by Oliver North
When they had arrived at this place a half hour earlier, Rotem had again established his command post on the hood of the well-concealed and camouflaged Desert Raider. By the time he returned from checking the fields of fire over the approaches to their position, his RTO was checking the satellite-fed computer for the icons from the two miniature transmitters sewn into the women's clothing. The computer also verified that the transmitter implanted in Newman's foot was stationary at the terrorists' compound, and had been since 1725 hours. It was still not moving.
Rotem noted that the two icons from the women's transponders were also stationary, colocated about fifteen kilometers east of Salamiyah. The Sayeret Duvdevan operators watched for severalminutes, but the two flickering icons did not move at all; they were as still as corpses.
Rotem pulled himself away from staring at the blinking icons. “We'll get Colonel Newman first, then see if we can get to where the women are. Captain Naruch, I'll take my men and the thermal imaging devices, move in close, and check out what's inside. Meanwhile, I want you to take the SWS and set up four final firing positions for snipers, each FFP aimed at a different side of the building. At my command, eliminate any guards outside the building. Have all the men use noise suppressors and take head shots so those inside won't be alerted. I'll have Sergeant Rosen use 'Simon' on the front door.”
“Simon” was a great improvement over the old procedure, using explosives to break locks and hinges for a quick entry. Breaching charges put two commandos in great peril, since they had to be right at the door to place the explosives, often costing the element of surprise or placing the hostages at risk. But “Simon”—constructed with a shaped explosive charge at the back, similar to an ordinary rifle grenade, and a “stand-off rod” on the front of the projectile—solved those problems. Simon could be fired from just a few meters from the targeted door. When it struck above the middle of the door, it exploded with such force that its shock wave caused the door to be blown in and down, toward the floor, giving a clear and unobstructed entry. But it was important that no hostages be near the door; if terrorists were just inside the portal—so much the better.
“When we get in place, we need to find out where Newman is being kept. Once we know where he is, we'll take down the main entry and neutralize the terrorists,” Major Rotem said. “Any questions?”
There were no questions. The group had rehearsed this scenario; each man knew his role and that of every other man in the team.
It took them a half hour to move quietly to within two hundred meters of the building where the computer said Newman was being held. Using his night-vision goggles, Major Rotem did a quick recon of the place. He could see two armed men standing guard outside at opposite corners of the building. As Rotem made his way to the SWS system, he could see his snipers already in position, one on each side of the building, each between one hundred and one hundred fifty yards from the structure.
“I spotted two guards,” Rotem whispered into the handset of his Motorola radio. “One on the northeast corner and one on the southwest corner.”
“Yeah, we got ‘em,” said a sniper's whisper in Rotem's headset. “The infrared also shows two more on the roof. There's an LMG up there with sandbags all around.”
“I didn't see them or the machine gun,” Rotem said. “Can you get a clear shot with all those sandbags?”
“Yes...no problem. Give us about three minutes, and we'll be ready.”
Major Rotem whispered quick commands to the rest of his men. Sergeant Rosen was instructed when to deploy “Simon,” then join the two-man assault team as they rushed the blown door. Rosen would rescue Newman while the others took care of any surviving terrorists.
The IDF major turned to the soldier carrying the thermal scanner and whispered, “See if you can get a fix on where Newman is being held inside the structure.”
The operator crept forward through the underbrush until he was within fifty meters of the building. Once in position, he aimed the thermal imaging device at its walls. At the SWS platform, the plasma monitor clearly showed eight people inside and four others outside. Those within the structure were all well armed. Four of the terrorists were sitting at a table in what appeared to be the kitchen, apparently eating with their weapons slung over their shoulders. In the large room just beyond the entry door, there were four others. One of them was standing beside a table on the far side of the room. One person was sitting in a chair, positioned in such a way that he appeared to be tied up. Two other men holding automatic weapons stood near the man in the chair as if guarding him.
“That must be Newman in the chair,” Major Rotem whispered.
Captain Naruch agreed.
The soldier operating the thermal imaging device now scanned the rest of the compound to make sure no one else was in the area, either inside or outside.
While the final check was underway, Captain Naruch began to move his other men into position for the charge. When Naruch's men were ready, Rotem would give the order for the assault.
“I have visual,” Rotem heard Naruch say. Each sniper's weapon was equipped with an infrared video camera and gave Naruch a clear view of the snipers' targets. Each target was fixed, and each man was ready. “On my command, take aim...ready...fire.”
There was no sound, but four bullets found their marks simultaneously. Four clean headshots insured that the dead men dropped noiselessly. The two on the roof slumped over the sandbags while the two terrorists guarding the front door of the building simply fell in theirtracks. There was now no one outside to impede an assault. Captain Naruch had each of his snipers continue to aim at the dead men while the video cameras verified that they were truly all incapacitated. It took only a moment to get that assurance.
Rotem prepared to give the “go.”
PFLP/Hezbollah Compound
Hamah, Syria
Thursday, 19 March 1998
2115 Hours, Local
“And so, Colonel Newman, do you understand my generous offer? All you have to do is locate my very devoted spy inside the American intelligence community and kill him. When you bring me proof of his death, I will return your wife and her friend,” Komulakov said.
