Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Naphtali thanked the Mossad chief and turned to his trusted defense minister to get his assessment.

  Levi Shimon took a deep breath and stared at a stack of reports on his desk. After a moment, he looked up and looked straight into the camera, straight into the eyes of the prime minister and his other colleagues on the video teleconference, ranging from the vice prime minister for strategic affairs and the IDF chief of staff to the head of military intelligence and the foreign minister, the head of Israeli internal security, and several others.

  “I don’t know the answers to questions one and two,” he conceded. “But at this point, do they really matter? We know Mustafa has made an alliance with Iran and now the Twelfth Imam. We know Mustafa wants to obliterate us. We know Syria has massive stockpiles of chemical weapons. We know they could be minutes away from launching everything they have at us. I say we hit them now, while we still can. We can put as much firepower on the two air bases as you want. But I say it’s time to go and go hard.”

  DAYR AZ-ZAWR, SYRIA

  Still barreling up Highway 4, David and Torres now had to slow down significantly as they left a swath of farmland and villages and entered the outskirts of the city of Dayr az-Zawr with its population of about two hundred thousand residents. David played navigator while Torres kept his eyes on the road. Rather than turning north into the city proper and heading toward the Ali Bek Quarter, they bore left, still on Highway 4, through the Maysaloun Quarter.

  “The convoy is on Highway 7, approaching the city from the southwest,” Zalinsky said over the speakerphone.

  “How far?” Torres asked.

  “About half a klick,” Zalinsky said, tracking their every movement via video feeds from two Predators in the heavens above them. “In a moment, they’ll be turning onto Highway 4, heading straight toward you. Now listen, you’ve got to hit them before they make that turn and head for the air base. You need to get to the intersection where Highway 7 and 4 meet before they do,” Zalinsky insisted, the anxiety in his voice palpable. “If they get past that point, you won’t be able to stop them before they enter the base, and believe me, they have seriously ramped up security on that base in the past hour. Tanks, armored personnel carriers, sharpshooters on the roofs. They’ve even got helicopter gunships on the tarmacs warming up.”

  “They haven’t put the gunships in the air?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Eva just intercepted a transmission from General Hamdi. He doesn’t want any Syrian jets or choppers in the air, lest it make the Israelis nervous and they decide to launch a first strike. And of course, all civilian aircraft has been grounded since the war began.”

  Torres was making the best time he could, but traffic was building. What’s more, he was also afraid of catching the attention of local police. Getting pulled over for speeding—or triggering a high-speed chase—was the last thing they needed. But Zalinsky was furious. Shouting through the satphone, Zalinsky unleashed a withering barrage of obscenities. He ordered them to blow through this city at all costs or miss the convoy, which was just minutes away from its intended destination.

  David agreed, and Torres hit the gas again. He wove in and out of traffic, shifting from one lane to another, laying on the horn and flashing his lights as he went. David glanced behind them. Crenshaw was losing ground. He simply couldn’t maneuver the semi through so much traffic, and David saw his plan unraveling before his eyes. He couldn’t see Fox in the van at all because he was bringing up the rear.

  Checking his map one more time, he noticed there was a huge stadium or sports complex of some kind coming up on their right. But now he tossed the map aside, rechecked his seat belt, grabbed his MP5, and made sure it was locked and loaded.

  “They’re almost at the junction!” Zalinsky shouted. “They’re about to turn onto Highway 4. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Move it! You’re going to miss them!”

  Torres was gaining ground, but it wasn’t enough. So without warning, he turned the wheel hard to the right and swerved the SUV onto the sidewalk. He laid on the horn nonstop and accelerated. Businessmen and couples and young children dove off the sidewalk, ducking into shops and jumping onto the hoods of cars. David was terrified of hitting a civilian, but he had no control at this point and one objective. If they didn’t make it to that intersection, a million innocent civilians were going to be in grave danger.

  David could see the stadium coming up fast on their right. Then suddenly he heard the horn of the tractor trailer blasting behind them. He turned and was stunned by what he saw. Crenshaw had crossed the median and was accelerating into oncoming traffic. Brilliant, David thought, wishing he’d had the idea himself. By heading into oncoming traffic, Crenshaw was forcing drivers coming toward him—drivers who could see this maniac coming at them—to veer off to the left or the right to avoid a head-on collision. And that’s precisely what they were doing.

  Fox, on the other hand, had chosen his own alternate route. He was literally driving on the grassy median between the eastbound and westbound lanes. He was occasionally having to weave in and out of the many trees that had been planted in the median, but to David’s shock, Fox was rapidly gaining ground.

  “Zephyr, do you still have Omid’s walkie-talkies with you?” Zalinsky asked.

  David turned and focused exclusively on what was ahead.

  “Yes, sir, I’ve got one,” David replied. “The other is in the semi.”

  “Good. Turn yours on and switch to channel six,” Zalinsky ordered and then relayed the same information to Crenshaw in the 18-wheeler.

  “I’m a little busy at the moment, sir,” Crenshaw replied, still forcing his way up the wrong lane.

