She obliged. Herbert wheeled toward the desk.
“There are about three hundred miles of border between Turkey and Syria,” he said. “If we’ve interpreted Mike’s covert message correctly, and I think we have, the ROC is headed toward the Bekaa Valley. That starts about two hundred miles southwest of Oguzeli.”
Martha measured the distance with her thumb and index finger. She compared it to the scale on the bottom. “I make it to be less than a hundred miles of border between Oguzeli and the Mediterranean.”
“And the ROC’d be entering in a corridor much narrower than that,” Herbert said. “With the Euphrates flooded by the dam blast, they’ll probably stay pretty wide to the west of the river and then shoot straight down. That gives them a border window of about seventy miles to drop down through.”
“That’s still a lot of area to cover, isn’t it?” asked Ann.
“And flyovers by Turkish jets or helicopters wouldn’t be exactly low-profile,” Martha said.
“We might not need aerial recon,” Herbert said, “and seventy miles isn’t bad if you know where to look.” He reached the computer and traced a line down through Turkey into Lebanon. “A lot of that terrain isn’t going to be ROC-friendly. There are only one or two good roads in that region. If I can find someone with contacts along those roads, we may be able to spot them.”
“A Racman,” Martha said.
Herbert nodded.
“Excuse me,” said Ann. “A rack man?”
“R-A-C-man,” said Herbert. “The Redcoats Are Coming. Instead of Paul Revere, Samuel Prescott, and William Dawes on horseback warning the militias of Lincoln and Concord, we use a phone relay of people watching from their windows or hilltops or marketplaces. They report the target’s progress to the Racman, who reports to us. It’s primitive but efficient. Usually, the only potential problems with the system are leaks along the Racline, someone warning the target that they are a target.”
“I see,” said Ann.
“But that usually isn’t a problem with the people I’m thinking of using,” Herbert said.
“Why not?” asked Ann.
“Because they cut the throat of anyone who turns on them,” Herbert replied. He regarded the map. “If the Bekaa’s our arena, then Striker will have to land in Tel Nef. Assuming they get Congressional approval to go forward from there, they move north into Lebanon and into the Bekaa. If a Racman can meet them there, we’ve got a chance of getting everyone out.”
“And possibly saving the Regional Op-Center,” Martha added.
Herbert wheeled around. “It’s a shot,” he said as he rolled quickly toward the door, “and a good one. I’ll let you know what I can set up.”
When he was gone, Ann shook her head. “He’s amazing,” she said. “Goes from James Bond to Huck Finn to Speed Racer in the space of a few minutes.”
“He’s the best there is,” Martha said. “I only hope that’s good enough to do what has to be done.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Monday, 11:27 p.m.,
Kiryat Shmona
This is better, thought Falah Shibli.
The swarthy young man stood in front of the dresser-top mirror in his one-room apartment and adjusted his tribal red-and-white checkered kaffiyeh. He made sure the headdress sat squarely on his head. Then he brushed lint from the collar of his light green police uniform.
This is much, much better.
After serving seven long and difficult years in the Sayeret Ha’Druzim, Israel’s Druze Reconnaissance unit, Falah had been ready for a change. Before joining the local police force, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d worn a clean uniform., His darker Sayeret Ha’Druzim greens had always been crusted with dirt or sweat or blood. Sometimes it was his own blood, more often than not it was someone else’s. And he’d usually worn a green beret or helmet, rarely his own headdress. If only his head were sticking up from a foxhole or over a wall, he didn’t want an overanxious Israeli mistaking him for an infiltrator and shooting at him.
Falah took one last look at himself. He was as proud of his heritage as he was of his adopted land. He turned off the dresser light, shut off the fan on his nightstand, and opened the door.
The cool night air was refreshing. When the twenty-seven-year-old first joined the small police force in this dusty northern town, he’d asked for a night job directing traffic. His work with the Sayeret Ha’Druzim had been so intensive, not to mention so damned hot, he needed the break. Let the years of sunburn fade a little so the wrinkles around his eyes didn’t stand out quite so much. Let the old wounds heal—not just the torn muscle from gunshot wounds, but the still-calloused feet from the long patrols, the flesh ripped by crawling over sharp rocks and thorns to capture terrorists, the spirit rent by having to shoot at fellow Druze.
