End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  Camille could no longer restrain herself. “But he was alive, General?”

  The chief of staff turned. “Who is this, Hayem?”

  “One of mine. She just returned from Beirut. She’s on her way to debriefing.”

  “Let her stay,” said the prime minister. “If she’s been in Beirut, she may be able to lend some insight to what’s going on.”

  Camille turned to the chief of staff. “General, was he alive?”

  “Yes, he was alive. But if he stays on that boat, he won’t be much longer.”

  Casting a heard stare at Camille, Sherabi and the crew cut man walked past her into a nearby conference room. As the door swung shut, she heard the American say, “When those choppers lift off, I gotta be aboard. If he gets back …”

  They’re going to board ship. Camille knew her career—and perhaps her life—was teetering over a precipice. What she was contemplating was impossibly dangerous. Mossad had a long memory and an even longer reach. The hell with it. She took a deep breath and walked into the conference room.

  “Camille, get out of here!”

  “I will not!” she snapped. “You! Who are you?”

  The American stuck out his hand. “Art Stucky.”

  “Well, you can go fuck yourself, Mr. Stucky. And you, too, Hayem.”

  “Camille!”

  “You fed Briggs to the wolves, both of you. You bastards!”

  Sherabi’s eyes narrowed. “Tanner? The same man you—”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew he was in Beirut? Good God, Camille, what have you done?”

  “Don’t dare lecture me! I may not understand why you did it, but when I figure it out, I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

  Sherabi grabbed her arm. “Not another word! If you keep your mouth shut, you may—”

  She jerked her arm free. “You have three choices, Hayem. Either you have me dragged out of here and put a bullet in my head; you get me on whatever chopper this asshole is talking about; or you get used to having the CIA as your enemy.”

  Stucky jabbed his finger in her chest. “Look, you cunt—”

  “Stucky, shut up! Camille, for the sake of your father’s memory, please—”

  “My father would be sickened by what you’re doing. Make your decision!”

  For a long ten seconds, she and Sherabi stared at one another.

  Stucky said, “Hayem, you can’t actually be thinking—”

  “Shut up, Art. All right, Camille, all right. You win.”

  Minneapolis

  Forty miles north of Tel Aviv, Newman ordered Minneapolis to periscope depth. “Sir, we are at PD, reading zero bubble.”

  “Very well. Sound general quarters.”

  The GQ claxon blared, and the conning tower’s lights went red. Throughout the boat, watertight hatches slammed shut, and men raced to their stations.

  “Captain, all stations manned and ready. All boards green.”

  “Very well.”

  Newman joined Speke and the fire control officer at the tactical table. Under their elbows lay a laminated chart of Israel’s coastline.

  “Radar, conn,” Newman called. “How’s our track?”

  “Solid, sir.”

  “Read ’em off, starting with the target.”

  One by one, the operator recited the bearings and ranges of Tsumago and the picket ships around her. Newman studied the plot. Tsumago, at the center of the ring, lay seventy miles to Minneapolis’s southwest and forty-five miles from Israeli territorial waters.

  “Okay, we’ve got six friendlies to worry about, all within twenty-five miles of the target,” Newman said. “It’ll be tight shooting. Fred, we’ll go RBL.” Newman referred to a range and bearing launch. Its counterpart was a bearing only launch, which sent the Harpoons downrange, armed and looking for the first target to cross its path. An RBL, on the other hand, would direct the missiles to attack only those targets it found within a certain patch of ocean.

  “Right,” said the fire control officer.

  “We’re shooting four. All of them have to hit within ten seconds of one another, so make sure your way points are dead-on. Radar, conn, what’s the target course and speed?”

  “Course, one-one-zero, speed three-two knots.”

  “Conn, aye. Fred, start your track. Unless you hear otherwise, be ready to launch the minute she crosses the twelve-mile mark.” Newman checked his watch. “Seventy-three minutes from now.”

