End of Enemies (44 page)

“You're saying they plan to use the bomb as an extortion tool?” said Talbot. “To keep Israel from responding to the invasion? That's absurd.”

Oaken shook his head. “No, sir, not extortion. Decapitation.”

“What?”

“A thirty-kiloton blast in Tel Aviv Harbor would cripple Israel's ability to make war. The seat of government would be all but destroyed. Over half the city's population—al-most 150,000 people—would be killed outright. The IDF's Central and Southern Commands would be temporarily cut off from the Northern Command, the one responding to the invasion. By the time they recovered enough to fight, the Syrian Army would be so entrenched that little or nothing could be done about it.”

No one spoke.

Finally Talbot said, “Well, that's a tidy little story, but it's flawed. First of all, why in God's name would Iran cooperate with Syria? You said it yourself: Assad is an Alawite Muslim. Alawites are considered heretics by most of Islam's major sects. You think Iran would jump into bed with a leader it considers a heretic?”

“Strange bedfellows,” replied Oaken. “Iran tolerates Syria because of their mutual hatred for Iraq.”

Mason said, “ ‘The enemy of my enemy is my ally.'”

“Exactly,” said Oaken. “Syria is a thorn in Saddam's side, which makes Iran perfectly happy. Plus, if Saddam gets blamed for the bomb, the West would either decimate Iraq or go in and remove him from power, leaving a void for Iran to exploit. Don't forget, Iraq has a huge Shiite population that's been persecuted by Saddam. And what's Iran's expense? A few weeks of border exercises? It's a small price to pay to eliminate your worst enemy.”

“Okay, let's suppose your scenario is viable,” said the president. “Could Syria pull it off?”

“I believe so,” Oaken replied. “First of all, Israel would be hamstrung, if not crippled. That means you can count out the Southern Lebanese Army and any other Israeli-friendly combatants. Next, Syria knows how
not
to invade Lebanon. Namely, a piecemeal commitment of its forces. Of course, I'm not an expert, but if an invasion happens, I expect the exercise group will make a quick turnaround, race in, and drive a wedge north of the Litani River. Meanwhile, the Bekka Task Force will move to encircle Beirut. Right there, you're talking four divisions: almost eleven hundred tanks and thirty-five thousand men.”

Cathermeier said, “Reconnaissance shows the Bekka quiet and dug in.”

“I think once things get under way, they'll suddenly become very mobile.”

“How about it, General?” asked the president. “Is this feasible?”

Cathermeier thought for a moment. “With Israel out of the equation and Iraq preoccupied with Iran, it's very feasible. The movement he's describing could be completed in sixteen to eighteen hours. And with Damascus only fifty miles from Beirut, Syria could pour another four or five divisions into the country within days.”

“What about the
Independence
battle group? Anything they could—”

“They don't have enough firepower … not conventional, at least. We'd be able to stall them, but only for a few hours.”

“I don't understand,” said Talbot. “Doesn't
Indy
have a Marine Amphibious Unit attached? What about that?”

“A MAU consists of about two thousand men with minimal armor support. Putting them on the beach might buy us another day, maybe two, but the casualties would be very high.

“You see, the kind of front we're talking about would be only thirty miles wide. Into that space Syria would be packing four motor rifle divisions, six hundred artillery pieces, two thousand APCs, and almost a thousand anti-air defense units. Well, you've got one tough nut to crack.”

“What about the Lebanese Forces?” asked Talbot. “They wouldn't just roll over.”

“They're no match for the Syrians,” replied Oaken. “As for the Lebanese Army, two-thirds of it would either refuse to fight or simply switch sides. The remaining third would be bottled up within hours.

“But that brings up something that's nagged me,” Oaken continued. “Syria might be able to take and hold the ground, but it would be fighting a guerilla war against various factions for years to come. Either they're willing to pay that price, or they believe they can quash the opposition.”

Cathermeier turned to the president. “Sir, I'm not completely convinced Oaken is right, but I'll tell you this: It's plausible. The big problem is the exercise group. Their fuel and support units are back in their depots in Damascus. If they move an inch, we'll know. Without fuel, any strike force wouldn't get ten miles into Lebanon.”

