by Oliver North
For several minutes, the IDF major had simply stood and stared at the massive ashlars King Herod had erected as a retaining wall for the Second Temple—now the only remnant of what the ancient Romans had destroyed in A.D. 70. Rotem then placed his yarmulke on his bare head and, removing a three-by-five-inch card from his pocket, he passed through the small crowd of others who had come here to pray on the Sabbath. Arriving at the face of the wall, Rotem rolled up the card and inserted it between the giant stones. On the card he had written, “Oh King of kings, who delivered your people safely out of Egypt, return Dyan safely to me.”
The IDF major had spent the rest of Saturday, well into the early morning hours, working with his unit's intelligence officer, trying to determine the whereabouts of the missing women. He then returned home and slept a short time before Lev's call had waked him.
Time is running out. What if their captors lose patience? What if they kill one of the women to force their demands?
Incirlik Air Base
Adana, Turkey
Sunday, 22 March 1998
1155 Hours, Local
Newman nodded his thanks to the Navy crew chief as the C-2A Greyhound pulled up to the big U.S. Air Force hangar at Incirlik, its propellers winding down. “We're five minutes early.”
“Glad to be of service, sir,” said the Navy petty officer as he moved aft to put down the aircraft ramp.
The mission had begun in typical Grisham fashion, Newman reflected. The taxi had dropped him off at the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv at 0630. Fifteen minutes later, he was in an embassy vehicle, driven by a tightlipped U.S. Marine security guard, enroute to the U.S. Defense Attaché Office at Ben Gurion Airport.
Then, as the car pulled up next to the DAO hangar, a haze-gray U.S. Navy Seahawk helicopter with the words USS Mobile Bay stenciled on its tail started to “turn up.” They had taken off at exactly 0715 and headed directly out to sea. By 0840 the Seahawk was being refueled on the flight deck of the USS Mobile Bay. Ten minutes later, the SH-60B was airborne again and headed northwest for the big deck of the USS Theodore Roosevelt, “The Big Stick.”
When the helicopter landed on the flight deck, a crewman in a white vest slid open the starboard door and escorted the Marine to a waiting C-2 COD with both engines turning, its tail ramp down. As soon as Newman was aboard and strapped into one of the aft-facing seats, the ramp came up and the bird was maneuvered to catapult 1. Then, with the engines racing at maximum RPM, there was the explosive sound of the steam catapult firing, and the aircraft was thrown into the air. Once airborne, Newman had promptly fallen asleep and did not awaken until the sound of the deploying flaps and the lowering landing gear, just before the plane touched down at Incirlik. Newman smiled to himself at General Grisham's precision planning.
Now, as he stepped off the aircraft ramp, Newman had an incredible sense of déjà vu, followed by a feeling of overwhelming sadness. He remembered the last time he had been at Incirlik—almost exactly three years ago—with a hand-picked team of courageous U.S. Delta Force and British SAS commandos.
As Newman approached the hangar that had once been his command post, General George Grisham stepped out of the personnel door, shook his hand, and yelled over the roar of the departing C-2, “It's good to see you, Pete. Come on inside. We'll get a bite to eat and then get you on your way.”
Over a sandwich and Coke in the hangar office, the general updated Newman on the plans for the next leg of his mission.
“Skillings is over at the motor pool getting a staff car to drive you to Karatas, about twenty-five miles south of here. Bill Goode was docked at Iskenderun yesterday, but he sailed across the bay this morning. It's only about thirty nautical miles, so he's probably there already. He'll meet you in Karatas, at the docks, then he'll bring you back to Iskenderun. There, you'll meet with Samir and Yusef. They'll outline the plan from there. The idea is for you to go with Samir into Syria and drive east across the country into Iraq, directly to Baghdad.”
Newman raised his eyebrows. “Right through the front door? Isn't that kind of risky?”
“We hope not. You'll have an Indian passport. And the boys from ISA have worked up a pretty good cover that Bill Goode will flesh out when you see him. You'll be an Indian national, from the former Portuguese colony of Goa...and you'll be in Iraq to sell computer software developed in India.”
