Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War

by Acts Of War [lit]

  Hood learned forward. "Would the Syrian Kurds be acting alone or with other Kurdish nationalists?"

  "That's a good question," McCaskey said. "If the Kurds are behind the dam attack, it's much more ambitious than anything they've tried in the past. You know, raiding weapons depots or attacking military patrols, that sort of thing. My feeling is that for something this big they'd have needed the help of the Turkish Kurds, who've been fighting their government from strongholds in the east for the last fifteen years or so."

  "And joining with them," Hood said, "what would the Syrian Kurds hope to do?"

  "Destabilize, the region," Herbert replied. "If Syria and Turkey were to bash away at one another while the Syrian and Turkish Kurds unified, they could become a power in the region by default."

  "Not only by default," McCaskey said. "Assume they use the distraction of war to dig in all along the Turkish and Syrian border. Infiltrate villages, cities, and mountains, set up mobile camps in the desert. They could wage an intractable guerrilla war like Afghanistan lasting for years."

  "And whenever the pressure got too intense in one country," Herbert said, "the Kurds could simply slip into the other. Or else they join with the Kurds in Iraq to bring that country into the fray. Can you imagine an ongoing war involving those three nations? How long before nuclear or chemical weapons are used? How long before Syria or Iraq realizes that Israel is supplying the Kurds---"

  "Which they've been doing for years," said McCaskey.

  "---and starts chucking missiles at them?"

  "Eventually," McCaskey said, "when there's a peace settlement, it will have to deal with the Kurdish issue in order to be effective. So the Kurds get a homeland, Turkey embraces the fundamentalists, and democracy and the United States are the big losers."

  "If there's a peace settlement," Herbert said portentously. "We're talking about thousands of years of animosity being unleashed on a large scale. If that genie is ever let out of the bottle, it might be impossible to put him back in."

  Hood understood. He also knew that it wasn't the responsibility of Op-Center to plan for a war in the Middle East. His job was to spot "hot situations" and manage them if they became "crises." Once they evolved from that into "policy problems," it was up to the White House to handle them. The President would let him know what help was needed and where. The question was, what could be done to manage this developing crisis?

  Hood turned to his keyboard and typed in the extension of his executive assistant, Stephen "Bugs" Benet. A moment later the young man's face appeared on the screen.

  "Good morning, Paul," Bugs said, his voice coming from speakers mounted on the side of the monitor.

  "Morning, Bugs," Hood said. "Would you please get Mike Rodgers for me? He's still at the ROC."

  "Right away," Bugs said. His image winked off.

  Hood glanced at Herbert. "What's Mike doing to find that missing helicopter?"

  "Same thing we are," Herbert replied. "Analyzing data. He's in a better position to scan communications in the region, so I'm sure he's doing that too. He'll be following all the procedures we wrote up for ROC operations."

  "What's the minimum security requirement you established for the ROC?" Hood asked.

  "Two Strikers when the facility is in the field," Herbert said. "That's what they've got now."

  Bugs reappeared on the screen. "General Rodgers is not available," he said. "He's gone out to do field work."

  Hood's mouth tightened. He knew the general well enough to smell a euphemism when he heard one. "Where did he go?"

  "Mary Rose said he took Colonel Seden and left about ten minutes ago," Bugs told him. "They took the Turkish officer's motorcycle."

  "Uh-oh," Bob Herbert said.

  "What about the computer cell phone?" Hood asked. "Can you reach Mike on that?"

  "The general phoned Mary Rose to check reception a few minutes after he went out into the plains," Bugs said. "The satellite uplink worked fine, but he told her not to call unless it was an emergency. Just in case anyone was listening in."

  "Lots of cross talk in open spaces like that," Herbert said. "Zero security."

  Hood nodded at Herbert. On military missions, Op-Center personnel typically carried secure TAC-SATs. They had their own parabolic dishes which allowed them to uplink securely with satellites, then broadcast directly to Op-Center. But those units were relatively cumbersome. Though the ROC carried one TAC-SAT, Rodgers obviously wanted to travel light.

  Hood was angry with Rodgers, and deeply concerned about him being out without Striker backup. But he couldn't pull anyone from the ROC without compromising security procedures, and he didn't want to recall Rodgers. The general was his own man and he hadn't broken any rules. Besides, it wasn't Hood's place to second-guess his Deputy Director from nine thousand miles away.

  "Thanks, Bugs," Hood said. "Stay in touch with the ROC and let me know at once if they hear anything."

  "Will do, Chief," Bugs said.

  Hood clicked Benet off and regarded Herbert. "So. It looks like Mike's gone off to do some first-hand recon."

  Herbert absently punched the keys on the speakerphone of his armrest. "Yeah. Well, that's Mike's style, isn't it?"

  "Why wouldn't he have taken the ROC?" McCaskey asked. "At least then he'd have been able to do a thorough job."

  "Because he knew he was going into a dangerous situation," Hood said. "And you know Mike. He wouldn't want to jeopardize the facility or the crew. That's also his style."

  Hood looked at Herbert, who was looking at him. The intelligence chief shut his eyes and nodded.

