Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  Everyone stiffened slightly as the Air Wing Commander strolled into CVIC. Bark spoke first. “CAG. Good morning.”

  “Well,” CAG said noncommittally, surveying the people before him and quickly scanning the chart. “What have we here?”

  “Strike planning,” Bark said, with a hint of a defensive tone. “Contingency strike planning.”

  “Into Iran, I see.” He looked at Woods.

  Woods held his tongue. He really wanted to say something clever, but he didn’t want to torpedo his plan or his career right now.

  CAG wasn’t really expecting a reply. “I’m surprised Washington signed off on this. Flying a GBU-28 out here on a day’s notice to be dropped by aircrew that have never dropped one before? Incredible. Who do you know in Washington?” He stared at Woods, still not expecting a reply. CAG examined the chart. “It really isn’t a bad idea,” he said, looking at Bark. “That’s what separates Navy Air from everybody else, you know?” he said, suddenly taking ownership of the idea, especially if it was going to be successful. “Flexibility. Adaptability. Better than the Air Force. For us, when things change, we make new plans. Better plans. Change to make it work. It entails some risk. But to succeed in this life, you’ve got to take some risks. Right, Lieutenant?”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Woods replied, fighting back a smile. “What do you think of the route?”

  CAG looked at the chart again and studied the pencil lines. “How far?”

  “Four hundred fifty miles one way.”

  “Low level?”

  “A lot of it. After we peel off from the diversionary strike.”

  “Diversionary strike?”

  “Yes, sir, a regular strike on the fortress in Syria. We pull away from them and get down on the deck and head east.”

  “NVDs?”

  “Yes, sir, once we get down on the deck, we’ll be on the goggles all the way in.”

  “Hell of a long time.”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “What’s the longest you’ve ever flown on NVDs?”

  “Couple of hours.”

  CAG wanted no part of that kind of flight. “Damned things give me a headache. Like looking through a drinking straw. Narrows your field of vision too much. Keep up the planning. Bark, I want you to show me the final plan. Nobody goes unless I sign off on it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Bark replied as CAG walked toward the TV studio section of CVIC.

  “Sami, my office!”

  Sami jumped when he heard Kinkaid’s voice from over the padded cubicle wall. He knew he had said too much, but he hadn’t even said everything he felt. He didn’t care if Kinkaid fired him. He didn’t want to be a part of the charade of being the American arm of Israel’s military. He stood up and walked straight into Kinkaid’s office. He closed the door behind him so hard it slammed loud enough to make both of them jump involuntarily.

  “Sir—”

  “Shut up,” Kinkaid said, silencing him.

  Sami waited, his anger building.

  “You were way out of line.”

  “I was just saying what I was thinking—”

  “And that justifies it?”

  “It’s my obligation as an officer—”

  “Your obligation is to do what you’re told! What do you think you’re doing running around reading old investigation files and dreaming up grand conspiracy theories? Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m not making it up. It’s what makes it all make sense.”

  “You don’t even know what you’re talking about! I’ve been doing this since before you were born! And you stand there in front of a task force I’ve put together and insult the Agency, insult me, imply there are spies in our house, and I’m just supposed to take it because you’ve got it all figured out?”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that—”

  “I’ll bet you wouldn’t. I should end your little career for that stunt. You’d have no future in Washington, I’d make sure of it.” He studied Sami’s rigid face. “Why are you so suspicious of the Israelis?”

  “They’re untrustworthy.”

  “Sami, they’ve done things you could only imagine doing. You’ve read a few things, and think you know the whole picture. They sent men into the desert alone in the Gulf War to find Scud sites for us. They ate lizards for days to find where the launches were coming from.”

  Sami smiled. “For us? Those Scuds were being shot at Jerusalem! What did you expect them to do? They seem to think the big favor they did for us was by letting us fight that war for them too! We begged them to stay home, while we risked our lives for them! They got praise from our government for being willing to do nothing. It was bullshit!”

  “They give us intel that you don’t even know about.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re not cleared—”

  “Of course. So tell me the great stuff they’ve given us that I am cleared for.”

  “They’ve given us entire SAM systems they captured. It gave us a great advantage.” Kinkaid waved his hand. “I don’t need to defend them.”

  “They look out for their own interests. Period.”

  “We all do.”

  “Not true. We have helped a lot of other countries when there was no direct benefit to us.”

  “And they have helped us. Just take my word for it.”

  “In another ‘unofficial’ exchange between you and this Efraim guy?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes in more official channels.”

  “For every one of those—and I’d love to be able to check them—there are two where they’ve either stolen from us or hurt us.”

  “No—”

  “Like Pollard—”

  “Don’t go banging that damned Pollard drum again, Sami. I’m tired of it—”

  “Do you know how many documents he stole for Israel?”

  “Sure, a lot,” Kincaid replied.

  “How many?”

  “I don’t remember, exactly. It was a long time ago.”

  “Five hundred thousand pages of classified information.”

  “Like I said, a lot.”

  “You know how he came to find Israelis that were interested?” Sami asked.

