“Yes, Naqib?”
Abu Salaam got up and began to pace. “Yes! It means the Russians are pressuring him. We may have less time here than we thought, Ahmed.”
“Yes, Naqib,” said Ahmed, not really understanding.
“Well! Anyway, we have talked to each of our prisoners, eh? What did you think?”
Ahmed shrugged and smiled nervously. He did not like to be asked for an opinion by his captain. “They all seem very ordinary people, Naqib.”
Abu Salaam scratched his beard. “Quite. And now we must choose the first to be executed. Any recommendations, Ahmed?”
Ahmed shook his head vigorously and swallowed.
“No?” Abu Salaam’s tone was gentle. He liked the young fighter. “Then I must choose.” He looked at his copy of the list. “Stevens, Craig G., Lance Corporal, USMC - Walid has recommended him, and I concur. Next, Cummins, Barbara B., Seaman, USN; then Boboski, Robert, NMI, Airman, USN. Tell Walid to separate them from the others, Ahmed. He can put them in the room next to this one.”
Ahmed rose quickly, still studying his list. “Yes, Naqib.” He turned toward the door.
Abu Salaam stopped him with a gesture. “You look puzzled, Ahmed.”
“No, Naqib! It is just, well, there are several Jewish names on the list.”
“And you think we should start with them?”
“Well-”
“Ahmed, the message we want to send, to Arabs, to Muslims who are not Arabs, to Jews, and especially to Americans, is that Zionism is the cancer destroying our homeland and our people, but the evil that makes Zionism possible, and therefore the greater enemy, is America!”
Ahmed looked at his papers clasped in his hands in front of him. How the naqib’s eyes burned! “Yes, Naqib,” he said helplessly.
“And so, Ahmed, we begin with Americans who are not Jews. Americans with American names, from little towns. Do you understand, my brave fighter?”
Ahmed stiffened to attention. “I think so, Naqib.”
“Good,” smiled Abu Salaam. “Tell Walid, and then ask him to come to me.”
“Yes, Naqib.” Ahmed left the room.
Now what am I going to say to Colonel Baruni? mused Abu Salaam.
Colonel Baruni’s Mercedes limousine, preceded by one troop-carrying BTR and followed by another, passed through the western gate of Uqba ben Nafi. At Colonel Zharkov’s suggestion, the little convoy turned north, around the end of runway 11/29, and into the now-dry golf course the Americans had built. Baruni could see groups of his tanks bunched along the nearly dry watercourse, partially concealed by the swaying palm trees. Most tanks were already covered by nets, and soldiers in desert fatigues were gathering fallen palm fronds to add to the camouflage. Soldiers had rigged gas-engined pumps from the stagnant wadi and were spraying the vehicles as they were set into their positions. Baruni frowned. “Colonel Zharkov, why are those men washing down my tanks?”
Zharkov smiled. “To cool their engines, Comrade Colonel. To reduce their infrared signatures in reconnaissance photos.”
Baruni nodded slowly. The Russians are working quickly, he thought, as the convoy rolled slowly past the concealed tanks and armored personnel carriers. Either that, or they just presumed I would agree, and began hours ago. The colonel counted thirteen tanks, a company, and an extra platoon, plus a platoon of BMPs and another platoon of dismounted infantry. He forced a smile and waved to his troops, ignoring the salutes of the Russian officers and non-coms. Even if this incident ends well, he thought bitterly, the Russians will have tightened their grip on me and my revolution. How I would like to be rid of them all, and then devote all of my energies to building the Arab nation!
Colonel Zharkov interrupted Baruni’s train of thought. “Comrade Colonel, if you please, we could drive directly onto the taxiway, and you can see how easily the tanks positioned here can reach the Operations Building.”
If you please, thought Baruni, with mounting irritation and despair. “Yes, Colonel,” he smiled. “Let us see, and then I will explain things to Abu Salaam.” Zharkov leaned forward and spoke in Russian to his aide, who was seated beside Baruni’s driver. The aide pointed and relayed the instruction to the driver in Arabic. The limousine drove slowly across the rolling, hard-packed earth to the paved taxiway, then around the Operations Building, where it stopped. The BTRs followed, then stopped just behind the Mercedes. The guards jumped down, holding their weapons in front of them.
