Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen England

  He didn’t hear the man approach, just looked over to see him standing there a few feet away, materializing like a ghost out of the night. His face still half-masked in the shadows of the hangar, but Ariel recognized him all the same. The soldier from the operations tent.

  “Sergeant Michael Black, United States Army,” he thought, remembering how the CIA officer had introduced him. And Special Forces, of that there wasn’t much doubt.

  Not with the beard, and a haircut that would have never passed muster with the regular US military.

  And not after watching him in the briefing, laying out their routes of ingress and egress from the drop zone. He knew what he was doing, no question about it.

  Which didn’t help to reconcile him any further to his presence on the mission.

  “Plane should be here soon,” he heard the soldier observe, his eyes focused out on the runway. Digging a packet of Marlboros out of his pocket as he advanced. “Got a light?”

  5:47 A.M.

  A Fatah compound

  The Gaza Strip

  “Thank you, Colonel,” the man replied, leaning out of bed as he held the phone to his ear, the silk sheets falling away from his bare, flabby chest. He’d been expecting the call, but its arrival had caught him asleep all the same. “I am glad to hear of your safe. . .arrival, and will relay your message to our brothers in Jordan.”

  He listened for a few more moments as the Iraqi continued, his words veiled and cryptic as ever, as though he believed someone was listening to their every word. The Republican Guard officer was obsessed with security to the point of paranoia.

  “Good, good,” he said finally, a smile crossing his face in the darkness of his bedroom. “Let us tread them down until the strong are humbled.”

  “Until the spoils are divided,” the Iraqi replied after a moment’s pause, the pre-planned exchange serving as a final assurance that neither party had been compromised.

  The call ended with a click, dead silence falling once more over the bedroom as Mahmoud Damra reached over, replacing the phone in its cradle. There would be no spoils at the end of this day, but now—as then—this morning would mark the dawn of a Jewish defeat.

  The Palestinian colonel pushed back the sheets, casting a glance back at the outline of the young woman laying in his bed as he padded barefoot into the bathroom and turned on the light—pausing, as ever, to admire himself in the mirror.

  He was no longer the young man he had been when he’d first assumed command of Arafat’s personal security, he thought, running a hand through his black hair—his growing paunch more than testament to that. But with age had come power, and power. . .well, that was far more effective than looks or charm had ever been.

  And after today, he would be on the cusp of achieving power like none he had known before. Like no one in Palestine had ever known. . .

  5:48 A.M.

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  Ariel nodded wordlessly, passing his Zippo over. Watching out of the corner of his eye as a small gout of flame spurted from the tip, the man cupping a big hand around it to shield it from the night breeze.

  “Iraq,” the American began after a long moment, smoke wafting away from his lips. “Ever been there?”

  Ariel just shook his head slowly. He hadn’t, but it was the way he would have answered no matter the truth. The intelligence business wasn’t one you survived in by trusting your allies. “You?”

  “Missed it by two weeks,” was the reply, something almost of regret in the man’s voice. He had to be close to a decade Ariel’s senior, maybe more. “War was over before my unit could get there.”

  Of course. Over in weeks. That’s the way war was for Americans. Neat, tidy. Just.

  “Made it to Somalia, though,” the man went on after a reflective pause. “And Kosovo. That was bad business, all the way around.”

  Like the Gaza Strip on a normal day. Or at least what this “intifada” had made normal.

  “Why did you come out here,” Ariel asked sharply, looking over at his counterpart, “really?”

  The American met his eyes with a keen glance, his black eyes unreadable in the night. Taking another long drag of his cigarette before he replied.

  Finally, “I’m going into battle alongside a man, I like to get a read on him. See what makes him tick. Figure out how best I can be of help.”

  There was something in the man’s demeanor that nettled him, or perhaps it was more the reality of all that had gone before. The betrayal they had known at the hands of the Agency, the lives of his own people put at risk in France.

  “You really want to know how you can be of help?” Ariel asked, throwing the butt of his own cigarette to the ground and extinguishing it brutally beneath his heel. “Call your planes and stay out of the way.”

  The man watched as the Israeli turned, walking out across the air base, his figure silhouetted by the runway lights. A quiet smile creasing the American’s face as he replaced the cigarette between his lips.

  That could have gone better.

  He shook his head, his eyes drifting over to the pair of looming C-130 Hercules transports parked a hundred meters down the runway. At the end of the day, he supposed there was a reason he was a door-kicker and not a diplomat.

  They’d be on one of those planes by the end of the day, the man thought, headed into the air like he had so many times before over the years. Back to Iraq.

  He smiled. Been a long time.

  8:43 A.M.

  An NSA listening station

  Haifa, Israel

  “What are we looking at?” Josiah Galvin asked, bringing a steaming cup of coffee to his lips as he came around the wall of the cubicle.

  “We got this,” his analyst began, taking off his headphones, “a couple hours ago—just finished getting it translated. It’s an intercept of a call between Mahmoud Damra and someone in Iraq.”

  Galvin cursed softly beneath his breath. Being in charge of the NSA’s listening station in Israel—one of only two in the region—could be a thankless job on the best of days.