  "I'll find him," Herbert said. He speed-dialed the NRO on his wheelchair phone. "I'll see if Viens can push everything else aside again and get us a nice clear satellite snapshot of Rodgers of Arabia."

  "Thanks," Hood said. He looked at McCaskey.

  "The usual?" McCaskey asked.

  Hood nodded. The former G-man knew the drill. If a group claimed credit, McCaskey would have to run a check through other domestic and foreign agencies to see if they had the resources. If not, who were they covering for and why? If so, he would have to run their modus operandi through the computer to determine what their next likely move was and how long they'd wait. Then McCaskey and his advisors would have to ascertain whether diplomacy would forestall other attacks, whether the perpetrators would have to be hit militarily, and what other targets they were likely to strike.

  "Put Liz in on this," Hood said.

  McCaskey nodded as he left. Psychological profiles of Middle Eastern terrorists were especially important. If the terrorists were motivated solely by politics, as most Kurds were, they were less likely to be suicidal. That being the case, security against air and ground attacks was possible. If the terrorists were motivated by religion and politics, as the larger majority of Kurds were, then they were not only happy but honored to give their lives. In that case, killers could strike anywhere. They might wear six to eight sticks of TNT in a specially designed belt supported by shoulder straps. Or they might carry a backpack loaded with fifty to sixty pounds of plastique. Wires running from the explosives through two batteries were attached to a switch. This switch was usually kept in the bomber's pants pocket, which allowed him to trigger the blast anytime, anywhere. Those kinds of attacks were virtually impossible to protect against; those kinds of terrorists were damn near impossible to reason with. The most frustrating and ironic part was that a single terrorist was far more lethal than a group. A lone operator had total tactical flexibility and the ability to surprise.

  Herbert clicked off his phone. "Viens is on the case for us. Says he can get the 30-45-3 away from the Defense Department in about ten minutes. It's one of the older jobs, no infrared capacity, but we'll get good daylight pictures."

  The designation 30-45-3 referred to the third satellite looking down on the longitudes thirty to forty-five degrees east of the prime meridian. That was the region which included Turkey.

  "Viens's a damn fine man," Hood said


  "The best." Herbert turned. He snickered as he wheeled toward the door. "At least Stephen's keeping his sense of humor about the investigation. He told me there're so many nails in his coffin he's thinking of nick-naming the division the Iron Maiden."

  "We won't let Congress close the lid on him," Hood promised.

  "That's a nice sentiment, Paul. But it'll be real difficult to make happen."

  "I like the difficult, Bob." Hood smiled faintly. "That's why I'm here."

  Herbert glanced back as he opened the door. "Touché." He winked as he rolled into the hallway.

  THIRTEEN

  Monday, 5:55 p.m.,

  Oguzeli, Turkey

  Ibrahim and the radio operator Hasan stood on the windy plain as Mahmoud knelt between them. They had Czechoslovakian Samopal submachine guns lying across their shoulders and Smith & Wesson .38s tucked into holsters on their belts. There were hunting knives sheathed on their hips.

  Ibrahim held Mahmoud's weapons as his brother bent low on the hard earth. Tears trickled down the older man's dark cheeks and his voice cracked as he quoted the Holy Koran.

  "He sends forth guardians who watch over you and carry away your souls without fail when death overtakes you...."

  Just minutes before, Walid had deposited his three passengers and their backpacks and weapons on this dry hillside. He'd given Mahmoud a gold ring he wore, one which was topped with two silver daggers crossed beneath a star. It was the ring which identified him as a leader of the group. Then he'd taken off again and flown the helicopter back toward the flood. Racing headlong into the raging waters, he'd allowed the helicopter to be swallowed up. A geyser of spray and steam had briefly marked its death. Then the three survivors had watched in horror as the helicopter's shattered remains were carried away by the torrent.

  Walid had sacrificed himself and the chopper because it was the only way to erase the ship from Turkish radar. The only way to keep the team from being shot from the skies. The only way to protect the others so that they might continue the important work of the Kurdistan Workers' Party.

  Mahmoud finished his prayer, but he continued to bow low. His voice soft and sorrowful, he asked, "Why you, Walid? You were our leader, our soul."

  "Mahmoud," Ibrahim said softly, "patrols will be covering this region soon. We must go."

  "You could have shown me how to fly the helicopter," Mahmoud said. "My life was not as important as yours. Who will lead the people now?"

  "Mahmoud," Ibrahim said more insistently. "Min fadlak---please! You will lead us. He gave you the ring."

  "Yes." Mahmoud nodded. "I will lead you. It was Walid's dying wish. There is still a great deal to be done."

  Ibrahim had never seen such sadness and then anger in his brother's expression. And it occurred to him then that perhaps this was something else Walid wanted. The fire of hate in the hearts and eyes of his soldiers.

  As Mahmoud stood, Ibrahim handed him his Parabellum and a .38.

  "Thank you, my brother," Mahmoud said.

  "According to Hasan," Ibrahim said with quiet confidence, "we can reach Sanliurfa by nightfall. We can stay in the foothills and hide if necessary. Or there is some traffic in the region. Perhaps we can capture a car or truck."