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “A party in New York. Big party for the Israeli pilot who bombed the Iraqi nuclear plant. Big hero. Our boy Pollard makes contact and starts pumping out the Secret and Top Secret documents to the Israelis.”

  “True,” Kinkaid acknowledged.

  “But you know what they did with them?”

  “Read them.”

  “After they read them.”

  “What?”

  “They wanted to make the Soviet Union happy so it would release more Jews to emigrate to Israel. They gave the documents to the KGB.”

  “That’s never been proved—”

  “So they’re our friends?”

  “Intelligence can be dirty business.”

  “Like the Liberty.”

  “Sami—”

  “That’s right. Don’t look at history. It doesn’t matter. Joe,” he said, “we’re targeting an old fortress based mostly on my historical analysis of something that goes back nine hundred years.” He smiled ironically. “You won’t even look back thirty years?”

  Kinkaid eyed his telephone as if waiting for it to ring. “The Liberty was a mistake. We’ve already talked about that.”

  “What about their nuclear program?”

  “What about it?”

  “How did Israel get the uranium for it?”

  Kinkaid didn’t reply.

  Sami studied his face. “See, you do know. Rich Jew in Pennsylvania faked ‘losing’ two hundred pounds of it from his manufacturing plant after the Israelis visited. He had given millions of dollars to Israel before that. They denied it, if you can believe that.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “If it is to further their interests, they’ll sell out the U.S. so fast it will make your head spin.”<
br />
  “Why do you care so much?”

  Sami stared at his boss and leaned against the closed door. He stood there silently. “Back to that, huh? The young Turk.”

  “Haddad. That’s your last name. Any relationship to Ali-Haddad? The most radical group of the PLO in the ‘80s?”

  Sami’s mouth dropped. “What kind of question is that?”

  “Just showing you how faulty apparently logical thinking can be.”

  “I can’t believe you even said that.” Sami sank into the chair in the corner of Kinkaid’s office. “I’ve spent my entire time here studying Arab terrorists. Trying to anticipate them, to defeat them. And now you accuse me of being one of them?”

  “I’m not accussing you of anything. I’m just showing you how you can go off track with seemingly straight thinking.” Kinkaid became reflective. “It goes back to Henry Kissinger.”

  Sami looked at him with deep confusion. “What does?”

  Kinkaid sighed and closed his eyes. “America made a deal with the devil. The Red Prince. The most effective PLO terrorist ever.”

  Sami’s face reddened. “Ali Hassan Salameh.”

  “You know of him,” Kinkaid said, surprised.

  “Also known as Abu Hassan. Of course I do. He married Georgina Rizak, the Lebanese Miss Universe.”

  Kinkaid smiled. “I’m impressed. He had targeted the U.S. We got wind of it. Based on Kissinger’s instructions, we talked to him.”

  “How could we talk to him?” Sami asked, amazed. “He was the mastermind behind the ’72 Olympic attack!”

  “We made a deal. We agreed not to pursue him if he would leave American citizens and property alone. He agreed. Not only did he agree, he became one of our best sources. Not about the PLO, but anybody else was fair game.” He paused and waited for Sami to look at him. “We knew where he was. Often. But we never told the Mossad. And he was number one on their hit list for years, until 1976 when they got him without our help.”

  Sami was shocked. America had made a deal with the most cold-blooded killer he had studied. He had never known. “That is dealing with the devil.”

  “We did what was in our interests. Just like we’re supposed to.”

  Sami wanted to say something else. There was so much to say, so much to think through. “But that’s where you met Efraim, at Munich. Chasing the Red Prince.”

  “Yes.” He could see the light going on in Sami’s head.

  “And the whole time, you knew who it was and where he was and had made a deal with him.”

  “He came to this very building. Often. Came up the elevator, just like you do. Had coffee with the Director.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Not impossible.”

  “And the whole time, Efraim was trying to find him? To kill him?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you never told him.”

  “No, I didn’t. He must know it now. Kissinger published it in his memoirs.”

  “Maybe now it’s payback time.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kinkaid said, obviously having already thought of that. “I wanted you to know that I know what I’m doing. I know everything you know about Israel and a lot more. And I know a lot more about what we have done, and haven’t done.”

  Sami relaxed noticeably. “It’s not pretty, is it, this intelligence stuff.”

  “Sometimes it’s beautiful. And other times, it’s very ugly indeed.”

  “I just don’t want our pilots to fly into a trap.”

  “Neither do I,” Kinkaid said. “You need to know that I take all that, and more, into account. It’s all a matter of judgment. It’s why my hair is getting gray. Your job right now is to determine whether the Sheikh has another place. Somewhere he might flee to before we get him. We have to anticipate.”

  “Sure,” Sami said. “I don’t think there is any other place, but I’ll give it some thought.” He turned to go, and stopped. He looked back at Kinkaid. “I misjudged you. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s one other thing you should know.”

  “What?”

  “Pollard wasn’t recruited by the Mossad.”

  “Right,” Sami said, unbelieving. “It was LAKAS or something like that.”