Oaken nodded. “I agree. That's the other thing that doesn't fit. Either I'm wrong about this—which, believe me, wouldn't bother me a bit—or Syria has already solved the problem, and we're not seeing it.”

The president was quiet for a few moments. “Mr. Oaken, I hope you're wrong, too, but if you're not, what's your best guess? When would they move?”

Oaken paused. “Two days, sir. If it's going to happen, that's the window.”

Beirut

While the sun was setting in Washington, night had fully enveloped Beirut. Tanner crouched in an alley beside Martyr's Square, waiting for a chance to cross.

The city was under siege. From his vantage point, he could see three buildings burning. A few blocks south, near the University of Saint Joseph, a pair of machine gun-equipped pickup trucks were exchanging fire with a Lebanese Forces APC. Muzzles flashed from darkened windows. The snipers were at work. He'd been fired on twice in the last hour. He prayed Sadiq was safe and cursed himself for leaving the boy.

To the right, he saw a figure dash across the square. A rifle cracked. The figure fell, lay still for a moment, then began crawling. The rifle cracked a second time, and the figure lay still. Tanner watched the body, somehow hoping it would move but also praying it did not.

It wasn't far now. Once across Martyr's Square, he would cut north across the Weygand. The bait shack was only 100 yards beyond that. He and Sadiq could hunker down, wait till morning, then make their way back to the hotel.

Across the square he saw another figure inching forward from an alley. The figure rose to a crouch. This was a perfect chance, Tanner realized. Two targets: a fifty-fifty chance.

The figure stood up and sprinted into the square. The sniper opened fire. Bullets sparked off the concrete. Tanner took off, head down, eyes on the opposite alley. The rifle cracked again, then again. Bullets sparked the ground at his feet. He dove headfirst into the alley, crawled to the wall, pressed against it. He peeked out. The other runner lay sprawled near the fountain.

He reached the Weygand and slipped into the ditch. The road was empty. A quarter mile to the east, he could see the Lebanese Forces compound; under the glare of spotlights, troops hurried in and out of the barracks.

Once sure all was clear, he sprinted across the road, down the ditch, and into a clump of bushes, where he fell prone and crawled to the wall of the bait shack. He wriggled under the collapsed timber and dropped feet first into the basement.

At the other end of the basement, moonlight streamed through the window. Sitting beside it was Sadiq's hunched form.
Thank God.
Tanner started forward.

Then stopped.

Why hadn't Sadiq turned around when he came in? Tanner slipped the Glock from his waistband. He whispered, “Sadiq.”

The figure turned. Tanner saw the outline of a beard. He dropped to one knee, took aim, and fired twice, dropping the man. He sensed movement to his left. He spun again. A second figure was charging out of the darkness. He fired twice more, both rounds striking center mass, then rolled sideways as the body crashed forward.

He clicked on his penlight and scanned the basement. It was empty. He checked each man to ensure he was dead, then picked up one of the AKs and checked the magazine. It was full.

He'd been ambushed. A thousand questions raced through his head, the foremost being,
How
?
Bad luck or design
?
Perhaps a better question was,
Who
?
And what had they done with Sadiq
?
He thrust all that aside. He had to get out.

Suddenly the basement was flooded with bright light. Tanner heard the static squelch of a bullhorn, followed by a voice shouting in Arabic.

It was a question, he realized. The voice wanted a status report.

Tanner hesitated, then shouted back in Arabic:
Everything's okay
!

It was the wrong answer. The voice began shouting orders. Tanner was able to understand only one word, but it was enough:
Grenades.

He dove for the ground, pulled a stack of boards on top of him, and covered his head. As if seeing it in slow motion, he saw three soda can-sized objects arc through the window, bounce off the wall, and roll toward him.

Flashbangs,
he thought. They wanted him alive.

In a blaze of blinding light and noise, all three grenades exploded at once.