Ahmed dozed on a chair in the front of the main hall of the Operations Building, his feet up on the windowsill. His sleep was softly invaded by the low sound of heavy diesel engines. He jumped up with alarm as he saw the vehicles and the armed women suddenly appear on the apron in front of the building. “Naqib! Walid! Soldiers!” he shouted, picking up his AKS assault rifle and backing away from the window.
Walid and Abu Salaam ran back into the main hall from the office area. The hostages, seated in small groups in metal folding chairs or on the floor, began to whisper among themselves. Several in chairs quietly got down and lay flat on the floor, motioning others to do likewise.
Abu Salaam rushed to the edge of the window. His heart was pounding as he waited for the explosion that would blow the doors open. Walid took up his assigned position behind the group of hostages in the center of the room and chambered a round in his AKS. He had several fragmentation grenades clipped to his belt. Ahmed, once over his initial panic, took up his own position on the other side of the silent, wide-eyed hostages. Amin, the boy from Nablus, stood in the shadows to the rear, and Yusef was forty feet above them, in the control tower, watching the apron and the two Libyan air controllers, who had nothing to do since nearly all aircraft had departed two hours earlier.
Abu Salaam edged to the window and peered out. He saw Colonel Baruni step out of the limousine, straighten his tunic, and wave toward the building. Abu Salaam let out a long breath, his fear suddenly replaced by anger. He checked his Makarov pistol in its holster on his web belt, then took a fragmentation grenade from the leg pocket of his fatigue trousers and concealed it in his left hand, held behind his back. He unlocked the door with his right hand and stepped onto the tarmac, closing the door behind him.
Colonel Baruni stepped forward, smiling broadly, and held out his hand. Abu Salaam’s face was set in a scowl of pure hatred, his teeth slightly bared. Baruni stopped four feet from the smaller man and dropped his hand. “Ali, my friend-”
“How dare you come sneaking around the side of the building with all of these soldiers?” hissed Abu Salaam through his clenched teeth.
“Ali! These are just my guards! Come, we must talk.” Once again, Colonel Baruni extended his hand.
Abu Salaam brought his left hand from behind his back, showing the grenade. With his right hand, he pulled the pin, while holding the spoon tightly. He took a half step toward Baruni, who involuntarily took a half step backward. Several of Baruni’s guards raised their carbines and pointed them at Abu Salaam.
“If your guards shoot me, Hassan, I will drop this grenade at your feet.”
Without turning, Baruni made a downward gesture with both arms. Abu Salaam watched as the guards lowered their weapons. “Ali, what is the meaning of this?”
“Two of your armored cars are in front of this place all the time. Now four. I want them all removed.”
“But Ali, they are here to defend you! If the Americans come, they must come this way! We should have more troops here, Ali, and tanks-”
“No! No troops, and no tanks! If the Americans come, shoot down their planes! Sink their ships! Troops and tanks so close threaten only us!”
“Ali, you have asked us to protect you. The Russians are helping-”
“Fuck the Russians! The Russians will sell the Palestinian people for American grain! The Russians want to take my prisoners!”
“Ali, it would be better if you turned over, ah, security, for your prisoners, to me. You and your fighters could rest-”
“There, Hassan! Oh, you were onc
e a fighter, but now you work for the Russians! The filthy, oil-soaked, debauched Kuwaitis hold our brethren, and the Zionists piss on our homeland, while you, you, Colonel, would take a stand against true servants of Islam!” Abu Salaam waved behind him toward the Operations Building. His voice rose toward a scream. “Take your armored cars away, Ali! And your tanks! And keep them away!” Abu Salaam seemed to shrink. It is the tension, thought Baruni. Despite his fear of Abu Salaam and the grenade in his hand, he took a step forward and held out his arms. “Ali, please listen. I am your friend; we all are your friends.”
“Send away the guards, and the armored cars.” Abu Salaam’s voice was a tiny whisper.
Baruni turned and waved his arms. Turn, go! the gestures said. His guard remounted the BTRs of the colonel’s personal detail, all except the two women who always followed. The four BTRs revved up and slowly withdrew across the apron and out of sight.
