Cairo Countdown at-5

by Dick Stivers

  The three men sprinted through the dust and smoke. Gadgets saw Lyons crouching outside a door. Did he have a rifle or what?

  Sliding on the tiles, jarring into Lyons, Gadgets took cover inside, reached back to grab Mo-man, then Blancanales. The AKs down the hall fired wild.

  A shrieking flame answered.

  The gift from the Soviet Union rocked the building, but now, instead of murdering Israeli children or housewives, the warhead vaporized the group of fanatics cowering behind a two-foot-thick brick wall.

  “Superior firepower,” Lyons shouted as he reloaded and recocked the Russian weapon. “Taxi driver. Read what’s on those boxes. Any of those SAM-7s?”

  “No antiaircraft missiles,” Mohammed told them. “Only infantry weapons.”

  “Rockets for everyone,” Lyons ordered. “Get with it! We got to search this hellhole. Room by room.”

  In the crates, they found vests that served as load-bearing equipment for carrying rockets. The vests looked like bibs with long pockets in the front. The four men slipped into the vests, crammed rockets in the huge pockets. Gadgets and Mohammed took launchers. They went to the door.

  Gadgets turned to Blancanales and Lyons. “What happens if we fire these point-blank?”

  “Don’t know…”

  “Don’t!” Mohammed told them. “A friend did in Lebanon.”

  “Move it,” Lyons said. “Find those SAM-7s and we go home.”

  Stepping to the doorway, Mohammed stayed behind the shelter of the wall and fired diagonally across the hall. Backblast seared the apartment’s wall. The blast itself sent chunks of brick bouncing through the hallway.

  Gadgets went next, leaning into the hallway, firing at the back apartment. Heavy with weapons and rockets, they rushed into the swirling dust and smoke. Pausing only to check on the position of their partners, Gadgets and Mohammed fired rockets continually, reloading on the run.

  Vast holes appeared in apartment walls. Rushing through doorways, they looked for more of the Russian-marked crates. They found none. The other rooms held only personal possessions of the terrorist group. They saw walls covered with posters of Khomeini and Arafat and the red, white, green and black flag of the PLO.

  Flames licked from burning furnishings. Through the smoke, Mohammed saw a movement in a doorway. He ran to the door, shoved the launcher out at arm’s length and fired blind. The explosion in the apartment threw Blancanales back against the wall.

  Slugs punched the wall next to Blancanales’s head. Lyons spotted a form in the smoke, fired an Uzi in each hand.

  “Down!” Gadgets shouted out. “Rocket ready!”

  The others went flat as Gadgets dodged from a doorway and fired the RPG from his hip.

  The rocket’s explosion sheared away a wall, smashed out a back wall.

  Blancanales crawled forward to glance into the last apartment. He saw only a torso and legs remaining of the gunman. Scanning the apartment quickly, he spotted no shipping crates.

  “No rockets in there. Maybe the old man meant the RPGs.”

  “Ironman,” Gadgets called over to him. “Time to get out of here! The Egyptians will call out the army!”

  “Not yet. We’ll search the other rooms on the floor, get out over the roofs.”

  “Those rockets! Look!” Mohammed shouted. He stood at a hole in the wall, gazing down at the alley behind the apartment building.

  Evening air cooled their faces as they all looked down. They saw teenagers scrambling over a truck. Some of the young men waved AK rifles at onlookers to warn them back, others struggled to cover the rack of rocket tubes on the back of the truck with a black tarp.

  “Dig that,” Mohammed laughed. “A Katyusha. That’s what that mullah saw…”

  The truck carried a rack of forty 122mm rocket-launching tubes. Though capable of raining a salvo of high explosives on a target, the rockets of a “Stalin’s Organ” flew like artillery shells, without infrared or radar-homing warheads. A Katyusha presented no threat to high-flying aircraft.

  “Wrong rockets, wrong goddamn place,” Lyons cursed.

  “As long as we’re here anyway…” Gadgets pulled off the safety cap of an RPG, cocked the launcher’s hammer. “Stand back for backblast!”

