“I’ve been working on your behalf only to be greeted by unfriendliness?”
Kinkaid sighed. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”
“War can do that to you. It makes many people tired. I too, am tired.”
“So, what’s the answer?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said, or what your young Turk has implied. I’m troubled. But it has made me wonder. What if the United States is getting Israel to do its dirty work?”
“Oh, hell, Efraim. What are you talking about? I don’t have time for this.”
“Maybe the United States does not want to risk its counterterrorist Special Forces operatives. Maybe it wants to risk Israel’s, instead. Is that possible?”
“No. It’s not possible. It’s stupid. If we need do it ourselves, we will. I thought it would be the best way, in fact. As I recall, you are the one who discouraged me from sending one of our people.”
“Yes, I expressed my concerns. I fear I am becoming as paranoid as you, my friend.”
Kinkaid waited for Efraim to go on. He wasn’t going to beg.
“We’ll do it, but it has to be on our schedule,” Efraim finally said.
“What is the schedule?”
“Tonight.”
“We’re going to have to work fast.”
“It must occur at four local time. When there is no moon.”
“Local, meaning at the site of the target?”
“Yes.”
“What is that Zulu time?”
“Three hours ahead of London.”
“How will our pilots know if your man is in fact designating the target?”
“They will know.”
“What if he’s not there?”
“He’s already there.”
“Thank you, Efraim.” Kinkaid was in fact grateful, but he was also uneasy. Too many unknowns.
“You are very welcome. Consider it a payment for the tragedy that befell your pilot in Israel. Our chance to give you your vengeance. An eye for an eye.”
“Tell your person to do as described unless I contact you. Can I reach you at this number for the rest of the evening?”
“Yes. I will be here all night.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” he said, hanging up. Kinkaid looked at Sami, who was listening very carefully. “Maybe we’ve earned our keep after all.”
Sami nodded. “If he’s really there.”
The sun was just setting west of the fortress at Alamut. It was a day like so many before in the mountains of northwestern Iran. The men who followed the Sheikh were doing as he had demanded, searching far and wide for any hint of those who would do them harm or to find the first indication that the Americans were on their way. The Sheikh knew the Americans would come. It was a question only of how and when.
Farouk and the squad of Assassins in their black head gear and flowing robes worked their way over the hills five miles from Alamut, across the valley floor. They had climbed over these rocks thousands of times as boys, and now as young men. They knew these hills intimately.
They were fatigued from the month of turmoil that they had been through. They had intended to stir things up, but hadn’t expected to generate a war. They fought their fatigue and tried to maintain their intense focus during their search, but they knew there was no one here. They would have seen them approach. There was no place for an army unit to hide in this rocky terrain. Farouk slid down an enormous boulder and landed at its base. He looked around carefully, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder.
The second squad member slid down the same way, and the rest followed. The last man slid down the huge rock face slightly more to the left than the others had. As he neared the bottom his boot scraped against the rock next to the boulder and he heard a different sound. Farouk noticed it too. He looked at Farouk, who nodded. Farouk watched him unsling his AK-47 and point it at the second rock. Farouk motioned for the remainder of the squad to spread out while the eager young Assassin walked carefully toward the rock and touched it with his hand. It was cloth. Amazingly rock-likelooking cloth, but cloth nonetheless. The man pressed it and the cloth bent under his pressure. Whoever had somehow constructed a fake rock out of cloth, it wasn’t a friend.
Farouk motioned for his men to stand back and fired at the rock. The bullets tore through, leaving small black holes where they had passed through the thin cloth. He waited. Nothing happened. One of the Assassins went forward and placed his face against the cloth trying to see through one of the bullet holes. He was thrown back from the cloth as several M-16 bullets struck him in the face.
Bullets tore through the fake boulder in both directions as the Assassins returned fire at the unseen enemy. Another Assassin fell to the ground screaming in agony from a bullet that had torn through his jaw, the others continued to fire wildly at the boulder.
Inside the man changed clips on his M-16 and waited for them to come closer, listening to the cautious footsteps. He knew he had no hope of escape, but he also had decided long before coming on the mission that he wasn’t going to be taken alive.
Farouk knew he had to be aggressive. He indicated to the other squad members that they prepare to fire together. They all pointed their rifles at the boulder and Farouk gave them the sign.
The man inside began firing methodically through the cloth just before the Assassins. When another Assassin fell the squad fired back with a fury. Inside the cover bullets ripped through the man’s body, throwing him backward. His M-16 clattered against the rock floor of the hideout. Farouk raised his hand to tell his men to cease firing; they waited in silence.
After a few minutes, he approached the decimated shell. He and another man finally tore it from the ground and looked inside. The dead man lay on the ground surrounded by food, electronic gear, weapons, and other items that the squad did not recognize.
They moved closer carefully, their rifles on him, making sure he was dead. Once certain, they looked around to see if there was anyone else, examining a few nearby boulders for another camouflage cover. Farouk was proud of their success in killing the spy, but at the same time he was worried. Someone knew about Alamut. There could be others. The Assassins searched the man’s gear but nothing had any identification marks. The man on the ground was a mystery. No rank, no uniform, no identification of any kind. He could have been be from anywhere.
