Firebreak (42 page)

“Not to worry, boss,” Carroll assured Martin. “I used to do this for a living and can sleep like a baby if I’ve got a sleeping bag. In fact, my first assignment was on an RC-One-thirty-five and Muddy Waters was my module commander.”

“I’ll be damned,” Martin said, pulling a face. Of all men, Martin was not given to sentimentality, but it pleased him to be linked to one of the legends.

“Where’s the Gruesome Twosome?” Martin asked Matt.

“Last I saw them, they were sleeping like babies,” Matt replied.

“Let ‘em sleep,” Martin decided. “They did good. Thanks to them, we’ve got half a chance.”

Matt and Carroll exchanged glances and an unspoken thought passed between them. The colonel, like them, knew just how tough it was going to be.

Twenty minutes later, a crew van pulled up in front of twelve waiting F-15s and the eight men flying the first four jets clambered out. Martin followed Matt down the steps, took one look at the jets, and roared out a deafening “Shit hot!” A stork and an elf dressed in civilian clothes were under Martin’s F-15 hunched over one of the GBU-24s slung under the wing, stenciling in neat red letters, “Courtesy of the Meatheads.”

The APC clanked to a halt outside the aid station and the rear ramp came down. Two medics were waiting and rushed on board, carrying out the sole casualty. The explosions of incoming artillery washed over them. “I’ve never seen a barrage last this long,” one of the medics told Shoshana. “How bad is it up there?” The female medic looked in the direction of the valley.

“It’s constant but not heavy,” Shoshana answered. “Only a few casualties.”

“Levy’s Luck,” the medic said.

Shoshana added a mental, I hope so.

The radio rasped with a hard metallic voice warning them of an air attack. Shoshana jumped into the driver’s compartment and gunned the engine, heading for a nearby camouflaged cut a bulldozer had scraped out only hours before. She nosed the APC under the netting with only moments to spare as the first Syrian MiG-23 rolled in. A feeling of utter helplessness captured Shoshana as she watched the fast-moving jet sweep down on them. Two 550-kilogram bombs rippled off and bracketed the APC, stunning her. Then it was deathly silent. She shook her head and slowly sound returned; both she and Hanni had been momentarily deafened by the concussion.

The two women lay on the floor of the crew compartment as more bombs fell, holding on to the old-style tanker helmets they wore in the APC. Again, the radio came to life as warnings to don NBC gear were passed. Now the bombing stopped and they could hear artillery again. Urgent pleas for medics came in and Shoshana started the APC and headed back for the valley to pick up wounded. How much longer would this go on before they attacked? she wondered.

The Syrians and Iraqis were working together to soften up the Israelis and break Levy’s Luck.

Melissa Courtney-Smith escorted the Navy captain into the Oval Office. “Mr. President, Dr. Smithson.”

General Cox rose to leave and nodded at Melissa, his way of saying he approved her handling of the President’s visitors. She turned to follow him out but Pontowski said, “Please stay, Melissa.” Cox closed the door behind him, leaving the three in private.

“Mr. President,” the doctor began, “I’m afraid your wife has suffered a relapse and is much worse.”

Pontowski sat ashen-faced, trying to focus on what the doctor was saying. “… had hoped that she was recovering … very serious … strong-willed … she’s a fighter … it could be hours or days now … need to take her to the hospital.”

Melissa wanted to touch Pontowski, to find the right words to say. But she could only stand there, hating herself for not knowing what to do or say.

Slowly the President straightened. “I’ll go with her to the hospital,” he said. “Melissa, please come with me. Stay with Tosh and call the family. I can’t stay but if you need me, I’ll be in the Situation Room.” The three left the office as Zack Pontowski started on another long and difficult journey.

The RC-135 was on its second mission with Bill Carroll on board and had been established in its track along the southern Turkish border for six hours. The surveillance technicians had relaxed into a comfortable routine when they detected no unusual communications activity. The Syrians and Iraqis had not even reacted to the twelve F-15s that had flown in and landed at Diyarbakir, which was less than seventy-five nautical miles from their border.

