by Oliver North
“I'm listening.”
“We have had some good results using this with our undercover people,” the major said. He held up a tiny pellet, smaller than a pea. “This epoxy capsule contains a battery-powered microchip transmitting device that is virtually undetectable by radio-frequency scanners or metal detectors. When implanted beneath the skin, it has about one hundred hours of life, and it can be detected by satellite even if one is inside a building or vehicle. We've even tested them in bunkers and, as long as it's not covered by more than a foot of earth or six inches of concrete, the signal can reach the satellite and give us a GPS geolocation confirmation, accurate to within about two meters. The Operations Center here at Duvdevan will be able to pick up the signal from the satellite and feed the GPS coordinates to us in the field. So we'll be able to find you quickly.”
Intrigued, Newman asked, “How often does it transmit? How is it powered?”
Rotem smiled. “It sends out a microburst on a discrete frequency every thirty seconds for three minutes when commanded to do so by an encrypted signal from the satellite. That's why it's so hard to detect with a scanner. And it's powered by a tiny nuclear battery.”
Newman arched his eyebrows. “Nuclear? And you want to implant this in me? How? Wait...no...that's crazy. They'd see evidence of surgery if they strip-searched me.”
“No, it has never happened—so far...and we've used this dozens of times. Come with me...I'll show you how we do it.”
Newman walked behind the major down the narrow corridor to a small infirmary where Rotem introduced him to the Israeli doctor, a woman. She had laid out one of the devices on a sterile towel alongside a scalpel and other surgical tools.
Dr. Eliat asked him to take off his shoes and socks. The Marine did as instructed and sat on the gurney, placing his left foot out in front of him. “What's the plan, Dr. Eliat?” he asked.
“It's simple and rather painless,” she answered. “I open the skin in the web between your third and fourth toes, insert the transmitting device, and close you up again. It's as simple as that. We place it there because we've determined that's the safest spot to avoid discomfort and any interference with your metatarsal arch. And it's hard to detect, even in a strip-search. That's all there is to it.”
“What about the radiation?” asked Newman, noticing uneasily that Dr. Eliat was already swabbing his foot with alcohol.
“Well, we haven't had anyone go sterile yet,” she answered with a wry smile.
Newman made one last try as she sprayed the area with a topical anesthetic. “But won't it be obvious if you cut a hole in my foot? Won't you have to suture it closed? How can they miss seeing the stitches?”
Dr. Eliat smiled. “Don't worry, they won't see anything. The web between the toes is a natural concealment.” She proceeded to spread his toes apart to make sure that the anesthetic reached the area on which she was about to work. As the physician waited for the topical anesthetic to take effect, she rolled a small portable table over next to where she was working and adjusted the flexible overhead light above her.
“This will probably sting a little—like getting a shot with a needle.”
Dr. Eliat wedged a large piece of tightly-rolled cotton packing to help spread his toes apart, and then she massaged the skin where it formed the web. Finally she took the scalpel and cut a tiny incision between the toes. Blood oozed from the cut and ran into the towel under his foot.
“She's opening the skin to accommodate the transmitter,” Rotem explained.
Quickly the doctor took the small pellet and inserted it into the incision. Then she held cotton against it to stop the bleeding.
“And once it is inside your foot, she'll close the incision, but not with sutures. She's using special surgical glue. It seals the incision and promotes faster healing. By morning, you'll feel some soreness, but the incision will be almost impossible to detect,” Rotem said.
“Looks and smells like Super Glue,” Newman said.
“Yes,” Dr. Eliat replied with a smile, “and there have been times in an emergency when we have used ordinary Super Glue.”
Newman grinned. He felt a little discomfort but no serious pain. The doctor cleaned around the incision with some alcohol then told him, “You can put your shoes and socks back on now.”
As he finished and stood up, the doctor asked, “Any discomfort?”
“No, it's fine,” replied Newman. Then, as an idea came to him, he asked, “Do you have more of these devices?”
