Barracuda 945

by Patrick Robinson

  “I wonder if the real sentence was, ‘the jail is under attack,’ not water, but he couldn’t finish the word.”

  “AIR CREW GO TO ACTION STATIONS. GUNSHIPS TO NIMROD JAIL—IT MAY BE UNDER ATTACK. ASSAULT GROUPS ONE AND THREE.”

  The station Commander bellowed for someone to connect him to the observation post up on the Disengagement Line, due east of Nimrod.

  “Yes, sir. We saw him alright. A big single-screw helicopter, traveling east to Syria. Commercial aircraft, sir. No military radar. It was white, looked like an ice-cream van with a rotor.”

  “A WHAT!”

  “An ice-cream van, sir…white and blue. It had a big polar bear painted on it.”

  “A WHAT!”

  “A polar bear, sir. It was licking a pink-and-white cone.”

  The phone crashed down. “FUCK ME!” yelled the Captain.

  It took twelve minutes to fire up three IDF helicopters, load up the troops, and get off the ground for the twenty-mile flight up to Nimrod. But as the Israelis took off, General Rashood’s second big Sikorsky was ready to go. Its rotor was screaming, the big passenger door was wide open, and the General was running for his life down the path, leaving the massive Israeli truck an inferno behind him, flames from its fuel engulfing the entire front side of the jail.

  Ravi hit the fuselage of the Sikorsky running, hauled himself up, and rolled into the rear cabin. Someone slammed the door and they took off instantly flying east out toward the Syrian border, hanging on grimly to a ten-minute start, although this was as yet unknown.

  Sprawled in the rear, the General was talking to his men. “Well, we never lost anyone, and we got ’em all out. Not a bad morning’s work.”

  Just then, the Navigator called back, “Sir, I got three paints on the screen right here, maybe fifteen miles off our starboard quarter, right on our four o’clock, heading for Nimrod. High speed.”

  The General nodded, unsmiling. “As the Iron Duke might have mentioned, this had been a damned close-run thing. Another five minutes in that jail, we would not have made it.”

  As the Sikorsky Sea Stallion thundered into Syrian airspace, the Israelis were on their final approach to Nimrod. They could already see the truck blazing in the gateway and the obvious bomb damage in the courtyard. As they drew nearer, they could also see two figures apparently asleep on one of the big artillery pieces.

  Soon they would discover a jail entirely devoid of inhabitants. There were no guards, no prisoners, and a total of twenty men dead. All officers of the jail. “Mother of God,” breathed the Commanding Officer as it began to dawn on him that every single lock on each cell door had been skillfully and professionally blown out. As indeed had the impregnable reputation of Nimrod Jail itself.

  Somewhere out there, beyond the rugged landscape of the Golan, there lurked the most dangerous enemies of the State of Israel; men who had proved they were prepared to die in the cause of attacking, killing, and maiming the Jewish populations of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. The young Commander, whose parents had both been killed in the momentous Israeli drive to the Golan Heights in 1973, was not looking forward to making his report.

  Twenty minutes later, when he did so, on the helicopter’s radio his message sent a frisson of pure anxiety around the Northern Headquarters of the Army. How could this have possibly happened? It was plainly state-sponsored, and brilliantly planned. But by whom?

  The CO of the Northern Command requested the satellite be adjusted to photograph Syria’s military bases, particularly the ones in which helicopters were parked. Over many days, photographic evidence came in showing lines of the choppers, all painted in grim, functional desert light brown, with insignia. No one knew that beneath two coats of this smart Syrian Army livery, two giant polar bears licked their respective cones, uncaring that they would never be seen again.

  It took two days for the Israelis to admit what had happened, that they had somehow been the victims of one of the most spectacular jailbreaks in history. The incident at Nimrod had probably been the most daring raid on any jail in the world, at least since Britain’s Great Train Robber, Ronnie Biggs, was “sprung” from Wormwood Scrubs on top of a furniture van in West London back in the 1960s. But there was only one of him.

