The Masada Complex
Avraham Azrieli
Avraham Azrieli
The Masada Complex
Israel, August 19, 1982
Masada pulled open the sliding door of the helicopter. The blades sliced the air above, blasting her with noise and heat. She held on, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. The pilot tilted the craft to the right and headed south, following the bleached shoreline of the Dead Sea. The target was minutes away.
Two steel cables dangled from a bar welded above the door, ready for rappelling down for the attack. As a technical specialist, Masada was responsible for the soldiers’ safety. She grabbed a cable in each hand and pulled hard, tightening the knots on the bar.
Lights appeared below. She recognized the perimeter fence, which formed a perfect circle around Kibbutz Ben-Yair, except for the bulge encompassing the cemetery, where her parents rested. Most of the buildings were dark, but lights still burned in the youth dormitory. She wondered whether her brother was still up, studying for his summer-school exams as he had promised, or scribbling another poem. At fifteen, Srulie was barely four years younger, but Masada had to play mother to him, mostly by phone from her military base. Otherwise he would spend all his time composing verses about arid mountains, red sunsets, and blue water encrusted with salt.
The kibbutz lights disappeared behind, and the pilot slowed down. The engine noise decreased, and the wind calmed. She peeked out through the open door. Just ahead of the helicopter, the unmistakable shape of Mount Masada appeared, growing larger against the moonlit sky.
The soldiers huddled with Colonel Dov Ness over a crude map, which Masada had sketched back at the base. She knew Herod’s ancient fort like a second home, its mythical, long-dead zealots like an extended family. Growing up at Kibbutz Ben-Yair, she and her friends had often climbed up the sheer cliffs, clinging to the primitive Snake Path all the way to the top, and spent the night around a campfire, singing patriotic ballads and telling scary fables until the sun chased away the magic.
The colonel traced a line on map. “The fort’s perimeter is a chain of connected rooms,” he yelled over the helicopter noise, “all around the edge of the flat mountaintop. Most of the fort is in ruins, but the Arabs chose a room with solid side walls.” He tapped the location. “The internal wall, where the doorway used to be, has crumbled. They’ve piled some rocks to block off the entrance. The mud roof is long gone, so that’s where you drop in.”
Masada leaned on the colonel’s shoulder, her lips to his ear. “One minute to target.”
He nodded. They had been lovers for several months, but outside his private quarters they had kept a professional facade-he the tough commander of the elite unit, she the technical specialist and every soldier’s heartthrob.
“Seven hostages,” Ness continued, “tied up along the side wall, right here. Two terrorists. Leader is short, balding, wearing a mask. He sent one of the hostages downhill with a note, a girl, who reported that he has a hand grenade. We need him alive-orders from above. Make sure to disable the grenade or kick it over the edge. The other terrorist is a skinny, tall teenager. Long hair. Armed with a handgun. Eliminate him on sight.” The colonel touched a finger to his temple. “And verify the kill.”
A red light blinked over the door.
Thirty seconds.
Colonel Ness got up. “Slide down fast. Engage. Disable the one with the mask and kill the youth with the gun. But watch the hostages, okay? Don’t punch any holes in those kids, or you’ll screw up my next promotion!”
The soldiers laughed, and Masada wondered, kids? Ness hadn’t mentioned any kids since the call had woken them up twenty minutes earlier, back at the base.
The pilot changed direction and pushed up the nose.
Blinking red changed to yellow.
Fifteen seconds.
“There!” Masada pointed to the ancient casement wall along the north rim.
The pilot adjusted direction, approaching the target. Two of the soldiers knelt at the door, machine guns strapped to their chests, helmets secured, night-vision goggles turned on. They pulled on canvas gloves and grabbed the cables, ready to rappel down. A third soldier lay flat between them with a rifle, his eye at the scope. The rest of the team lined up inside the fuselage in full battle gear.
Colonel Ness peered into the night. “What’s that on top?”
The yellow light began to blink.
Five seconds.
