Assassin's Silence

by Ward Larsen

  Bryan’s eyes blinked open. “Can’t a man get no sleep ’round here?” he mumbled in his Deep South drawl.

  They had taken off from Frankfurt six hours earlier, enroute to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, with a brief logistics stop at Incirlik Air Base in Turkey. Nearing the end of a six-day run, and having traversed nine time zones, everyone was dead tired. The copilot, Captain Bob McFadden, was running the show in the right seat, and Staff Sergeant Roy Willis, the loadmaster, had crashed somewhere in back. McFadden brought up the message, read it once and said, “Skipper, you need to take a look at this.”

  Bryan ambled forward, banging his knee on the center console as he arrived. “Dang it!” He recovered and admonished McFadden, “I told you to quit with that skipper stuff. Do it one more time and I’m gonna give you a mop and make you swab the deck.” McFadden was a former Marine, and a Connecticut Yankee to boot. But he was a damned good pilot, which was why the 183rd Airlift Squadron had hired him out of active duty last year.

  “All right,” Bryan said, “where’s the fire?”

  McFadden pointed to the message, and Bryan saw an amended tasking order: they were to divert to a new destination at maximum practical speed. He’d never seen anything like it. He’d also never heard of the airfield. “What the hell?”

  “What do you make of it, sir?”

  “No idea. I’ve diverted for bad weather or to deliver troops to a hot spot … but this is strange. That mission priority is one they talk about on checkrides, but outside nuclear war I never figured I’d see it. So where is—” he double-checked the message, “Wujah Al Hajar Air Base?”

  The ever-efficient McFadden began scrolling through navigation charts, but came up empty. “I don’t see it.”

  “Look here,” Bryan said, pointing to the message, “they gave us a lat-long.”

  McFadden typed in the coordinates, and a manual waypoint symbol lit to the aircraft’s map display. “Fifty-two nautical miles east,” he said.

  “East? You mean—”

  “Yep,” McFadden said, seeing the problem. “Smack in the middle of Lebanon.”

  Bryan, wide awake now, slid into the left seat. “I got the airplane. You start typing. Find out if this is for real or if one of our old bar buddies is yankin’ our chain.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Tuncay watched Walid start the number three engine. A pneumatic starter spun the big fan, and when Walid raised the start lever to idle, fuel sprayed into the engine’s combustion chamber. Nothing else happened.

  “Something is wrong!” Walid said in a clipped voice. “Number three is not lighting off.”

  “Stop the start!” Tuncay commanded.

  Walid moved switches and the big turbofan wound down, its signature hum lowering in pitch until silence reigned. “What now?” he asked.

  Tuncay frowned severely.

  “We need a mechanic,” Walid said.

  “Yes, I will call right away!” Tuncay replied sharply. “A power-plant specialist who is familiar with General Electric CF6 engines. That should be simple enough on a deserted Lebanese airfield in the middle of the night. Oh, and we must warn our mechanic not to go near the fuselage amidships because that’s where the radiation is.”

  Walid went silent.

  A fuming Tuncay pondered the problem. They were not excessively heavy—the aircraft had a minimum fuel load—so it was possible they could take off on two engines. Unfortunately, that would require a great deal of runway, and their best chance of not crashing on takeoff to begin with was to use as little of the rutted concrete as possible. There was also the matter of the thrust asymmetry introduced by a dead but windmilling starboard engine. Would it be manageable? Would the craft yaw to one side and careen into the hills? There was no way to tell.

  He was mulling it all when the increasingly useless Walid said, “Look! The circuit breaker for the number three engine ignition has popped.”

  Tuncay looked at the vertical panel above and behind his copilot where hundreds of circuit breakers were arrayed. Sure enough, the tiny round button through which power flowed to the number three engine ignition system had popped, removing DC current from the igniters.

  Walid looked at Tuncay, who nodded. He turned in his seat and reset the breaker by pushing it in.

  They went through the start sequence a second time, and both men held their breaths. The starboard engine lit off and spun to life perfectly.

  Walid sat with a smile etched on his face.

  Tuncay could have kissed him.

