End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

“It’ll be Israeli commandos, Abu. Probably Unit five oh four … Mossad.”

  “What?” Azhar’s eyes went wide and he reached for his radio.

  “Abu, you have to let them go.”

  “Why?”

  Because if they die, it’ll be because 1 served them up, Briggs thought. “If you hit them, they’ll pinpoint your location. You can be sure there’s a couple F-16s orbiting up there just waiting to empty their racks.”

  “Why tell me this? Why not let them kill me? It would finish the job you came to do.”

  “Because in return for saving your life, you’re going to listen to what I have to say.”

  “I made no such deal.”

  “Then make it now,” Tanner said with a thin smile. “After I make my pitch, if you don’t come around, then I’ll just kill you.”

  Azhar hesitated, then chuckled. “Very well, I will listen.”

  “We’ve spotted two rubber rafts, Abu. They are pulling onto shore. Ten men, all in black with assault weapons. Should we attack?”

  Azhar paused, looked at Tanner. Briggs held his breath.

  “No,” Azhar called on the radio. “Leave them be.”

  “Abu, we can’t just let them—”

  “You have your orders.”

  Though only a mile lay between Azhar’s old headquarters and the river, another thirty minutes passed before they spotted the team’s scouts picking their way down the rubble-strewn alleyway.

  “What took them so long?” Azhar muttered.

  “It didn’t,” Tanner said. Thirty minutes to move undetected in a city at siege was fast work. He was unsurprised, though. He’d worked with 504 before. “If you hadn’t been watching for them, they would’ve been on you before you knew what was happening.”

  “They are that good?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you know so much?”

  “I read a lot”

  “Ah,” Azhar said, returning to the scope.

  He narrated what he saw as the commandos reconnoitered the building and slipped inside. Five minutes later, it was done. Having found nothing, the team exited the building as quietly as it had come and headed back toward the river.

  “Can I see?” Tanner asked.

  Azhar handed him the scope. Through the greenish glow Briggs watched the barely discernible figures slip in and out of the shadow until he lost sight of them. He was about to hand back the scope when Azhar’s radio crackled.

  “Abu, we have movement.”

  “Where and how many?”

  “A hundred yards to your west. One. He slipped through the basement of the old shoe warehouse. He’s watching from the east corner, second story.”

  Tanner trained the scope on the warehouse and scanned the windows until he reached the corner. There, hidden in shadow, a figure crouched below the pane.

  With an eerie whistle, a stray Katyusha rocket flared above their heads and plunged to the street below, where it sparked briefly, then died. In that moment of illumination, the figure’s face was visible.

  Camille!

  Though logically he’d known she could have been the one, he’d prayed against it. But here she was, watching the result of her handiwork—or what should have been her handiwork. He felt rage knotting in his chest. She’d used him. She’d used him from the start, and he’d fallen for it.

  Azhar whispered, “Who is it?”

  Tanner hesitated. One word, and she wouldn’t get out alive.

  Goddamn it.

  “Nobody,” he replied. “Just somebody looking for a place to hide.”

  Above Lebanon

  “Homeplate, this is Looker Four-Zero-Five, feet wet.”

  Crossing the beach ten miles north of Beirut, Lieutenant Tom “Grinder” Sterling put his F-14 into a gentle climb and glanced over his shoulder. Born and raised in Los Angeles, his first reaction was to compare Beirut to his memories of the L.A. riots, but the carnage here made those look like a rowdy church picnic.

  Dozens of neighborhoods were burning, the flames casting orange light on surrounding buildings, many of which were half-collapsed, their remnants jutting toward the sky like skeletal fingers.

  “Holy Moses,” he muttered.

  “Say what, Grinder?” said his RIO from the backseat.

  “Just looking at that shit down there.”

  “Reminds me of that movie … y’know, Escape from New York.”

  “Yeah. Give me a course home.”

  “Steer two-six-zero.”

  Two minutes later and sixteen miles from Independence, Sterling saw the ship’s deck lights on the horizon, mere specks against the black ocean.

