by Oliver North
“Gibraltar, be advised that Joshua is safely at the objective. He will have his entire unit at the assigned location in less than five minutes.I'm calling up your GPS plot right now,” Hatzor said as he switched his screen to a map display. The 1:100,000-scale map showed the area around At Tanf, Syria. In the far lower left-hand corner of the screen, eight blue helicopter icons were blinking. A thin blue line—representing the flight path that the helicopters had taken—connected the icons and the Jordanian-Iraqi border post at Tirbil, the FARP from which they had launched.
“Roger, Samuel,” Skillings replied. “We've got a bit of a tail wind and an ETA about 2055. Any word from Papa November? I think his sat phone batteries may be dead.”
Hatzor repeated to Skillings the information about the vehicle parked next to the fuel truck. “As soon as I hear anything about Papa November, I'll pass it on to you.”
“Roger, Samuel. Papa November has two sat phones—one of ours and one of yours. You try him on yours; I'll try him on ours.”
“Will do. If you get through, let me know as soon as possible and I'll pass it on to Joshua. You and Joshua won't be able to talk directly to each other until you are on the ground.”
“Aye, Aye,” Skillings answered in the vernacular of the Corps as he picked up his Iridium phone and punched in the number he had already loaded for Newman.
International Scientific Trading, Ltd., Fuel Tank Farm
At Tanf, Syria
Tuesday, 24 March 1998
2031 Hours, Local
“You idiot!” Rachel Newman shouted angrily at the large blond
man as the Mercedes' trunk lid sprang open. “Are you trying to kill us?
We can't breathe with those gasoline fumes. Dyan has passed out!”
“Shut up!” the man shouted back at the American woman, pointing his pistol at her head.
Peter Newman, his heart racing, peered over the edge of the fuel truck door into his wife's eyes. She was on her back in the trunk of the Mercedes. Her hands were apparently bound behind her back and her legs were drawn back. She must have been kicking the trunk lid, Newman thought. He could plainly see the silver-colored tape wrapped tightly around her ankles and the light inside the trunk reflecting off her honey-colored hair. Beneath Rachel and farther inside the trunk he could see another pair of legs—also wrapped with wide tape. That must be Dyan, he thought.
Suddenly the Iridium phone he had plugged into the truck's cigarette lighter began to vibrate on the metal floorboard beneath him—making a buzzing sound. Newman's gut constricted, and he immediately ducked below the edge of the door window, holding the ancient Zbrojovka 9mm CZ 75B pistol on his chest as he reached vainly for the phone. Suddenly, he heard the door handle being grabbed, and the door sprang open.
The light inside the cab didn't come on, but Newman was plainly visible to the stunned blond mercenary standing only two feet away outside the door. The gunman reacted, but he was too slow. If he had simply slammed the door with his left hand, the outcome for him might well have been different. Instead, he muttered what sounded like, “What the—?” as he raised the automatic in his right hand toward Newman's head.
The Marine responded instinctively and squeezed off two 9mm rounds. The bullets hit the blond man in the face, and his lifeless body fell backward into the trunk of the car, the gun clattering onto the tarmac, his dead weight landing on Rachel. Newman bounded out of the fuel truck, jammed his pistol into his belt, reached into the trunk, grabbed the killer's lifeless body and pulled it off his wife. Rachel was covered with blood and crying near-hysterically in choked, terrified sobs. For an instant, Newman thought that she had been shot—but then he realized that the gore was from the dead gunman.
Newman gently lifted Rachel out of the trunk and held her against him. Knowing that the fuel truck obscured them from the IST facility, he simply held his wife in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder while she softly repeated over and over, “Oh Peter, thank God, thank God!”
Finally, the Iridium phone, persistently vibrating on the metal floor of the truck, interrupted their reunion. Peter gently turned Rachel around, sat her down on the running board of the truck, reached through the open driver-side door, and grabbed the phone. He punched the OK button and said, “Newman.”
The voice of Gunnery Sergeant Skillings—accompanied by the noise of the helicopter he was riding in—came from the earpiece. “Colonel, just checking in. We're inbound in about twenty minutes. Major Rotem is already on the ground. Are you in position?”
