by Chuck Holton
Liz took the missive and began to read. Several phrases leaped out at her. A Western woman. A blond woman who is sick. A hostage. A secure warehouse in the center of the camp.
Julie!
H-5 Airbase, Jordan
“Good morning,” the redhead began, studiously ignoring the surprised looks she was receiving from the men of Task Force Valor. “I’m Mary Walker. My call sign is Phoenix. I run CIA ops here at H-5. I’ll be your liaison for the foreseeable future. You all have top secret security clearances, so I shouldn’t have to remind you that everything about this mission from now on is highly classified.”
As she said it, she walked over to Rip, bent, and looked him in the eye as she took his camera from him.
“Hey!” Rip protested.
Mary deftly removed the memory card, then handed the camera back to the grumbling Rubio.
Sweeney stared at John intently, a “you’ve got to be kidding me” look on his face. John shrugged. He was as dumbfounded as everyone else.
Major Williams stood next to him, surveying the group with a grin on his face. He was enjoying his men’s reactions way too much.
Mary wore tan desert camo pants with an olive drab polo shirt. Her chin-length haircut made her facial features starker than they might have been otherwise, and she had a swimmer’s build. She was attractive even though she wore very little makeup. It was probably more the way she carried herself. The woman exuded competence.
John leaned over and whispered to Williams, “Is this for real?”
“You bet your boots it is.”
“She won’t be going with us on missions, will she?”
The major chuckled. “We’ll see. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. Word has it she’s a former women’s featherweight kick-boxing champion.”
John cocked an eyebrow at his commander, then turned back to the briefing.
Mary continued. “The Lebanese intelligence service suspects a terrorist group headquartered in Lebanon. Here.” She pointed to the map, her finger coming to rest on an area east of Sidon and north of Nabatiya.
“The group calls itself Ansar Inshallah, or the ‘Followers of God’s Will.’ They’ve been around since the early 1990s and have really begun to make a nuisance of themselves lately, assassinating a Muslim cleric and a Lebanese federal judge in the last month and a half. Ansar Inshallah affiliates itself with Bin Laden’s stated objective of ridding the Muslim world of Western influences. It also wants to overthrow the Lebanese government.”
Ansar Inshallah. John shook his head as he noted the name on his pad. This was a new group to him, and he thought he knew them all.
“The group is comprised of angry Palestinian men, mostly young, and their primary bases of operations are the Sabra and Sainiq refugee camps near Sidon, here and here.” Mary pulled a pencil from behind her ear and jabbed at the map with it. “Lebanese intel says that the hotel bomber lived in the Sabra camp.”
She flipped the page on the easel pad, exposing a street map with a building highlighted on it. “They’ve acquired information from an informant that the group has a warehouse here, inside the Sainiq camp, where it’s believed they are stockpiling weapons and explosives for future mayhem. We want you to go in and see if any of the goodies they have stored here happen to be ITEB.”
Rip Rubio raised a hand. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
“Phoenix.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Call me Phoenix.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Phoenix.”
Snickers rippled through the ranks. Rip looked flustered. “Right, Phoenix. Sorry. Anyway, so how do we get in to look at this place? I can’t imagine the Lebanese government wants an American military unit tromping around its country, not to mention the fact that the warehouse sits in the center of a refugee camp where there are umpteen thousand Palestinians who will most certainly object to our presence.”
She nodded. “That is correct. But the plan is for you to be in and out before the Palestinians know what happened.”
Sweeney crossed his arms. “And if we’re not?”
“You will be.”
John liked this mission less and less all the time.
“As for the Lebanese government wanting us there, officially, they don’t. Unofficially, a Lebanese military transport plane will be here at 2200 tonight to pick you boys up. The bureaucrats in Beirut feel like they have neither the political capital to poke Ansar Inshallah in the eye, nor the technical expertise to know what they were looking at if they did find something. Besides, they figure that inviting us in under the radar will help them look good to the U.S. and the U.N. They certainly want to at least look tough on terror.”
Mary stepped to the side, and Major Williams took the floor again. He flipped another page on the easel pad. “Okay, we don’t have much time to prepare. So here’s the mission: John, I’m going to split the detachment for this one. You will take Baldwin, Rubio, Sweeney, Hogan, and Doc Kelly into Beirut and meet up with a Lebanese Intelligence Service operative who is on the CIA’s payroll. The operative’s job is to serve as your guide and infiltrate you six into the camp so you can take down the warehouse. You’ll be traveling in civilian clothes.”
John nodded. Just the guys I would have chosen. That said something about what they were likely up against.
Sweeney, looking pleased to be part of the mission, said, “So what kind of security will we encounter once we reach this place?”
Williams consulted his clipboard. “Getting inside the camp will be the trickiest part. It’s kind of like a gated community. It might be exclusive, but not in the way you’re used to thinking. Checkpoints at each entrance are manned by Lebanese soldiers. It would be tough to get in that way without the residents knowing about it, so you’ll have to find another way. Your contact will help you with that.
