by Chuck Holton
John cocked an eyebrow. “Smugglers’ route?”
“Yes. The government has imposed rules on the settlements that do not allow them to bring into the camps construction materials, even those that would be used to simply maintain the buildings already there.” He shrugged. “Men will find a way to get what they need.”
John shook his head. “It boggles the mind how ridiculously convoluted the Palestinian issue is. All that’s needed is a bit of common sense to fix it.”
Zothgar snorted. “If it were only that simple.”
Maybe, John thought, but sometimes a big dose of American straightforwardness couldn’t hurt.
Zothgar looked out at the black swells sweeping past the boat and sighed. “The Palestinians have a saying. ‘Our future is in the past.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that they left their future in Israel when they were forced to leave their homes and villages when Israel was born. I knew a man who wore the key to his home in Jaffa around his neck until the day he died. I’ve been to Jaffa. The door this key opened no longer exists. It was bulldozed in the 1970s to make room for a new Jewish housing development.” He shook his head. “The past doesn’t exist anymore. Perhaps the future doesn’t either.”
Zothgar looked strangely unemotional for such a volatile topic, though John wondered if it wasn’t so much passivity as numbness wrought by living through so many years of brutal, senseless war.
“Sometimes,” John said, “I wonder if the concept of nationalism—on either side—is worth all the hardship and pain it causes.”
Zothgar took a long drag on his cigarette, its red tip winking in the dark. “That, my friend, is the wisest thing you have said all evening.”
John nodded. “I wonder if there will ever be peace with the Israelis.”
The Lebanese operative turned to him with a grave look. “I’ve heard it said that there will only be peace when both sides learn to love their children more than they hate each other.”
And that was by far the wisest thing Zothgar had said, John thought as he joined the team in the shabby boat’s spacious galley. His men were busy readying their mission gear. They all wore long-sleeved, dark blue athletic jerseys and navy watch caps with their blue jeans. John dug into his duffel to find his night-vision goggles, mounted on his lightweight Protec helmet.
“Feels strange not to be wearin’ a uniform,” Sweeney commented as he pulled a 9mm handgun from his bag.
“Yeah,” John agreed. “If only First Sergeant Mattison could see us now. He’d have a fit!”
Doc Kelly looked from John to Sweeney. “Where did you guys serve together?”
Sweeney smacked a magazine into his pistol. “Rangers. Same company, different platoons.”
Doc shook his head. “Ahhh. Bat boys. I should have known.”
John feigned offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothin.” Doc held up both hands. “But I heard you guys whined like schoolgirls when they made you start growing your hair out.”
Sweeney snorted. “Didn’t bother me none. Coop here, on the other hand, kept his high-and-tight until one day during formation Mattison smoked him for it.”
John put on his helmet and tested the night-vision goggles. “Hey, hair complicates hygiene. That’s in the Ranger handbook. But this—” He tossed the navy blue bike team watch cap at Doc. “This would have made old First Sergeant Mattison have an infarction.”
The cloak-and-dagger stuff did feel strange. John had chosen the Rangers as the quickest way into the Special Operations community. He’d never doubted that he’d make it through the three-week selection course, though more than 50 percent of those who started were routinely weeded out. John, however, had made the decision that he would succeed or die trying, because failure would only prove his father right, and that wasn’t something John could live with.
The Rangers were probably the most disciplined unit in the military. When, after three years in the 1st Ranger Battalion, John put in for the Special Forces Assessment and Selection course, it was something of a shock when he was introduced to the more laid-back, long-haired culture of the Green Berets.
But even there, he normally wore a uniform of some kind. He’d never done a combat mission in blue jeans before, and as he prepared his gear, he couldn’t help feeling like a kid out of school.
No question about it. With their assignment to the CIA, Task Force Valor was entering into a whole new level of Special Operations. The thought excited John, and truth be told, it scared him a little, too.
After checking the batteries in his NVGs, he quickly reconfigured his XM-8 assault rifle with the buttstock from his bag. Next came the ballistic nylon vest, filled with magazines for the weapon and several stun grenades and flares.
Rip Rubio tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey Coop, check this out.” He held up a small handheld GPS unit. “According to my Garmin here, we are thirty minutes from Sidon, making about twenty knots.”
“Roger that. I’d better let the major know what’s up.”
John’s pocket started vibrating. He fumbled for the SAT phone and answered it. “Cooper.”
“John, it’s Williams.” The major had beaten him to it. “What have you got?”
“Speak of the devil. I was just about to turn on the SATCOM and do a commo check with you. We’re about thirty minutes from Sidon, traveling by boat.”
“Boat?”
“You heard right. Anyway, I’m estimating our time on target to be about 0100. When we hear from you that the choppers are about twenty minutes out, we’ll go in.”
“Roger. The birds are standing by at the airfield now. Keep me posted. Out.”
John flipped the phone closed and returned it to his pocket. The other men had finished suiting up and were looking at him expectantly.
“Okay, boys, gather round. Let’s go over this one more time.”
