Fire Arrow

by Franklin Allen Leib

  Major Abdel Salaam Jalloud sat in darkness in the back seat of Colonel Baruni’s personal Mercedes limousine as it raced along the good road from Tripoli to Uqba ben Nafi. Major Jalloud had been with Baruni in the Free Officers’ Movement, which had planned and carried out the overthrow of King Idris and his corrupt government in 1969. He had served on the Revolutionary Command Council, which governed the nation after the coup, and had served as prime minister until Baruni proclaimed the Jamahiriya in 1977 and called upon the masses to rule themselves. Some said Jalloud was Baruni’s designated heir and successor though nothing official was said in a nation declared to be without formal governance.

  Jalloud thought of himself as an administrator who could carry out Baruni’s visions of nationalism and Arab socialism. He also thought of himself as a troubleshooter, and it was he who had suggested to Baruni that it would be prudent for Jalloud to go to the air base to find out what the Abu Salaam faction was up to. Jalloud felt he was protecting Baruni, especially if things went wrong.

  Major Jalloud was convinced that the situation was very dangerous. Colonel Baruni had seemed untroubled; he had known Abu Salaam when he had trained his cells in the Libyan desert. Jalloud believed the stories that linked the faction with the violent hijacking of the Italian cruise ship Achille Lauro; Baruni had not. Baruni agreed that having an American military chartered aircraft brought to Libya represented a dangerous provocation to the American fleet, but he also believed that the main demand of the faction would be the freedom of Abu Salaam himself, currently in an Italian prison, and that the Italians would quickly agree. Jalloud’s orders were to convince the kidnappers of the Libyans’ good offices, to keep them calm, and to build a dialogue. Jalloud hoped he could do all that as the limousine turned onto the brightly lighted apron and stopped beside the Russian-built BTR-60 armored personnel carrier, which was parked alongside the DC-8.

  Barbara Cummins watched the black Mercedes stop next to the high-wheeled vehicle. A tall, thin man dressed in an open-necked khaki uniform with collar tabs got out of the rear of the car. This must be the government official, she thought, yawning and shifting in the cramped seat. It will be a relief to get off this airplane, she thought, even if we are in Libya.

  One of the head-scarfed terrorists raced up the ladder and entered the aircraft. There was an animated conversation in a sibilant, euphonic language Barbara assumed to be Arabic. Walid smiled briefly, his teeth gleaming white against his smooth brown face, then he ran down the stairway to meet the government official, leaving a slight, scared-looking comrade standing awkwardly in the front of the cabin with the Libyan lieutenant. Barbara smiled to herself. When he smiled, the boy terrorist was really quite handsome.

  Major Jalloud introduced himself to the boy who led the freedom fighters. Jalloud made it a point to smile, to put his arm around the boy’s thin shoulders, and to listen. Walid explained, very confidently, that he had received a message from Abu Salaam himself, from prison, to carry out the hijacking, and that he and some friends in Spain had done so. “What is wanted of the Libyan people?” asked Jalloud.

  “Sanctuary, Comrade Major,” said Walid, stoutly. “Protection, until our leader is returned to us.”

  “And then?” asked Jalloud.

  “And then our leader will lead us, Comrade Major.”

  “What do you mean to do with these Americans? Surely you realize you can do them no harm.”

  “We will do as our leader directs, Comrade Major.”

  “Surely you know the Sharia, the Holy Law of Islam, forbids the harming of hostages?” The major tightened his grip on the younger man’s shoulder and leaned close.

  Walid bowed his head. “We love Islam, Comrade Major. We respect the Libyan People’s Jamahiriya. We honor the Sharia.” And we love Palestine more than any of those, thought Walid, full of sorrow.

  The major held Walid by his thin shoulders and looked into his black eyes, squinted in the bright lights above the apron. “Then you will act with responsibility, with caution?”

  Walid didn’t understand. “Comrade Major?”

  “Colonel Baruni wishes to give you his support, despite the fact that you came here and brought this American aircraft here without consulting him.”

  Walid nodded. “We did as we were commanded, Comrade Major.”

