Firebreak (13 page)

The angle of attack indicator was bouncing around thirty-five units and Ramjet lost sight of Matt’s aircraft under the nose. At the same time, he felt the onset of a slight buffet that would increase as they slowed the fight and increased the angle of attack. Ramjet saw it all and it hurt—he wasn’t used to flying in the pit of an F-15E and watching a close-in fight from that perspective.

Locke was pleased with the way Matt handled the maneuver. He decided to disengage, eased off the stick to separate, and transmitted a cool “Knock if off” over the radio. He was smiling.

But Ramjet panicked at that same instant. He desperately wanted to get a visual on the other aircraft and drowned Locke’s radio call with a shouted “Knock it off! Knock it off!” as the two F-15s joined together in a midair collision.

The forces generated by the two aircraft, each weighing over twenty tons, when they smashed into each other were horrendous. The G meters in the cockpit spiked to the max and froze, unable to sense the full impact. Matt’s left wingtip slashed into the canopy of stretched acrylic on Locke’s F-15, killing both colonels instantly. Most of Matt’s left wing and horizontal stabilator were ripped off as his jet tried to shed the wreckage of Locke’s F-15. Fuel and hydraulic lines ruptured as the engines sucked debris into their turbofans. The delicately balanced blades came apart, becoming instant shrapnel, igniting the fuel the high-pressure pumps were still forcing toward the engines. The rear of Matt’s aircraft exploded.

But the engineers and workers at McDonnell Aircraft Company had done their job well and the Eagle refused to die. The titanium bulkheads and the heat-bonded joints held and Matt and Haney were still alive after the initial impact. Haney pulled at both ejection handles on the side of his seat and started a dual, sequenced ejection. The canopy flew back into the slipstream and Haney’s seat went up the rails first. In less than half a second, the rocket sustainer under his seat kicked in, sending him well clear of the jet and directly into a piece of their left aileron that was fluttering to earth. It looked like the aileron lightly brushed the top of Haney’s seat, but again, the impact forces were horrendous. Haney’s seat lost stabilization and tumbled earthward, its parachute shredded.

Haney separated manually from the seat and pulled his ripcord. But nothing happened. He was conscious for the full three minutes before he hit the ground.

Thomas Fraser looked up from his seat and well-ordered desk and smiled at the two Air Force officers Melissa had escorted into his office. No look or word betrayed the frustration that was souring his day. “General Cox, good to see you again.” Fraser stood and extended his right hand, all his Irish good nature up front. Deep inside, he wanted to order Cox to leave the White House and never come back.

“Mr. Fraser,” Cox began, “I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Colonel William Carroll. Bill’s our premier expert on the Middle East.”

“So, you’re the man whose reports on what’s happening over there have gotten the President’s attention,” Fraser said as he shook Carroll’s hand. He waved the two officers to seats and settled into his own chair. “General Cox, is this the first time you’ve briefed the President?” Fraser was furious that he could not control all the information reaching the President and wanted to learn what the DIA was going to tell him in advance. It was a matter of damage control.

Cox smiled. “I brought Bill along so he could brief the President directly. Straight from the horse’s mouth—so to speak.”

“Most unusual, but then Admiral Scovill did tell the President you were producing some great work at the DIA.” Fraser made a mental promise to even the score with the crusty old admiral who chaired the Joint Chiefs of Staff and never cleared what he was going to say with Fraser first. “Just what will you be reporting to the President this morning?”

“Essentially, Bill will be presenting a detailed update of the summaries you’ve seen in the President’s Daily Brief. Should take sixteen minutes if there are no questions.”

That’s not likely, Fraser thought. Pontowski always asks questions. Fraser did not like the way the President insisted on personally hearing opposing viewpoints on every major issue. He liked it even less that a young-looking, bright lieutenant colonel was briefing him. He felt his control slipping away. Michael Cagliari, the national security adviser to the President, walked into the office. “Okay, gentlemen,” Fraser beamed, “you’re up. Keep it short. The President has a full schedule today.” He escorted Cagliari and the two officers into the Oval Office and found a chair in the corner, his stomach churning in frustration.

