"That is the Syrian military's problem."
"Not if we get caught in an artillery cross fire," Rodgers said. "If you'll just give me a little time, we can get across without the Turks even being aware of it.
Hagan stopped untying Sondra. "How?"
"We keep insulated cable in the van for patching into satellite uplinks when we have to," Rodgers said. "Let me rig an arc across the barbed wire so we don't break the circuit. Then I'll cut the wire and you can drive right over the cable. Once we cross the field I'll do the same thing on the other side. It'll be quiet. No alarms and no patrols."
"Why should I trust you to do this?" Hagan asked. "If you were to break the circuit, we wouldn't know until the Turks arrive."
"I don't gain anything by bringing the guards down on us," Rodgers replied. "Even if they don't shoot us, you'd probably kill my people in retaliation. That defeats the purpose."
Hasan considered this, then reported to Mahmoud.
There was a short conversation, after which Hasan returned to the back of the van.
"How long will it take to make these connections?"
"Three quarters of an hour at the most," Rodgers said. "It'll take less time if you help."
"I will help," Hasan said as he retied Sondra and began to untie the general. "But I warn you, if you try to get away, I will kill you and one of your people. Do you understand?"
Rodgers nodded.
Hasan finished removing the restraining rope, and shoved it into his back pocket. Then he retrieved the wire shears from the tool chest in the rear of the van. Rodgers held out his hand, and Hasan hesitated. Mahmoud upholstered his gun and pointed it at Mary Rose. Hasan handed the shears to Rodgers.
While Hasan collected the cable, Rodgers used a staple gun to make a protective, insulated mitt from a pair of rubber mouse pads. When he was finished, he went outside with Hasan.
Rodgers worked quickly under the glow of the headlights. As he bent beside the fence, he couldn't help but think about what he was doing. Not about rewiring the fence. That was rote. He and Hasan cut the cable into two ten-foot lengths, stripped the ends, and used the mitt to wrap them carefully around the two separate but intermeshed coils of barbed wire. Then they laid the cable on the ground and cut the barbed wire. Rodgers used the mitt to pull it aside and staple the end to the post.
No, what Rodgers thought about during those twenty-seven minutes was the fact that it was his job to try to stop these bastards. Now here he was, helping them to escape. He tried to justify his actions by telling himself that they would probably get away regardless. This way, at least, his people wouldn't be hurt. But the idea of being a collaborator, for whatever reason, stuck in his throat and refused to go down.
When they finished, Hasan gave an okay sign to Mahmoud. The leader motioned them back inside. As they entered, Rodgers removed his mitt. He paused to cut Pupshaw free.
Hasan pushed his gun against Rodgers's temple. "What are you doing?" he asked harshly.
"Letting my man back in."
"You presume a great deal," Hasan said.
"I thought we had an agreement," Rodgers replied. "I wire the fence, my people ride inside."
"Truly," said Hasan, "we have this agreement." He pulled the shears away from Rodgers. "But it is not for you to give freedom."
"I'm sorry," Rodgers said. "I was only trying to hurry things along."
"Don't pretend that you are on our side," Hasan said. "Your lie insults us both." Hasan lowered the gun. He used it to motion Rodgers inside.
Rodgers watched the gun from the corner of his eye. As he stepped up on the running board, his sense of duty began to gnaw at him again. That and the humiliating reality of having just had a gun pressed to his head. He was a United States soldier. He was a prisoner. His job should be to try and escape, not to take orders from a terrorist and abet enemies of a NATO ally.
Rodgers quickly considered his options. If he turned and threw himself against Hasan, he might be able to get the gun, shoot the Syrian, then turn the weapon on the other two. Certainly in the dark, on the ground, he'd have a decent chance of success. And if he waited until Pupshaw was free, the private would seize the initiative and probably tackle Mahmoud, who was right behind him inside the van. With luck, the only ones who would be at risk were himself and Pupshaw. Even if they lost their lives, the others were still valuable hostages. The Syrians probably wouldn't kill them.