  “I understand. I want to know, Comrade Fighter Walid, that no harm will come to these people, here in Libya, as long as they remain.”

  Walid nodded, thinking of Amin, with the radio-controlled detonator for the bomb on board the aircraft, watching from the roof of the nearby Operations Building. Amin was waiting for a sign that something was wrong, a signal to blow the aircraft. “We will act with due care, Comrade Major, and due respect for the Libyan people.”

  Major Jalloud smiled. This young man scares me, but what can I do, given my orders? “Very well, Comrade Fighter Walid. My troops will not impede your transfer of the prisoners to the Operations Building.”

  The unloading of the aircraft had taken another hour and a half. The terrorists would allow only ten passengers off at a time. Barbara Cummins was near the rear of the plane and was among the last to leave. As she reached the bottom of the stairway, a terrorist, his nose and mouth covered with his scarf, stepped behind her and roughly tied her hands. She was then prodded toward the brightly lighted building. She noticed the limousine was gone and that the eight-wheeled vehicle, along with another like it, had been pulled back away from the aircraft. So the Libyan Army has given us to the terrorists, she thought, and for the first time she was afraid.

  Inside the building, Barbara saw the passengers seated in folding gray metal chairs, which looked like U.S. government issue. All their hands were tied behind them, at the wrists and at the elbows. They looked tired; some looked defiant, more looked beaten. Barbara was shocked. She was led to a chair in the front row and pushed into it. A scarfed terrorist, one Barbara had not seen before, scuttled along the row, tying each person’s ankles to his chair.

  When at last all the passengers were positioned and tied, Walid placed himself in the front of the room, his back to the windows. He spoke in slow, singsongy Arabic. The short, slight terrorist who had replaced Walid in the front of the plane translated, stammering frequently.

  “We wait here for the return of our leader. All of you will be kept tied, until he determines otherwise. During the day, ten of you at a time will be untied and allowed to eat, wash, and exercise in this room. None of you may speak to another. Violators of these simple rules will be further bound and gagged.” The slight terrorist’s voice fell off to a whisper as he translated the last few phrases. Walid continued to stare at them with his exaggerated scowl.

  Barbara looked around her at the other scared faces. She fought against panic. Surely the United States will get us out of this? She tried to force the question mark away from her thought, but it would not go.

  Tripoli, Libya, 15 February , 0800 GMT (0900 Local)

  PRESS RELEASE - ALL FOREIGN

  In the name of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate! Fighters of Islam have brought to our desert base at Uqba ben Nafi an aircraft of the American Imperialists. It rests here with us, and under the care of Allah. The band of freedom fighters who have captured the Imperialist aircraft are unknown to us, but we cannot refuse them sanctuary, as they are servants of Allah.

  The revolution of the Libyan Arab People will protect both the freedom fighters and the aircraft. The passengers and crew, all military spies of Imperialist America, are in the custody of the freedom fighters, under the hand and protection of Allah. The freedom fighters have asked us to transmit their legitimate demands in exchange for the safe release of the Imperialist spies. These demands are simple and just:

  1. That the leader of the freedom fighters, Abu Salaam, currently unjustly imprisoned in Rome, be returned, safe and unharmed, to his followers now at Uqba ben Nafi;

  2. That brothers of the freedom fighters currently unjustly imprisoned in Kuwait, falsely a
ccused, be released and delivered to a religious Muslim country, such as Libya or Iran;

  3. That if these demands are not met, as per agreements negotiated through the good offices of the Libyan Arab Jamahiriya and whatever agency the Imperialists may select within forty-eight hours from the time of this communiqué, the freedom fighters will begin the execution of the Imperialist spies captured aboard the aircraft. The people are vigilant in the cause of Arab brotherhood;

  4. Finally, no overflight of Imperialist or puppet aircraft, or any aggressive movements of Imperialist ships into sacred and sovereign waters of the Libyan Arab Jamahiriya, will be tolerated, and if such occur, the safety of the Imperialist spies cannot be guaranteed.

