by Tom Clancy
Coffey looked up at him. "Phil?"
"Yeah, Lowell?"
"Help me up. I want to stretch too but my goddamn legs are like rubber."
"Sure," Katzen said. He put his hands under Coffey's armpits and helped him to his feet. As soon as Coffey was standing, Katzen released him tentatively. "You okay?"
"I think so," said Coffey. "Thanks. How about you?"
Katzen turned to the mesh side of the pit. "Shitty. Lowell, I have to tell you something. I didn't get up to stretch."
"What do you mean?"
Katzen looked up at the grate. Rodgers was shrieking now in clipped bursts. He was fighting the pain and losing. "Oh, for God's sake stop!" Katzen moaned. He looked down and shook his head from side to side. "Jesus God, make them stop."
Coffey wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. "It's kind of ironic," he said. "We're in God's backyard and He isn't even listening. Or if He is," Coffey added apologetically, "He's got a plan that's not making much sense to me."
"To me either," Katzen said. "Unless we're wrong and these other people are right. Maybe God is on their side."
"On the side of monsters like this?" Coffey said. "I don't think so." He took two halting steps across the pit and stopped beside his coworker. "Phil? Why did you get up? What were you going to do?"
"I was thinking of stopping this."
"How?" Coffey asked.
Katzen put his head against the mesh wall of the pit. "I've dedicated my life to saving endangered animals and ecosystems." He lowered his voice to a loud whisper. "I've done that through action, by risking my life."
"You've got a streak of steel in you," Coffey said. "I've told you that many times. Me? I don't know how well I'm going to stand up under — under that." He looked up quickly and then back. He leaned closer conspiratorially. "If you're thinking of trying to get the hell out of here, I'm with you. I'd rather die fighting than cringing. I think I'm strong enough for that."
Katzen looked at Coffey in the faint light falling from above. "I'm not thinking about starting a war, Lowell. I'm thinking about ending one."
"How?"
Katzen shut his eyes as Rodgers howled louder than before. It was only a short cry because the general bit it off. But it tore through Katzen's bowels. After a moment, he leaned closer to Coffey.
"When the ROC is turned on, when it's completely on, the locator will go on too," Katzen said. "Op-Center is sure to locate it. When they do, the military will blow the hell out of it and the terrorists with it. It won't be used against anyone."
"Wait a minute. Are you suggesting we help these people?"
"They're burning Mike alive," Katzen said, "and God knows what they'll do to Sondra. By taking some kind of initiative we have a chance of living. Or at least dying with dignity."
"Helping these bastards isn't dying with dignity," Coffey said. "It's treason."
"To what?" Katzen asked. "A rule book?"
"To your country," Coffey said. "Phil, don't do this."
Katzen turned his back on Coffey. He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the grate. Coffey came around to face him.
"I've fallen way short of my potential in a lot of ways," Coffey said. "I can't now. I couldn't live with myself."
"This isn't your doing," Katzen said. He pulled himself up so that his mouth was pressed against the cool iron. "Stop it out there!" he yelled. "Come get me! I'll tell you what you want to know!"
Silence fell in pieces. First Pupshaw, then the hiss of the burner, then Rodgers and DeVonne. It was broken as footsteps crunched on the dirt. Someone shined a flashlight down at Katzen. The environmentalist dropped back down to the bottom of the pit.
"You've decided to speak?" asked a deep voice.
"Yes," Katzen said. "I have."
Coffey turned away from him and sat back down.
"What is your group?" the deep voice demanded.
"Most of these people are enviromental researchers," Katzen said. He shielded his eyes against the bright light. "They were here studying the effects of dambuilding on the ecosystem of the Euphrates. The man you're torturing is a mechanic, not anyone's 'superior officer.' I'm the one you want."
"Why? Who are you?"
"I'm a United States intelligence officer. The Turkish colonel and I came along to use some of the equipment in the van to spy on Ankara and Damascus."
The man above was silent for a moment. "The man beside you. What is his specialty?"