Cox introduced Carroll and let him do all the talking. Pontowski sat silently, taking it all in. Carroll’s message was a simple one: Iraq and Syria were patching up their longstanding feud and Carroll linked it with the Egyptian-Syrian mutual assistance treaty. “In short, Mr. President,” Carroll concluded, “we are seeing Egypt, Syria, and Iraq preparing to fight a war.”

“And the target?” National Security Adviser Cagliari asked.

“Israel,” Carroll answered.

“I’m having trouble accepting Syria and Iraq finally getting in bed together after all the years they’ve been at each other throats,” Cagliari said.

“Iraq has always been one of the hard-line confrontation states and regards itself as in a state of constant war with Israel,” Carroll explained. “But distance and short wars kept Iraq out of the fighting so far. By the time Iraq could get itself organized to logistically support participation in an Arab-Israeli shooting match, the war was over. The main points of disagreement between Iraq and Syria have been over Syria’s support of Iran during the Iran-Iraq war and of Kuwait in the 1991 conflict. Now the Syrians are reevaluating their position, trying to find an accommodation with Iraq.”

“So you are convinced Iraq is now aligning with Syria militarily?” Pontowski said.

“Yes, sir, I am,” Carroll replied. His answer carried conviction. “Also, Iraq wants to settle a very real score with Israel.”

Fraser’s head shot up; his face did all but shout, “What score!”

Pontowski laughed at his chief of staff’s abrupt reaction. “Tom, Israel has been the primary support behind the Kurdish rebellion that has plagued Iraq for years. It’s a basic element of faith among Iraq’s leaders to punish Israel for keeping the Kurds stirred up. Cooler heads who argue for an accommodation with Israel disappear into the cellars of Al Mukhabaret.”

“Al Mukhabaret?” Fraser asked. He had never heard that name.

“The Iraqi intelligence service and secret police.” Pontowski liked to surprise his staff with what he knew. “Mike,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “put a team together to watch the situation and come up with some concrete proposals to back up Israel.”

Fraser wanted to interrupt and say that there was no confirming evidence and that they should stay focused on the United States’ primary goal in the Middle East: to keep on the friendly side of the Arab oil interests and keep the oil flowing. After all, it was simply a matter of good politics—and business. He said nothing and a pain shot through his stomach.

“Also,” Pontowski continued, “we need to develop a comprehensive plan now on how we are going to handle another Arab oil embargo like 1973. And get the word to the oil companies that we won’t tolerate the excessive profits they made during the last crisis.” He sat thinking for a moment. “Colonel Carroll, I’d like you to move over to Mr. Cagliari’s office and work for him.” He smiled at Cox. “I know. I’m stealing your top talent. But I want to stay on top of this. I hate being in a reactive mode.” He turned to Fraser. “Tom, make it all happen.”

The door to the Oval Office opened and Melissa walked in unannounced. It was too much for Fraser and he stood up, about to tell her to leave immediately. Damn! he raged inwardly, the stupid bitch hasn’t figured it out yet. I control access to the President.

“Mr. President,” Melissa said, not caring that she had interrupted or what the consequences would be. “I just received a phone call from the Pentagon.… Matt’s been involved in a crash. … No word on survivors.… Nothing else at the moment.”

Avi Tamir folded the latest letter from Shoshana and placed it in his old battered briefcase with the other postcards and letters she had written. He tried to concentrate on his latest project: creating a hydrogen bomb by the gaseous boosting of lithium-6 into an atomic bomb. But he couldn’t focus on his work.

Reluctantly, he pulled the postcards and letters out and spread them on the table, rereading each. The father in him wanted to believe the picture they painted—Shoshana was on an extended business trip, mixing business and pleasure as she toured fruit packing and processing plants in southern Spain. But the scientist in him won out and he saw another pattern. All the cards and letters had been written at the same time with the same pen. And while the handwriting on the cards appeared to be the same, the dates were written with a slightly different pen. A magnifying glass confirmed his suspicions.