  Israel had just lost every one of her forty-seven most lethal political prisoners. They were sworn enemies of the State, who had been incarcerated in a purpose-built prison designed to render escape impossible. Where were they all now? God alone knew that. They were surely no longer in Israel, and they were probably beyond the reach even of the Mossad, being sheltered in some country that was innately hostile to Israel and would offer no information or cooperation.

  The Israelis were careful with their press release, desperately trying not to look incompetent or, in this case, even ridiculous. It was released quietly, from a Government Department to the Jerusalem Post on the quiet news evening of Saturday, April 30. It was faxed at around eight-thirty in the evening, complete with the name and phone number of the Press Officer, Abe Stillman, who was no more a Press Officer than Arnold Morgan. Mr. Stillman was a Senior Field Officer from the Mossad. He knew how to blockade dangerous questions, and he knew how to lie with absolute impunity.

  The release read as follows:

  Twenty prison officials have died in a Palestinian terrorist attack on a jail in Northern Galilee. The dead men all worked at the Nimrod High-Security Prison. They were on duty at the time, some of them working outside the walls of the jail.

  The terrorists are believed to have rammed the gates open with a freight truck and then shot down the guards in a cold-blooded, cowardly massacre of civilian personnel.

  It is not yet known which group was responsible, but Israeli Security Forces are assuming that either Hamas or Hezbollah carried out the raid.

  It is also known that certain prisoners escaped by air, in two civilian helicopters. They are believed to have flown into Syria, but the Syrian military has denied all knowledge of the attack.

  The names of the deceased will be released when the immediate families have been informed.

  Throughout the release, the Israelis played down the overwhelming importance of the escaped men, spinning the story to emphasize the deaths of the guards.

  It was a tactic destined to fool no one. David Heyman, the young, gifted night editor of the Post, read the fax sheet with amazement, lasered in on the fact that no one was telling anyone which of the most dangerous convicts in the country had escaped, and hit the wire to Abe “Stonewall” Stillman.

  The man from the Mossad lived up to his nickname.

  I’m sorry we have no further information on that…. Right now we have a team of investigators at the prison trying to ascertain the facts…. It would be wrong of me to give you inaccurate information…. Sheik who?…I’m sorry, I cannot comment on the status of individual prisoners…. Yes, it was a military-style attack on the prison…. I cannot comment on the precise nature of the killings…. I understand some of our people did die of gunshot wounds…. The telephones? I’m afraid the system is down…. I don’t know how or why…. When we have further information from the government investigators we will inform you.

  David Heyman sensed a gargantuan cover-up. He called the night news editor, and told him to get up to the back bench, the hub of the newspaper where the front page is prepared, designed, and edited.

  The ex-Fleet Street reporter, Eddie Laxton, was probably the best hard newsman in the Middle East. He read the fax, listened to the night editor’s description of his talk with Stillman, and immediately dispatched a team of six reporters and photographers to the Nimrod area.

  He ordered a helicopter to fly them to the small commercial airport north of Galilee where two cars would be waiting for the twenty-mile drive up to Nimrod. He knew the entire area would be cordoned off and that there was little chance of being granted access. But his men were trained tough. If they had to, they’d climb the mountain to observe and photograph the state of Nimrod Jail.

  E
ddie Laxton was something of a crusader, and he did not think governments should be covering up lapses in security. If this story was what he thought it was, he, Eddie, was going to nail it.

  Shortly after midnight, one of his boys nailed it down hard. While the photographers were skirting the roadblock in an attempt to reach the jail, lit up now by big military arc lights, the Post’s junior reporter, Ben Lefrak, twenty, decided to place himself in the nearest coffee shop, one which might stay open half the night while emergency teams were toiling into the night.

  And at 2:15 A.M. it happened, in the little coffee shop in the Druze village of Majdal e-Shams. Three uniformed members of the IDF, covered in dust, came in and ordered coffee and pastries. And the landlord, sporting the gigantic mustache of his Islamic sect, served them cheerfully.

  The place was busy, and when Ben went to the counter to order his fourth coffee, he returned to a different seat, right next to the IDF men with whom he skillfully struck up a conversation.

