By the Rivers of Babylon (33 page)

Murad spotted them with the infrared scope not forty meters from where he was lying. The Arab raised his silenced rifle and shot each of them neatly through the head.

The Ashbals began crawling now, feeling ahead for trip wires. Their progress was slow but nonetheless unrelenting. The closest squad was within three hundred meters of the crest.

Tekoah realized what the mad-minute was and knew that the Israelis had not seen anything. He turned to Deborah Gideon. “Good luck.” He swung and hit her on the jaw. She fell silently to the bottom of their foxhole. He quickly pushed clay and dirt over her from the rim of the hole, then jumped out of it and began to run up the slope. He cupped his hands to his mouth again and shouted. “TEKOAH HERE! OUTPOST NUMBER TWO! THEY ARE ALL OVER THE SLOPE!”

Whether it was an Arab or Israeli-fired AK-47 that cut him down, he never knew, nor would it have mattered to him if he had.

The Ashbals charged. The first of the man-traps collapsed under the weight of one of them, a young girl. She fell onto the stakes and became impaled but did not die. Her screams were much louder than the guns at first but soon faded.

The Israelis were somewhat demoralized to hear the Ashbals so near. What had happened to the outposts? To the early warning devices? Why didn’t the mad-minute work? Where was Brin and that marvelous scope?

A three-man fire team of Ashbals made it to the crest but ran into the abatis. One was impaled in the neck, another in the chest. Abel Geller, a steward, shot the third man at close range with Dobkin’s Colt .45.

The man-traps were taking their toll, but there were not as many of the arduously dug holes as there should have been. Once they were collapsed, the screams of the victims kept everyone else away. The dead absorbed the stakes in their bodies and rendered the traps useless.

The Israelis had five AK-47’s now and there were fewer
Ashbals than in the first attack, but the Arabs had achieved surprise and that was always a critical factor. And there was no Joshua Rubin with his Uzi. Neither was there Nathan Brin with his M-14 and starlight scope, though no one knew that yet.

A squad of Ashbals made its way toward the promontory over ground that was not covered by any weapon. They keyed on the green glow of the starlight scope lying in the dust at the base of the promontory.

All along the line, as the Ashbals got closer they positioned themselves between the Israeli gun positions, which they could spot from the muzzle flashes. The Israeli guns had to swing farther right and farther left to cover these dead spots with effective fire.

The Ashbals had another advantage: This night they were veterans. The previous night they were untried young men and women who were taken by surprise by the Israeli resistance. Incoming gunfire held no irrational terror for them now, only the healthy fear that comes with experience. They had lost many brothers and sisters, and they wanted revenge. Hamadi had promised them that, with victory, they could use the Israelis—men or women—as they pleased. Ahmed Rish had promised all of them personal wealth after the ransom. Another difference between this night and the previous night was a long inspirational talk by Hamadi. Everyone knew, or thought he did, what he was fighting for now.

Hausner’s man, Jaffe, leaped over the breastworks and went between the impaling stakes of the abatis to recover the AK-47’s of the men who had become impaled. He threw the rifles into the perimeter but was hit as he tried to get back and rolled down the slope. Another of Hausner’s men, Marcus, recovered the AK-47’s and ammunition of the Ashbal whom Abel Geller shot with the .45.

The three extra rifles were given to two men and a woman trained by Dobkin. Still, the Ashbals had the initiative and they were in that peculiar situation that happens sometimes in battle, where there would be more casualties in retreating than in advancing. They were too near the crest.

The Israelis had cleared the slope well in front of their positions and they had leveled the land and flattened the clay mounds, but the Ashbals were so close that they were able, with their superior firepower and almost unlimited ammunition, to
pour overwhelming fire into the breastworks on the crest. The defenders spent more and more time keeping their heads down and less and less time returning the fire. Each time they raised their heads, they saw that the muzzle flashes had gotten closer than the last time.

Bullets ripped into the breastworks, eating away at them and causing small earthslides as they fell away, leaving exposed holes in the defensive walls. Bullets also ripped into the aluminum reflectors, knocking most of them off their posts. The armor mesh from the Concorde was effective, but after several thousand hits, the nylon began to fray and the posts holding the sections were cut in two and toppled over. The aluminum impaling stakes were severed or uprooted by rifle fire, leaving openings in the abatis. To those Israelis who had never seen battle, there was amazement at how much damage small arms fire could do.