In the back seat of the limousine, Colonel Zharkov thumbed the safety back on his own Makarov pistol. Glad to see those BTRs leave, he thought. They would have been in my way. He was now sure Moscow would tell him to take control of the American hostages.
When the BTRs were no longer visible, Baruni turned back to Abu Salaam. “There, Ali, you see? They are gone.”
“They must be kept away. You must keep the Americans away.”
Baruni took another tentative step forward. “Ali, let us look after your prisoners. You are tired.”
Abu Salaam raised his head. His fierce eyes returned to focus on Baruni’s. He raised his left hand and showed the grenade. Baruni thought Ali’s thumb was loosening on the spoon. Baruni stepped back, his throat tightening. “Ali-”
Abu Salaam seemed to smile. His teeth were bare, but no longer clenched. His beard was slick with saliva. Baruni found him repulsive, yet fascinating. “Ali, my friend-”
“Stay where you are, Hassan,” said Abu Salaam, backing away. “I will give you one hostage, as a token of my good faith.” He opened the door and slid inside, closing it behind him.
Colonel Zharkov heard Baruni shout something to his driver and his guards. Colonel Baruni was smiling. “What is he saying, Captain?” he asked his aide.
“He says Abu Salaam is sending one hostage out, as a token of goodwill.”
“Good,” said Zharkov. I guess that is progress, he thought.
Abu Salaam leaned on the locked door and fought to control his trembling. He reinserted the pin in the grenade in his hand and returned it to his pocket. He drew his pistol and thumbed the safety lever to fire. “Walid!”
“Yes, Naqib!”
“Bring the prisoner Stevens here, at once!”
“Yes, Naqib!”
Walid prodded Lance Corporal Stevens to the door of the Operations Building. His arms were tied behind his back, but he twisted and looked Walid full in the face. Walid blushed, his face contorted with anger, and he prodded Stevens between the shoulder blades with the barrel of his AKS. Without a word, Abu Salaam grasped him by his shirt collar, unlocked the door, and shoved him outside. “Walk,” he said in English. Stevens walked, blinking in the glare of the sun just breaking through the clouds. He recognized Colonel Baruni from his visit two days before. The colonel smiled and beckoned with both arms.
Baruni held his hands out to receive the young American. He saw Abu Salaam emerge from the doorway, his pistol in his hand. When Lance Corporal Stevens was fifteen feet from the door of the Operations Building and ten feet from Colonel Baruni, Abu Salaam shot him twice. The first shot struck Stevens between the shoulder blades. His mouth opened in an O as his breath was knocked out. The second shot split the top of his skull and sprayed Colonel Baruni with blood and fine bits of bone. Lance Corporal Stevens fell face forward on the tarmac and did not move. Colonel Baruni stood rooted to the ground, his arms still outstretched to welcome the American boy. From the crack in the door of the Operations Building, Abu Salaam screamed his fury.
“There, Hassan! There is my good faith! Tell the Americans, tell the Jews, tell your friends, the motherfucking Russians! I want my people! I will send you a body every eight hours, or four, or two! Tell them, Hassan!” He slammed the door.
Baruni scrambled back into his limousine beside Colonel Zharkov. The Russian observed Baruni was white as a sheet and trembling as the limousine sped away.
USS America, 1220 GMT (1320 Local)
Lieutenant Colonel Loonfeather and Colonel Brimmer sat together in the vast wardroom of the America, eating lunch with Lieutenant Commander Wallace, who had been detailed from the admiral’s staff to deal with the specifics of the paratroopers’ air and naval gunfire support, and with Major Morgan, the Operations Officer of Marine Heavy Helicopter Squadron 144, embarked in Inchon. Loonfeather liked what he heard. The Navy had the thing well thought out, and since the men of the ANGLICO attached to Task Force Bowie were navy-marine types, they knew the communications and spotting procedures. The ANGLICO spotters would just have to be handed the day codes and the coded list and map coordinates of various points in and around the air base, which were already in the ships’ computers and which would be used for references for precise spot.