Action was clearly on Pupshaw's mind as well. Rodgers could tell from the way the private's dark eyes followed him, waiting for his lead. Rodgers knew then that if he didn't act, not only would he hate himself, but he'd lose the respect of his subordinates. He had only an instant to decide. He also knew that if he managed to get the gun, he wouldn't be able to hesitate.
Mahmoud said something. Hasan nodded, then pulled the rope from his pocket. He pushed Rodgers in the small of his back.
"Turn around," Hasan said. "I have to tie you up until we reach the next fence."
Shit, thought Rodgers. He'd been hoping they'd leave him free while they transferred Pupshaw inside. Now, if he acted it would have to be alone---with Pupshaw tied up in the line of fire. Rodgers glanced at the private, whose gaze was unwavering.
Rodgers extended his hands toward Hasan. The Syrian tucked his gun in his waistband and slipped the rope around Rodgers's wrists. Rodgers's hands were held palms-together. Slowly, imperceptibly, he curled the third and fourth fingers of his left hand slightly so that the tips of all four fingers were even. Then, pressing the fingers one against the other, he drove the solid line of fingertips into Hasan's throat. The Syrian gagged and reached for Rodgers's hand. As he did, Rodgers's right hand shot down and grabbed the gun. He fired twice into Hasan's chest. As the Syrian tumbled soundlessly to the ground, Rodgers stepped into the van and aimed at Mahmoud.
"Use me as a shield!" Pupshaw shouted.
Rodgers had no intention of doing so. But before he could shoot around the private, Ibrahim gunned the engine. Rodgers was thrown to the floor as the ROC raced forward. The passenger's door was still open with Pupshaw tied to the handle. The private was bucked off the running board and his lower body was dragged alongside, under the door, as the van sped ahead.
Mahmoud vaulted from the passenger's seat and threw himself on top of Rodgers. As the American tried to bring the gun around, the Syrian drew his knife. Rodgers was able to move Mahmoud's arm to the side. But with incredible speed the Syrian literally fed the knife to his finger tips, pinched the hilt between his thumb and index finger, turned the knife around, and grasped it facing the other way. Once again the knife was pointing down at Rodgers. He was forced to let go of the gun to concentrate on Mahmoud's knife hand. The general grabbed the wrist with one hand and tried to pry his fingers from the hilt with the other.
Suddenly, Ibrahim braked. Mahmoud and Rodgers were thrown against the prisoners who were tied to the base of the passenger's seat. The van's noisy advance became the deathly quiet of late night as Ibrahim drew his own weapon. Shouting at Mahmoud, he aimed at Rodgers's head.
Mary'Rose screamed.
Before Mahmoud could fire, the wail of a siren reached them from across the plain. A patrol must have heard the shot. Without hesitation, Ibrahim threw the van into reverse. When they reached Hasan's body, Mahmoud jumped out and pulled it in. He was dead. His eyes were wide and unseeing. Blood stained his shirt-front and was seeping into the fibers around the side.
There was more conversation, probably about whether to kill Rodgers. Though Ibrahim was shaking with rage, the Syrians obviously decided that a gunshot would only tell the Turks exactly where they were.
Mahmoud pulled the dazed and bloodied Pupshaw inside and tied him back to his chair, while Ibrahim kicked Rodgers in the head before tying him to the chair leg, his back on the floor. They drove off, Ibrahim leaning heavily on the gas pedal.
Mahmoud punched Rodgers several times as they drove. Each time he struck the American's jaw, Mahmoud spit in his face. He stopped only whe
n they reached the fence. Grabbing the mitt and the shears, Mahmoud went out to cut them through. There was no longer any need to be secretive. He sliced the wire quickly, pulling each strand to the side and wrapping it around the post.
Rodgers looked up through bloodstained eyes. He saw Sondra struggling hard to get free.