At the time the F-15s had landed, one of the technicians had told Carroll that the Iraqis and Syrians were accustomed to seeing an RC-135 and the E-3A AWACS patrolling their border and tended to ignore any activity in Turkey. Complacency had given the Americans their first break.

Now a sergeant worked his way to the back of the aircraft, down the narrow aisle and past the crowded consoles and big equipment racks. He almost stumbled over the lump curled up in the sleeping bag. “Colonel,” the sergeant said, “we picked up some radio traffic you should see.” The lump stirred and Bill Carroll stuck his head out. The sergeant handed him a sheet of paper.

“Has this been sent out?” Carroll asked. The sergeant told him no. “Is the AWACS still monitoring heavy-vehicle traffic into the Kirkuk arsenal?” The sergeant said he would check on it and left. Carroll reread the transcript of the intercepted radio transmission. It was a request for a helicopter escort for a truck convoy and they were wanted at the Kirkuk arsenal in four hours.

The sergeant was back. “Colonel, I talked to the AWACS over the Have Quick.” The Have Quick was a secure radiothat used frequency hopping to prevent monitoring and jamming. The RC-135, the AWACS, and the F-15s were all equipped with the radio. “Their radar isn’t picking up any road traffic now,” the sergeant told him. The AWACS’s APY-1 radar had a moving-target indicator that could be adjusted to pick up slow-moving vehicles on roads.

“We need to downlink,” Carroll said. “The Iraqis are going to convoy their nerve gas in four hours.”

Poor radio discipline had given them their second break.

The Situation Room in the basement of the White House is not big, perhaps fifteen by twenty feet in size, and is not impressive. What is impressive are the communications systems that feed into it. One of the transceivers was a highly secure system known to its operators simply as Apple Wave. A civilian with a security clearance so sensitive that only thirty-seven individuals held it was monitoring the Apple Wave when its high-speed printer came to life. He ripped the message off and scanned it for transmission errors. Since it was not garbled, he handed it to the duty officer who would take it into the Situation Room.

Because Apple Wave messages are concerned with intelligence, the duty officer delivered the message to Bobby Burke, the DCI, who was sitting next to the President.

“Mr. President,” Burke said, “the RC-One-thirty-five supporting Trinity has monitored a request for a helicopter escort of a truck convoy leaving the Kirkuk arsenal in three and a half hours. That correlates with the earlier movement of road traffic into the arsenal.” He handed the message to Pontowski.

“The logical assumption,” Pontowski said, “is that they’re moving their nerve gas.” His advisers agreed with him to the man. “The question is, Will they use it?”

“I think that’s a given, Mr. President,” Michael Cagliari, the national security adviser said. “The Israelis are rolling the Arabs up on the Golan Heights and the fighting in Jordan has turned into a rout. Only in Lebanon have the Syrians and Iraqis halted the Israelis. And there’s one hell of a battle going on there right now. Unless Ben David throws in reinforcements, it could go either way.”

“And we can assume he’ll start doing that as he frees up units in Jordan,” Admiral Scovill added. “Unless we can geta cease-fire in place quickly, I belive the Arabs will resort to widespread chemical attacks.”

The discussion continued around the table for a few minutes. Burke was highly skeptical about the Arabs resorting to the use of chemical weapons. “They aren’t that suicidal,” he claimed.

“Consider this,” the secretary of state said. “What if the Arabs believe the Israelis will not use nukes now, given the situation in the Kremlin and the fact they’re winning? So if the Arabs show their resolve to escalate, a cease-fire may be in the offing.”

“Are you saying that the Arabs may think Ben David’s response to a chemical attack will be to agree to a ceasefire?” Cagliari asked. State did have a way of talking around things.

“It’s a possibility,” the secretary of state replied.

“Don’t bet on it,” Cagliari grumbled. “I know Ben David.”

The duty officer slipped quietly through the door and handed Cox a note. He read the note and handed it to Pontowski.

“Please”—Pontowski held up his hand—“enough.” He read the note. “There are too many unknowns here and we are not sure if all the actors are rational. Our problem is simple; we’ve got to keep the Iraqis from using their nerve gas before a cease-fire is negotiated. And we’ve run out of time. There’s only one option open now; we destroy the nerve gas before it is moved.”