  * * *

  “NVGs?” Lieutenant Colonel Bryan said. “They want us to land at some place we’ve never been using night vision gear?”

  “That’s what the order says,” said McFadden, who’d been exchanging a continuous stream of messages with CENTCOM. “They want our approach to be lights-out until just before landing. We’re supposed to block the runway so an MD-10 that’s parked there can’t take off.”

  “Well now ain’t that just fresh! Is there any kind of instrument approach I can use to line up with this runway?”

  “Uh … no, sir. I asked about that, and it seems the reason I couldn’t find this airport in our nav database is because it’s closed.”

  “Closed?” Bryan exclaimed.

  “As far as I can tell, it shut down over twenty years ago.”

  Bryan gave his copilot a look that caused the ex-Marine to freeze. He rang the loadmaster on the intercom.

  A sleepy voice answered, “What’s up, Colonel?”

  “Willis, tell me again what we’re carryin’ back there.” After nearly a week of trash-hauling, the manifests had run together in Bryan’s sleep-deprived brain.

  “Only nine pallets, but it’s heavy stuff. A couple of replacement engines for Seventh Corps armor, and a load of gear for a Special Forces unit—I’m not exactly sure what it is, but the hazmat log lists a thousand pounds of high explosives.”

  “We’ve been diverted and we’ll be landing in ten minutes—be ready!”

  “Ten mi—”

  Bryan snapped the switch that removed Sergeant Willis’ voice from the intercom. He checked the navigation display and saw they had thirty-nine miles to go. “A night diversion to land at a closed airport with NVGs … and I’m carrying half a ton of high explosives! Christ on a bike, can it get any better?”

  At that moment, the Lebanese air traffic controller sounded on the radio. “Reach Four-One, I show you off course. You are approaching Lebanese airspace! Turn right heading two two zero immediately!”

  The pilots stared at one another.

  McFadden said, “If we don’t say something they might try to intercept us.”

  “No, Lebanon doesn’t have any fighters … at least, I don’t think they do.”

  “They have surface-to-air missiles.”

  Bryan keyed his microphone, “Lebanon Control, Reach Four-One is declaring an emergency! We’ve lost two engines and require an immediate diversion!”

  The air traffic controller started to say something, but Bryan took off his headset. From here on out, the radio would be nothing but a distraction. “Thirty-two miles. Get in the box and build me an approach as best you can to that runway.”

  “How do I know which way is into the wind?”

  “To hell with the winds. Go with whichever side has the least terrain.” McFadden started typing on the navigation computer. “When you’re done, go and dig out the NVGs—and while you’re at it, say a little prayer that the batteries are good.”

  * * *

  There was no mistaking the sound of the engines.

  Being an experienced soldier, Ben-Meir only glanced at the MD-10 as it prepared to move. From his position on a tree-shrouded promontory, and without the use of his optics, the aircraft was no more than a dim outline. The jet’s navigation lights remained extinguished, which meant the only manufactured light was a pale white glow from the cockpit windows.

  Ben-Meir turned away and surveyed the hills one last time. After months of planning and p
reparation, his part of the mission would be complete in a matter of minutes. It had not been easy—he’d lost three men, the entire assault force he’d recruited. The kidon had been better than he’d imagined. Or perhaps more fortunate. Their original intent had never been to eliminate Slaton. Indeed, quite the opposite. But then he’d lost Kieras in Malta, followed by Stanev in Zurich. By the time of the encounter in Wangen, all bets were off as far as he was concerned. Still the kidon had survived.

  It hardly mattered. Ben-Meir pulled his collar up against the cool night air. This time next week, I will be in a very warm and pleasant place.

  Through his optics he saw nothing to the east or south, his primary areas of responsibility. Of course, with Ghazi standing watch on the opposite hill, Ben-Meir knew he was effectively responsible for the full swing of the compass. He searched farther afield and saw a distant herd of goats, and in a wadi at the bottom of the valley the abandoned hulk of a car, its metal losing heat more quickly than the surrounding earth. He lowered his night scope, breathed a sigh of relief, and was trying to recall the check-in time for his morning flight out of Beirut when the report of a shot echoed through the hills.