  “Homeplate, Looker, I am on your one-six-zero radial for thirteen, angels eighteen.”

  “Rog, four-zero-five. Come on in.”

  Easing off the power, Sterling dropped through the clouds and lined up with Indy’s fresnal lens, or the ball, against which he could adjust his angle of approach and alignment.

  Sterling radioed, “Four-zero-five Tomcat ball. State three point two.”

  Following calls by the LSO, or landing signal officer, Sterling flared out over Indy’s ramp and slammed down. He grunted against his harness as the 45,000-pound plane went from 150 knots to a dead stop in two seconds

  “Three wire, Grinder,” called the LSO. “Guess we’ll let you eat tonight.”

  Sterling laughed. “I’d settle for a head call. I’m floating in here.”

  Sterling waited until the green-shirted arresting gear operators released the hook, then turned the nosewheel and began following a yellow-shirt to the elevator. Once stopped, he secured the cockpit, climbed out, and sucked in a lungful of air. Beneath the Tomcat, red-shirts were already detaching the TARPS reconnaissance pod from its hard point.

  An hour later, showered and fed, Sterling headed down to the intell shack were the TARPS pictures would eventually end up. It was an old habit for Sterling. A recon mission wasn’t over till he was sure he’d gotten the pics. He was constantly amazed at the behind-the-scenes efficiency of carriers ops. While he’d been stuffing his face with Salisbury steak, technicians had been extracting the TARPS’s data, turning them into standard images and infrared line-scan pictures, then forwarding them to Intell where they were sequenced and matched to a map overlay.

  Sterling pushed through the door, spotted one of the intell weenies leaning over the light table, and walked over. “Mine, Chic?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did I remember to load the film this time?”

  Chic nodded absently, staring at the photos. They looked like reverse-image negatives: IR shots.

  “This is the Bekka, right?” asked Chic.

  “Yep. Three passes.”

  “Anybody take any potshots at you?”

  “No, why? Is there a problem?”

  Chic picked up the phone and punched a number. “No shit there’s a problem.”

  National Military Command Center

  Dutcher stared at the theater’s multiple screens. Displayed were radar and photo images from the SAG surrounding Tsumago; the Independence group off Lebanon; and a green-and-blue geographic display of Tsumago’s position in relation to the coast of Israel. Between the two, dead in the path of Tsumago, was the blue U representing Minneapolis.

  The distances seemed vast, but Dutcher knew better. According to the scale at the edge of the screen, Tsumago was still 228 miles from Israel’s territorial waters, but at her current speed, she would be within range of Minneapolis’s harpoons in six hours.

  Again, he found himself wondering about Tanner and Cahil.

  As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he had to accept the fact they were either dead or soon would be. As if being in the hands of Azhar’s people was not bad enough, Briggs was stuck in the middle of a city that was tearing itself apart. Ian was not much better off, riding a juggernaut that would either vaporize itself and ten miles of ocean around it or be sunk
under a hail of missiles.

  Oaken walked over. “Leland, I’ve never wanted to be wrong about something so much in my life.”

  “I know, Walt. There’s still a chance.”

  One of the communication techs called: “We’ve got feed from Indy.”

  “What is it?” said Cathermeier.

  “A recon pass over the Bekka. The captain thinks you should see it.”

  “Put it up.”

  The upper left screen went to static for a moment, then a black-and-white image appeared. Dutcher recognized the Bekka Valley’s elongated horseshoe shape. Throughout the valley were hundreds of white dots: Tanks.

  Three divisions, Dutcher thought. Each dot a—

  “What the hell …” murmured Cathermeier.

  “What are we seeing?” Talbot asked.

  “Infrared pictures,” replied Mason. “Four hours ago all we saw was a smooth, black background.”

  “So?”

  “Each of those dots represents an engine heat bloom of a tank or an armored personnel carrier.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yep. And they’re moving.”

