“Admiral, Jeffrey Laird, National Security Adviser to the President. We think it likely that Abu Salaam will be released, despite two calls from the President to Premier Calvi. At best, they may buy us a little time.”
Admiral Bergeron broke in from America. “The question then becomes whether we try to interdict his passage from Rome to Uqba ben Nafi.”
“It is not under consideration, Admiral,” replied Laird. “Given what we know of the Abu Salaam, any attack on their leader will result in an immediate slaughter of our hostages.”
The room in London grew noisy with murmurs of frustration. Stuart dozed in his chair. He thought this topic would drag on for many hours before they got to his team’s plan, which, upon reflection, he thought would be rejected anyway as being impossibly complex.
He was wrong. The political brief was brought to a swift conclusion by General Elmendorf, the chairman of the JCS, who had reached Washington only that evening following a hasty return from meetings in Japan. The chairman wanted to know his military options, and his first question was how the hostages could be kept alive long enough to get them out. Stuart faced the microphones that fed the local loudspeakers and the scrambler net, and spoke very briefly about how a bomber at high altitude could precision-drop a SEAL team into the reservoir from above Libyan radar coverage. The team could then move to neutralize some ready aircraft and vehicles and secure the hostages from the terrorists. Brimmer and Loonfeather briefed together, describing the complex command and control problems, along with proposed solutions in what Stuart thought was impressive detail. The room was completely silent as Loonfeather described how his Airborne Armor and infantry would hold the center against four companies of T-72 tanks, and keep them out in the open until they could be killed by naval gunfire and aircraft. The air was electric with tension, and Stuart imagined that the crackle of static in the Washington and America speakers had increased. There were remarkably few questions, most of them technical. General Elmendorf once again closed debate. “OK, people, say we go with this. It’s crazy, and it could get bloody, but I think we would stand at least a fair chance of getting those dependents back alive. Colonel Loonfeather, the extraction of your troops worries me the most.”
“It’s the diciest part, General, but we have planned for this, and practiced it, for years,” said Loonfeather, returning to the podium.
“I know. The official designation is an Airborne Armored Raid, is it not?”
“Yes, General,” Loonfeather smiled, “and it has almost worked, in practice, twice!”
Laughter cut into the tension, but it ended quickly. Loonfeather continued. “Fact is, General, we’ll lose some of the vehicles on the drop, maybe as many as a third, but we’ll be behind the Libyans, and their lack of readiness and our air power should do the rest while our marine corps friends dip in and grab the hostages.”
“You going to try this at night?” General Elmendorf was an ex-paratrooper, and he had always hated night airborne operations.
“Hell, no, General. Dawn. We can parachute infantry at night, and, in fact, would prefer to, but the Air Force needs daylight to land the armor. But, hell, the most terrifying thing to those Libyans is just gonna be seeing us come down.”
“OK, gentlemen. We have to pull all this together and get it to the White House by 0800, just eight hours’ time. Needs? Navy?”
Stuart stepped forward. “We need an eight-man SEAL team, preferably familiar with over-water HALO drops, and a place to build a mock-up of the central areas of Wheelus for detailed training. Ideally that training base should be in Europe or North Africa, so we can deploy quickly if needed. The SEALs will be going in at night. And then we’ll need a B-52 with an outstanding aircrew, sir.”
Loonfeather and Brimmer had much longer lists.
The Negev Desert, Israel, 1115 GMT (1315 Local)
The U.S. Air Force C-140, a military version of the Lockheed Dash-8 Jetstar executive jet, taxied to a stop in front of the spartan terminal at the secret Israeli training base deep in the Negev. The place had no official name, but was called Tzafon may Eilat - North of Eilat. Stuart had been told that one of its uses had been to rehearse the successful Israeli raid on Entebbe Airport in Uganda in 1976. Maybe the place has luck, he thought, as he picked up his small carryall and filed off the plane into the glaring heat.