“Yes, but not many.”
“Does each one have its own frequency?”
“Yes, it operates like the IFF beacon on an aircraft. Each one shows up on the satellite display with a separate identifier code.”
“Can you get two more of them tonight and sew them into some clothing?”
“Why?” ?
“Insurance. If I get to wherever it is I'm supposed to go, and they separate me from the women, I want a chance to give our wives something they can wear so you can track them.”
Newman and Rotem shared an understanding glance. If the kidnapper had a score to settle with Newman, the American might not leave the meeting alive.
“Even the terrorists would understand me bringing the women some clean clothing,” Newman said. “If these things are as good as you say they are, you should be able to track them wherever they are.”
Dr. Eliat said, “Sew them into brassieres. If it's placed right where the underwire comes together, no man would ever notice.”
“Yeah...I brought Rachel a change of underwear and some clean clothes already, even before this was an idea. What about you?” he asked Rotem.
“Yes...I have also brought some clean clothes for Dyan. But where do you suggest we locate a seamstress to sew brassieres at this hour of the night?”
Dr. Eliat grinned and shook her head. “Ahh, you men. Get me the two transmitters. Record which is which, and I'll sew them in for you. You owe me for this one, Rotem.”
The IDF major smiled and said, “Yes, Doctor. Now all we have to worry about is making sure Colonel Newman gives the correct clothing to the right wife.” Rotem grinned at Newman.
But once they were back in the Operations Center conference room with the other men who would be going back into Syria with Rotem, the gravity and danger of the mission came back to all of them. The red operational lights were on now because Rotem and his team would bedeparting shortly, well before Newman left for Ben Gurion Airport and the first leg of his trip to Damascus.
The team was busy checking weapons, ammunition, grenades, breaching charges, radios, night-vision devices, and other equipment. The plan they had worked out called for them to move into position after dark the following night, to take advantage of their superior night-fighting gear.
“If all goes as planned, thirty hours from now we should all be on a helicopter headed back here,” Newman said to Rotem. “I know how dangerous this is for all of you, but it's even more so for the two women we're trying to rescue. Please don't get spotted on your approach because if they see any sign of you, our wives are dead.”
Rotem looked at Newman for several seconds. Then he nodded, and began checking his combat equipment.
Mediterranean Sea
Aboard the USS Theodore Roosevelt
112 Nautical Miles West of Beirut
Thursday, 19 March 1998
0215 Hours, Local
General George Grisham opened the hatch and re-entered the warm, red-lit interior of Rear Admiral Hank Hennessey's flag bridge. He had been out on the wing of the bridge, talking to Lieutenant Colonel Peter Newman on a satellite phone for ten minutes. He was chilled to the bone by the 25-knot wind rushing by as the carrier cut through the sea, headed toward Turkey. As the general walked up to the big leather chair on which his friend, the Carrier Battle Group commander, was seated, Hennessey said, “How's your missing Marine doing, George?”
“Well, the Israeli team launched for Syria about an hour ago. And Newman's going to fly to
Damascus tomorrow morning.”
“Damascus! How's he going to do that? There aren't any flights between Israel and Damascus.”
“He's flying to Istanbul, then back to Damascus.”
“Then what?”
“Then he supposedly gets taken to where his wife and the wife of the Israeli team leader are being held. The Israelis are using some kind of miniature transponders for him and the two women so they can keep track of everyone.”
“Do we have the frequencies for these things?” asked Hennessey.
“Unfortunately, we don't.”
“Well...it would be nice if we had them, and I could track where your boy is from one of our RF emission detectors.”
General Grisham nodded but said nothing. Finally the admiral spoke again. “So...looks like the ‘nuke recovery mission' is on indefinite hold, my friend.”
