Acts of War oc-4

by Tom Clancy

  Suddenly, it seemed as if a second flood had washed over Martha's office. First came Bob Herbert, who wheeled in with word that they had broken the repeating phone code from the ROC.

  "We broke the pulse signal," he said proudly. "The beeps represent the numbers 722528573. That has to stand for RC2BKVKRD, which appears to translate as 'ROC to Bekaa Valley Kurds.' Our people are being taken to the Syrian Kurd stronghold in the Bekaa."

  Even as Herbert was explaining the code, his wheelchair phone rang. He snatched it up. It was Chingmy Yau, one of his assistants, informing him that they'd lost the ROC on every one of their satellites.

  "How can that be?" Herbert demanded. "Are you sure there isn't an equipment failure on this end?"

  "Positive," said Chingmy. "It's as if someone nuked an area ten miles across. There's nothing but static."

  "What about the Rhyolite?" Herbert asked. The Rhyolite was a small, orbiting radio telescope in a 22,300-mile-high geostationary orbit. Guiding a high-gain beam to earth, it was able to detect even the faintest electronic signals. The most common of these signals was side-lobe energy, radio beam energy which spilled at angles from the main beam. Sigint specialists were usually able to decipher the primary messages from the contents of this leakage.

  "The Rhyolite's gone out too," Chingmy replied.

  "It's got to be interference from the ROC," Herbert said.

  "That's what we decided," Chingmy said. "We're working on reestablishing contact. But it's as if someone threw a blocking program into the ROC computers. They just don't want to let us in."

  Herbert told his assistant to update him one way or the other. Less than a minute later, before he could return to discussing the Bekaa Valley message with Martha, his phone rang again.

  "Yes, Ching?" he said. Only it wasn't his assistant this time.

  "I have someone who wishes to speak with you," said the caller.

  Herbert slapped the speaker button and fired a look at Martha. "Mike," he mouthed.

  Martha turned to her computer keyboard and typed:

  Priority One: Triangulate call on Bob Herbert's cell phone. Expedite.

  She E-mailed the message to Radio Reconnaissance Director John Quirk, then listened to Herbert's conversation.

  "What do you see when you look for your van?" asked the caller.

  "First tell me," said Herbert, "with whom have I the pleasure of speaking."

  "One who holds your van and its crew of six," the caller replied. "If you wish it to remain a crew of six instead of five, please answer."

  Herbert swallowed his quick temper. "We see nothing when we look for the van," he replied.

  "Nothing? Describe this nothing."

  "We see color static," said Herbert. "Confetti. Glitter."

  Herbert was watching Martha. She received a "Mapping in progress" reply from Quirk. From this point it would take the RRD another twenty-five seconds to position the caller.

  "Is there anything we can do for you all?" Herbert asked pleasantly as he slipped into his old Philadelphia, Mississippi, drawl. "Maybe we can talk about this, uh — this situation? Find a way to help you."

  "The only assistance we require is the following. We wish you to make certain that the Turkish government does not stop us from reaching and then crossing the border," the caller said.

  "Surely, sir, you must understand that we don't have the authority to do that."

  "Get it," the caller said. "If I ring you again, it will be so you can hear the sound of the bullet which ends the life of one of your spies."

  A moment later the line went dead. Martha gave Herbert a thumbs-up.

  "The ROC is exactly where the ES4 placed it," Martha said. "Right outside of Oguzeli, Turkey. It hasn't moved."

  "But it will," Herbert said.

  Martha swung her high-backed chair around so she was facing away from the others. Then she phoned her assistant and asked him to ring the Turkish Ambassador's office at the Chancery in Washington.

  While she waited, Herbert tapped the armrests of his chair.

  "What are you thinking, Bob?" Ann asked.

  "I'm thinking that I can't get anyone over to Oguzeli in time to follow the ROC," he said. "And if we try to watch it from space, all we'll get is ten miles of video and audio garbage."

  "Is there any other way you can do it?" Ann asked.

  "I don't know," Herbert said angrily. He was mostly angry at himself that this had happened. Security was one of his areas of responsibility.

  "What about the Russians?" Ann asked. "Paul is pretty close to General Orlov. Maybe their operations center in St. Petersburg can see it."