Tsumago

It took only a few hours' observation before Cahil realized the roving sentries were on fixed schedules. It was the first good news he'd gotten since boarding
Tsumago.
He was surprised at the oversight but only too happy to take advantage of it.

At three A.M., he climbed the anchor chain into the locker above. Wind whistled through the hawse pipe. The air was cool and tasted of salt. He shimmied out the hawse pipe until he could reach the lowermost handrail, gripped it with both hands, took a deep breath, then pulled his legs free and let them swing.

Below, he could hear the
swoosh-hiss
of the water breaking on the bow. He looked down. The bow lifted and plunged, sending up a cascade of spray.
Don't watch it,
he commanded.
Just go.

Hand over hand, he slid aft until he'd covered thirty feet. He stopped and listened. Thirty seconds passed. His arms began to tremble. Then it came: the click of footsteps.
Keep walking,
buddy
…
just keep walking.
The footsteps went past him and continued forward.

Cahil began counting. He had thirty-five seconds.

He pulled himself level with the railing, looked right. The sentry was through the forward arch.
Twenty-one,
twenty-two
…
Cahil rolled onto the deck, dashed to the superstructure, and scaled the ladder. On the second level, he stopped in a crouch beside the boat davit.
Thirty four
…
Below him, the guard walked past the davit and through the aft arch.

He crawled to the mainmast, a tower of crisscrossed girders jutting eighty feet into the darkened sky. He looked up but could see nothing of the top.

He slipped inside the latticework and began climbing.

After an ascent that seemed to take an eternity, he pulled himself onto the radar platform and lay flat. The wind was fierce now, whipping him from all sides. The platform was crowded with a short ladder that led up to the radar dish, the ESM dome, and the radio antennas. Aside from the hum of the spinning dish, it was eerily quiet, and every few seconds he felt an extra gust of wind as the giant bowl swept past him.

He pulled out his tactical radio, his combat tool, and two lengths of wire he'd stripped from the anchor windlass's power conduits.

Working from feel alone, he removed the back of his radio, exposing the battery leads, then unscrewed the antenna cap and removed the plug. Next he unscrewed the ship's antenna base plate. Beneath it he found four coaxial cables, two red and two blue. Which was which? Two had to be for the signal feed, the other two for power. He touched the red cables; they were warm to the touch.
Bingo.

Using the spliced wire, he connected his radio's battery to the antenna's power feed, then connected its antenna plug to the main signal feeds.

What he had just done, he hoped, was boost the tactical radio's power and range enough to reach
Ford,
which he prayed was still out there somewhere.

He slipped the headset over his ears, cupped his hand over the mike, and keyed the transmit button. “Cowboy, this is Sierra Actual, over. Cowboy, Cowboy, this is Sierra Actual….”

Langley

Mason's conference table was littered with coffee cups and scraps of paper. Mason, Dutcher, and George Coates stared numbly at the floor-to-ceiling white board, which was covered with notes, diagrams, and flowcharts.
Too many what-ifs,
Dutcher thought.

“You know the funny thing?” Coates said. “We know the damned thing's aboard, but the truth is, we haven't got a shred of proof.”

If not for the hostages, Dutcher thought, Cahil and his team would have solved that question. Without the bomb, the whole affair turned into a straightforward hostage situation. But Coates was right: The bomb was there.

“It's all irrelevant now,” said Mason. “Bomb, hostages, or both, the Israelis aren't going to sit still for it. They'll hit
Tsumago
the second she crosses the twelve-mile line. Christ, what a mess.”

His intercom buzzed: “Director Mason, I have General Cathermeier.”

“Patch it through.”

“Dick?”

“Go ahead, General. I have Leland Dutcher and George Coates here.”

“I think you ought to get over here.
Ford's
got something you'll want to hear. Somebody's using Sierra's call sign.”

“Ford's Tao happened to be on duty in when it came in,” Cathermeier said when they arrived. “He recognized the call sign.”

“Is he still transmitting?” asked Dutcher.

“Yes. He says he's only got a few more minutes.”

“Has he authenticated?” asked Coates.

“Nope. Said he couldn't.”

Dutcher said, “But he's using Sierra Actual?”