  Ben-Meir snatched up his optics and checked Ghazi’s position. More shots rang out, one of them sounding a different pitch. A second weapon. He spotted two figures. One was unfamiliar, staggering and leaning on a tree. The outline of a hot-barreled rifle lay on the ground nearby. The second figure was moving, making awkward but steady progress toward the runway. Ben-Meir recognized Ghazi’s bulky parka, marked with the IR reflective tape he had wrapped around each wrist.

  Ben-Meir scrambled down the hill, stopping periodically to scan for other threats. The man in Ghazi’s abandoned position had gone still, his back propped against a tree. Ben-Meir realized that Ghazi was heading directly for the aircraft. Idiot.

  They didn’t have a communication link set up—there had been no time to acquire the hardware, nor to train a chemist on the fundamentals of tactical communication. When he’d heard the first shot Ben-Meir feared he would see a strike force, a dozen or more commandos ghosting in from all directions. Yet things seemed quiet, no more shots, no darting movement through the hills. Someone had stumbled across Ghazi’s position, he reasoned, and the nearsighted chemist had actually gotten the better of an armed shepherd or a smuggler—Mohammed, the demolition man he’d hired, had warned him the hills were thick with both.

  Ben-Meir neared the man leaning against the tree trunk with his weapon trained. His senses were keen, sight and sound filtering for the slightest deviation. He saw only a shoulder at first, and then the side of a watch cap. The head inside the knit cap was rolling, like a man about to lose consciousness. Ben-Meir saw a weapon on the ground, an unusual make but vaguely familiar—a high-end marksman’s rifle. Which meant he was looking at more than an errant goat-herder or a black-market smuggler.

  The man shifted against the tree, and Ben-Meir took no chances. From twenty meters he sent a round into the shoulder joint. A scream of pain, and the figure fell writhing to the ground. Both hands were in view now, comfortingly empty, and Ben-Meir lowered his gun to his hip over the last few steps. His target, facedown in the dirt, emitted a weak, liquid-filled groan. Ben-Meir rolled the man with his boot and saw a contorted face covered in blood and dirt. Saw the eyeglasses on the ground next to him.

  His chest tightened, and all too late Ben-Meir realized his mistake.

  He was looking at Ghazi.

  He spun and lunged sideways in the same motion. It didn’t save him.

  The first bullet struck squarely in his upper chest, an explosion of pain like nothing he’d ever experienced. The second round hit lower, a gut shot, and put him on the ground. Ben-Meir tried to focus. His weapon was in the dirt, just out of reach, and he thought with an odd detachment, So this is what it’s like. He had been on the other end of this exchange many times, and it was curiously illuminating to see things from the target’s perspective. He straightened his back long enough to meet his executioner.

  He was standing in Ghazi’s jacket, the chemist’s weapon poised in his hand. It was the kidon, of course, twenty meters away. After a completely silent approach, thought Ben-Meir appreciatively. The pain was excruciating and he hoped, in a mercy he had not always visited upon others, that the assassin would end things sooner rather than later.

  It was Zan Ben-Meir’s last thought of this world.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Five thousand miles away, twenty-three men and women sat motionless in the Langley Ops Center. For eight minutes they had watched in silence, mesmerized, as three pixelated images moved through the scrub-filled hills of central Lebanon. In an extraordinary game of cat and mouse, they saw the Israeli stalk one perimeter guard, disable him at close quarters, and then, for reasons no one could fathom at the time, trade clothing with his victim. Few in the command center held tactical experience on their resumes, and so the run of the ensuing sequence of events was unclear until the final, decisive shot. When the end came, as viewed from a satellite feed without sound or commentary, it was surreal. From half a world away, they had witnessed an assassin at work. A veritable theater of death.

  It was an NSA imagery tech, on loan from Ft. Meade, who finally broke the silence. “I would say those are confirmed kills.”

  Sorensen related the math, “Of the seven on our list, he’s now removed five.”

  Another voice asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Who is this guy?”

  Sorensen eyed the director, who nearly said something, but then demurred. She remembered the meeting in his office when he’d reacted to the name they had uncovered. David Slaton.

