End of Enemies (47 page)

“Get him out. There's nothing more he can do. Can we send a rescue helo?”

“Damn right we can. The moment he's out of the exclusion zone, we'll pick him up.” Cathermeier keyed the mike. “Sierra, you are ordered to exfiltrate. Angel is en route.”

“Negative, Coaldust,” replied Cahil. “I am still operative.”

“Sierra, I say again, you are ordered to exfiltrate at once.”

“Negative, negative. Will remain aboard as long as possible. Sierra out.”

The speaker filled with static. Cathermeier removed the headset. “You think he knows we're going to sink her?”

“He's figured it out,” said Dutcher. “Well, gentlemen, I'd say our problem has just gotten a whole lot worse.”

Talbot blurted, “Would somebody tell me what the hell's going on?”

“We gave Cahil's team a list of words to use when referring to the bomb … its location, type, that sort of thing. The good news is, we know where the bomb is.”

“And the bad news?”

“The type and trigger. We thought it would be a gun-barrel design. We were wrong: It's an imploder.”

“So?”

“So, Mr. Talbot, instead of thirty kilotons, the yield is closer to fifty. If that thing goes off in Tel Aviv Harbor, the city will be flattened. And there's a man with his finger on the trigger as we speak.”

Beirut

The question on Tanner's mind was no longer whether Azhar was behind the bomb but rather, now that he knew about it, what would he do? Would this Azhar he barely knew, armed with a weapon that could destroy the country that had destroyed his life, hesitate to use it? Tanner was gambling that he would not use it, but to find out, he first had to keep Azhar alive.

He'd shared with Azhar his suspicion about the Israeli commando team. It had taken more explanation than he wanted to give, but he had little choice. As it happened, Abu's paranoia worked in Tanner's favor. Within minutes of hearing Tanner's prediction, Azhar evacuated to a nearby abandoned apartment building.

Now Azhar and Tanner—still handcuffed and under the watchful eye of Bucket—sat beside a window and watched Azhar's old headquarters. Gunfire echoed in the distance, and every few minutes the skyline bloomed orange. In the brief intervals of silence, Tanner could hear screaming and the honking of horns.

“Where are your people?” Tanner asked.

“Nearby.”

“They musn't interfere with the assault.”

Azhar looked at him. “Why?”

Tanner hesitated and glanced at Bucket. Azhar ordered him out.

“It'll be Israeli commandos, Abu. Probably Unit five oh four … Mossad.”

“What?” Azhar's eyes went wide and he reached for his radio.

“Abu, you have to let them go.”

“Why?”

Because if they die,
it'll be because
1
served them up,
Briggs thought. “If you hit them, they'll pinpoint your location. You can be sure there's a couple F-16s orbiting up there just waiting to empty their racks.”

“Why tell me this? Why not let them kill me? It would finish the job you came to do.”

“Because in return for saving your life, you're going to listen to what I have to say.”

“I made no such deal.”

“Then make it now,” Tanner said with a thin smile. “After I make my pitch, if you don't come around, then I'll just kill you.”

Azhar hesitated, then chuckled. “Very well, I will listen.”

“We've spotted two rubber rafts, Abu. They are pulling onto shore. Ten men, all in black with assault weapons. Should we attack?”

Azhar paused, looked at Tanner. Briggs held his breath.

“No,” Azhar called on the radio. “Leave them be.”

“Abu, we can't just let them—”

“You have your orders.”

Though only a mile lay between Azhar's old headquarters and the river, another thirty minutes passed before they spotted the team's scouts picking their way down the rubble-strewn alleyway.

“What took them so long?” Azhar muttered.

“It didn't,” Tanner said. Thirty minutes to move undetected in a city at siege was fast work. He was unsurprised, though. He'd worked with 504 before. “If you hadn't been watching for them, they would've been on you before you knew what was happening.”

“They are that good?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you know so much?”

“I read a lot”

“Ah,” Azhar said, returning to the scope.

He narrated what he saw as the commandos reconnoitered the building and slipped inside. Five minutes later, it was done. Having found nothing, the team exited the building as quietly as it had come and headed back toward the river.

“Can I see?” Tanner asked.