Very few terrorists came through this kibbutz town. They picked their way through the barren plains to the east and west. Except for the occasional drunk driver or stolen motorbike or car accident, this job was blessedly uneventful. It was so quiet that on most nights, he and the owner of a local bar, a former Sayeret Ha’Druzim gunner team commander, were able to spend a half hour trading gossip. They did so in special forces fashion, standing under streetlights on opposite sides of the road and blinking the information in Morse code.
As Falah stepped onto the wooden stoop that was too small to be called a porch but had a folding chair on it anyway, the phone rang. He hesitated. It was a two-minute walk to the station house. If he left now, he’d be on time. If it was his mother calling, it would take at least that long just to tell her he had to go. On the other hand, it could be his adorable Sara. She’d been talking about taking a day off from her bus route. Perhaps she wanted to see him in the morning….
Falah went back into the apartment and snatched up the old, black dial phone.
“Which of my ladies is this?” he asked.
“Neither,” said the man’s voice on the other end.
The tall, dark-haired young man moved his heels together. His shoulders drew back. Coming to attention was conditioning which never left when your former commander addressed you.
“Master Sergeant Vilnai,” Falah said. He said nothing more. After acknowledging a superior, the soldiers of the Sayeret Ha’Druzim responded with silent attention.
“Officer Shibli,” said Sergeant Vilnai. “A jeep from the border guard will be arriving at your apartment in approximately five minutes. The driver’s name is Salim. Please go with him. Everything you need will be provided.”
Falah was still at attention. He wanted to ask his former superior, “Everything I need for where and how long?” But that would have been impertinent. Besides, this was an unsecured line.
“I have a job here—” Fallah said.
“Your shift has been taken care of,” the sergeant informed him.
Just like my job, Falah thought. “Take this position, Falah,” the sergeant had said. “It will keep your skills in good repair.”
“Repeat your orders,” said the NCO.
“Border patrol jeep, driver Salim. Pickup in five minutes.”
“I’ll see you around midnight, Falah. Have a pleasant ride.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
The caller hung up. After a moment, so did Falah. He stood there staring at nothing in particular. He’d known this day would probably come, but so soon? It had only been a few weeks. Just a few. He’d barely had time to get the burning sun of the West Bank out of his eyes.
Will I ever? he asked himself as he went back outside.
The question bothered Falah as he sat heavily in the chair and looked up at the brilliant stars. It bothered him almost as much as why he’d picked up the goddamned telephone. Not that it would have made a difference. Master Sergeant Vilnai would have climbed into a Jeep and come to the station house to get him. The Sayeret Ha’Druzim NCO always got what he wanted.
The charcoal-gray jeep arrived on schedule. Falah pushed off on his knees and walked around to the driver’s side.
“ID?” he said to the baby-faced driver with a buzz cut.
The driver removed a laminated card from his shirt pocket. Falah examined it in the glow of the dashboard light. He handed it back.
“Yours, Officer Shibli?” the driver asked.
Falah scowled and pulled the small leather billfold from his pants pocket. He opened it to his police ID card and badge. The driver’s eyes shifted from Falah to the photo, then back again.
“It’s me,” Falah said, “though I wish it weren’t.”
The driver nodded. “Please get in,” he said, leaning across the seat and opening the door.
Falah obliged. Even before the door was shut the driver had swung the jeep around.
The two men headed north in silence along the ancient dirt road. Falah listened to the pebbles as they spat noisily from under the jeep’s tires. It had been a while since he’d heard that sound—the sound of haste, of things happening. He decided that he didn’t miss it, nor had he expected to hear it again so soon. But they had a saying in the Sayeret Ha’Druzim: Sign for a tour, sign for a lifetime. It had been that way ever since the 1948 war, when the first Druze Muslims along with expatriate Russian Circassians and Bedouins volunteered to defend their newborn nation against the allied Arab enemy. Then, all of the non-Jews were bunched together in the infantry group called Unit 300 of the Israel Defense Force. It wasn’t until after the 1967 Six-Day War, when Unit 300 was a key to turning back King Hussein’s Royal Jordanian Army on the West Bank, that the IDF and the Unit 300 leader Mohammed Mullah formed an elite Druze reconnaissance splinter group, known as Sayeret Ha’Druzim.