Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen England

  David Lay picked up his open can of Coca-Cola off the table as he moved over to the maps of Anbar Governate, making a face as he tasted it. It had gone flat hours before, in the midst of another of their interminable planning sessions.

  This was going to have to be executed so precisely if it were to work. So many variables, so many things which could go so very wrong.

  “Do you think this is actually going to work?” a voice asked, echoing his thoughts, and he looked up to see Avi ben Shoham standing in the doorway of the tent, the Israeli’s suit jacket discarded long ago, his tie gone and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up past his elbows.

  “At this point, Avi,” he said wearily, taking another sip of the lukewarm soda before spitting it out in disgust, “what I think really doesn’t matter. We don’t have another alternative.”

  He took a step away from the table, his eyes never leaving Shoham’s face. “We both know the stakes here, the consequences if they’re able to launch an attack on the Taba Summit. With a chemical weapon. . .”

  Lay just shook his head, the results almost too ghastly to even contemplate.

  “Delaying the summit would buy us precious time,” the Mossad officer offered, going down a road they’d both walked more than once before. Time to secure more intel, time to work out who on the Palestinian side was actually funding this. Perhaps most importantly—time to find another way.

  “The administration is never going to let that happen,” Lay countered, speaking a truth they both knew, the reality of their work. So much of it, coming down to politics in the end. “Taba represents their very last chance to achieve peace on their way out the door. This is about the President’s legacy, and delaying the talks—even a week—sacrifices all of that. They won’t do it.”

  Shoham just looked at him, a sad smile passing across the Israeli’s features. “There’s not going to be peace, David, not for my people. Not in the next two weeks, not in the next hundred years. It’s a dream, that’s all it is. Not reality. I know you see that, perhaps more clearly than most.”

  “I know,” Lay said, nodding slowly. “But as long as the dreamers are the ones setting policy. . .men like you and I will be needed to try to keep the whole affair between the lines, whatever that takes.”

  And good men will have to keep going out into the night, he didn’t add, his gaze drifting over the maps spread out on the table before them. Men like those whose lives they were prepared to sacrifice this night.

  “L’Chaim,” he heard Shoham murmur, the traditional Hebrew toast sounding more like a prayer from his lips. Or. . .a eulogy.

  To life.

  7:34 P.M.

  “All right, you all understand the role you’re to play in this operation,” Ariel began, glancing around at his assembled team as they began to go over the plan. One final time. They’d be loading up within the hour, awaiting the final “go” order. Launch at 2200 hours. “It’s three kilometers from the drop zone to the target. We’re going to need to regroup on the ground as rapidly as possible and start pushing in.”

  “Ze’ev, you and the rest of the team are with me. Colonel Silbermann,” he continued, his eyes meeting those of his old comrade from the Duvdevan as he reiterated the orders he’d given earlier, “your team will take the lead on the ground, forming a skirmish line to cover our advance on the target. If you encounter resistance, take them out as quickly and quietly as possible. These aren’t regular Army, these are Republican Guards—they’re bound to have thrown out perimeter security.”

  Silbermann cleared his throat, taking a step forward. “Where are we at on updated strength assessments?”

  It was a question that had come up before, and the answer hadn’t changed. “We aren’t. Based on what signals intelligence we’ve been able to garner, we believe Hadi’s force to be relatively small—which would make sense if this transfer is, in fact, taking place without the official approval of President Hussein. But we haven’t been able to verify that through other intelligence means. We have to be prepared for at least platoon strength.”

  Outnumbered three-to-one. It wasn’t bad odds.

  “The high ground is here,” he said, indicating a spot on the map where the contour lines suddenly closed in on each other, “three hundred meters to the north of the target.”

  Take the high ground. A military mantra that went back centuries. Millennia, even. For as long as men had gone to war.

  “We take that, we have command of the area for the range of our rifles and Sergeant. . .’Black,’” he said, hesitating as he indicated the American, “can work his magic. If things go well, we accomplish our mission without firing a shot.”

  If they don’t. Well that was something they’d just have to deal with, if it came to that.

  9:03 P.M. Arabia Time

  Prince Sultan Air Base

  Al Kharj, Saudi Arabia

  The F-15E Strike Eagle was bathed under the harsh glare of the runway lights as Capano walked out on the tarmac, men in Air National Guard fatigues swarming over the plane.

  Carolina boys, just like himself. Out here in the middle of a country most of them could never have dreamed of ever seeing.

  Getting ready to bomb another one, he thought, catching sight of the pair of long objects slung beneath the plane—one under each of the F-15’s wings, the familiar shape of the GBU-16 Paveway II. Over fourteen feet long, finned at both nose and tail. One thousand pounds of high explosive, combined with a targeting package that could guarantee its delivery to within four feet of the target.

  Whatever that target might be.

  He shook his head, still not completely capable of processing the reality of what was going on. Of what he was about to do.

  The man had been CIA, of that he was sure—or at least as sure as he was of anything.

