End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  “Where are we going?” Tanner asked.

  Azhar looked down at him. “I thought you would have guessed. We have a ship to meet.”

  National Military Command Center

  “The Bekka group is moving,” Cathermeier announced, pointing to the chart. “Here, here, and … here are the lead elements. “Eight brigades of mechanized infantry moving east toward Beirut. They’ll be at the outskirts in two hours. The rest will probably follow within a few hours.”

  “The rest? How much are we talking about?” asked the president.

  “If they move it all, about twenty-five thousand men and nine hundred tanks. Only half that number will go for Beirut; the other half, including the AAA and artillery units, will probably form a second line between Beirut and the Litani.”

  “How about the southern group?” asked Dutcher.

  “The lead elements are passing Hasbayya. We have a few scattered reports of skirmishes between the spearhead and the Southern Lebanese Army, half of which is pulling back to the border, waiting for support from Israel. The other half is scattering. By noon, the Syrians will be dug in from the coast to the Golan.”

  “That fast?” said Mason.

  “Lebanon’s only fifty miles at its widest point. With the spearhead moving at thirty miles an hour … You do the math.”

  The president turned to the secretary of state. “Are the Syrians talking?”

  “The foreign minister is scheduled to give a news conference in forty minutes.”

  “They’ll call it a police action,” replied Oaken. “An intervention to protect Lebanon from falling into civil war.”

  The communications chief called, “Mr. President, I have the Israeli prime minister ready; he’s on your button five.”

  The president turned to Cathermeier. “General, I want this room cleared of everyone except for the people at this table.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once the center was empty, the president hit the conference call button. “Mr. Prime Minister, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Good. You’ve received our latest recon updates?”

  “Yes, we’re looking at them now. The Syrian spearhead is moving quite quickly, it appears. At least now we know what they’ve been up to in the desert the past few weeks.”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, may I ask, what are your intentions?”

  “We believe your scenario is the correct one. The bomb is intended to cripple us, to keep us from responding. Until the disposition of the device is decided, we are stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. Tell me: Have you made the necessary arrangements?”

  “I’ll let General Cathermeier answer that”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, the unit we’ve chosen for the attack is the Minneapolis, a Los Angeles-class attack submarine. When Tsumago crosses into your territorial waters, she’ll be forty to forty-five miles north of Tel Aviv.”

  A new voice came over the line. “General, this is the chief of staff. What kind of weapon system have you chosen?”

  “Harpoon missiles … four of them.”

  “Only four? Will that be enough?”

  “Yes, sir. Standard allocation for a Russian Kirov cruiser is four; Tsumago displaces only a third as much as a Kirov and has no armor.”

  “I see. And their travel time from launch to impact?”

  “Just shy of five minutes.”

  The line went silent as a murmured conversation took place in the background. The prime minister returned. “Mr. President, when the ship is fifteen miles from our coast, we are going to attempt a boarding to rescue the hostages.”

  The president looked to Cathermeier, who shook his head. “Sir, that would be inadvisable. You know what happened to our team.”

  “I do, but the decision has been made. Can we count on your cooperation?”

  “Sir, I’m confused,” said Cathermeier. “Are you asking us to delay launch until your assault is complete?”

  “No, General. You will launch as scheduled. According to our calculations, from the time our team boards Tsumago until she crosses into our waters, we’ll have six minutes. Add five minutes’ flight time for the missiles, and that gives us eleven minutes to complete the rescue.”

  “That’s a narrow window, sir.”

  “Desperate times, General.”

  Dutcher whispered to the president, “Ask them to wait a moment.”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, please stand by for a moment.” The president muted the phone. “Leland?”

  “We have to face facts. More likely than not, that bomb is going to detonate. There’s no way we can damage Tsumago fast enough to prevent it, and there’s no way a team can reach the trigger in time. It’s going to happen, regardless of whether they rescue the hostages or not.”

  “What about that, General?”

  “We might as well give them a chance. We owe them that much.”

  The president returned to the phone. “Mr. Prime Minister, you’ll have whatever assistance you need. Good luck to you.”

  “To all of us, Mr. President.”

  Tsumago

  Seven hours and 180 mile west of Tel Aviv, Cahil sat listening to the wind whistle through the hawse pipe and wondering if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. What good could he do here? One way or another, Tsumago wouldn’t survive to see another day. She would either be vaporized or sent to the bottom. Would his staying aboard change that? If he died here, he’d be leaving behind a widow and an orphan.

  Decide, Bear, he thought. Flip a coin if you have to, but decide.

  He checked his watch. There was still time. He would wait

  Off the Coast of Lebanon

  Tanner sat alone on the afterdeck, staring out to the sea and thinking. The guard’s comment in the truck had provided him the final piece of the puzzle.

  It had been a Syrian operation from the beginning. The ALC and Iraq were the scapegoats, the excuse Syria needed to invade Lebanon and return it to the sphere of a Greater Syria. And Abu Azhar was the puppet behind it all.

  The bomb would cripple Israel’s ability to repel the invasion as well as weaken her should Syria decide to press its advance southward. The plan was chesslike in its brilliance. Syria takes a giant step toward reclaiming its empire; the peace process is derailed forever, thereby cementing Bashar Assad’s power, and Israel, the eternal Arab nemesis, is decimated.