  And ever since the CIA had come knocking six days earlier—well, “best of days” wasn’t how he would describe any of it. And now they had found themselves tasked in support of. . .some Agency mission, he didn’t know the details and suspected he never would.

  Just as well.

  “Give me the transcript,” he said, setting aside his coffee with reluctance. God knew he would need all the caffeine he could get before this day was over. “I’m going to need to kick this upstairs.”

  9:27 A.M.

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  “. . .we’re showing anti-aircraft positions here, here, and—here,” Sergeant Black said, using his pointer to indicate the respective positions on the map of Al-Anbar Governate spread across the table, “as of our last recon flights out of Prince Sultan twenty-four hours ago.”

  Prince Sultan Air Base, Ariel thought, watching the man closely. Roughly eighty kilometers south of Riyadh, the base of operations for Operation Southern Watch, enforcing the no-fly zone over the south of Iraq.

  The logical place to have launched this operation, in fact, if one wished to entertain for a moment the ludicrous thought of the Kingdom permitting Mossad to operate within its borders.

  He suspected just getting the Turks on side had required more than sufficient “creativity” on the CIA’s part.

  But the soldier wasn’t done. “Photo analysis of the imagery obtained reveals the sites to be SA-6 ‘Gainful’ mobile launchers, presumably manned by Iraqi regular Army. Our flightpath to the drop zone should take us well away from their positions.”

  “What’s your recent history of ‘engagement’ with the Iraqis?” he heard Ze’ev ask, lifting his head to see his second-in-command standing a few feet further down the table.

  A former member of Shayetet-13, Israel’s maritime special-ops unit, before coming to Mossad, the man was more than a few years Ariel�
��s senior. An invaluable source of counsel on the Kidon, and a dear friend.

  “Down from what it was in the spring of last year,” David Lay responded after a moment, stepping forward to the table following an exchange of looks between the Americans. “But the Iraqis continue to challenge the no-fly zone regularly enough to keep us on our toes. They’ve learned not to turn on the fire-control radars of anything they don’t want to lose, but that hasn’t stopped them from launching missiles ballistically anyway, without radar assistance. Not too difficult to avoid.”

  No doubt. In a fighter jet. Ariel shook his head, trading a glance with Ze’ev. Knowing what they both were thinking.

  A pair of lumbering C-130s were going to be another story entirely.

  “And as far as air encounters?” he asked, turning toward the American.

  “They send a few Foxbats up every now and again,” Lay responded, using the NATO codename for the MiG-25. “Takes them time to scramble—you’ll have dropped by the time they can get airborne and over the target area. And your exfil by helicopter following the mission will be covered by our customary Southern Watch assets.”

  There was nothing like American confidence, though he had to admit distance lent enchantment to the view. Having to rely on it was another question entirely.

  “As for our plans to deal with the target itself,” Lay began, motioning to the soldier, “Sergeant Black will explain—”

  The former station chief broke off abruptly as another CIA officer entered the tent, taking him by the arm and pulling him to one side.

  The Israelis looking on as the Americans exchanged a few hushed words off to the side, the officer placing a folder in Lay’s hand, running his finger down the page as Lay opened it, seeming to whisper a question.

  “Something we should know about, David?” Shoham asked finally, clearing his throat.

  “My apologies, Avi,” Lay said with a smile, gesturing with the folder as he turned back to the table. “It’s an intercept just in from Fort Meade—Mahmoud Damra’s residence.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s a call between Damra and Colonel Hadi, made earlier this morning. Their language is veiled, but we believe the call to be final confirmation of our targets’ presence at the rendezvous. Damra references Hadi’s ‘safe arrival’ and speaks of notifying ‘brothers in Jordan.’”

  Yes. Ariel felt a surge of adrenaline rise within him at the words. They were doing this.

  “Was that all?” he heard Shoham ask, watching Lay’s brow furrow as he scanned further down the sheet.

  “That seems to be the substance of it,” the American said after a moment’s pause. “There’s an exchange between them at the very end, a reference to the dividing of ‘spoils.’ I don’t understand what they’re trying to say.”

  A cold chill seemed to run through Ariel’s body at the words. A premonition of evil.

  “May I?” he asked, extending his hand for the folder. Lay nodded, handing it over and exchanging a glance with Shoham as Ariel opened it, his eyes falling upon the final lines.

  “Let us tread them down until the strong are humbled. Until the spoils are divided.”

  Never again. “It’s a reference to Islamic history,” he announced finally, looking up from the folder. “Specifically, the Battle of Khaybar in 629.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Ariel just looked at him for a moment, as if not comprehending his question. Americans. They truly knew nothing of this world.

  “Khaybar was fought between the forces of Muhammad and the Jewish tribes of Arabia,” he said, looking around at the faces gathered at the table. “It means they’re going to kill some Jews.”

  As it ever had been.

  An awkward silence fell over the table for a long moment, broken only as Black cleared his throat, a quiet, determined smile crossing the American’s face.

  “Then let’s go kill them first.”

  10:36 A.M. Arabia Time

  Prince Sultan Air Base

  Al Kharj, Saudi Arabia

  “Think it’s the booze?”