Newman stared at the tabletop. The assignment was impossible. Even if he could locate such a spy, the effort would make ripples in the U.S. intelligence community. They'd want to know who was making the inquiries, and they'd want to question that person to learn for themselves the extent of the damage.
“Well, let's see if I have this straight. You want me to waltz into the FBI, CIA, NSA, the Pentagon, the White House, and whatever else I may have left out, and ask them to help me locate—and kill—a Russian spy in their midst? And, oh yeah...I have no idea who this guy is.” He gave Komulakov an angry stare. “This is nuts. To keep this kind of operation secret would take months of planning, tons of resources—and I'm supposed to tie it all up with a bow for you and come back here for my wife in a few weeks? Komulakov, you're about as crazy as—”
The entry door exploded off its hinges and came flying into the room. The concussion rocked Newman's chair, nearly toppling him to the floor. Three “flash-bang” concussion grenades came through the open doorway. Newman turned his face away and leaned over the tabletop just as the grenades detonated in near-instantaneous succession.
An instant later, the lights went out; the room was in total darkness. Newman tried to tip his chair over to stay out of the crossfire, but it was too late. The staccato of an AK-47 burst flashed like a strobe light just off to Newman's left, until a red dot appeared on the shooter's forehead. A second later, Newman heard the AK-47 clatter to the floor, followed by the sound of a body collapsing.
Newman cringed as another terrorist opened fire right above his head. The muzzle flashes of the AK-47 practically singed his hair; the noise was deafening. Two more red dots appeared—one on the shooter's forehead and another on his chest. Newman's neck was splattered with warm fluids as the man collapsed in a heap beside the chair to which
Newman was tied.
Now there was the quiet sound of rubber-soled shoes rushing into the room. The red dots of the laser sights made dancing, erratic trajectories, looking for targets, as the commandos swept into the room.
Then explosions, more AK-47 fire, and screams from the other room behind him. Newman strained in his bonds, twisting around to see as two men came rushing toward him from the room he guessed was the kitchen. Through ringing ears, he heard the voice of one of the men who had accompanied him from Damascus. The terrorist shouted something in Arabic, and the men again opened fire with their AK-47s through the doorway.
Newman saw in the stuttering glare of their muzzle flashes that Komulakov had crouched by the window and was pointing what looked like a machine pistol directly at him. Newman bent forward as far as his bonds would allow and then abruptly jerked his torso as hard as he could against the back of the chair, pushing with his feet.
The chair tipped over backward and Newman toppled to the floor, banging his head as he fell, but breaking one of the arms off the chair as it hit the floor. Lying on the floor, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and, in the flashes of gunfire, he could make out several figures coming through the doorframe. Their weapons were suppressed and gave neither muzzle flash nor sounds of gunfire. He saw the laser lights mounted on their weapons find the two men with the AK-47s. Each man was targeted briefly with two or three red dots—then they were dead.
There was a sudden silence. Newman shouted, “There's another one—by the window!” He heard the sound of a magazine being changed. Komulakov must have run out of ammunition.
Komulakov had reloaded and was taking aim at Newman. Several red dots converged on the chest of the Russian crouched by the window, then—thk, thk, thk. Newman heard the rustle of a body crumpling onto the floor, then nothing.
“Clear!” shouted someone in Hebrew.
“Clear in here!” another voice called from the kitchen area where, just forty-five seconds ago, four terrorists had been eating their last meal.
“Use your infrared lights and check the area. No white lights. Preserve your night vision.” It was Major Rotem's voice.
Suddenly, all around the room, Newman could see the red gleam of Sure Fire halogen lights with infrared lenses probing the corners, checking the bodies. The results of the melee were horrific. Nearly every terrorist had been hit by at least two bullets. Blood covered the floor from the two terrorists who had been killed right next to Newman. Amazingly, not one of the Israelis had even been scratched.
Sergeant Rosen was cutting Newman's bonds and checking him for injuries when Major Rotem approached. The Sayeret Duvdevan commander helped Newman out of the chair and pulled him to his feet, then noticed the blood on Newman's cheek and neck.
“I'm all right,” Newman said, “it's not my blood.” As he wiped his neck with his sleeve, he asked, “Did you get a fix on where they took the women? They didn't bring them back here.”
“Yes...I know,” Major Rotem said quietly. “We'll go there as soon as we finish up here. My men will look for documents and intelligence to take back with us, and then we will go to the place east of here where the women's signals are coming from. But I have to tell you, Colonel Newman, I...” Rotem looked away for a moment, swallowing. “Their signals have been stationary—for a long time.”
Newman felt an icy chill inside, but maybe Rotem's analysis was wrong. He put a hand on the major's arm. “I don't think it's as bad as that. Komulakov is the one who sent us the e-mails after our wives were kidnapped—”
“Komulakov—a Russian? What's a Russian doing mixed up in this?”
How much can I afford to tell him? “He wanted me to...do something for him. He knew I wouldn't even begin to cooperate if I suspected something had happened to Rachel. No...he probably ordered them to another safe house, but I...I'm sure they're alive.”
