“Neither Israel nor NATO can afford to see Turkey torn apart by warring factions,” said Major Yarkoni. “NATO needs a palisade against Islamic fundamentalists. And like Syria, Israel needs the water. It’s worth fighting a war now to keep the nation intact.”
“What will NATO do?” asked Vilnai.
“I’ve just spoken with General Kevin Burke in Brussels,” said Yarkoni. “In addition to the increased U.S. military presence in the Mediterranean, NATO troops in Italy have been upgraded to Defcon Two.”
“Smart move,” August said. “Before joining Striker I served with NATO in Italy. Five’ll get you ten that the move to Defcon Two is to force Greece to choose sides now. Either they’re in this with their NATO allies to help defend Turkey, or they’re going to side with Syria. And if Greece joins Syria, they’re going to catch the Italian boot up their butts.”
Master Sergeant Vilnai shook his head slowly. “The Middle East goes to war and NATO fractures. The world has become much too micro-aligned.”
“Tell me about it,” August said bitterly.
“One nation sides with another nation, but factions within those nations sympathize with factions in other nations. Soon there’ll be no nations.”
“Only special interests,” Colonel August said. “A world of quarreling warlords and grabby kings.”
As they were speaking, a red light flashed on the console. The radio operator listened intently as a digital tape recorder captured the message. The message consisted of two short beeps and a long one followed by another long one. The message repeated once and then shut down.
The radio operator removed her headphones. She turned to the computer which sat beside the radio.
“Well?” Yarkoni asked impatiently.
“It was a coded emergency signal,” the youthful radio operator replied. She replayed the taped message directly into the computer. A decoded message appeared on the computer monitor. She read, “Captives here. Enemy party approaching. Attempting to evade.”
“Then they spotted him,” Yarkoni said.
The only change in August’s demeanor was a tightening along the jaw. He was not a man who showed much emotion. “Is there any way we’ll be able to contact him again?”
“Very unlikely,” Vilnai said. “If Falah’s in danger he’ll have abandoned the radio. He can’t afford to be captured with it. If he believes he can outrun the pursuers, he’ll try to do so. If he’s successful, perhaps he’ll return to the radio. If he feels that he’s cornered, he’ll adopt his Kurdish identity and present himself to the PKK as a potential new recruit.”
August looked down at the radio operator. He didn’t see her. He saw the faces of the ROC crew. Every minute he’d waited had been haunted by one thought: that when they finally reached the ROC they’d arrive too late. It had made sense to wait for intelligence. But now that intelligence would not be forthcoming, there was no longer any reason to delay.
“Major,” August said, “I’d like to move my team in.”
Yarkoni looked into the taller man’s eyes.
“We know where the cave is,” August pressed, “and master Sergeant Vilnai and I have studied the approaches from the west and east.” The Colonel moved closer to the Major. His voice was tense, just above a whisper. “Major Yarkoni, it isn’t only the ROC crew that’s at stake. If this cave is the PKK headquarters, we can take them out. We can shut down this war before it gets started.”
Yarkoni lowered his chin. The darkness of those bull’s eyes deepened. “All right. Go. And may God look after you.”
“Thank you,” August said. The men exchanged salutes, after which the American officer hurried up the stairs.
Master Sergeant Vilnai downloaded the maps onto diskettes. Then he followed August to the staging area just inside the barbed-wire barricade.
Ten minutes later the four Fast Attack Vehicles were tearing through the hilly, heavily treed countryside at eighty miles an hour. They were moving in wedge formation, with two FAVs in the front and two behind them at a forty-five degree angle. They bracketed the six desert bikes which were arranged in two rows of three. The FAVs’ .50-caliber machine guns and 40mm grenade launchers were armed, the gunners ready to repulse any attack with warning fire first, deadly force second.
Colonel August was in the lead FAV. From Tel Nef, the ride to the border was twenty minutes. Israeli gunships would take off in five minutes from Tel Nef and cross the border to create a distraction. Once the Lebanese and Syrian troops were drawn away, Colonel August and his Strikers would be able to drive in. From there, it would be less than a half-hour drive to their destination.
The satellite-generated maps had been loaded from the diskettes onto the code-operated computers onboard the FAVs. As Striker sped through the lush terrain of northern Israel, the greenest section of the country, August and Sergeant Grey reviewed attack options and exit strategies. If there was any indication that the hostages were still alive, the Strikers would use any means necessary to get them out. If it were possible to save the ROC, they would. If not, they would destroy it. If they had to kill to achieve any of these goals, August was prepared to do so.
When he and Grey were finished, the colonel slipped on his sunglasses. He hadn’t been on a combat mission since Vietnam, but he was ready. He gazed through the thick trees at the smoky mountains in the distance. Somewhere among them Mike Rodgers was a prisoner. Striker would rescue Mike or, if his oldest friend were dead, August was prepared to do one thing more.
He would personally take out the sonofabitch who had killed him.
FORTY-THREE
Tuesday, 2:24 p.m.,
Damascus, Syria
Paul Hood’s impression of Damascus was that it was a gold mine.
Perhaps he’d been Mayor of tourist-friendly Los Angeles for too long, or perhaps he’d become jaded. The mosques and minarets, the courtyards and fountains were all spectacular, with their ornate facades and meticulous mosaics. The gray and white walls surrounding the Old City in the southeast section of Damascus were at once battered and majestic. They had helped protect the city from attacks by the Crusaders in the thirteenth century, and they still bore signs of those ancient sieges. Long stretches of wall had been destroyed or breached, and had been left in historic disrepair.
But as he looked at the sights from the darkened window of the embassy limousine, Hood wasn’t thinking about the past. His one thought was that if this region of the world were at peace, if this nation were not a sponsor of terrorism, if all people could come and go freely here, Damascus would be a more popular tourist destination. With that money Syria could find ways to desalinize water from the Mediterranean and irrigate the desert. They could build more schools or create jobs or even invest in poorer Arab nations.
But that isn’t the way of things, Hood told himself. Though this was an international city, it was still a city whose leaders had an agenda. And that agenda was to carry Syrian rule into neighboring nations.
The meeting with the President was going to take place in the heart of the Old City, at the palace built by Governor Assad Pasha al-Azem in 1749. This was partly for security reasons. It was easier to guard the President behind the still-formidable walls of the Old City. It was also to remind the citizens that whether they agreed or disagreed with their President, a Syrian ruled in a palace which had been built by an Ottoman governor. Foreigners were their enemies.
For the most part, that was propaganda and paranoia. Ironically, today it was true. As Bob Herbert had put it when Hood called Op-Center from the embassy, “It’s like the broken watch that’s right twice a day. Today, the Turkish and Syrian Kurds are the enemy.”
Herbert told Hood that operatives in Damascus had reported movement among the Kurdish underground. That morning, beginning at 8:30, most of them had begun leaving their five safe houses scattered around the city. These were houses Syria allowed them to keep to plot against the Turks. Shortly before noon, when Syrian security forces realized there might be a plot involving the unified Kurds, they went to the safe houses. All of them were deserted. Herbert’s people had managed to keep up with a handful of the forty-eight Kurds. They were all in the vicinity of the Old City. Some of them were sitting along the banks of the Barada River, which flowed along the northeastern wall. Others were visiting the Muslim cemetery along the southwest wall. None of the Kurds had gone inside the walls.
Herbert said that he had not passed this information on to the Syrians for two reasons. First, it could very well expose his own intelligence sources in Damascus. Second, it might cause the Kurds to panic. If there were a plot against the President, then only the President and those close to him would be targets. If the Kurds were forced to act prematurely, a firelight might erupt in the streets. There was no telling how many Damascenes might be killed.