The thump of the mine was too distinctive to ignore, especially since it was his unit that had laid the minefield.
Now, like a spider moving to its struggling prey, they were rolling again, their headlights off until the landmark hulk of the burned-out tank loomed just ahead, giving the driver the precise guidance he needed to avoid their own death traps.
Doug saw the headlights snap on in the distance and was grateful—for the few seconds it took to realize whom the lights probably belonged to.
There was nowhere to run that wouldn’t be a game of Russian roulette. Somehow they had blundered many yards inside the minefield, and whether in darkness or daylight, a single step could kill them.
They had talked quickly, urgently, looking for a way out, but there was only one: wait until daylight and walk back in their own footprints.
Now even that option had been canceled.
“Maybe somebody on our side heard the explosion,” Will said hopefully, but without confidence.
The Iraqi patrol, if that was what it was, had them bracketed in headlights now, the APCs coming to a halt less than a hundred yards away.
Doug turned to Amal and shoved the remaining gun into his hand. Amal’s face, ghostly in the distant headlights, was streaked with tears.
“Amal, listen carefully.” Doug’s voice was little more than a whisper, and Will moved between them and the lights, understanding what Doug was planning. “Hold the gun on us. We are your prisoners.”
Amal jammed the gun back in Doug’s stomach and shook his head. “No! I cannot! You were kind to … Amal … and …” He gestured limply behind him as the gun once again was shoved into his hands and Doug’s voice became an insistent growl.
“They will kill you on the spot, Amal, if they think you were escaping. We need you alive to help us. We need you to get out of this minefield, get around it, and make it to the base over there. We need you to tell them where we were captured. If you’re dead, there’s no trace. This is for us, Amal, understand?”
Amal nodded, slowly, reluctantly, as voices began shouting at them from the direction of the headlights.
“One more thing, Amal. Tell them …” Doug fumbled in a flight suit pocket for a scrap of paper, hoping his pen would still work.
It did. He wrote out the names of Sandra Murray and Bill Backus. “Give this to an American officer.”
Doug wrote as clearly as he could a brief message, folded the paper, and stuck it in Amal’s pocket.
“Now. Hold that gun on us and call to them. Tell them you have taken the gun away from us.”
Amal complied, his voice rising, submerging his anguish in the act of convincing the oncoming soldiers who were picking their way through the last few yards with flashlights and a map.
Doug and Will were led out at gunpoint, Amal following behind, his story accepted with scorn. This conscript wasn’t going to claim their reward. They would leave him behind to shift for himself.
One of the soldiers shoved Doug in the back, knocking him into the rear of one of the armored personnel carriers as his lieutenant yelled at him to be careful. The Americans were to be delivered in good condition. He had told his men the reward would be for all of them.
It was Will’s turn then to climb in the rear hatch, and with his hands now bound behind him, it was difficult. The final soldier joined him inside, leaving the door open as the column lurched away, the noise of the engine covering the sound of an American helicopter approaching from the southeast.
Amal was visible through the hatch, his face caught in a rear searchlight from the APC, standing at the edge of the minefield with glistening eyes, his gun held limply by his side, his shoulders slumped, helpless to rescue the Americans who had tried to rescue him.
To Will, he looked like the saddest man on earth.
18
Airborne, north of Kirkuk, Iraq
Sunday, March 10, 1991—7:00 A.M. (0400 GMT)
Shakir Abbas watched the ground drop away, carrying his stomach with it.
His left hand hurt from gripping the life out of the side rail on the seat, but with the main door of the helicopter wide open, the intimidating mixture of engine and rotor noise with the shocking blast of cold morning air made it impossible to relax his near-death grip.
The helicopter pitched over sharply then, as if the floor were dropping out from under him. It felt as strange and frightening as the roller-coaster ride he had taken in an American amusement park once, that catastrophic feeling of uncontrollable emptiness in your middle when you rocket over the top and head down again—not quite a pain, but very alarming. Shakir closed his eyes momentarily, opening them again when he realized the helicopter was simply picking up speed as they headed north to pick up General Hashamadi.
“Are you all right, Doctor?” One of the crew members was yelling at him in Arabic, and Shakir smiled and nodded. Not a very convincing show of confidence, but at least he was hanging on.
In the guise of Dr. Damerji he had fumed, paced, sat, and slept for an entire day waiting for the general to return. Sometime before dawn, the same secret police officer who had escorted Shakir into town had reappeared, seemingly delighted with what he had arranged for the good doctor. Damerji, he announced, would be allowed to fly on the general’s helicopter when it left to fetch him from somewhere closer to the fighting. Shakir had tried to act appreciative, but deep inside was the latent fear that his true identity was known to the man, and that he was being toyed with. A fatalistic image of being kicked out the door of the helicopter from a thousand feet up had played repeatedly in his mind. Saliah might have to get along without him after all.
With the guards used to his presence in the makeshift headquarters, Shakir had begun wandering the halls the previous afternoon, letting each excursion take him farther and farther into the various rooms until he found himself in the general’s office. He had come back twice, as casually as possible, both times with his hands shoved deep in his pockets in case he was discovered there, and both times letting his eyes touch every object in the room.
