The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  “That's what I'm saying, Hank. We can't locate the nukes without him, and after what he's been through, I can certainly understand him wanting to get his wife back before he goes off on this new mission.”

  Admiral Hennessey arched his neck to relieve the headache he'd been nursing for more than an hour. Then he looked at the general and asked, “George, do we have any idea where this woman is?”

  “No. The Israelis think they know, and they're launching a mission tonight to try to get them back.”

  “Them?” said the Admiral. “More than one hostage?”

  “Yes, them. Apparently an IDF officer's wife was kidnapped at the same time.”

  “Well, let's ask the Israelis where they think they're being held,” said Hennessey. “How about we go get these gals and then get on with the more important business of getting these loose nukes rounded up? By the way, do the Israelis know about the nukes?”

  “I don't think so,” said Grisham, “though at this point I'm not absolutely sure who knows what.”

  “And we have to stand down on this mission until this one Marine lieutenant colonel finds his wife?”

  Grisham grinned through his fatigue and frustration. “Well, most of the toughest missions only need one good Marine, Hank. This boy's all we need to get the job done.”

  The admiral rolled his eyes.

  “Seriously, Hank, we have to wait,” Grisham said. “We have no other way of finding the weapons. The White House reined in the CIA five years ago, and we haven't had any decent intel from Iraq since then. Oh, from time to time we get radio and telephone intercepts, some stuff from defectors, things like that. But everyone, including Saddam, seems to be in the dark about where these things are.”

  “Did you really clear this plan with the Sec Def?” Admiral Hennessey asked. “I can't believe this no-guts crowd would approve this mission.”

  “The people who need to know, know what I'm doing. But we've got a serious intelligence leak, and I suspect that it might be coming from the FBI or CIA.”

  “Does anyone at either agency know?”

  “Yeah, I called the Director of the FBI and filled him in. He'll keep the details quiet and wait until our work is over to add it to the FBI files, just in case

  “Well, I'll put the lid on things here, George. And if the Israelis run into trouble with this wife recovery thing, let me know how we can help.”

  “I'll keep that in mind, Hank.”

  The admiral leaned back in his chair. “George, what makes you so sure you can believe that defector—what's his name again?”

  “Hussein Kamil. He was Saddam's son-in-law...Saddam killed him.”

  “Yeah, Kamil. Anyway, what makes this Kamil guy so credible? How do we know he wasn't just giving the CIA a snow job?”

  “We don't know—for sure—but I believe he was telling the truth. What we do know is that Saddam's trying to acquire some more nuclear weapons and has launched a massive search for the three that his dead son-in-law supposedly acquired in '95.”

  “So...how long before we turn this thing back on?”

  “Well, it's a little early for me to know.”

  “Man, this situation gets crazier by the minute.” Admiral Hennessey chuckled and shook his head. “So—who took the women, and why? Ransom or revenge? It's usually one or the other.”

  “Nobody knows yet. Newman called me by sat phone and said they were taking a couple of Israeli helicopters and some IDF special ops guys and infiltrating Syria north of Lebanon. He gave me the coordinates where he expects to find the women. That reminds me, Hank...how about seeing if your boys can download some overhead imagery of the area of interest in Syria? I'd like to see the most recent satellite passes— and the ones again early tomorrow morning. Maybe make it look like an NTDS drill so the boys at NRO don't get in a lather.”

  “And what will you do with the imagery if we can get it, George?”

  “Well, if it shows anything worthwhile, I might want to pass it on to the Israelis.”

  The admiral looked at his old friend, shook his head and said, “Man, you're going to get me fired yet!”

  Mediterranean Sea

  27 Nautical Miles West of Beirut

  Wednesday, 18 March 1998

  0340 Hours, Local

  As General Grisham and Rear Admiral Hennessey discussed the delayed nuclear weapon recovery mission aboard the USS Theodore Roosevelt, Newman was aboard a Sikorsky “Yusur” CH-53 helicopter over the Mediterranean Sea, headed north along the Lebanese coast. Major Ze'ev Rotem and four other IDF special ops troopers were spread out inside the spacious fuselage of the chopper. Not more than a hundred meters to the aircraft's port side and slightly behind them was an identical CH-53 carrying their ground transportation, a prototype, six-by-six AIL Desert Raider.