Stuart had been very glad of the three hours of sleep he had picked up on the flight from London, and he felt energetic, ready to get started, despite the enervating heat. The other passengers on the flight with him were engineers and construction specialists who would build the replicas of the central structures of Uqba ben Nafi along the northeast-southwest runway of the Israeli base, exactly to the plans of the original Wheelus except modified to correspond to details picked up in the reconnaissance photographs. The Israelis had supplied four tanks and six armored personnel carriers, with crews, for training the Americans. Stuart noted that all were Russian, the same models as in the Libyan inventory. That surprised him, though he knew it shouldn’t; the Israelis had captured much Russian equipment during their frequent battles with their Soviet-supplied neighbors. Good news, though, he thought, as he walked around an eight-wheeled BTR-60 armored personnel carrier. The SEALs will be able to familiarize themselves with important details of the vehicles, especially things like location of guns and lights, vision blocks, and blind spots.
An Israeli Defense Force captain, an exceptionally pretty woman who looked about thirty, walked up to Stuart, saluted, and smiled. She was petite and olive-skinned, with huge, liquid brown eyes. Her hair was glossy black and rather too long to look military, and her body was full of curves that could not be hidden by starched fatigues. The Sam Browne belt, which supported her pistol holster, fitted tightly around her waist and nicely separated her breasts. Stuart returned the salute a bit self-consciously, and grinned. He was in U.S. Army sand, pink, and gray desert fatigues, and for the first time since he had been involved in the operation, wore the silver oak leaves of a navy commander on the collar points.
“Welcome, Commander Stuart,” smiled the tiny officer. “I am Captain Leah Rabin, the IDF liaison officer.”
Liaison, thought Stuart. Don’t I wish. She would probably break my spine with a judo chop if I even suggested it. Nevertheless, he smiled again and tried to look charming. “Thank you, Captain. I hope we will not be in your way very long.”
“Israel is a very informal country, Commander. Call me Leah.”
“OK, Leah, I’m William.” They shook hands. Her grip was firm, but undeniably feminine. Jesus, she’s lovely, thought William. I had better get my tiny mind back on the business at hand.
They walked together down into a concrete blockhouse a short way from the runway. Its roof was level with the desert. Inside it was very cool and dry, though there was no evidence of air-conditioning. Leah stopped before a mockup of the base, which was presented on a table approximately twenty feet long and eighteen feet wide. Brad Collins, a senior engineer from the American construction company that had built Wheelus, and who had visited the base several times in the late sixties, was conferring with the head of the Israeli construction crew. They were referring to the plans Collins had spread out on a smaller table.
“How does it look, Brad?” asked Stuart. They had talked briefly while they waited for the plane to leave London.
Collins smiled, his deeply tanned face breaking up into hundreds of fine lines, the marks of a lifetime of working in strong sunlight. “No sweat, Commander. The runways here intersect at about the same angle as at Wheelus, though the orientation is a little different. My new friend Yitzak, here, tells me we have all the materials we need, and plenty of men and equipment. We’ll have it laid out by late afternoon, and then we’ll build it at night. You’ll have a workable mockup of the central part of Wheelus, accurate to the half meter, by sunrise tomorrow.”
“Good, good,” said Stuart, smiling at Collins and Yitzak, and especially at Leah. I just can’t help feeling good ab
out this, he thought. The SEALs arrive later this afternoon; I hope they’re a good group.
Washington, 1300 GMT (0800 EST)
The Secretaries of Defense and State stood as the President entered the Oval Office. The President looked crisp and rested in a pressed blue suit and white shirt and small-figured red tie. The Secretary of State felt a sudden awareness of his unkempt appearance and great fatigue; the senior staff briefing had begun at 3:00 a.m. and concluded just twenty minutes ago. He looked sideways at the Secretary of Defense and noted the bastard had somehow found time to shave, and smelled faintly of after-shave lotion.
The President motioned his cabinet officers to a small table that had been set up for breakfast before the fireplace. A navy steward swiftly served juice, eggs, sausages, rolls, and coffee from silver serving pieces onto blue- and gold-edged china, which bore the seal of the President of the United States. Only after the steward had departed did any of the three men say a word beyond “good morning.”