“Yes,” Newman replied quietly—suddenly fearing that the two shots may have alerted someone at the IST facility—or that the Israelis might have mistaken the shots for enemy activity and open fire on the Mercedes. “Are you in contact with Major Rotem?”
“Not directly, until we get into the area. But I can pass word to him through his Command Center.”
“That'll work. Tell him that I have Rachel and his wife! In two minutes we'll all be inside the cab of the fuel truck. Tell him that the vehicle next to the truck is not a threat. Repeat, not a threat. Got it?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Good, call him now. I'll call you back in five minutes,” Newman added. He terminated the call, set the phone on the seat, and reached into a pocket for his Swiss Army knife.
Gently, he sliced the duct tape bindings on his wife's ankles. Then he turned her around and cut through the nylon wire-strap tie. Finally freed, she stood, somewhat unsteadily, and again embraced her husband.
“We've got to get Dyan out of the car and into the truck,” he whispered in his wife's ear. “Is she OK?”
“I think so. I hope she only passed out from the gasoline fumes.” Rachel started to move toward the car trunk, but her legs, tingling from restored circulation, wouldn't support her, and she grabbed Peter's arm to steady herself.
He picked her up and placed her on the seat of the fuel truck, behind the wheel. “Wait in here. Slide over toward the passenger side and stay low. If you see anyone coming, alert me. I'll get Dyan.”
In less than two minutes Newman cut Dyan from her bindings, revived her, and carried her to the cab of the fuel truck. He then hoisted the body of the dead gunman into the trunk and closed the lid. Finally, Newman crawled under the automobile and retrieved the weapon the gunman had dropped. He was surprised to see that it was a 9mm SIG Sauer P226, a favorite of his old Force Recon unit. He checked the magazine, pulled the slide back to confirm a round in the chamber, put the weapon on “Safe,” and jammed it down into his belt in the small of his back.
Making a final check of the area, Newman climbed back into the cab of the fuel truck to await the arrival of the combined British/Israeli raid force. The women were hunched down on the floor, whispering joyfully to each other as he quietly pulled the driver-side door closed.
With his right hand, he reached out and touched his wife's hair, and she looked up at him in the dim light. He smiled at her and, pointing toward the IST buildings, asked in a whisper, “How many of them are in there?”
Rachel and Dyan looked at each other and shrugged. Dyan said, “It is hard to tell. We only saw the Russian, his friend, a few guards—and that one,” she gestured toward the Mercedes. “I'm sure now that he was going to kill us. The ones who tied us up and brought us down to the car said that they were taking us to you—but I think he was going to take us out in the desert to shoot us.”
Newman nodded and said, “Maybe that's why no one came out after the two shots. They expected to hear two shots. But still, I wouldn't be surprised if someone comes looking for him.”
“I would guess that given all the different men we saw there are probably thirty, maybe thirty-five, in there,” said Dyan. “Probably half of them are Europeans—Russians, I think. The rest seem to be from somewhere around here—Iraqis, Syrians, Saudis—from the way they were talking outside the room where they kept us. I know one was from Egypt. I think they are here for some kind of terrorist training. All of them have guns.”
“That's good intelligence,” said Newman, picking up the phone.
“Peter, what are you doing?” Rachel said plaintively. “Let's get out of here. That Mercedes is full of gas; the man you shot just filled it up. Let's get back home. I want to see James.”
“We can't, Rachel. I'm sorry, but we've another job to finish first.” Then seeing tears beginning to well up in his wife's eyes again, he quickly continued. “Look, James is safe with my sister back in the States. But we're nowhere near Jerusalem. The Iraqi border is only a few kilometers over there,” he said gesturing with his head to the east, out the left side of the truck. “There are others coming to help us—and to recover the weapons being hidden in the buildings where you were being held.”
“What weapons?” asked Rachel.
“Nuclear weapons,” her husband answered, picking up the Iridium phone and turning it on. The two women stared at him in stunned silence as he hit the autodial button for Skillings. When the Marine gunnery sergeant answered, Newman relayed the information Dyan had given to him and then asked, “How far out are you?”
“About ten minutes. Your Israeli friend should be there by now. I just finished talking to his command center.”
As Newman ended the call, he caught a shadow of movement in the mirror mounted on the driver's door. Adrenaline spiked through his gut, and he went for his gun. But before he could react, he heard Rotem's voice, barely above a whisper, “In the truck, show your hands!”
