End of Enemies (48 page)

“And second?”

“It looks like Mr. Oaken's won the prize. We just got another feed from the Keyhole above Syria. Take a look.”

The president leaned over the chart showing the Syria/ Lebanon border.

“As of an hour ago, the exercise group was traveling northeast toward Damascus on this road … here. Near Qatana. As of ten minutes ago, the head of the column was here … eight miles to the northwest, near Raklah. By now, the spearhead is five miles inside Lebanon.”

“How big is it?”

“The First Armored Division, parts of the Seventh and Ninth Mechanized, and a good chunk of the Golan Task Group. We're talking about almost six hundred tanks, seven hundred APCs, and almost sixteen thousand ground troops. We've got a recon flight headed in that direction, as do the Israelis.”

“They know, then?” asked the president

“I called their chief of staff immediately.”

“Good. I'll be talking to the PM in a few minutes. What else?”

“The spearhead appears to be driving southwest toward the Litani River … which matches Oaken's prediction. Their most likely target is here … the high ground between the northwest corner of Dayr Mimas at the bend of the Litani. After that, we can expect the rest of the column to swing west along the river, digging in as it goes.”

“How long?” asked the president

“It's only twenty-five miles to Dayr Mimas and another twenty to the coast. The lead elements should be in position within two hours. They'll be followed by the anti-air units and artillery. By noon, Tel Aviv time, the Litani will be a fortress.”

“I don't understand this, General,” said Talbot “You told us the Syrians couldn't do this without support units, the same support units that were supposedly back in Damascus.”

Mason answered, sliding a photograph across the table. “That's a supply column behind the spearhead. It turned up during the last Keyhole pass. We believe it was hidden somewhere along the border.”

“That's absurd! That column is miles long. Where could they have hidden it?”

“Probably a wadi … a dry riverbed. Plenty of them are thirty or fifty feet deep and can stretch hundreds of miles.”

Dutcher said, “Which would mean they've been planning this for some time. This kind of operation takes some real logistical finesse.”

Cathermeier nodded. “More importantly, they've done it right this time. So far, the invasion has been textbook perfect. They're not going to make the same mistakes again.”

“Speak English,” said Talbot.

“Their plan is sound—even brilliant—all by itself. Add the bomb to the equation, and Syria is about four hours from owning Lebanon.”

Beirut

Tanner had little trouble imagining Abu as the scapegoat: The mentally unbalanced zealot, his life destroyed, his daughter murdered by Israel, now exacting his revenge on the grandest scale imaginable. But there was the other possibility, one that terrified Tanner: Patsy or not, given the chance, Abu would gladly push the button.

The door swung open. Azhar stepped inside, followed by Ghassan.
Only two of them,
Tanner thought, gauging his chances.

“Stand up, Briggs.”

Tanner heard the change in Azhar's voice and saw it in his eyes. What little animation he'd shown earlier was gone, replaced by the same expression he'd worn while ordering Briggs's finger broken.

Tanner stood up. He felt a wave of pain in his head. With each intake of breath he felt his ribs grating against one another. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Never mind. Follow me.”

Tanner stepped into the corridor. Five guards fell in behind him. Azhar led him down a stairway to a basement garage where an ancient Mercedes canvas-topped truck sat idling.

“Get in,” Azhar said.

Tanner climbed in the back and was joined by four of the guards. Azhar, Ghassan, and the remaining guard climbed into the cab. The tailgate slammed shut, and the truck lurched forward.

Through the canvas he could hear the occasional rattle of automatic weapons, but nothing else: no explosions, no honking of horns. It was eerily quiet.

“Has the fighting stopped?” Tanner asked one of the guards.

“For now.”

“What's happened?”

The guard grinned broadly. “The liberation.”

After an hour, the truck stopped and the guards climbed out, pulling Tanner after them. He blinked against the sunlight, stretched the cramps from his back and legs, and looked around. They were at the warehouse.

Across Tripoli Road, the skyline was dotted with fires, some still burning and some gushing clouds of black smoke. Of the remaining buildings in view, not one was unscathed, having either been holed by artillery fire or been reduced to rubble. Above it all, however, the sky was a pristine blue.

“We will rebuild,” Azhar said. “We've done it before.”