“Well, Dave, Henry, where do we stand?”
The Secretary of State leaned forward. “The political news is mostly bad, Mr. President.”
“Shoot,” said the President, sipping his orange juice.
Henry Holt glanced hungrily at the full breakfast before him, then continued. “The Italians have informed us, a scant fifteen minutes ago, that they have agreed to release Abu Salaam-”
“Damn!” said the President, shaking his head. “And?”
“Well, they think they bought us some time, sir; seventy-two more hours, to meet the rest of the hijackers’ demands before any executions take place.”
The President ate a forkful of scrambled eggs. Holt’s stomach growled audibly. “What else did the Italians give away?”
“They promised to deliver Abu Salaam to Tripoli, in an Italian Air Force aircraft, and they promised to refrain from any actions against the terrorists, or against Libya, unless the hostages are harmed.”
“White-livered socialists!” spat the President. “Dave?”
The Secretary of State fell gratefully to eating his eggs and savoring the always-excellent White House coffee. It was Wasserstein’s turn, and as usual, he had staged a small triumph. “Mr. President, we, that is London, and Sixth Fleet, and the Joint Chiefs, think we have, ah, the beginnings of a workable plan to extract our people, if political means fail.”
“Lay it out, Dave,” said the President.
Fuck you, Dave, thought the Secretary of State.
Uqba ben Nafi Air Base, 1400 GMT (1500 Local)
Colonel Hassan al-Baruni sat in the rear of the air-conditioned Mercedes limousine, which was parked immediately in front of the Operations Building. A BTR-60 flanked the car on either side, each with the markings of Baruni’s elite bodyguard unit, which was made up entirely of young, attractive women. The BTRs had escorted the colonel’s limousine down from Tripoli and would go with him when he departed. The two BTRs of the regular Army had pulled back to positions in front of the Maintenance Building, across the apron to the north.
Baruni watched as the small jet with Italian Air Force roundels on its wings descended over the Mediterranean and landed to the southwest on runway 21. The American DC-8 had been towed away to a parking spot on the north end of the apron, so the Italian jet could taxi as close to the Operations Building as possible. Abu Salaam had insisted on that.
He is afraid we might shoot him, thought Colonel Baruni. Perhaps we should.
As the aircraft taxied to a stop in front of him, Baruni climbed out of the car and adjusted his dark glasses against the glare. Television cameras whirred, and the colonel waved to the reporters and smiled his handsome smile.
The colonel was above medium height, with strong features, especially his nose and the line of his jaw. His skin was tanned and faintly pitted over his high cheekbones. His eyes were dark and deep set, but now hidden behind the very dark aviator-style sunglasses. He looked trim in a tailored, open-necked khaki uniform, the two stars and eagle of a colonel, or aqid, on each shoulder board. His wave to the cameras was a clenched fist. His honor guard crashed to attention and presented their AK-47 assault rifles. Other soldiers ringed the Italian aircraft, weapons held at the ready. The door of the aircraft opened and Abu Salaam, born Ali Hassan Nazim, walked the short distance and embraced the colonel. The troops around the aircraft were waved away, and the Italian jet began to taxi immediately. Baruni smiled. It had been part of the deal that the Italians would get minimum television coverage of their plane.
Baruni held Abu Salaam by the shoulders, smiling at him. In fact, he was not at all glad to see his former pupil. Abu Salaam was at least six inches shorter than Baruni, skinny and hollow-eyed. His nose was a great, protruding beak, and he wore a scruffy, tangled beard. His mouth was wet, his black slacks and white shirt were dirty and wrinkled, and he smelled. “Come and sit with me a minute in the car, Ali,” said Baruni softly.
Abu Salaam sank into the soft leather of the Mercedes with a sigh. The windows of the car were black and reflective on the outside, and the honor guards deployed themselves to keep the reporters at a distance. Baruni sat beside the terrorist and frowned. “You should have consulted me about this operation, Ali.”
Abu Salaam smiled, revealing crooked, stained teeth. “Would you have agreed?”