Hausner, Burg, and Dobkin stood at their posts and received reports from the runners. Dobkin knew that the Ashbals had the initiative and that the next few minutes might bring them over the top. He put his hand on Hausner’s shoulder. “I’m staying.”

Hausner roughly pushed his arm away. “You’re going, General. Now. That’s an order.”

Dobkin’s voice rose, which was a rarity. “Now you listen—you need a military commander here. There’s no need for me to go for help any longer.”

“That’s right,” said Hausner. “It’s all over. But you were willing to go when it looked safer up here. So now I want you to go in order to save yourself. And I want someone out there so that the survivors here can have hope during their captivity. Now, go!”

Dobkin hesitated.

“Go!” shouted Hausner.

Burg spoke. “Go, Ben. The best commander in the world couldn’t save this situation. It’s in the hands of the troops—and God. So go.”

Dobkin turned and jumped off the small knoll. Without a word of parting to anyone, he made his way toward McClure’s position on the west slope.

On the east slope, two Ashbals managed to make it to the breastworks where there were no AK-47’s or pistols. The two
Israelis there, Daniel Jacoby, a steward, and Rachel Baum, a stewardess, hurled makeshift aluminum spears and shouted a warning. The Ashbals ducked the spears and opened fire. Jacoby and Baum were both hit. The two Ashbals slid between the impaling stakes of the abatis and jumped the breastworks and trenches. They were inside the perimeter.

Alpern, another security man, ran down the line with his AK-47 blazing. The two Ashbals fell into the Israeli trench. Alpern jumped into the trench and finished them with one of the homemade spears. Two men, carrying a makeshift litter made out of alumimun spears and carpeting, collected Daniel Jacoby and Rachel Baum and carried them back to the shepherds’ hut. Alpern called to two unarmed women and handed them the Ashbals’ weapons. They had been lucky this time, but Alpern, a veteran of the 1973 war, knew that it was coming close to the end unless their last desperate defensive plan worked.

On the flight deck of Concorde 02, Captain David Becker sat back in his chair and lit his last cigarette. He thought about his children in the States and about his new Israeli wife. The radio gave off a high, piercing squeal, but he did not seem to notice it. Occasionally, a bullet struck the fuselage and made a popping sound as it broke the thin skin. A few ricochets bounced around the cabin. Two bullets had come through the windows of the flight deck and caused spider-web shatters in them. Becker crushed out his cigarette and threw it on the floor. He reached to turn off the emergency power, but remembered that they wanted it left on for some last minute ruses they had planned. He shrugged. All the resourcefulness in the world meant nothing against hordes. The hordes. That had been an American infantryman’s joke during the Korean War. A Chinese squad was made up of three hordes and a mob, or something like that. Funny. The hordes were taking over the civilized world. Little by little. Like the end of Rome. He got up to leave.

The radio went silent, then hummed pleasantly. A voice in
bad Hebrew came out of the speaker. “You must give up,” said the voice quickly. “Tell H he must give it up.” Becker stared at the radio. The Arab spoke quickly and cryptically in the event the transmission was being monitored somewhere. In a second the jamming was back on. “Fuck you,” said Becker. He left the flight deck and went out to join the flight.

The Ashbal squad under the promontory was within a hundred meters of the green-glowing starlight scope. The two-man sniper-killer team near them had set up a position, and Murad was firing silently and accurately at heads looking over the breastworks on the ridge.

Burg turned to Hausner. “They’re close enough, I think.”

Hausner nodded. Dobkin had told them to hold off on what was termed their final protective measures and their psy-warfare until it was absolutely necessary. Hausner knew it could not get any more necessary than it was now. He gave the order to his runner to set in motion the last defensive measures. He turned to Burg. “I’m going to see how Brin is doing. You are the commander. Stay here.”

Burg acknowledged. As Hausner moved off, a young girl, one of the runners, came up behind him. “They’re coming up the river slope,” she reported.