  David turned on his radio and didn’t like what he heard. Sure enough, they’d stirred up a hornet’s nest. Local police in every part of the city were being alerted to the chaos ensuing along the southern edge of town, and they were being told to converge at the intersection of Highway 7 and Highway 4. The real question, though, was whether they had lost the element of surprise. Did the security forces in the convoy expect an attack, or did they just think a few drunk drivers were tearing up the town?

  Sirens could be heard coming from all directions. And then—just as they were racing past the stadium—a pregnant woman pushing a stroller came around a corner. David screamed. So did Torres. Torres slammed on the brakes. He swerved back into the street, but it was too late. Not for the woman or her baby. By the grace of God, they were safe. But Torres plowed straight into a police cruiser that had just entered the intersection.

  There were two Syrian officers in the patrol car. Both looked stunned, but they immediately jumped out, guns drawn.

  “Get out!” one shouted at Torres. “Get out of the car! Now!”

  “We are Revolutionary Guards,” Torres replied as calmly as he could. “We are on a mission for Imam al-Mahdi.”

  “I don’t care who you are,” the officer shouted back, his pistol aimed at Torres’s head. “Put your hands in the air and get out of the car slowly—don’t make any quick movements.”

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  CIA director Roger Allen now joined Tom Murray and Jack Zalinsky and their team in the Global Operations Center.

  “What in the world is Torres doing?” Allen asked as he looked up at one of the large-screen video monitors and saw Marco Torres, the head of their paramilitary unit, carefully exiting his SUV at gunpoint while a second officer pointed his weapon at the head of David Shirazi—aka Zephyr, the linchpin of their Iran strategy—who was now exiting the backseat of the SUV.

  Zalinsky cringed. On the other screen he could see the Iranian-Syrian convoy rapidly approaching the intersection, and no American was there to stop them.

  DAYR AZ-ZAWR, SYRIA

  Suddenly Crenshaw found an opening. The traffic had cleared. He now had a straight shot at their objective. Laying on the horn, he blew past Torres and Shirazi and careened headlong into the intersection just seconds ahea
d of the convoy, with Fox in the van close on his heels.

  Every head turned and every eye was riveted as Crenshaw finally slammed on the brakes and the 18-wheeler’s rear wheels began fishtailing. At that very instant, the driver of the police cruiser leading the convoy hit his brakes as well, but not nearly in time. The police car hit the side of the semi going a hundred kilometers an hour. The force of the impact sliced off the entire roof of the car, instantly decapitating the Revolutionary Guards in the front seat, and then both the car and the semi erupted in flames that shot twenty and thirty feet into the air.

  Behind them, the drivers of both ambulances slammed on their brakes as well, but there was no time to stop. They both crashed into the police cruiser and the semi and into each other. A fraction of a second later, Fox careened the van into the side of the rear ambulance at full speed, without ever braking, sending the ambulance rolling a dozen times or more into a rocky, barren field on the other side of the street.

  For a moment, the Syrian police officers were transfixed—as was David—by the massive wreck in front of them. Fire and smoke. Burning rubber. Flying shards of glass and metal. And blood everywhere. But then one of the officers came to. Without warning, he swung back around, his pistol aimed at Torres, and Torres had no time to react. The officer pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. One of the bullets went wide, shattering what was left of the front windshield of their SUV. But the other two hit Torres in the chest, sending him crashing to the pavement.

  David couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Nor could the officer beside him. David saw his chance. He ducked down and reached for the MP5 on the backseat. Then he popped up again and took out the officer closest to him. He pivoted quickly and fired two short bursts at the officer on the other side of the car—the officer who had shot Torres—killing him instantly. David now scrambled around the front of the car. He got to Torres’s side, but it was already too late. His friend was dead, his eyes still open. Though he knew it was pointless, David checked for a pulse, but there was none to be found. This was it. He was gone. And David was enraged.

  He began sprinting for the center ambulance, the one with the warhead. Several IRGC officers were beginning to crawl out of the mangled vehicle when they saw David coming at them. He was moving quickly and firing the MP5 in short bursts. Two of the Iranians—the two closest to him—went down. But the two on the other side of the ambulance got away, one breaking to the left, the other to the right.

  David reached the ambulance. He could see a casket-like box in the back and wanted to confirm that was the warhead. But fires were raging all around him. The heat was unbearable, and the thick, acrid smoke made his eyes sting and water. He tried to wipe them clean, but doing so seemed to irritate them more. Then, out of the corner of his right eye, he saw one of the Iranian officers he’d shot reaching for his pistol and preparing to take aim. David unleashed another burst from the machine gun, and the man died instantly.

  Suddenly David heard gunfire behind him. Ducking down, he scrambled for cover behind the ambulance. This was not the plan. This was not the operational concept that he and Torres had sketched out or that Zalinsky had approved. That plan had been much more subtle. They would jackknife the semi at the intersection, creating a roadblock. But the rest of the team would take up positions that would enable them to ambush the convoy when it arrived. Fox was supposed to have parked along Highway 4 in such a way that when the convoy arrived and was blocked by the semi, he could pull in behind them and cut off their exit route. At that point, they were going to open fire with machine guns, sniper rifles, and even an RPG. The objective was to kill or wound every Revolutionary Guard with the convoy, get to the warhead, and dismantle it, rendering it completely inoperative, no matter what it took. David had been clear with his men: destroying the warhead was the objective. Nothing else mattered. Nothing could distract. No matter who on the team was wounded or who was killed, the survivors—or survivor—had to keep to the objective. Whoever got to the warhead first, it was his responsibility. A million souls depended on their commitment to achieving their objective at all costs.