“Right.”

“It's Cahil,” Dutcher said to Mason.

“Dutch, he could be compromised. Hell, it might not even be him.”

“I'll know.”

Mason hesitated, frowning.

“Dick, this is the break we need. If it's him, it means we've got eyes aboard. It's worth the risk.”

Mason nodded. Dutcher grabbed the headset and sat down at the console. He keyed the mike. “Sierra Actual, this is Coaldust, over.”

Static. Then: “Roger, Coaldust, this is Sierra.”

“Sierra, interrogative: Recognize transmitter?”

“Affirmative.”

“Say initials.”

“Lima Delta.”

Dutcher nodded to Mason.
Thank God.
“Say status, Sierra.”

“Feet dry and secure. Another Sierra aboard, status unknown. Options limited. Request instructions.”

Cathermeier said, “Ask him if he can confirm the device.”

“Sierra, say mission status.”

“Negative confirmation on Kickstand. Will attempt to confirm and contact this time tomorrow.”

“What the hell is Kickstand?” asked James Talbot

Coates replied, “The code word we assigned the bomb. Dutch, tomorrow could be too damned late.”

Dutcher nodded “Sierra, request you expedite.”

There was a long pause. Dutcher tried to imagine Cahil's predicament. Trapped aboard a ship loaded with terrorists and a nuclear bomb, he must be feeling utterly alone.

“Understood, Coaldust,” said Cahil. “Monitor this channel. Sierra out.”

Dutcher took off the headset. “Well, he knows what we want.”

Mason nodded. “Now the question is, can he do anything about it?”

Mason's limousine was pulling through Langley's main gate when Dutcher's cell phone buzzed. “Leland Dutcher.”

There was a short pause, then a voice said, “Sunset.”

“Pardon me?” Dutcher said.

“Sunset.”

For several seconds Dutcher was too stunned to speak. Mason and Coates were staring at him. He forced a smile and said, “I'm in the middle of something right now.” He pulled out his day planner, consulted it, and recited a number. “Call me there in two hours … collect, if you'd like.”

The line clicked dead.

“Problem?” asked Mason.

“Family situation.”

Once in the parking lot, Dutcher said his good-byes, got in his own car, and pulled out. Once clear of the gate, he hit the speed dial.

Oaken answered on the third ring. “What's up?”

“Meet me at the office in an hour.”

“Those were his exact words?” Oaken said when Dutcher explained.

“Yep.”

“How about the voice?”

“He sounded local.”

Sunset was one of six code words Dutcher and Tanner had agreed upon before Briggs left. It was also the one word Dutcher least wanted to hear. It meant Tanner had either been compromised or was in imminent danger.

Almost exactly two hours after the initial call, the phone rang. Oaken checked it. “Secure line,” he said. “The recorder's running.”

Dutcher picked it up and accepted the collect charges from the operator. “Hello.”

“Hello….You told me to call this number.”

“Yes. First of all, where are you calling from?”

“A pay phone.”

“Good. What's your name?”

“Safir. I am a friend of Briggs's. He said if there was trouble, I should call.”

The man sounded scared but under control. He also sounded genuine. If Tanner had been compromised, he would have first worked through his covers and then, if pressed further, would have offered a duress code word.

“Tell me what's happened.”

“Last night he went to a place near the Qarantina. He was watching a warehouse there. After he left, I found out a bounty had been put on him. I went to find him, but he was gone. Two people saw a man matching his description being taken from a building near the Weygand.”

“Is that all? Have you talked to anyone else?”

The man hesitated for a moment. “No.”

“Okay. For now, don't do anything. You understand? Nothing. Stay away from the hotel. Find another phone booth and call this number in four hours. Okay?”

“Yes.”

The line clicked dead.

“What, Leland?” asked Oaken.

“Somebody burned Briggs. He's gone.”

Syrian Desert

Fourteen miles west of Damascus in Awadi, a Syrian Army officer stepped from under a camouflaged tarpaulin and checked his watch in the moonlight. It was time. He glanced up at the sky and wondered which of the millions of specks of light was the satellite that had just passed overhead. It didn't matter, he decided. The infernal machine and its prying eyes were gone. They were free to move.

