Acts Of War (1997)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 04

  "Like capturing important towns or killing opposition leaders."

  "Exactly," Herbert said. "That requires site-specific training. When combined with the other factors about communications, supplies, and commands, that means a more or less permanent base."

  "Maybe," Stoll said. He pointed at the monitor. "But not in caves like the soft-rock jobbers we have here. You can't reinforce those. Lookit. They're not very big to begin with, only about seven feet tall and five wide. If you throw in a lot of iron and wood supports, you'd barely have room to move around."

  Herbert chewed on a lingering coffee ground for a moment, then absently pulled it out. He looked at it. "Wait a minute," he said. "Dirt."

  "What?" Stoll asked.

  Herbert held out the dark ground and then flicked it away. "Dirt. You can't build much inside one of those caves but you can excavate. The North Vietnamese did it all the time."

  "You mean an underground bunker," Stoll said.

  Herbert nodded. "It's the perfect solution. It also narrows down our search. You can't blast a tunnel in caves like these or the roof'll come down on you--"

  "But you can dig one,", Stoll interrupted excitedly. "You've got to dig one."

  "Right!" Herbert said. "And to dig, you need dirt."

  "From the descriptions on those pictures," Stoll said, "most of these caves were cut into the rock shelf by subterranean streams."

  "Most," Herbert said as the data came up, "but maybe not all."

  Stoll stored the Bekaa photographs and brought up the geological records which Katzen had organized before leaving for the region. Stoll and Herbert both leaned toward the monitor as Stoll ran a word-search for "soil." He came up with thirty-seven references to soil composition. The men began reading through each reference, looking for anything which suggested a recent excavation. They crawled through a mass of figures, percentages, and geological terms until something caught Herbert's eye.

  "Hold it," Herbert said. He slapped his hand on the mouse and scrolled back a page. "Look at this, Matt. A Syrian agronomical study from January of this year." Herbert began scanning down. "The team reported an anomaly in the Thicket of Oaks region of the Chouf Mountains."

  Stoll glanced at notes he'd been taking. "Ohmigod. That's the area where the ROC is."

  Herbert continued reading. "It says here the A horizon or topsoil there is characterized by unusually high biotic activity as well as an abundance of organic matter which is typically found in the B horizon substratum. Movement typically occurs from A horizon to B, carrying fine-grained clay downward. This concentration of substratum material suggests one of two things. First, that an effort was made to enrich the soil with more active earth, and then abandoned. Or second, it could be the result of a nearby archaeological dig. The level of biological activity suggests the deposits were placed here within the last four to six weeks."

  Stoll looked at Herbert. "An archaeological dig," he said, "or else a bit of bunker-building."

  "Absolutely possible," Herbert replied. "And the time frame fits. They found the soil four months ago. That means the digging was done five to six months ago. That would have been enough time to put together a base and train a team."

  Stoll began typing commands.

  "What are you doing?" Herbert asked.

  "The NRO routinely photographs the Bekaa," Stoll said. "I'm bringing up the recon files of the region for the last six months. If there was any digging, they may not have done it all by hand."

  "Yeah, those caves might just be wide and tall enough," Herbert said. "And if they brought in a backhoe or bulldozer, even at night--"

  "There would be deep tire tracks," Stoll said. "If not from the equipment itself, then from the truck or flatbed which carted it in."

  When the files were loaded, Stoll accessed a graphics program. He pulled up a file and typed Tire Treads. When the menu appeared, he typed, No Automobiles. The computer went to work. Just over a minute later, it offered a selection of three photographs. Stoll asked to see them. All three showed distinct tread-bar marks in front of the same cave. It was the cave from which the soil had been excavated.

  "Where's the cave?" Herbert asked.

  Stoll asked the computer to find the cave in its geography file. It took just a few seconds for the coordinates to come up.

  Stoll held up his can of Tab. "Here's dirt in your eye," he said as he triumphantly slugged the rest of it down.

  Herbert nodded quickly as he snapped up his cellular phone, put in a call to Major General Bar-Levi in Haifa, and told him about the map which was about to be modemed over.

