by Al Ruksenas
“Odd, indeed,” Colonel Caine muttered as he rose from his chair and walked to the window overlooking the Mediterranean. He stared outside for a minute that seemed longer in its silent intensity. Then he turned to the others in the room: “I suggest we get on with it.”
By dusk they were aboard an Israeli patrol boat docked in the military area of Haifa’s harbor. Its sleek gray lines were augmented and sometimes broken by the deck mounted machine guns, small cannon, torpedo tubes, and array of antennas and radar that jutted above the superstructure.
General Lovy filled them in on details of their rendezvous as the engines of the craft rumbled in readiness to depart. “Good luck!” he intoned. He firmly shook hands with the two commandos, hurried down the short gangway to the dock, turned and saluted them. Minutes later the patrol boat was lost from view and cutting its way northward through the swells of the Mediterranean towards Lebanon. Only the receding sound of the roaring engines betrayed the fact that it was out there somewhere in the embrace of the growing night.
Below decks the two operatives checked to make sure their gear was in order after it had been transferred into torpedo‐like canisters for transportation under water. When they were finished, they were escorted by a sailor into a cramped mess area amidships. Both accepted an offer of coffee and settled into leather cushioned bench seats surrounding a small table. Two steamy cups were brought before them.
“Is there anything else?” the seaman asked as his cue to leave.
“No, thanks,” both replied.
When the sailor’s footsteps had receded, Jones raised his head slightly after taking a cautious sip.
“That’s a shame about General Starr.”
“Two senior officials in two days,” Caine said. “Freak accidents— if we take Lovy’s word about Starr.”
“No reason not to.” Colonel Jones was ready to take another sip of his coffee, but set it back down. “Strange coincidence, though.”
“What coincidence?”
“Well, General Lovy says a strange horse freaked out the Chairman’s mount.”
“So, he says,” Caine responded fingering the rim of his cup.
“So, when that beam fell on Secretary Stack’s limo, one of the workers made a comment about some bird perched on the end of it.”
“Pecking away at the cable?” Caine said dismissively.
“No, no. That’s just why I remember,” Jones said, ignoring his partner’s glibness. “It was an insignificant detail—but the worker noticed it—even in all the excitement.”
“I could imagine the horse,” Caine conceded. “But this bird business…”
“If the worker noticed it,” Jones persisted, “it must have made some impression on him, even in the chaos of the moment.”
Colonel Caine did not reply. He took a sip of his own coffee, then slowly lowered the cup. He stared vacantly into the mug cradled in his palms on the galley table. He swirled the cup and watched the dancing reflection of the overhead lamp in his coffee. It reminded him of the darting bird at the White House portico that had captured his attention two days earlier.
“Coincidence,” he said idly.
“Hey man. Sorry!” Colonel Jones suddenly blurted. “We got serious work to do! That’s why the old man, didn’t inform us about Starr. Too much information dulls the senses.” Controlled anxiety was beginning to show on his face.
“You are right, Colonel Jones!” Caine rose briskly from his bench with refocused determination.
“So, are you comin’ in the ocean with me?”
“I am comin’ in the ocean with you.”
They checked their gear yet again, as time neared for them to depart the patrol boat. They would drift in the sea until the go‐fast homed in on the transceiver attached to their raft. Colonel Jones fingered each item in the canisters as Colonel Caine read off a crumpled check list—clothes, money, documents. They each took extra care to see that the issued pistols and ammunition were intact. Then Jones removed the deadly contents of his backpack and divided them between the canisters.
“This makes me feel much better.” He gingerly placed two of the submachine pistols, two grenades and the explosives into one of the canisters.
Caine smiled in tolerant acquiescence and packed his half of the additional weapons.
“Why two canisters?” the Captain of the Israeli patrol boat asked as he appeared with several crewmen. “Are they not too cumbersome for such a stealthy exercise?”
“Redundancy,” both Americans offered in unison.
“Certainly,” the Captain said. “I was not thinking.”
“Gentlemen,” he continued. “You will be disembarking soon. We will attach the containers with your supplies to a motorized skid that will float just below the surface on battery power. You can use it also to propel yourselves under water as you approach the shore. Stay in the raft unless you hear nearby vessels. You will recognize the sound of our cigarette boat, of course. Any other vessel, please presume is unfriendly”—the Captain paused for emphasis—“since we, ourselves, have no other craft in this area at this time. We have reached Lebanese waters. I suggest you move at your own pace on a bearing of zero‐one‐five degrees. This will take you towards shore. Your operatives will pick you up in a speed boat within an hour after we depart. For cover they will be acting as loud and carefree vacationers. This will help you also in location and identification.”
The Captain paused. “Do you have any questions?”
“No questions,” Colonel Caine replied.
“By the way, gentlemen. The Mediterranean is a well‐tread sea. There are no creatures here that should cause you concern while you are in the water—or, at least we have never heard of any.”