  Leaning through the shattered bricks, Gadgets sighted on the rack of rocket tubes and pulled the trigger. The flash lighted the night. “Katyusha out of order!” Mangled terrorists flew from the flaming truck. Bystanders scattered, though Gadgets had known his aim was sure enough to avoid reckless endangerment.

  A blast threw them back. Shock rocked the floor and walls. Sections of ceiling fell. As Blancanales hit the heaving floor, he saw the rear wall of the apartment building fall away. A wave of flame rushed upward. The night returned for an instant, then another sheet of flame roared up.

  Gadgets lay on the floor, stunned. Blancanales grabbed him by the coat sleeve to drag him back.

  “Secondaries! This is not the place to be!”

  Mohammed took Gadgets’s other arm. Lyons rose to his feet. He staggered with an Uzi in his right hand and another Uzi dangling by a strap from his left wrist.

  “Come on! The building’s falling!” Blancanales shoved Lyons over to Mohammed the taximan. “Move him out of here.”

  “Hey, it’s been a blast. But we gotta go!”

  Another explosion brought down more plaster and bricks. A slab of plaster broke over Lyons’s shoulders. He shrugged off the white dust, staggered after the others, steadying himself with his left hand against the wall. Blood streamed from his hair, flowed down his face. Mohammed glanced back at him, grabbed his arm and helped him toward the stairs.

  “You all right, man? You ready to go up those stairs?”

  “The rockets are here,” Lyons gasped, the Uzi clattering against the wall. “They’re here someplace.”

  “We got their rockets! So forget about finding any more, okay? Please? We hit any more rockets in this place, we check in El Motel Allah.”

  “I mean, in Cairo. In Cairo. The rockets are in Cairo.” He staggered, blew blood off his lip. “Somewhere.”

  10

  Through the thick bullet-resistant glass of the limousine window, tinted gray to block out the desert glare and the gaze of the common people, the lights became abstract patterns of amber and pale blue. Katz watched the distorted images of the Cairo night float past as he listened to Sadek and Parks.

  The young CIA officer, his face unshaven and lined, eyes red with fatigue, talked quietly with the bored, always-dapper Sadek. They reviewed notes, cross-checking names and addresses against a map of the greater Cairo area.

  “I understand the restraints on your personnel, but we must have information on the government employees at the airport.”

  “It will take weeks,” Sadek repeated. “We do not investigate individuals simply because they express sympathy for these groups or their ideals. We respect religious expression.”

  “Religious expression? Mobs screaming ‘Death to the Great Satan’? Let’s start with the workers from the international airport that my people recognized.”

  “Often what a foreigner might consider fanaticism is only the expression of a fervent devotion to Allah. However, we are aware of the activities of certain individuals. Next month, we will have a complete list of suspects…”

  That petty, self-important bureaucrat, Katz thought as he observed the Egyptian officer, listened to his smooth excuses. The flashy English and American styles, the lcd watch, perfect tie — all of it offended the Israeli colonel.

  Katz had no respect for this playboy. Despite the bureaucrat’s record of service with the Egyptian Second Army, Sadek was unlikely to have been a veteran of the Sinai. Perhaps a veteran of office politics, corridor wars, but not of fighting in the dust and diesel-filth and horror of an armored assault.

  Sadek: wealthy, pompous, useless. He had no doubt purchased a military commission, then bribed his way to a career. Such men crowded the government and armed forces. They had led the ar
my to constant defeat.

  Sadek once accepted the gold of the Soviets, now he took the dollars of the Americans. A loyal and trustworthy friend to whatever foreign power dominated Egypt: Turkish, English, Soviet, American.

  And Parks thought of Sadek as a patriot. The Americans bought the mediocre government leaders, the vainglorious army officers of many nations — Egypt; El Salvador; years before, Vietnam — and called them patriots.

  A purchased friend of the United States. Katz had no reason to trust Sadek. The fanatics of the Muslim Brotherhood had infiltrated every branch of the Egyptian armed forces and government. Why not also the corrupt?

  The limousine’s radio phone buzzed.

  “Parks here…” He listened for a moment, then passed the phone to Sadek. After a moment, Sadek slammed down the phone.

  “Terrorism. A major incident this time.”

