By Dawn's Early Light

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  Michael

  He clicked Send, then settled back and closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted toward the synagogue, where Rabbi Cohen and so many others had just finished praying for the safety of Israel. Heavenly Father, this would be a good time to honor those prayers . . .

  He felt Devorah’s gaze upon him before he opened his eyes. They were alone in the back of the command vehicle, in a small room not much larger than the closet in his apartment. A single dim bulb burned overhead and fluctuated slightly with the growl of the diesel generator powering the vehicle.

  “For a moment, I thought you were praying,” she remarked, the faint beginnings of a smile on her lips.

  “For a moment, I was.” He closed the laptop and looked around the windowless space. Across the street, less than a hundred yards away, more than thirty hostages were sweating in their expensive suits, counting the moments until they died. Surely they knew the situation was no ordinary political ploy. The PLO had never struck the Knesset, and Michael doubted they would ever attempt anything so grandiose. The international repercussions would be too great.

  “I think you are right,” he said softly, looking at Devorah. “They wanted the entire Parliament. And they would have caught every representative, like fish in a net, if not for the holiday.”

  “If their plan had worked, we’d be looking at a pile of rubble now.” Devorah’s eyes turned automatically to the wall facing the Parliament building. “They wouldn’t have waited for us to gather. Now they are only stalling for time, trying to milk the situation for publicity.”

  “They can have the publicity—it won’t help their cause.” Michael opened the computer again and stared at the blank screen, hoping Daniel wasn’t napping or taking a walk or doing whatever he did for relaxation. “I don’t want terrorists winning a victory. Violence only begets more violence.”

  He set the computer on his knees, then turned his hands over and looked down at his scarred palms. He hadn’t done counterterrorism work since leaving SEAL Six, though he had stayed abreast of all the latest developments in strategy and weapons. He would have loved to call in his old SEAL team, now known as DEVGRU, but they required four hours notice before deployment. SEAL Team Three, however, maintained a small forward-deployed unit in Germany, and Michael would be grateful for as many of those men as he could get within the next ninety minutes.

  A tremor of mingled fear and anticipation shot through Michael when the laptop on his knees chimed. His hand trembled as it moved over the keyboard, then a response filled the screen:

  Capt. Michael Reed—

  Your message relayed through a secure source. Use whatever U.S. resources necessary to secure the situation. And God be with you.

  President Samuel Stedman

  Michael blinked at the screen, then turned the computer so Devorah could read it, too. “That’s it,” he said, breaking the connection and snapping the laptop shut. He stood and moved toward the front of the vehicle. “If the lieutenant can keep the terrorists calm for two hours, I’ll get those people out.”

  “I want to help.”

  He turned so suddenly she nearly bumped into him. “You don’t have to,” he said, looking down at her. “This has nothing to do with your obligation to me. Go home; be with your family.”

  “You are forgetting I’m in spec ops, just like you.” She looked up at him, her eyes smoldering with fire. “You yourself told me that all attachés are primarily intelligence gatherers. You came here wanting to inspect our preparation, and it’s only fair that I should see yours. I’m staying, Captain.”

  “This isn’t intelligence gathering. This is a dangerous mission—”

  “And I am a highly trained CT team leader. If you hadn’t barged in, Lieutenant Shiff might have assigned me to the assault team. I want to be on the assault team.”

  Michael considered arguing further, but he didn’t have time. He had already learned Devorah Cohen could be uncommonly stubborn when she chose to be, so if she wanted to volunteer for terrorist target practice . . . “Suit yourself,” he said, leading the way out.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  2032 hours

  AMAZED AND SHAKEN, DEVORAH STOOD BACK AND WATCHED MICHAEL REED take control. His message from President Stedman had to be forwarded to the prime minister’s office, approved, verified, and authorized through the Israeli chain of command. Within fifteen minutes, the order came down through the chief of the general staff himself: Capt. Michael Reed was to be granted full operations authority for ninety minutes. If he could not resolve the situation by 2245 hours, the Sayeret Mat’kal team was free to continue with its plan to liberate the Knesset hostages. And while Reed prepared, Sayeret sharpshooters were to remain in place around the building to maintain the perimeter.