"He's an attorney," Katzen said. "He came along to make sure we didn't break any international laws."
"The woman we have out here," said the man. "You say that she's a scientist?"
"Yes," said Katzen. He prayed to God that the man believed him.
"What is her specialty?"
"Culture media," Sondra said. "Gelatinous substances containing nutrients in which microorganisms or tissues are cultivated for scientific research. My father holds patents in those areas. I worked with him."
The man switched off the flashlight. He said something in Arabic. A moment later the grate was lifted. Katzen was pulled out at gunpoint. He stood before a dark-skinned man with a scar across his face. To the left, from the corner of his eye, he could see Rodgers hanging from his wrists. Sondra was tied to the wall on the right.
"I don't believe that you are environmentalists," said the commander. "But it's no matter if you're willing to show us how to work the equipment."
"I am," said Katzen.
"Tell him nothing!" Rodgers gasped.
Katzen looked directly at Rodgers. His legs weakened as he saw the general's mouth, which was still contorted with pain. As he looked at the dark, glistening areas of burned flesh.
Rodgers spat blood. "Stand where you are! We don't take orders from foreign leaders!"
The dark-skinned man spun. He swung a fist hard at Rodgers's jaw. The blow connected audibly and snapped the general's head back. "You take orders from a foreign leader when you're the guest of that leader," the man said. He turned back to Katzen. His mood was less amiable now. "Whether you live depends only on whether I like what you show me."
Katzen looked at Rodgers. "I'm sorry," he said. "Your lives are more precious to me than that principle."
"Coward!" Rodgers roared.
Sondra pulled at her chains. "Traitor!" she hissed.
"Don't listen to them," the commander said to Katzen. "You've rescued them all, including yourself. That is loyalty, not treason."
"I don't need your stamp of approval," Katzen said.
"What you need is a firing squad," DeVonne said. "I played your game because I thought you had a plan." She looked at the commander. "He doesn't know anything about the van. And I'm not a scientist."
The commander walked up to her. "You're so young and so talkative," he said. "After we see what the gentleman does know, my soldiers and I will come back and speak with you."
"No!" Katzen said. "If any of my friends are hurt, the deal is off!"
The commander turned suddenly. In the same motion, he slapped Katzen with a vicious backhand. "You do not say no to me." He regained his composure at once. "You will show me how to operate the vehicle. You will do so without any further delay!" He slid his left hand behind Sondra's head and held it tightly. Then he seized her jaw with his right hand and squeezed her mouth into an O. "Or will you work better hearing her cry as we use a knife to pry out her teeth one by one?"
Katzen held up his hands. "Don't do that," he said as the tears began to flow again. "Please don't. I'll cooperate."
The commander released Sondra as a man pushed Katzen from behind. He stumbled ahead. As he walked past the Striker, her eyes felt more lethal than the gun at his back. Dark slits, they cursed him to his soul.
Katzen winced as he walked through the cave into the sunlight. Tears continued to flow. He wasn't a coward. He'd protected harp seals by shielding them with his own body. He simply couldn't let his friends suffer and die. Even though, after this day, he knew that these people who had been so imp
ortant to him for over a year would be his friends no more.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, 12:43 p.m.,
Tel Nef, Israel
Shortly after noon, the C-141B landed in the fields outside the military base. Colonel August and his seventeen soldiers were already dressed in their desert takedown fatigues and camouflage face scarves and flop hats. They were met by Israeli troops who helped setup tents which would conceal their cargo.
Captain Shlomo Har-Zion met Colonel August with a typed message. It was written in matte gray-ivory ink on a white background which reflected the sun. August had experience with these kinds of field documents. The medium guaranteed that the information would not be read by reconnaissance personnel who might be positioned in the surrounding hills. The details were not spoken of. Electronic surveillance and lip-readers were used extensively by Arab infiltrators.
August tempered the reflectivity by moving the paper around as he read the message. It indicated that Op-Center had found a likely location for the ROC and the hostages. An Israeli operative had been dispatched to the area and would reconnoiter ahead of Striker. He would contact Captain Har-Zion directly. If the intelligence proved correct, then Striker was to move in at once. August thanked the superior officer and told him he'd join him shortly.
