Operation Golden Dawn

by George Wallace

  Moussiari glanced around the darkened interior. He lurched forward as the van raced around a sharp turn. Mustaf’s hand on his shoulder prevented Moussiari from being thrown into his master.

  Moussiari grunted, “These men have served you for years. They know your bravery. Master, I beg you to stay behind. This mission is too dangerous. There is too much to lose.”

  The van screeched to a halt. The rear doors swung open. Harsh blue-white light shattered the darkness. The lead pair of fighters leaped into the brightness.

  Mustaf pushed Moussiari toward the door. “It’s too late to back out now. We can only pray to Allah that the Americans know nothing of our mission and that we serve Allah’s will.”

  The pair ran across the narrow alley and followed the group into a darkened doorway. It was peaceful and quiet, beautiful as only an Iberian summer night could be. No shout of alarm, no spray of bullets to greet the fighters, only a warm breeze gently scented with olives and almonds. If they could just make it upstairs and to the front of the building.

  Mustaf once again rehearsed the plan in his mind. It all seemed so easy, and so perfect. Israel’s Chief of Mossad meeting the American Director of Central Intelligence at the American Embassy in Lisbon. The broad boulevard separated this apartment flat from the Embassy’s front entrance. It was an easy shot. A pair of rocket-propelled grenades would smash the cars, then a spray of automatic rifle fire would kill the dazed survivors. Mustaf smiled. A classic ambush in the middle of a safe European capitol.

  Mustaf’s team quickly dispersed to the three top floor apartments, setting up their killing field. Uncle Yassir’s agents rented the apartments years ago, just as they had in most of Europe’s capitols, in case they would ever be needed. Two men to an apartment, one ready with an RPG, the other lugging extra rockets and ammunition clips for their AK-47s.

  The pink-gold dawn was just lighting the Tagus River when Mustaf slid into position behind the center window. He glanced across the tree-lined boulevard at the white colonnaded façade of the American Embassy. A Marine guard in dress uniform stood just outside the heavy wooden double doors, ready, even at this early hour, to let America’s friends in and to stop America’s enemies.

  Mustaf leaned back and relaxed. There were still several hours to wait. The meetings weren’t scheduled to start until ten o’clock. These infidels believed in the comfort of sleep. There was time for him to rest for a few minutes.

  The incessant, annoying buzz awoke Mustaf. Why would someone be calling him on the cell phone? Only a very select, very trusted few fedayeen knew this number. Mustaf snatched the miscreant device from his pocket, jammed down on the talk button, and growled, “What?”

  The excited voice was familiar, a brother from the camps, his source in Arafat’s inner council. “Run, Mustaf! You have been betrayed. Arafat sold you out to the Mossad. It’s a trap!”

  The line went dead.

  Mustaf dropped the phone and stared sightlessly at the flyspecked white wall. It couldn’t possibly be true. Uncle Yassir was his mentor, his father figure. How could the man who had replaced Papa betray him like this? But somehow Mustaf knew it was true. He had risen to the point where Yassir saw him as a threat to his power. With Uncle Yassir, one thing was certain. If you threatened his power base, you would be destroyed.

  The first explosion shattered the apartment to the right and blasted a huge hole in the adjoining wall. Mustaf could barely see through the choking dust and smoke. The shattered shapes of his fighters, blown apart by the missile, were barely visible. Automatic weapons fire poured into the apartment from somewhere across the street. Bullets rhythmically pocked the walls, tearing huge gouges out of the plaster.

  A streak of light passed across his vision milliseconds before the second missile smashed into the apartment to the left. The explosion was deafening.

  Moussiari stood at the window and opened fire. Mustaf could see the AK-47 jump and buck but, strangely, he couldn’t hear the roar he knew so well. The missile blast had deafened him. A burst of machine gun fire found their apartment, stitching a neat pattern across the wall. Another burst tore through Moussiari, spraying the air with a pink mist as the fedayeen fighter was slammed back and fell heavily at Mustaf’s feet.

  “Mustaf, my brother,” the older fighter moaned. “Help me. I can’t move.”