  * * *

  THIRTY-SIX

  Tuesday, 1:00 p.m.,

  Damascus, Syria

  Over the past twenty years, Paul Hood had been to dozens of crowded airports in many cities. Tokyo had been big but orderly, packed with businesspeople and tourists on a scale he'd never imagined. Vera Cruz, Mexico, had been small, jammed, outdated, and humid beyond imagining. The locals were too hot to fan themselves as they waited for departures and arrivals to be written on the blackboard.

  But Hood had never seen anything like the sight which greeted him as he entered he terminal of the Damascus International Airport. Every foot of the terminal had people in it. Most of them were well dressed and well behaved. They held baggage on their heads because there wasn't room to keep it at their sides. Armed police stood at the gates of arriving aircraft to keep people out if necessary and help passengers get off planes and into the terminals. After the passengers deplaned, the doors of the gate were shut and they were on their own.

  "Are all of these people coming or going?" Hood asked Nasr. He had to shout to be heard over persons who were crying for family members or yelling instructions to friends or assistants.

  "They all appear to be going!" Nasr shouted back. "But I've never seen it like this! Something must have happened--"

  Hood elbowed sideways through the mob at the gate entrance. He thought he felt a hand reach for his inside jacket pocket. He stepped back against Nasr. His passport or wallet would both be valuable if people were trying to leave Syria. His arms tight at his sides, he got on his tiptoes. A white piece of cardboard with his name written in black was bobbing above heads about five yards away.

  "Come on!" Hood shouted at Nasr and Bicking.

  The men literally pushed their way to the black-suited young man who was holding the sign.

  "I'm Paul Hood," he said to the man. He wormed his arm behind him. "This is Dr. Nasr and Mr. Bicking."

  "Good afternoon, sir. I'm DSA Agent Davies and this is Agent Fernette," the young man yelled, cocking his head toward a woman standing to his right. "Stay close behind us. We'll take you through customs."

  The two agents turned and walked side by side. Hood and the others fell in, following closely as their escorts alternately shouldered, elbowed, and pushed their way through the crowd. Hood wasn't surprised they didn't have a Syrian security contingent. He wasn't high-ranking enough to merit one. Still, he was surprised that there were so few police here. He was dying to know what had happened, but he didn't want to distract their escorts.

  It took nearly ten minutes to push through the main terminal. The baggage area was relatively empty. While they waited for their luggage, Hood asked the agents what had happened.

  "There's been a confrontation at the border, Mr. Hood," Agent Fernette replied. She had short brown hair and a clipped voice, and looked about twenty-two.

  "How bad?" Hood asked.

  "Very bad. Syrian troops surrounded Turkish troops which had crossed the border looking for the terrorists. The Syrians were fired upon and fired back. Three Turkish soldiers were killed before the rest of the border patrol managed to work their way back into Turkey."

  "There's been worse," Nasr said. "This panic is for that?"

  Fernette turned her dark eyes on him. "No, sir," she said. "For what followed. The Syrian commander pursued the Turks into Turkey and wiped them out. Executed the soldiers who surrendered."
>
  "My God!" Bicking cried.

  "What is his background?" Nasr asked.

  "He's a Kurd," Fernette replied.

  "What happened after that?" asked Hood.

  "The commander was dismissed and the Syrians withdrew," the woman said. "But not before the Turks moved some of their regular army troops and tanks to the border. That's where it sits the last we heard."

  "So everyone's trying to get out," Hood said.

  "Actually, not everyone," said Fernette. "Most of the people here are Jordanians, Saudis, and Egyptians. Their governments are sending in planes to evacuate them. They're afraid that their countries may come in on the side of the Turks and they don't want to be here if they do."

  After gathering their bags, Hood and the others were led to a small room on the far northern side of the terminal. There, they were hurried through customs and taken to a waiting car. As he climbed into the stretch limousine with its American driver, Hood smiled to himself. The President had to fly him to the other side of the world to get him into one of these.