Loonfeather watched idly as a naval officer in working khaki entered the wardroom and whispered to the ship’s executive officer, who was seated at the table nearest the door of the wardroom. The XO’s eyebrows shot up, and he shook his head. The officer nodded vigorously and withdrew. The XO stood and tapped his water glass with a fork. The room fell silent as heads turned to look.
“Attention, please, gentlemen. Communications has just monitored a broadcast on Italian state radio. Their correspondent in Tripoli has reported that the terrorists have just executed one of our people.”
The crowd buzzed for just a moment, then fell silent again. The XO continued. “There are no details, except the man was apparently a marine. For those of you directly involved in the rescue operation, the admiral’s and subsidiary briefings scheduled to resume at 1400 will resume in ten minutes. That is all.”
Officers all across the room stuffed a last few bites of lunch into their mouths and stood. Brimmer grabbed Loonfeather’s arm. The big American Indian looked to be in shock. Brimmer shook him gently. “Christ, Rufus! We may have to go tonight! We’ll have to plan to go without your people!”
“No fucking way, Bob,” spat Loonfeather, his voice shaking with anger. “My boys can load up and leave in a matter of hours.”
“But there’s no way they can be staged and ready to attack tomorrow!”
“The Airborne will fly all night, refueling in the air, and jump at dawn from the same aircraft.” Brimmer looked skeptical, but sympathetic. “I intend to recommend we do just that, Colonel,” said Loonfeather.
Lieutenant Commander Wallace caught up with them. He looked from Loonfeather to Brimmer and back. “Then, gentlemen, may we finish up our support plan?”
“Right,” said Brimmer, pulling the rigid-faced Loonfeather along by the arm. “We have a lot to do.”
Loonfeather marched along the passageway, muttering to himself. Suddenly he stopped and turned, colliding with Colonel Brimmer, who was following close behind. Brimmer pushed himself back. He thought Colonel Loonfeather looked shocked, his eyes wide, his mouth open.
“Damn!” shouted Loonfeather, slamming his fist into the bulkhead. “Damn!” he roared, oblivious to the startled glances of naval officers pressing past him.
“Rufus-” said Brimmer, placing a hand on the bigger man’s shoulder.
“Bob! The tanks!”
“What about-”
“We can fly the airborne infantry here from Bragg nonstop, Bob. We have done that; hell, we once made a nonstop drop from Bragg to Egypt. But the Sheridans have to be staged in Europe, because we have to transfer them to C-130s for the LAPES.”
“You can’t LAPES from the 141?” asked Lieutenant Commander Wallace.
“Shit, we could, but the Air Force has never approved it! The 130 is much more agile near the ground, especially over sma
ll LAPES drop zones.” Loonfeather resumed his march down the passageway, continuing to talk over his shoulder. “But we have here a large and unobstructed DZ, a whole fucking airfield.” He stopped and turned. “The Air Force has to deliver my tanks!” He turned and once again marched along.
“Is there any other way to get them in?” asked Brimmer, hopping to keep pace with the Indian’s long strides.
“The Air Force will want to heavy drop, from say 1500 feet, using eight huge parachutes. But the desert cools off rapidly this time of year, and we should have a strong land breeze even at dawn. Those tanks would be spread all over the air base, way outside any reasonable perimeter the paratroopers could establish.” Once again Loonfeather came to an abrupt halt, and spun around. He caught Brimmer by his shoulders just before a second collision. “Bob, the only thing the Air Force needs to LAPES my tanks from the C-141s is a few pilots with large-caliber testicles!” Loonfeather held his large brown hands in front of him, fingers splayed as though supporting two imaginary basketballs. “Come on.”
Brimmer resumed the chase as Loonfeather turned and loped off. “Where are we going?”
“To communications. We need to call Charleston and speak to the only colonel in the Military Airlift Command suitably equipped in the gonad department, and the man I originally talked into establishing a test program for LAPES from C-141s. An amiable Italian madman named Paul Squitiero.”
Tzafon may Eilat, 1230 GMT (1430 Local)
The SEALs had been given the morning off after practicing all night. Hooper had told them they would have a drill on the penetration of the Operations Building at 1600, then go over problems until dinner, and then, once again, drill all night.
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