  Colonel Hassan al-Baruni, Guide of the Jamahiriya

  London, 800 GMT

  Stuart rubbed his tired eyes and sipped his umpteenth cup of chalky embassy coffee. He got up from the photograph-covered table and began to pace around the quiet room. His mind raced, running the images of the rescue missions in Southeast Asia at high speed, interspersed with pictures of the Libyan air base. It’s the coffee, he thought to himself, but he knew it wasn’t. It’s like I’m right back in it, feeling the adrenaline-driven excitement of stark terror of the night and the enemy, and the certain knowledge that American prisoners could never be left in enemy hands. He had been reprimanded for the ruthlessness of his assaults, though never by his colleagues and certainly never by the men he rescued. He remembered the helpless feeling as he had crouched in the rain outside the first camp, in North Vietnam, listening to the gut-wrenching cries of a prisoner and the loud laughter of the guards as he and his team waited for the camp to fall asleep so their tiny force could slip in. Stuart had never feared anything as much as the thought of changing places with one of those tortured American pilots, and while he waited in the wet jungle, often listening to the cries of pain, he had thought of little else.

  Stuart turned back to the table, sat down, and began again to look through the photographs. Oh, yes, he would help the Navy with method and anything else he could. He thought of the men and women at the Libyan base, tied and probably blindfolded and being harangued and abused by the Palestinians, themselves so brutalized as to be beyond caring for any human dignity. Stuart closed his eyes and fought back a sob of rage and terror, then shook his head and went back again to the photographs.

  Bill Forrest and Fred Maniero returned at 0830, the former bringing air force reconnaissance photos from an SR-71 overflight and thick English pastry, and the latter satellite images and a carton of Dunhill cigarettes.

  “Any preliminary thoughts, Camp Cracker?” asked Maniero, his voice pushy. Stuart squeezed his eyes and confirmed his earlier decision not to like the Agency spook. “The base is huge,” he began, looking across the array of photographs in different resolutions on the table. “The Operations Building is here, alongside the northeast-southwest runway, labeled runway oh-three-slash-two-one. There is what appears to be an office block immediately behind Operations. You can see the DC-8 parked on the apron directly in front of the Ops Building. The prisoners have to be in one of those buildings. There are literally acres of ground around the buildings, all paved and lighted in the night photos.”

  Maniero and Forrest followed Stuart’s pointer as it played over the features of the sprawling air base. “You can count the tanks,” said Forrest.

  “Yes,” said Stuart, “at least two full companies, mostly dug into the sand, outside the base perimeter.”

  “And aircraft,” offered Maniero. “Recon, tell us what type.”

  “The six parked in the open tarmac near runway 03/21 are identified as MiG 23s. These, in the revetments in the triangle made by the two runways and the main taxiway, are a section of four MiG 25s, most likely flown by Russians, North Koreans, or Cubans. The majority of the aircraft are in open revetments north and south of the main runway, runway one-one-dash two-niner. There are more than thirty revetments, some covered with camouflage netting. Photo interp says these are MiG 23s,” Stuart swept the pointer past a long line of concrete revetments, “and the others old Mirage Five fighter-bombers.”

  “You’d think that asshole Baruni would get them back to other bases,” said Maniero.

  “Except that if he did, we could bomb them in the first minutes of a rescue raid. Besides, at least with them there, he’ll have quick air cover if we come in out of the Med,” said Forrest, rubbing his unshaven chin.

  “That’s the way I see it,” said Stuart. “Those planes near the intersection will have to be dealt with by whoever is first in, so they can’t take off, and maybe more important, so they can’t block the runways trying.”

  “So how do we get in?” asked Forrest.

  “We have to secure the prisoners and neutralize the terrorist guards with a quick strike, then hold the buildings and protect their lives until a larger assault can break in and get everybody out.”

  “You got any kind of an idea how that might be done?” asked Maniero.

  “Maybe the beginning of one. We need plans of the base and all the buildings, and plumbing, fire-fighting, fuel, electric, everything. And we need to know the dimensions and contents of that reservoir.” Stuart pointed to the bermed pond in the center of one of the high-resolution SR-71 photos. The reservoir was near the intersection of the two runways, across the shorter one from the Ops and Admin Buildings. The surface of the fluid reflected moonlight.