He led Tanner to the rear of the warehouse. There, tied to the pilings, was a thirty-two-foot fishing trawler, its engines growling at idle.

Azhar climbed down the ladder, followed by Ghassan, then Tanner, then the guard named Salim. Azhar gestured for Tanner to sit on the deck, then cuffed his hands to a cleat on the gunwale. Ghassan hurried to the bridge, and Salim began casting off the lines. As they pulled away from the pier, Azhar cast a salute to the guards on the dock. They raised their AKs and cheered.

“Where are we going?” Tanner asked.

Azhar looked down at him. “I thought you would have guessed. We have a ship to meet.”

National Military Command Center

“The Bekka group is moving,” Cathermeier announced, pointing to the chart. “Here, here, and … here are the lead elements. “Eight brigades of mechanized infantry moving east toward Beirut. They'll be at the outskirts in two hours. The rest will probably follow within a few hours.”

“The rest? How much are we talking about?” asked the president.

“If they move it all, about twenty-five thousand men and nine hundred tanks. Only half that number will go for Beirut; the other half, including the AAA and artillery units, will probably form a second line between Beirut and the Litani.”

“How about the southern group?” asked Dutcher.

“The lead elements are passing Hasbayya. We have a few scattered reports of skirmishes between the spearhead and the Southern Lebanese Army, half of which is pulling back to the border, waiting for support from Israel. The other half is scattering. By noon, the Syrians will be dug in from the coast to the Golan.”

“That fast?” said Mason.

“Lebanon's only fifty miles at its widest point. With the spearhead moving at thirty miles an hour … You do the math.”

The president turned to the secretary of state. “Are the Syrians talking?”

“The foreign minister is scheduled to give a news conference in forty minutes.”

“They'll call it a police action,” replied Oaken. “An intervention to protect Lebanon from falling into civil war.”

The communications chief called, “Mr. President, I have the Israeli prime minister ready; he's on your button five.”

The president turned to Cathermeier. “General, I want this room cleared of everyone except for the people at this table.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the center was empty, the president hit the conference call button. “Mr. Prime Minister, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Good. You've received our latest recon updates?”

“Yes, we're looking at them now. The Syrian spearhead is moving quite quickly, it appears. At least now we know what they've been up to in the desert the past few weeks.”

“Mr. Prime Minister, may I ask, what are your intentions?”

“We believe your scenario is the correct one. The bomb is intended to cripple us, to keep us from responding. Until the disposition of the device is decided, we are stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place. Tell me: Have you made the necessary arrangements?”

“I'll let General Cathermeier answer that”

“Mr. Prime Minister, the unit we've chosen for the attack is the
Minneapolis,
a Los Angeles-class attack submarine. When
Tsumago
crosses into your territorial waters, she'll be forty to forty-five miles north of Tel Aviv.”

A new voice came over the line. “General, this is the chief of staff. What kind of weapon system have you chosen?”

“Harpoon missiles … four of them.”

“Only four? Will that be enough?”

“Yes, sir. Standard allocation for a Russian Kirov cruiser is four;
Tsumago
displaces only a third as much as a Kirov and has no armor.”

“I see. And their travel time from launch to impact?”

“Just shy of five minutes.”

The line went silent as a murmured conversation took place in the background. The prime minister returned. “Mr. President, when the ship is fifteen miles from our coast, we are going to attempt a boarding to rescue the hostages.”

The president looked to Cathermeier, who shook his head. “Sir, that would be inadvisable. You know what happened to our team.”

“I do, but the decision has been made. Can we count on your cooperation?”

“Sir, I'm confused,” said Cathermeier. “Are you asking us to delay launch until your assault is complete?”

“No, General. You will launch as scheduled. According to our calculations, from the time our team boards
Tsumago
until she crosses into our waters, we'll have six minutes. Add five minutes' flight time for the missiles, and that gives us eleven minutes to complete the rescue.”

“That's a narrow window, sir.”

“Desperate times, General.”

Dutcher whispered to the president, “Ask them to wait a moment.”

“Mr. Prime Minister, please stand by for a moment.” The president muted the phone. “Leland?”

“We have to face facts. More likely than not, that bomb is going to detonate. There's no way we can damage
Tsumago
fast enough to prevent it, and there's no way a team can reach the trigger in time. It's
going
to happen, regardless of whether they rescue the hostages or not.”

