They Came to Kill at-15

by Dick Stivers

  They Came to Kill

  ( Able Team - 15 )

  Dick Stivers

  After the ambush-murders of a Central Intelligency Agency surveillance unit, Able Team flies to Lebanon with instructions to "arrest or terminate" a renegade U.S. Marine fighting for the Islamic militias of Beirut.

  But in the twisted politics and free-fire streets of the devastated city, Able Team decides to disregard their instructions and join the Marine and his Shia friends to confront a conspiracy of fanatics — Syrians, Iranians, Libyans and American black nationalists — united in their lust for terror.

  Able Team wages a dirty battle through the ruins of Beirut, then tracks the gangs halfway around the world to Mexico, where the Americans hurl themselves against the zealots before they murder again — this time, the President of the United States!

  Dick Stivers

  They Came to Kill

  1

  In the bell tower of the artillery-shattered Greek Orthodox church, Colonel Viktor Dastgerdi put his eyes to the fifty-power lenses of the tripod-mounted siege binoculars. He spun the pan crank to scan the Bekaa Valley and the mountains of eastern Lebanon. Swirling snow blurred the images of rocks and abandoned fields and ice. He panned the optics across the landscape to the gray foothills of the Sahel Mountains. He found the red X.

  Ten kilometers away, more than five kilometers into Syria, the Xof brilliant-red plastic — two crossed sheets a hundred meters long, ten meters wide — marked the position of a miniaturized transmitter.

  Through the binoculars, Dastgerdi saw the red sheets shimmer as gusts of wind tore at the plastic. Storm clouds passed, the late-afternoon light coming in intermittent moments of sudden glare. Sunlight flashed from rocks white with snow. He turned the tripod's altitude crank to drop the aspect of the binoculars and surveyed the narrow, rutted track leading to the target. He saw the truck racing back to the base.

  "They are away!" Dastgerdi shouted down to the technicians. "Confirm the signal."

  The church had taken several high-explosive shells during the wars fought in the Bekaa. Only the bell tower and the walls remained, the stones and plaster pitted by shrapnel, the roof timbers and pews carried away by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards for their fires. Syrian technicians manned electronic consoles in the small rooms of the bombed-out sanctuary. Canvas tenting provided shelter from the falling snow.

  A radio specialist flipped an audio switch. An oscillating tone came from a monitor. The technician called out to his commander, "Receiving the signal."

  "Fire the rockets."

  A voice shouted orders, first in Arabic, then Farsi. Below the bell tower, in what had been the main street of the village before the wars came to the Bekaa, Syrians and Iranians hurried away from a truck-mounted 240mm rocket launcher. An officer paced around the rack of Soviet artillery rockets to check the cables and propellant-igniter leads. Then he retreated to the safety of a doorway. Elsewhere in the ruined village — now serving as a base for the Islamic fighters assigned to Dastgerdi — soldiers stood at windows and doorways to watch the launch.

  Dastgerdi gave the rocket guidance cones a last glance. The finned cones mounted on the warheads of the rockets represented two years of research and development. Standard-issue Soviet 240mm rockets employed no guidance mechanisms. Launcher crews aimed and fired the rockets like artillery. The rockets being tested today employed microcircuitry to guide them to their targets via small maneuvering fins. Unlike guided missiles, which incorporated complex and expensive computers to find and track their targets, these rockets were guided by the signal generated by a transmitter positioned at the target. The cones on the warheads contained the simple electronic and mechanical parts to modify the trajectory of the falling rockets.

  Two years of my life, Dastgerdi thought. But with those rockets, I will kill their President. Then comes the war...

  Dastgerdi heard the sound of boots running up the steps. Ali Akbar Rouhani, leader of the Revolutionary Guards stationed at the village, stomped up to the observation post. He stepped past Dastgerdi and put his eyes to the binoculars. When he did not see the target, he grabbed the body tubes and attempted to shift the view. But the binoculars did not move. Rouhani used his strength against the delicate gears of the altitude head.

  "This American trash!" Rouhani cursed. "Why does it not operate?"

  Dastgerdi spun the cranks, allowing the binoculars to move. Rouhani found the target.