  “How, pray, would you like us to get plans of a Libyan air base?” snorted Maniero.

  “Shit,” said Stuart quietly, “it used to be Wheelus, man, U.S. Air Force. Place must have been built by Bechtel, or Fluor, or Lovell. The Agency ought to be able to get plans from one of them.” Stuart set the pointer down sharply and went to look for the head.

  Washington, 1100 GMT (0600 EST)

  Admiral Archer Daniels, the Chief of Naval Operations, sat quietly while his N-2 Intelligence staff continued to add information about the hijacking at Uqba ben Nafi. He was a spare man, with a hawkish face and hollow cheeks. His skin had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes were a watery pale blue. He chain-smoked unfiltered Camels.

  The rest of the Joint Chiefs sat at the long table beside the admiral in the Pentagon situation room. With the exception of the two men and two women of the World Airways aircrew, all the hostages were Navy or Marine Corps, and the Navy had the forces closest to the Libyan coast. The Chiefs of Staff of the Army and Air Force and the commandant of the Marine Corps sat in respectful silence as the naval officers briefed and updated. Each chief took notes. The last item up on the enlarged, lighted computer displays was the translation of the communiqué from the government of the Libyan Jamahiriya, stating the demands of the terrorists.

  “Shit,” said General Vaughn, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force. He sat erect, cool, and military in a uniform that resisted the efforts of seven hours in a chair to make it look wrinkled. “The bastards have this pretty well figured out. Wheelus is right on the coast. Even if we jam, incoming attack aircraft will be seen and heard from the ground in time for them to kill our people.”

  General Klim, Chief of Staff of the Army, got up and straightened his rumpled uniform. “They will be much tougher to deal with if they get that murderous bastard, Abu Salaam, back from the Eye-talians. Where in the hell is State?”

  The door at one end of the oval room opened, and the Secretaries of State and Defense entered with their scurrying groups of aides. Admiral Daniels looked up through tired, red-rimmed eyes. Haven’t seen those two REMFs walk into a room together in months, he thought. Probably doesn’t betoken any agreement.

  The Secretary of Defense, small and dapper with black swept-back hair and shiny dark eyes above his prominent nose, moved rapidly into the midst of his military chiefs, who stood. The Secretary of State, a great, rumpled bear of a man with a high, shiny forehead surmounting intelligent blue eyes and a sad, heavy face, sat at the end of the table, reading the briefing papers, which explained the photos and the computer disp
lays and which detailed the Baruni statement with commentaries.

  To the Secretary of State, Henry Holt, the rapid-fire exchange of talk between the Secretary of Defense, David Wasserstein, and his staff seemed almost boisterous. The Joint Chiefs had sat down again and were conferring in low tones, ignoring the civilians and ignored by them. The Secretary of State sighed. “Dave, we ought to bring this to order. We have to brief the President again in one hour.”

  The Secretary of Defense turned and smiled winningly. “Of course, Henry. Why don’t you bring us down to date on the political alternatives, and then we’ll speak to the military options?”

  Ought to be the other way around, thought General Klim, putting a new cigarette in his already sour mouth. The Secretary of Defense was liked because he would fight hard for military appropriations up on the Hill, but mistrusted because he always resisted military options. The Secretary of State, on the other hand, had openly and publicly disagreed with David about the need to use military force where appropriate to deter and suppress terrorism.

  The Secretary of State walked to the front of the room and sat on one haunch on a front-row desk. “We don’t have much to offer. Politically, this couldn’t be worse timed. We’re trying to get the Italians to hold Abu Salaam, or give him to us; his people did murder an American on that Italian cruise liner they hijacked. He is very unstable and highly dangerous, and the Italians know it, but my guess is that they’ll give him up; Nino Calvi is a friend of the U.S., but he’s under a lot of pressure from the leftists in his coalition. They’ve wanted Abu Salaam out of Italy from the first moment he was captured, and fear repercussions in the Arab world, not to mention terrorism in Italy, if they keep him in jail or try him.”