  Devorah shadowed Reed, supplying information when asked, observing when left alone. The captain placed a SatFone call to the chief of naval operations at the Pentagon, where it was only one o’clock on a lazy Friday afternoon. Apparently Reed’s name carried some weight, for the CNO returned his call almost immediately. Reed asked for the forward deployment of as many men from SEAL Team Three as could be dispatched within twenty minutes; he also asked for several weapons Devorah had never heard of. The men and supplies were to be flown by jet from Germany to the Jerusalem airport, from which an Israeli helicopter would ferry the men and weapons to a rendezvous point at the base of a hill south of the Knesset. The rendezvous was set for 2210, only 85 minutes away. “I’ll lead the team myself,” Reed told the CNO in closing.

  When he hung up the SatFone, Devorah stared at him in astonishment. “With all due respect, Captain,” she lifted her chin, “why would you want to lead the assault team? Wouldn’t the mission be better served if you coordinated the team’s movements from the command post?”

  The grooves beside his mouth deepened into a smug, confident smile. “What’s wrong, Sergeant Major? Don’t you think I’m capable of overseeing this operation?”

  “Overseeing it from the command post, yes. But you have worked behind a desk for . . . how many years now?”

  “Some things you never forget, Cohen, and one of them is that SEAL commanders lead from the front, not the rear.” The determination in his eyes froze into a blue as cold as glacier ice, though his lips stayed curved in a smile. “Don’t worry about my fitness. I’ve kept up with my training, and I can still shoot as well as the young guys.” He straightened and squared his shoulders. “I scarcely think my years behind a desk will matter tonight.”

  Devorah lifted her hands and backed away, unwilling to argue. Navy SEAL shooters were legendary; it was said they could put three quick rounds in a human head at fifty meters about as fast as their brains could form the thought. But her team could shoot, too.

  “Fine.” She looked Reed squarely in the eye. “But some of my men and I will come with you.”

  Reed shook his head. “I’m not inserting a blasted army into that building. I want an eight-man squad, no more, just two fire teams. I’m sure I’ll get the men I need from SEAL Three.”

  “Twenty minutes isn’t much advance warning. You’ll be lucky to get two men. Besides, this is Israel, Captain. This is an Israeli operation—and you have already said I could be on the team.”

  His golden brows drew downward in a frown. “I was humoring you, Sergeant Major. For security reasons, your people will have to stay away. We will be working with classified weapons, and I’m not authorized to give access—”

  “All the more reason for us to come along.” Devorah felt her mouth twist into a cynical smile. “We have shown you our secrets, Captain; it is time for you to reveal some of yours.” He opened his mouth as if he would argue, but Devorah lifted a hand and cut him off. “We haven’t time for discussion, Reed. I am going to see if I can find us some camouflage gear. I will meet you at the rendezvous point in an hour. I hope your SEALs will have arrived by then.”

  She moved past him, knowing he couldn’t afford to shut her out. If the SEAL Three operators
were more than twenty minutes from the airport, none of them would make it to Jerusalem tonight.

  At 2200 hours, Devorah heard over the radio that four men from SEAL Three had arrived at the airport. She slammed a magazine into the Uzi and leaped out of the armored vehicle that had arrived to support the assault, then jogged toward the command post where Reed and the Sayeret lieutenants were still sketching out details.

  She moved more slowly than usual, burdened by thirty pounds of equipment. A bulletproof vest lay under her flame-retardant overalls, and over the overalls she wore a load-bearing tactical vest holding extra ammo clips, a flashlight, a first-aid kit, a pair of flash-bang grenades, and a radio digitized with an encryption system so only the assault team members could pick up each other’s transmissions. A holster with a pistol and ammo lay strapped to her thigh, and her Uzi hung from a sling that wound around her neck and over her shoulder.

  “Since only four SEALs are en route,” she panted, climbing heavily into the vehicle, “you’re going to need two more operators.” She looked directly at Reed. “I’d like to recommend Berger and Navron—they’re both excellent shots.”