“Is this some kind of joke, Captain?” Jones declared.
“Merely reassurance, Colonel,” the Captain replied with a prankish grin.
The officers were led to an area off the galley. They changed into wet suits and slipped on breathing tanks with a forty‐five minute supply of compressed air.
Crewmen assisted them to the stern of the patrol boat where a ladder had been hung over the side. The raft and skid were already in the water, barely visible from the deck.
“We will be at this position for one half‐hour at a time for the next two days,” the Captain informed. “The speed boat will bring you back here. Good luck, gentlemen. You’re going to Beirut at a particularly volatile time.”
“You’re always so encouraging, Captain,” Colonel Jones said as he descended the ladder. “I hope your boat doesn’t sink.”
“For both our sakes,” the Captain replied in the same vein of humor so prevalent among those operating in harm’s way.
When they slipped into the raft, a crewman released the line that held it secure to the patrol boat and waved them good luck. Before they knew it, the patrol boat had merged with the darkness and the night seemed to wrap tighter around them. The sound of the engines receded, then faded, replaced by the invisible, heavy rushing of ocean swells.
Caine clipped a lifeline onto his fellow‐officer’s utility belt and secured the other end to his own. “Just in case, Arie. So you don’t get lost.”
Jones didn’t say anything, but busily looked at his compass, then peered through the darkness in a bearing toward shore.
“See anything?” Caine humored. He adjusted himself in the raft.
“We can’t be that far from shore. The lights of Beirut ought to be somewhere along the horizon.”
“Hold it!” Caine snapped. “Listen!”
Somewhere in the darkness a faint sound was fading in and out among the rushing of the sea.
“Is it our pickup?”
“I don’t know. It’s too faint.”
“Do you hear any music, partying?”
“No. You?”
“Just engines fading in and out, but getting louder.”
“Just engines,” Caine affirmed.
“They’re plying a grid pattern. Looking for somethi
ng.”
“That’s not in the scenario.”
“A Lebanese gunboat trailing the Israelis?” Colonel Jones ventured.
“They know their location. They wouldn’t be zigzagging.”
“Maybe it’s time for a swim.” Jones blew through his regulator to make sure his scuba tank was delivering air properly.
Caine blew through his own regulator in response then pulled his face mask into position. He grabbed the raft’s leader line with one hand, leaned over the edge of the raft and flipped backwards into the water. Jones followed.
They held onto the leader line attached to the raft and quickly swam to the skid that was tethered behind it drifting slightly below the surface. Even though they wore wet suits, the initial plunge into the sea, coupled with the unknown, sent chills through their bodies. They turned full circle in the water to pinpoint where the engine sounds originated, but heard only repetitively louder and fainter revolutions.
“I don’t hear any partying!” Caine rhythmically treaded with his fins and spat out the words with mouthfuls of water.
“A little reconnaissance!” Jones replied.
They quickly inserted their mouthpieces, turned on the skid’s electric motor, released their leader line, and propelled themselves under water to a distance of thirty yards beyond their raft.
Within minutes a sleek silhouette appeared in outline against a faint contrast of the star lit horizon. Unerringly the craft pulled up next to their raft and several figures gathered at the gunwales.
Suddenly the two commandos felt the shock of an explosion. They cautiously broke the surface just in time to see their raft settle in shreds in the water and the wake of the blast coming their way. They instinctively dove to the submerged skid, and by practiced feel released the locking mechanism on their canisters. Caine pried his open against the pressure of the sea, groped for the nearest submachine pistol and before Jones could get a grip on his own, thrust it forward into his partners grasp. He groped again and felt the stock of an Uzi. Caine pulled it out and the canister clanked shut by the weight of the sea.
They broke surface again to get a bearing on the boat. Just then another explosion sent a shock wave through the water.
They signaled each other, submerged and hurried toward the boat. When they were within fifteen yards of the vessel they surfaced and tread water feverishly to be just high enough out of the water to aim their weapons in the direction of the large speedboat.
“Now!” Caine yelled with rage.
They opened fire and raked the boat back and forth with successive bursts. Colonel Jones’ armor piercing MP5K was especially deadly as its bullets tore through the gunwales and anything or anyone behind them.
They heard cries of shock and pain intermingled with foreign curses, followed by a splash in the sea. Then silence, except for the rumbling of the craft’s engines.
Caine and Jones swam a wide circle around the boat holding their weapons just above the water. They approached the craft from the opposite side of where they had fired. There was no sign of life.
Colonel Jones swam to the side of the boat while Caine indicated he would board from the stern. When they reached the craft, it seemed apparent they had shot whoever was on deck. Colonel Caine pulled himself onto the stern platform and leaned forward to investigate with his Uzi at the ready.