“Once you reach the warehouse, intel says only one man works the night shift guarding the building. I’d lay odds he’ll be asleep when you arrive. As long as you’re able to neutralize him without raising the alarm, you should have a good thirty to forty minutes on the objective before anyone realizes something’s wrong.” He grinned at the men. “Of course, I don’t expect you’ll need anywhere near that much time.”
John agreed. Hit and Git.
“Coop, you’ll decide with the Lebanese operative the exact time to hit the building, but I’m thinking sometime late tomorrow night should give you enough time to prepare.”
“Sounds good to me, sir.” John glanced at his men who all looked happy as squirrels in a bird feeder at the opportunity before them.
Williams glanced at his clipboard again. “If, during your search, you find any signs of ITEB or other terrorist activity, you are to secure a sample if possible and then emplace demolitions on a time delay. Then remove yourselves to this soccer field, two blocks north.”
He referred again to the map. “The mission will be timed so your choppers will be inbound as soon as you initiate the raid, so the exfil should go very quickly. A CSAR bird will be on station as backup in case anything goes wrong.”
Williams put down his clipboard and gave the team a sober look. “I don’t need to tell you that this is unlike any mission we’ve done before. This isn’t like Iraq or Afghanistan. Becoming an operational element of the CIA is bound to have its…er…” he threw Mary a sideways glance, “challenges. So stay flexible. I can’t stress enough how politically sensitive this is. The Lebanese government is about as schizophrenic as they come.
“It’s a confessional government, meaning that the major offices are held by those who confess a certain religion. The president is by constitution a Maronite Christian, the premier is a Sunni Muslim, and the speaker of the legislature is a Shi’a Muslim. This balance has worked for many years, but it’s precarious, especially as the Muslim population grows. In addition, the area around Sidon is still boiling over the assassination of Rafik Hariri.”
Doc Kelly grinned. “And you thought the Democrats an
d the Republicans couldn’t agree on anything!”
What a nightmare, John thought. That would be like having Pat Robertson as President, Hillary Clinton as vice president, and Louis Farrakhan as the Speaker of the House. Yikes.
How strange that religion determined what office you could hold. But perhaps it was a way for a very divided country to bring itself together. Well, whatever works.
“The Lebanese want this case solved,” the major said. “And they want the perpetrators punished. However—and it’s a big however—none of the political factions in the country want to hang any body parts out there that could get lopped off, if you know what I mean.”
John shook his head. “Politicians.” They were the same everywhere, always protecting their backs, their positions. His aversion to all things political had been one major reason why he’d refused to apply to West Point. He didn’t want to play the politics it took to be considered a good officer or to be considered for promotion.
Here in the Special Forces, they were constantly on a real-world footing, and John had learned that when things got hot, the stupid stuff went away. Everyone worked for the good of the team, the good of the mission. He liked that feeling—the do-whatever-it-takes-to-get-the-job-done feeling. Truth be told, he thrived on it.
“You know where the word politics comes from, don’t you?” Doc Kelly said, still grinning as if they were sitting at a dinner party instead of a mission brief. “It’s from two root words, poly meaning ‘many’ and ticks meaning ‘blood sucking insects.’”
A collective groan arose from the assembled team, and Kelly broke into a loud guffaw even as several hats, wads of crumpled paper, and an empty bottle of Gatorade came flying at him.
The major cleared his throat, and they all turned back to him. “The rest of the team will stay here at H-5 and be prepared to assist if things go badly. John, take your guys over to Phoenix’s office, and she’ll set you up with a cover story that will get you by for the next thirty-six hours or so. For support, we have three Night Stalker Black Hawks tasked to us, and an unmanned aerial vehicle will be on call.”
Hogan raised a hand as if he were still in high school. “What about communications?” The Texan’s voice dripped like slow molasses.
“We’ll stay in contact by SAT phone as a primary before the mission. Once we go tactical, we’ll use the SATCOM radio you will carry with you. Any more questions?”
When there were none, John shut the pad he’d been taking notes in and stood stiffly. The travel was catching up with him. A run would do him good at the moment, but he’d gladly take a strong cup of Turkish coffee instead.
He’d been looking forward to some since they left Fort Bragg. He’d gotten hooked on the cardamom-laced brew on his last trip to H-5. The Arabs had been perfecting the stuff for millennia, and Starbucks had nothing on them.
Unfortunately, the only place that served Turkish coffee was on the other side of the base, so right now he’d have to settle for whatever the chow hall had available, which undoubtedly would taste like lukewarm canteen water with a brown crayon dipped in it, but at least it would have caffeine.
He still had a hard time getting his head around the surprise of having his unit commandeered by the CIA. Civilian clothes? In sixth grade, his teacher had asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. At the time, he’d been watching all the old 007 movies, so he answered, “James Bond.” Well, John, here’s your chance!
Joking aside, John knew this mission would be different from anything they’d ever done before. But in Explosive Ordnance Disposal, there was no such thing as a routine day. You learned to roll with it, or the job would drive you nuts.
He looked around at his team. Frank, Rip, Buzz, Sweeney, Doc. These men were the brothers he’d always wanted.
What if one of us doesn’t come back from this one?
No. I can’t go there. I won’t go there.