He had sandy hair and a fair complexion. Probably American, they thought. Special warfare, dropped by the Americans in preparation for an attack on Alamut. The Sheikh would be pleased that they had found him but concerned by the implications.
They opened a bag and put the man’s gear in it. A nightscope, an infrared scope. Farouk examined one particular device carefully. He had no idea what it was and like everything else its identification marks had been removed. He placed it in the bag with the rest of the dead man’s things.
Farouk studied the hideout and wondered how the man had gotten there. No parachute, nothing to show how he had arrived, or how he hoped to leave, or when. He ordered one of his men to carry the dead man.
The Assassin threw the heavier man over his shoulder effortlessly. The man’s blood ran down onto him and he tried not to show his disgust. The other squad members picked up their own dead and they began their long hike back to Alamut.
37
Everyone on the carrier knew about the coming mission. They knew about the bomb, who was going to deliver it, and how. The men and women involved in that evening’s other strikes understood that theirs were secondary, or even diversionary. They didn’t care—in fact they were excited about it.
In VF-103 it was different. The squadron realized that Woods and Big with Wink and Sedge were the tip of the spear that would pierce the ground and the heart of Sheikh al-Jabal. Tonight victory meant the death of one person.
The early strikes had already gone and had reported heavy SAM fire with new AAA sites near the targets. It had been the hairiest night so far, which was discouraging since so much effort had
been put into SEAD, the Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses.
Although the rhetoric had picked up, the Syrian Air Force had stayed on the ground.
Woods’s event was set to brief at midnight. Bark had decided to address all the aircrew fifteen minutes before the scheduled brief, and had called all the officers together. They were tired but enthusiastic.
“I won’t take much of your time, but I wanted us to gather together for a minute before this squadron launches a mission never before flown by a Navy plane.” He glanced at his watch. “Their brief will begin in about fifteen minutes. We are finally going to strike what we hope will be a fatal blow against the terrorism of Sheikh al-Jabal. He has killed our squadron mate and other innocent Americans, including a State Department official who was locking his car when he was murdered, a Naval attaché in Paris, out for a peaceful morning jog, and the Commanding Officer of an F-18 squadron and one of his Lieutenants. The Shiekh is a cold-blooded murderer. If I had the chance to cut his throat, I would do it in a second.
“Seriously. I don’t want to sound bloodthirsty, but I see no reason for this man to continue living. If it were up to me, he wouldn’t. And, amazingly, it is up to us. Actually up to Trey, and Big. And the LANTIRN gods, Wink and Sedge.”
Wink smiled, fighting his apprehension.
“I wanted each of us to tell them how much we are behind them. We will do our very best to make it happen tonight, whether we are on a strike mission, on decoys, doing maintenance support, or just praying. Whatever we’re going to do, we will do it. The Jolly Rogers will make it happen. So Trey, Big, Wink, Sedge, we’re with you. Do us proud.” His listeners fell silent and not sure what more to say, Bark ended it. “Dismissed,” he said abruptly, and walked out of the ready room.
The sudden end of Bark’s talk caught the squadron off guard. They weren’t certain whether to stay and slap Woods on the back, or go about their business. The opinion quickly formed that work was in order, not celebration or conversation.
Odd little speech, Woods thought. Bark puzzled him. Most of the time he was a straight-ahead, no-nonsense, you-always-know-what-he-wants kind of guy. But every once in a while he would do or say something that made the whole squadron wonder if they understood him at all. But most Squadron Commanders were on the verge of losing it at one point or another—there seemed to be something inherent in the job that made them nearly come apart. Woods wondered if Bark’s difficulties were his fault. From the moment he had allowed Vialli to go to Israel without telling Bark, he had dropped in his Commanding Officer’s regard. He knew it. He could feel it on an almost daily basis. What had started as a trusting relationship, with Bark as his mentor, grooming his protégé, someone in whom he saw himself, had become a cool senior/subordinate relationship. And Bark seemed to be taking it hard. He couldn’t identify with Woods anymore. Some invisible line had been crossed that couldn’t even be discussed. To bring it up would be to acknowledge too much. It had come to the point now where Bark didn’t trust him. But Bark also knew Woods was the right one to go. He was best suited for the job—he had the most training, and perhaps the very thing that had finally driven Bark away, reckless abandon. During his big speech about showing support for our guys going in harm’s way, Bark hadn’t looked at him once.
Woods and Big walked to the back of the ready room. They were alone. “You still up for this?” Big asked.
Woods looked around. “We’ve got a couple of minutes before the brief. Let’s go out on the catwalk.”
Big followed Woods directly outboard on the starboard side through the darken-ship black vinyl curtains onto the catwalk. They walked up to the steel grating and stood leaning on the railing. They could see the white foam of the water through the grating beneath them as the Washington steamed north through the Mediterranean. Seeing water race under their feet was unsettling to those who weren’t accustomed to it. Woods glanced out toward the dark sea and thought about their mission.
“So,” Big said.