“Is he dead? If not, maybe he can tell us something.”
They turned toward the window where the Russian had been shot.
But Komulakov was gone.
His pistol lay on the floor where he had dropped it, but the Russian was nowhere to be seen.
The two men hurried to the spot. In the faint light coming in the open window, Rotem, wearing his NVGs, could see fragments on the floor. The IDF major got down on his hands and knees, picked up what he had seen, and held it out for Newman to examine in the starlight: three flattened 9mm slugs from one or more of the silenced Uzis—and the shards of ceramic material.
“He was wearing a vest,” said the Israeli.
“What?”
“An armored ballistic protective vest—with a ceramic plate. The plate shattered on one of the shots—that's what these shards are from,” said the Israeli with certainty.
“Komulakov has survived?”
The Israeli looked at Newman. “Yes...and what's worse, he's escaped. Somehow he must have gotten past my men.”
“The women!”
Rotem spun on his heel. “We must leave immediately!”
The team members finished what they were doing. Rotem whispered in his headset and received confirmation from the snipers that the area was still secure. He nodded to his men and Newman, and they moved quickly through the door into the night, to where their vehicles were concealed.
Settling the score with Komulakov would have to wait for another day, Newman realized. Right now, they had to get to Rachel and Dyan before the Russian did.
MI6 Headquarters
Century House, Lambeth
London, England
Thursday, 19 March 1998
1930 Hours, Local
Sir David Spelling hated days like this. His supposedly brief luncheon meeting with the Prime Minister had turned into a full-blown budget battle with the Foreign Office. Not only had the Secret Intelligence Service been asked to find another £18 million to trim from their annual operating budget, but he had then been summoned to a “working dinner”—an absolutely horrid term, borrowed from the Americans—to go over the numbers with the Cabinet Secretary.
As he walked back into his office, his executive secretary met him with a tray of hot tea and a sandwich. “Hello, C,” she said.
Sylvia Wren was an efficient and attractive woman. Sir David had heard that some of the staff called her “Moneypenny” behind her back.
“Why is it you always bring me tea and a sandwich right after I come back from a luncheon appointment or one of these awful working dinners?” he asked.
“Because when you go to those soirées, you never eat, sir. It's usually something official, and you always talk and never touch your food.”
“Well...thank you, Ms. Wren. Can I finish this before my next appointment?”
“If you gulp it down with your usual haste, sir. Mr. Thomas and Mr. Blackman want to squeeze in a few moments to follow up on a matter they apparently discussed with you this morning at yet anotherunscheduled meeting.” She arched an eyebrow. “Shall I push back your meeting with the bookkeeping people?”
“You can push that back as far as you want. I don't want to talk to them about trimming budgets until they come up with some more even-handed, across-the-board cuts. Tell Mr. Winters to begin thinking along those lines. I can't spend time arguing which is the highest priority—they're all necessary. If I have to cut costs, it'll have to be across the board.”
“Yes, sir,” Ms. Wren said. She motioned for the two men outside to come into the office, then left, shutting the door behind her.
“Sorry, Chief,” said Thomas as they entered. “Are we catching you at a bad time?”
“Never mind that. Pour yourself some tea. I'll eat while you talk.”
“Very good, sir. Well, we have some more information on the matter we discussed this morning. We ran the pictures of those Arab prisoners through the facial recognition computer program as you suggested, and found that we do have some of them in our database. It seems that most of them are political prisoners—Kurds, Basra Shiites, northern tribal people from the Iraqi
Resistance. We identified seven of the twelve that were in the photographs. There don't seem to be any— how did you put it this morning?—any ‘common crooks.’”
“I see...anything else?”
“Yes, something quite serious, I'd say. One of our fellows in IT seems to have found a way to hack into the U.S. DARPA computer files.”
“DARPA?”
“Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. They do a lot of spooky R and D for the Pentagon.”
Bit of a breach of protocol, that. Oh, well...“And...?”
“Well, sir. It's quite odd. The Americans have apparently been testing a new type of overhead system that couples laser, infrared, ground-penetrating radar and some kind of thermal imaging to look inside caves, tunnels, and the like. And while they were running one of their tests, they did a pass over this building that we know to be a prison but Saddam says is a mosque. It turns out, according to the DARPA R and D project engineers, the walls and ceilings of that building seem to be heavily lined or layered in lead.”
C scowled. “If they were trying to shield the place from electronic eavesdropping, they would've used copper. But lead…” C looked at his men. “That's for nuclear radiation detection. Do the Americans have anything to suggest the Iraqis are storing anything radioactive there?”
Thomas shook his head. “The American reports are unclear—though they obviously suspect the Iraqis are concealing actual nuclear weapons or are getting ready to bring some to that site.”
C shook his head. “Did your hacker find out if the American R and D folks shared any of their suspicions with their intelligence counterparts? Did the Americans report their suspicions to the UN?”
“There was nothing in the files along that line, sir.”
“Who do we have in the neighborhood who can make a few discreet inquiries about what's going on in that site? I, for one, would very much like to know if there are indeed nuclear weapons being housed at that location...What about the men in that prison photo? It may be that one or two of them will know something.”