But there was no sign of the distinctive little canister, and he dared not open any of the desk drawers.
The hunger pains that had nauseated him earlier came back for a moment. None of the soldiers was eating well, and Shakir had asked for nothing and received little more. He needed food, he needed fluids, he needed sleep, and he needed clean clothes and a chance to bathe. But more than anything else, he needed to speak with the general absolutely alone.
His plan required that.
The helicopter was descending now under a canopy of dank gray, the orange and yellow sunrise off to the right suppressed by a thick layer of clouds, the chill of the morning air causing him to hunch over in an instinctive attempt to preserve body heat. Why they flew with the door open he couldn’t fathom, but the other three crewmen didn’t seem interested in closing it.
They were in the mountains now, or at least in the foothills. The hint of greenery and trees below through the mist and clouds gave way to a verdant scene of highland meadows. A poor substitute to anyone who had seen Scotland, as he had while at Oxford, but to the desert-parched eye of an Iraqi it was an Eden indeed.
The pilot circled and banked sharply, another helicopter—a gunship of Russian design—pacing them off to the right. Shakir could see a small group of vehicles ahead on the ground, and a group of military men standing nearby.
Their American-built helicopter was dropping sharply now and slowing, the sound of the engine and slapping of the blades increasing as the ground came up and gently kissed the skids in a perfect landing.
Almost instantly there were men at the open entrance, helping two others through the door and into the seat along the rear wall. Shakir instinctively moved over, looking for his seatbelt as the chopper leaped from the surface again and turned back to the south.
“General?” One of the crew members was standing in front of the man next to Shakir, whose rank he had not seen.
“Yes.�
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The crewman gestured to Shakir then. “This is Dr. Damerji, of the Nuclear Research Division. He needs to talk with you, sir, and we were given permission to bring him.” The man was searching the general’s face in subdued panic, obviously unsure he had done the right thing.
General Hashamadi nodded then and turned to Shakir, extending his hand.
“Doctor? How may I be of service?”
Shakir had feared this very moment the same way a guilty student faces an angry principal, submerging fear in constant rehearsal of what to say to this stern, unyielding military butcher. Hashamadi must be a butcher if he worked for Saddam, who surrounded himself with the vicious and the brutal. Weak generals seldom lasted in the Iraqi army. They were often shot. Sometimes by Saddam himself.
Hashamadi’s eyes, however, were warm and kind, which was as much a shock as the huge, beefy hand that carefully squeezed his in greeting. The general’s face had seen bitter storms and better days, the lines detailing the history he had witnessed, the permanent puffiness beneath the eyes the baggage of time and dedication. His hair was showing silver at the edges and thinning, his almost English-style mustache more befitting a swarthy-complected earl in Cornwall than an Iraqi general.
Shakir realized he was staring, and looked away.
“Ah, I need desperately to talk with you in complete privacy, General.”
Hashamadi gestured around the helicopter. “We have privacy here. Speak close to my ear, and your voice will carry to no one.”
Shakir hesitated only a heartbeat, but the general caught the indecision and smiled again. “This must be quite serious, then.”
“Yes sir, it is,” Shakir said, drawing a deep breath and trying to remember all the carefully constructed phrases that now seemed to evaporate in his mind. He drew a deep breath and leaned closer.
“One of your staff, sir, came to one of our labs in the western desert last week—the one called Saad-18—to pick up a small canister containing a new weapon. We made a terrible error, and I am supposed to retrieve that canister, and later bring you the replacement.”
“I see.” Hashamadi’s reply was matter-of-fact. “And thus it is ineffective in battle?”
“That … would be one way of characterizing it, sir.”
“Saddam has ordered this weapon used tomorrow morning. Did you know this?”
Shakir forced himself to nod, and the general continued, “It will make the enemy sick within one day, I am told. Low fever, stomach trouble, and generally a bad feeling that lasts a few days. While they are feeling ill, they cannot fight well, and we can finish their rebellion quickly, which is important.”
Shakir’s stomach was doing strange things again, though the helicopter was flying straight and level.
“So, this agent is not effective, but you will bring some that is? When?” the general demanded.
His first words finally coalesced in Shakir’s mind. “Make people ill,” he was saying, not “kill people.”
Could it be he doesn’t know?
Shakir could feel the general’s eyes on him.
For the longest time Hashamadi studied the scientist without moving a muscle, as Shakir prepared for the worst.
“Doctor,” the general said at last, his voice low and steady, “I think there is something more here you are not telling me.”
Shakir nodded. “Who told you, General, that this agent would only make people ill for a few days?”
Hashamadi ignored the question and grasped the meaning. “It does not sicken, then? It kills?”
Shakir explained in great detail the scope of the plague that lurked in the single canister he had been given to use, encouraged that Hashamadi seemed suddenly off balance and shaken, especially when told that he and his men would certainly die as well. And horribly at that.
“It will stay in the water, you say?”
Shakir nodded.
“For how long?”