  "There!" Rouhani stared for a moment. Then he stepped to an opening in the bell tower's wall and shouted down. "Fire the rockets! What is the..."

  A roar obliterated his voice as a rocket streaked away, the flame brilliant against the black clouds. After a second the solid propellant burned out. Another rocket flashed away, then another and another.

  A thundering roar came from the storm-dark sky as the supersonic rockets created a noise like a freight train. The thunder faded as the rockets hurtled into the distance.

  The Iranian watched the explosions through the oversized binoculars. "A hit! Two hits! They all hit! Praise be to Allah!"

  Colonel Dastgerdi saw the four white-orange sparks on the hillside ten kilometers away. One cloud of yellow marking smoke puffed into the air, the wind blowing the yellow over the hillsides. He called down to his technicians:

  "Is there now a signal?"

  "No," a voice answered from the canvas shelter. "No more. It is gone."

  "Fire the other rockets."

  Four more rockets streaked away. Twenty seconds after the launch, four widely spaced puffs of red smoke appeared on the hillsides.

  "They all missed!" Rouhani spun away from the binoculars, his face twisting with rage. Spittle sprayed from his mouth and clung in his beard. His eyebrows, one long band of black above his eyes, twisted into a zigzag. "What went wrong? Who is responsible? Who has failed in his service of Allah? You cannot protect your Syrian friends this time."

  "The second flight of rockets had no guidance systems," Colonel Dastgerdi explained. Stepping to the binoculars, he studied the distant hillside.

  Yellow splashes marked the impacts. Explosions had ripped apart the plastic target. Though not achieving pinpoint accuracy, the guided rockets had scored four hits within the hundred meter diameter of the target. He continued his explanation.

  "My technicians fitted identical guidance housings to the warheads, but the units contained no electronics or servomechanisms. The first four rockets proved the value of the guidance units, the other four rockets proved the accuracy not to be only by chance."

  "Are you mocking me?" Rouhani demanded.

  Colonel Dastgerdi turned away from the binoculars. He saw the Iranian reaching for the Makarov autopistol he wore in a shoulder holster. "No, I am only explaining. Why don't you announce our success to your men? We are within sight of our victory over the Americans."

  "We are? But only four hits? What of the four that missed?"

  The Iranian had not understood. The colonel explained again. "Four of the rockets had guidance. Four had nothing. The first four proved that my guidance system worked. Announce the success to your men. Victory will come soon."

  His hand on his pistol, Rouhani glared at Colonel Dastgerdi for another moment. Then he rushed to the bell-tower window and shouted out, "In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, King of Judgment Day! Allah's promise is true, the hour of doom shall come for the unbelievers! The Americans shall learn of the wrath of Allah..."

  Leaving the fanatic to rave, Dastgerdi went down the bell-tower stairs. His Syrian technicians greeted him with salutes and congratulations. Nodding, he stepped into the snow and mud of the street.

  Rouhani continued ranting from the bell tower. "I say to the unbelievers, fe
ar Allah! The catastrophe of the Hour of Doom shall be terrible indeed!"

  The Iranians answered their leader's pronouncements with slogans. "Death to America the Satan!"

  "The evil of their deeds condemns the unbelievers to the scourge of fire!"

  "The fire of hell!"

  Wind came from the east as a storm came down on the village. Colonel Dastgerdi put up the collar of his greatcoat. Made of fine Soviet wool, identical to the coats of Soviet officers except he had replaced the red stars of the Communist empire with the green Islamic stars of Syria, the boot-length coat kept him warm in any weather.

  But soon he would pack his suitcase with the polyester slacks and quayaberaspopular in Nicaragua.

  "Our weapons shall rain fire from the sky!" Rouhani shouted. "The unbelievers will find no shelter from their doom. On that day the earth will be changed into a new earth and the heavens into new heavens, mankind shall stand before Allah, the One, the Almighty. On that day you shall see the guilty in chains, their garments black with filth, and their heads in flames..."

  "The wrath of Allah!" the crowd shouted.

