The Russian aircraft were hit hard in their sandbagged and concrete-walled revetments. Except for a group of a dozen fighters isolated near the far end of the runway, with a taxiway leading from the revetments right to the starting point for takeoff. Here the Israelis showed remarkably poor marksmanship, and the group of MiG-27 fighters survived the sudden holocaust. This particular point was, of course, completely missed in the frenzy of continuing attacks. Also missed was a single small plane that swept in to the south of the carnage, its run low over the ground unnoticed by the battered defenders. The pilot flew barely eight hundred feet over the local terrain, holding, one hundred ten miles an hour. He held his course carefully, flinched when four fighters thundered by to his right, north of his path of flight. The fighters brought the sporadic ground fire still sputtering from the airbase to bear on their roaring strike. And held the attention of almost everyone on the ground as they swept northward. Far behind them two fjgures tumbled from the small, low, slow-flying aircraft. A static line snapped taut and black nylon blossomed immediately above the falling figures. Neither jumper wore an emergency chute; there would have been no time for its use had the main canopy failed.
Steve Austin and Tamara Zigon barely felt their chutes crack open when the ground rushed up at them. The jump, like everything else this night, was timed with split-second precision. They came to earth a quarter of a mile south of a perimeter road to the airbase, rolled expertly in the sandy ground and were on their feet at once. Steve gathered up his chute and ran swiftly to where Tamara waited. “Any problems?” he asked anxiously.
She shook her head. “Quickly. The chutes.” He slipped out of his harness, unfolded a trenching shovel, immediately began digging a deep hole. Tamara opened Steve’s pack, removed their uniform caps that might have been lost during the jump. She dropped the pack in the hole with the chutes. Steve pushed in the shovel and used his hands to fill the hole. In the soft sandy soil it would be difficult, he hoped, to discover where the evidence had been buried.
The northern horizon pulsed with light. They took another moment to inspect one another. Their clothing was messed up and torn in several places; the uniforms showed signs of oil and smoke, and they each had facial bruises and cuts. Clear evidence of their having been in a truck that was strafed by one of the Israeli fighters. Evidence they had barely escaped with their lives. The truck? It didn’t matter. If they were in the Qena complex long enough for that story to be checked out in the midst of the thundering fires and explosions, they would be in no position to go anywhere.
“Let’s go,” Tamara urged. They started walking to the road they knew lay several miles to the north. Steve checked his hip holster. The Russian automatic with the stubby silencer was in place. Using the silencer was a risk, but as they both knew, no one would stop to inspect their weapons unless that inspection were compelled by much more dangerous suspicion. Everything else on their persons, except the silencers, which could be twisted free and thrown away, was the genuine article. Their papers, undergarments, equipment, uniforms, wristwatches, all of it, was Russian, manufactured in Russia. Even the silencers had been obtained from a Soviet security office. “If you’re in the perimeter area,” Shaul Arkham told them, “use the silencers. It will let you eliminate opposition while it is still not in direct physical contact with you. Use your advantage until you must resort to something else.” Good advice.
The road lay a dozen yards before them. Blood-red light glowed from the north, fires reflecting from low clouds, the flames punctuated with intermittent blasts and deep, booming thunder. They crouched behind a mound. The immediate visibility was poor but their main interest lay in what traffic might be on the road. The idea was to be spotted walking along the road, not entering it from a field. They had, by now, oriented themselves clearly. Relief maps, charts, reconnaissance photographs—all had contributed to this segment of their training. They moved quickly from the shallow ditch to the road. Steve bent down, felt it with his hand. “Asphalt,” he said. “Poor shape. Gets beaten up by the sun pretty bad. But it’s what we were told to expect.”
They moved toward the northwest. They needed a lift, not only for speed but for its effect in getting them into the heavily guarded base complex, within the perimeter fences and guards. Their papers were in order; their identification showed them to be members of an electronic-maintenance and support organization. This gave them fairly ordinary working requirements, but it also provided them with freedom of movement throughout the entire Qena complex.
