by Oliver North
The four turbo-fan engines screamed as the venerable plane climbed over the ancient Turkish city and headed southeast. Below, Rotem could see the sun setting as the plane approached the dark blue water of Iskenderun Korfezi, the easternmost point of the Mediterranean Sea. He checked his watch. It would be dark in a matter of minutes. He also knew it would be very cold at thirty thousand feet when he and his team exited the bird for their HAHO parachute jump.
He was pleased to note that newer bluish-green lights had replaced the old red “night lights” in the aging aircraft's overhead space. These lights allowed the crew and passengers to use night-vision goggles and were easier on the eyes.
As the aircraft climbed through ten thousand feet, the crew chief signaled everyone to don oxygen masks because the plane could not be pressurized when rigged for paradrops. Rotem noted that several of his most experienced sergeants were already napping. They knew that the hour they had left before propelling themselves out the door into the night sky might well be the last good rest they'd get for awhile.
Unlike a commercial aircraft, the commandos were seated facing one another on nylon web seats. They leaned back against the fuselage, parachutes cushioning their backs, weapons strapped to their legs, equipment bags lashed to their bellies, beneath reserve chutes. At a station just forward of Rotem was the Sayeret EWO, tasked with the responsibility of staying in radio contact with the command center at Tel-Nof, with Peter Newman at At Tanf, and with Gunnery Sergeant Skillings, who had launched from the Saudi air base at Turayf with the Royal Marine commandos as soon as the 707 reached Adana.
Major Rotem handed the EWO a handwritten page, from a note pad that he carried, asking the officer to confirm their ETA at the drop zone. Rotem estimated it to be right at 2030, but the final call would be by the EWO, who was also acting as navigator and calculating the effects of weather, wind, and altitude. Rotem wanted to ensure that his people were going to be on the ground, not descending, when the CH-46s and their Cobra escorts arrived over the objective area. The idea of parachuting through rotor blades had no appeal for him whatsoever. The EWO handed the note back. Below Rotem's inquiry was scrawled: “ETA DZ-2029.” The major sighed, crumpled the note, and put it in his pocket. He turned to making a final check of his weapon and equipment. It was preferable to pondering where his wife might be at this moment.
International Scientific Trading, Ltd.
At Tanf, Syria
Tuesday, 23 March 1998
2025 Hours, Local
It had taken Peter Newman more than an hour and a half to crawl up next to the fuel truck parked on the apron beside the runway, about fifty yards from the back gate of the IST compound. He had started inching toward it from his hiding place as soon as it got dark, and despite the half moon, he'd had to summon every bit of the skill he retained from his days with Force Recon to cover the five hundred meters across open terrain to the truck.
Once General Grisham had made the decision to change H-hour from 0300 to 2030, Newman had begun to earnestly consider how he could identify himself to the incoming commandos, so that neither the Israelis nor the Royal Marines would mistake him for the enemy. The thought of being taken out by a Cobra gunner who spotted his silhouette on his FLIR was particularly alarming. Lacking an infrared strobe or any other kind of signaling device, he hit on the one place where he could hide that was to be avoided at all costs by the commandos—the fuel truck. They needed the fuel inside it to get home—so, he reasoned, it should be a safe haven from fire by all sides. He had made his last call on his Iridium phones to Gunnery Sergeant Skillings and Major Rotem to inform them where he would be when they arrived.
The truck had been parked with its rear toward the fuel storage tanks and a single gasoline pump. The passenger-side door faced toward the compound. Newman covered the last few meters to the driver's side door, inching himself along on his stomach, keeping the body of the truck between himself and the compound. He figured that if he couldn't see them they couldn't see him. When he finally got to the left front wheel of the truck, he carefully raised himself, first to his knees, then to a crouch so that the hood of the truck masked his silhouette.
When Newman was on his feet, he placed the night-vision device up to his eye and examined the vehicle. He thought about checking the door to see if it had been left unlocked but then decided not to risk the possibility that a light would go on if he opened the door. That's when he noticed that the driver had left the window down.