He stood up, his face drawn and haggard, his seventy-four years weighing heavy on him. Then the inevitability of it all struck at him. Events had driven him down this road with an unrelenting sureness, as if the fates had conspired against him. For a moment he thought of a Greek drama. Is this the price to be paid in a quest for power? he thought. My family? “We go with Trinity,” he ordered. “Transmit the order for an immediate launch and execute.” He walked out of the room.

The men gaped at each other, surprised by his sudden disappearance. “That was a note from Melissa,” Cox explained. “She asked if he could come to the hospital immediately.”

Shoshana had lost track of time and the number of runs they had made hauling out wounded. For the two women, the war was confined to a small piece of real estate on the southern end of the valley and they had watched the fighting ebb and flow as the Iraqis would attack, fall back, re-form, and then attack again. Shoshana was sure of only one thing, they were holding on. Time meant nothing and
she
wasn’t sure if the battle had been going on for two or three days. Her world was made up of an APC stinking with diesel fule unwashed bodies, and the sickly warm smell of open wounds and antiseptic.

“Over to the left,” Hanni said, using her periscope to guide Shoshana to another pickup. They were working their way down a hill, using what terrain masking they could find and hiding in the growing shadows of night. Shoshana mashed the accelerator and urged the APC out of the shallow wadi they were in and over the bank. The nose of the APC was coming back down when Shoshana heard Hanni scream, “Nooo!” The engine compartment next to her exploded. A wave of heat washed over Shoshana and knocked her out of the driver’s seat and against the left wall. She was vaguely aware of hands pulling at her, dragging her back into the crew compartment. Then the rear ramp was down and Hanni was half dragging her, half carrying her back into the dry streambed where they had been a moment ago.

“Wha—?” Shoshana was still groggy from the concussion.

“An RPG got us,” Hanni said. “The rocket-propelled grenade’s shape-charged warhead had struck them in the front right corner and the engine compartment had absorbed most of the blast. “I saw it at the last minute, but damn, I can’t figure out where it came from.” The APC erupted in a violent explosion and they could feel the heat. “We were lucky and took the hit in the engine compartment.” Hanni was close to babbling, a way to ease the tension and fear that bound her. “Good thing you were wearing that Nomex jumpsuit underneath your NBC suit. I couldn’t believe it, flames shot out of the firewall all over you. I thought for sure you were dead.”

Shoshana felt the side of her tanker’s helmet. It felt warm through her gloves. She tugged her helmet and gloves off and touched the right side of her neck. Hanni scrambled backdown to her and examined her friend’s neck. “It looks like a bad sunburn,” she said. “Probably the only part of your skin that was exposed.”

“I’m okay,” Shoshana reassured her. She could feel the warm front zipper of the flight suit against her skin and realized why the flap that had chafed at her had been there. Shoshana wished she hadn’t given in to a whim of vanity and cut it off to tie up her hair. She crawled up the low bank in front of her and looked over the edge. The heat from their burning APC made her duck her head. “Did you see one of our APCs down in the valley?” Shoshana asked.

Hanni crawled up beside her and looked over the edge. She could barely see the vehicle in the growing dark. She pulled her head back down. “There’s five or six men out there,” she whispered. “Arabs.”

Now Shoshana looked again. Through the light of the burning APC, she could see four Iraqi soldiers leading two wounded Israeli soldiers. One of the Iraqis gave an order and the men pushed the Israelis to the ground and started shooting. It was over in a moment and Shoshana watched in horror as they bayoneted the bodies. The four men started moving toward the wadi. Shoshana held a finger to her lips and pointed downslope toward the APC they had seen. The two women crawled back down into the wadi and quickly disappeared into the shadows, leaving Shoshana’s helmet and gloves behind.

The wadi they were following opened out into a flat area thirty meters from the APC the two women were headed for. Shoshana held her left hand out behind her and made a down motion, telling Hanni to stay back in the shadows. She crouched and ran across the open area, safely reaching the side of the APC. Up close in the dark, she could see that its left track had been blown off, probably by an RPG, she decided, judging from the lack of other damage. Under the scorch marks, she could make out a red cross on the Toga armor. It had been a Band-Aid like theirs. She motioned for Hanni to join her and the woman scampered across the open area, collapsing into the protective shadow of the APC.