“Better have your torch handy,” Tamara reminded Steve, speaking in Russian, “in case something comes along the road. Better to signal them than to have us appear out of the dark.”
“Good idea.” He held the Russian flashlight in his hand, glancing occasionally behind them. They had walked nearly a mile, their concern mounting at the absence of traffic, when Steve heard an engine behind their position, around a bend in the road. They stepped to the side and Steve snapped on the flashlight, moving it in a slow, wide circle. Truck headlights brought their arms up to shield their eyes. Moments later the driver flicked his lights on to dim side-runners and coasted to a stop. He shouted to them in a tongue Steve found incomprehensible, but knew was Arabic. “We’re in luck,” Tamara said in an aside. “No Russians with him.”
She shouted back, using her own flashlight to study the truck cab. Steve saw a look of surprise on the face of the driver as Tamara—identifying herself with her papers and by voice as Captain Nina Tsfasman, and Steve as Major Alexei Kazantsev—answered him rapid-fire in his own tongue. The surprise became delight, and he turned to his helper with a sudden tongue lashing, sending that worthy to the rear of the truck to make room for the two unexpected passengers. They climbed aboard, the headlights went on again, and they were rolling down the road at nearly fifty miles an hour. Steve took every chance to study road features to the sides and ahead of them, confirming his memory of the area, anticipating specific structures or features coming up before them. Tamara spent most of the time talking with the Arab driver, whose pleasure at a foreign woman’s mastery of the native tongue became almost embarrassing. Finally Tamara turned to Steve and spoke to him in Russian.
“Our friend here, his name is Hamad, tells me our cargo is a load of electrical supplies. Cables, solenoids, things like that. Does this give you any ideas?”
He thought quickly. “What part of the base is he headed for?”
She turned to the driver, conversed rapidly. “Hamad says their authorization is to go directly to the central warehouse,” Tamara said. “But he’s worried because the warehouse may be in flames. He says the Israelis are devils in the dark and can see like bats. He’s also afraid that if the attack continues the truck may be lost with its equipment and he will be in serious trouble.”
Steve nodded. “Smart man, Hamad. I think he’s going to be in more trouble than he imagines.” Tamara looked at him sharply, not replying for a moment as the truck swerved suddenly. Hamad had just missed a large piece of smoking wreckage lying on their side of the highway. Steve noticed that the glow in the sky was brighter, and now he could see the flames directly, with the sky waxing and waning in color as fires reflected from thick columns of smoke. “Ask him,” Steve said, “how far we are from the main gate on this road.”
She spoke quickly with the driver, turned back to Steve. “Ten kilometers,” she said.
“That’s about six miles,” Steve said. “There’s a bridge ahead of us, isn’t there? Goes over a wadi that’s dry at this time of the year?”
“There is. What about it?”
Steve kept his face straight ahead, seeming to concentrate on the road. “Can you drive this thing?”
“Yes, of course. But why?”
“We’ve got to get rid of Hamad and his friend before we cross the bridge.” He reached into his tunic pocket for a cigarette, Egyptian, and lit up after offering one to Hamad, who accepted with repeated sharp bows of his head. “If we take the truck in ourselve
s, we can work our way closer to the planes. Otherwise, we could end up miles away from where we want to be, and no way to get where we want.”
There was mild protest in her voice. “But how do we explain their absence?”
“We were strafed and they ran for their lives. It’s our best chance, Tam—Nina.”
She sighed. “You are right, of course.” He could feel her body hardening next to him. “How?” she asked.
“Tell him to stop just the other side of the bridge. Be sure you know where he has the papers for the truck, though.”
“All right.”
“When he stops I want you to lean forward. Bend down as much as you can and—” A dull booming explosion that showered the air with fiery debris to their right interrupted him for a moment. They could hear Hamad cursing all Israelis. “When you bend down, turn off the ignition. If the road is on an incline, the gears may hold it. Otherwise you’ll have to find the brake.”