It took him another ten minutes to pull his body up over the door and to quietly lower himself down inside the cab. Despite the usual nighttime drop in temperature, he was bathed in sweat and out of breath once he got inside. Fearing that the security people inside the compound might have night-vision devices of their own, he tried to keep his body below the edge of the passenger-side window and the windshield. The inside of the cab was filthy. Food wrappers and empty cans littered the floor of the vehicle, and it smelled of old leather, grease, jet fuel, and sun-baked plastic. He had just stretched his arm out and checked his watch to gauge how much longer before the Israelis arrived when he heard the sound of the back gate of the IST compound opening. He could hear men's voices, speaking in Arabic, and then the headlights of a truck or car played across the windshield and the roof of the fuel truck's cab as a vehicle pulled out of the gate and started down the runway—directly toward him.
Newman rolled over on his side and pulled the pistol out of his belt in the small of his back, wishing it had a silencer. Clutching the weapon in his right hand, he waited, lying prone on the bench seat for the vehicle to pass. But instead of heading down the runway, the car pulled up and stopped next to the fuel truck. He heard the sound of a smooth-running, powerful engine just outside the fuel truck's window.
Suddenly the engine stopped, and he heard a door open and then close. Holding perfectly still, he waited on his back, his neck craned backward, the pistol on his chest pointed toward the door.
But instead of opening the door next to Newman's head, the driver of the vehicle walked to the rear of the fuel truck. Newman heard what sounded like a gasoline pump being turned on and then the sound of a hose nozzle being inserted into a gas tank.
Newman lay there frozen for what seemed an eternity. Then the gas pump was turned off. He heard the hose being put away, and there was silence while the driver of the vehicle replaced the fuel cap.
Suddenly, there was another sound—a muffled series of thumps—like someone repeatedly striking the inside of a large cardboard box. He was trying to determine the cause of the noise when he heard another sound, a muffled voice shouting, “Let us out of here! The fumes are killing us!”
The words seemed to be coming from inside the vehicle that had parked right beside him. Newman propped himself up on his left elbow and peered warily over the edge of the truck's driver-side door. There, with his back to him, was a large man with broad shoulders and blond hair—clearly not an Arab. Judging by his clothing in the dim moonlight, he appeared to be wearing some kind of desert khaki uniform.
As the Marine watched, the uniformed man took out a set of keys, pulled a pistol out of the holster on his right hip, and opened the trunk of the black Mercedes sedan. When the trunk light came on, Newman's heart seemed to stop. There, with hands bound and ankles wrapped in what appeared to be duct tape, was his wife, Rachel. She was staring at the man with the gun and absolutely terrified.
ENDGAME
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
International Scientific Trading, Ltd., Warehouse B
At Tanf, Syria
Tuesday, 24 March 1998
2025 Hours, Local
Did you take care of our house guests, Leonid?” asked General Komulakov as the pair walked out of the warehouse personnel door. They were instantly bathed in the orange glow of the sodium vapor security lights that illuminated the IST perimeter.
“Yes, I have seen to it,” Dotensk replied, not bothering to disguise his distaste for this part of his job. The loyal
Ukrainian had always done his share of “wet work” with KGB Department V—but his targets had all been men. It wasn't that Dotensk was suddenly becoming a kinder and gentler killer. He simply believed that killing women was beneath his dignity.
“Leonid, Leonid,” chided Komulakov, “this is why you were not selected for colonel in the KGB. You must not allow these minor, unpleasant tasks to distract you from the requirements and benefits of our current endeavor. Now tell me the truth. You did not see to this yourself. You didn't have time. Who took care of this for you?”
“It is all being handled by our people. And before you ask, yes, it is being done ‘the right way,' with all the appropriate protocols. I had Sedov and Babin bind the women upstairs and bring them down, one at a time, and put them into the ‘boot' of one of the cars. Once Sedov and Babin departed, I had Pavel drive the women out there,” Dotensk replied, gesturing in the darkness toward the runway.