Woods waited. They could hear the sailors preparing the flight deck for the launch behind them. “You ever thought of Bark as stupid?”
“No.”
“Ever known him to leave anything unfinished?”
“Never,” Big said, surveying the stars over the black water.
“He knows what happened in Lebanon.”
“He didn’t seem too sure.”
“Big,” Woods said, “he saw the missile exhaust on our airplanes. He saw the PLAT tapes.”
Big shrugged. “He didn’t seem too convinced.”
“He knows it wasn’t from Roosevelt Roads.”
“What are you saying?”
“He could send us to Leavenworth with one phone call.”
Big thought about it. “So why hasn’t he?”
“A lot of people in his squadron would go down. He doesn’t know who. But he knows there had to be somebody in ordnance. And doesn’t know who else.”
“So why has he laid off?”
“Redemption.”
“Huh?” Big asked.
“If we get the Sheikh and make it back, we’ve redeemed ourselves in his eyes. If we don’t come back, we got what was coming to us.”
“That’s pretty calculated.”
“Yep.”
“What do you think? You still glad we went to Lebanon?”
Woods had thought of little else for weeks. It had haunted him. “It was stupid,” Woods said. “And reckless. But isn’t war made up of basically stupid acts? Things rational people would never do, given a choice? It seems like you have to get yourself into a position where you feel like you have no choice. Then you just do the inevitable. It’s a game your mind plays with you. I was absolutely convinced if we didn’t do something, no one would.”
“Would you do it again?”
“No.”
“What about now?”
“Now we’re at war. It’s the difference between dying as a soldier and dying as a criminal.”
“You’re just as dead.”
“One’s with honor.”
“What difference does that make?” Big said with a small, sarcastic chuckle.
“I don’t know. I just know it’s different.” Woods listened to the water hiss against the side of the carrier. “I used to think I knew it all. Not anymore. I just need to do my job and do it as well as I can.”
“Which tonight means flying into Iran,” Big said, smiling. “And you think Bark is setting us up?”
“No. He’s just given us an incredible opportunity which also happens to come with just enough rope to hang ourselves.”
“All the freedom we want to pull off our little scheme, on the off chance it will make up for last time.” Big shook his head as he thought of all the implications and all the machinations. “My wife will be so pissed if I don’t come back. Especially if she ever gets the whole story.”
“She’d lose it. Does she know about Lebanon?”
Big shook his head.
“We’re taking a big risk tonight.”
“It’s worth it. I still want to get this guy. And this time it’s legal. How about you?”
“Chance of a lifetime.”
“Trey, if anything happens to me, tell—”
“No chance. You’re going to have to tell her yourself.”
Big smiled. “Let’s go brief.”
“Yeah.” Woods glanced at the sky and the sea for one last time. “You know, if Leavenworth is waiting for us when we get back, I’d rather not come back.”
“According to your own paranoid theory, if Bark is setting us up, if we get the Sheikh, all is well.”
“That’s the theory. But we can’t very well ask him, can we?”
“No. But we can sure try to get the Sheikh.”
“There it is,” Woods smiled.
The squad of Assassins, candlelight dancing off their dirty faces and weapons, entered the cave room. Twenty or thirty men surrounded the Sheikh, sitting in his usual chair. The squad carefully lower
ed their fallen comrades to the floor and folded their hands on their chests. The blood of the dead men glistened on those who had carried them.
The man carrying the unidentified enemy stood motionless, not sure whether to put him down. As everyone watched, he finally walked to the corner and dumped the body onto the floor unceremoniously. The Sheikh rose more quickly than usual. “What has happened?”
“We found one of the invaders.”
“Three of our men were killed?” the Sheikh asked.
“We discovered a spy—very well hidden. He shot through his covering.” Farouk pulled out a piece of the cloth covering and the aluminum frame from under his robe and handed them to the Sheikh. “It looked like a boulder. Even from one meter away.”
The Sheikh examined it. “Ingenious,” he said.
“Only by touching it could we tell the difference.”
“But you found him. You are to be rewarded. . . . As to these men,” he said, indicating the fallen Assassins, “they have their reward.” The Sheikh touched each of the dead men on the forehead. He turned to the heap in the corner. “Bring him over here into the light,” he said to the two men closest to the dead intruder. They grabbed the dead body and dragged him to the center of the room. The Sheikh stood over him, studying his face. “Did you search him?”
“Yes. We did.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No. There is no identification of any kind.”
“Then he was certainly a spy. No uniform, no identification, not even an indication of what country he is from.” He thought about the spy for a while, standing stiffly, his hands behind his back. “What did you find in his hideout?”
“Much,” the leader of the section said. He crossed to the table, moved several charts aside, and reached into the bag he had hauled back from the dead man’s post. The first thing he took out was the sniper rifle.
The Sheikh took the rifle and held it, recognizing it instantly. “Remington five hundred. The sniper rifle preferred by the American Special Forces.” He took the next item handed him. “Night-vision binoculars. Very expensive,” he said, holding them in his hands. He lifted them to his eyes, flipping the switch to activate them. He glanced around the room and then turned them off. “The best I’ve ever seen. What else?”
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