August helped as the Strikers and the Israelis off-loaded and prepped the vehicles. The six motorcycles were rolled out under a camouflage canopy and stored in the tents. The four Fast Attack Vehicles came next. Engine connections were checked to make sure that nothing had shaken loose during the flight. The.50-caliber machine guns and 40mm grenade launchers were also carefully examined to make sure that the mechanisms and sights were clean and aligned. The C-141B left quickly after refueling, lest it be spotted from the hills or by Russian satellites. The information would be relayed quickly to hostile capitals in the region and used against Washington at a later date.
While the team examined their equipment, August and Sergeant Grey went to a secure, windowless building at the base. With Israeli advisors the two Strikers reviewed maps of the Bekaa region, and talked with the Israelis about possible dangers in the area. These included land mines as well as farmers who might be part of an early warning network. The Israelis promised to listen for shortwave transmissions and jam any they might pick up.
Then there was nothing to do beyond what August did worst.
He had to wait.
THIRTY-NINE
Tuesday, 1:45 p.m.,
the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon
Falah had walked most of the night and slept briefly before the sun came up. The sun was his alarm clock and it had never failed him. And the darkness was his cloak. That had never failed him either.
Fortunately, Falah had never required a great deal of sleep. As a young boy growing up in Tel Aviv, he'd always felt that he was missing something if he slept. As a teenager, he'd known he was missing something when the sun went down. And as an adult, he had too much to do in the dark.
One day it will catch up to you, he thought as he made his way.
Equally fortunate, after being driven to the Lebanese border, Falah had been able to make most of the first leg of his journey before resting. It was a seventeen-mile trek to the mouth of the Bekaa, and he found an olive grove well away from the dirt road. Covered with fallen leaves for warmth and concealment, Falah had the Lebanese Mountains to the west and the foothills of the Anti-Lebanon range to the east. He made certain there was a break in the peaks where he rested. That would allow the rising sun to kiss him before it cleared the mountains and woke others in the valley.
Virtually every village in Syria and Lebanon has its own preferred style of dress and cloth. Wraps, robes, trousers, and skirts with distinctive patterns, colors, tassels, and accoutrements are more varied here than anywhere in the world. Some of the styles are based on tradition, others are based on function. Among the Kurds who had moved into the southern Bekaa, the only traditional article of clothing is the headdress. Before leaving Tel Nef, Falah had gone into the "closet," a well-stocked wardrobe room, to dress for his role as an itinerant farm worker. He'd selected a ratty black robe, black sandals, and a characteristic black, stiff, tasseled headdress. He'd also chosen heavy, black-framed sunglasses. Under the torn, loose-fitting robe, Falah wore a tight rubber belt strapped to his waist. Two waterproof pouches were attached to it. One, on his right hip, contained a fake Turkish passport with a Kurdish name and an address in a Kurdish village. He was Aram Tunas from Semdinli. The pouch also contained a small two-way radio.
The other pouch contained a.44 Magnum revolver which had been taken from a Kurdish prisoner. A coded map printed with food dye on dried lambskin was tucked into the pouch with the radio. If he were captured, Falah would eat the map. Falah was also given a password which would identify him to any of the American rescuers. It was a line Moses had uttered in The Ten Commandments: "I will dwell in this land." Bob Herbert had felt the password for the ROC's Middle East mission should be something holy, but not something from the Koran or the Bible that someone might say inadvertently. When challenged after giving the line, Falah was to say that his name was the Sheik of Midian. If he were captured and the password tortured or drugged from him, chances were good an imposter would not think to ask for the second part. The impersonator would then give himself away by answering with the name on Falah's passport.