  Whatever clinical appreciation he felt for the plan was immediately quashed as he imagined hundreds of thousands of charred bodies lining Tel Aviv’s streets. And what about the environmental impact? How long would the Med be poisoned? Ten years? Twenty? Half a century?

  Trying to ease the cramps in his legs, he shifted position. He felt the cleat move under his hand. With one eye fixed on the pilothouse, he studied the cleat. It was a butterfly type, palm-sized, and affixed to the gunwale by a single nail.

  He began rocking it back and forth. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, the nail began easing from the wood. A half inch appeared, then an inch.

  After twenty minutes, his forearms ached with the exertion. He flexed his fingers for a few moments. Three inches of the nail was exposed. Would it be enough? he wondered. He would have to get very close.

  He heard footsteps on the deck. He leaned over the gunwale, using his chest to press the nail back into place.

  “Are you ill?” Azhar asked.

  Briggs rolled back and wiped his chin on his shoulder. “No, I’m fine. How long until we’re there?”

  “Four hours.” Azhar sat on the opposite gunwale and stared at the water.

  “Tell me how it happened, Abu. How did you get involved with the Syrians?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You used the ALC and Iraq as scapegoats. Don’t get me wrong, it’s very smart. Given the world’s opinion of Iraq, you could accuse Saddam of having assassinated Abe Lincoln and people would buy it. You kill a few leaders
in Beirut to light the fuse, watch the city boil over into civil war, then point the finger at Iraq and wait for Syria to come the rescue. It was a good plan, but there was that one last hurdle, wasn’t there?”

  “What?”

  “Israel. You and Khatib knew Israel wouldn’t sit still while Syria took over Lebanon. You needed leverage. Without it, the rest of it wouldn’t work. How am I doing?”

  “Very well.”

  Tanner shook his head. “Do you really think hostages will be enough to convince Israel to sit on its hands? They used you. When this is over, Syria will point the finger at you and Iraq, then put a bullet in your head. Your life story, your hatred for Israel, your twenty-year war of revenge, your daughter … all of it will come out.”

  “Nonsense. They will negotiate. They will hesitate long enough to—”

  “The only thing that’ll stop Israel is the bomb Tsumago is carrying.”

  “Again with the bomb? There is no bomb!”

  “Then there’s only one possibility left.”

  “What?”

  “You’re so far gone you believe Israel will surrender Lebanon in exchange for a handful of hostages.”

  “That’s enough! You don’t know what you are talking about!”

  “Answer me: Are you a mass murderer, or are you insane?”

  In a flash, Azhar drew his pistol and pointed it at Tanner’s head. “Not another word! I will kill you! On Amarah’s soul, Briggs, I will kill you.”

  For a long five seconds, Tanner stared back. Too far, he thought.

  Azhar holstered his pistol, turned, and stalked into the pilothouse.

  68

  After another two hours’ intermittent work, Tanner managed to lever the rest of the nail from the gunwale. It was more a spike than a nail, he saw, six inches long and as big around as his thumb. It would do, he decided. He slid it back in place, then sat back and stared at the passing coast.

  The shore here was rocky and spotted with clumps of brush. Earlier they’d passed a large harbor he assumed was Haifa, so that put them just north of Tel Aviv. He leaned his head over the gunwale until he could see forward.

  In the distance, he could see six plumes of smoke on the horizon. They were ships in convoy formation. He focused on the lead vessel and could make out a five-inch gun on the forecastle. Israeli or U.S.? Probably the former, heading to meet Tsumago.

  Azhar and Ghassan walked onto the deck. Ghassan unlocked Tanner’s cuffs. “Stand up, Briggs,” Azhar said. “Into the pilothouse!”

  As Ghassan shoved him inside, Tanner heard the thumping of helicopter rotors approaching. The sound increased until it was poised directly overhead. The water swirled from the downwash. Standing at the wheel, Salim glanced nervously at Azhar.

  “Keep going. We are in international waters.”

  “Attention unidentified vessel, this is the United States Navy. You are approaching a military exclusion zone. Turn about. Acknowledge.”

  Azhar walked onto the afterdeck and looked up, shielding his eyes. He shrugged, tapped his ear, and shook his head.

  “Unidentified vessel, I say again: You are approaching a military exclusion zone. Turn back at once.”

  Azhar shrugged, waved, then ducked back into the pilothouse. After a few moments, the beat of the rotors increased, then faded into the distance.

  “What do we do?” asked Salim.

  “Keep going,” said Azhar. “There is nothing they can do.”

  “They will attack us!”

  Azhar shook his head. “By the time they realize we’re not a stray fishing boat, it will be too late. We’ll be inside the zone. They won’t dare follow us.”

  Looker 405

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

  “Looker,” Sterling replied.

  “Vector one-seven-five and switch to button four for Black Horse.”

  “Rog,” said Sterling. He flipped open his call sign book and skimmed down until he found Black Horse: USS Ford. Sterling switched channels. “Black Horse, this is Looker, over.”