Outside Sidon
LIZ HAD NEVER been so scared in her life, and that was saying something. After all, she’d been in the refugee camps before, but tonight the ramifications of her brazen plan not working terrified her.
As she hit the brakes and rolled to a stop before the red and white bunker outside Sainiq, she looked at the young soldier with the rifle pointed in her direction. What would she do if he didn’t let her pass through the checkpoint? She had no Plan B.
Oh, Lord, please!
When she had driven down here over two weeks ago in a vain attempt to save Zahra and last week for her interviews, it had been full daylight. The soldiers on duty had identified her as a correspondent with business in the camp, and though they were clearly puzzled why she would want to go there and reluctant to let her pass, in the end they had had no reason to prevent her.
Once she was in the camp, the people might not have been pleased to see her, but no one had threatened her or harmed her in any way. Tonight could be far different. Her stomach cramped, and she regretted the chicken sandwich she’d eaten at the KFC in Sidon.
The young Lebanese soldier wasn’t smiling as he approached her car. “You are alone?” He bent to peer into the car.
Liz nodded and handed him Nabila’s papers.
“My sister is sick,” Liz said, trying to speak with a Palestinian accent. “It is very serious. I went to get her medicine.” She held out the plastic bag full of bottles. “Please don’t keep me from her. She needs these desperately.” She shook the bag, rattling the bottles. “I only hope I don’t have to rush her to the hospital,” she added, setting up the scenario for leaving the camp.
“Why do they let a woman go for the medicine? Are there no men in your family?” he demanded, but Liz thought his aggressive stance was more from uncertainty than anything. He couldn’t be more than eighteen years old, probably newly trained, desperate to do things right.
In spite of his attitude, Liz felt some release of tension. He had lowered his rifle as they talked, so now he would shoot the front tire instead of her if he got
a finger cramp.
“Our men are not available.” She looked down, as if that fact was distressing. She hoped he thought the men in her family were in Israeli prisons or some such thing.
The young soldier stared at her, clearly weighing whether she was telling the truth or not. Liz stared back, feeling desperate and letting him see it. He opened the papers and began studying them.
Lights appeared on the road behind her, distracting both her and the soldier. A rusty black car swept to within inches of her bumper. Music pulsed from the vehicle and rowdy voices sang along. In the headlight’s glare, Liz watched the soldier raise his gun, pointing toward the black car. Another soldier that Liz hadn’t even seen stepped from the shadows cast by the checkpoint’s lights.
Instantly the music died and the voices stilled.
The soldier, his eyes on the black car, held out Nabila’s papers. “Go.” Clearly he found the men in the black car more interesting and more threatening than she.
Liz went quickly before he had a change of mind. In her rearview mirror she could see the soldiers making the young men in the black car climb out with their hands raised.
As she drove through the gates into the camp, she felt her heart slide from her throat back into her chest. One possible obstacle was out of the way.
“Thank You,” she whispered. “Thank You, thank You, thank You!”
She made her way slowly through the narrow streets past homes that were largely dark. When she saw a group of men laughing and talking in front of a lighted building a block ahead, she quickly turned onto a side street.
Liz held her breath, waiting to see if one of them decided to challenge her. Nothing happened, and she continued on until she came to the very center of the camp and the large warehouse marked with an X on her map. She drove slowly around it, hoping against hope that she’d find a door carelessly left open so she could sneak in and find Julie. No such luck.
The building was almost a block in length with a couple of loading doors on its west side. The doors were firmly shut, and even if she had the strength to lift them, they would make too much noise for a secret operation.
She drove around the building three times, and the only other door she saw was one with a light glowing over it. She grimaced. The thought of walking through that pool of brightness sent her heart back to her throat. She swallowed, then swallowed again. She’d save the heart in the throat for when she had to escape through that with Julie.
Sidon
The men were quiet as Zothgar cut the engine, and the motorboat sidled quietly up to an open berth at the public docks. Unlike at the Moevenpick marina, here their spartan craft was easily the most luxurious in the harbor. Rickety fishing boats painted a faded white looked pale gray as they huddled against the shore. Ramshackle huts draped with fishing nets dotted the waterfront.
Hogan jumped out and secured the lines. John surveyed the pier from the boat. He’d hoped that everything would be deserted at just after midnight, but the area around the docks was still inhabited.
The smell of apple-flavored nargileh wafted from a group of men huddled together a hundred meters down the waterfront, talking and smoking a hookah.
In the other direction, young men and women flirted with each other at a coffee shop that was still open. Fortunately, there wasn’t anyone in Valor’s immediate area.
“You see the white van—just there.” Zothgar pointed with his cigarette. “That is your transportation. The key should be under the front passenger tire.”
“Okay.” John looked over his shoulder. “Rip, you’re with me. The rest of you stay here until I confirm that we’ve got wheels.”
“Hey, Coop.” Rip held out a black-and-white checkered scarf. “Cover that big, ugly head, bro.”
“A hattah? Where’d you get this?”
“In the gift shop at the Moevenpick, only here they call them kaffiyehs. It’s kinda like wearin’ your colors back on the block in East LA. I just figured it might keep someone from looking twice at us in the dark.” As he spoke, he adjusted one on his own head.