“No.”
“But now you will help us, my brother?”
Baruni turned in the seat and leaned toward the smaller man. “You leave me little choice. The Libyan Arab Jamahiriya stands with freedom fighters and against imperialism and Zionism, Ali, but this operation is too exposed to retaliation! It must be concluded quickly.”
Abu Salaam’s smile decayed into a sneer. “You grow fat, my Colonel, in your soft limousine with all your oil money and so few people to care for. You forget the masses who confront the Zionists from squalid camps in the Lebanon, and from concentration camps in the occupied territories.”
Baruni pulled off his black glasses and glared at Abu Salaam. “You will not talk to me in this manner! We support the struggle in all possible ways, but this is foolhardy! The American Sixth Fleet is on the horizon, and growing bigger every day. They have been aching for an excuse to strike us, and now you have given it to them!”
Abu Salaam giggled. “Then your fine armed forces must protect us, until our demands are met.”
Baruni sat back in the cushions. How to reason with this fanatic! he thought. “Ali, in the West, they say I am mad. Mad to believe in God, mad to believe in the union of all the Arab peoples as one nation. I have given money and support to those who confront the Zionists and the West directly, and arms, and training. I have supported attacks by freedom fighters in Israel and in Europe, even against civilians, so that the peoples of those lands should suffer while Arab brothers and sisters suffer. I do this gladly, Ali, the Libyan people do it gladly. But to bring this plane here, into Libya, Ali! This risks the destruction of all we have built here, for the good of all Arabs! This is madness!”
“But Colonel, already we have achieved much!” Ali’s voice was soothing, unctuous. “I am free, and soon reunited with my fighters! The Kuwaitis will have to release my other fighters from their stinking prison. We have divided NATO, and the Americans’ puppets in the Arabian Gulf are shaking in their boots! Iran will win the Gulf War, with your help, while we are showing the Americans to be weak and helpless, because they will not, my Colonel, not risk even the few lives of those pawns,” he pointed emphatically toward the Operations Building behind him, “to strike at us! We will win, Hassan, because we have the will, and the courage to be martyrs!”
Baruni shook his head sadly. Ali was right, or at least ideologically correct, and yet the colonel had an awful feeling that this insult would just be too much for the Americans to bear. “Just promise me that we will end this quickly, Ali, and that the lives of the innocent will be protected.”
“There are no innocents in this struggle, my Colonel, not Arab children in Gaza, not American children.”
/> “Nevertheless, these people are under your protection, and mine, and God’s, Ali. And you and I have specifically pledged to harm no one for four days while the Americans discuss your other demand with the Kuwaitis.”
Abu Salaam smiled. “Let us go join my fighters now, Hassan.”
The television cameras followed the two men from the limousine to the doors of the Operations Building. Inside in the central hall were the sixty-five passengers and crew members of World Airways flight 41a, seated in four orderly rows of metal folding chairs, all unbound for the first time since they had been brought into the building. Behind them, their faces covered with red-checked kaffiyia, were the four fighters who had infiltrated the base and awaited the American aircraft.
I should take them right now, thought Baruni. I have my guards. Blow these fanatics away, right here in front of Libyan and Western pool television cameras, then put these dangerous Americans back on their jet and send them away. But all Arabs must sacrifice for the struggle against Zionism and imperialism, and Abu Salaam has struck many hard blows at the enemy with his small band.
Abu Salaam stood aside, conferring with his young followers. He accepted a kaffiyia and wrapped it around his head and over his face. He had avoided facing the television cameras on the tarmac, and he avoided them now.
Baruni strode among the hostages, smiling and greeting them in his heavily accented English, telling them that every effort was being made to get them home, and that they shouldn’t worry, they were in God’s hands. Abu Salaam watched Baruni work the crowd like a Western politician, glad that his own expression of contempt was concealed by the kaffiyia. Baruni was once a great leader, thought Abu Salaam, but he has grown soft and rich, far from the pain of the actual struggle. Soon he will see that pain up close, very close. I hope he has the guts for it.
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