  “Pretty bad up there, eh?” he ventured.

  “Tell me about it,” replied the young soldier. “Boy am I tired.”

  “Did they knock the place down?”

  “Not really, but they blew the hell out of the guardroom and the office, and exploded a fucking great truck right in the gateway.”

  “Wow! Any prisoners injured? You know, trapped in their cells and hit by the blast?”

  “Couldn’t say really. There aren’t any prisoners left in there, not so far as we could see. They all got away. The place is empty now, but there may be more bodies. That’s what we’re digging for.”

  “Gotta be hard work, right? The place is made of granite.”

  “Yeah. None of us is looking forward to going back up there. But the Prime Minister is supposed to be there sometime in the next hour.”

  Twenty minutes later, when Ben Lefrak got outside and dialed the newsroom back in Jerusalem, Eddie Laxton could have kissed him.

  David Heyman’s front page was a masterpiece. There was a three-column picture, two inches high, of the Nimrod Jail, then three head shots of the Prison Governor, the Chief of Security, and the Military Commander. Captioned starkly, “All Dead, Gunned Down in Raid.” Beneath was the two-deck headline: HAMAS TERRORISTS BLAST NIMROD JAIL—EVERY POLITICAL PRISONER FREED

  Underneath that was a block of twenty one-inch square photographs, five by four, each one captioned with a name. In a transparent strap line, set diagonally across the pictures, was the word gone!

  For the Jerusalem Post this was a sensational treatment of any story. It more than matched the conservative coverage in the Syrian Times, an English-language publication that offers wildly pro-Arab slants on all items of news.

  Their headline read:

  HEROIC HAMAS FREEDOM FIGHTERS

  LIBERATE OUR MARTYRS

  The stories were remarkably similar in content, each pointing out that every worthwhile political prisoner in the entire country had essentially vamoosed, set free by a brilliantly led hit squad from across the border.

  The details tended to blend together, but within a half hour of publication in two special Sunday afternoon editions in Jerusalem and Damascus, the news was well and truly out—on all the local Middle East radio networks, plus the BBC World Service and the Voice of America.

  Newspapers in the United States, operating at least seven hours behind Israel, received the newsflash at around midday, which gave them a long time to prepare and research thunderous front pages that revealed that the forty-seven most dangerous terrorists in the entire history of the Arab-Israeli conflict were on the run, free and clear, and may attack again.

  Inside pages were packed with “Why, Oh Why” stories, individual cries from the heart, from “experts” on jails, security, jail inmates, bank robberies, and Middle East politics and Jewish mothers, sons, and daughters, all culminating in the inevitable…WHY THIS MUST NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN.

  In London, one of the tabloid dailies rounded up a couple of survivors from the Great Train Robbery of 1963, and ran the headline THIS MUST HAVE BEEN DONE BY A PROFESSIONAL. It was written with all the irate self-confidence of Fleet Street in full cry, as if they had just delved into the psychological depths of Plato.

  Lt. Comdr. Jimmy Ramshawe read the initial briefs from the CIA early on that Sunday afternoon.

  Incredulous like most of his colleagues that a terrorist group had been responsible for the entire outrage, he sat in his office, consumed with thought. The sheer military precision of the operation was contrary to normal terrorist strikes. Fanatics from the desert were often brave, usually cunning, and quite frequently breathtakingly dumb. This was entirely different. This was meticulous, planned to the last detail, and executed with satanic ruthlessness, its timing perfect. Young Ramshawe thought, no bloody errors.

  Shortly before six o’clock, he stood up and muttered to no one in particular, “Nice one, Major Kerman, old mate. You really are a dangerous bastard.”

  By half past seven, he was in a quickly convened meeting with Admiral Morris and Captain Wade. All three men had reached the same conclusion at more or less the same time. This could have been conducted only by the SAS or the U.S. Navy SEALs, or at least by someone trained in either Hereford, England, or Coronado, California.

  At this stage there was of course no evidence, but Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe, along with his maps of the north Galilee area and pictures of the jail, had brought in a small file of forensic evidence appertaining to the two robberies at the New York and Beirut Savings banks.