  69

  True to Azhar’s prediction, they slipped through the zone’s outer ring without incident, but twelve miles from Tsumago, they were met by a U.S. Navy frigate, which tried to hail them by loudspeaker. Azhar did his routine of waving and shrugging and then ordered Salim to sail on. The frigate broke off and turned for the coast, her bow slicing the waves and single screw spewing a rooster tail. As she faded in the distance, Salim and Ghassan began laughing with relief. Azhar stood at the window, staring ahead, his face blank.

  Twenty minutes passed.

  Tanner heard the whine of Tsumago’s gas turbines long before he saw her. Salim and Ghassan started pointing excitedly through the window. Azhar walked onto the after-deck. “We’re almost there,”

  “I can hear it,” said Tanner.

  “I am sorry for this, you know. It was never supposed to be this way.”

  Tanner could feel the cleat loose under his hand. “I’m sorry, too.”

  A few minutes later, the boat turned to port, and Tanner caught his first glimpse of Tsumago since his and Cahil’s penetration of the shipyard. She was a few hundred yards away and turning toward them. He found himself thinking of Bear. This is where it had happened. God, it didn’t seem possible.

  Let it go, he commanded himself. He forced it from his mind. He gripped the cleat until the head of the nail bit into his palm. Have to be fast. … One, maybe two thrusts will be all you’ll get. Wait for the right moment.

  Bullhorn in hand, Azhar left him and climbed onto the foredeck. On Tsumago’s bridge wing, a dozen rifle-armed men stared down at him.

  Azhar called, “Attention captain of Tsumago. Permission to board.”

  A figure walked onto the bridge wing. Tanner immediately recognized the handlebar mustache: al-Baz. “Abu, is that you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Why … why are you here?”

  “Do you think I would miss such a moment in history?” Azhar called, “After so much planning, my friend, did you think I would let you take all the glory? You have taken her this far, at least do me the honor of joining you the rest of the way.”

  Al-Baz hesitated a moment, then nodded. “You are welcome. Come aboard.”

  Tanner jerked the cleat free of the gunwale and tucked it into his waistband.

  National Military Command Center

  Everyone in the center stopped working and stared as the first images from the Orion, loitering 10,000 feet above the Mediterranean came in. Tsumago lay at the center of the monitor with the SAG’s picket ships at the edges, their wakes white against the blue water. Dutcher could just make out the single figure seated on the fishing boat’s afterdeck. God almighty, it’s really him.

  “What’s this from?” asked Talbot. “It looks like real-time.”

  “It is,” said Mason. “A super zoom camera. Used for sub hunting.”

  “Tsumago’s slowing,” said Cathermeier. They’re going to board her. Chief, how far are they from the twelve-mile mark?”

  “Ten miles, sir … twenty minutes if she resumes her same speed.”

  “When do the Israelis go?” asked the president.

  “They should be lifting off now,” said Cathermeier. “Chief, contact Tel Aviv, confirm that.”

  Thirty seconds later: “Confirm, General. Helos are en route. Eight minutes until they’re over the deck.”

  Cathermeier turned to the president “Time, Mr. President.”

  The president hesitated, then nodded. “
Proceed.”

  “Chief, contact Minneapolis. I want secure voice-to-voice with the CO.”

  Minneapolis

  “Conn, radar: target is slowing … now coming to a dead stop. Second vessel, designated unknown Bravo One, is merging.”

  “Conn, aye,” Newman called.

  “What’s going on?” asked Speke.

  “I don’t know. Talk to me, Fred.”

  The fire control officer said, “Solid track, self-test complete on four birds.” He flipped open a clear plastic cover on the console, inserted a key, and closed the cover. “We’re ready to launch.”

  “Very well. Stand by. Radar?”

  “Target still dead in the water, conn.”

  “Radio, conn: Skipper, we’ve got a secure voice-to-voice for you.”

  Newman and Speke walked to the radio room. The operator handed Newman the telephone handset. “Captain Newman here.”

  “Captain, this is General Cathermeier. Give me sit-rep.”

