The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  will get a communications frequency and encryption assignment out to everyone well before you or the Israelis launch so that everyone can talk to one another directly.”

  “I see...very well, Sergeant. It sounds like everything is under control. Keep me informed via this secure sat phone in the interim.”

  “Yes, sir...you can count on it.”

  “By the way...just to confirm what Mr. Thomas of MI6 said about fuel. You're quite certain that your Colonel Newman believes that there is sufficient aviation fuel at the objective?”

  “Yes, sir. There should be enough in the fuel truck and the tank farm for the Marine 53s and the Cobras, as well as the birds taking the Israelis back to their recovery bases—and all of them with plenty of fuel to spare.”

  “I see. And do you have a backup plan for refueling?”

  “No, sir. Gassing up at the target—that's the plan.”

  “And what time is H-hour on the objective?” asked Banks.

  Skillings checked his notes and responded, “As of right now, sir, it is set for 0300, Wednesday, 25 March for the Israeli HALO drop. Your Marines of Four-Two Commando are to land north of the airstrip at 0315.”

  “Roger. The Royal Marines will be there at 0315 tomorrow night. I hope the fuel is there as well. I'd hate to have my lads walk all the way home.”

  RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Al Thawrah Market

  4 km East of At Tanf, Syria

  Tuesday, 24 March 1998

  0615 Hours, Local

  The sound of a roll-up metal gate being thrown open awakened Samir Habib with a start. He had been dozing in the cab of his truck, parked at the eastern end of the dusty little town's market area. When he had pulled in last night, the place had been empty. Now, the tiny souk was awakening, with shopkeepers opening their storefronts and others placing their wares and produce in streetside booths.

  Throughout the night he had tried to stay awake, serving as a lookout between the Syria-Iraq border and the site where Peter Newman lay hidden, waiting for British and Israeli commandos to arrive. Samir chastised himself for dozing off. What if a Syrian military unit went by while I was asleep?

  Newman had told him that the place he was reconnoitering held three nuclear weapons—perhaps more. The Marine also believed that his wife was being held hostage there. Samir devoutly hoped that what Newman was planning to do would succeed because the prospect of nuclear weapons making their way into the hands of Saddam Hussein or his sons terrified the Christian Arab. So, too, did the thought of such weapons being used against Israel. Several hours earlier Samir had heard on his truck's radio that the Israeli military was calling up their reserves, and the BBC had carried a terse statement by Israel's Prime Minister stating that if Israel were attacked with a weapon of mass destruction, “We will respond the only way we can.” Even the relatively apolitical Samir understood what this meant—that the Jewish state would counter-attack with nuclear weapons.

  The young man climbed out of the pickup and shifted his weight a little unsteadily as he stood on the ground. He looked at the glowing light of the sunrise and stretched his stiff and tired frame.

  The rumors of war had left Samir uneasy, and the long night in the truck had left him groggy as well. The cool morning air and slight breeze, however, helped to clear his mind, and he decided to follow the smell of fresh coffee from somewhere to his left. When he got to the coffee vendor's tent-like stall, he was the only customer. He asked for a strong Turkish-blend coffee, poured some milk into the steaming black liquid, and put his hands around the glass for warmth. Samir also bought a few sweet, fragrant rolls with almond-paste filling and cinnamon, and he ate them with great enjoyment. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he had last eaten.

  After getting some food into his stomach, Samir returned to the truck, turned on the radio, and tuned it to the Radio Damascus news broadcast just in time to hear the announcement that the Syrian dictator, Hafez al-Assad, had called up the country's reservists and was mobilizing “the valiant Syrian Army to defend the country from attack by the Jews.” He turned off the radio, picked up the satellite telephone beside him on the seat, and called his father.

  “Yes, my son,” said Eli Yusef.

  “Father, have you been listening to the radio?”

  “No, why?”

  “There is talk of war,” said Samir, his voice reflecting his anxiety.

  “Yes, there is often talk of war in this part of the world. It is a condition of the human race.”

  “Father, they are talking about a nuclear war. It sounds as if Israel will use its nuclear weapons against Syria or Iraq,” said Samir, seeking some kind of reassurance.

  “Well, that is what we are helping our friend Peter to prevent.”

  “But...I am afraid that the American may not be able to find those devices. If he does not succeed, Saddam may get them and use them against the Jews. It might bring about the Apocalypse here in the Middle East.”

  There was a long pause during which neither man said anything. Finally, Yusef spoke to his son, “We must pray even harder for Peter Newman. He must be successful.”

  Samir responded as though he had not heard. “But I just heard Israel's Prime Minister on the radio, and he was talking about what can only mean nuclear war. Who are we? We are nobodies. We cannot stop such terrible destruction. Peter said that if he fails in this effort, we should immediately get away from here and try to get into Turkey. I was thinking... from our home in Anah we can go to your friends in Cizre, Turkey—it is not much more than three hundred kilometers. I think that if we can get our family there we should be safe from the nuclear bombs.”

  “The Lord will keep our loved ones safe in Anah,” the older man answered simply. “It would take us too long to drive that distance. If the bombs and missiles come, they will not wait while we drive across Iraq. No...we must stay with Peter Newman. I believe God wants us to help him.”