“Is Pavel alone?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. The fewer witnesses the better. It's not like the old days, Leonid, when there was a real code of silence. Nowadays it's hard to tell who can be trusted.”
Dotensk looked up sharply at his superior, wondering if this comment was aimed at him. “Do you trust the men I have selected to inventory the gold?”
“To a point. That is why I told you to contact the Rezidentura at the Damascus embassy regarding a cargo aircraft. Did Romalyinov ever get back to you?”
“No.”
“Then we have no other choice but to move it overland to the port at Latakia?”
“We could wait a day or two until I can locate an aircraft and make the charter arrangements to have it flown from here.”
Komulakov pondered this for a moment and then said, “We are not likely to have that much time, Leonid. Our customer clearly intends to use the three devices we are sending him as soon as he gets them. It is also clear that the Israelis are going to strike first to prevent that—probably in the next twenty-four hours. Our gold probably won't even be loaded at the port by then. When is your friend Qusay supposed to wire transfer the balance owed?”
“After he gets the weapons.”
Komulakov shook his head. “If the Israelis attack, we will never receive that money. He won't be alive to send it. And unless we get out of here quickly, we won't be around to spend any of it. We must change our plan. I want you to very quickly but quietly move a thousand pounds of the gold into the Lear. Spread-load the ingots on the floor of the aircraft so that they're evenly distributed, first in the aisle and then on the floor beneath the seats. Have the pilots help you so that the others do not know. After the gold is loaded, cover it with cardboard or something. As soon as you are finished, send the rest of the gold to Latakia on our trucks. Don't even bother to weigh the remainder. If we move it immediately, it may be possible to get it aboard your ship before the Israelis strike. While the gold is being taken care of, have Sedov and Babin load the three weapons on Qusay's trucks, one per truck, and send them on their way. Do you understand?”
Dotensk understood. He also realized that given how quickly things were changing he had better tell Komulakov what he had done with one of the nuclear artillery rounds. “There is something else that we need to take with us, General. I expected that Qusay would double cross us. So I… uh…took the initiative to hold back one of the nuclear weapons for just such a case. I had it removed from its shipping container, wrapped it in lead foil, and inserted it inside PVC pipe. It's in the van parked in the hangar. We should take it with us. We can always find another customer.”
Komulakov didn't know whether to rebuke Dotensk or congratulate him. “Just when were you going to tell me about this, Leonid?”
“In the rush, there was no time, General.”
“How much does it weigh?”
“As it is, about three hundred pounds. Can the aircraft take a thousand pounds of gold, the weapon, and both of us?”
“Don't worry, Leonid. I'll tell the pilots to dump some fuel. We need only enough to get to Diyabakir, Turkey. From there we can refuel again at Ankara, then across the Black Sea to Sebastopol. Even with all those stops we can be in Kiev before noon tomorrow. Now, see to all this while I go and pick up my briefcase and satellite phone in my quarters. I want to be ready to leave by 2100.”
Relieved at the solution his superior had devised, Dotensk turned to re-enter the warehouse where the gold and the weapons were. As he did so, two shots rang out from the darkness, in the direction of the fuel tanks. The two men paused and Komulakov said, “Pavel?”
“Yes. He has disposed of the women.”
“Good,” replied Komulakov, turning toward the guest house. “Now, before we leave, kill him.”
Hatzerim Tracking Center
Beer-Sheva, Israel
Tuesday, 24 March 1998
2026 Hours, Local
Duvdevan Senior Watch Officer Lieutenant Colonel David Hatzor
was staring at a computer screen. Before him was displayed everything the Israeli Defense Forces knew about the situation on the ground in the vicinity of the International Scientific Trading complex east of AtTanf, Syria. Hatzor clicked on an icon, and a live satellite image appeared on the screen. He zoomed in on the specks that appeared on the screen. He smiled and said to himself, Awesome! He shook his head, marveling at the clarity of the image being down-linked in real time from the Indian Defense Forces satellite high above Syria to the dish on top of his bunker. Clearly visible on the screen were nine rectangular parachutes. As the satellite image tracked across the screen, he watched as one by one the parachutes billowed and then disappeared. Now he could make out the images of nine men—Major Ze'ev Rotem's commando team—as they moved quickly from their drop zone toward the runway of the complex. The IDF lieutenant colonel looked at his watch: 2026. Four minutes early. Not bad, he said to himself.