  The ride north into the city was quick and easy. Traffic on the highway was light, and the driver came in around the city to Shafik al-Mouaed Street. He turned west and drove toward Mansour Street. The U.S. Embassy was located at Number Two. Both roads were deserted.

  Nasr shook his head as they headed down the narrow road. "I've been coming here all my life." There was a catch in his voice. "I've never seen the city so deserted. Damascus and Aleppo are the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. To see it like this is terrible."

  "I understand it's even worse in the north, Dr. Nasr," said Agent Fernette.

  "Has everyone left the city or are they indoors?" Hood asked.

  "A little of both," said Fernette. "The President has ordered the streets to be kept clear in case the army or his own palace guards have to move around."

  "I don't understand," Hood said. "All the activity is taking place one hundred and fifty miles north of here. The Turks wouldn't be reckless enough to attack the capital."

  "They're not," said Bicking. "I'll bet the Syrians are afraid of their own people. Kurds, like the officer who led the attack at the border."

  "Exactly," said Fernette. "There's a five p.m. curfew. If you're out after,that, you're going to prison."

  "Which is someplace you don't want to be in Damascus," Agent Davies said. "People are treated rather harshly there."

  Upon reaching the embassy, Hood was greeted by Ambassador L. Peter Haveles. Hood had met the career foreign service man once, at a reception at the White House. Haveles was balding and wore thick glasses. He stood a few inches under six feet, though his rounded shoulders made him seem even shorter. He'd gotten this post, it was said, because he was a friend of the Vice President. At the time, Haveles's predecessor had remarked that a man would only give this post to his worst enemy.

  "Welcome, Paul," Haveles said from halfway down the corridor.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador,"' Hood replied.

  "Was the flight pleasant?" Haveles asked.

  "I listened to oldies on audio channel four and slept," Hood said. "That, Mr. Ambassador, is pretty much my definition of pleasant."

  "Sounds good to me," Haveles said unconvincingly. Even as the ambassador shook hands with Hood, his eyes had already moved to Nasr. "It's an honor to have you here, Dr. Nasr," Haveles said.

  "It's an honor to be here," Nasr replied, "though I wish the circumstances were not so grim."

  Haveles shook Bicking's hand, but his eyes returned quickly to Nasr. "They are grimmer than you know," Haveles said. "Come. We'll talk in my office. Would any of you care for something to drink?"

  The men shook their heads, after which Haveles turned and extended a hand down the corridor. The men began walking slowly, Haveles between Hood and Nasr and Bicking beside Hood. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor as the ambassador talked about the ancient vases on display. They were top-lit, and looked quite dramatic in front of nineteenth-century murals showing events from the reign of the Umayyad Caliphs, during the first century A.D.

  Haveles's round office was at the far end of the embassy. It was small but ornate, with marble columns on all sides and a central drum ceiling reminiscent of the cathedral at Bosra. Light came through a large skylight in the top of the dome. There were no other windows. The guests sat in thickly padded brown armchairs. Haveles shut the door, then sat behind his massive desk. He seemed dwarfed by it.

  "We have our sources in the Presidential Palace," he said with a smile, "and we suspect they have sources here. It's best to speak in private."

  "Of course," said Hood.

  Haveles folded his hands in front of him. "The palace believes that there is a death squad in Damascus. The best information they have is that the team will strike late this afternoon."

  "Do we have corroboration?" Hood asked.

  "I was hoping you could help us there," Haveles said. "At least, that your people could. You see, I've been invited to visit the palace this afternoon." He looked at the antique ivory clock on his desk. "In ninety minutes, in fact. I've been invited to remain there for the rest of the day, talking things over with the President. Our chat is to be followed by dinner--"

  "This is the same President who once kept our Secretary of State waiting for two days before granting him an audience," Dr. Nasr interrupted.

  "And kept the French President sitting in an ante-chamber for four hours," Bicking added. "The President still doesn't get it."

  "Get what?" Hood asked.