“Long enough, sir, to kill anything human or animal that drinks it for many months, and perhaps years.”
Hashamadi fell silent then, and spent the rest of the return flight looking forward, his face hardened now and expressionless except for a small muscle in his lower left jaw, which seemed to be twitching every time Shakir glanced to the right.
They landed a hundred yards from the commandeered house, Hashamadi motioning Shakir to follow, then striding at an uncomfortably rapid pace into the building and into his office.
Shakir trailed him through the office door and closed it behind them. The general opened the door of an armoire and poured some sort of liquor, turning then to Shakir.
“I am not a very devout Muslim. If you are, Doctor, I apologize for drinking in your presence. If not, would you like something?”
“Some mineral water, if possible.”
Hashamadi pulled a bottle of water from the interior and handed it to him with a clean glass, before walking to his desk and sitting down heavily, his eyes focusing on the courtyard visible through shades on the window.
There was a tense silence before he spoke again, still looking outside.
“You are not Dr. Damerji, of course.”
Shakir’s heart flip-flopped and he felt dizzy—and dead. The charade had been discovered. He began to speak, but words would not come before the general’s hand went up to silence the attempt.
“How did I know this, you were about to ask?”
Shakir nodded.
The general turned around toward Shakir, resting his elbows on the desk, and smiled.
“Until your reaction just now, I didn’t. I merely suspected. You were introduced as a nuclear scientist. Nuclear scientists know little of biological work, because Saddam wanted it that way.”
Still Shakir’s voice wouldn’t quite come.
“So who are you, Doctor?”
“My …” He coughed and tried to clear his throat. “My name is Shakir Abbas. I am a biochemist in the Saad-18 facility.”
“That’s interesting. It was destroyed in an American raid a few days ago. You know this?”
Shakir nodded. “I had just left when it happened. Otherwise …”
“Otherwise you would be in Saudi Arabia as the guest of Bush and Fahd.”
Shakir nodded. “I suppose so.”
“So!” Hashamadi got up and walked around the desk, leaning on the front of it and balancing his glass on partially crossed arms as he looked down at Shakir. “I am told to release an agent that makes people sick, and instead it will destroy tens of thousands of lives and make Kurdistan uninhabitable for generations, correct?”
Shakir looked up at the mention of the forbidden name of the Kurdish homeland, a place that existed only in their dreams. Saddam had forbidden the use of that name. This was one of his generals.
“Is what you told me correct, Dr. Abbas?”
“Yes, General, it is.”
He nodded, giving no hint of what was coming as he pivoted suddenly and, with a great heave of his arm, propelled the half-filled tumbler of brandy into the masonry wall, where it exploded in a shower of glass fragments and alcoholic mist, the roar of his voice as startling as a gunshot.
“That bastard!”
Hashamadi stood now, shaking with anger, his face reddening and his breathing like the exhalations of a stream engine at red-line pressure. With a fluid motion he turned back to the cabinet and threw open a lower door to reveal a small safe. He spun the combination on it and pulled at the lever, the door swinging open then to reveal a small metallic canister, which he pulled from the safe and held out to Shakir.
“This is it?”
Shakir nodded, his eyes wide.
“In this container are human-killing germs?”
“Virus, actually.”
“How do I kill them?”
“You … I need the appropriate equipment, sir. I have to heat it …”
Hashamadi handed it to Shakir and walked back to his desk, staring out the window.
“You can do that? You can find t
he equipment?”
“Yes, General, I—”
He turned toward Shakir suddenly. “I’ll give you letters of safe passage. And I will give you what is essentially a blank order, signed by me. You can use them to get into any place except headquarters in Baghdad. But you’ll have to hurry. When tomorrow comes and this horrible weapon is not used, Saddam will go crazy.”
“What will you do?” Shakir asked.
Hashamadi looked up, surprised, and smiled. “Concerned about an old warhorse you’ve never met before? You’re too softhearted, Doctor, to be making weapons of mass destruction, as Bush calls them.” He sat down at the desk and began writing as he talked. “Do you remember the air force commander Saddam executed in January? He was vice-commander in Baghdad, and tried to save our best fighters rather than lose them to the American force.”
“I … think so.”
“Saddam shot him. Just pulled out his gun and shot him in the headquarters bunker.” Hashamadi looked up. “Saddam did not know then, and does not know now, that the man he shot was like a brother to me. I shall not forgive his murder, but I have tried to stay loyal to the regime—until now.”
Hashamadi looked right through Shakir, his mouth drawn tightly, his eyes flaring hate. “This is the day it all ends! I cannot shoot him, but I can block his evil. I should have done so long ago.”
The general looked back down and finished writing, folding the three separate sheets of paper before getting up and handing them to Shakir.
“These will get you what you need. But as soon as you have killed the virus in that bottle, I suggest you get across the border rapidly and seek asylum. You have a vehicle?”
“Yes. But I have family …”
“Take them, but go. In twenty-four hours you will be a wanted man.” He came around the desk and shook Shakir’s hand. “Tell anyone of this, Doctor, and we are both dead. You understand this?”
Scorpion Strike Page 28