  Parks and Katz had not waited to investigate the fanatics. Minutes after the SAM-7 missiles had destroyed the secret U-2, the surveillance of the airport personnel had become the focus of an ongoing program.

  After the disaster of the Iranian Revolution, the CIA had assembled a group of researchers and investigators to monitor the activities of the Muslim extremists in Egypt and Libya. This secret group operated independent of the Egyptian intelligence services. Sadek knew nothing of it.

  Eighteen months earlier, the American force of investigators had discovered the plot to murder President Sadat. But when the CIA had notified the Egyptians, the warning had never reached the officers responsible for President Sadat’s security. The next day, as Sadat had saluted a military parade, Muslim fanatics had jumped from a truck and had assaulted the reviewing stand where their president stood, firing their Soviet-supplied Kalashnikov automatic rifles point-blank into the only Arab who had had the courage to make both war and peace with the Israelis.

  Since that day, the CIA had maintained a careful distance from all Egyptian security officers.

  Within minutes of learning of the missile-downed American spy plane, the task force had assembled files of names and photographs of known fanatics employed at the international airport by the government of Egypt and the hundreds of private companies. Parks and Katz had then organized the operation against the fanatics. Parks had wanted to include Sadek in the mission planning. Katz had forbidden Parks to reveal any detail of the operation to any Egyptian.

  Now, as their limousine sped into one of the quarters of the ancient city, Sadek briefing Parks on the future Egyptian investigation, an unmarked United States Air Force F-16 taxied onto the runway of Cairo International Airport.

  “Executive Underwriters’ shuttle jet, requesting permission for takeoff…”

  *

  Almost a mile away, the late-night shift of flight controllers glanced at radar screens empty of tourist flights. Talking and joking as they chain-smoked, they followed the course of an air-freight flight crossing the Mediterranean coast. As he gulped coffee, one of the men watched a controller monitoring an outgoing flight at a console.

  “Please wait for updated atmospheric data,” Aziz Shawan murmured into his headset’s microphone. The controller reached to the tiny pager at his belt, pressed the unit three times.

  Seated a few feet away, the other controller noted the action. He excused himself from his friends and left the tower’s flight-control center.

  He went to the lounge. In a few hurried steps, he checked the restroom’s toilet stalls for other employees, then returned to the lounge. He dropped a coin into the pay phone.

  What he had seen, and this call to the Egyptian secret police, would earn a new color television for his home.

  But the number he dialed rang an office in the American aircraft hangar at the far end of the airport complex.

  In fluent, idiomatic Arabic, a CIA agent took the information. Slamming down the phone, he pressed an intercom button. “Our turkey in the con-tower called. He saw Aziz Shawan dispatch our flight, then press his pager, but not in response to any signal from the pager.”

  “Three tones, right?”

  “Yeah. You got it?”

  “Confirmed. Our team is listening into the transmission now. Evidently the Muslims are alerting their headquarters.”

  *

  On the runway, the pilot of the F-16 eased forward the throttle. As he gained speed, the runway lights became parallel streaks of light. Then the interceptor hurtled into the night. Holding down his speed, the pilot followed the flight path of the U-2 destroyed two nights before.

  Watching the display of the downward-looking radar, the pilot waited for the blips of uprushing missiles. One gloved hand reached for the switch of the electronic counter-measures. He spoke into his helmet’s microphone. “This is the Roadrunner. All set to smoke the Coyote.”

  Below, in the streets of Cairo, agents waited in cars and trucks. Technicians listened as the Muslim Brotherhood agent at the international airport told his superior about the American Air Force jet. In seconds, signals went out to the missile units.

  “These crazies are organized!” one technician told another. “Flight controller to SAM launchers, ninety seconds.”

  “And ten more for launch! There go the missiles!” The agent spoke into his radio. “We saw a launch from a truck. The truck’s moving. We’re following…”

  In the cockpit of the F-16, the pilot saw the green points of the SAM-7 missiles appear on his display screen. He flicked the electronic-counter-measures switch, pulled back on the throttle. Giving the engines full power, the pilot took his jet far away from the threat of the Soviet missiles.

  Laughing to himself, the pilot thought of a cartoon roadrunner streaking an acetate desert, leaving the hungry coyote behind in a cloud of dust.