  Lieutenant Luke Capano considered his friend’s question in silence for a long moment, the back of the young pilot’s uniform shirt damp with sweat as he leaned back into the hard metal of the folding chair in the small office.

  “Could be,” he responded finally, glancing over at Ty Garrison, his Combat Systems Officer and the backseater of his F-15 Strike Eagle. They had both graduated from the University of South Carolina before joining the Air National Guard a couple years prior. And now they were half a world away from Columbia, flying fighter jets out of the desert.

  In the middle of a country far “drier” than the driest town in the Bible Belt during Prohibition.

  They’d been on leave in Kuwait two weeks earlier along with other pilots from their outfit, managed to smuggle back a case of Heineken to the barracks.

  Breaking more rules than you could count. And now. . .

  “No,” Capano said with sudden conviction, shaking his head. “Something like that, our own CO would handle it. Not this.”

  Not a summons that was rumored to have emanated from CENTCOM itself, the headquarters of Joint Task Force-Southwest Asia back in Riyadh.

  The door came open suddenly, both of the young officers coming to their feet and half-way to attention before they realized the middle-aged man standing in the doorway wasn’t in uniform.

  “Please, gentlemen, have a seat,” the man said, a quiet smile of amusement crossing his face at their instinctive reaction.

  He closed the door behind him—placing a thin folder on the table before them as he pulled up a chair. The smile seeming to vanish from his eyes even as he did so.

  “What I am about to tell you,” he began, his voice taking on a hard edge as he glanced between the two National Guardsmen, “does not leave this room. You don’t tell your parents, your girlfriend, your bunkmate, or your chaplain at confession.”

  I’m Southern Baptist, Capano thought, his quick sense of humor returning along with the overwhelming sense of relief washing over him. This isn’t about the booze.

  A sense of relief that was gone with the man’s next words.

  “Who I am, my name—none of that matters to you. What matters is that what we are discussing has been authorized by your command authority at the very highest levels.”

  “And what are we discussing exactly?” Capano asked, nonplussed by the man’s demeanor.

  The civilian simply glared at him, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose as he opened the folder, spinning it around on the tabletop to face them. “Tonight, the two of you are going to drop a pair of GBU-16 Paveways on a target in the western end of Iraq’s Anbar Governate near the Jordan border, a target ‘painted’ for your identification by an asset on the ground with a laser designator.”

  “What’s the target?”

  “Sorry, son,” the man replied, his tone of voice belying his words, “you don’t have need to know.”

  1:06 P.M.

  Seventeen kilometers southeast of the border crossing

  Al-Anbar Governate, Iraq

  The scorching noonday sun beat down hot on the maroon beret covering Umar Hadi’s head as the Iraqi lieutenant colonel wiped a thick coating of dust from the lens of his binoculars, lifting them to his eyes and aiming them toward the west. Toward Jordan.

  It was a barren landscape, rocks and sand as far as the eye could see, the monotony of the terrain broken only by rare pockets of low scrub brush—a rocky ridgeline rising from the earth three hundred meters to the north of their position, running westward for perhaps a kilometer before sinking back into the earth from whence it had come.

  Heat visibly shimmering off the desert, distorting his view through the binoculars as he slowly brought them back around in an arc to the east. His eyes following the road from the border crossing, itself little more than a desolate track in the earth.

  Another twelve hours and this would all be over, he though
t. This. . .weapon out of their possession, once and for all.

  And he could wash his hands from all of it. Or could he?

  The Republican Guard officer shook his head. He had done far worse things in his life, for that was the lot of the soldier.

  And he would do worse yet. Of that he had no doubt.

  He didn’t know what Siddiqi was planning, but something deep inside warned him that this was only the beginning.

  And that many more would die before this was all over.

  “I don’t think you truly need to be concerned about visitors, sir,” he heard a voice announce from behind him, looking back to find a man in the uniform of a Republican Guard captain standing there. “The likelihood of someone coming to investigate us. . .”

  He smiled. The captain was a good man. The two of them had served together for a long time, ever since their days as enlisted men. Fighting against Iran.

  “I want to share your confidence, Raffi,” he said, turning his attention back to the horizon, “and yet I fear I won’t rest easy until we all wake up once more in our own beds tomorrow. You said that you saw an Army unit moving along the roads to the west of here on your way in this morning?”

  “A pair of mobile surface-to-air launchers along with their support personnel,” Captain Thamir replied, the ends of his dusty black mustache twisting up into a contemptuous scowl. “It’s the regular Army, sir—they’re like a beaten dog which cowers at the mere sight of its master’s hand. We both know they would never dare challenge us.”

  It was an apt simile, but he seemed incapable of finding the comfort in it.

  “Yet even the most beaten of dogs will bite if they find an unguarded moment,” Hadi said after a pause. “These launchers, how far away were they, exactly?”

  “Five, maybe six kilometers to the north-west.”

  6:12 P.M. Eastern European Time

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  The operations tent was quiet once more, mission personnel already dispersed to ready their gear for the jump—the only noise the steady hum of activity that never seemed to go away in Hodja Village. A tent city that never sleeps.