  The son was unable to accept his father's statement. It was hopelessly illogical, and so he tried a different tack. “What does God tell you to do concerning Mother, who is at our home in Anah? And what about my wife Hamilah and our children? Are we to abandon them while we stay with the American?”

  “We will leave them in the care of their heavenly Father. Even if we were able to drive back to Anah, there is no assurance that we could bring everyone to safety in Cizre before the missiles come. I believe that God will watch over them all. There isn't enough time for us to drive all the way back to Anah and then leave on a three-hundred-kilometer journey to Turkey—before the missiles come. No...we will call them and tell them to take shelter. You must have more faith, my son. And please, call me again if you are anxious, but be more circumspect. We cannot know who else may be able to hear these conversations, and we do not wish to place our friend Peter in further jeopardy.”

  Samir concluded the call feeling somewhat chastised by his father's simple, unwavering faith. He set the phone beside him on the bench seat of the truck and reviewed the logistics of the situation in his mind. His father was right about one thing: there was no way they could drive to Anah and then, after getting the family together, leave for Turkey and get there in less than twenty-four hours. He picked up the phone again and checked for any voice mail messages from Peter Newman. When he saw none, he called his wife. Samir explained to Hamilah what he had heard on the radio about the likelihood of war and what his father had suggested about seeking shelter. He urged her to depart immediately with their children and wait out the terrible possibilities.

  His wife made no complaint and replied matter-of-factly that she would see to what he had asked her to do. She concluded the conversation with a simple comment: “Your mother and I will be praying for your father and you until God brings you both back to us. Be careful.” Strangely, she then repeated what Samir had said to Peter Newman just hours ago—“Masha salâma.”

  International Scientific Trading, Ltd.

&nb
sp; At Tanf, Syria

  Tuesday, 24 March 1998

  0640 Hours, Local

  The Marine was cold. Peter Newman had wrapped himself in the heavy, desert-camouflaged sheet that Eli Yusef had given him, but the air temperature on the desert floor had plunged with the sun, and the chill had kept him awake and shivering throughout the night. Newman lay without moving on the lip of an irrigation ditch south of the runway. Once, shortly after midnight, he had been startled by a small herd of camels grazing on scrub brush nearby. He watched through the night-vision device as a dozen or more of the ungainly beasts munched their way past, seemingly oblivious to him or to the possibility of encountering aircraft on the nearby runway.

  Now the sun was finally warming his stiff joints and aching muscles. Newman wanted badly to stand up and stretch, but he knew that could instantly give away his position. Instead, he performed some isometric resistance exercises—a technique he used to teach his Recon Marines for dealing with the long hours on an ambush or OP.

  At 0600, Newman had turned on one of the two Iridium phones and dialed the number for Gunnery Sergeant Skillings. In order to save the sat-phone batteries, he had established a schedule for reporting—on even-numbered hours he contacted Skillings at NATO headquarters at Incirlik, and on odd-numbered hours he called Major Ze'ev Rotem, his contact with the Israelis. But this time when he dialed the number for Skillings, he heard it automatically switch over to a call-forwarding protocol. On the fifth ring the gunnery sergeant answered, “Skillings.”

  Newman, crouching beneath the desert-dyed sheet, said quietly, “Thought I'd lost you, Gunny.”

  “Can't lose me, Colonel, but I've relocated to the Saudi Air Force base at Badanah. I just arrived here with Mr. Thomas and Mr. Blackman, the two gentlemen from London who have been helping us. Here's my phone number so you can dial me directly...” Skillings gave Newman the number and continued, “General Grisham thought one less loop in this thing would be helpful, so he scared up a USAF C-17 to bring us here, along with some Sat-Com gear so he could stay on top of what's going on.”

  “Good. Have you linked up with the U.S. and Royal Marines yet?”

  “Yes, sir, I'm at the Four-Two Commando CP right now. I've already been to the helo squadron, and there has been a change, sir.”

  “A change? What kind of change, Gunny?”

  “It's not two CH-53s that will be inserting the Royal Marines. It's four CH-46s from HMM 268 that will do the work.”

  Newman pondered this information. It meant more birds in the air but greater redundancy. And though the CH-46s were slower than the 53s, they presented a smaller radar profile and would be flying lower—a hundred knots at twenty-five feet above the ground—with the pilots and air crew all wearing NVGs. “Can't complain about that, but it will increase the travel time from where you are to here and the length of time to refuel the birds because there will be four of them.”

  “Roger that. We'll plan accordingly. And there's some other good news. General Grisham has arranged with NRO for a satellite pass over the objective every 128 minutes. Be sure to wave when you see it go by so the Royal Marines know where you are when they come in with their guns blazing.”

  Skillings had made the comment in jest, but it reminded Newman of just how vulnerable he was, not only to being spotted by whomever Komulakov had inside the IST compound, but to the possibility of being mistaken for one of the bad guys when the Brits and Israelis arrived on the scene. He recalled some of the disasters he had seen in the Gulf War of '90—'91 when U.S. troops were hit by “friendly” fire.