Azhar handed him the scope. Through the greenish glow Briggs watched the barely discernible figures slip in and out of the shadow until he lost sight of them. He was about to hand back the scope when Azhar's radio crackled.

“Abu, we have movement.”

“Where and how many?”

“A hundred yards to your west. One. He slipped through the basement of the old shoe warehouse. He's watching from the east corner, second story.”

Tanner trained the scope on the warehouse and scanned the windows until he reached the corner. There, hidden in shadow, a figure crouched below the pane.

With an eerie whistle, a stray Katyusha rocket flared above their heads and plunged to the street below, where it sparked briefly, then died. In that moment of illumination, the figure's face was visible.

Camille
!

Though logically he'd known she could have been the one, he'd prayed against it. But here she was, watching the result of her handiwork—or what should have been her handiwork. He felt rage knotting in his chest. She'd used him. She'd used him from the start, and he'd fallen for it.

Azhar whispered, “Who is it?”

Tanner hesitated. One word, and she wouldn't get out alive.

Goddamn it.

“Nobody,” he replied. “Just somebody looking for a place to hide.”

Above Lebanon

“Homeplate, this is Looker Four-Zero-Five, feet wet.”

Crossing the beach ten miles north of Beirut, Lieutenant Tom “Grinder” Sterling put his F-14 into a gentle climb and glanced over his shoulder. Born and raised in Los Angeles, his first reaction was to compare Beirut to his memories of the L.A. riots, but the carnage here made those look like a rowdy church picnic.

Dozens of neighborhoods were burning, the flames casting orange light on surrounding buildings, many of which were half-collapsed, their remnants jutting toward the sky like skeletal fingers.

“Holy Moses,” he muttered.

“Say what, Grinder?” said his RIO from the backseat.

“Just looking at that shit down there.”

“Reminds me of that movie … y'know,
Escape from New York.
”

“Yeah. Give me a course home.”

“Steer two-six-zero.”

Two minutes later and sixteen miles from
Independence,
Sterling saw the ship's deck lights on the horizon, mere specks against the black ocean.

“Homeplate, Looker, I am on your one-six-zero radial for thirteen, angels eighteen.”

“Rog, four-zero-five. Come on in.”

Easing off the power, Sterling dropped through the clouds and lined up with
Indy's
fresnal lens, or the ball, against which he could adjust his angle of approach and alignment.

Sterling radioed, “Four-zero-five Tomcat ball. State three point two.”

Following calls by the LSO, or landing signal officer, Sterling flared out over
Indy's
ramp and slammed down. He grunted against his harness as the 45,000-pound plane went from 150 knots to a dead stop in two seconds

“Three wire, Grinder,” called the LSO. “Guess we'll let you eat tonight.”

Sterling laughed. “I'd settle for a head call. I'm floating in here.”

Sterling waited until the green-shirted arresting gear operators released the hook, then turned the nosewheel and began following a yellow-shirt to the elevator. Once stopped, he secured the cockpit, climbed out, and sucked in a lungful of air. Beneath the Tomcat, red-shirts were already detaching the TARPS reconnaissance pod from its hard point.

An hour later, showered and fed, Sterling headed down to the intell shack were the TARPS pictures would eventually end up. It was an old habit for Sterling. A recon mission wasn't over till he was sure he'd gotten the pics. He was constantly amazed at the behind-the-scenes efficiency of carriers ops. While he'd been stuffing his face with Salisbury steak, technicians had been extracting the TARPS's data, turning them into standard images and infrared line-scan pictures, then forwarding them to Intell where they were sequenced and matched to a map overlay.

Sterling pushed through the door, spotted one of the intell weenies leaning over the light table, and walked over. “Mine, Chic?”

“Yep.”

“Did I remember to load the film this time?”

Chic nodded absently, staring at the photos. They looked like reverse-image negatives: IR shots.

“This is the Bekka, right?” asked Chic.

“Yep. Three passes.”

“Anybody take any potshots at you?”

“No, why? Is there a problem?”

Chic picked up the phone and punched a number. “No shit there's a problem.”