  “LAKAM,” Kinkaid corrected him. “Lishka le Kishrei Mada. The Hebrew acronym for the Israeli Defense Ministry’s Scientific Affairs Liaison Bureau.”

  “And the Mossad had nothing to do with it.”

  “Actually they didn’t,” Kinkaid said, smiling.

  “You buy that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whatever,” Sami said, unconvinced again.

  “But remember when we confronted Israel about Pollard they protested that the Mossad never spies in the U.S.?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They do.”

  “The Mossad?”

  “Al. Hebrew for ‘above.’ A secret group within the Mossad unknown to even the vast majority of the Mossad. They operate in New York, Washington, D.C., wherever they want. Active spying.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you are right. You can’t believe anything they tell you.”

  “And?”

  “And our objective isn’t to believe them, it is to line up things so their interests are the same as ours. Then when they act in their interests it is to our benefit. So let me do that and quit trying to out-think me.”

  Sami was reeling. “I had no idea.”

  “Exactly. But I like your tenacity. I like your hunger for the truth. Just give the rest of the people in your family the benefit of the doubt until you have a really good reason not to. It’s the only way you’ll survive in this business.”

  36

  The Gunner stood on the flight deck in his khaki pants, red Jolly Rogers ordnance shirt, and red flotation vest. He had his goggles on and his helmet was strapped tightly under his chin. He took being on the flight deck very seriously. He had seen too many people killed, friends who had walked into turning props, been sucked into jet intakes, cut in half by a broken arresting gear cable, or simply blown over the side by invisible jet exhaust, never to be seen again. Most of it had happened at night, when there wasn’t any moon, like tonight.

  But the Gunner was so excited about the ugly plane that was taxiing to a stop in front of him he could be forgiven for paying just slightly less attention to the constant dangers. He was surrounded by his ordnancemen who were as excited about the COD in front of them as he was. A new weapon to an ordnancemen was like Christmas to a young child.

  Gunner Ruben Bailey’s division wanted to be there to see the COD and its cargo, but he had kept the number of men down—limited to those he needed to move and load the cargo.

  The Gunner and the red-shirted ordnancemen stood just forward of the island. The COD, the last airplane of the recovery, stopped directly in front of the island.

  The plane captain hurried to the wheels and put the chocks in place to keep the aircraft from rolling, then grabbed the tie-down points and secured the plane to the deck with heavy, steel chains. She hurried back out to where the pilot could see her and gave him a thumbs-up, then brought her hand across her throat while pointing at the number-two engine, telling him to shut it down. The turboprop engine shuddered quickly to a stop and she gave the signal to shut down the other one.

  The Gunner and the rest of the ordies moved around to the back of the COD. The ramp came down slowly, finally touching the deck. The Gunner and his men hurried into the belly of the plane, where two GBU-28s were exposed for all to see—ready to go, an all up round, as they called it, assembled by the Navy ordnancemen on the Naval Air Base at Sigonella, Sicily.

  None of them had ever seen a bomb this big. This long. It was almost 20 feet long and smooth, almost polished smooth. It looked just like it should—an eight-inch Howitzer gun barrel. Eight inches of course being the size of the shell that could pass through it. The barrel itself was
ten inches in diameter. The ordnancemen were impressed. The bomb was painted a flat, dark, olive green, as most bombs were, but the surface was smooth, unlike most bombs which were rough. It was high-quality steel and all business. The ordies at Sigonella had put the wings on the bomb—the airfoil group, as well as the CCG, the Computer Control Group—the guidance in the nose, as well as the strong back, the part that allowed it to be connected to the airplane.

  The Gunner studied the wheels of each dolly with his flashlight, measuring the numerous nylon straps with his eyes. After assuring himself that they wouldn’t roll, he ordered his men to break it down. The Gunner yelled to leave no doubt about what he had said.

  Four of the Gunner’s ordnancemen grabbed each MHU-191 skid on which each bomb rested and began carefully moving the bombs out of the plane, tying one down to the flight deck with steel chains. The ordnancemen gathered around the other bomb, pushing the massive weapon slowly down the rolling flight deck to the waiting F-14.

  Everyone on the task force agreed Kinkaid was worn out. He hadn’t slept in three days. He stared at the computer screens in the task force’s room, but saw nothing. They had made no progress toward finding the men responsible for the open murders of Americans in Italy, Washington, Paris, London, and Naples and Kinkaid was disappointed with their performance. The murder in Washington had officially been handed over to the FBI, but the unit assigned was based at Langley, a rare example, though more common now than ten years before, of coordination between two services who had a history of rivalry.

  But all the fusion, all the cross comparison of data from numerous sources had come up empty. They had no idea who the murderers were. At least as individuals.

  “Joe. Phone.”

  Kinkaid took the handset. “Kinkaid.”

  “It is Efraim.”

  Kinkaid recognized his voice before he heard the name. “Efraim, how are you? What’s the answer?”

  “Right to business, is it?” Efraim asked, sounding disappointed. “Answer to what?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”