The pieces all fit together; his daughter was working for the Mossad and was on an assignment. His beautiful and only child—his only tangible link with Miriam, his long-dead wife. A sick feeling swirled through his stomach and he prayed Shoshana was safe in Spain and not somewhere else.

He berated himself for not attempting to work and put the letters away. “I only want my daughter home safe and sound,” he said to himself.

“Don’t worry,” Mana told Shoshana, “the villa is very nice.”

Shoshana kept looking at the dusty landscape and simple one-story buildings along the road that led from Kirkuk’s airport to the villa and Iraq Petroleum Company furnished for visiting guests. She wondered how any luxury could exist amid the poverty and destruction she saw. The driver turned the big Mercedes down a paved road. Around a bend and out of sight of the main highway, they entered a canopy of trees. A high whitewashed wall appeared in front of them and a heavy wrought-iron gate swung back as they approached. Inside, a magnificent garden swept up to a large mansion.

The majordomo was waiting for them at the entrance and escorted them to their rooms on the second floor. Servants scurried to hiding places and kept out of sight, but always ready to serve. Mana only smiled and nodded condescendingly. It was everything he had promised.

That afternoon, he took Shoshana on a tour of the new chemical plant the Iraq Petroleum Company had built thirty kilometers west of Kirkuk. She could sense the professional pride he took in showing her what he had accomplished and made numerous mental notes about the layout of the plant. She carefully marked the one heavily guarded building he studiously avoided.

Over breakfast the next morning, Mana hurriedly explained how he would be gone most of the day as they were conducting tests and that he had to be present. Shoshana asked what they were testing and Is’al beamed as he related how they were testing a new insecticide. “Everyone thinks it is a gas,” he explained, “but that’s totally wrong. It is really a liquid dispersed in a vapor that forms droplets on contact with a surface. And it’s most persistent.”

She put on an act of forced interest while her mind raced with the implications of what he was saying. Twice she tried to change the subject, but Mana kept on talking. Everything he said only revealed that the “insecticide” he kept mentioning was meant for humans. “It sounds dangerous,” Shoshana said. “We ran a batch of new insecticide where I worked in California and some of it escaped before it was diluted.” She reached out and touched his hand. “Please be careful.” He promised her he would. “Can I go sightseeing today?” she asked, again changing the subject.

Mana frowned. “That’s not possible, please stay here.”

Some spy, Shoshana thought as she walked him to the waiting car. I won’t learn a thing cooped up here.

The construction staff of foreign engineers was waiting for Mana’s arrival at the guarded building he had avoided on the tour with Shoshana. They led him through the freshly completed building, reviewing every detail involved in the manufacture of binary nerve gas munitions. The concept behind a binary nerve gas is simple: Two harmless agents are kept separated until they are employed; then the two agents are mixed together either in-flight or just prior to use, forming a deadly mixture. While the idea is simple, the production of a binary system is no easy task. But it had to be a binary system, for the scientists had provided the Iraqis with an additional capability. When mixed, the new nerve gas mixture was highly corrosive and capable of penetrating the protective clothing and gas mask filters the Israelis used.

After a break for noon prayers and lunch, a small group of Iraqi and foreign engineers and scientists escorted Mana deep into the third basement where tests were conducted. Six guards were waiting for them with two prisoners.

“That one”—the plant’s general manager pointed at the woman—“is an Israeli agent. And the man is her Kurdish contact. We captured them six months ago.” Both were wearing the protective clothing issued to Israeli soldiers for NBC (nuclear-biological-chemical) warfare. The manager growled a command and the guards removed the handcuffs from the prisoners and dropped gas masks at their feet. “Put them on,” the manager ordered.

Zakia, the Israeli agent, glared at the men and adjusted the straps of the mask and jerked it into place. She blocked the exhalation valve and blew, clearing the mask. Her quick deft motions proved she was familiar with the mask.