"Don't," he said through his swollen jaw. He shook his head slowly. "You're going to have to survive... to lead them."
When the last strand was cut, Ibrahim pressed on the gas and the van tore across the border. He stopped to let Mahmoud in. Evidently having had enough of punishing Rodgers, Mahmoud settled into his seat. As he sat in silence, picking pieces of bloody flesh from his ring, Ibrahim continued into the night.
TWENTY-NINE
Monday, 6:41 p.m.,
Washington, D. C.
"You don't have to tell me," Martha Mackall said as Bob Herbert wheeled into her office. "The ROC has gone into Syria."
Herbert's wheelchair was reflected over and over in the framed, hanging gold records Martha's father Mack Mackall had earned during his long singing career. He parked, frowning, in front of her desk. "We picked up the description from a radio broadcast by the Turkish border patrol. My expression tell you that?"
"No." She tapped a pencil eraser against her computer monitor. "This did. I've been watching the computer lines we hacked in Turkey and elsewhere. It reminds me of when the stock market started to fall in '87, all that computerized trading kicking in and making it worse."
"It is like computerized trading," Herbert said. "Only it's computerized warfare. CARfare, they're calling it."
"That's a new one on me," Martha said. She rubbed her tired eyes. "Care to translate?"
"It's Computerized Armed Response," Herbert said. "Every government is choosing the appropriate response based on its own simulation programs."
Martha made a face. "If that's CARfare, then I've got bumper-to-bumper traffic up here. The Turkish Security Forces say their border patrol crossed into Syria, lost the target, and retreated. As a result of the crossing, Syria's calling up its reserves and Turkey is mobilizing more troops and sending them toward the border. Israel has gone on maximum alert, Jordan is about to begin moving tanks toward its borders, and Iraq is shifting troops possessively toward Kuwait."
"Possessively?"
"They're geared for a long camp-out," Martha said, "just like before Desert Shield. And to top it off, Colon just notified us that the Department of Defense has ordered the U.S. carrier battle group into the Red Sea."
"Defcon?"
"Two," she said.
Herbert seemed relieved.
"Supply lines have already begun forming from the Indian Ocean, just in case they're needed. Publicly, we're showing support for our NATO ally. Privately, we're prepared to kick whatever ass is necessary to try and contain the whole damn thing in case it blows up. The President is determined not to let this spread into Turkey and Russia."
"Probably as determined as Syria and Iran will be to see it spread there," Herbert replied.
"They are an opportunistic bunch," Martha said, "but they don't want to see the region turned into a war zone. Don't forget, Syria sided with us during Desert Storm."
"They gave us a couple of jets and permission to get ourselves killed defending their water supplies," Herbert said. "Never mind them. What's so damn frustrating is that no one else wants to see this happen. And most of the players realize they've been snookered by a small band of Kurds."
"It's The House That Jack Built," Martha replied.
"What do you mean?"
"That's a little epigram from my side of the fence," she said. "These are the rats who tweaked the cat, who crossed the border and woke the dog, who engaged the cat and woke the menagerie that sent the fur flying in the House That Jack Built."
Herbert sighed. "It's more like The House on Haunted Hill," he said. "One nightmare after another."
"We move in very different cultural circles," Martha replied with an arched brow.
"Life would be boring otherwise," Herbert said. "Anyway, the good news is that my friend Captain Gunni Eliaz of the First Golani Infantry Brigade in Israel put me in touch with an operative who knows the Bekaa just about as well as anyone. He's already on his way there, posing as a Kurdish freedom fighter, to see what he can find out. I've got Matt working on geographical surveys of the region, looking for possible destinations for the ROC."
"What is he checking for?"
"Caves, mostly," Herbert said. "Ironically, in blacking out our satellite view, the Syrians left us with a clue to where the ROC is. We always know that it's within the ten-mile-wide window we can't see through. We'll collate all of that information with known PKK bases of operation and see if we can select the most likely spot. And we may still pick up some stray remark in a telephone or radio communication."