“I know where it is. I have driven several of these machines before.” He thought of the thousands of captured vehicles from the Six Day War.
“All right. I’ll be leaning over you right after we stop. Just don’t move for a few moments. Then I’ll have to get the other one in the back.”
“What will you do?”
“Never mind. There’s the bridge up ahead. Better tell him now.” Tamara turned to the driver, speaking rapidly and gesturing. Hamad shook his head, his protests clear to Steve even through the language barrier. Tamara’s voice sharpened, and abruptly she changed from the woman he knew to a hard-nosed female Soviet officer, her tone even in Arabic unmistakable. Hamad’s eyes widened, and finally he nodded agreement. They were across the bridge and slowing. No traffic ahead of them; Steve bent to look through the right hand mirror. No lights behind. The truck stopped.
“Now,” Steve said quietly, and Tamara bent down and leaned forward, reaching for the ignition key. The driver looked with surprise at her and Steve said his name sharply. “Hamad!” The Arab looked up, facing Steve directly, and his left hand, the fist closed in a steel bludgeon, whipped forward. Tamara heard a sickening, wet smack and the form beside her slumped, the front of the skull caved in. Steve was immediately out of the cab, moving to the back of the truck. He banged on the side of the vehicle and the second Arab leaned out. Steve held the fingers of his bionics hand extended and stiffened, and his hand slashed down, the metal edge striking the Arab expertly on the side of the neck. He fell from the truck with a broken neck, dead before he hit the ground.
Steve checked the road again. Nothing in sight. Quickly he dragged the body from behind the truck to the side of the bridge, tossed the corpse down to the darkness and the rocks below. He ran to the truck cab, heaved the bleeding Hamad from the vehicle. “He’s still alive,” Tamara said tonelessly.
“We can’t take a chance on his surviving. If he talks . . .” He let the words hang.
“I know,” Tamara said. “Do it quickly.”
The bionics arm flashed up and back down again, and Hamad was also dead of a broken neck. He followed the first body and Steve returned to the truck. “You drive,” he told Tamara.
Ten minutes later they approached the first roadblock. “If Shaul knew what he was talking about,” Steve said quietly, “there should be one Russian sergeant and a few Arab guards. Let’s hope he’s right. Got the papers?”
Tamara nodded. “I think I’d better do the talking. Act as though you’ve been hurt.”
Steve slumped in his seat, clasping his left shoulder, his face in a grimace of pain. The Russian sergeant snapped to attention when he saw the rank of the two officers in the cab. Tamara extended the authorization papers for the truck, and before the sergeant could express suspicion about officers rather than Arabs driving, Tamara launched a tirade about cowardly Egyptians who ran off into the desert at the first sight of Jews in the air. “I need to get the major to an aid station,” she added. “Be good enough to hurry.” A searchlight passed quickly across Steve’s face and vanished. He heard the sergeant bellowing orders at the Arab guards and the gate swung open. They went through with the sergeant standing stiffly at attention and saluting.
“Now what?” Tamara inquired.
“This road continues about two miles,” he said. “Then it forks left and right. The right road goes to the warehouse area. But I don’t think we’ll be expected there tonight.” They looked at a sea of flames in the distance. Huge clouds of smoke boiled skyward, and glowing coals spattered the air like countless angry fireflies. “If we turn left at the fork,” Steve continued, “we can work our way to the airfield.”
Tamara nodded. They saw men walking alongside the road, many of them dazed, helping the injured. Ambulances screamed by, rushing in the opposite direction. “Headed for Qena,” Steve remarked. He looked again at the flames. “They did a good job. It looks like they—” He paused, straining to define shapes silhouetted against the horizon. “Can you make those out?” he asked, pointing.