  “You've just pointed out one of the soft spots in this whole thing, Gunny. Let me think that part over and come up with something so the good guys don't take me out by mistake.”

  “Do you have an infrared strobe?”

  “Nope. That would have been too easy. But hey, I've got a whole day to come up with something.”

  “Roger that. I'll noodle it here, too, and see if anyone has a bright idea on some IFF method for you.”

  “Many thanks. I'll be back up on this net at 0800. Out here.” As Newman turned off the phone, he noted that the battery indicator showed he was down to one-half the maximum battery charge. He checked his watch. It was almost time for a call to Major Rotem. Using the second satellite phone, he dialed the Israeli. The IDF officer answered on the first ring.

  “Colonel Newman, I have some news.”

  “What is it?”

  “I just received a message from the National Police who are monitoring the phones at your apartment and my home. Have you checked the messages on your home phone recently?”

  “No...I've been busy here. Why?”

  “Rachel called.”

  “Rachel? How? When?”

  “The call came in about two hours ago. It was from a cell phone somewhere in Syria. Our Telecommunications Intelligence and Security Service has been trying to pinpoint where, but that may take longer than we have. Your NSA may be able to find out faster.”

  “If you know the exact time the call was placed and any source identifier codes from the originating phone, NSA or GCHQ should be able to nail it down fairly quickly,” the Marine said. “It would also help if we can tell them any specific words or phrases used in the call.”

  There was a pause, and Newman could hear Rotem talking to someone else. The Israeli then came back on the line, “Our service just delivered a tape of the message that was left on your voice mail. The call came in on your phone at 0508 local. They don't have a source ID code, and they still don't know where the call originated. Shall I play it for you?”

  “Yes,” Newman replied, his heartbeat quickening at the realization that the tape recording probably meant that Rachel was still alive as of two hours ago.

  He pressed the sat phone closer to his ear to hear the sound of his wife's voice over the pounding of his pulse. “Peter...it's me. I tried your satellite phone but it didn't answer. They are making me read you this message. But before I read it, I want you to know that I love you and am praying for you. Here is the message: You are to go to the Assad International Airport in Damascus, to the VIP Lounge at the international terminal by 8:00 tonight, Tuesday, March 24. You are to wait there for two men who will ask at the reception desk for Mr. White. These men will escort you to a private area at the airport and take you to meet the man who has been holding us. He wants the following information: First, have you found the real identity of Morales? Second, what does the U.S. government know about Morales? And third, are any U.S. intelligence or law enforcement agencies on the lookout for the man who is holding us? He has instructed me to tell you that if he is satisfied with your answers, he will allow Dyan and me to leave with you. If you do not do as he instructs in this message, you will never see me again. And I will never see our little boy ag—” Peter could hear his wife suppress a sob. “Oh Peter...please do as they say. They told me to tell you that we're being held outside of Damascus and they'll release us when you provide that infor—”

  There was a sudden click and then a dial tone. Newman's heart was racing at what he had just heard, and he tried to think what all of this meant.

  “Are you still there?” Major Rotem asked.

  “Yeah...is that all there was?”

  “Yes. Do you think it is genuine?”

  “Genuine?” Newman replied. “Who knows with this guy, but it's pretty clear from Rachel's voice that she believes it's true and that Komulakov means what he says.”

  “You believe it's some kind of a trap?” Rotem inquired.

  “I don't think so. But who knows? And that last part—about being near Damascus—that's strange. I've got to get NSA to see if they can find out where this call came from. Until now, our people monitoring their radio chatter have been telling me that the women were being kept here—not Damascus. And I know that Komulakov is here. I saw him get off his jet last night.”

  “Yes, but Mossad has been keeping track of his aircraft. They reported last night that he flew to Assad
International Airport and was there for a couple hours and flew back to At Tanf. You saw him land—but you didn't see him take off. It's possible that he took our wives with him to Damascus and left them there.”

  “Maybe he did take them. You're right, I didn't see the plane take off; I only saw it return. And except for the pilots, Komulakov was alone. On the tape Rachel says they told her to say that she and Dyan were being held near Damascus. Could he have taken them to Hims or Hamah?”

  “It's possible, I suppose. But that poses another dilemma.”

  “What's that?” asked the Marine.

  “If the only way for us to get our wives back is for you to go to Damascus, you'll have to leave where you are and get there as soon as possible. Do you still have access to your friends with the pickup trucks? It's less than 150 miles, so you should be able to drive that distance and arrive by 2000 hours.”

  “But if I'm in Damascus at 2000, there is no way I can get back here in time to give you a report on what's happening before you and the British arrive. You'll be coming in without any eyes or ears on the ground.”

  There was a pause while Rotem quickly contemplated the consequences of Newman heading to Damascus and leaving the IST site “uncovered” for more than twelve hours before the British and Israeli commando assault. “You're right. Your being there in At Tanf is critical. The satellites can only tell us so much. Without someone on the ground, a night parachute jump and a helicopter insert become much more dangerous. How quickly can your NSA tell where Rachel's call originated? That may be the only way we can figure out where our wives are being held.”

  “I don't know. I'll call right now and get them started. I'll call you back in two hours.”