“I'm afraid so. And in an hour, I've got to leave here in that awful COD of yours to go to Incirlik. The ostensible reason for me to be out here is to review CENTCOM's newest Middle East contingency plans. That was scheduled to take three days. After that, I'm supposed to return to MacDill.” Grisham shook his head, a worried look on his face. “I sure hope Newman's back in Israel before I have to leave Turkey, Hank.”
“That's not all that's bugging you, George. I've known you too long,” Hennessey said, peering through the dim, red light at his former classmate and good friend. “There's something else eating at you.”
The Marine general peered out across the long, broad flight deck where the crew was preparing to launch the twin turbo-prop, S-2 COD for his trip to the Incirlik Air Base near Adana, Turkey.
“What's eating at me, Hank, is that there is a terrible security leak somewhere back in the States. Newman's identity and location were known only to a handful of people, and yet somebody, very well connected in our government, is providing sensitive information to our adversaries. There can be no other explanation.”
“Who, George? Where?”
“I don't know. It seems as if all of the usual suspects have already been arrested, killed, fired, transferred, or otherwise dealt with. Even those who escaped the harshest consequences, like Harrod, are outside any sphere of influence that could give them the power and resources to go after Newman again. And I can't think of anyone in our government who has contacts with the PFLP, Hezbollah, or other terrorists.”
“Then...there's no connection whatsoever to the compromise of this young fellow's mission for the UN back in '95?”
“Not that I can see, Hank. When I get back to MacDill, I'll launch a quiet review of our security protocols, but other than that, I don't know where to begin.” Grisham checked his watch. “I've got to get going. Don't want to keep your pilots waiting.”
“Be careful, George. If I can help, let me know. But be careful. You're too valuable to fall on your sword for this one Marine.”
Grisham shook hands with his friend, went down one level to the VIP stateroom where he had stowed his gear, and sat down at his laptop computer. It took him less than fifteen minutes to draft an encrypted e-mail to Bill Goode, bringing the old CIA Clandestine Services officer up to speed on both Newman's situation and his own plans.
At precisely 0300, there was a knock on his door and a Marine sergeant, part of the ship's company, announced, “Sir, your aircraft is ready on the flight deck.”
“Very well, let's go,” replied Grisham as the younger Marine grabbed the general's duffel bag and headed toward the ladder that would take them to the flight deck.
As he walked out of the island onto the broad expanse of steel, a voice blared over the IMC: “Now hear this: Flight Quarters. Stand by to launch aircraft.”
The night was clear and moonless, and the sky was brilliant with stars. General Grisham sighed, saluted the officers on deck, then strode up the tail ramp of the C-2, nodding to the rest of his staff already aboard and strapped in their rear-facing seats.
Moments later, with engines screaming at maximum RPM, the aircraft was hurled off the deck and into the air by the carrier's number one catapult. The Navy plane gained altitude quickly. Its radar never detected the two Israeli CH-53 helicopters, skimming the tops of the cedar trees one hundred and fifty miles to the northeast, preparing to drop an IDF commando team into Syria.
A MEETING OF ADVERSARIES
CHAPTER TWELVE
PFLP/Hezbollah Compound
Hamah, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
1200 Hours, Local
Has the plane from Turkey landed?” Komulakov said into the telephone. He waited for his answer. “Good. I want you to follow him. Make sure he goes directly to the International First Class lounge and waits there for my call. If he stops to talk to anyone, call me immediately. Did he clear customs as a regular visitor, or did he go through the diplomatic line? Not the diplomatic line? That's good too. Then he probably hasn't come with government help, and he's doing this on his own. He's probably nervous about bringing any attention to himself because of that outstanding terrorism warrant. All right, good work.” Komulakov ended the call and placed the sat phone in his inside breast pocket.
He motioned to the leader of the Arab hostage team.
“Alert all of your men to keep a close eye on the women. The man we seek is in Damascus. I'm about to bring him here. I don't believe he would be foolish enough to bring a radio or transmitter with him, nor do I think it possible for him to have made any arrangements with the American or Jewish Special Forces. But just to make sure, if we find a device on him, execute the women, and I will personally take care of our arriving guest. Do you understand?”