“India, eh? That's good. I like the idea of being from a part of the world where only the Pakistanis won't like me.”
“Well, to be quite frank with you, I'm less concerned about getting you into Iraq than I am about getting you out. Anyway, you should be all right—they'll check your passport and papers, but if they ask you questions about your work, I doubt any uniformed Iraqi will know enough about computer programming to spot you as a phony. And this time you have something working for you that you didn't have last time—you have three years of Arabic languages under your belt. It makes a difference.”
“What's the ingress and egress plan?”
“Getting you in is fairly simple, as I said. For ingress, I've made arrangements for an ISA civilian operating under nonofficial cover to board a flight from India. He's using your cover identity, and he'll fly the regional airline from Bangalore to Mumbai. Then he'll fly India Air from Mumbai to Damascus. That way there'll be a document trail showing you traveled from India to Syria. As you'll see when you get the Indian passport from Bill Goode, it already has the appropriate exit and entry visas and stamps, indicating you arrived in Damascus from India, complete with boarding passes. In case anyone checks your documents against the airline and immigration records, the data trail should verify it was you who made the trip. You'll meet Samir, whose business is located in the Christian quarter of the Old City in Damascus.”
General Grisham pulled out a street map of Damascus from his inside pocket. He pointed to the place he had just mentioned, then ran his finger over to the left a few inches. “But you'll meet him here...at the Ministry of Tourism...on Shukri Al Quatli Street.”
“Yeah...looks like the building sits back from the highway.”
“Yes, and it's two blocks east of the museum...right here,” the general said, pointing.
“How do I get to Damascus? Fly?”
“No...we want you to avoid the airport. According to their records, you flew in to Damascus this morning from India. Besides, you don't want your things to have to pass through security. Your sample case is supposed to be filled with computer gear, but if they X-ray it, I don't think the radiation detection gear will pass.”
“Uh-huh, I see. Then what's the best way in to Syria?”
“Yusef Habib has a new truck that he's dying to show you, Samir says. He'll be in Iskenderun when you get there and will take you overland to Damascus. It's not quite three hundred miles, but the highway is fairly good and, from Aleppo south to Damascus, it's all four-lane. Yusef's son Samir will take the train from Iskenderun to Aleppo, and then change trains there for Damascus. That's where you'll rendezvous tomorrow.”
“All right, that gets us through the first part of this drill, but how about the rest of the way in and then back out?”
“Bill Goode has some ideas on the ingress from Syria into Iraq that he's ironing out with Samir and Yusef right now. Samir is a licensed tour guide and can drive you from Damascus to Baghdad. Before you go in, we'll have that worked out as best we can. As for egress, a lot depends on whether you can find the nukes and whether you're discovered. If all is routine, you'll come out according to the plan worked out by Bill Goode, Samir, and Yusef. If there's an emergency, I've got a contingent from 24th MEU conducting joint training with the British Four-Two Commando unit in the Saudi desert, about thirty kilometers south of Rafha. They have the equipment you will need if called upon. Obviously, they can't go all the way to Damascus, but if you can make it back into the Western Desert, we can certainly put fixed wing cover over you from Kuwait and, depending on where you are, arrange for some kind of extract support.”
Pe
ter Newman nodded, thinking about all he had been told, realizing it meant that he was going to have to rely more on Samir and Yusef Habib than he had anticipated. “I understand; I just don't want to put more people in jeopardy than we already have—especially the Habibs—they're civilians.”
“I appreciate that, Pete. Believe me, if there was any other way to do this, I would. And I also know you're carrying a terrible burden about Rachel. If I had anyone else I could send on this mission, I would.”
“Any late word?”
Grisham shook his head. “I have everyone in the region with an antenna and every overhead asset available listening for any transmissions from the kind of handheld radios you told me the kidnappers were carrying. In addition, NSA and GCHQ are trying to capture any relevant telephone communications. They've been at it more than twenty-four hours, but so far...nothing. I'm sorry.”
“But you aren't giving up?”