  "We had a scrambler built into the ROC so they couldn't," Herbert said. "Paul may be close to Orlov, but Washington and Moscow are still just dating." He punched his open palm. "The world's most sophisticated mobile intelligence unit and it gets coldcocked. Worse, the terrorists have access to our new SINCGARS-V."

  "What's that?" Ann asked.

  "Single-Channel Ground and Airborne System VHF," Herbert said. "It's a radio which hops at random over a wide range of frequencies during a single broadcast. Most SINCGARS-V, like the ones used by the U.S. Army, make a few hundred hops a second. Our unit makes seven thousand hops. Even if it's picked up by an enemy satellite, it's virtually impossible to decode. The people who have the ROC have both the transmitter and receiver."

  Martha waved them quiet as she spoke with the ambassador's executive secretary. Herbert sunk into a brooding silence. When Martha was finished, she turned the chair around. She was frowning.

  "There's a bit of a setback," she said.

  "What happened?" Ann asked.

  "In fifteen minutes I'll be talking to Ambassador Kande about the terrorists' request for non-intervention," Martha said. "But her deputy assistant doesn't think we'll be able to swing any kind of a deal for them. The ambassador has been given marching orders to do whatever's necessary to help find the dam-busters and bring them in, dead or alive. Fact is, I expect I'll get a lot of pressure to tell the Turks what we know."

  "Can't say I blame them," Herbert said, still brooding. "We could use a little more of that spirit in this town."

  "Blind justice?" Martha asked. "Lynch mob justice?"

  "No," Herbert replied. "Plain old justice. Not worrying about repercussions, like what nation is going to cut off our oil supplies if we do this, or which corporation is going to pull their billions from our banks if we do that, or which special interest group is going to get pissed off and uppity because we came down hard on some of their twisted brethren. That kind of justice."

  "Unfortunately," Martha said, "that kind of justice and this kind of country weren't made for each other. Due process is one of the things which made this country great."

  "And vulnerable," said Herbert. He exhaled. "Let's do this over a table of frozen yogurt when we're all done." He pointed toward Martha's computer. "Would you bring up a map of Turkey for me?"

  She obliged. Herbert wheeled toward the desk.

  "There are about three hundred miles of border between Turkey and Syria," he said. "If we've interpreted Mike's covert message correctly, and I think we have, the ROC is headed toward the Bekaa Valley. That starts about two hundred miles southwest of Oguzeli."

  Martha measured the distance with her thumb and index finger. She compared it to the scale on the bottom. "I make it to be less than a hundred miles of border between Oguzeli and the Mediterranean."

  "And the ROC'd be entering in a corridor much narrower than that," Herbert said. "With the Euphrates flooded by the dam blast, they'll probably stay pretty wide to the west of the river and then shoot straight down. That gives them a border window of about seventy miles to drop down through."

  "That's still a lot of area to cover, isn't it?" asked Ann.

  "And flyovers by Turkish jets or helicopters wouldn't be exactly low-profile," Martha said.

  "We might not need aerial recon," Herbert said, "and seventy miles isn't bad if you know where to look." He r
eached the computer and traced a line down through Turkey into Lebanon. "A lot of that terrain isn't going to be ROC-friendly. There are only one or two good roads in that region. If I can find someone with contacts along those roads, we may be able to spot them."

  "A Racman," Martha said.

  Herbert nodded.

  "Excuse me," said Ann. "A rack man?"

  "R-A-C-man," said Herbert. "The Redcoats Are Coming. Instead of Paul Revere, Samuel Prescott, and William Dawes on horseback warning the militias of Lincoln and Concord, we use a phone relay of people watching from their windows or hilltops or marketplaces. They report the target's progress to the Racman, who reports to us. It's primitive but efficient. Usually, the only potential problems with the system are leaks along the Racline, someone warning the target that they are a target."

  "I see," said Ann.

  "But that usually isn't a problem with the people I'm thinking of using," Herbert said.

  "Why not?" asked Ann.

  "Because they cut the throat of anyone who turns on them," Herbert replied. He regarded the map. "If the Bekaa's our arena, then Striker will have to land in Tel Nef. Assuming they get Congressional approval to go forward from there, they move north into Lebanon and into the Bekaa. If a Racman can meet them there, we've got a chance of getting everyone out."