  Beirut

  Seeing it but not seeing it, Tanner watched the first tinge of pink appear on the horizon. Camille had betrayed him. No, it was worse than that. She smiled to his face, cried and pleaded, made love to him, and then ordered his death. He tried to muster some anger, but it wasn’t there. It was his own fault. Had he not been so naive—

  He stopped himself. What was he doing? Suddenly he felt everything falling away. None of it mattered. Forget her. He was alive, and there was still a chance.

  “Briggs, did you hear me?” asked Azhar.

  “What?”

  “I said, how did you know they were coming?”

  “Because I used the same method to track you,” Tanner replied. “We burned Asseal, hoping you’d take him.”

  “And the Israelis turned around and did the same to you.”

  “Abu, what will you do with Asseal?”

  Azhar waved his hand and chuckled. “He’s a patsy. After this is over, we will release him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Azhar shrugged it off.

  “Can you stop the ship?” Tanner asked.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why would you get involved with Iraq and the Arab Liberation Command?”

  Azhar’s eyes shifted ever so slightly, but Tanner caught it.

  “Enough of this,” Azhar said. “I told you I would listen. I did not agree to be interrogated.”

  “Okay, tell me about the bomb.”

  “Again with the bomb?” Azhar said. “There is no bomb.”

  Tanner decided it was time to go for broke. He started talking, beginning with Ohira’s murder, then through his tracking of Tsumago to Parece Kito, then finally to his father’s revelation about Stonefish and her cargo.

  Azhar stared at him. “Fantasy.”

  “I was there from the start. It’s all true.”

  “Briggs, we may have a history, but make no mistake: We are enemies. You come here, try to play on my memories, then expect me to pour my heart out to you?”

  “No more than I believe you’d kill hundreds of thousands of people.”

  “For the last time, there is no bomb!” Azhar stood up and began pacing. “This is not about revenge! You understand nothing. How many years has your country ignored what’s been going on here? You put Marines ashore for a few months, then leave. You sell Israel aircraft that bomb our villages! Your puppets in the UN make resolutions and pronouncements, and still our children die! You have the audacity to talk to me about death? What do you know about death? When was the last time tanks rolled through your village and burned your home to the ground? When was the last time your child was taken from you?”

  Tanner didn’t reply. There was nothing he could say.

  “Answer me! Has it ever happened to you?”

  “No.”

  “Then you know nothing!” Azhar walked to the door. “I promised I would listen, and I have. Ghassan!” Bucket appeared in the doorway. “Take him away.”

  “Abu,” Tanner called.

  Azhar turned. “What?”

  “Do me one more favor: Think about it. What if I’m right? What if I’m not lying? Think about ten thousand children just like Amarah lying dead in the streets of Tel Aviv.”

  Azhar’s eyes glazed over, then went cold. “Good-bye, Briggs.”

  National Military Command Center

  The President pushed through the doors. “Talk to me, General.”

  “Syria’s Bekka Group is gearing up,” Cathermeier said. “We’ve got hundreds of heat signatures; everything they’ve got is running. I’ve ordered a visual pass. It should be en route now. That’s first.”

  “And second?”

  “It looks like Mr. Oaken’s won the prize. We just got another feed from the Keyhole above Syria. Take a look.”

  The president leaned over the chart showing the Syria/ Lebanon border.

  “As of an hour ago, the exercise group was traveling northeast toward Damascus on this road … here. Near Qatana. As of ten minutes ago, the head of the column was here … eight miles to the northwest, near Raklah. By now, the spearhead is five miles inside Lebanon.”

  “How big is it?”

  “The First Armored Division, parts of the Seventh and Ninth Mechanized, and a good chunk of the Golan Task Group. We’re talking about almost six hundred tanks, seven hundred APCs, and almost sixteen thousand ground troops. We’ve got a recon flight headed in that direction, as do the Israelis.”

  “They know, then?” asked the president

  “I called their chief of staff immediately.”

  “Good. I’ll be talking to the PM in a few minutes. What else?”