  Because of its long-range transport capability, the Israelis used Sikorsky CH-53s for missions all across the Middle East, where it was especially effective on Scud hunts, intelligence operations, and special missions like this one. During the 1990-91 Gulf War, Israeli Special Operations units had gone all the way into Iraq on these aircraft without detection by anything other than U.S. AWACS.

  Both of the CH-53s were flying with their engines muffled, only fifteen meters above the whitecaps of the Mediterranean, to evade audio detection and radar exposure. Newman was grateful the night seas were calm, or they could fly into the crest of a wave.

  As they roared up the Lebanese coast at two hundred knots, Newman peered out into the darkness on the left side of the aircraft. It was, he knew from long experience, a perfect night for this kind of operation—overcast, a high ceiling, and very little ambient light from the quarter moon filtering through the clouds. As he looked out over the dark water, he wondered if any of the E-2 Trackers from the Teddy Roosevelt had painted them on their airborne radars. He knew the carrier was supposed to be out there—somewhere—between Cyprus and the Syrian coastline. She had been getting into position to support the recovery of three nuclear weapons hidden somewhere inside Iraq. Newman hadn't even thought about that mission since he had learned of his wife's kidnapping. Now, he wondered if that operation would ever be reactivated.

  The crew chief interrupted his thoughts when he signaled that the two helicopters were twenty minutes from their destination and the soldiers should start making last-minute checks of their weapons, ammo, and equipment, making sure everything was squared away and ready—if and when it was needed. Rotem climbed up into the cockpit, GPS in hand, to confirm that its location checked out with the one mounted on the pilot's instrument panel. Newman used the time to check his weapons again. He had picked out a Colt M16 carbine as his weapon of choice and had strapped a Sig Sauer P228 to his hip. All the rifles had muzzle suppressors and laser-assisted targeting. Newman's sidearm used a thirteen-round magazine, and he carried six magazines in his vest.

  The carbine and automatic pistol that Newman carried were also the most popular weapons among the IDF troops—except for Major Rotem, who favored a suppressed IMI Galil, patterned after the AK-47. He also carried a Sig Sauer P226, a heftier, older model pistol that carried fifteen rounds instead of thirteen, a slight advantage in a firefight.

  The prototype all-terrain vehicle in the other helicopter was a surprise for Newman. He had looked it over carefully as it was loaded into the CH-53. It was smaller than a U.S. Humvee but larger than a Jeep, and it had six drive wheels instead of four. Newman asked Major Rotem about the vehicle.

  “An Israeli firm developed this AIL prototype for us. It's proven so successful for Special Operations work that it's going into full production for the whole IDF. Four years from now, all our units will have them.”

  “What's the advantage of this thing?”

  “Well, it's nicknamed ‘The Desert Raider' because it's ideal for Middle East desert terrain. The Jeep and the Hummer are well-proven and highly maneuverable, but the AIL six-by-six is even better. Because of the all-wheel drive and independent suspension, this thing can go pla
ces you'd think were impossible.”

  “Yeah?”

  Major Rotem nodded. “It can climb a seventy-degree slope full of rocks. You ought to see it. It can move even if only one wheel is touching the ground. Let's see a Jeep try to do that.”

  “How fast can it go?”

  “I've had it up to 110 klicks per hour—but that's on a pretty good road. Yet even in sandy terrain, it can really tear up the dunes. I've used it twice, and I love it. Can't wait for the production models to come out.”

  “What's that firepower mounted on it?”

  “Three IMI Negev 5.56mm light machine guns are standard. With the three LMGs and the six of us, we're practically invincible.”

  Newman grinned. “I just hope it gets us where we're going and back. What about the guys we're meeting? What kind of wheels do they have?”