  “Stop talking, Lieutenant. I don’t want to hear another word.” His CO’s response when he’d attempted to take up the matter with him. “You’ve been given a legitimate target. That’s all I know. That’s all you need to know.”

  A legitimate target. Reckon we’re going to go bomb the crap out of it, then.

  All he really felt certain of, looking at the plane, was that whatever their target was. . .there wasn’t going to be much left of it after those bombs hit.

  Not much left at all.

  8:34 P.M. Eastern European Time

  Incirlik Airbase

  Adana, Turkey

  “. . .and understand, under no circumstances are you or your team to approach the vehicles after they are destroyed,” Shoham continued, his voice low as the two of them walked across the American military base, drawing up just short of the runway. “Understood?”

  Ariel nodded, Shoham’s anxiety only too revealed in the words. They’d been over all this, a dozen times before.

  Having the team pack chemical warfare suits along for the jump had been ruled out as infeasible early in the planning stages, meaning that they couldn’t risk even the slightest exposure to the nerve agent by getting close to the blast area.

  Final confirmation of the weapons’ presence was going to have to wait for later—days later, a team slipped across the border from Jordan. One, maybe two people. In and out.

  Simple. Just like their mission tonight would be. . .with luck.

  “Go with God,” Shoham said heavily, putting a hand on his shoulder. The older man’s face grim in the darkness of the night. “May He guide your footsteps toward peace.”

  An ironic smile touched Ariel’s lips at the words, recognizing part of the Tefilat HaDerech—the prayer of the wayfarer.

  He nearly replied, but let it pass—half-formed, unsaid. This night had nothing to do with peace, and they both knew it.

  “I’ll see you later on,” he said finally, gripping Shoham’s hand as he began to turn away, toward the aircraft. “After all this is done. After I bring my people back.”

  “Shalom.”

  9:57 P.M.

  The rendezvous point

  Al
-Anbar Governate, Iraq

  “I understand,” the Iraqi lieutenant colonel responded, holding the satellite phone against his ear as he listened, staring out into the desert night beyond their bivouac, the trucks masked with canvas to obscure them from overhead reconnaissance. It was a clear night, clear and nearly as cold as the noon day had been hot, a thousand stars twinkling down from the heavens above. The sliver of a crescent moon casting a faint, ghostly light over the forbidding landscape.

  The symbol of his faith, ever since the days of the Ottomans. His faith. And what would Allah think, of any of this?

  It was a question he had rarely asked of himself over the years, the concerns of the soldier being so far removed from those of religion. Yet he found it plaguing him now.

  Just get through this night. There’d be time enough for qualms of conscience later, after the job was done.

  “Then we look forward to your soon arrival,” he said finally, signing off and replacing the satellite phone on the seat of the old Russian military truck.

  “Our Palestinian friends are on their way,” Hadi announced, walking out toward where Captain Thamir stood perhaps ten meters distant. “Order the men into position, and tell them to get those fires out.”

  “At once, sir,” Thamir responded, acknowledging the instruction with a salute as he turned on heel, heading off toward the campfires around which their men were gathered. Every inch the soldier, as Raffi had always been. He’d made it ten paces before Hadi’s voice reached out after him, arresting his steps.

  “And captain,” he began, his voice hard, professional. Back to business—all doubts banished once more to the dark corners of his mind. He gestured toward the north, the dark shadow of the rise clearly visible, even in the night. “Put some men up on that ridge. I want to see them coming long before they get here.”

  9:02 P.M.

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  Ariel sank back against the red webbing lining the interior of the C-130’s fuselage, feeling the vibration of the engines through his ruck as the big plane started to roll, the roar of four giant Allison turboprops drowning out all else.

  They were doing this. They were really doing this. The familiar adrenaline rush he always knew just prior to a mission surging through his body—red equipment lights their only illumination in the cavernous hold of the plane, casting the camouflage-painted faces of his team members in a macabre hue.

  He caught Tzipporah’s eye and she flashed him a grim, tight-lipped smile. As professional, as unflappable as ever. The only woman on the team, he knew some team leaders in the Kidon who would have insisted on her staying behind on an operation like this, not taking part in what was, essentially, a combat jump.

  But he had too much faith in her to have done so—and they might well need her on the long gun before this night was over.

  And then they were airborne, the C-130 pitching nose-up ever so slightly as it took off into the night sky, banking to the south over Turkish farm fields below.

  Ariel glanced over to see Ze’ev sitting a few feet away on the nylon seats lining both sides of the plane, the older man’s eyes closed, his lips moving in apparent silence.

  Hear O Israel, he thought, knowing exactly what the man was saying, even if he couldn’t hear the words over the noise of the engines. He’d heard him say them so many times before over the years. The Lord is our God. The Lord is one.

  The opening of the Shema, supposed to be the final words an observant Jew said before death. A testament of faith.

  A faith he hadn’t known himself for. . .so very many years. Ariel’s face darkened at the thought, his fingers balling into a fist. But no Jews were going to be dying tonight.

  Not if he had anything to say about it.

  9:27 P.M.