  Mustaf knew that they were in a hopeless trap. Nothing left but to escape and fight another day. No sense being a martyr for the cause. That was for the stupid foot soldiers. A leader had to stay alive to lead. He dove out the door and dashed for the stairs just as an explosion erupted in the apartment. Another missile must have found their hiding place. The damned Americans had worked out the angles of attack like a fine science. Bullets zipped through the air like a thousand angry hornets.

  Mustaf crawled down the hallway as bullets rent the air above his head. It was only thirty feet, but it felt like a marathon as he struggled to make it to safety. Finally he reached the stairwell and tumbled down the stairs, only to slam into the landing below. In the relative safety of the landing, he tore off the black hood and coveralls, revealing the blue-gray caribinari uniform that he wore underneath. He left the coveralls lying on the landing beside the AK-47 and dashed on down the stairwell. By the time anyone found them, he would be long gone. A pair of explosions and more machine-gun fire erupted above and behind him as he tumbled pell-mell toward safety below.

  At the bottom, he pulled the caribinari sergeant’s hat from his pocket and jammed it onto his head, completing the look. It was not perfect, but it would do. He took a few deep breaths, clearing his thoughts. When he took the next step and opened the door, he had to be in character. Mustaf was now a harried Lisbon police sergeant suddenly on the front line of a terrorist attack in his peaceful city.

  A door on the floor below smashed open. Two figures in black combat garb dove through.

  Bulky armored vests and heavy helmets hid their features from Mustaf, but he could easily see that these were the first members of the SWAT team, making their way up the stairs to cut off his escape. Their M-16 rifles danced like deadly cobras as the pair darted forward. Two more team members dove through the door immediately behind them.

  Mustaf smiled. These men would be easy prey. One well-placed grenade would take them all out. Either they didn’t listen or they were trained by amateurs. Professionals didn’t bunch up so they could all die with a single stroke.

  Mustaf leaned down the stairwell just enough so the lead gunner could see the uniform and yelled, “Hurry, before they get away. Apartments on the third floor. Hurry!” He waved vaguely upward.

  Mustaf barely dared to breathe. He had just about exhausted his command of Portuguese. If the SWAT team stopped to interrogate him, they would easily detect the imposter. His hand dropped involuntarily to caress the butt of the 9mm Beretta in its shiny patent leather holster. He consciously pulled his hand away from the pitiful little weapon. These four would turn him into chopped meat before he fired the first round.

  The SWAT team dashed past him with barely a glance as they headed to the ambush.

  Mustaf walked slowly down the stairs and out the door. Bright morning sun greeted him as he exited the building that was meant to be his tomb. He slowly strolled down the alley, past the line of police vehicles and out onto the boulevard. American armored cars blocked off both ends. Combat garbed Marines stood behind the vehicles and crouched behind the tall palm trees in the center of the boulevard, their eyes fixed on the smoking apartment. No one even glanced at the caribinari sergeant as he slowly trudged down the sidewalk and rounded the corner.

  Mustaf’s mind was seething. Everything was changed. There was no going back to the PLO now. It was time for a larger game. The Palestinians could worry about the trivialities of their homeland. It was time for him to free the Moslem world from the tyranny of the American Empire. If he could just make it out of Lisbon and slip across to Libya, Mustaf knew how he would do it. It was all so easy when Allah revealed
his plan.

  2

  01 Jun 1998, 0930LT (31 May, 2330Z)

  General Liu Pen sat back and listened. The briefing was excruciatingly boring, as usual. Every minor diplomat or small time spymaster laboring in the employ of the Peoples Republic of China seemed to find it vital to report every useless tidbit of information they stumbled across. They didn’t seem to realize that the director of Peoples Army Intelligence Corp had important duties to attend to.