Newman dropped the gun into his lap and held his empty hands out the window. Suddenly, the masked face of an Israeli commando was at the door, an Uzi with a silencer pointed inside. He lowered the weapon and motioned for them to come out, and the three slipped out of the truck cab. Dyan stumbled into her husband's arms.
The rest of the IDF commandos deployed around the tank farm and the two vehicles, ignoring the reunion embrace as they continued their vigilance. Newman could see one of them examining theMercedes, while several others set up a machine gun on the berm surrounding the two fuel tanks.
After waiting a minute or two, Newman, who was standing beside the truck with his arm around Rachel's waist, said, “Ze'ev, the British are coming.”
Rotem looked up, smiled, and said, “I think I've heard that line before. Anyway, how close are they?”
“About five minutes,” replied Newman. He then repeated what Dyan and Rachel had told him about the number of enemy and what little the women knew of the layout inside the IST compound.
Suddenly the IDF officer was all business again. “All right, Peter, you and the women get back into the cab of the truck. Since you do not have strobes, the British might mistake you for the enemy if you are out in the open. Everyone has been instructed to avoid any fire at this truck and the fuel tanks because we will need the fuel to get home. “Here,” said the IDF major, handing Newman a handheld Motorola radio, “use this to stay in touch with us. It's encrypted and it has been preset to the frequency your Gunnery Sergeant Skillings and I are both using. My call sign is Joshua. His is Samuel. Yours is Papa November.”
As Rotem turned to give final instructions to his men for laying down a base of fire to protect the Royal Marine Commando assault force, they heard the faint sound of helicopters approaching from the west.
International Scientific Trading, Ltd.
At Tanf, Syria
Tuesday, 24 March 1998
2050 Hours, Local
The assault force swooped in ten minutes early, so low and so fast out of the southeast that even Newman, holding his night-vision device, didn't see them until they opened fire. The Cobras came in first; four of them, without lights—at twenty-five feet, traveling at 125 knots, their 20mm M-197 three-barreled Gatling guns taking out targets inside the compound that appeared on the Cobra gunners' FLIRs. The five lookouts on the rooftops never knew what hit them. None of them even got off a shot. Nor did any of them have a chance to alert those in the courtyard or inside the buildings as to what was happening.
Then, as the Cobras wheeled around to make another pass, this time with TOW and Hellfire missiles, out of nowhere four CH-46s landed on the runway—two of them almost directly in front of Newman and in full view of the walled compound—to disgorge their Royal Marine commandos. The .50-caliber machine guns mounted on the aging birds opened fire at the compound to pin down anyone who might have survived the Cobra runs, assuring that no one inside could return fire. And no one did. The Royal Marines on the ground raced for the back gate of the IST compound.
As they deployed in the attack, Newman came up on the handheld radio that Rotem had given him and announced, “All Gibraltar and Joshua units, this is Papa November. The hostages are no longer on the premises. They are with me in the fuel truck. They do not—repeat, do not—know which building the nuclear weapons are in. Recommend that you avoid damage to building 3. That's my best guess where the weapons might be.”
He received brief acknowledgments from both Skillings and Rotem, and now Newman could see the Royal Marines forming to assault the compound itself as the now empty CH-46s “Frogs” lifted and relocated to the east end of the runway, awaiting fuel. To his right, Newman watched as a squad of British commandos deployed along the back wall of the compound. There was a brief huddle, then the squad leader tossed a hand grenade, and he and his men rushed the first building. They immediately took fire from the second story of the barracks building.
Skillings came back up on the radio. “Papa November, I'm headed your way with two men. We need to move the fuel truck down to the far end of the runway and start refueling the ‘Frogs.’”
“Roger that,” Newman replied into the radio. “Take Rachel and Dyan with you and put them on the lead bird. Did you bring me the extra set of NVGs and the strobe?”
“Affirmative.”
“Peter, what are you doing? Where are you going?” cried Rachel.
“I've got one more thing to do. We need to find Komulakov and bring him in. It's the only way we'll ever get our lives back, Rachel. I want him, and I'm going to go get him.”
As he spoke, one of the Cobras swept overhead, and there was an ear-splitting roar as it unleashed a volley of five-inch rockets at one of the buildings in the complex. Off to their right, a series of bright flashes and crashes confirmed that the missiles found their mark.
