“Ansallah …”
Shakir’s response was instantaneous, interrupting Sandar.
“When did he leave?”
“An hour ago, but I’m not sure he had both canisters. A helicopter came the day before.”
Shakir stepped back and almost shoved the man away. “You must go, you all must go with these soldiers without resistance.”
Two canisters gone! Enough for a holocaust. But there were far more below to take care of. Shakir motioned to the soldiers with him and headed for the stairway and the lab. As they watched, he turned on the lights and inserted his hands in the isolation gloves, working the levers and turntables to assemble the twenty-one gleaming, glass-lined stainless-steel canisters while what could best be described as an electric kiln warmed rapidly.
One of the attack force moved over beside him, catching his attention. “Talk me through this, Doc. You can’t kill all of that at one time, can you?”
Shakir looked up, appreciating the curiosity. “It will take two cycles of five minutes each. I don’t have enough room in the kiln for all of these.”
One by one he unscrewed each of them, lifting the glass container with its lethal contents out of each protective shell, inserting it in the transit rack, moving half the group into the kiln, and shutting the door. The temperature inside was already approaching one thousand degrees. He wanted one thousand degrees for five minutes for each load to be absolutely sure.
The soldier asked some more questions about the safeguards, the filling and emptying procedures, and how the German company that had built the bunker had gone about designing the lab. Shakir was almost enjoying the discussion when Major Moyer came in the room hurriedly.
“We need you upstairs for a minute, Doctor. Can you leave?”
Shakir looked around. The first batch had been at one thousand degrees Fahrenheit for almost five minutes. He turned back to Moyer.
“I should load the second and last batch in.”
“After this. Come on. Now. There’s a compartment up here we don’t understand.”
Shakir left with a warning to the two soldiers to touch nothing. As he cleared the room, the one who had been standing in the background quickly secured and bolted the door, while the one who had asked the questions pulled a tiny steel container from a belt pouch with practiced efficiency and moved expertly to the small safety hatch between the lab and the isolation chamber. He had been well trained, and the German-built equipment chamber was easy to figure out.
Shakir returned to the lab irritated and resumed his seat, moving the second batch into the kiln. What kind of disease affected the military mind to such a degree that someone obviously as intelligent as the major would pull him away for such a minor matter? An ordinary refrigerator was not a secure lab storage device, even with a lock on the front. Any idiot should have known that!
Major Moyer pushed into the lab again and approached Shakir, his M-16 still in one hand, his hand-held command radio in the other.
“How much longer, Doctor?”
“One more minute.” On the excursion upstairs, Shakir had tried to bring up the subject that was burning for resolution, but Moyer had refused to listen. He would listen now.
“We have a problem,” Shakir heard himself say.
Moyer’s eyes were everywhere at once, taking in the isolation chamber, the long gloves through the wall, the stance of his two men on either side of the room watching Abbas, and finally back to Abbas himself.
“What?”
“I have destroyed all the virus that was here. But you see those canisters?” He pointed to the open collection of metal behind the thick glass. Moyer nodded.
“Two have already been taken out of here, and we must get them as well.”
“Where are they?”
“I … just a minute.” Shakir checked his watch. Five minutes had passed, but they were going to blow everything up anyway, so why not just let it cook? He abandoned the idea of turning off the kiln and withdrew his hands from the gloves, turning back to Major Moyer. “They left just an hour ago, just before we landed. I know the scientist that took them. He is a Ba’ath loyalist—the only one we had here. He will be headed straight for Baghdad. We can catch him if we start quickly. I would recognize the van.”
Moyer was shaking his head. “Not in the plan, Doctor. We kill the bugs here, blow the lab, and get everyone out. Those are my orders. Going after that guy’s another operation for another day.”
Shakir was astounded. There was no choice. How could there be a choice? No one could rest until all of the cultures had been found and incinerated.
“Major, there may not be another day. There may not be another opportunity! Don’t … don’t you understand how deadly this thing is?”