  Located deep under Tiannamen Square, The Central Command of the Peoples Intelligence Service was not listed on the tourist guide for Beijing. The concrete bunkers, secretly constructed during the sixties, could withstand a full blown nuclear assault from either the Americans or the Russians. Chairman Mao could never quite decide which was the greater threat. Their function to protect China’s leaders against nuclear annihilation was largely obsolete, but the bunkers had a new purpose. The massive concrete walls and tons of earth above shielded his command center from any prying eyes. No electronic sensor, no matter how sophisticated and sensitive, could reach here.

  From this hidden location, his tendrils reached out to all of Asia and beyond; sifting each tiny bit of intelligence; sorting, evaluating, filing every morsel. And General Liu Pen sat at the center of the spider web.

  Liu Pen’s eyes drifted away from the briefer and toward the map of Asia, nearly filling the wall to his left. China, of course, dominated the central part of the map, but Liu Pen focused further to the South, to the broad underbelly of Asia.

  For untold centuries China’s threat had been to the North and West. First from hordes of Mongol barbarians swarming across the empty plains, then from the Russians with their tanks and missiles. In today’s world, those threats were gone. The danger was from the South. It was from an odd mixture of Western capitalist economic power and fundamentalist Islamic poverty mixed in the stewing cauldron of the tropics. But, in that boiling mix of greed, hunger, and hate, Liu Pen saw an irresistible opportunity. It was not without risk, but a prize so valuable was worth some risk.

  The General sat back and gazed at the map, lost in thought. The giant fans, barely whispering, drew the outside air in, and after filtering it through several levels of defense, delivered a gentle zephyr of jasmine scented air across Liu Pen’s cheeks.

  “Our friend in Libya has reported in.” The briefer finished one subject and moved on to the next.

  Liu Pen shifted slightly and turned his stare back toward the briefer. This was a subject that he was interested in. The briefer hesitated before he continued the briefing, almost as if he was tantalizing the General with a morsel before revealing the main course.

  “And what does he report?” Liu Pen asked quietly.

  There was the barest hint of exasperation in the General’s voice. The three other officers, seated around the polished wood table sat upright. These men, General Liu Pen’s personal staff, sensed the danger. The briefer was trying the General’s patience and he was not known as a patient man.

  “He reports that the mission was successful,” the briefer droned on. “Mustaf al Shatar received the warning and escaped the Israeli/American ambush. He has safely arrived at the desert camp. He is blaming the PLO for betraying him, apparently as an attempt to remove him as a political threat to Arafat’s power. Mustaf has taken charge and broken all ties with the PLO. He is attempting to establish his own operation. From all indications, he suspects nothing of our involvement.”

  Liu Pen turned to his Chief of Staff, a squat, fat little man with beady black eyes, who squirmed at the General’s direct gaze.

  Liu Pen held his stare for the barest second before he said, “Have our friend offer Mustaf all the support he wants. We want him deeply dependent on our assistance. Then we will steer him toward our Indonesian operation.”

  The Chief of Staff nodded and broke into a half smile as he answered, “A perfect match. Bring the Moslem terrorist in to help the Islamic revolution.”

  He templed his fingers in front of his face. His black eyes beamed out over the tips as he continued. “I shall, of course, hide our presence. The disruption will panic the West.”

  “But the West are our friends,” Liu Pen retorted sarcastically. “Haven’t you been paying attention to the new world order? We are all friends now. We live in a time of peaceful cooperation.”

  His smile shifted to a serious grimace. “Let Mustaf know where his aid is coming from. The man has a pathological hatred for America. He will need to know most of the plan before we can use him. But not all.”

  The briefer cleared his throat. “May I continue, General?”

  “Do you have more drivel that demands my time?” Liu Pen shot back, the heat of his voice betraying the General’s annoyance.

  “Just one more item,” the briefer stuttered, taken aback by the blast. “Our new agent is in place. She arrived in Hawaii from Los Angeles two days ago. She will make contact with our target asset in a few days.”

  Liu Pen nodded and rose. It was a signal that the briefing was over. The briefer gathered his notes and scurried out of the room, followed by the rest of the staff.

  Just as the Chief of Staff reached the door, General Liu Pen called him back. “Two more things for you to do. First, develop a plan to have Mustaf al Shatar meet Admiral Suluvana. We need them to start working together quickly. Time is not on our side.”