Suddenly, Skillings was beside the truck with a Royal Marine—and another Brit, one Newman suddenly recognized. Bruno Macklin had come with them on the raid. The SAS captain was thinner than Newman remembered him from three years earlier, but he still had the same irrepressible smile. “Hey Colonel,” Macklin shouted over the din of small arms fire and exploding grenades, “here's a flak and helmet. The strobe is on top. The NVGs are already on. I'm going with you to get Komulakov. I don't want anything to happen to him. He owes me too!”
Newman shook his head in amazement, and then he turned, reached inside the cab of the truck, touched his wife's face, and said, “I love you, sweetheart. Now go with Gunny Skillings to the helos. I'll meet you there in a few minutes.” He quickly jumped from the cab of the truck and put on the armored vest and helmet, stuffing the sat phone into one of the front pockets of the vest and the Motorola radio into the other. Then, grabbing an M-4 carbine from Skillings, the Marine lieutenant colonel and the SAS captain jogged off toward the compound. Newman's leg muscles, cramped from two days of sedentary hiding, almost failed him. But by the time they arrived at the breached gate, the adrenaline coursing through his body had driven away the stiffness.
Newman and Macklin flattened themselves against the wall beside the breached portal. The once formidable steel gate was now a tangle of bent metal hanging by one hinge, apparently hit by a high-explosive rocket from one of the Cobras. Inside, they could hear the crack of rifles and automatic weapons as the Marines of Four-Two Commando poured well-aimed small arms fire into the windows of the two-story barracks building.
Pointing his M-4 at the guest house, Newman shouted to Macklin, “We've got to get
over there. I watched Komulakov coming and going from that building for the last two days. I think that's where the snake is hiding.”
Macklin cautiously peeked around the wall, taking note of the building Newman had identified—as well as the fact that there was still a heavy volume of fire coming from the barracks. Both men could see Royal Marines pinned down inside the courtyard. Some appeared to be wounded. “We'll need some covering fire or we'll never make it,” Macklin shouted over the din.
Newman pulled the Motorola radio out and said, “Any Gibraltar or Joshua unit, this is Papa November. If anyone has comms with the Cobras, request covering fire on the south face of the barracks building!”
Immediately, a voice came over the net, “Papa, this is Snake Leader. Stand by. In fifteen seconds, Snake Two-Zero and Snake Two-One will do a pop-up from outside the south wall and work over the south face of the target building with overhead rocket and cannon fire. Make sure everyone stays down.”
Newman replied, “Roger.” He shoved the radio back into the pocket of his vest and shouted to Macklin, “Get ready!”
Moments later, two Cobras popped up over the wall and, from a hover, opened fire with their Gatling guns and rockets. The noise was horrific as tracer rounds and 2.75-inch rockets poured into the windows of the barracks. Pieces of brick, mortar, and wooden window casing flew in every direction. With the rounds spewing only a few feet over their heads, Newman and Macklin, bent almost double, raced the fifty meters to the “guest house” where Newman suspected Komulakov to be hiding.
As the Marine and the SAS officer crouched by the front door of their objective, catching their breath, behind them the steel door of the nearby concrete communications blockhouse opened a crack, revealing the ugly snout of an AK-47. The gunman had a clear shot at both Newman's and Macklin's backs. Neither man was aware that they had suddenly become targets. But in all the noise and combat, the gunman hadn't noticed the two Cobras hovering just beyond the south wall of the compound. The gunner of the left-hand Cobra, seeing the flare of heat from the doorway on his FLIR, reacted immediately. Placing the crosshairs of his cursor on the crack in the door, he toggled the switch on his stick to “Hellfire” and squeezed the trigger. The missile had barely armed when it hit the door. Newman and Macklin were knocked to the ground by the concussion as the blockhouse erupted in a fireball. As they huddled against the wall of the guest house, debris from the satellite dish that had been atop the communications structure rained down around them. Newman struggled to his feet, his ears ringing from the explosion, and he felt, rather than heard, the Iridium satellite phone buzzing in the pocket of his armored vest. As he took out the phone to answer, he noticed the time: 2105. The attack had been underway for only a quarter of an hour. It seemed like much longer.