"Then it will be up to this Israeli of yours and Striker to get them out," Martha said. "Or it will be up to a Tomahawk to take them out."
As she was speaking, Herbert's phone beeped. He scooped it up. After a moment, he poked a finger in his other ear. "There's what?" he demanded. His eyes shifted absently from the floor to Martha to the ceiling. "What else? Did they find anything else there?" His eyes moved around again. "Nothing at all? Okay, Ahmet. Tessekur. Thanks very much." He hung up. "Shit."
"What?" Martha asked.
"There's a narrow zone between two barbed wire fences at the Turkish-Syrian border," Herbert said. "The Turkish border patrol heard a shot there and raced over. That was where the ROC crossed into Syria. The patrol found fresh blood beside six deep tire fans."
"Tire fans?"
"A tire rut with dirt blown out behind it like a paper fan," Herbert said. "It's caused by a fast, sudden start."
"I see," Martha said. "Six tires. So it was the ROC."
Herbert nodded.
"And it was running from something."
"They weren't being chased yet," Herbert said. "The Turks say the ROC got past an electrified fence by setting up a diversionary arc. They were already through before the Turks heard a gunshot and realized that they were there. The ROC took off long before the border patrol arrived. Something else caused the ROC to bolt."
"Bob, I'm totally confused," Martha said impatiently. "First, who do they think was shot and why?"
"They don't know," Herbert said. He shut his eyes. "I don't know. I've got to think. Why would the ROC take off? Because they were afraid someone heard the gunshot? That's possible. That isn't what's important. The question is, who was shot? If one of the hostages had been killed, the Syrians probably would have dumped the body behind."
"And if they were wounded?" Martha asked.
"Unlikely," Herbert said.
"How can you be sure?"
"The Turks say the shot echoed," Herbert said. "The ROC is soundproofed. It would have swallowed most of the blast. In order to be wounded, a hostage probably would have been trying to run away in the dark. The gun would have fired, the hostage would have fallen, and the ROC would have driven to where he or she was. It didn't. It was right by the fence. No," Herbert said. "I know Mike Rodgers. My guess is that they were about to cross into Syria, so he decided to try and stop them."
"And failed," she stated flatly.
Herbert fired her a look. "Don't say it like he screwed up. The fact that he or someone else may have made the effort at all is a helluva thing. A helluva big thing."
"I didn't mean any disrespect," she said indignantly.
"Yeah, well, it sounded like that."
"Calm down, Bob," Martha said. "I'm sorry."
"Sure," he said. "The sideline generals are always sorry. I lost my wife and my legs to a military miscalculation. It's bad, but it's like everything else. Real easy to quarterback when you're watching the game tapes, not so easy when you're on the field."
"I never said any of this was easy," Martha said. She drummed her long, rounded nails on the desk. "Want to see if we can get back to fighting the enemy?"
"Yeah, okay." Herbert sucked down a breath. "I've gotta think this whole thing through."
"Let's start with some hypotheses," Martha said. "Suppose Mike hurt or killed one of his captors. There will be repercussions."
"Correct," Herbert said. "The question is, against who?"
"Would it be against one of the hostages?"
"Not necessarily," Herbert said. "There are three options. First of all, they won't kill Mike. Even if they don't know his military rank, they've got to know he's the leader. He's a valuable hostage and they'll want to hold onto him. Though they may torture him as an example to the others not to try to escape. That rarely works, though. You watch someone beat a fellow prisoner, it scares you into wanting to get away." Herbert laid his neck back on the barbershop-style headrest. "That leaves two other possibilities. If a terrorist was killed in the exchange, they may execute one of the hostages. They'd select the person by lot, the short straw drawing the bullet in the back of the head. Mike would be forbidden from participating, though he'd be forced to watch the murder."
Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04 - Acts Of War Page 23