“I’m sorry. I have my orders.”
Shakir was on his feet then, pleading, but without effect. Stunned, he was led from the lab, with Moyer and three of his men clearing the area as they climbed. Only the demolition team remained inside now. Shakir was hustled out the entrance and back toward the second APC, but stopped suddenly, yanking the sleeve of the master sergeant he had ridden in with.
“You took all my people prisoner, didn’t you?”
“Yes sir. They’re in the second machine there.”
“I have to speak with one of them.”
The sergeant hesitated, then nodded. So far, Abbas had been no problem. He guided him to the rear of the APC and let him motion Sandar Almeany outside. As the sergeant watched carefully, the two men stood at the corner of the vehicle and began speaking urgently in Arabic. Shakir was grateful for the absence of the Arabic-speaking American corporal.
“What kind of vehicle was Ansallah driving? Do you know?”
“The Toyota van. The white one. The green one is still here.”
“You’re sure it was an hour ago?”
He nodded again.
“Was anyone with him?”
“One of the soldiers. They had new orders not to let any of us leave alone after your … your accident. What happened to you?”
“Later, Sandar.”
Sandar caught Shakir’s sleeve and stared at him, eye-to-eye. “Tell me now!”
Shakir nodded. “I could not let this happen, Sandar. I could not let them use it. I had to stop Saddam’s plans the only way I knew how.”
A sly smile crept across his colleague’s face. “So you did go south. Ansallah said you had faked your death. He didn’t trust you. He thought the virus would be ready sooner than you said it would.”
“He knew I had … defected?”
“No. Ansallah didn’t know. He suspected. He knew we didn’t trust Saddam. He knew how determined you were to prevent the virus from being used.”
Saliah’s image came to him again. “Did he say these things to Baghdad?” Shakir must have looked panicked, and Sandar understood at once. “Calm down, my friend.”
“But now that we’ve raided—”
“He never had time to tell anyone. That’s why he left tonight. There were no phone lines, and no one to report to.” Sandar thought for a second before continuing. The game had changed with Ansallah gone. “If he does get through, however … you had better get Saliah and the children out of the country.”
A strong tug on his arm propelled him toward the other APC as Sandar was pulled back inside his.
“Time to go, Doctor.”
Shakir complied easily as he spotted the rickety metal shed where they kept the cars, identifying at last in the gloom the green Toyota van.
The squad leader was quite pleased that Shakir had turned out to be trustworthy. With the major walking over for a last word with the sergeant before departing, Shakir let the others get in ahead of him. As the major and the sergeant compared notes on the return off to the side, the rear ramp was drawn up and latched and the oval entry door once again swung open, waiting for Shakir and the sergeant.
The major turned to Shakir and touched his arm. “All your people are fine, Doctor. No one r
esisted except the guards outside. Everyone else is safe. I thought you’d like to know that.” Shakir thanked him, and watched him turn and trot toward his vehicle as the sergeant smiled and motioned him in the door.
“It is an old Arab custom,” Shakir lied as convincingly as he could, “that after a dangerous but successful battle, the honor of entry into the tent must go to the fighter. I know it is silly to you, but please …”
He could see the professional soldier’s mind enter a temporary feedback loop of indecision. Shakir wasn’t trustworthy, but he had just proven himself trustworthy. He wasn’t there to be a diplomat, yet CENTCOM, Schwarzkopf, and everyone under them had pounded in the need to respect Arab customs. In that split second, Shakir knew the likable American was going to make a major mistake that would give him the one chance he needed.
