Angels of Wrath (15 page)

The line began to move. One of the guards pointed to him, gesturing him toward a metal detector. Ravid hesitated, his thirst overwhelming. The young man with downtrodden eyes nudged him gently, anxious that he wouldn’t lose his own place in line.

“Wait,” said the Israeli, pointing toward his arm.

Ravid did not understand at first, and by the time he realized what the soldier was after, the man had pulled the paper out from under his arm.
Sawt Al-Haqq Wal-Hurriya
(Voice of Truth and Freedom) was considered anti-Israeli.

“Why do you have this?” demanded the guard.

Ravid stared at the soldier rather than answering. Silence was always safest.

The man took the paper and threw it into a nearby trash bag. “Go,” said the soldier, gesturing dismissively.

~ * ~

4

INCIRLIK, TURKEY

Van Buren tried hard not to glance at his watch. If he wanted to catch his son before he left for the weekend tournament, he had to call him before ten o’clock Eastern Time. It was now ten minutes to the hour. But the planning session was too important to interrupt, not the kind of thing you stopped for a personal matter.

“I don’t know whether the Israeli information is wrong or not,” said Ferguson. Ferguson got up and went over to the side of the large conference room to try some of the coffee. They’d been given the use of several rooms at the U.S. Air Force facility in western Turkey, where the First Team MC-130 and other support units were temporarily based. The location made it easier to fly near Syria and was less vulnerable to Iraqi resistance spies and possible attacks than a base in western Iraq would have been. Ferg, Fouad and the prisoners had transferred from the Chinooks to the MC-130 at a small airfield and come directly here the night before.

“The map we found with the money shows a route to Tripoli, Lebanon,” said Ferguson.

“Doesn’t mean Khazaal’s going there,” said Van Buren. “Or that he got past us.”

“The airplane was headed toward Beirut when the Israelis lost track of it. And the car that grabbed our friend came from Lebanon.”

There were holes in the intelligence supporting Ferguson’s theory, and he knew it. The vehicle had been stolen from northern Lebanon, not from Beirut or the western coast. And the Israeli surveillance plane that had managed to spot the plane had lost sight of it near Beirut. They weren’t even sure it was the same plane, only that it had come from the right direction, was the right size, and did not correlate with any known or filed flights.

But there was also circumstantial evidence to support the theory. Tarabulus esh Sham, more commonly known as Tripoli, sat on the Lebanese coast at the end of a long oil pipeline back to Iraq. There were many Iraqis in the city and region. Drug dealers liked the spot because of the port.

“What do you say, Fouad?” asked Van Buren.

“As Mr. Ferguson would have it, the fact that I don’t expect it makes it likely.”

“Not everybody’s thinking two steps ahead,” said Van.

“Khazaal does,” said Ferguson. “I know it’s a long shot, but at the moment it’s our best guess.”

“Assuming we missed him.”

“Even if we didn’t miss him. I can’t search all of Syria and all of Lebanon. I have to start making some guesses.”

“We can’t run an operation there,” said Van Buren. “It’s too urban.”

“I don’t expect you to,” said Ferguson. “Best bet is to go in by sea. This way I don’t advertise to the local security types that I’m in.”

“They know you?”

“I was there last year, briefly,” said Ferg. “One or two might have reason to remember.”

Van Buren liked the CIA officer a lot, though he tended to cut things a little too close to the bone. The First Team was a cooperative venture between the CIA and the Special Operations Command; the two men headed their respective halves, cooperating better with each other than anyone would have predicted before the program began. The arrival of Corrine Alston as the president’s direct representative—and, in effect, their boss— bothered Ferguson a great deal, because he saw it as political interference. Van Buren didn’t know it as fact, but he gathered that Ferguson believed his father’s career at the Agency had been sabotaged by similar second-guessing.

Van Buren’s take on Alston was different. As a colonel and career military man, he was used to dealing with bureaucratic politics, and Alston had been nothing but supportive. She had her own set of questions and priorities, but considering that the latter probably came directly from the president, she had been relatively easy to work with.

“We leave the scout mission at the border intact,” said Ferguson. “But we’ll start looking around in the cities nearby in case we’ve missed him already. Fouad can help Rankin and Thera handle that. Your guys stay on the border with Guns, ready to run a replay of last night. Hopefully with better results.”

“You’re just going into Lebanon by yourself?” asked Fouad.

Van Buren had the same question, though it was typical of Ferg. He had a knack for slipping in and out of places he didn’t belong.

“It’s a scouting mission. I’ll be in and out. If the meeting is going to be held there, I’m going to want as many clean faces as I can get, including yours. And maybe Van’s.”

“Thanks, but my job is with the troops.”

Ferguson laughed, then became more serious. “Once I see if anything’s up I’ll fall back and regroup. We just don’t have enough time to sit out in the desert and wait. This meeting’s supposed to take place in a matter of days.”

“Well, I agree we must try a chance,” said Fouad. “If this is the best of your information, it makes sense.”