He stowed his notepad and went to find Phoenix.
Beirut
THE PHONE RANG as Liz finished reading Hanan’s letter.
“Turn on your TV,” ordered Bashir Assan without preamble. His voice shook slightly, a fact that terrified her. “But be warned. It’s bad. Try to prepare your parents.”
But nothing could ever prepare them for the horrific scene being played out before their eyes.
A ski-masked man was reading a proclamation with a blindfolded blond woman kneeling at his feet. A barbaric-looking knife was thrust in his belt.
Julie!
Annabelle made a keening noise as tears poured down her cheeks. Charles seemed frozen.
“Seventy-two hours,” the voiceover declared. “All Ansar Inshallah prisoners must be freed.”
When the picture changed to an in-studio announcer making comments on the tape delivered to the studio by an unknown person or persons just moments ago, Liz stopped listening
The three-day time frame screamed at her. Seventy-two hours, but seventy-two hours from when? When the tape was first played on the air? When it was made? And did anyone know when that was?
The commentator caught her attention as he said, “Ansar Inshallah is an extremist, anti-Western band led by Abu Shaaban. They are headquartered in Southern Lebanon.”
They were still reeling with shock when the doorbell rang, and Captain Timon Habib came in.
“You’ve seen?” Charles asked, his eyes wide and frantic.
“We are doing everything we can to find her,” he assured them.
“But you know where she is, right?” Liz burst out. “She’s somewhere in the Sainiq camp near Sidon.” The irony of having been there herself just days ago was not lost on Liz.
Captain Habib smiled that condescending smile of his, and Liz wanted to kick him in the shins. “And you know this how?”
“The combination of the old man’s testimony and Hanan’s letter.” She explained again in detail for the benefit of her parents as well as the captain.
Habib looked pained at her vehemence. “May I suggest, Miss Fairchild, that you leave the investigation in the hands of the professionals?”
“But we’ve only got seventy-two hours! Minus at least one. What are you professionals doing about it?”
“Elizabeth!” Charles’s voice was a whip crack.
Liz jerked and looked at her father.
“Get us some coffee.” Then as an afterthought, “Please.”
“What?” She stared at him in disbelief. Just as anger threatened to consume her, she noticed his shaking hands as he reached for his wife.
Taking a deep breath, Liz went to the kitchen. There she found Nabila already preparing a tray of coffee and cakes. Liz sank into a chair and, elbow on the table, braced her head in her hand.
Lord God, what are You doing?
It felt that every time she turned around, her faith was talking another hit.
Please, God! Help! It seemed certain that Captain Habib wasn’t going to. So who would? Who cared about Julie as she did? Sure, her parents were having their hearts torn out, but what were they doing except bothering the authorities? She was the one who had found the clues. She was the one who wouldn’t give up.
A feeling of knowing spread through her like liquid soap through hot water.
She was the one. It was up to her.
Which was why Liz found herself standing in the foyer of the newspaper office where Bashir worked. As a political columnist for one of Lebanon’s major dailies, he saw his mission in life as keeping the coals of dissatisfaction in the Middle East red hot. From Liz’s perspective, it was unfortunate that he was so good at his job.
“I’d like to speak with Bashir Assan,” she told the receptionist.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Liz mentally rolled her eyes. Receptionists were the same the world over, guarding the office from unscheduled invaders like a jealous girl guarding her boyfriend from flirtatious females.
“No, no appointment.”
“I’m sorry.” It was clear she wasn’t. �
�He is very busy today. We can make an appointment for the day after tomorrow.”
Liz stood her ground. “I must see him today. Now.”
The receptionist flipped her appointment book and looked up at Liz, pen at the ready. “Is ten o’clock all right?” Apparently it was two days hence or not at all.
“Please tell him that Elizabeth Fairchild is here.” Liz put as much confidence behind the words as she could. “I’m sure he’ll see me.”
The receptionist’s chin went up pugnaciously.
Liz leaned forward slightly. “Elizabeth Fairchild. I am the sister of his missing sister-in-law, the one shown on TV this morning.”
The receptionist blinked, clearly surprised, though whether by Liz’s tenacity or the mention of Julie was unclear. The woman hesitated another minute, then laid her pen down. She rose and walked up a short hall to a closed office door. She knocked, paused a second, then entered. She returned in a minute. “Mr. Assan will see you. Please follow me.”
Feeling that finally one thing was working in her favor, Liz trailed the young woman through the now open door. The receptionist backed out and closed the door behind her, leaving Liz alone with the one person in the world who disliked her, not for anything she had done but merely for who she was. Well, Liz wasn’t fond of him either. Something about him raised her hackles every time she was near him.
Now he looked up from his desk, but he didn’t stand.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was not quite hostile. “I am sorry about Julie.”
“I’ve come to ask for your help in finding her.” Might as well baldly state her reason for being here.
Bashir studied her for a long moment. His stare made her fidget with nerves. She forced herself to stand still. He was not going to intimidate her.
“Why should I help find Julie?”
Liz knew her mouth had dropped open. “She’s your sister-in-law.”
“That is hardly my doing.” He turned to the papers on his desk and began to read.