Kamal, the Kurd, asked, “Zakia, is this right?” She reached up and adjusted the straps. “I’ve never worn one before,” he explained as the guards shoved them toward the pressure chamber. Suddenly, he threw a hard left jab into the guard nearest him. The blow glanced off the guard’s right cheek. Two other guards rushed up and threw him into the chamber, slamming the heavy door behind the two. Kamal shouted at them in Kermanji, his native tongue, calling them all the English equivalent of “pig shit.” The double doors were sealed and checked for leaks while the team watched through view ports.

“Now we release the nerve agent,” the manager explained. He paused before turning the valve and looked to Mana. “If you wish …” Mana’s face lost all color at the thought of releasing the nerve gas. He gave a slight shake of his head and the manager turned the valve.

Now a scientist started a running explanation. “Normally, the subjects of such an experiment would be perfectly safe encased in their protective equipment. Please note how the droplets form and coalesce on contact with the material of their clothing and neoprene of their gas masks. It appears as if the droplets are evaporating on the material when in fact they are penetrating through to the skin.” Mana felt his stomach contract. The scientist could have been discussing a high school chemistry experiment.

The nerve gas was slow in penetrating the protective gear and for a few minutes, both prisoners felt a surge of hope. Then the first droplets penetrated Zakia’s suit and came in contact with her skin. The nerve agent was rapidly absorbed into her blood and sought out its target, the body chemical cholinesterase. Now the nerve agent immediately bonded with the cholinesterase, stopping it from breaking down acetylcholine, the body chemical that causes muscular contractions.

Zakia started to breathe rapidly as the cholinesterase in her body was made ineffective and acetylcholine rapidly built up. Her nose was running and she fought down a powerful urge to rub it. She had been trained as a doctor and knew what was coming next.

“Zakia,” Kamal shouted through his mask, “what’s wrong? My chest …” They were both feeling a tightness in their chests, making it hard to breathe. But it was much worse for Zakia.

Outside the chamber, the scientist took an obvious pride in his work. “Ah, the onset of the symptoms. You can see they are both experiencing difficulty in breathing.” A sour taste welled up in Mana’s mouth and he felt sick. But he could not take his eyes off the two people inside the chamber.

“I’m going blind!” Kamal shouted. He looked at Zakia to help, but there was none she could offer. Her pupils were much further dilated and her vision very dim. Now both were wracked with uncontrollable spasms. Together they ripped their masks off in a vain effort to breathe. Mana gasped and drew back from the viewing port. They were drooling from the mouth as nausea swept over them. The woman started vomiting first as the onset of nerve gas was more rapid in her body. Mana turned his face away from the view port, not able to watch them twitch, jerk, and stagger about. Sick revulsion swept over him as he faced the end result of his work. He was afraid that he too would vomit up the rich lunch he had finished less than an hour ago. But he could not turn off the scientist’s voice.

“By now they have both urinated and defecated. … Ah there, the final symptoms.” The scientist’s voice droned on.

Mana could not help himself—he turned to look. The woman was on the floor, comatose. Spasms wracked her body.

“And now,” the scientist said. “The antidote.” He hit a button and a small tube rolled out onto the floor of the pressure chamber. He spoke into a microphone. “Take the caps off the tube,” the instructed Kamal. “Hold it in your fist and press the open end against your thigh. Press the button on the other end with your thumb. You will give yourself an injection that will save your life.” The man did as he was told and within minutes his spasms stopped.

“What you see is the antidote to the nerve gas,” the scientist told Mana. “We put it in a double-needle syringe modeled after the Dutch combo pen NATO uses for atropine.” The scientist smiled. “Of course atropine is ineffective as an antidote for our new nerve gas. But the combo pen is an excellent device.” He passed out combo pens to the group. “Please put these in your pocket and have them ready in case any nerve gas escapes when we open the chamber. You know what the symptoms are and how to use the antidote.”