Shoshana worked her way to the rear of the APC, again motioning Hanni to stay back. She poked her head around the rear and then pulled back in revulsion. A convulsive gaspwracked her body and she bet over, throwing up, choking. Hanni was beside her, trying to help. Shoshana gasped for air, “Don’t look.”

“What is it, child?” the older woman murmured and then looked despite the warning. Stretched out in front of her on the ground were the bodies of two Israeli female medics. They had been stripped, staked to the ground, raped, then gutted. Their intestines were spread over their abdomens and flowed between their legs.

A “My God!” burst from Hanni followed by a retching sound.

Slowly, they brought their nausea and fears under control. Both had seen the horror, death, and destruction of modern warfare and had learned to live with it. But this was a vicious and senseless torture and mutilation that went far beyond war. For each of them it was a personal battle as they fought for their sanity.

The sounds of movement in the wadi drove them both into silence and they crawled under the APC. The same four soldiers Shoshana had seen murder the two wounded POWs emerged out of the dark and angled away from them, avoiding the APC. “They know what’s here,” Shoshana whispered and waited until the four men were well out of sight. She crawled out from under the APC and worked her way into the crew compartment. Hanni followed her. “Don’t move them” Shoshana said, pointing toward the bodies. “As long as they’re out there, the Iraqis will stay away.”

Hanni curled up in a knot on the floor, clasped her legs to her breast and rocked back and forth, still fighting her inner demons. She could hear Shoshana fumbling in the dark. Then the whine of the radio came on as Shoshana found the right switches. Now Hanni could hear the low crackle of the radio and Shoshana’s voice. “Mayday. This is Band-Aid with a Mayday.”

“Copy, Band-Aid.” It was Levy’s voice. “Say position.” Shoshana told him where they were. “Stay where you are,” he replied, his voice filling them with hope. “We’ll come and get you.” Hanni stopped her rocking and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Shoshana knelt down and hugged her. “Now we have to wait. It may be a while. But we’ve got all night.”

“The position of the United States is very clear,” the minister of foreign affairs was saying. “They are pressing us on all diplomatic fronts to accept the cease-fire.”

“I got the message,” Ben David rumbled. “It’s unacceptable. The interests of the United States are not ours.” The prime minister was stalking back and forth in the command bunker’s largest conference room. The meeting of the Israeli cabinet about the sudden cut-off of supplies was near its end and the whir of the air conditioner could be heard in the silence. Ben David turned to his cabinet. “How can we stop now, short of a victory that would give our people peace for generations? This may be our last chance to crush our enemies. How else can we justify the sacrifices my people have made?”

“The risks are too high,” the minister counseled.

“I know about risks,” Ben David snapped. He slapped his hands down on the table. “We continue the war for now.” The meeting was over and the men filed out. Only the Ganef and Yuriden stayed behind.

“Then you think that Pontowski is bluffing,” the Ganef said.

“I’ve heard it before,” Ben David replied. “He thinks his air force can destroy Iraq’s chemical arsenal when our air force has failed? What a fool. We have the best pilots in the world.”

“You’re believing our own propaganda,” Yuriden said. “That’s a mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes!” Ben David shouted. “And what does he mean when he says, ‘I will consider active measures against Israel'? Tell me, what does that mean?”

“Don’t use nuclear weapons,” the Ganef replied. “The consequences are too high.”

“I will use everything in my power to protect my people. No man will take that away from me.” Ben David fell silent and he paced the floor. “Two can play this game. We have friends in the United States Congress.”

“Listen to yourself,” the Ganef said. “Listen to your words. You are sounding like an egomaniac.”

“I will protect my people.”

“Perhaps,” Yuriden said, trying to calm the man, “you can best do that by waiting. Waiting to see if the U.S. can destroy
Iraq’s
chemical arsenal, waiting to
see
how muchfarther back we can push the Arabs, waiting to see if we can improve our position.”