He keyed his radio and gave the command. Within moments, a dozen diesel engines roared to life, then a dozen more, then another dozen, until the ground shook beneath his feet and he felt it in his belly. One by one, tarpaulins began falling away as soldiers jerked them down. They were efficient and quick, having practiced this very operation hundreds of times.

The officer nodded with satisfaction. Barring any problems, they would be moving within the hour.

Beirut

Tanner sensed that he was moving but little else. His head throbbed and his ears felt stuffed with cotton. He forced open his eyes and found himself staring at a cobblestone floor. They were moving. Why was the floor moving? No, it was him. He was moving. He could feel hands gripping his arms.

A wooden door filled his vision. Thick wood … black iron hinges.
Like a dungeon,
he thought dully. With a squeak, the door opened. He was shoved inside. Rough hands jerked his arms behind his back, and he heard the
click-click
of handcuffs.

Something slammed into the back of his head, and everything went black.

Tanner forced his eyes open. Above his head, a square of pale light swam into focus until it became a small, barred window. The sky was dark. Was it the same night or the next?
Concentrate,
Briggs
!
This was how it started, he knew. First comes the shock of capture, then the sensation of lost time, each spiraling and feeding on one another until you start to crumble.
Think it through.
It had to be the same night.

The door squeaked open. Four men dressed in fatigues, their faces covered in kaffiyehs, marched inside. The last one was carrying a bucket. He barked a command in Arabic. Then again. Tanner realized it was meant for him.

No Arabic,
he thought.
Don't give them anything.

“You! Sit up! Sit up!”

Tanner sat up.

The man stepped forward and emptied the bucket over Tanner's head. Instinctively, thinking it was water, he opened his mouth. It was urine. He spat and coughed, felt bile rise in his throat. The trio roared with laughter.

“You like? Taste good? Plenty more!”

Let it go,
Tanner told himself. He felt himself withdrawing, narrowing. This was just the start. It would get worse. Nothing mattered now but staying alive.
Keep it together and stay alive.

The trio stopped laughing. “Bucket” and the other two guards leaned their rifles against the wall. The fourth guard remained in the doorway, AK-47 at the ready. They formed a semicircle around him.

As if on silent command, they began kicking him. Boots pounded into his thighs, his back, his stomach. He curled into a ball and covered his head. A steel toe struck his spine, and he involuntarily arched backward. One of the men saw the opening and stomped his solar plexus. Briggs felt himself retch. He could hear them grunting and panting with exertion, urging one another on with shouts. One of the boots found its way through his arms, and Tanner heard a
crunch
and felt his nose shatter.

Chests heaving, they stared down at him for a moment, then picked up their rifles and stalked out. The door slammed shut

The light continued to brighten until the first rays of sunlight sliced through the window. He heard a skittering sound and turned to see a rat scurry along the wall and disappear through a crack in the stone. Despite himself, Tanner chuckled softly. Could be dinner soon, he thought. He pictured himself scrabbling around the cell trying to catch the rat and found himself laughing even harder.

The door swung open, revealing the same four guards. Bucket walked in carrying two lengths of rope, one of which was tied in a noose. Two of the guards pulled Tanner to his feet and shoved him against the wall. Bucket tossed the rope over the ceiling beam, slipped the noose over Tanner's head, and cinched it tight. He secured the second length of rope to Tanner's handcuffs and tied it off to a bolt in the baseboard.

Bucket barked a command.

Briggs felt the noose tightening, lifting him until he was standing on his toes. The rope was tied off. Bucket plucked the rope with his fingertips and nodded. He smiled at Tanner. “Tiptoes,” he said. “Tiptoes.”

In tradecraft jargon, what they were doing was called
scarecrowing.

Already Tanner could feel the noose cutting into his skin. In a few minutes his calves would begin to cramp. In an hour they would be on fire, and his ankle joints would stiffen until they felt encased in molten cement. Breathing would become a moment-by-moment struggle.