  The Chief of Staff nodded and asked, “And the second thing?”

  “That briefer. Get him out of here. I’m thinking command of a border crossing somewhere in the Gobi Desert should be just about suitable for his talents.”

  07 Aug 1998, 1315LT (0215Z)

  Admiral Suluvana grasped the rail and braced his legs against the ship’s gentle roll. It felt good to be back at sea again, even if he felt like super-cargo on this new frigate. The starboard bridge-wing of a warship was where he belonged. The sea air blowing through his hair and the afternoon sun warming his skin were just the right combination for a sailor.

  The short, middle-aged Indonesian admiral pulled the blue ball cap a little lower so that the scrambled egg encrusted brim shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare. Long exposure to salt and sea spray weathered his face to the color and texture of old leather. Years of squinting into the sun carved deep furrows in his brow.

  The sea was an unbelievable cerulean that only existed in the deep waters of the tropics. The warm air brought a salt tang to Suluvana’s nostrils with just the spicy hint of exotic islands. It was a great day to be at sea.

  Suluvana glanced around for a minute. This was the finest ship to ever fly his flag. The Salawal and her three sisters joined the Indonesian Navy less than a year ago.

  He could not quite understand why the Americans were discarding them. The American Perry class seemed ideal for the restricted Indonesian waters, small enough to safely maneuver the many intricate passages, large enough to demand respect, and with enough modern weapons and sensors to handle any contingency.

  The Salawal was a manifestation of their largesse. The SSQ-56 sonar was fantastic for searching the island strewn waters for submarines, while her radar could search out and track any surface ship within fifty kilometers and any aircraft out to twice that.

  The Americans sailed with the Perry class frigates for many years before finally coming to the realization that they could safely pass their much-vaunted technology on to the primitive masses. They had only recently decided that their friends in Southeast Asia should have these magnificent ships.

  Suluvana well knew the Americans were using the Salawal and her sisters as a bribe to ensure Indonesia’s continued cooperation. Their secondary motive was to strengthen the current government against the threat of internal revolt.

  Just the barest hint of a smile flitted across Suluvana’s dark features. The irony was delicious. The Americans were arming the very revolution they so feared. With Allah’s will, he would use their own weapons to drive the infidels from his homeland.

  Suluvana strode out to the edge of
the bridge wing. He grasped the rail and tensed his shoulder muscles against its unyielding steel. This was the little exercise he could accomplish onboard. There simply was not enough room. Even walking around the ship was difficult with the crew snapping to attention whenever he approached. He tensed each muscle separately, holding the tension for a full minute before relaxing. First the arms and shoulders, then the solar plexus, and then moving down to the leg muscles.

  While doing his exercises, Admiral Suluvana stared out to sea. It would be interesting if he could spot the periscope before the Salawal’s sonar sensed the submarine.

  What was that, maybe five or six kilometers out, broad on the starboard bow? Suluvana thought he could just see tendrils of green smoke whisping upward from the sea’s surface. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and focused on the spot. Yes, a pair of green flares smoking on the surface and just beyond he could faintly see the smallest white feather caused by a periscope moving through the water.

  Captain Balewegal, the Salawal’s commanding officer, stuck his head out the bridge wing door and shouted above the wind, “Admiral, we have regained contact on the JAHIDIR at a range of three-seven hundred meters. This SSQ-56 sonar is magic. We detected the submarine just minutes after he launched his torpedo attack.”

  Admiral Suluvana slammed his binoculars down onto the small steel table. An empty coffee cup skittered across the surface and fell to the deck. The white porcelain cup shattered into a thousand shards. He screamed, “You idiot! Don’t you have the slightest understanding?”

  Balewegal stared at the irate senior officer, not comprehending why he was in such a tirade. With all his previous anti-submarine ships, he had never detected a submarine. Now that he finally could report success, his Admiral was furious. The taller, slightly overweight Captain shrank back, vainly trying to hide behind the bridge gyro repeater.