  "This is a warning to the unbelievers! Our weapons shall fall from the heavens, our weapons shall be the rain of doom. Let the unbelievers take heed, the hour of doom comes!"

  Americans and Iranians, two nations of fools! Colonel Dastgerdi laughed out loud as he strode through the falling snow. The American fools, desperate for profits, sold high-technology to their enemies. From electronic components manufactured in California, Dastgerdi had fabricated the rocket guidance system he tested today.

  And the Iranians! Crazed with fanaticism and death wish, led by degenerates like Khomeini and Rouhani, they attacked the decadent and doubt-paralyzed United States at every opportunity, seizing diplomats, bombing embassies, murdering hundreds of U.S. Marines. When the Americans did not respond with devastating counterstrikes, the Iranians declared yet another victory over the Great Satan.

  But even the Americans would not allow the murder of their President to pass without revenge.

  Dastgerdi knew the future. After the assassination of the President of the United States by Iranian rockets, the rush of events would condemn Iran to destruction and the Middle East to chaos.

  And the Soviet empire would capture one more nation.

  2

  Sitting low in the back seat of the armored Mercedes, Powell waited for the mosque to empty. He held his Galil SAR ready in his hands, a round in the chamber, his thumb on the safety.

  Rain drummed on the Mercedes. Powell watched the street, his eyes always moving, searching the doorways and shadows for sudden movement. A hundred meters away, where the street ended at a boulevard, the kerosene lanterns of a cafe threw yellow light into the darkness. American rock 'n' roll came from the cafe's jukebox. Two teenage militiamen stood in the cafe's entry, joking and laughing, their Kalashnikov rifles in their hands. On the rain-glistening asphalt, the long shadows of the militiamen twisted and jumped as the teenagers shifted on their feet, unconsciously moving to the rhythm of the American music.

  Of the shops on the street, only the cafe remained open. The others had closed for the evening prayers. From time to time, Powell scanned the upper floors of the buildings. On one side of the street, firelight flickered in the apartments as women cooked. But on the other side, above the second floor, he saw nothing. Israeli air strikes and Phalangist artillery had shattered the apartments and workshops of the upper floors, leaving only broken concrete.

  An old woman with an umbrella and a shopping bag came around the corner. Struggling with the weight of the bag's contents, she carried the parcel for a few steps at a time, then rested, then walked a few more steps. The militiamen stopped joking. They watched the old woman. One teenager ran through the rain to the woman. She turned and started at the sight of the armed man rushing at her.

  The teenager greeted her in Arabic. With his right hand draped over his Kalashnikov to steady the rifle, he took the shopping bag with his left. She released the bag and staggered back. The boy spoke quickly to her. His friend's laughter rang out in the narrow street. The old woman pointed her umbrella at a doorway past the Mercedes. The militia teenager accompanied her to her door.

  Powell watched them. A young girl opened the door, the oval of her face pale amber in the glow of a flashlight she held. The teenager gave the bag to the girl, then he started back to the cafe.

  As he passed the cars parked in front of the mosque, the teenager glanced inside. He looked into the Mercedes and saw Powell slouched in the back seat. Taking a flashlight from his military web gear, the teenager shone the light inside.

  Like the teenager, Powell wore the fatigues and equipment of the Shia Amal militia. His beard and shaggy hair covered his narrow Texan features. Taking his hand off the grip of his Galil, Powell tapped the window where he had taped up a photo of Imam Moussa al Sadr, the spiritual leader of the Shias.

  The teenager nodded and returned to his post at the cafe.

  Men came from the mosque. Some crossed the street to their shops and apartments. Others went to the cars. Akbar and Hussain — Powell's Shia operatives — returned to the Mercedes. Hussain strapped on his pistol belt before getting into the car.

  "Ready to go," Akbar said in his idiomatic Californian English.

  "Don't sweat it," Powell told him. He checked his watch. "We got time."

  As Akbar drove through the devastation of West Beirut, he turned to his American friend. "Why don't you come in for prayers?"

  Powell answered in Arabic. "The mosque? It would be disrespectful."

  "To pray?" Akbar also switched to Arabic. "To seek the mercy and guidance of God is not disrespectful."