“What about that, General?”

“We might as well give them a chance. We owe them that much.”

The president returned to the phone. “Mr. Prime Minister, you'll have whatever assistance you need. Good luck to you.”

“To all of us, Mr. President.”

Tsumago

Seven hours and 180 mile west of Tel Aviv, Cahil sat listening to the wind whistle through the hawse pipe and wondering if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life. What good could he do here? One way or another,
Tsumago
wouldn't survive to see another day. She would either be vaporized or sent to the bottom. Would his staying aboard change that? If he died here, he'd be leaving behind a widow and an orphan.

Decide,
Bear,
he thought.
Flip a coin if you have to,
but decide.

He checked his watch. There was still time. He would wait

Off the Coast of Lebanon

Tanner sat alone on the afterdeck, staring out to the sea and thinking. The guard's comment in the truck had provided him the final piece of the puzzle.

It had been a Syrian operation from the beginning. The ALC and Iraq were the scapegoats, the excuse Syria needed to invade Lebanon and return it to the sphere of a Greater Syria. And Abu Azhar was the puppet behind it all.

The bomb would cripple Israel's ability to repel the invasion as well as weaken her should Syria decide to press its advance southward. The plan was chesslike in its brilliance. Syria takes a giant step toward reclaiming its empire; the peace process is derailed forever, thereby cementing Bashar Assad's power, and Israel, the eternal Arab nemesis, is decimated.

Whatever clinical appreciation he felt for the plan was immediately quashed as he imagined hundreds of thousands of charred bodies lining Tel Aviv's streets. And what about the environmental impact? How long would the Med be poisoned? Ten years? Twenty? Half a century?

Trying to ease the cramps in his legs, he shifted position. He felt the cleat move under his hand. With one eye fixed on the pilothouse, he studied the cleat. It was a butterfly type, palm-sized, and affixed to the gunwale by a single nail.

He began rocking it back and forth. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, the nail began easing from the wood. A half inch appeared, then an inch.

After twenty minutes, his forearms ached with the exertion. He flexed his fingers for a few moments. Three inches of the nail was exposed. Would it be enough? he wondered. He would have to get very close.

He heard footsteps on the deck. He leaned over the gunwale, using his chest to press the nail back into place.

“Are you ill?” Azhar asked.

Briggs rolled back and wiped his chin on his shoulder. “No, I'm fine. How long until we're there?”

“Four hours.” Azhar sat on the opposite gunwale and stared at the water.

“Tell me how it happened, Abu. How did you get involved with the Syrians?”

“Pardon me?”

“You used the ALC and Iraq as scapegoats. Don't get me wrong, it's very smart. Given the world's opinion of Iraq, you could accuse Saddam of having assassinated Abe Lincoln and people would buy it. You kill a few leaders in Beirut to light the fuse, watch the city boil over into civil war, then point the finger at Iraq and wait for Syria to come the rescue. It was a good plan, but there was that one last hurdle, wasn't there?”

“What?”

“Israel. You and Khatib knew Israel wouldn't sit still while Syria took over Lebanon. You needed leverage. Without it, the rest of it wouldn't work. How am I doing?”

“Very well.”

Tanner shook his head. “Do you really think hostages will be enough to convince Israel to sit on its hands? They used you. When this is over, Syria will point the finger at you and Iraq, then put a bullet in your head. Your life story, your hatred for Israel, your twenty-year war of revenge, your daughter … all of it will come out.”

“Nonsense. They will negotiate. They will hesitate long enough to—”

“The only thing that'll stop Israel is the bomb
Tsumago
is carrying.”

“Again with the bomb? There is no bomb!”

“Then there's only one possibility left.”

“What?”

“You're so far gone you believe Israel will surrender Lebanon in exchange for a handful of hostages.”

“That's enough! You don't know what you are talking about!”

“Answer me: Are you a mass murderer, or are you insane?”

In a flash, Azhar drew his pistol and pointed it at Tanner's head. “Not another word! I will kill you! On Amarah's soul, Briggs, I will kill you.”

For a long five seconds, Tanner stared back.
Too far,
he thought.

Azhar holstered his pistol, turned, and stalked into the pilothouse.