  Mahmoud turned to Hasan, who was standing a respectful distance away. "We do not hide," he said. "Is that understood?"

  "Aywa," said both men. "Yes."

  "Lead us, Hasan," Mahmoud said. "And may the Holy Prophet guide us to our home... and to the homes of our enemies."

  FOURTEEN

  Monday, 6:29 p.m.,

  Oguzeli, Turkey

  Before coming to the Middle East, Mike Rodgers had done what he always did. He'd read about the region. Whenever possible, he'd read what other soldiers had said about a nation or people. When he was here for Desert Shield and then Desert Storm, he'd read T.E. Lawrence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom and reporter Lowell Thomas's With Lawrence in Arabia. They were two views of the same man and the same region. This time he'd re-read the memoirs of General Charles "Chinese" Gordon of Khartoum as well as an anthology about the desert. Something by Lawrence---the English author D.H., not the soldier T.E.---which had been published in the latter had stayed with him. That Lawrence had written in part that the desert was "the forever unpossessed country." Rodgers had liked that phrase very much.

  Like the polar regions, the desert could be borrowed but not owned. Unlike the polar regions, where ice could be melted for water and there was relatively solid ground for construction, the desert had moods. Now broiling, now cool. Savagely windy one minute, utterly still the next. One had to bring not only water and shelter but commitment. Unlike the Arctic or Antarctic, a traveler didn't get off a boat or a plane, move inland a mile or two, take pictures or readings, then depart. From ancient times, when camel caravans crossed these regions, if a person came to the desert it was with the intention of crossing it. And here in these high, dry lands where the earth was not just sandy but parched, where travel was measured in yards instead of in miles, crossing it required luck as well as stamina.

  Thanks to radios and motorized travel, traversing the desert or Turkey's dead meadows was not the purgatory it had been until the turn of the century. But they were still places of staggering desolation. After a half hour of riding on the back of Colonel Seden's motorcycle, Rodgers had noticed that even the ranks of insects had thinned and then dwindled to nothing.

  Rodgers leaned forward on the big Harley. The wind knifed through his short-cropped graying hair and pushed hard against his shoulders. He looked at the small compass that was bracketed to the top of the dashboard, just above the tachometer. They were still headed in the direction where the helicopter had last been seen, along the outer perimeter of the flood. He looked at his watch. They should be arriving in another twenty minutes or so.

  The sun was low behind the hills, its ruddy light fast fading. Within minutes the sky was as star-filled as any Rodgers had ever seen.

  Colonel Seden half turned. "We are nearing the plains," he shouted back. "Above this region there are dirt roads. They are not well traveled, but at least the ride will not be so bumpy."

  Those were the first words Seden had spoken since they left. That was fine. Rodgers himself wasn't a talker.

  "A Navy fast-attack craft in rough seas is bumpy," Rodgers yelled back. "This is fine."

  "If you can believe it,'' Seden said, "the temperatures in this region drop to near freezing before dawn. From October to May the roads are often closed here because of snow!"

  Rodgers knew that from his reading about the region. Only one thing in this part of the world was unchanging. It wasn't the desert winds or sands or borders, or the local and international players who made the Middle East their battleground. It was religion and what people were willing to do for it. Since the days of the priest-dominated Sumerians who flourished in southern Mesopotamia in the fifth millennium BC, people here had been willing to fight for religion, to slaughter humans and beasts for it, and also to die for it.

  Rodgers understood that. Roman Catholic by birth and by choice, he believed in the divinity of Jesus. And he would kill to defend his right to worship God and Christ in his own way. To Rodgers, that was no different from fighting and killing and bleeding to protect the flag and principles of his beloved country. To strike a blow for honor. But he wasn't self-righteous about his faith. He would never raise anything but his voice to try to convert anyone.

  The people here were different. For six thousand years they had sent millions of people to dozens of afterlifes populated by hundreds of gods. Nothing was going to change them. The best Rodgers hoped for by coming here was to fight a better holding action.

  Seden shifted gears as they climbed a hill. Rodgers watched the bright headlight as it bobbed across the dirt road. Unlike the region they'd just crossed, there were rocks, low scrub, and contours in the terrain.

  "This road," said Seden, "will take us directly to---"

  The colonel's body jerked to
the right an instant before Rodgers heard the gunshot. Seden fell back and knocked Rodgers from his seat just as the motorcycle tipped over. Rodgers hit the road hard and rolled back several feet. Seden managed to hold on as the bike struggled up the road on its side for a few yards. It pulled the colonel part of the way before he slipped off.

  Rodgers's right side burned, his arm and leg having been torn open by the pebbles in the road. The motorcycle headlight was pointed back toward them. Rodgers could see that Seden wasn't moving.

  "Colonel?" Rodgers said.

  Seden didn't answer. Fighting the pain, Rodgers got his elbow under him and crawled toward the colonel. He wanted to get the Turk off the road before a vehicle came over the top and ran them down. But before Rodgers could reach him he felt a gun pressed to the back of his neck. He froze as boots crunched on the road. Rodgers watched as two men went to examine Seden.