Burg lit his pipe. Directing battles from hilltops was not his strong suit. It had been over thirty years since he was a soldier. Dobkin had left, and Hausner had gone out to the perimeter to commit suicide—he had no doubt about that. No one had heard anything from the Foreign Minister for some time. He was dead, wounded, or fighting for his life like everyone else. And he, Burg, was left holding the bag. He would have to negotiate the surrender if there was a chance to negotiate. He, who was always careful to remain detached and on the fence. But this time he was on the spot, and he was alone on that spot. No more runners were reporting the course of the battle. They were all fighting on the perimeter, he supposed. There was no staff to consult, no meetings to be held. He had a glimpse of how Hausner must have felt, and he was sorry for him. The runner stood beside him. He looked at her closely. It was Esther Aronson, one of the Foreign Minister’s aides. She was shaking and her voice was breaking as she gave a fragmentary appraisal. “What are we going to
do?”
she asked.

Burg pulled on his pipe. He heard at least ten AK-47’s on the
east slope now. He had no doubt that they needed every one of them, but he couldn’t let the Arabs come up the west slope unopposed. The Foreign Minister was in charge of that side of the perimeter, and Burg supposed that he knew he was unqualified for the task. The line was held by only about eight people. Then there were Richardson and McClure. He pointed out to the east slope. “Go out there and beg, borrow, or steal two AK-47’s and at least two loaded pistols. Take them back to the west slope. Tell Mr. Weizman to begin all the last defensive measures as soon as you get back. All right?”

She nodded quickly in the dark.

Burg looked at her. That was a lot of responsibility for one person, he decided. Alone, it was up to her to appropriate weapons and ammunition, then take them several hundred meters in the dark and place them where they would do the most good, and at the same time pass on orders to the Foreign Minister, who was probably beside himself with doubt by now. And all this had to be done before the Arabs could make the climb up the slope. He patted her shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Just take it one step at a time.”

“I’m all right.”

“Good. Did you happen to see General Dobkin over there?”

“No.”

“All right. Just go ahead, then. Good luck.”

She ran off toward the sound of gunfire.

Dobkin stood in the foxhole with McClure and Richardson. “I knew they’d try this slope eventually.”

McClure leaned forward and held out his pistol with both hands. He aimed cross-slope to the right and fired twice, then fired twice more to his front, then fired his final two rounds cross-slope to his left. He drew fire before he got the last round off. He leaned back. “Hard as hell to hold a five-hundred-meter front with a six-shooter.” He fished around in his pockets for loose rounds.

“They’ll send something over here from the other side,” Dobkin assured him.

“I sure hope so,” answered McClure. He began to reload.

Richardson looked down over the steep slope when the gunfire stopped. At short intervals a tin of pebbles would rattle, or the sound of an Arab cursing as he slipped would carry up the slope. “When the hell are they going to begin the final protective
defenses? Where the hell did that runner go? Where are our AK-47’s?”

Dobkin lifted himself out of the hole. “Ask General Hausner. I don’t work here anymore.” He crouched down in a runner’s stance. “Adios, Tex,” he said to McClure. “See you in Haifa or Houston.” He sprang out of his crouch and took a long step that brought him over the crest. He seemed to hang in the air for a long moment. He looked down and realized how steep the drop was. It was a wall, he remembered, a glacis. A sloping wall built up from the river bank. His fall intercepted the slope and jolted him with a shock. His next step was ten meters further down the almost perpendicular slope, the next, twenty meters. He ran, dropped actually, almost vertically to the ground below. He covered half the slope in less than three seconds. To his front, two surprised-looking Arabs suddenly appeared climbing out of the dark. They reacted instinctively and held their AK-47’s, with bayonets fixed out in front of them.

Hausner found Naomi Haber cradling Nathan Brin’s mutilated head in her lap. He knew now what at least part of the problem had been with the defenses. “Where’s the rifle?” he snapped.

She looked up. “He’s dead.”

“I can see that, damn it! Where’s the goddamned rifle?”

She shook her head.

Hausner crouched on the promontory. He half-felt and half-saw where Brin had rested his rifle on the ledge. There was a furrow in the soil where a bullet had ripped through. There was something warm and wet there as well. He wiped his hand. It was no stray shot, he decided. The Arabs had at least one sniper rifle now. They’d have another when they recovered Brin’s gun. Were they still keeping this sniper’s perch under observation? He’d find out very soon. He leaped over the earth wall and slid down the slope below. He saw the green glow very easily and dived at it.