  Reed glanced at Lieutenant Shiff, who nodded slowly.

  “Berger and Navron it is,” Reed said, standing. Devorah blinked at the sight of him, caught off guard by the transformation. He wore tiger-stripe black fatigues and black boots. A pair of leather gloves hung half out of his vest pocket, and a pair of night vision goggles dangled from a strap. He carried the same weapons she did, but instead of a Nomex balaclava hood, he wore a black knitted cap that blended perfectly with his blacked-out face.

  He grinned when he caught her staring at the cap. “What’s the matter, Cohen? Don’t like my headgear? Sorry, but I’ve never been fond of those tight hoods.”

  He removed the cap and tossed it onto the table, then picked up a headset and fitted it over his skull. After securing the headset with the tight cap, he wriggled the radio earpiece into his ear, then adjusted the filament microphone so it sat just below his lower lip. Devorah knew that every word he said would be transmitted to the command post, so if things went badly, Lieutenants Shiff and Mofaz would hear it live. She didn’t find much comfort in the thought.

  “Twenty-two o-five hundred hours,” Mofaz called, staring at his watch. “Five minutes until rendezvous.”

  Devorah jerked her head toward the door. “Navron and Berger are outside. They’re ready.”

  Michael flashed her a grin. “Then let’s rock and roll.”

  A black MD530 “Little Bird” helicopter touched down at precisely 2210 hours, and Devorah joined Reed, Navron, and Berger as they climbed into the open doors. The rotors whirled overhead, chopping the air in a dull rhythm as Reed greeted the four Navy SEALs and made quick introductions, then explained how the operation would go down. The SEALS wore expressions of grim determination as they listened, respecting Reed’s orders as if he’d led them for years.

  Devorah leaned back against a mesh barricade, impressed. Reed must have really earned those four bars if he commanded instant respect from these guys. Like her, they were dressed in black and armed to the teeth, their wide eyes shining with the bold audacity that adrenaline produces in true warriors.

  While the Israelis carried Uzis, the Americans held Heckler & Koch MP10s in their leather slings. She knew the state-of-the-art submachine guns featured single, semiauto, three-round burst and automatic positions. A detachable “aiming projector” scope created a narrow beam of intense light along the line of fire, enabling the shooter to hit targets of about four inches in diameter—the average width of a human forehead—from a distance of seventy-five meters.

  She brought her Uzi a little closer to her chest. No operator in her right mind would want to change weapons going into an assault, but she wouldn’t mind an opportunity to play around with the Americans’ guns for a while.

  As Reed continued his explanations, Berger and Navron listened silently, though they and Devorah knew they were along more for backup than to actually play a role in this drama. The leader of SEAL Three, a lieutenant named Dickerson, nodded as Reed explained the layout of the building and what they knew of the terrorists inside.

  “We’re going to keep this operation simple,” Reed said, shouting to be heard above the rotors’ rhythmic whopping. “We don’t know who might be watching around the perimeter, and we’d like to get this situation resolved before the media gets wind of it. The IDF promised full media coverage, but it was all a bluff—just something to keep the tangos happy for a couple of hours.”

  His blue eyes locked on Dickerson. “Did you bring the thermal guns?”

  Dickerson grinned, his white teeth shining through the darkness. “Roger that, Captain. Everything you asked for. Best of all, Miles, Webb, and Phillips here are certified to use them. You’ve got yourself a group of regular Jedi.”

  “Perfect.” Reed pulled a folded sheet of paper from his vest and spread it on the floor. As if he could read the captain’s mind, Dickerson pulled a flashlight from his vest and illuminated the area. Devorah looked down and saw that Reed had sketched a rough map of the second floor where the hostages were being held.

  “We’re going to insert through the roof,” Reed said, glancing up. He looked at Devorah and her teammates. “I hope you have strong leather gloves. This will be a fast-rope drop, so nothing but your hands will see you safely down.”

  Devorah drew a deep breath and forbade herself to tremble. Fast-roping was not her favorite means of insertion, but everyone in her unit had gone through the training. It required dropping two operators simultaneously, one from each side of the chopper, without any safety hooks or belts. The sensation reminded Devorah of sliding down a fireman’s pole. If done correctly, an operator’s gloves would be chafed and almost smoking by the time he or she hit the ground. If done incorrectly, the operator would be dead.