“It’s the best at the moment.” One of the earliest lessons Ferguson had learned was to be prejudiced toward action; you didn’t accomplish anything by hanging out and drinking coffee.

Well, you might, but only if that was part of the plan.

“I know some people around town,” Ferguson told them. “Maybe if nothing’s happening, I’ll head down to Beirut. It’s not as bad as you think. Really.”

“How friendly are these people to Americans?” asked Van Buren.

“To Americans, so-so. But I’m going as an Irishman.” Ferg winked. “Everyone loves Irishmen.”

“You have to talk to Alston about this, you know. She’s still worked up about the fact that you went to Cairo without briefing her. Even I heard about it.”

“I’ll take care of her.”

“She’s only trying to do her job.”

“Go make your phone call. I’ll deal with Alston,” Ferg told Van Buren. “But first I have to rustle up a milk truck.”

~ * ~

5

EASTERN SYRIA

JUST BEFORE DAWN . . .

Rankin listened to the heavy crush of the Chinook’s propellers as the massive chopper approached from the east. The desert reverberated with the big bird’s distinctive sound, and though they’d scoured the area for insurgents with the UAV and even sent a pair of patrols toward the road, Rankin worried that a
hajji
would pop out of a spider hole they’d missed and slam the chopper with a shoulder-launched surface-to-air missile. He’d been on two helicopters that had barely escaped SAM attacks, and while he knew that the men and aircraft chosen for the mission here would be well equipped and trained to deal with the danger, he couldn’t push aside his concern.

He’d noticed that a lot lately. He didn’t fear for himself, but he worried about others getting hurt, almost like a father worried about his kids; or so he imagined. He personally had no experience of being a father, and his time with his own had been extremely limited, his parents divorcing when he was three.

“Two choppers?” said Guns, coming up next to him.

“Sounds like it.”

“There’s one of them.” The Marine Corps sergeant pointed to the shadow of the first helicopter as it approached. The chopper had rotors fore and aft. The dual power plants made the Chinook among the most powerful helicopters in the world, capable not only of transporting forty-four fully armed soldiers but also of carrying upward of 26,000 pounds beneath her belly. This one had been chosen for just that reason: dangling in a massive sling beneath the chopper was the rear section of a tank truck.

Rankin and Guns watched as the Chinook squatted over the landing area. Several Rangers trotted over to help unhook the truck.

“Hate to be down there,” said Guns.

“How’s that?” asked Rankin. He was still thinking about the possibility of some scumbag popping up with a missile.

“Dirt and crap flying all over the place,” said Guns. “You never get the grit out of your skin.”

Rankin remembered the powdery sand that had clung to his body when he’d been in Iraq during the search for Scuds. Ancient history now.

Relieved of its load, the helicopter seemed to step back in the air before circling off to the right and landing a hundred yards or so down the road and disgorging its passengers. Meanwhile, the second chopper moved into position, the truck’s cab dangling beneath its fuselage.

“That’ll be Ferg,” said Guns, gesturing toward the men coming off the helicopter ramp. “Maybe we ought to go check it out.”

“I guess.”

“Why don’t you like him?” Guns asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“Ain’t nothin’ to me,” said Guns.

“Good.”

~ * ~

erguson watched as the mechanics fiddled with the engine, trying to get it to start. With the way his luck was running, the stinking thing wouldn’t work, and they’d lose the entire day. Fouad folded his arms next to him, his long face even longer.

“How was Turkey?” asked Thera, who’d come down from the base.

“Dark. How are these guys treating you?” asked Ferg.

“Not bad.”

“Like being the only woman in the desert?”

“I’m used to it,” said Thera. “What I’d like to try some time is being the only woman in a palace.”

The engine coughed. A mass of black smoke emerged from the exhaust.

“Getting there,” said one of the soldiers.

Ferguson wasn’t so sure. He saw Guns coming down the path from the rocks, trailed by Captain Melfi, who’d come east to the base camp with most of his men after the snatch operation the night before.

“Hey, Houston, why don’t we grab the rest of the team and have a little planning session?” Ferguson suggested, taking his rucksack.

“You going to keep up that Houston business instead of using my real name?”

“It’s better than some of the alternatives, don’t you think?”

“I think Thera is fine.”

“You don’t get a vote.” Ferguson smirked at her frown.

Melfi gave Ferguson an update on the traffic, or rather the lack of traffic, as they walked back up to the command tent. They found Rankin sitting at the table that dominated the room, staring at the large map. Ferg helped himself to a cup of coffee, then leaned over the table, orienting himself.

“Couple of things might have happened,” Ferguson told the others. “One is that we missed him. In that case he may be waiting for the folks we grabbed to show up in one of the cities around here. So we check them out.”

“How did he get past us?” asked Rankin.

“Disguised, scooted right through with the rest of the traffic near Aby Kamal,” said Ferguson, pointing at the border city on the Euphrates. “Bribed the guards, tricked the Americans.”