  Buried in both reports was an incontrovertible fact, the locks on both gates, the ones situated in front of both vaults, had been blown by the intensely high explosive PETN. Traces had been found on the gate. Both locking bars had been split in the same place, and the remaining pieces of steel had shown clearly that a drill had been used to bore two holes right through the bar.

  Both these smashed locking bars had a high degree of PETN embedded in the broken area. The report did not take the matter further, and Jimmy Ramshawe had called Captain Wade to ask what he made of that.

  Scotty said instantly, “Hell, yes. They used detcord. That’s a PETN explosive. But it’s used almost exclusive by the military, usually by Special Forces. Christ knows where they got it.”

  “Raymond Kerman would know how to get it.”

  “He would. And he’d know how to use it.”

  “James, old buddy, we need to know whether the cell doors in Nimrod were blown by the same method. And the Israelis are not going to be anxious to reveal anything until the fuss has died down.”

  They had briefed Admiral Morris, and in all three minds, there was no doubt. The jailbreak was masterminded by an ex-Special Forces officer. Everywhere you looked there was evidence.

  They had plainly driven into the jail in the truck and then jammed it in the main gateway, having first disposed of the Israeli driver and his colleague.

  “Just imagine how carefully this was planned,” said the Admiral slowly. “First of all, they had to get into the country, across a very hot border on the Golan Heights. They must have walked in at night, and then hidden on this mountain. Looks like they carried in the right kit, machine guns, probably drills, detcord, probably hand grenades. And then they got away in two big helicopters. What are the Syrians saying?” “Not much, sir. Except they applaud the bravery of the freedom fighters, and give thanks to Allah for the safe delivery of the Palestinian martyrs. Of the operation itself, they of course, know nothing.”

  “Meanwhile,” said the Admiral, “we got forty-seven homicidal maniacs on the loose, some of whom might try to come here, even though their crimes have all been committed against Israelis, in Israel.”

  “That’s correct,” replied Captain Wade. “And there’s not a whole lot we can do about it. Except to stay watchful and step up all surveillance in Damascus, where the prisoners almost certainly are.”

  “Okay, guys, keep me posted. I’ll debrief the Big Man, and see you both in the morning.�
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  The phone in Kathy O’Brien’s house, in Chevy Chase, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., did not often ring on Sunday evening. She and Arnold Morgan always had dinner at home, and it was well known that this was the one time in the week the National Security Adviser tried to leave the cares of his great Office behind him.

  Right now he was about to taste a bottle of 1995 Château d’Issan, of which he had bought three cases, rather extravagantly on the advice of Harcourt Travis, Secretary of State and the White House’s resident sophisticate.

  Arnold Morgan had no intention of revealing to Kathy the source of his advice, unless of course the wine was awful, in which case the former Harvard professor currently charged with the entire foreign policy of the United States would most certainly get the blame. Probably loudly.

  Arnold rotated his glass, swishing around the red-purple wine from Bordeaux, way up on the left bank of the Gironde River, and smelled its bouquet. Had he known where it was made, in the most beautiful moated, seventeenth-century château, from grapes grown in walled vineyards, he would have loved the little ritual even more. To Arnold, bottles of French château-bottled wine were like paintings, to be kept and treasured. But on Sunday night, he and Kathy always drank one with dinner.

  Arnold sipped and savored the d’Issan. Harcourt was spot on as usual. “Perfect,” he muttered, standing the bottle just to the side of a log fire in the study. “Little more warmth, another fifteen minutes.”

  Just then, then phone rang. “Fuck,” said the Admiral.

  “It’s for you, darling,” called Kathy. “George Washington, National Security Agency, just north of the Beltway, degrees north thirty…”

  “All right, all right, goddamnit…”

  The Admiral, chuckling, stumped down the corridor to the phone.

  Kathy caught only snatches of his conversation.

  “HOW MANY!! FORTY-SEVEN…. JESUS CHRIST!…HOW MANY THEY CAUGHT…? NONE!…JESUS CHRIST!…ALL DEAD…? JESUS CHRIST!”