“Good thinking, Rip.”
“You owe me six bucks.”
“Bill me.”
Leaving his helmet, vest, and carbine, John stepped off the boat. He and Rip covered the distance to the van in under a minute. It was a white, windowless Citroën and appeared empty. John nodded toward the rear. “Pull security in that direction while I get the key.”
“Hold up, boss.” Rip was looking at three men who had just crossed to their side of the street. John turned in time to see the men start toward them. He and Rubio exchanged dark glances.
John leaned casually against the van, placing one hand on the butt of the pistol hidden at his back. Suddenly Rip muttered, “I got this. Stay cool.”
John pulled one end of the kaffiyeh over his shoulder, so the material partially obscured his face. He hoped that in the darkness, his blue eyes wouldn’t be too noticeable. When he looked back at Rubio, the staff sergeant was holding a pack of cigarettes and was in the process of tearing off the shrink-wrap with his back to the approaching men.
John frowned. What the…?
Rip quickly extracted a cigarette from the pack and offered it to John. Realizing what Rubio was up to, John played along. He took one and watched as Rip took one for himself before stuffing the pack into his pants pocket.
As the unknown men drew even with them, Rip produced a Zippo lighter and offered John a light. Hoping he wouldn’t start coughing and ruin the whole thing, John ignored the men as he stuck his cigarette in the flame. The men walked past.
Just when he thought they were in the clear, one of the men suddenly stopped and turned back toward them. He walked over to Rip, saying something in Arabic John couldn’t understand.
Rip nodded at the man and said, “Salaam.”
The man nodded back, then repeated what he had just said, this time gesturing at the cigarette Rip was holding.
Without missing a beat, Rip fished the cigarettes from his pocket and handed the man the entire pack.
The Palestinian scowled and shook his head. Saying something John figured must mean something like, “Oh I couldn’t take all of them,” he tried to hand the pack back. Rip smiled, held up both hands, and said, “Hamdulillah, Hamdulillah.”
The man looked at John and Rubio for a tense moment before a smile crossed his face. “Shukran. Shukran.” He shook Rip’s hand, then placed his hand over his heart before returning to his companions. He handed each of them a cigarette, stuffed the pack in his pocket, then turned and waved. His friends followed suit.
“Shukran!” they called again before disappearing down the dark street.
When they were gone, John exhaled heavily and looked at Rubio who grinned. “That went well,” Rip said.
John scowled and dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his foot. “Since when did you start smoking?”
Rip looked genuinely insulted. “You know I’d never use those things. When God gave us nice pink lungs, He didn’t plan for us to turn them black with cigarettes. I just thought they might come in handy when I saw how many people smoke in this country. Whatever it takes to get the mission done. Besides…” He bent to pick up the butt John had thrown on the ground. “When did you start littering?”
John grunted. “Touché. Did you get those at the gift shop, too?”
“You got it. Cancer sticks are like universal currency.”
“Apparently. What does hamdulillah mean, anyway?”
“Oh, I learned that last year in Iraq. It’s like ‘peace, man, no problem.’”
“Groovy.”
Rip just grinned at John’s sardonic tone.
The street was now clear in both directions as far as John could tell. While Rip took up a position at the rear of the van, John found the key under the front passenger tire. While he was down there, he looked carefully at the underside of the vehicle. After what happened to Doc James, he was wary of any strange vehicle.
He crossed to the driver’s side and unlocked the door. A quick sweep of the interior showed it to be completely empty except for a few plastic water bottles. John then popped the hood and took a quick look at the engine compartment, finding nothing out of the ordinary. “Looks good, Rip. Let’s get the boys, and let the major know we’ve gone vehicular.”
Ten minutes later they were making their way through the darkened streets of Sidon, Sweeney driving and Rip riding shotgun with his handheld GPS unit. Even at the late hour, what few drivers were on the road were driving like their hair was on fire.
When a motorcycle without headlights careened through the intersection, Sweeney had to jerk the wheel to keep from hitting him, nearly taking out a light post.
“Sorry, guys,” he called when a swell of complaints about the rough ride erupted from the men crammed in the back of the van. “The Lebanese apparently have a death wish when it comes to driving.”
John braced himself against the back of the seat and thought about the last thing Zothgar had said to him. “Good luck, my friend, but be careful. Here things are never what they seem. What looks to be an enemy may prove to be your ally, and beware those with whom you make friends.”
Was the man simply voicing a deep-seated skepticism cultivated by living in a country where tensions flourished? Or was he trying to tell them something specific? Well, they’d find out soon enough.
John studied the road map of Sidon by the illumination of his red LED flashlight. The streets emanated from the port area in no particular order or design, and he had trouble finding their route to the refugee camp, even though it was only a few miles outside the city. Of course they weren’t exactly looking for the front gate.
They passed a mosque that looked important, and John pored over the map, hoping to find the landmark there, to no avail.
“Hey, Rubio,” John called. “Are you getting a good signal on that GPS unit?”