The chief terrorist nodded his head.
“Just to be safe, I will not bring him directly here,” Komulakov said. “I'll have him first brought to a place where we can thoroughly search him. Once we determine he isn't wired and has no one with him or following him, then we can decide what to do and where to go from there.”
Rachel and Dyan knew nothing about Peter Newman's arrival except that he was “on his way.” That was more than twelve hours ago, and the anticipation they had both felt at first had worn thin. For breakfast, the women had been given some dates, hardboiled eggs, some pita bread, and two bottles of water each. Other than that, they were left alone, for which Rachel at least was grateful.
She wondered where James was right now. Rachel missed her child terribly and nearly began to cry every time she thought of him. This was her third day as a hostage, and Rachel began to feel more and more of the emotional weight of the ordeal. She noticed Dyan also seemed depressed and quiet. Rachel had heard her crying quietly during the night.
For the past twenty-four hours, Rachel had been trying to figure out the identity of the tall, well-dressed Westerner who seemed to know so much about her and Peter. He never introduced himself, but somehow she felt he expected her to know who he was. Whoever he was, he was definitely in charge. She had listened through the door to his orders to the kidnappers and others who entered and left the compound during the day.
The women never saw all of their captors. Locked as they were in the small room at the back of the building, the only activity they could see through the tiny hole in the paint-covered window told them next to nothing about where they were or who these terrorists were.
Rachel was peering through the little hole in the window when she heard the rattle of the padlock on their door. Dyan was napping on the floor, and Rachel quickly lay down on her own mattress and feigned sleep. The noise of the door flying open startled Dyan awake, and both women sat up to see one of their Arab captors enter, followed by a woman in traditional Syrian dress. It was the first time during their three-day captivity that Rachel or Dyan had seen another woman.
She was carrying a shopping bag filled with garments. As the guard left and locked the door behind him, the woman gave them orders in broken English.
“Take off clothes.”
Dyan, still groggy from her nap, said, “What's going on?”
> The Syrian woman repeated her command. “Take off clothes. You be moving to other place. Wear these.” She pointed at the clothing in the bag.
Slowly but obediently, the two captives did as they were told. Rachel stripped to her underwear and was given a long, flowing, black Arab dress to wear. Dyan undressed as well, folding her garments neatly and placing them on her mattress. Rachel did the same with her own shirt, slacks, and jacket, even though she wanted desperately to keep her own clothes; putting on these garments seemed like taking another step away from her husband and son.
“Where are they taking us?” Rachel asked the Syrian woman, who did not answer.
Dyan said something in Arabic.
“I tell you—you being moved!” The woman scowled at Dyan as she answered.
Rachel tried another approach. “Well then, do you know whether we will come back here, or should we take our clothes with us?”
The woman shrugged. “Don't know. They not tell where you go, if you come back. Here.” She grabbed the bag she had brought in and shoved it toward Rachel. “Put in here. You take with you.”
When the women were dressed in the black robes, they looked at each other. They would never pass for Arabs. Dyan was Jewish, but her roots appeared more Slavic than Semitic, and Rachel's fair skin and light blue eyes betrayed a heritage that was not at all Middle Eastern. However, the Arab woman gave them each a black headdress that could also be used as a veil. She showed them how to put it on and cover their faces.
“It is good.” She nodded, looking at them. “Now we wait.”
“Wait?” said Rachel. “What are we waiting for?”
“Wait for American to come. Your husband.”
X-Ray Rendezvous
12 km South of Juwaykhat, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
1330 Hours, Local
Major Rotem's five-man Sayeret team assembled at a new rendezvous point near Juwaykhat. They pulled their vehicle within the ruins of an old building, long abandoned to the elements. The place would provide them with some concealment while they waited to find out where Peter Newman was being taken.