  She met Reed’s gaze without hesitation. “We can handle it.”

  “Good.” Reed nodded. “We’re going to move in fast, before they can hear the chopper and send a man to the roof—we wouldn’t want to be dangling targets for some tango to pick off at his leisure. Dickerson and I will ride on the skids and drop as soon as we’re forty feet above the roof. The rest of you peel off in ten second intervals.” His eyes roved over the group. “Berger, you go last, opposite Cohen.”

  Devorah lowered her eyes, grateful that the black face paint hid the extent of her embarrassment. Being female, she’d been paired with the smallest man. It was a logical, sensible decision, for the chopper had to be balanced during the fast drop, but Reed’s comment seemed to imply that he didn’t think a woman—or the Israelis—were capable of performing at his level.

  A tart reply rose to her lips, but she bit it back. She knew all about the chauvinism that ran rampant in the elite American corps. The four women who made it through Delta Force training in the early ’80s left after their male counterparts hounded them out. The five female operators who now served in Delta were assigned to an intelligence detachment known as the “Funny Platoon.” At least they were allowed to serve as spies, infiltrating countries to recon targets for their male counterparts.

  “Once down, we’re going to blow the rooftop door and move out in teams of four,” Reed was explaining now, one hand on the map. “Remember— speed, surprise, violence of action. That’s what we’re after.” He nodded toward the Israelis. “Berger, Navron, Miles, and Webb will advance to the double doors at the main entry.” He paused and looked up, a trickle of perspiration shining on his brow. So—the Captain was not quite as confident as his manner appeared.

  “The government room is on the same floor as the entrance, but four of you will go downstairs and surveil the rooms below. Miles and Webb will use infrared to be certain the tangos have not moved any of the hostages. Navron and Berger will cut the power to all areas except the government room. You’ll find the circuit breakers here.” He pointed to a small X marked on the map. “Flip all the breakers but the one in
the second bank, top right-hand corner. I want to blind any tangos in the hallway, but I don’t want the hostages or their guards alerted to our presence. I also want those breakers flipped two minutes after we hit the roof.”

  Berger let out a long, low whistle, but Reed’s request didn’t seem to phase the SEALs.

  “What about infrared?” Dickerson asked. “We could pinpoint the hostages’ location from outside the building.”

  Reed shook his head. “According to the blueprints, the exterior walls are shielded. Infrared won’t penetrate the building, so we won’t be able to take any readings until we get inside.” He flashed a rueful smile. “Sorry I couldn’t do better, guys. Those of you on the stairs will be moving targets for any sniper on the lower floor, so be careful and proceed with caution. After you’ve flipped the circuit breakers and cleared the area, come up and join us on the second floor.”

  Miles set his jaw. “Roger that.”

  Reed gave Berger and Navron a mischievous smile. “If you make it up to the second floor, gentlemen, you’ll be treated to a demonstration of our new toys. Of course, we’re going to have to kill you afterward.”

  Though Berger smiled a little uncertainly, he nodded in approval. Navron looked at Devorah and mouthed a question: “He is joking— right?”

  “Cohen, Dickerson, and Phillips—you three will come with me to this west wall.” Reed tapped the map again. “We’ll move through the hallway in a Congo line, and you’ll take defensive positions outside the government room.” He grinned. “The other side of the wall features a painting of the Sea of Galilee, a busy surface that will disguise our activities while we work.”

  Reed looked up and glanced at the squad. “Any questions?” When no one spoke, he nodded and tapped the chopper pilot’s shoulder. “Let’s move out.”

  Devorah clutched her Uzi and stared at the floor, certain that fear radiated from her like a halo around the moon. From the corner of her eye she watched Reed and Dickerson pull on their gloves, then toss out the heavy British ropes used for a fast-rope insertion. The soft, twisted nylon lines uncoiled and fell from the chopper, then swayed gently from their hooks as the chopper moved up and into position.