  "And possibly saving the Regional Op-Center," Martha added.

  Herbert wheeled around. "It's a shot," he said as he rolled quickly toward the door, "and a good one. I'll let you know what I can set up."

  When he was gone, Ann shook her head. "He's amazing," she said. "Goes from James Bond to Huck Finn to Speed Racer in the space of a few minutes."

  "He's the best there is," Martha said. "I only hope that's good enough to do what has to be done."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monday, 11:27 p.m.,

  Kiryat Shmona

  This is better, thought Falah Shibli.

  The swarthy young man stood in front of the dresser-top mirror in his one-room apartment and adjusted his tribal red-and-white checkered kaffiyeh. He made sure the headdress sat squarely on his head. Then he brushed lint from the collar of his light green police uniform.

  This is much, much better.

  After serving seven long and difficult years in the Sayeret Ha'Druzim, Israel's Druze Reconnaissance unit, Falah had been ready for a change. Before joining the local police force, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd worn a clean uniform., His darker Sayeret Ha'Druzim greens had always been crusted with dirt or sweat or blood. Sometimes it was his own blood, more often than not it was someone else's. And he'd usually worn a green beret or helmet, rarely his own headdress. If only his head were sticking up from a foxhole or over a wall, he didn't want an overanxious Israeli mistaking him for an infiltrator and shooting at him.

  Falah took one last look at himself. He was as proud of his heritage as he was of his adopted land. He turned off the dresser light, shut off the fan on his nightstand, and opened the door.

  The cool night air was refreshing. When the twenty-seven-year-old first joined the small police force in this dusty northern town, he'd asked for a night job directing traffic. His work with the Sayeret Ha'Druzim had been so intensive, not to mention so damned hot, he needed the break. Let the years of sunburn fade a little so the wrinkles around his eyes didn't stand out quite so much. Let the old wounds heal — not just the torn muscle from gunshot wounds, but the still-calloused feet from the long patrols, the flesh ripped by crawling over sharp rocks and thorns to capture terrorists, the spirit rent by having to shoot at fellow Druze.

  Very few terrorists came through this kibbutz town. They picked their way through the barren plains to the east and west. Except for the occasional drunk driver or stolen motorbike or car accident, this job was blessedly uneventful. It was so quiet that on most nights, he and the owner of a local bar, a former Sayeret Ha'Druzim gunner team commander, were able to spend a half hour trading gossip. They did so in special forces fashion, standing under streetlights on opposite sides of the road and blinking the information in Morse code.

  As Falah stepped onto the wooden stoop that was too small to be called a porch but had a folding chair on it anyway, the phone rang. He hesitated. It was a two-minute walk to the station house. If he left now, he'd be on time. If it was his mother calling, it would take at least that long just to tell her he had to go. On the other hand, it could be his adorable Sara. She'd been talking about taking a day off from her bus route. Perhaps she wanted to see him in the morning

  Falah went back into the apartment and snatched up the old, black dial phone.

  "Which of my ladies is this?" he asked.

  "Neither," said the man's voice on the other end.

  The tall, dark-haired young man moved his heels together. His shoulders drew back. Coming to attention was conditioning which never left when your former commander addressed you.

  "Master Sergeant Vilnai," Falah said. He said nothing more. After acknowledging a superior, the soldiers of the Sayeret Ha'Druzim responded with silent attention.

  "Officer Shibli," said Sergeant Vilnai. "A jeep from the border guard will be arriving at your apartment in approximately five minutes. The driver's name is Salim. Please go with him. Everything you need will be provided."

  Falah was still at attention. He wanted to ask his former superior, "Everything I need for where and how long?" But that would have been impertinent. Besides, this was an unsecured line.

  "I have a job here—" Fallah said.

  "Your shift has been taken care of," the sergeant informed him.

  Just like my job, Falah thought. "Take this position, Falah," the sergeant had said. "It will keep your skills in good repair."

  "Repeat your orders," said the NCO.

  "Border patrol jeep, driver Salim. Pickup in five minutes."

  "I'll see you around midnight, Falah. Have a pleasant ride."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you."