The Israeli also carried a large cowskin water pouch over his left shoulder. Over his right shoulder was a duffel bag with a change of clothes, food, and an EAR — an Echelon Audio Receiver. The unit consisted of a small, collapsible parabolic dish, an audio receiver/transmitter, and a compact computer. The computer contained a digital recorder as well as a filter program which was based on principles of the Doppler effect. It allowed the user to choose sounds by echelon or layer. At the press of a button on the keypad, the audio which reached the listener first was eliminated to make way for that which came next. If the acoustics were good enough, the EAR could hear around corners. The audio data could also be stored for later transmission.
Less than five minutes after he woke, Falah was bent over a stream, sucking water through a minty reedstalk. As he savored the cool water his radio vibrated. With the throw of a switch, the radio could be made to beep. However, when he was working undercover or stalking an enemy who could be concealed anywhere, that was not something Falah desired.
Crouching, Falah chewed on the reed as he answered. He never sat down in the open. In an emergency, it took that much longer to get to his feet.
"Ana rahgil achmel muzehri," he answered in Arabic. "I am a farmer."
"Inta mineyn?" asked the caller. "Where are you from?"
Falah recognized the voice of Master Sergeant Vilnai, just as Vilnai had surely recognized his. For the sake of security, the two men went through the exchange of codes just the same.
"Ana min Beirut," Falah replied. " I am from Beirut." If he'd been injured he would have answered, "Ana min Hermil." If he'd been captured he would have said, "Ana min Tyre."
As soon as Falah had said that he was from Beirut, Master Sergeant Vilnai said, "Eight, six, six, ten, zero, seventeen."
Falah repeated the numbers. Then he pulled the map from the pouch. There was a drawing of the valley with a grid sketched on top of it. The first two numbers of the sequence directed Falah to a grid box. The second pair of numbers indicated an exact spot within the grid. The final two numbers referred to a vertical location. They meant that the cave he sought was situated point-seventeen miles up the side of a cliff, probably along a road.
"I see it," Falah said. Not only did he see it, but it was the perfect place for a military base. There was a gorge behind it which could easily accommodate helicopters and training facilities.
"Go there," Vilnai replied. "Reconnoiter and signal if affirmative. Then wait."
"Understood," the young man said. "Sahl."
"Sahl," Vilnai answered.
Sahl meant "easy" and it was Falah's individual s
ign-off. He had selected the word because it was ironic. Due to Falah's high success rate, his superiors had always chided him that he'd picked the word because it was true. As a result, they kept threatening to give him more dangerous assignments. Falah dared them to find more dangerous assignments.
After replacing the radio, Falah took a moment to study the map. He groaned. The cave he sought was nearly fourteen miles away. Given the incline of the hills and the rough terrain here, and allowing for a short rest, it would take him approximately five and a half hours to reach his destination. He also knew that as soon as he entered the valley his radio would be ineffective. In order to communicate with Tel Nef he'd have to use the EAR's uplink.
Spitting out the reed he'd been chewing, Falah pulled up a few more for later. He tucked them in the deep cuff of his robe and started out. As he walked, he ate the map for breakfast.
Falah was out of condition. When he reached the cave shortly after noon, his legs felt like sacks of sand and his once-tough feet were bleeding at the heels. There were large calluses on the balls of both feet and his skin was greasy with sweat. But the discomfort was forgotten as he arrived at his destination. Through the dense copse he saw rows of trees and a cave. Between the woods and the cave, on a sloping dirt road, was the white van. It was covered with a camouflage tarpaulin and was guarded by two men with semiautomatics. A quarter mile away was a road-cut which led behind the mountain.
Falah crouched behind a boulder some four hundred yards away. After unshouldering his duffel bag he dug a small hole. He carefully collected the dirt in a neat pile beside it. Then he looked around for a large clump of grass. Finding one, he removed it and set it on top of the mound of dirt.
Now that he was ready, Falah turned his attention to the cave. It was located roughly sixty feet up the side of a cliff, just above the tree line. It was accessible only by a sloping dirt road. He took a quick look at the ground-level terrain. He knew there would be land mines within and around the copse, though he would have no problem finding out just where those mines were. When Striker arrived, he would simply surrender to the Kurds. They would come and get him. Wherever they walked would be mine-free.