  “Sir, the MD-10 is on the move,” said the imagery tech.

  On two adjacent screens, everyone watched the massive jet pull out of its parking spot.

  “Where is that C-17?” Coltrane demanded.

  “Fourteen miles out.”

  “Will it get there in time to block the runway?” Coltrane asked.

  “It’ll be close,” said Davis, “but probably not.”

  The imagery tech said, “We may not need it.”

  All eyes went to the thermal image on the central monitor. The assassin was two kilometers from the runway. He was running fast with a rifle in his hand.

  * * *

  Tuncay steered the big jet carefully over the narrow taxiway, and decided that Wujah Al Hajar Air Base must have been built long ago—probably when propellers were used for propulsion, and certainly before aircraft had two-hundred-foot wingspans.

  “I hope this taxiway is stressed for a half-million-pound aircraft.”

  As if to answer, he sensed the jet’s main wheels begin to mire in the asphalt. Tuncay advanced the throttles to keep up momentum, but it felt as if they were taxiing through beach sand.

  “The runway is concrete,” Walid said. “Once we reach it we will be fine.”

  “Flaps twenty-five,” Tuncay commanded.

  “Twenty-five?” Walid questioned.

  “It is a higher than normal setting, but allows us to use less runway and lift off at a lower speed.”

  Walid nodded at this logic, and moved the flap lever to the gate marked 25. The wing flaps obliged, both men watching the gauge to be sure they extended properly. The two pilots ran a pre-takeoff checklist, and on reaching the runway Tuncay pirouetted the MD-10, pointing its nose toward the far end.

  “Landing lights?” Walid inquired.

  “No, there is just enough moonlight. I can see the runway.”

  “But why not turn on the lights?”

  “We don’t want to draw attention, Walid. Our landing lights can be seen for thirty miles, and if anyone sees us taking off they might alert the authorities. Besides, we don’t have to worry about other air traffic. This field hasn’t been used in thirty years.”

  Tuncay pushed up the throttles, and the three General Electric engines surged to full thrust. Even with the dense load amidships, they were nowhere near the aircraft’s maximum
gross weight. Acceleration was brisk, the cool night air and sea level pressure drawing maximum performance from the turbofans.

  Walid called out, “Eighty knots.”

  Tuncay made a brief cross-check of his own airspeed indicator. He had little trouble seeing the outline of the runway, the desert left and right discernable in the faint light. The big jet bounced and rattled over the beaten runway, and Tuncay prayed that none of the ten tires would fail. At 100 knots, Tuncay felt the controls stiffen in his hands as aerodynamic forces began to take hold. At 150, Walid called, “Rotate.” Tuncay began firm back pressure on the control column, pulling two hundred and fifty tons of metal into the air. At 170 knots, he instructed, “Landing gear up.”

  Walid was reaching for the gear handle, the jet no more than fifty feet in the air, when a light as brilliant as the sun appeared directly in front of them. It was absolutely blinding.

  “Pull up!” Walid screamed.

  On raw survival instinct, Tuncay did exactly that.

  * * *

  The disaster unfolded right in front of Slaton.

  He had been barely a hundred meters from the runway, standing in a shallow wadi etched during the airfield’s years of disuse, when his path reached the closest point to the lumbering jet on its takeoff run. He’d done his best to establish good footing and shoulder his weapon—he had hopefully retrieved the SVDS—but the futility was instantly clear. It was like pointing a BB gun at a two-hundred-mile-an-hour elephant.

  Slaton had dropped the gun to his side and stood helplessly. He felt the ground shake under his feet, felt the reverberations of three giant turbofans violating the still air. And then—the most amazing thing happened.

  The night sky came alive with light.

  He watched the big jet lurch upward in an outrageous maneuver, heard its engines surge to a thunderous, more desperate pitch. The massive outline seemed to hover for a moment, illuminated like a snapshot in the blackened sky.

  Only then did Slaton recognize the second jet.

  Its landing lights were ablaze as it dove for the ground. Two behemoths traveling in opposite directions seemed to merge above the runway, and Slaton tensed for a momentous collision, expecting a fireball like a supernova.