  It wasn’t the first time he had sent men off into the night, Shoham thought, standing on the deserted tarmac of Incirlik long after the transports had departed. Hands shoved into the pockets of his dress pants, his face turned toward the darkness of the sky.

  Wouldn’t be the last.

  Once, it had even been him—out there so far beyond the front lines that there weren’t even any lines any more at all. In defense of Zion.

  And he would far rather have gone himself once more than have sent others to do what he no longer could. Blood on his hands.

  The price of getting old. Of survival.

  He let out a heavy sigh, turning to head back toward Hodja Village even as the cellphone in his shirt pocket began to pulsate with an incoming call.

  There were few people who had his number. Fewer still who would be calling. . .

  “Speak,” he ordered peremptorily, flipping the phone open, the first words from the other end of the line chilling him to the very bone.

  He shook his head, his face twisting into a bitter grimace. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

  “. . .they’re passing sixty kilometers to the east of Homs now,” the USAF radar operator intoned, a pair of brightly-colored dots on the radar screens in front of them indicating the current positioning of Baton Flight, the pair of C-130 transports. Syrian airspace.

  And no problems, as of yet. Lay ran a weary hand over his face, taking a step back from the screens and picking up his cup of coffee from off the table.

  There shouldn’t have been—they’d been flying KC-135 Stratotankers into Syrian airspace to refuel their Northern Watch assets for years, and it would take a sharp Syrian radar operator to sort out that these planes weren’t on a similar mission.

  Still, penetrating the airspace of multiple countries in a single night was a dicey affair—which is why running the whole operation out of Saudi Arabia would have been so much simpler.

  He snorted, raising the cup of steaming liquid to his lips. Like that was even within the realm of possibility. Some geopolitical realities were. . .insurmountable.

  “David,” he heard Shoham announce from the door of the tent, a sharp note of urgency in the Israeli’s voice—jarring Lay to the point of nearly spilling his coffee as he turned to face him. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  “We have a problem,” Shoham began, his voice low as he pulled Lay to one side, away from the Air Force personnel tracking the planes on radar. “I just received a phone call from Tel Aviv. One of our assets in Jordan has made contact.”

  “And?”

  “And the Palestinians’ trucks are already at the border crossing.”

  He just looked at Lay, the implication all too clear. They had pulled out early. Once they were through the Jordanian checkpoints, it was the shortest of drives to the rendezvous. Twenty minutes at most, and that was being generous—even on bad roads. Their window to interdict the transfer had just slammed shut.

  “How long before they’re on the ground?” the Israeli asked, the wheels almost visibly turning in his head as he evaluated one possibility after another, rejecting each in turn.

  “Thirty, thirty-five minutes, minimum.” And that was “on the ground”, not at the target, as they both knew.

  “What about your strike aircraft?”

  “Still on the tarmac at Al Kharj,” Lay responded, shaking his head. “And without someone on the ground to visually identify and designate the target—the release of the aircraft for the mission was conditional on our being able to do precisely that. We go bombing Iraq blind and we’re in completely uncharted territory, Avi. Presidential disavowal of the mission, Congressional inquiries. . .the Agency itself might not survive something like that.”

  “We are talking about the survival of my country!” Shoham exploded, his dark eyes flashing with anger. His outburst attracting the attention of the airmen on the other side of the tent, all eyes on the two of them in that moment.

  “And that is why I am trying to help you,” Lay responded, keeping his voice low. Every word measured. “Despite everything has gone before, on both our sides. But there are lines even I cannot and will not cross, and this is one of them. Without a me
ans of positive target identification on the ground, we can’t proceed. That’s non-negotiable.”

  The Israeli glared at him for a long moment before seeming to subside, his shoulders sagging as he turned back toward the map table.

  “You are right, of course, David. We both have our respective loyalties, ultimately, and it is unfair of me to ask of you what I myself would not do were our situations reversed.” He paused, and Lay could hear him curse bitterly, shaking his head as he stood over the table. “But there has to be a way!”

  “Your man in Jordan—is he in a position to perhaps. . .delay them at the border crossing?”

  “He has already been given such orders,” Shoham replied, seeming unconvinced of their efficacy, “but there’s only so much time he can buy us.”

  Not enough.

  10:36 P.M. Arabia Time

  Al-Karameh Border Crossing

  Jordan

  “Delay them as long as possible. Whatever it takes.” Lieutenant Salim Farajat rubbed sweaty palms against the sleeves of his uniform fatigues as he opened the door of the guardhouse, the words of his Israeli case officer still ringing in his ears. Whatever it takes.

  It had all seemed so straightforward back when he’d first been approached by the man who now acted as his controller.

  The money was good, enough to enable him to get married—making up the difference where a junior officer’s salary had always fallen short. And all he had to do was keep track of vehicles passing through Al-Karameh—like he was doing already. So simple.

  In the beginning.

  And now he no longer had any choice, in any of this. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he walked out into the glare of the headlights filling the night, circling around the front of the trucks to the driver’s side of the lead vehicle.