“Okay, Doctor. In accordance with custom, then.” The sergeant swung his left leg into the oval doorway, holding his Uzi lightly in his right hand as he propelled his trunk through the entrance. Shakir deftly snatched the Uzi away with one hand while slamming the armored door with the other, the sergeant’s momentum propelling him cleanly inside before he could react. The rear door closed with a clang, and Shakir turned one of the latches before dashing toward the shed as fast as he could run. About twenty yards on the other side of the shed, there was a small emergency exit from the bunker below—just a long steel ladder attached to the concrete walls of a vertical shaft covered by a steel door flat on the ground, but a place to hide nonetheless. If he could get to it in time, they wouldn’t follow even if they could find it. The charges had already been set and the demolition crew had reported clear of the bunker, and they wouldn’t expect him to do something suicidal like going back inside, even if they knew about the exit.
Angry voices were replaced by the clanging of metal as the entire rear ramp of the third vehicle crashed open on the ground and the sergeant and several others came pouring out like angry hornets. Shakir was already rounding the shed, the objective somewhere just ahead. He heard the confusion as they yelled back and forth, trying to figure out which way he had run.
Shakir dove into the sand then, and crawled in the darkness the remaining distance, his hands feeling frantically ahead as shouts and footsteps behind him indicated that an energetic search was under way, with at least one soldier heading toward the shed. He felt a metal surface then, and his fingers flew over it, trying to find the handle. The running footsteps came closer, and he could hear the heavy breathing of someone just fifty feet or so away.
At last he touched the handle and grasped it, but it wouldn’t budge. He had no leverage lying on the ground, but if he stood up, he’d be visible instantly to any flashlight beam. He pulled and hauled nevertheless, throwing sand in his eyes, but feeling no movement.
Engines were firing up behind him as strong headlights cut the air above, filtering through the shed and around the van as at least one of the machines came his way. More shouting now. His footprints had been seen going into the shed. They were assuming he would shoot at them, and that assumption was slowing the search.
A fingernail tore painfully as he hauled away at the handle. The hatch hadn’t been opened in some time. Too much sand had drifted over it, or perhaps it had been latched somehow from below. He hadn’t opened it in a year.
Heavy footsteps ran toward both sides of the shed now as they ordered him to come out with his hands up. He froze, then his head triangulated the sounds, and logic interpreted what was happening: they had assumed he was hiding in the van, some forty feet behind him.
Someone pulled open the van door, then cursed loudly.
At last! The hatch moved a tiny bit, a deafening screech from the metal hinges assaulting his ears. He froze, hoping they hadn’t heard the noise through all their shouting, and knowing he couldn’t move the hatch again without alerting them.
That was that. He could do no more. Defeated, Shakir relaxed, totally out of ideas. They would find him or they wouldn’t, and if they did, he was confident they wouldn’t shoot him lying facedown in the sand. If he stood up, they might. After all, when last seen, he was carrying the sergeant’s gun.
More footfalls, this time coming in his direction from behind the shed. He recognized the sergeant’s voice in the distance, and knew the man felt angry and betrayed. He felt guilty about tricking him. The sergeant had tried to be respectful of Arabic customs, but Shakir was sure the next Arab who tried to appeal to the man’s diplomacy would be in for a rude shock.
There was an unexpected shout, and he recognized Major Moyer’s voice. “Break it off, people! Forget it! We don’t have time to chase the little sonofabitch.”
One of the men nearest Shakir yelled back, “Sir, I think he ran over this way.”
Major Moyer understood why Shakir had bolted. He couldn’t sanction it, but he understood. He turned to the squad leader of the demolition crew. “You weld that main entry door shut?”
“Yes sir.”
“How long to get back in?”
“Sir?” The man looked profoundly shocked, the thought of reentering a ticking bomb anything but pleasant.
“If someone tried to get back in, how long?”
“Too long, sir. He’d get blown up trying.”
As he figured. “Let’s go, everyone!”
“Should we shoot the tires on that van, sir?” another asked.
Moyer looked in the direction of the shed from which his last few men were returning, and shook his head. If the Iraqi couldn’t get it started in time, he would go up when the bunker detonated, which would be one hell of an explosion. If he could get it started, he had a fighting chance.
Good luck, you Iraqi bastard.
“No. Leave it alone,” Moyer answered.