  Now that plan was shot. The scene was absolutely chaotic. The semi was nearly completely consumed by flames. The lead police car was a molten shell. Torres was dead. David had no idea of the whereabouts or condition of Fox or Crenshaw. He desperately scanned in every direction, looking for them and for hostiles. At the moment, he saw no one he knew and no one threatening.

  Just then there was an enormous explosion to his right. The van Fox had been driving was flying through the air amid a gigantic spray of flames and smoke. Had Fox escaped? Was he okay? Where was he? David was flooded with questions, but more shooting erupted. It was coming from the other side of the semi. His thoughts turned to Crenshaw. Was his teammate in trouble?

  David agonized. He knew his orders. He knew what Zalinsky expected, and he knew everyone in the Global Ops Center and the White House Situation Room was watching. But as much as he needed to get into the ambulance, identify the warhead, and begin dismantling it, he couldn’t help himself. He had to make sure Crenshaw was okay. The gunfire on the other side of the semi was rapidly intensifying. Was it a diversion? Was it a trap? David knew he shouldn’t go. He had a job to do. He had a mission to accomplish, and he wasn’t supposed to be diverted. The future of Israel hung in the balance. But at that moment, he could only think of saving the life of Nick Crenshaw.

  David gripped the MP5 tightly. He could hear sirens coming from every direction and suddenly had the strongest sensation of déjà vu. He had a flashback of his escape from Tehran with Najjar Malik, but now the stakes were so much higher. He wasn’t after a nuclear scientist. He was after a nuclear bomb. Indeed, he’d found it. It was right beside him. Why then was he moving away from it?

  46

  DAMASCUS, SYRIA

  Esfahani’s phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Commander Asgari. I need to speak to General Jazini.”

  “He is meeting with Imam al-Mahdi just now,” Esfahani replied. “But I can have him call you back.”

  “No, I must talk to him immediately,” Asgari demanded. “His son is dead. I believe an Israeli or American hit team is coming to assassinate the Mahdi at this very hour. And I believe they know about the warheads in Damascus.”

  DAYR AZ-ZAWR, SYRIA

  David moved steadily to his right, aiming for the front of the semi but continually glancing from side to side and behind him lest he get caught off guard. For a moment, he brushed up against the truck’s engine. It was blazing hot.

  He looked up and saw dark black smoke pouring from the shattered window of the cab. Then he noticed a red streak on the cab, coming from the window. He looked down and saw blood on the ground, mixed with a thousand bits of glass. Crenshaw was alive. Or at least he had been when he jumped out of the truck. Was he still? Did he have a weapon with him?

  A machine gun fired, and David heard pings of metal as bullets ricocheted off the truck next to him. Instinctively he dropped to a crouch and wheeled around, only to find a Revolutionary Guard officer racing toward him with an AK-47. David aimed his MP5 and pulled the trigger, cutting the officer down but emptying his magazine in the process. Scanning for other hostiles, he ejected one magazine and popped in another. Then he began moving toward the gravely wounded officer, who was squirming in his own blood.

  The man was not dead. Indeed, a first glance suggested he could still live, but there was nothing David could do for him now. He had to find Crenshaw and Fox. So David took the officer’s pistol, shoved it into his own belt, then slung the man’s machine gun over his shoulder and moved quickly back to the front of the cab.

  David reached for his satphone. He needed to call Zalinsky. He needed help. But he couldn’t find it. He checked both front pockets and both back pockets. But the phone was gone. It must have fallen out somewhere between the SUV and here, David concluded. His stomach tightened as the sobering thought dawned on him t
hat he had no way to contact either Langley or his men. He had no air support, and he had precious little time to disable the warhead.

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Zalinsky was screaming at the video monitors, shouting at David to get back to the ambulance and unable to fathom why his key operative on the ground was letting himself be drawn away from the warhead.

  But now he saw new threats rapidly materializing. Two armored personnel carriers were coming up Highway 4 from the air base, no doubt filled with Syrian special forces. That wasn’t all, however. Murray noted that a tactical unit from the local police department, the Syrian equivalent of a SWAT team, was approaching from the other direction. Zalinsky’s heart sank. There was no way David, much less Fox or Crenshaw—if those two were still alive—were going to make it out of this in one piece, much less have time to disable that warhead, unless they got help from above and quickly.

  Zalinsky knew the answer, and he knew it was going to be no. He knew because that was his answer when he’d had Eva Fischer arrested for doing the exact same thing. What’s more, he knew just the act of asking was going to hammer the last nail in his coffin after this disastrous operation. Yet he did it anyway. He’d recruited David Shirazi for this mission. He’d trained him. He’d deployed him. And he’d been David’s handler through it all. Zalinsky couldn’t abandon his man now.