  The caller hung up. After a moment, so did Falah. He stood there staring at nothing in particular. He'd known this day would probably come, but so soon? It had only been a few weeks. Just a few. He'd barely had time to get the burning sun of the West Bank out of his eyes.

  Will I ever? he asked himself as he went back outside.

  The question bothered Falah as he sat heavily in the chair and looked up at the brilliant stars. It bothered him almost as much as why he'd picked up the goddamned telephone. Not that it would have made a difference. Master Sergeant Vilnai would have climbed into a Jeep and come to the station house to get him. The Sayeret Ha'Druzim NCO always got what he wanted.

  The charcoal-gray jeep arrived on schedule. Falah pushed off on his knees and walked around to the driver's side.

  "ID?" he said to the baby-faced driver with a buzz cut.

  The driver removed a laminated card from his shirt pocket. Falah examined it in the glow of the dashboard light. He handed it back.

  "Yours, Officer Shibli?" the driver asked.

  Falah scowled and pulled the small leather billfold from his pants pocket. He opened it to his police ID card and badge. The driver's eyes shifted from Falah to the photo, then back again.

  "It's me," Falah said, "though I wish it weren't."

  The driver nodded. "Please get in," he said, leaning across the seat and opening the door.

  Falah obliged. Even before the door was shut the driver had swung the jeep around.

  The two men headed north in silence along the ancient dirt road. Falah listened to the pebbles as they spat noisily from under the jeep's tires. It had been a while since he'd heard that sound — the sound of haste, of things happening. He decided that he didn't miss it, nor had he expected to hear it again so soon. But they had a saying in the Sayeret Ha'Druzim: Sign for a tour, sign for a lifetime. It had been that way ever since the 1948 war, when the first Druze Muslims along with expatriate Russian Circassians and Bedouins volunteered to defend their newborn nation against the allied Arab enemy. Then, all of the non-Jews w
ere bunched together in the infantry group called Unit 300 of the Israel Defense Force. It wasn't until after the 1967 Six-Day War, when Unit 300 was a key to turning back King Hussein's Royal Jordanian Army on the West Bank, that the IDF and the Unit 300 leader Mohammed Mullah formed an elite Druze reconnaissance splinter group, known as Sayeret Ha'Druzim.

  Because they were fluent in Arabic, and because they were parachutist-qualified, it was common for Druze recon soldiers to be recalled into active service and dropped into Arab nations to gather intelligence. These assignments could last anywhere from a few days to a few months. Officers preferred to draw on retired soldiers for these assignments since it saved them from having to raid active units. They preferred most of all to draw on soldiers who had fought with the IDF when they invaded southern Lebanon in June of 1982. The Sayeret Ha'Druzim were in the front lines of the battles around the Palestinian refugee camps. Many of the Israeli Druze were forced to fight their own relatives serving in the Lebanese armed forces. Moreover, the Sayeret Ha'Druzim were obliged to support the fierce historic enemies of their people, the Maronite Christian Phalangists, who were warring against the Lebanese Druze. It was the ultimate test of patriotism, and not every member of the Sayeret Ha'Druzim passed. Those who did were revered and trusted. As Sergeant Vilnai had wryly observed, "Proving our loyalty gave us the honor of being first in line to get shot at in subsequent conflagrations."

  Falah had been too young to serve in the 1982 invasion, but he'd worked undercover in Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq, and dangerously in the open in Jordan. The Jordanian assignment had been the last, not to mention the shortest and most difficult. While patrolling a border sector in the Jordan Valley after a terrorist attack on the town of Mashav Argaman, Falah had gone ahead of his small force of soldiers. He noticed that a hole had been cut through the thick rows of concertina wire which had been stretched along the border — a sign of infiltration. The single set of tracks led back into Jordan. Afraid that he might lose the terrorist, Falah raced ahead alone, pushing a quarter mile into the desert hills. There, following the footprints and his nose, he entered a gully. Moving ahead cautiously, he spotted a man who fit the description of the assassin who had shot a local politician and his son. Falah didn't hesitate. One couldn't in this part of the world. He swung his CAR-15 around as the Jordanian turned and aimed his AK-47. The guns fired simultaneously and both men went down. Falah had been wounded in the shoulder and left arm. The Jordanian had been killed.