“No, of course not. We're trying to guess what part of the country they took the women to. But that seems impossible; so we've started a grid search, moving out from the Hims-Hamah area. We're looking north, east, and south...and we'll try to the west if we don't turn up something in the other areas. I want you to know we have our best people working on it, and when we find Rachel, we'll let you know right away. Just have faith, son.”
Newman shrugged. “I guess there really isn't anything I can add. I'll stay focused on this mission. But, General—” he looked Grisham in the eye. “I trust you.”
The general put his hand on Newman's shoulder. “We'll find her and bring her back. Meanwhile, Pete, you've got a job to do.”
Duvdevan Headquarters
Tel-Nof Air Force Base, Israel
Sunday, 22 March 1998
1445 Hours, Local
The Ops Center had activated the tracking device in Peter Newman's foot within minutes of Rotem's call from home. When the IDF major arrived at the Ops Center, he was handed a page of notes showing that Newman had left the Old City, gone to the American embassy, and from there to Ben Gurion Airport. Major Rotem had also been advised of the helicopter sent from the USS Mobile Bay to pick up the American.
And now Rotem was tracking Newman himself. His computer screen initially followed the signal all the way to Turkey, where it eventually stopped at the Incirlik Air Base.
The Israeli major guessed that Newman had decided to be with his friend, the American Marine general, who was probably trying to help Newman find his wife. Rotem expected the signal would stay at that site in Turkey for some time, as they worked on the search.
Having the American military involved would likely complicate things.
He stared at the computer screen and then blinked as the icon began to move across the map in front of him. Newman is leaving Incirlik! Rotem deduced that he was following the highway from Adana to Yakapinhar. Rotem busied himself with some reports and checked back occasionally to see the progress of the Marine's transponder. The next time he glanced at the screen, the icon had passed Yakapinhar and was nearing Dogankent—heading for the seacoast. A half hour later, the green arrow stopped at the city of Karatas.
Rotem reached for his mobile phone and dialed the number of the phone that the Israelis had issued Newman.
Newman answered it right away.
“Colonel,” Rotem said, “I've been wondering what happened to you. I couldn't find you at your apartment. Where are you?”
“I contacted my friend General Grisham, and he arranged for me to fly to Incirlik to see if they could help us find our wives. He's got some of our satellites looking in Syria. And I'm waiting for more instructions from the kidnappers. How are you doing?”
“I'm at an impasse,” Rotem said. “I don't know what to do. We are also using our satellites, but without those transponders…
“Will you be coming back to Jerusalem?” Rotem added, after a pause.
“Not right away. I'm sorry to leave you alone in this, but I really felt out of place there, not knowing the Israeli SOP and all....”
“I see.” Rotem sensed Newman was holding back something.
There was another long pause, and then Newman spoke. “Listen, Ze'ev, General Grisham has promised to give this matter everything he's got. He'll get back to me as soon as they find anything. I'll call you the minute I hear. And please...do the same if you find something.”
“Then you will be staying at Incirlik?” Does he really think I don't know where he is?
“Well, in the general area. It's where I feel comfortable...and where I can see how things are going.”
He's definitely hiding something, Rotem thought. The American had already departed Incirlik, headed toward the coast. Rotem knew he could follow Newman from his laptop, wherever the Marine was going, but he couldn't help feeling betrayed by this man with whom he had already shared so much danger. Rotem decided to keep an eye on the American and make certain that he was not left out of the loop being constructed in Incirlik.
Tall Ajrab Ruin
34 km East of Baghdad, Iraq
Sunday, 22 March 1998
1455 Hours, Local
Leonid Dotensk took a long drink of water from a plastic bottle as he took refuge from the sun in the shade on the north side of the truck. It wasn't that hot in Iraq this time of year, but the sun was unrelenting and lately the arms merchant had been reading much about skin cancer. He looked over at the four “retired” KGB officers he had brought from his homeland to help him. He was sure they had found the hidden weapons.