  “We’re in position and ready to fire, General. The target has slowed—”

  “We know. We expect her to resume course and speed shortly. She’ll cross the twelve-mile mark in twenty minutes. The moment she does, you are authorized to launch. I say again: You are authorized to launch.”

  Tsumago

  Preceded by Azhar and followed by Ghassan, Tanner climbed the cargo net and pulled himself over the rail onto the deck. He was immediately surrounded by half a dozen guards. Azhar and al-Baz embraced.

  “Who is this?” al-Baz asked.

  “A trophy. An American agent. He will give us extra leverage if we need it.”

  “Good. I must say, Abu, I am surprised to see you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The general said—” al-Baz broke off and glanced at Tanner.

  “Whatever he hears will die with him,” Azhar said.

  “The general said you were … that you were not involved in the final phase.”

  “I know. Accept my apologies. For security reasons, some details were kept between only al-Khatib and myself. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “So,” Azhar said, “shall we get under way?”

  “Yes, yes. Follow me.”

  In the windlass room, Cahil heard the chugging of the trawler’s engines, then the bullhorn exchange between Azhar and al-Baz. As the whine of Tsumago’s turbines died away and her momentum slowed, he climbed the ladder and peeked out.

  Cahil almost didn’t recognize Tanner’s face. “Briggs …” he whispered. “Good, God … What did they do to you?”

  To all outward appearances, Tanner looked beaten; his shoulders were hunched, his bruised face etched in pain. Then Cahil saw Tanner’s eyes. Having seen the look a thousand times, he knew it instantly. He’s still there … looking for his chance.

  As the group moved off toward the pilothouse, Cahil climbed down the ladder and began pacing. He had to do something. What, though? Think!

  He felt the deck shudder beneath his feet. The whine of the turbines increased.

  “Come on, come on. … Think—”

  He stopped. He stared at his radio lying on the deck. Attached to it were the wire leads he’d cannibalized from the anchor windlass.

  A smile spread across his face. “That just might do it.”

  After setting Tsumago back on course, al-Baz left Azhar and Tanner to his stateroom. Prodded by Ghassan, Tanner sat on the floor in the corner. Beneath his buttocks he felt the hum of the engines increase.

  “You had some fun with him, I see,” said al-Baz.

  “It was necessary,” said Azhar.

  “Has he told you much?”

  “Enough.”

  “Such as?”

  “We can discuss that later. Is everything ready?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The device?”

  Tanner felt his heart skip. He kept his eyes on the deck.

  “It’s secure,” al-Baz said softly. “Certainly you—”

  “What kind of yield can we expect?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The yield,” Azhar repeated. “I understand it is large, but how large?”

  “Fifty kilotons.”

  Fifty? Tanner thought. How did—

  “And casualties?”

  Al-Baz hesitated. “Have you not discussed this with General al-Khatib?”

  “The general has been rather busy, Mustafa. How many casualties?”

  “From the blast alone, one hundred fifty thousand. With radiation sickness, we expect another twenty thousand in three weeks.”

  Azhar nodded absently. “Very good,” he whispered. “Let us go see it.”

  “What?”

  “I will inspect the device. After it goes off, that won’t be possible, will it?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then lead the way, Mustafa. Time is short.”

  Tanner glanced up. Al-Baz remained seated, staring at Azhar.

  “Is there a problem, Mustafa?”

  “No, Abu, not at all.” Al-Baz stood up and opened the door. “This way.”

  Working over the windlass’s control panel, Cahil almost missed hearing the rapid thumping in the distance. He looked up, cocked his ear. He climbed into the chain locker and peered through the hawse pipe. Dead on the bow, no more than a half mile away, a pair of helicopters skimmed over the waves.

  “Too soon,” he muttered. “Too soon …”

  He scrambled back down, twisted the last wire into place, said a quick prayer, then threw the release lever. There was a two-second pause. First with a whine, then a thunderous rattle, the anchor’s massive links began tumbling from the hawse pipe.

