaged canopy between him and the driver. He could see the sweat on the soldier’s face as they approached the checkpoint leading onto the military base. They had only a few more hours of darkness left.

  In Arabic, Gerrit whispered through the window, “Remember! Unless you want to go to paradise tonight—follow my orders.”

  The soldier nodded, muttering to himself. The next few minutes would tell if this guy had his head screwed on straight. Alena sat back by the tailgate, kneeling down and watching through a split in the canvas. Gerrit gripped his pistol. If this guy alerted security, Gerrit would take him out, and Alena would leap from the tailgate and try to take out the sentries.

  As they rolled to a stop, a sentry left the guard shack and raised the barrier barring their way. The guard seemed to recognize the driver and engaged him in conversation. The driver cussed and put the truck in gear, pulling ahead. The sentry looked puzzled.

  “Good man,” Gerrit whispered. “Now, drive where I tell you, nice and slow.” He directed the driver in the direction of where Shakeela’s GPS tracker last recorded her location. Just as they started up the hill, Gerrit’s phone vibrated. He started to ignore it, but thought better of it. Maybe they had an update on Shakeela’s location.

  He put the phone to his ear without even looking at the caller ID. “Gerrit, here.”

  “It’s Shakeela. I need help.”

  “Shakeela? Where are you?”

  “I’m right on top of where Hanano and his people are manning a command center for the launch. Where are you?”

  “Near where we lost your signal. Are you near the big white house on the hill?”

  “Just to the rear of it. Don’t come up here. Circle around and I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  “See you in a few minutes.” Gerrit disconnected and yelled out for the driver to stop. The man complied and Gerrit gave him the new directions. The soldier yanked on the wheel and turned the truck in the direction Shakeela gave them. She was alive. That was all he wanted to hear. The rest they’d figure out when they met up.

  Pulling out another cigarette, Kadar lit up and took a deep drag. Strict rules forbid smoking in the bunkers. Supplies and ordnances had been stored for the Army down below, and some rooms still contained weapons and ammunition. Even explosives. Though Kadar never thought rules applied to him, these rules he’d follow in the interest of self-preservation.

  He grabbed his cell phone and checked for messages. He’d misplaced his phone downstairs and confiscated one of his men’s phones as they left for a detail. Belowground, he could not get any reception. Seeing no messages, he quickly dialed the leader of his surveillance crew, wanting an update.

  The phone continued to ring until it switched over to allow the caller to leave messages. As the automated message started, Kadar ended the call, frustrated. Where were his men? They never failed to return his call. Maybe they were in an area with bad reception. Unlikely, but he’d give it a few more minutes and try again.

  He just finished a second cigarette when his phone vibrated. Finally, some news. He pressed to receive the call. Another man’s voice came over the line, a person from their communications center in Damascus. “Yes?”

  It was an automated alert to his unit to call the communications center. He dialed the number, identifying himself when a caller picked up the call.

  “Sir, we just received a call from the Army. Four men attached to your unit have been found shot and killed in the city limits.”

  “Did the Army make the discovery?”

  “No, sir. A man living in the area on his way to work saw the bodies and called it in. The Army responded and they relayed the information to us.”

  “What can you tell me about the shooting?”

  “Not much, sir. The Army cannot find anyone who admitted to hearing the shots. Your men’s cars were left at the scene.”

  “Okay,” Kadar said, processing the information. “Anything else?”

  “The bodies were picked over, but no valuables taken. Just radio equipment and weapons.”

  “Do they suspect SLA rebels did this?”

  The caller hesitated. “They don’t know, sir. But if it was the rebels, why would they leave money and valuables behind?”

  Kadar hung up and stomped toward his car. How did the Jews get to his men? Were there others working with them that he did not know about? Too many questions. Not enough answers. He needed to check this out firsthand.

  As soon as they came to a stop, Shakeela emerged from the darkness. Alena leaped from the back of the truck, gave her a hug, and then trained a weapon on the driver as Gerrit joined them.

  Quietly, Gerrit ordered the man to step from the truck and turn around. He bound the man’s hands behind him with duct tape before turning to Shakeela and giving her a hug. “You had us worried.”

  “I’m so sorry. It was stupid of me to lose the cell phone, but I couldn’t go back and get it. I didn’t want to lose Hanano.” She pointed to a car that was just leaving the military post. “I spotted him leaving just before you got here. Everything we need to know about the assault is downstairs in that building. We need to get it, give it to the Israelis when we can, and clear out before Hanano returns.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Three of us against the 4th Armored Division? I say let’s get out of here. Max and the others are finishing the recon at the airport.”

  Shakeela shook her head. “We need proof, Gerrit. No telling what else Hanano has down there. Let’s grab what intelligence we can while we have a chance. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find out more names in this plan of theirs.”

  Alena, keeping her eyes on the driver, said, “I’m with her, Gerrit. We’re so close. And this intelligence is exactly what Frank and the Israelis needed to make their final decision.”

  Reluctantly, Gerrit agreed with their logic. “Okay, but we’ll have to take the Syrian with us.” He looked at the driver for a moment. “That means we have to go in the front way. Let’s drive this ton of bolts right up to the front door, guns blazing. At least we’ll have the element of surprise.”

  Alena laughed. “What is it with you Marines? Gun’s blazing, kick in the front door. Do you always have to make a lot of noise and shoot a lot of bullets when you do something?”

  “I guess Mossad does things differently?” He pulled a large duffel bag from the back of the truck.

&nbs
p; “We take care of business—quietly.”

  Shakeela said, “My guess, at this hour there’s only one or two guys down in the command center right now. The rest of the building appears to be unoccupied.” She quickly gave them a description of the building, including access to the command center.

  “Do they have any cameras in the building?”

  Shakeela grimaced. “Yes. When I got to the command post, I saw monitors that keyed on several locations in this facility—but no one was in a position to monitor. Maybe we’ll time it just right and catch them unaware.”

  “Okay, let’s do this.” He opened up the duffel bag and pulled out two 4.6mm Heckler & Koch gas-operated MP7A1s, handing one to Alena and a bandolier of magazines, fully loaded. He gave Shakeela one of three 9mm Sig Sauer P226s, each equipped with a silencer, from the bag. “Remember how to use one of these babies?”

  Shakeela gave him a look as she grabbed the weapon, expertly ejecting the magazine and checking the load before reseating it and chambering a round.

  He smiled, grabbed the duffel bag and his weapon and inserted the first magazine. Thanks for coming through again, Frank. The old man had worked through Jack to arrange for a shipment of weapons, ammunition, and other equipment to be delivered to a house in Damascus. Gerrit had plenty of firepower to pull off this assault—weapons, ammunition, flash-bangs, night-vision goggles, a dozen grenades, detonation cord, and his ever-useful duct tape.

  In addition to the H&Ks, he and Alena armed themselves with the remaining two Sig Sauers. They had about ten magazines of ammunition, not counting those already locked and loaded.