  “They'll be driving an old beat-up Toyota four-by-four. And no LMGs. But they have a few other surprises you may not have seen used before.”

  “Yeah, like what?”

  “Like the Helopoint Snipco, for one.”

  “The what?” Newman asked.

  “It's part of our SOP for intervention tactics against terrorists. In circumstances where we have to use minimum force, like the hostage barricade situation we're likely to have in Syria, we have a portable system we can set up that ensures synchronized fire from an entire team of snipers. The team deploys in an arc around the target. Each sniper rifle is fitted with a 20-power electronic day/night scope that transmits what each sniper sees back to the team leader and is displayed on a screen. That way he can judge the attack angle and perspective from every rifle—even the .50 cal weapons. And because he has a radio link to every man in his team, he can “call the shots” for all of them—even order a simultaneous engagement from all locations—to achieve maximum effectiveness and surprise.”

  “Sounds great, but how does the lead sniper coordinate it all? Does it have a tie-in back to Central Command?”

  “He has a wireless PDA that receives each rifle's video signal, and he can also have that transmitted directly back to headquarters—much like the event at Ramallah that we saw earlier.”

  The helicopter crew chief came aft and signaled two minutes from touchdown. Newman, Rotem, and the others lowered their night-vision goggles and made a final equipment check. The gunners manning the 7.62 Vulcan miniguns mounted in the port and starboard portals and on the tail ramp charged their weapons and flicked off their safeties. As Newman and the other five special ops men began to prepare their rappelling equipment, the crew chief once again signaled them. They wouldn't have to lower themselves on the braided nylon climbing lines; the pilot had spotted an LZ where he could set the bird down.

  The pilots brought the birds in low and fast, straight across the beach about six kilometers south of Al Hamidiyah, a remote village overlooking the sea. They rose over a low cliff a few hundred meters inland, and then the pilot pulled the nose up sharply to bleed off airspeed. With the transmissions screeching at the abrupt maneuver, both aircraft settled quickly on the ground. Rotem's team disembarked in less than five seconds, and the enormous CH-53 lifted off the ground and disappeared to the west, invisible, even with the aid of Pete's night-vision goggles, in seconds. Seventy-five yards south, the other CH-53 settled down, and the five men watched as its ramp came down and it disgorged the Desert Raider, as though the helicopter were giving birth.

  Then, the second CH-53 popped up and chased the first bird west, out to sea.

  The silence after the birds departed was startling to the men. Even though they had removed the earplugs they had worn to protect their eardrums from the high frequency noise of the helicopters, it still took five minutes or more for them to begin hearing the night sounds from the orchard around them.

  Satisfied they hadn't chosen a Syrian Army encampment for a landing zone, Major Rotem signaled to the team that it was time to move out. The men quickly dispersed around the area, trying to obliterate any sign that they had been there. The tracks from the helicopter tires and the wheel marks of the Desert Raider were swept out of the sandy soil with pine branches. Gear was checked, a quick headcount taken. Then Rotem gave the signal to board the six-wheeled vehicle. Once all were aboard and in their assigned stations, the major whispered into his helmet microphone.

  “OK, guys… let's make things happen.”

  PFLP/Hezbollah Compound

  Hamah, Syria

  Wednesday, 18 March 1998

  0700 Hours, Local

  Rachel Newman awoke with a start. She had been dozing fitfully most of the night, only dropping off for real just before daybreak. A noise from the other end of the darkened room had awakened her and, for a brief moment, she was frightened and disoriented. Then she remembered, but that didn't lighten the fear.

  At one in the morning, there had been a loud commotion when the kidnappers rushed into the small room where Dyan and she were being kept. The men again put the blindfolds on the women and tied their wrists, while herding them into an old VW van to drive them to another site. The women were almost frantic at being awakened and rushed so quickly into the vehicle, not knowing that they were only being moved—of course, they had no idea what was going to happen to them. The van had been driven for nearly forty-five minutes on rough roads.