The plant’s manager gave orders and an engineer evacuated the chamber. When the atmosphere tested free of contaminants, he gave another order and a guard threw open the double doors to the chamber, drew his pistol, walked in, and shot Kamal in the head. Then he fired a shot into the head of the woman.

“We need to perform autopsies to determine the full effects of the nerve gas,” the scientist explained.

Mana threw up and had to be rushed to a lavatory where he passed out.

Shoshana heard the commotion when Mana returned. She rushed to the front hall and sucked in her breath when she saw him. He was staggering and the front of his normally immaculate suit was stained with vomit. She chased the servants away and half carried him up to their rooms. There, she stripped his clothes off and bathed him with a damp cloth as he lay exhausted on their huge bed.

Slowly, he recounted the entire day, every detail, trying to purge himself of what he had seen. “It was so much more horrible than anything I imagined,” he told her, trying to justify his actions. “I only wanted to protect my country … my people … from the Zionist threat.” Sobs wracked his body.

Revulsion twisted inside Shoshana and any feelings she may have felt for Is’al, the boy, were driven out by a fear of Mana, the enemy. Her resolve hardened. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “How terrible, how frightening for you.” She stroked his head until he fell into a fitful sleep. Then she slipped out of bed and rifled through the pockets of his coat. She found the combo pen he had mentioned and hid it in one of her suitcases. Then she ordered ice from a servant and after it arrived, undressed and crawled into bed beside him.

The next day, they returned to Baghdad.

Hassan Derhally had presented a business card, much as a Western businessman would have when he entered Is’al Mana’s plush office. Unbidden, he had settled into a chair next to the ornate desk and waited, completely at ease. When he spoke, his words were soft and respectful but there was no doubt in Mana’s mind that Derhally was powerful and dangerous. Too many whispered tales made the rounds of Baghdad society about the sudden disappearance of individuals after talking to Derhally. Not even Mana’s family could protect him from Hassan Derhally of Al Mukhabaret, the Department of General Intelligence that fronted for the Iraqi secret police.

“How may I be of service?” Mana asked. An obvious quiver caught at his words.

“This is really nothing,” Derhally replied, “merely a minor thing.” He watched Mana’s Adam’s apple move. He was getting the response he wanted. “From time to time,” Derhally sighed in resignation, “we must track down misplaced material. Such a waste of time, but I suppose necessary. Don’t you agree?” Mana agreed, fearing the man’s bland stare.

“I understand you were present during a recent test at the Iraqi Petroleum Company’s headquarters in Kirkuk,” Derhally continued. He did not wait for Mana to confirm his information. “While there, you were given a device called a combo pen to use in case there should be an emergency. All but one of the combo pens were returned and we were wondering if you might still have it.” He watched Mana’s face. The man’s a fool, he thought. “As you can see, a minor matter.”

“I don’t recall …” Mana stammered. “Oh yes, I put it in my coat pocket. But I was taken ill and rushed to a lavatory. It must have fallen on the floor there.”

Derhally stared at Mana. After a short pause that seemed hours long, he shook his head no. “Ahh, then I can’t imagine …” Mana’s desperation was obvious. “It must still be in the pocket of the suit I wore. Perhaps one of my servants found it. They all steal me blind, you know.” Derhally stood up and fear shot through Mana. He felt dizzy.

“Come,” Derhally said. “Let’s talk to your servants and end this matter.” He paused and smiled for the first time. “If it’s not there, perhaps your Miss Temple can assist us. I assume she’s at her hotel.”

“She never leaves without my permission,” Mana said, trying to show he was in control of his private affairs.

“Really? I doubt that,” Derhally replied, destroying the last of Mana’s self-confidence.

The missing combo pen was not at Mana’s home and the eagerness of his servants to answer questions left no doubt as to where to look next. The servants thrilled when they heard Derhally order Mana to take him to his mistress—their master was finally being humiliated. Then worry replaced any sense of elation they felt at Mana’s misfortune. They knew how deep Al Mukhabaret could cut.