The pilot adjusted course, slowing down.
Masada gazed through her night-vision goggles. “They rigged up some kind of a roof. It’s a sheet, or a tarp.”
“Take us lower,” Ness ordered the pilot, “level with the open end at the cliff.” He bent down and tapped the sniper’s helmet. “Find the youth, the one with the gun.”
As they hovered across from the room, Masada saw a figure standing at the open end, outlined from behind by a dim lamp.
“I see a skinny male.” The sniper shifted, tensed up. “Long hair. No mask.”
“That’s him,” Ness said.
Masada stabilized herself, staring hard through the greenish blur, disbelieving her own eyes.
“I don’t see a handgun.” The sniper adjusted his aim with the moving helicopter. “I’m going to lose him in three, two-”
Masada tried to yell, but her voice betrayed her.
“Go,” Ness said, “take him out!”
“No!” She let go of the goggles, which the wind snatched, and kicked the rifle just as a shot sounded. The momentum of her kick pulled her body out of the helicopter, into the darkness, the rotors shoving air at her back. Ness grabbed her arm, and she swung sideways, her head hitting something. The helicopter banked and flew in a wide arc over the ruins.
The colonel pulled her inside. “What the hell was that?”
Masada recovered her voice. “It’s my brother!”
Abu Faddah watched through a crack in the barricaded entrance. After releasing a bogus warning shot, the Israeli helicopter circled around and touched down in a swirl of dust. Dark figures leaped from the craft and took positions behind the ruins. He laughed out loud. His plan had worked! Soon the Israelis would break their stubborn vow never to negotiate with Palestinian guerrillas. What choice did they have? He had studied them for years. They had turned Mount Masada into the mythical centerpiece of their modern Zionism: Masada shall never fall again! No Israeli politician would risk being responsible for the spectacle of Jewish kids dying atop Mount Masada again. They had to negotiate!
At the open end of the room, over the cliff, the hostage he had positioned as a human shield turned and smiled. Faddah, who was guarding him with the pistol, took a step back and looked over his shoulder, his face fearful. “Papa?”
Abu Faddah-Father of Faddah, as he had been known since his son’s birth-rushed to his side and yelled at the Israeli youth in English, “Stop! We’ll shoot you!”
He shrugged and said something in Hebrew that made the other kids laugh.
“Be firm, son,” Abu Faddah switched to Arabic, “he’s just showing off.”
Faddah raised the pistol, aiming it. The two teenagers glared at each other. They were equally tall and skinny, with dark hair reaching their shoulders. They could have passed for brothers.
“This is the Israeli army,” a man’s voice boomed through a megaphone in accented English. “Come out with your hands over your heads.”
As expected, the Israelis were testing his resolve. He glanced at his watch. 3:05 a.m. “You have our demands,” he yelled. “We only ask for what’s already ours.”
“Surrender immediately, or you’ll be shot.”
“We will push a hostage off the cliff, and another one every hour, until you accept our fair and just dem
ands! Be reasonable or your children will die!” He slid his hand into his pocket and clenched the cold grenade.
“You must attack!” Masada followed Colonel Ness back to the chopper, which served as command center. “What are you waiting for?”
He got in, bowing his head to avoid the bar over the door. “Too risky. The kids-”
“They’re fifteen!” Masada jumped in after him. “They know the drill. They’ll lie down as soon as shooting starts. We have to attack!”
“That’s my Masada.” He touched her cheek. “Always on fire.”
The palm of his hand was the softest part of him. She grabbed his wrist but didn’t push away his hand. “Give the order. Don’t wait.”
“Trust me. Your brother will be fine.” Ness squeezed into the copilot seat and put on a headpiece. “Get me Central Command.”
The pilot fiddled with the radio knobs. Ness shut the cockpit partition.
Masada rolled up the steel cables. She knew Ness wasn’t afraid to fight. It wasn’t luck that had made him the youngest colonel in the Israeli army. But Srulie was in there-a hostage! Why hadn’t he stayed in the kibbutz to study as he had promised? Fear made her shiver. I can’t lose him! I can’t!