  “The spearhead appears to be driving southwest toward the Litani River … which matches Oaken’s prediction. Their most likely target is here … the high ground between the northwest corner of Dayr Mimas at the bend of the Litani. After that, we can expect the rest of the column to swing west along the river, digging in as it goes.”

  “How long?” asked the president

  “It’s only twenty-five miles to Dayr Mimas and another twenty to the coast. The lead elements should be in position within two hours. They’ll be followed by the anti-air units and artillery. By noon, Tel Aviv time, the Litani will be a fortress.”

  “I don’t understand this, General,” said Talbot “You told us the Syrians couldn’t do this without support units, the same support units that were supposedly back in Damascus.”

  Mason answered, sliding a photograph across the table. “That’s a supply column behind the spearhead. It turned up during the last Keyhole pass. We believe it was hidden somewhere along the border.”

  “That’s absurd! That column is miles long. Where could they have hidden it?”

  “Probably a wadi … a dry riverbed. Plenty of them are thirty or fifty feet deep and can stretch hundreds of miles.”

  Dutcher said, “Which would mean they’ve been planning this for some time. This kind of operation takes some real logistical finesse.”

  Cathermeier nodded. “More importantly, they’ve done it right this time. So far, the invasion has been textbook perfect. They’re not going to make the same mistakes again.”

  “Speak English,” said Talbot.

  “Their plan is sound—even brilliant—all by itself. Add the bomb to the equation, and Syria is about four hours from owning Lebanon.”

  67

  Beirut

  Tanner had little trouble imagining Abu as the scapegoat: The mentally unbalanced zealot, his life destroyed, his daughter murdered by Israel, now exacting his revenge on the grandest scale imaginable. But there was the other possibility, one that terrified Tanner: Patsy or not, given the chance, Abu would gladly push the button.

  The door swung open. Azhar stepped inside, f
ollowed by Ghassan. Only two of them, Tanner thought, gauging his chances.

  “Stand up, Briggs.”

  Tanner heard the change in Azhar’s voice and saw it in his eyes. What little animation he’d shown earlier was gone, replaced by the same expression he’d worn while ordering Briggs’s finger broken.

  Tanner stood up. He felt a wave of pain in his head. With each intake of breath he felt his ribs grating against one another. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Never mind. Follow me.”

  Tanner stepped into the corridor. Five guards fell in behind him. Azhar led him down a stairway to a basement garage where an ancient Mercedes canvas-topped truck sat idling.

  “Get in,” Azhar said.

  Tanner climbed in the back and was joined by four of the guards. Azhar, Ghassan, and the remaining guard climbed into the cab. The tailgate slammed shut, and the truck lurched forward.

  Through the canvas he could hear the occasional rattle of automatic weapons, but nothing else: no explosions, no honking of horns. It was eerily quiet.

  “Has the fighting stopped?” Tanner asked one of the guards.

  “For now.”

  “What’s happened?”

  The guard grinned broadly. “The liberation.”

  After an hour, the truck stopped and the guards climbed out, pulling Tanner after them. He blinked against the sunlight, stretched the cramps from his back and legs, and looked around. They were at the warehouse.

  Across Tripoli Road, the skyline was dotted with fires, some still burning and some gushing clouds of black smoke. Of the remaining buildings in view, not one was unscathed, having either been holed by artillery fire or been reduced to rubble. Above it all, however, the sky was a pristine blue.

  “We will rebuild,” Azhar said. “We’ve done it before.”

  He led Tanner to the rear of the warehouse. There, tied to the pilings, was a thirty-two-foot fishing trawler, its engines growling at idle.

  Azhar climbed down the ladder, followed by Ghassan, then Tanner, then the guard named Salim. Azhar gestured for Tanner to sit on the deck, then cuffed his hands to a cleat on the gunwale. Ghassan hurried to the bridge, and Salim began casting off the lines. As they pulled away from the pier, Azhar cast a salute to the guards on the dock. They raised their AKs and cheered.