Dotensk was proud of his memory, for having remembered and found this location after three years, and with no map to consult. He recalled the place clearly in his memory, although he had been here only twice—both times when Hussein Kamil had brought him. Kamil had told Dotensk then that, in addition to his other duties, he was assuming the vacant position of Minister of Antiquities. He'd had his predecessor executed for allowing “foreign elements” to pillage historical sites. Kamil had proudly announced that this place, the Tall Ajrab Ruin, had been declared off limits to all archeological exploration.
But this was the right place—he knew it. When they had arrived here that morning, Dotensk had one of the Ukrainians take readings with the expensive electronic equipment that the Chernobyl scientists had left in his Baghdad offices when they delivered the nuclear weapons to Iraq in 1995. The sensors were designed to locate even a minute source of radioactive emissions. He had expected it might take an entire day or more. But it had taken them only an hour, and Dotensk was elated. He congratulated himself on his good luck.
Kamil had hidden the weapons well; he had placed the warheads, in their lead-shielded crates, within the ancient ruin of a pagan temple that Kamil had said was constructed during the Babylonian Empire more than two thousand years before. Dotensk recalled something about the temple site having been razed by the Caliph Mansur in the eighth century, but it wasn't its history that had given it away. What Dotensk remembered was that one of the structures had been built against the side of a hill, and the Ukrainian had guessed correctly that the back wall might well hide the entrance to a cave, perhaps an ancient spring.
There had been several minutes of uncertainty, for the radiation detector gave no indication until they approached the back wall of the ruined building. But when the sensor began to beep and the needle on the dial began to move, Dotensk was certain he had found Kamil's hidden weapons.
“They are under this pile of stones,” he said confidently to the men he had brought along. He had them start removing the piles of sand, stone, and debris piled against the semicollapsed stone wall. As they dug, it became apparent that Saddam's now-deceased son-in-law had chosen the site well—and hidden the evidence of his heinous deed well too.
It only took them a few minutes to find the first body—remarkably well preserved by the dry desert air. The corpse was that of a man in an Amn Al-Khass Special Security Service uniform—one of Kamil's bodyguards, shot in the back of the head. In another hour, enough stones and sand
had been removed to reveal three more bodies. All had died the same way.
Dotensk had the bodies dragged over against the far wall. He pointed to where they had been buried and said with certainty, “The next thing you will find are the cases for the weapons. But take care not to break them open with your tools.”
As his four accomplices worked with their shovels and pry-bars, Dotensk mused about how Kamil must have done it. He probably had his most trusted bodyguards bring the weapons here and bury them. And then, after that task was finished, Kamil had no doubt killed these four and buried them beside the hidden weapons. What was the line from the famous American pirate story? “Dead men tell no tales.”
Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the site would have never been discovered by accident. It was the perfect spot—even Saddam and his sons would never have been drawn to this place to search. But the former SSS commander had overlooked two critical factors: the memory and the intuition of one Leonid Dotensk. The Ukrainian was feeling very satisfied with himself.
For more than five hours, Dotensk's men labored without stopping, except for an occasional drink of water. They used sledgehammers, crowbars, shovels, and chisels to clear away the sand and debris. They finally broke through the masonry wall at the back of the structure and there, just as Dotensk had guessed, was a shallow cave. One of the workers pointed a flashlight into the darkness. There, stored as they had been when Dotensk had last seen them three years before, were three Soviet nuclear artillery rounds.
It took Dotensk and his men another hour to wrap cables around each of the heavy crates and drag them out of the cave into the center of the ruined structure. The arms dealer let the men rest while he turned the truck around and backed it up as close as possible to the weapons crates. Then he climbed into the bed and, with the help of his workers, lowered two long steel ramps for the small forklift that had been chained down beneath the canvas cover over the back of the truck. Dotensk climbed aboard the forklift and carefully drove it down the ramp toward the three wooden crates. The small wheels of the forklift spun in the sand, fighting for traction. Two of the workers pushed it when it got stuck, and Dotensk eased it toward the first crate. He lowered the tongues of the lift and thrust them under the skid holding the crate to lift it. The forklift strained at the load and struggled through the sand. It took twice as long as it should have to get the crate into the truck.
