Clancy, Tom – Op Center 04 – Acts Of War

“I think that assessment is dead-on,” Herbert said. “The only good news I’ve got is that we’ve managed to put an Israeli Druze soldier inside the Bekaa Valley to look for the ROC. Though we’ve got a ten-mile-wide stick in our eye, our Sayeret Ha’Druzim veteran should be able to pinpoint the location for us. Striker should be arriving in Israel in another five hours or so. They can link up in the Bekaa then.”

“What are you hearing from Ankara and Damascus?” Hood asked.

“Ankara is scrambling for information like we are, but Damascus is starting to get tense. Major General Bar-Levi in Haifa has been in touch with his deep undercover Mista’aravim personnel in the Jewish Quarter.”

“Those are the Arab impersonators?”

“Right,” Herbert said. “Actually, they’re trained special forces operatives who see and hear damn near everything. They say there’s been an unprecedented crackdown on Kurds. Arrests, reports of beatings, real hardball. I’ve got a feeling that’s going to get worse very quickly.” Herbert paused. “You know, Paul, about Mike. If he did spill blood trying to retake the ROC, I’m hoping the attack on Deputy Chief of Mission Morris was in response to that.”

“Why?”

“Because it means that the Kurds wanted to pay him back without hurting him directly,” Herbert said. “You know who used to do that all the time?”

“Yeah, I do,” Hood said. “Cecil B. DeMille. If he wanted to put the fear of God in an actress, he yelled at her makeup person or costumer. Scared her without leaving any bruises.”

“Very good, Paul.” Herbert said. “I’m impressed.”

“You hear things like that running L.A.,” Hood said. He looked at his watch and got annoyed with himself. He’d looked at it less than a minute before. “I’m going to have to get going, Bob. I’m meeting Dr. Nasr back at the airport. And you know how I attract traffic.”

“Like Job attracts afflictions.”

“Right. On top of which, I feel goddamned useless.”

“No more useless than I feel,” Herbert said. “I put out a warning to all our embassies as soon as I figured out about the ROC border incident. Got to the DSAs in all of ’em, but Ms. Morns slipped through the net. The bastards knew our M.O. and went after the stray lamb.”

“Not your fault,” Hood said. “You responded quickly and correctly.”

“And predictably,” Herbert said, “which is something we’ve gotta change. When the enemy knows where your people are and how to get to them, and you don’t, you’ve got problems.”

“Twenty-twenty hindsight—”

“Yeah,” said Herbert. “I know. Most businesses you learnt your lessons by losing money. In our business we learn by losing lives. It stinks, but that’s the way it goes.”

Hood wished there were something else he could say. But Herbert was right. They discussed some of the Striker parameters, including the fact that the team would be on the ground in Israel before Congress was back for the day. And that it might well be necessary for Striker to move before the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee had a chance to okay their actions. Hood told Herbert he’d sign a Director’s Order taking full legal responsibility for any Striker activities. He had no intention of letting Striker sit in the desert if they had a chance to rescue Rodgers and the team.

Herbert wished Hood well on his mission to Damascus and hung up. Sitting alone in the dark, quiet room, Hood took a moment to consider what he was prepared to do. To save six people they only hoped were still alive, he was committed to risking the lives of eighteen young commandos. The math didn’t make sense, so why did it seem right? Because that was the job Striker was trained for, the job they wanted to do? Because national honor demanded it, as well as loyalty to one’s colleagues? There were many excellent reasons, though none of them neutralized the terrible burdens of command and the execution of those commands.

Where is Mike Rodgers, the walking Bartlett’s, when you need him? Hood mused as he rose from the heavy lacquered chair.

Hood’s footsteps were swallowed by the Persian rug as he crossed the room and rejoined Warner Bicking, who was waiting for him in the outer office. An embassy secretary offered Hood coffee, which he accepted grate­fully. Then Hood, Bicking, and a young official chatted about the developments in Turkey as they waited for Dr. Nasr.