Ten minutes passed.
Another ten.
Intermittent, muffled voices came from the cockpit.
3:40 a.m.
Masada knocked on the cockpit partition. No response. What was he waiting for? Israel’s official policy was clear: No bargaining with terrorists! No releasing of murderers! Nothing but rescue at any cost!
3:45 a.m.
She could hear the soldiers talking to each in the darkness.
3:52 a.m.
Across the Dead Sea, atop the jagged summits of the Edom Mountains, a pink glow appeared. Dawn was about to break, which would make a surprise attack impossible.
A moment later, the colonel jumped out and kneeled behind a large rock, the megaphone to his mouth. “This is the Israeli army. You must surrender now. Come out with your hands in the air.”
The reply came immediately. “Our demands are reasonable. Negotiate, or we kill a hostage!”
“You must surrender now.”
“We ask only for what’s ours,” the Arab yelled. “Your children’s lives are at stake!”
“I repeat, come out with your hands-”
Masada tore the megaphone from his hand and yelled into it. “You have ten seconds to give up, or we’re coming in!”
Abu Faddah was stunned. Had the Israelis gone mad, allowing a woman to take command? He heard a cheer and looked over his shoulder. The Israeli boy at the edge clapped his hands. Abu Faddah shuddered. Would the Jews risk soiling Mount Masada with fresh blood? Would they?
He put his mouth to the crack in the barricade. “Don’t ignore our ultimatum!” There was a deficiency in his plan, and he needed time to figure it out. “We would extend the deadline if you provide assurance-”
“Papa!”
He turned to see the Israeli knock the gun from Faddah’s hand and punch him in the face. Faddah swung blindly, his fist missing his opponent, who dropped to search the dirt floor. The other hostages tried to get up, tripping over the strings that tied their arms and legs.
“Papa,” Faddah yelled, “help me!”
The teenage Jew found the pistol.
Abu Faddah lunged forward, crossing the distance between them with strides that felt like slow motion. The Israeli stood up, lifting the gun. Abu Faddah flew by his cowed son and rammed the Israeli, who groaned and stumbled back. His ankle caught on the remnant of the wall at the edge. He tried to grab the empty air and fell backwards into the void, yelling, “Masada!”
“Srulie?” Masada pushed Ness away and listened intently. The hostages were screaming. She ran to where a section of the casement wall had long collapsed and looked down over the edge, where the Roman’s earthen ramp emerged from the dark, reaching halfway up. To the right, the outer wall of rooms curved with the rim of the mountaintop toward the hostage room, out of sight, where the sheer cliff dropped as much as a hundred-story building to the distant bottom.
“Hey!” Ness chased her back to the chopper. “Get behind-”
“It was Srulie’s voice!” She grabbed one of the steel cables, still attached to the helicopter, and unfurled it over the edge.
Ness grabbed her arm. “It’s a trick.”
She pulled on the gloves.
“This Arab is too clever. We know all about him.”
She clenched a small flashlight between her teeth and rolled over the side.
“Stop! That’s an order!”
Masada loosened her grip and slid down fast, the cable whistling as it rushed through her gloves. Below her, the Roman ramp rose rapidly through the twilight. Tightening her grip, she slowed her descent, the gloves hot against her palms.
She hit the dirt, let go of the cable, and ran down the ramp. Finally reaching the desert floor, she aimed the flashlight and ran along the base of the mountain, glancing up to orient herself. The sheer rock above turned reddish with first light. She kept running, hoping not to find anything.
But she did.
He was lying at the foot of the cliff, white face framed in dark hair, eyes open, looking at her. She ran to him, dropped to her knees. His eyes didn’t move.
Masada tore off the gloves and laid a hand on his chest, begging for it to heave. She tried to press down, to force air into his lungs, to bring him back to life.
“Srulie!”
Nothing.