  Powell paraphrased a verse from the Koran, "Leave me in my error until death overtakes me."

  Laughing, Akbar returned to American slang. "But you're no pig-eating Christian dog. You're a righteous dude. I want to save your soul. I want you in the family. But if I don't convert you, I can't set you up with my sister. My old man'd have a shit-fit."

  "What mercy would my prayers bring?" Powell continued in Arabic. "Would the prayers of a foreigner stop the killing and the suffering? Could I find understanding of all the horror in prayers?"

  "Texan, you're cool, you understand," Akbar jived. But sadness touched his voice for a moment. "You're on our side, so you know."

  "I'm not on your side," Powell told the Shia in English. "I'm on my side."

  Hussain interrupted with a quotation, "He who fights for Allah's cause fights for himself..."

  Powell finished the quote with the next line of Arabic verse. "Allah does not need His creatures' help."

  The walkie-talkie buzzed. The voice of Powell's superior came from the tiny speaker. "Calling car three. Report."

  Without speaking, Powell clicked the transmit key twice. "That Clayton is so stupid — let's quit the religious talk. We got work to do."

  "Yeah, man," Akbar agreed. "Noble deeds."

  "A noble deed would be to retire Clayton. That jerk gives the Agency a bad name. Calling for car three! That could get us wasted."

  The walkie-talkie buzzed again. "Car three! Report!"

  Akbar turned on the citizens-band radio mounted under the dash. Spinning the knob to a channel, he spoke quickly in Arabic, French and English code words. He got a quick answer. "They're parked where they said they would be. I guess the Libyans haven't shown yet."

  "Drive up so I can talk to that shit."

  After another block, Akbar left the boulevard for a side street. Shattered concrete littered the street. A falling building had crushed a truck. Akbar guided the Mercedes past a line of burned-out cars. He turned two corners. Flashing his high beams twice, he stopped beside a parked panel truck. Powell rolled down his window as his superior made an angry demand.

  "Why didn't you answer?"

  "Because I want to live! Don't you think there are other radios in the city with our frequency?"

  "There's no problem, Powell. We change
the frequencies every few days."

  "You absolutely positive no one's got our frequency?"

  "Absolutely." A balding middle-aged man, Ronald Clayton headed a Central Intelligence Agency surveillance unit assigned to watch the terrorist forces operating in Beirut. An informer had brought Clayton information on a meeting between the Iranian Revolutionary Guard and a Libyan diplomat. Tonight they would follow the diplomat to the meeting place and attempt to identify the leader of the Iranian group.

  Powell rolled up his window. "He's so stupid..."

  "But he's the boss." Akbar eased the Mercedes around the corner and parked on the boulevard. He turned up the CB radio and listened to the voices and static on the channel. When they heard a voice speak in an unintelligible chaos of languages, Akbar started the car.

  Clayton's voice came from the walkie-talkie. "Get ready."

  Without acknowledging the instructions, Powell nodded to Akbar. They slowly cruised north on the boulevard. Few cars risked the uncertain safety of the latest cease-fire. They saw only two other vehicles on the dark street.

  This section of the city had no electricity. No streetlights illuminated the roadway. No traffic signals flashed at the intersections. Buildings stood black against the darkness of the storm-gray night.

  In the vacant lots, fires and lanterns lit the tents of the homeless. Groups of men with rifles gathered under shelters of plastic sheets to warm themselves around oil-drum stoves.

  Past the burned-out businesses and tenement buildings, past the gutted, skeletal ruins of hotels, past the Green Line dividing the city, the skyline of East Beirut stood electric against the night. Thousands of lights marked executive suites and apartments. Swirls of neon marked the theatres, nightclubs, billboards for liquor and perfume. But for the dispossessed of West Beirut — Shias, Sunnis, Druze, Christians — the lights of the wealthy Maronite Christians meant nothing. The war had forced the peasants from the poverty of their mountain villages and thrown them into the poverty and devastation of West Beirut. They had always suffered poverty. The Maronite overlords of Lebanon had always flaunted wealth. In a Beirut divided by an arbitrary frontier called the Green Line, the traditions of Lebanon continued.