  Rachel had no idea where they were being taken, or even what direction. At their destination, they were taken from the van and hustled into this new compound, still blindfolded. They were taken to another back room and untied. When the blindfolds were taken off, Rachel could see that this room, unlike the previous one, at least had a window—but no lights. And the window appeared to be painted over.

  The kidnappers used flashlights to illumine their new accommodations and ordered the women to rest there until morning. As before, they were provided with two dirty mattresses and two filthy, threadbare wool blankets.

  Now it was morning, and Rachel sat up on the floor where she had slept and dreamed so fitfully. Her bones ached, and her muscles felt sore and cramped. As she stood up, her friend Dyan also woke up; like Rachel, she had slept little during the long and difficult night. As they both recalled where they were and how they got there, they looked at each other for support and courage.

  “I wonder where we are,” Dyan said quietly. “Wherever it is, no one will be able to find us. Not even after you left that information on the answering machine. Once we crossed into another country, it became hopeless. And I wonder why they even bothered moving us from that one house to this one in the middle of the night.”

  “I don't know, but we can't give up. They haven't hurt us badly yet, so they must think we're worth something to them. Maybe they want to trade us for something—or someone.”

  “Oh, Sarah...I'm scared. I'm really scared.”

  Rachel felt a twinge of guilt as her friend called her by her alias. After enduring together an ordeal like this...but Rachel still said nothing. It was better if Dyan didn't know, especially if the kidnappers interrogated them, or if they suspected who Rachel really was.

  “I'm frightened, too, Dyan.”

  “What do you suppose they plan to do with us?” Dyan asked.

  “I have no idea. It's probably better if we don't think about it too much.”

  “I get morning sickness if I don't have something to eat when I wake up.”

  Rachel reached into her pocket. “Here...I saved this pita bread from last night…just in case.” She handed the small piece of bread to Dyan.

  The painted-over window admitted some light, enough for the women to see the bars outside. They could tell only that the window faced east; the morning sun warmed the opaque glass, and it in turn warmed them a little. As she stood by the window soaking up the warmth, Rachel began to think about her husband and little boy. Though it made her feel like crying, she struggled to control her emotions. Rachel was determined not to let the kidnappers intimidate her and frighten her more than she already was.

  I should pray. That's one th
ing they can't keep me from doing.

  She closed her eyes and leaned against the windowsill, praying for more than ten minutes—for Peter, for James, for Dyan and her husband and unborn child, and for their safety and rescue.

  She could hear the sound of a vehicle outside, its tires crunching in gravel. She put her eye to a tiny spot where the paint had flaked off the outside of the glass.

  Right outside the window she could see a black Mercedes sedan, a big one.

  Rachel watched as an Arab jumped from the front seat passenger side and hurried to open the door to the backseat. A moment later, a tall, light-haired man, dressed in an expensive gray suit and carrying a soft leather attaché case, got out of the car. He also sported a light tan camelhair topcoat slung over his left arm. At the last instant, he decided to toss the coat back onto the car seat.

  Rachel stared at the man. He looked out of place somehow. She wasn't sure if he was European or American, perhaps Canadian—but he surely wasn't Arab. And yet, he seemed very much at ease with the men who were her captors. Rachel watched as he and the two Arabs who had arrived with him walked to the left and out of her line of sight. A moment later, somewhere else in the house, she could hear voices welcoming the man—then laughter—and then the sound of a heavy door—the front door?—closing with a slam. Rachel checked her watch. It was precisely seven-thirty.

  “What is it?” Dyan asked.

  “I don't know. Someone just arrived. He looks European—maybe even American. He's very well dressed.”

  “Oh, Rachel, was that him laughing just now?” Dyan appeared to be on the verge of tears. “I don't feel good about this.”

  Rachel moved closer to her pregnant friend, put an arm around her, and said, “Don't worry, Dyan; it's going to be all right.” But even as she said the words, something about the sight of this mysterious stranger made her shiver.

  X-Ray Rendezvous

  12 km South of Juwaykhat, Syria

  Wednesday, 18 March 1998

  0745 Hours, Local