  Flanked by a pair of his own guards, al-Baz led them across the forecastle to the cargo hold. Al-Baz rolled the capstan aside, rapped twice on the hatch, then lifted it and called down. A voice called back. Al-Baz motioned one of the guards to enter, then gestured for Azhar to follow. Tanner, prodded by the other guard’s rifle, went next.

  Briggs took the rungs slowly. Near the bottom of the ladder, he felt a hand grab his boot and jerk hard. He slipped and crashed to the deck below. The cleat fell from his waistband and clattered to the deck. Azhar saw it, and his eyes narrowed. He kicked the cleat across the deck.

  He grabbed Tanner’s shirt and lifted him up. “Stand up!”

  In that brief moment, Azhar’s hand slipped into the waistband of Tanner’s pants. When it withdrew, Tanner felt the unmistakable outline of a pistol against his belly.

  “I’m sorry, Briggs,” Azhar whispered. “I should have believed you. Wait for my move. We must be quick.”

  Stunned, it was all Tanner could do not to react.

  “I said move!” Azhar barked, then shoved him forward. Tanner fell to his knees, and Azhar kicked him in the buttocks. “Stand up!”

  The guards burst out laughing.

  Al-Baz came down the ladder. “What happened?” asked al-Baz.

  “Our guest has trouble with his balance,” Azhar said.

  “Put him over there.”

  One of the guards shoved Tanner against the bulkhead.

  The space was small, perhaps twenty feet square, and featureless except for the lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling.

  Bolted to the forward bulkhead was a rectangular scaffold and inside that, suspended by cables, a stainless steel sphere. One of al-Baz’s men stood to one side, holding a black box in his hand. One of al-Baz’s guards joined him, while the other posted himself nearer Tanner, his AK-47 trained on Briggs’s stomach.

  Staring at the bomb, Tanner realized something was wrong. Something about the design … There was no barrel for the uranium slug. … Takagi had built an implosion bomb! That explained the increased yield.

  Tanner looked around, checking lines of fire. Once the shooting started, the compartment would become a death trap. Any bullet that didn’t find a target would rico
chet until it did.

  Azhar stared at the bomb, transfixed. “So this is it?” he whispered.

  Al-Baz nodded. “Beautiful, is it not?”

  Azhar seemed not to hear. As though in a trance, he shuffled forward. The trigger man glanced nervously at al-Baz, who grabbed Azhar’s arm.

  “It would be best if you did not. He is under strict orders.”

  Tanner focused on the trigger man’s forehead. Have to take him first.

  “Of course,” said Azhar. “Of course.”

  Abruptly, al-Baz cocked his head. “Do you hear that?”

  “What?” asked Azhar.

  Al-Baz pointed at the guard nearest Tanner. “Check!”

  He scrambled up the ladder and returned a moment later. “Helicopters approaching from the bow!”

  “Lock the hatch!”

  From the corner of his eye, Tanner saw Azhar place his hand on his pistol. “It is best if we stay here,” al-Baz said to Azhar. “Even if they manage to fight past my crew, we will trigger the device before they reach us.”

  “Why not now?”

  “We are too far away. Don’t worry, we have time.”

  Suddenly, the deck lurched beneath their feet. The engines whined. Tanner stumbled and fell. A shudder reverberated through the deck.

  “What is it?” the trigger man called. “What are they doing?”

  Al-Baz yelled, “The anchor’s dropping!”

  Once sure the chain was running free, Cahil climbed the ladder, popped the hatch, and climbed out. He glanced over his shoulder. Lying side by side, the helicopters were 200 yards from the bow. He sprinted toward the cargo hold. As he neared it, he saw a man rolling the capstan back into place.

  “Hey!” Cahil yelled.

  The man spun around. Bear shot him in the chest, barreled over him before he fell, and stopped beside the hatch. He cranked the wheel and heaved back. It didn’t budge. He pulled again. Nothing.

  He felt the downwash of rotors and looked over his shoulder.

  One of the helicopters stopped in a hover over the forecastle. A dozen rope coils dropped from the doors, and commandos starting dropping to the deck.