He saw two bloody bodies slumped on the port side of the cockpit along the bullet‐riddled gunwales. They had been holding AK‐47’s. Several depth charges were strewn among the bodies. Another attacker must have fallen overboard, Caine reasoned by the earlier splash. He removed his fins, rolled into the cockpit from the short stern deck, and leaned over the starboard gunwale, motioning Jones aboard with his outstretched hand and holding the Uzi in the other, trained on the cabin in case someone came from below.
When Jones was aboard, they removed their scuba gear and quickly checked the cramped cabin of the spartan, but powerful, forty foot speedboat, assuring themselves that everyone had been on deck, apparently to enjoy their handiwork.
“Well, it’s a go‐fast, all right—but the wrong go‐fast!” Jones intoned, easing his weapon.
“Maybe it’s the right go fast,” Caine replied ominously. “Maybe we were set up.”
The officers steadied themselves amid the two bodies crumpled in the rolling cockpit. The cruiser they neutralized bobbed idly in the swells. Their eyes fixed on each other with a look of chilling realization.
“We’ve got to keep going,” Caine said determinedly.
“Yeah,” Colonel Jones asserted. “Gotta’ see if our contacts are waiting.”
“If they aren’t …”
“Someone around here set us up.”
“If they are….”
“We were betrayed in Washington.”
Chapter 15
The President was in his shirt sleeves at a desk in his study next to the Oval Office. He was leisurely scanning a number of wall‐mounted television monitors tuned to twenty‐four hour news broadcasts and political talk shows. Most were covering the death of his close friend and trusted Cabinet member, Ronald Stack, with emphasis on details of the freak accident that had claimed his life and updates on funeral arrangements.
Several commentators and political analysts were speculating on a replacement. More than one mentioned Philip Taylor, the Deputy Secretary of Defense. However, most agreed that his equivocal stand on space weaponry and new deployment of missiles in Europe was a major liability. One outspoken and popular commentator even ventured to say that Taylor’s equivocation came from lack of knowledge and experience and that his current position as Deputy Secretary of Defense was a political sop for the President to maintain favor among a challenging Congressional leadership. He concluded that the good of the country in this particular international climate called for a strong, forceful replacement similar to Ronald Stack and that Philip Taylor, as a candidate, decent man that he was, would not serve the President or the country well at this critical juncture.
“I’ll be damned if they’re not right this time,” the President muttered and reached for a cup of coffee from a silver serving tray on his desk. A large pot and several empty cups were on the tray.
He switched to some other stations with his free hand and caught one showing excerpts from the reception at the Smithsonian Institution for new members of NATO. He saw the Russian Ambassador posing with several prominent Washington socialites.
“Well, Igor, at least you showed up,” the President thought. “Even though some of those new members stick in your throat. You might as well get used to it, because the list is going to grow.”
A short clip showed a curator he didn’t recognize pointing out an ethnographic display to some of the Smithsonian’s board of trustees. The President smiled to himself, wondering why the ubiquitous Victor Sherwyck hadn’t somehow managed to be in one of the shots. Items scrolled across the bottom of the screen: “Police search for leads in missing daughter of the Speaker of the House of Representatives….no indication whether foul play involved.”
“It’s foul play all right,” the President muttered, entertaining the guilty thought that it would have been better if some local crime were involved over international terrorism. Less complication.
Several minutes later his secretary announced George Brandon, chief of staff.
“Send him in,” the President replied while switching channels.
Brandon entered, nodding hello, pushed a chair to one side, so as not to block the President’s view, and sat down opposite him. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the desk and waited for a cue to speak.
“I see the funeral’s to be at the Church of the Apostles,” the President soon said. He muted the sound on the monitors.
“Yes, sir, I have the information. Services are to start at ten a.m.”
George Brandon was at ease with his Chief Executive. He was in his forties, but looked older; the result of a dedicated and very active life in local and state po
litics that brought him to befriend the future President and eventually follow him into the White House as one of his most trusted advisers. He had the paunchy look of a man who spent most of his waking hours in and out of offices, totally consumed with his duties—which were, of course, formidable.
Those who ever had an occasion to deal with Brandon soon realized that his fleshy exterior hid a very quick and practical mind—not brilliant, but somehow tuned into the nuances of mainstream national thinking. He was deferential to his President without being sycophantic, protective, even loving, and for that reason was very demanding and oftentimes brusque with his own subordinates.
He held a note pad, but spoke from memory: “We had to change your schedule for Wednesday morning and cancel the afternoon appointments. The Pakistani foreign minister is set for Thursday at eleven; he’s due at the funeral too. The meeting with Rudolf of the autoworkers’ union is re‐scheduled for Friday—we’ll have an updated briefing for you by Thursday. The 4‐H kids we left as is for Thursday at nine‐thirty. It’s a once‐in‐a‐lifetime trip for them to Washington to see the President.”