  “Looker, Black Horse. We have an unidentified and non-responsive fishing vessel approaching our exclusion zone. Request you make a photo pass. Vessel is on your one-seven-seven for eight-zero nautical.”

  “Roger, Black Horse, I am en route.”

  Once the helicopter disappeared over the horizon, Azhar locked Tanner’s handcuffs to the cleat and left Ghassan standing guard. In the midday heat, it took only a few minutes until the man’s eyes began to droop.

  In the distance Tanner heard a whine. He cocked his head, trying to localize the sound. He looked aft. A dot appeared on the horizon. It grew quickly, taking shape, until he realized it was a jet.

  Tanner glanced back at Ghassan. The man’s eyes flickered open, then closed again. In the pilothouse, Azhar and Salim were staring out the windscreen.

  The dot grew larger until Tanner recognized it as an F- 14. Why a Tomcat? he wondered. It had no antisurface weapons…. No, but it had TARPS.

  The Tomcat was two miles out now, moving fast and low above the waves.

  “Ghassan! You idiot!” Azhar yelled from the cabin. Boots pounded on the deck.

  Tanner kept his eyes fixed on the Tomcat. It was nearly overhead, engines screaming. As the underbelly flashed past, he stared straight into the camera pod.

  “Damn you, Briggs!”

  Ghassan struggled to his feet and charged. Tanner sensed him coming but kept his face on the retreating Tomcat. Come on … see me! Ghassan jammed the AK’s barrel under Tanner’s chin.

  “Stop, Ghassan!” Azhar called.

  Panting, his face bloodred, Ghassan glared down at Tanner. He reversed his rifle and rammed the butt into Tanner’s forehead. Light exploded behind his eyes, and everything went dark.

  Independence

  Five minutes after Sterling landed, he and his Rio were standing in the CAG’s (commander air group) office. “Which one of you saw it?”

  “I did,” said Chuck. “He was looking straight up at us.”

  “So he’s a gawker.”

  “No, Skipper, this was different. It was like … like he wanted to be seen.”

  “Grinder?”

  “I agree.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  Chuck said, “Once we were past, some guy rushed out and stuck an AK in the guy’s face … I mean hard, y’know. Like they were not friendly.”

  The CAG thought it over. “Where are your pics?”

  National Military Command Center

  “More images from Inoy, General.”

  “How many?” asked Cathermeier.

  “Put ’em up in sequence.”

  A black-and-white image of a fishing boat filled the screen. Sitting on the afterdeck was a single figure.

  “Next.”

  Now the boat’s afterdeck filled the screen. The figure was leaning backward, his face pointed upward. “What are we seeing, Chief?” said Cathermeier.

  “A TARPS image from a Tomcat According to Ford, this boat’s approaching the exclusion zone. We warned them off, but they’re still coming.”

  “How far from the zone?”

  “Three miles from the outer ring.”

  “Next.”

  The next image was tightly focused, with the boat’s gunwales nearly touching the photo’s borders. The face was staring straight into the TARPS lens.

  Dutcher bolted from his seat. “Good God.”

  “What?” said Cathermeier.

  “It’s him. It’s Tanner.”

  Israeli Defense Forces Headquarters, Tel Aviv

  Camille pushed through the doors of the room and looked around. Like the pentagon’s NMCC, the TDF’s headquarters was filled with conference tables, communications consoles, and large-screen TVs. Technicians and messengers scurried from station to station, and the air hummed with radio chatter.

  She spotted Sherabi standing beneath one of the mon
itors on which was projected a map of Tel Aviv’s coast and the surrounding ocean. Beside Sherabi were the chief of staff, the prime minister, and another man she did not recognize; he had a crew cut and a slight paunch.

  Sherabi saw her, hurried over, and embraced her. “Thank God you’re safe,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you had made the pickup.”

  When news of the invasion reached Sherabi, he arranged for a helicopter loaded with Sayeret Mat’kal commandos to slip through the SLA lines to Camille’s emergency exfil point near Sayda.

  “I have to talk to you,” she said. “The assault—”

  “I know. The building was empty.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Why did you do it, Hayem?”

  Sherabi took her by the elbow and walked her to the corner. “What?”

  “You burned the American agent.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Mind your tongue!”

  “Tell me why you did it.”

  “I suggest you file your report, then go home and get some rest. When all of this is over, we will talk.”

  Sherabi started to turn away. Camille grabbed his arm. “I want an answer.”

  “Camille, do not test me. You can either leave voluntarily or—”

  “Hayem,” the chief of staff called, waving him over.

  “Get out of here, Camille,” Sherabi muttered.

  Sherabi rejoined the group. Camille hesitated, then followed.

  “… word from the Americans,” the chief of staff was saying. “They’ve spotted a fishing boat approaching Tsumago. It will enter the zone in a few minutes. According to them, it’s carrying several men and an American … one of theirs.”

  Camille felt the room spinning around her. Briggs! It had to be. She saw Sherabi and the crew cut man exchange a glance.

  “What’s his status?” the crew cut man asked. Camille recognized his accent as American. Briggs’s controller, she thought.

  “He was handcuffed to the deck and under guard, it appeared.”