The collective roar of powerful engines and the sound of squeaking tank treads rose to a crescendo and faded rapidly to the north, toward the airplane. Shakir knew the charges were set to go off sometime after the assault team was at a safe distance, but how long was that? There was only one safe assumption: he had no more than a few minutes to hot-wire the van and get away.
Shakir scrambled to his feet and ran for the vehicle, amazed to find the key in the ignition and gas in the tank. He turned the key, and the small engine sprang to life. Another amazement! He seldom talked to Allah, but he did so now, a quick prayer of thanks and a glance skyward. Shakir carefully placed the stolen Uzi on the floor, snapped on the headlights, and roared off toward the east. Ansallah had already branded him a traitor, and now the man had an hour and a half’s lead time in getting to military headquarters in Baghdad. Those facts kept going around in his head.
There was probably no way he could catch Ansallah, but he had no choice.
There were still two canisters left.
8
Southeast of Ar Rutbah, western central Iraq
Thursday, March 7, 1991—4:00 A.M. (0100 GMT)
Sandra had seen it in the small beam of her flashlight as they shut down. The image of the spoiler handle in the extended position had registered in some recess of her mind, but it had taken nearly half an hour to ferment into a conscious jolt. Now, shaken at the sudden realization, she fumbled for the flashlight, splaying the beam on the center console, hoping she was wrong.
She wasn’t. When they had shut down, the spoilers had been left extended with the number-three pumps on, big as life. As the power had died, the hydraulic pressure had drained away from the accumulators.
“Oh God!”
Without pressurized hydraulic accumulators, they couldn’t start the APU. Without the APU, there was no way to start the engines.
The combat team would be back any minute, maybe with a running gun battle in pursuit, and here sat their getaway vehicle, unable to move.
Sandra took in a ragged, frightened breath and scrambled down the ladder, fighting panic and guilt, finding the pilots under the left wing.
“Sirs, we’ve got a big problem. We screwed up. The accumulators are flat, and we’ve got
to start pumping now!”
Sandra explained rapidly what had happened, and Doug shook his head as they scrambled to their feet. “We didn’t screw up, engineer, I screwed up,” he said. “You read the checklist, but I’m the one who said the spoilers were closed and disarmed.”
Will put a hand on Sandra’s shoulder as they headed back toward the crew entry door. “Sandra, get the hand pump going while I round up Backus and Casey and some of Johnson’s men back there to help us. If we all take turns, how long to get them recharged?”
“Twenty minutes, if we’re lucky, sir.”
Sandra raced to the vacant midsection of the cargo compartment, removed the side panels covering the hand pump, and began working away at the handle as the others assembled, each of them taking turns, the tiny pressure gauges staying nearly at zero at first, then slowly, painfully, beginning to register, each stroke of the handle becoming more and more difficult as they built toward the three thousand pounds per square inch needed in each accumulator. Sandra was taking her third turn at the handle when word came that the assault team was on its way back with fourteen prisoners and the rest of Johnson’s men.
Sandra ran a quick time-and-distance estimate in her head as she put all her strength into the downstrokes of the handle.
Jesus! That leaves us ten minutes to finish this!
The living black-and-white fresco by flashlight resembled some classic surrealist film on industrial oppression, one of them at a time pumping madly with beads of perspiration and heavy breathing marking the urgency of the effort, the others leaning over in support, watching the gauges and waiting to take their turn at the pump each time the count reached twenty-five, the noise of the struggle echoing off the walls of the empty cargo compartment.
The sounds were replaced all too soon by the distant roar of engines as the Bradley and the M-113 APCs charged around the open rear of the aircraft and up the ramp, their powerful headlights cutting the gloom of the darkened cargo compartment as they clanked toward the front under Phil Casey’s guidance, rumbling past Bill Backus as he took his latest turn at the pump handle while balancing on the left side rail, barely clear of the huge machines.
Scorpion Strike Page 14