  *

  “Beep, beep.”

  Zaki pulled down the rolling door of the garage. Bloody and dirty, Able Team staggered from the taxis. Lyons lurched to one of the Fiats and sprawled on the hood, using it as a lounge. Blood caked his hair to his skull.

  Examining the wound with a calm, experienced eye, Abdul poured water on Lyons’s hair, sponged away the gore. “Open your eyes for a moment, sir. Look at the light. Good, good. Do you have any pain? Are you dizzy? We have doctors available if…”

  “You got some food available?” Lyons interrupted. “My head’s okay, but my stomach’s killing me.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see exactly what was provided. Would you like a folding cot? Colonel Katzenelenbogen anticipated your comforts, also.”

  “Just so I don’t have to lie down on the concrete…”

  Blancanales surveyed the interior of windowless garage. He glanced from the shadowed corners to the few boxes stacked against one wall. He saw no exit other than the steel roll-down door. “Where are the prisoners?”

  “They were taken for interrogation,” Abdul answered.

  “By who?” Lyons demanded.

  The three taxi drivers looked to one another. Abdul continued, “I’m quite sure the embassy will receive transcripts of all the information.”

  “The old man needed immediate hospital care,” Zaki reminded them.

  “Hey!” Lyons shouted. “You’re not hearing me. I asked you who’s got them?”

  Mo-man laughed. “Well, hey yourself, bad man. Why do you want them? Target practice? Ain’t you killed enough of them tonight?”

  Blancanales went to Lyons. “Let it go. You know who’s got them. The local Mossad franchise.”

  “Maybe,” Mohammed admitted.

  “Then why don’t you say so?” barked Lyons.

  “It’s called the ‘option to deny,’” Blancanales said.

  “Political double-talk is what it’s called,” Lyons muttered.

  Abdul checked the boxes. He returned with a folding aluminum cot, and he set it out for Lyons. “Here, sir. And we have blankets if you would like to sleep.”

  Gadgets was searching through the boxes. He called out, “Dig this! They got hot food in here. Look at this.”

  “
What is it?” Blancanales asked, walking across the garage. “What’s that I smell?”

  Gadgets opened a flat Styrofoam carton. “Steak! It’s hot. All right, man! Someone out there loves us. Ironman, forget about the rockets for ten minutes. Get a steak. Take a break.”

  The three men of Able Team and their “Egyptian” helpers crowded around the cartons, finding Styrofoam boxes of steak dinners, containers of hot coffee and chocolate. Other boxes contained more folding cots, blankets, loaded Uzi mags and .45-caliber ammunition. Gadgets crammed a handful of french fries in his mouth, gulped. “Whoever they are, they know what we need.”

  Lyons glanced at his watch. “I want to clean up and be ready to move again in an hour.”

  “What the hell,” Gadgets said. “We don’t even know where we’regoingnext.”

  “Okay, Mossad Man,” Lyons addressed Mohammed the taxi driver. “You seem to know everything. Tell us where we’re going next. Where are those rockets?”

  Mohammed set down his Styrofoam plate. Making his face the solemn mask of a fortune-teller, he brushed his hands over wavy hair, ratting it to an electric tangle. He rolled his eyes, raised his hands to the soot-blackened ceiling of the garage. “I see… I see…”

  Despite himself, Lyons laughed, the tension and exhaustion gone for the instant of the jive-talking young man’s routine. Mohammed bugged his eyes, fixed Lyons in a stare, his face frozen in comic terror.

  He shook his head, blinked his eyes. “Jeeeeezus.”

  “What?” Lyons demanded. “Tell me.”

  “What I saw? I looked into your heart and, man, I’m sure glad you ain’t after me. That Muslim Brotherhood better say its prayers, ‘cause there’s a heart of darkness abroad tonight!”

  *

  White-uniformed police officers with flashlights guided the limousine through the squad cars and the fire engines. An ambulance turned from an alley and accelerated away, its siren shrieking. Smoke drifted from the alley mouth, evening wind dissipating the acrid haze through the neighborhood. Sadek knocked on the Plexiglas partition. “Here, driver. Thank you.”