She pulled him up to her, but there was no firmness to his body. His head hung back from his broken neck. His right arm was crushed, a mess of flesh and bones.
Her eyes turned upward, all the way to the top of the cliff. Searing hate filled her. She reached for her Uzi, but realized she had left it in the chopper.
Masada’s fingers closed around a sharp stick that lay on the ground near Srulie. It felt wet. She looked at the object in her hand, her mind fogged up with agony. It was a bone from his forearm, cracked lengthwise, narrowing to a pointy end like a pink dagger.
Abu Faddah knelt at the edge. In the twilight, all the way down, a small figure ran from the foolish boy’s body, around the curved base of the mountain toward the Roman ramp, and out of sight. He wondered how the Israelis had managed to send a man down so quickly.
He backed away from the edge. Behind him, the hostages wept.
Faddah trembled so badly his teeth rattled.
“We’ll be fine, son,” Abu Faddah said, but he knew the Israelis would assume the death hadn’t been an accident. How long before they attacked? He tried to think. Clearly, his plan had failed. The maddening part was that his basic premise had been correct-as proven by the boy, who had yelled “Masada!” at the moment of his imminent death, like a rallying cry that confirmed the enormous mythical weight of this ancient fort for the Israelis. Yet in dying he had also killed Abu Faddah’s chances of regaining the family home in Haifa for his son. In fact, Faddah would be lucky to survive the next ten minutes.
Abu Faddah knew he must take the initiative. He led his son to the cliff’s edge and sat him down. “No matter what happens, don’t move!”
Faddah nodded.
Back at the barricaded entrance, Abu Faddah yelled through the crack, “A terrible accident occurred. We’re willing to surrender.”
The Israeli commander responded through the megaphone. “What accident?”
“Allah took one of the hostages.”
There was silence. Than the officer’s voice sounded, hoarse, almost weak. “Release the others. Let them go.”
Abu Faddah tried to gauge the man’s tone. “Will you promise a safe passage back to Jordan?”
There was no response.
“We agree to release-”
A scream stopped him in midsentence. He turned.
At the open end of the room, against the background of a red twilight, a hand attached to a thin arm clasped Faddah’s throat. He tried to retreat backward i
nto the room, but the hand pulled him down. His hips smashed against the low wall at the edge, and his legs flipped upward.
Abu Faddah ran, reaching for his son’s feet just as they cleared the edge and went over. He fell, screaming in terror on his long, long way down, while his attacker swung to the left, parallel to the sheer face of the mountainside.
Collapsing at the edge, Abu Faddah kept shouting his son’s name over and over, while far below a puff of dust mushroomed over Faddah, hiding him and the dead Israeli boy.
Something entered his vision from the left and he turned his head, too stunned to react.
The attacker swung back like an avenging pendulum, legs perpendicular to the wall, racing at Abu Faddah in an upward arc like a two-legged spider. He tried to fall back, away, but the attacker grabbed the front of his khaki shirt and pulled him down like an anchor. Dropping forward, Abu Faddah hit the low wall with both hands, blocking his fall.
The attacker was in uniform. Long hair. A woman?
A dagger appeared in her right hand. She stabbed upward through the mask into his left eye.
Fire exploded inside his head. He screamed and vaulted backward, tearing himself from her grasp. He rolled on the dirt floor, pressing his fist to the wound, liquid oozing from his punctured eye.
The woman landed on top of him.
He pushed her off, struggling to his feet. He forced himself to remove his hands from his face. His right eye worked, though blurred with tears.
The soldier came at him with the dagger raised for a downward stab.
He stepped backward, hitting the wall, and grabbed her wrist with both hands. She stabbed at him with inhuman force. The sharp point of the dagger, pink in the faint light, approached his face. She was taller than he, thin as a wire, stronger than any woman could be. Her mouth was open, moaning.
An avalanche of rocks cascaded off the barricaded entrance, and the Israeli commander uttered a staccato of Hebrew words.
The Masada Complex Page 1