  "The lessons of his ancestors," said Bicking. "Through most of the nineteenth century, they used to invite enemies to their tents and seduce them with kindness. Pillows and perfume won more wars out here than swords and bloodshed."

  "Yet those victories still left the Arabs in disunity," Dr. Nasr said. "The President does not seek to seduce us with kindness. He abuses foreigners in an effort to seduce his Arab brothers."

  "Actually," said Haveles, "I think you're both missing the point. If I may finish, the President has also invited the Russian and Japanese ambassadors to this meeting. I suspect that we will be with him until the crisis has passed."

  "Of course," Hood nodded. "If anything happens to him, it'll happen to you and the others."

  "Assuming the President even shows up," Bicking pointed out. "He may not even be in Damascus."

  "That's possible," Haveles admitted.

  "If an attack occurs," said Dr. Nasr, "even with the President away from the palace, Washington, Moscow, and Tokyo will find it impossible to support whoever staged the attack, whether it's the Kurds or Turks."

  "Exactly," said Haveles.

  "They could even be Syrian soldiers masquerading as Kurds," said Bicking. "They conveniently kill everyone except the President. He survives and becomes a hero to millions of Arabs who dislike the Kurds."

  "That's also possible," Haveles said. He looked at Hood. "Which is why, Paul, any intelligence you can come up with will be helpful."

  "I'll get in touch with Op-Center right away," Hood said. "In the meantime, what about my meeting with the President?"

  Haveles looked at Hood. "It's all been arranged, Paul."

  Hood didn't like the smooth way the ambassador had said that. "When?" he asked.

  Haveles grinned for the first time. "You've been invited to join me at the palace."

  * * *

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday, 1:33 p.m.,

  the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon

  Phil Katzen crouched on the mesh floor of the dark pit. He had quickly grown accustomed to the stale smell in his little prison. To the stench of the sweat and waste of those who had been incarcerated before him. Any lingering discomfort he felt passed when Rodgers's torture began. Then it was the smell of burning flesh which filled his nostrils and lungs.

  Katzen had wept when Rodgers finally screamed, and he was weeping still. Beside him, Lowell Coffey sat with his chin against his knees and his arms around his legs. Coffe
y was staring through Katzen.

  "Where are you, Lowell?" Katzen asked.

  Coffey looked up. "Back in law school," he said. "Arguing in moot court on behalf of a laid-off factory worker who had taken his boss hostage. I do believe I'd try that one differently now."

  Katzen nodded. School didn't prepare a person for much. In graduate school, he had taken specialized courses as part of his training for extended visits to other countries. One of these was a semester-long series of lectures by visiting professor Dr. Bryan Lindsay Murray of the Rehabilitation and Research Center for Victims of War in Copenhagen. At that time, just over a decade before, nearly half a million victims of torture alone were living in the United States. They were refugees from Laos and South Africa, from the Philippines and Chile. Many of those victims spoke to the students. These people had had the soles of their feet beaten mercilessly and had lost their sense of balance. They had had eardrums punctured and teeth pulled, tacks thrust under fingernails and toenails and cattle prods pushed down their throats. One woman had been enclosed in the bell, a glass dome which remained over her until her sweat had reached her knees. The course was supposed to help students understand torture and help them to deal with it if they were ever captured. What a big, fat intellectual sham that'd been.

  Yet Katzen knew that one thing he'd learned in the lectures was true. If they survived this, the deepest scars would not be physical. They would be emotional. And the longer the captivity went on, the less treatable their post-traumatic stress disorder would be. Fits of panic or chronic despondency could be brought on by re-experiencing anything they had suffered today. The smell of dirt or the sound of a scream. Darkness or a shove. Perspiration trickling down their armpits. Anything.

  Katzen looked at Coffey. In his fetal position and distant expression he saw himself and the others. The time they'd spent tied up in the ROC had enabled them to pass through the first phase of the long emotional road hostages faced--denial. Now they were moving through the numbing weight of acceptance. That phase would last for days. It would be followed by flashbacks to happier times--which was where Coffey was already headed--and finally by self-motivation.