Nasr arrived at five minutes to seven. He entered the main hallway and approached briskly. The native Egyptian stood a few inches over five feet tall, but he walked like a giant. His head and shoulders were pulled back, and his sharp salt-and-pepper goatee was pointed ahead like a lance. Nasr’s eyes were also sharp behind his thick-lensed glasses, and his crisp, light gray suit was nearly the same shade as his wavy hair. He smiled generously when he saw Hood and extended his small, thick hand from half a room away. The gesture made him seem paternal now rather than self-impressed.

“My friend Paul,” he said as Hood rose. Their hands locked tightly, and Nasr reached up to pat Hood on the back. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“You’re looking very well, Doctor,” Hood said. “How’s your family?”

“My dear wife is fine and getting ready for a new series of recitals,” he replied. “All Liszt and Chopin. To hear the Funeral Procession of Gondolas No. 2 is to weep. Her recitando is glorious. And her Revolutionary Etude—superb. She’ll be playing in Washington later in the year. You will be our special guests, of course.”

“Thank you,” Hood said.

“Tell me,” Nasr said. “How are Mrs. Hood and your little ones?”

“Last time I checked, everyone was happy and not so little,” Hood said guiltily. He turned to where Warner Bicking was standing behind him. “Dr. Nasr, I don’t believe you’ve ever met Mr. Bicking.”

“I have not,” Nasr said. “However, I did read your paper on the increasing defensive democratization of Jordan. We’ll talk on the plane.”

“It will be my very great pleasure,” Bicking replied as the men shook hands.

As they walked to the car, Nasr between the other two, Hood quickly briefed them on the latest developments. They climbed into the sedan, Bicking taking a seat up front. As the car started out, Nasr lightly stroked the tip of his beard between the thumb and index finger of his right hand.

“I believe you are correct,” said Nasr. “The Kurds want and require their own nation. The question is not how far they’re prepared to go to get it.”

“Then what’s the question?” Hood asked.

Nasr stopped playing with his beard. “The question, my friend, is whether the blowing up of the dam was their big gun, or whether they have something even bigger in store.”

THIRTY-THREE

Tuesday, 11:08 a.m.,

the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

The Bekaa Valley is an upland valley which runs through Lebanon and Syria. Also known as El Bika and Al Biqa, the Bekaa is situated between the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon mountain ranges. Seventy five miles long and ranging between five and nine miles wide, it’s a continuation of Africa’s Great Rift Valley, and is one of the most fertile farming regions in the Middle East. “Coele Syria,” the Romans called it: “Hollow Syria.” Since the beginning of recorded history, wars have been fought for the control of the wheatfields and vineyards, the apricot, mulberry, and walnut trees.

In spite of the valley’s lushness, fewer and fewer farmers work its most remote and fertile areas. These regions are bordered by the tallest peaks and thickest woods. Despite the presence of the Beirut-Damascus highway, the mountains and trees create a very real sense of isolation. From the ground, many of these places can only be reached by a single road. From the air or from the peaks, these same places are hidden by ledges and year-round foliage.

For centuries, these hidden places have given sanctuary to religious sects and cabals. In the modern era, the first group known to have hidden here were the men who helped to plot the the assassination of General Bake Sidqi, the oppressive leader of Iraq, who was slain in August of 1937. In their wake, Palestinian and Lebanese guerrillas came to the valley to train and plot against the formation of Israel and then against the state itself. They came to conspire against the Iran of the Shah, against Jordan and Saudi Arabia and other governments which embraced the infidels of the West. Though archaeologists rarely come to the valley to dig for Greek and Roman ruins anymore, the soldiers have uncovered more caves than the archaeologists ever found. They sell antiquities they discover to raise money, and use the caves as headquarters from which to mount their military and propaganda campaigns. Arms and printing presses, bottled water and gas-powered generators sit side by side in the cool caverns.

With the blessings of the Syrians, the PKK has operated in the Bekaa Valley for nearly twenty years. Though the Syrians are opposed to the idea of a Kurdish homeland, the Syrian Kurds have spent much of their time and efforts helping their Turkish and Iraqi brothers survive the forces sent against them. In fighting Ankara and Baghdad, the Syrian Kurds strengthened Damascus by default. By the time Damascus realized that it might finally be a target as well, the Kurds were too well hidden, too well entrenched in the Bekaa to be easily evicted. And so the Syrian leaders took a wait-and-see position, hoping that the brunt of any assaults would be turned north or east.

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