He adjusted the image to take in the rest of the area. There was the runway, less than five hundred meters south of where Rotem and his men had landed from their HAHO jump. Rotem had called the Command Center thirty-six minutes earlier to report that his team was exiting the 707 at twenty-nine thousand feet, ten miles northwest of the DZ. Wearing infrared strobes on top of their helmets, Rotem and his commandos had rendezvoused in the air and “flown” for more than a half hour in their specially configured parachutes to arrive silently, and just a few meters apart, almost dead-on their DZ. As soon as each man hit the ground, they had rolled up their gray camouflage chutes, stowed them beneath rocks and sand, put on their night-vision goggles, and headed for their tactical assembly area adjacent to the runway, near the fuel tanks, to await the arrival of the American helicopters and the Royal Marines.
Now, as Hatzor impatiently waited for Rotem to call in on his encrypted satellite radio, the watch officer scanned the area so that he could provide an enemy situation update for the IDF field commander when he made contact. Initially, the complex appeared unchanged from the last satellite pass. Hatzor could see no unusual activity around any of the buildings of the IST site—indicating that the parachute insertion had gone undetected. But then, as Hatzor made one last scan down the runway, he saw a vehicle parked next to the fuel truck that had not been there on the last satellite pass. Suddenly, as he tried to zoom in, the image on the screen froze—indicating that the satellite had reached its maximum slant range and was speeding over the horizon. It would be another two hours before he had another clear shot of the objective area from the Indian satellite. He checked the clock on the wall. The next American satellite pass wouldn't be until 2055—timed for five minutes before the U.S. Marine helos arrived with the detachment of Four-Two Commando.
At that moment, the speaker on the console next to the computer screen squawked with the sound of an encrypted transmission synchronizing in the radio receiver mounted on the rack above Hatzor's head. Then he heard Rotem's voice, speaking slowly, barely above a whisper: “Samuel, this is Joshua, over.”
Hatzor instantly
grabbed the handset, keyed the microphone, and replied, “Joshua, this is Samuel. I have you loud and clear. Any casualties?”
“Negative, all up and ready. We'll be in position by the fuel tank farm in five minutes. Request you advise Gibraltar that we will be in our planned location,” Rotem replied, using the call sign for the Royal Marines.
“Will do.”
“Anything happening at the objective that I need to know about?”
“Nothing that I can see at any of the buildings, but there appears to be a vehicle beside the fuel truck that wasn't there the last time we had sat coverage. I can't tell what that means for Papa November,” Hatzor said, using the call sign they had created for Peter Newman. “It appears that this new vehicle is very close, about two meters, from where Papa November is supposed to be hiding. It's possible that he has been discovered.”
“Any personnel visible?” Rotem inquired, still speaking just above a whisper, though Hatzor could hear the commando leader's heavy breathing over the helmet-mounted microphone as he dogtrotted toward the runway.
“It looks as if one person is standing between the vehicle and the fuel truck. That's all I can see.”
“Can you tell where Papa November is from the transponder?”
“Negative. The battery must have died because he hasn't been showing up for the last four hours. Just be careful on your approach to the fuel truck because I don't have live coverage anymore.”
“Roger that. I'll call again as soon as we're at the fuel truck.”
Hatzor placed the handset back in its receptacle, picked up an identical one next to it, and keyed the transmission switch. After waiting for the electronic ping of the encryption, he said, “Gibraltar, Gibraltar, this is Samuel.”
After a few seconds, the voice of U.S. Marine Gunnery Sergeant Amos Skillings came blaring through the speaker—along with the whine of CH-46 engines and the “slap” of the helicopter's twin rotors. “Samuel, this is Gibraltar, go ahead, over.”