For a moment she seemed surprised with his difficulty, then remembered the man with her had but one eye. “I think they must be the missile batteries. What’s left of them, anyway.” Steve began to make out more details. Tamara was right. The missile sites had been torn up badly. High-explosive bombs and then napalm to cover everything with great searing sheets of fire. Twisted wreckage showed the radar installations. Again it was a follow-up of proven success from the 1967 war. Knock out the radar and the computers and you’ve blinded the missiles.
More vehicles passed, and they saw more Russians now mixed in with the Arabs. Ahead of them the road forked, and Tamara turned on the left signal light. Several Russians with submachine guns at the ready stood by the road, studying all approaching vehicles. One man stepped out into the road and signaled them to stop. Tamara glanced at Steve who had loosened his holster flap. He nodded for her to follow instructions. She felt the flap of her own holster loosened, and Steve moving the weapon to be certain it would be ready for her instant use.
The Russian guard saluted. “Your papers, please.” Tamara extended the papers taken from Hamad.
“This truck is to go to the warehouse, Captain,” the guard told her.
“There is no more warehouse,” she said caustically. She pointed behind her. “Take a look, Sergeant. Our orders were changed verbally by Colonel Popovich. We were told to deliver this cargo to the airfield without delay.” She glanced at the fires only a few hundred yards off. “Of course, this is not our job. Major Kazantsev,” she nodded at Steve, “and I are electronics specialists. I imagine,” she added drily, “we will be busy with repairs for some time.”
“Where is your driver?”
“Where do all Arabs go when the Jews come?” Tamara said angrily.
“Into the desert as fast as they can run,” the guard replied, sharing her open contempt. He still held the papers. “I will need the password, Captain.”
Don’t hesitate, Tamara, Steve pleaded silently. Whatever you do, don’t hesitate . . .
“I have no idea what the password is,” Tamara said haughtily. “We have just arrived from the port of Quseir with these parts. How could we know the password?”
The soldier stiffened. “I cannot let you through without the password, Captain.”
“That is out of my hands. Do you have a telephone in your vehicle?” She pointed to the truck at the side of the road. “If so, call Colonel Popovich at once in the command post and get your authorization from him. But whatever you do, Sergeant, I would advise you not to hold us up much longer. I imagine this material is needed rather badly right now.”
The guard glanced again at the papers in his hand and hesitated. “The telephone lines are dead.”
“That is your problem. Stop acting like an Arab. Make a decision, Sergeant. I don’t care what it is. We do not intend to remain in this truck all night. I do not mind if the responsibility for failing to deliver these supplies is yours. We are tired, and I don’t care much anyway for doing anything to hel
p these filthy people. They stink like goats.”
A responsive chord had been struck. The guard thrust the papers back at her, waved them through and held his salute rigidly as they drove away.
“Very good,” Steve said.
Tamara let out an explosive sigh. “We can’t keep doing that for too much longer. The closer we get to the planes the tighter will be their security.”
She negotiated a steep turn, concentrating for the moment on her driving, and he looked ahead of them. “There it is,” he said. “The airstrip.”
For the first time since he’d known Tamara he heard her curse. “What’s wrong?” he asked. In answer she flicked the headlights to bright. Far ahead of them the lights reflected from a high cyclone-type wire fence.
“Oh, Jesus,” Steve said softly, “Shaul never told us a thing about that.”
She nodded. “What happens now?”
“Slow down,” he told her. He scanned the road as far ahead as he could. “We’ll either have to stay on this road until we get to a main gate, and then try to bluff our way through—”
“I wouldn’t recommend that. I know how their security system works. They won’t suspect us of anything yet. But someone will order us off at the gate and one of the people authorized to be on the field will take the truck.”
“Which leaves us on the outside.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“We’ll have to find some other way. A guard gate somewhere along the line. Something like that.”
“I think we must find a dark place, Steve, and try to get across the fence. They have no lights on. We may be able to get to one of the planes at the edge of the field. We will have to kill the guards, but—”
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