National Military Command Center

Dutcher stared at the theater's multiple screens. Displayed were radar and photo images from the SAG surrounding
Tsumago
;
the
Independence
group off Lebanon; and a green-and-blue geographic display of
Tsumago's
position in relation to the coast of Israel. Between the two, dead in the path of
Tsumago,
was the blue U representing
Minneapolis.

The distances seemed vast, but Dutcher knew better. According to the scale at the edge of the screen,
Tsumago
was still 228 miles from Israel's territorial waters, but at her current speed, she would be within range of
Minneapolis
'
s harpoons in six hours.

Again, he found himself wondering about Tanner and Cahil.

As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he had to accept the fact they were either dead or soon would be. As if being in the hands of Azhar's people was not bad enough, Briggs was stuck in the middle of a city that was tearing itself apart. Ian was not much better off, riding a juggernaut that would either vaporize itself and ten miles of ocean around it or be sunk under a hail of missiles.

Oaken walked over. “Leland, I've never wanted to be wrong about something so much in my life.”

“I know, Walt. There's still a chance.”

One of the communication techs called: “We've got feed from
Indy.
”

“What is it?” said Cathermeier.

“A recon pass over the Bekka. The captain thinks you should see it.”

“Put it up.”

The upper left screen went to static for a moment, then a black-and-white image appeared. Dutcher recognized the Bekka Valley's elongated horseshoe shape. Throughout the valley were hundreds of white dots: Tanks.

Three divisions,
Dutcher thought.
Each dot a
—

“What the hell …” murmured Cathermeier.

“What are we seeing?” Talbot asked.

“Infrared pictures,” replied Mason. “Four hours ago all we saw was a smooth, black background.”

“So?”

“Each of those dots represents an engine heat bloom of a tank or an armored personnel carrier.”

“All
of them?”

“Yep. And they're moving.”

Beirut

Seeing it but not seeing it, Tanner watched the first tinge of pink appear on the horizon. Camille had betrayed him. No, it was worse than that. She smiled to his face, cried and pleaded, made love to him, and then ordered his death. He tried to muster some anger, but it wasn't there. It was his own fault. Had he not been so naive—

He stopped himself. What was he doing? Suddenly he felt everything falling away. None of it mattered. Forget her. He was alive, and there was still a chance.

“Briggs, did you hear me?” asked Azhar.

“What?”

“I said, how did you know they were coming?”

“Because I used the same method to track you,” Tanner replied. “We burned Asseal, hoping you'd take him.”

“And the Israelis turned around and did the same to you.”

“Abu, what will you do with Asseal?”

Azhar waved his hand and chuckled. “He's a patsy. After this is over, we will release him.”

“Thank you.”

Azhar shrugged it off.

“Can you stop the ship?” Tanner asked.

“Why would I do that?”

“Why would you get involved with Iraq and the Arab Liberation Command?”

Azhar's eyes shifted ever so slightly, but Tanner caught it.

“Enough of this,” Azhar said. “I told you I would listen. I did not agree to be interrogated.”

“Okay, tell me about the bomb.”

“Again with the bomb?” Azhar said. “There is no bomb.”

Tanner decided it was time to go for broke. He started talking, beginning with Ohira's murder, then through his tracking of
Tsumago
to Parece Kito, then finally to his father's revelation about
Stonefish
and her cargo.

Azhar stared at him. “Fantasy.”

“I was there from the start. It's all true.”

“Briggs, we may have a history, but make no mistake: We are enemies. You come here, try to play on my memories, then expect me to pour my heart out to you?”

“No more than I believe you'd kill hundreds of thousands of people.”

“For the last time,
there is no bomb
!”
Azhar stood up and began pacing. “This is
not
about revenge! You understand
nothing.
How many years has your country ignored what's been going on here? You put Marines ashore for a few months, then leave. You sell Israel aircraft that bomb our villages! Your puppets in the UN make resolutions and pronouncements, and still our children die! You have the audacity to talk to me about death? What do you know about death? When was the last time tanks rolled through your village and burned your home to the ground? When was the last time your child was taken from you?”

Tanner didn't reply. There was nothing he could say.

“Answer me! Has it ever happened to you?”

“No.”

“Then you know
nothing
!
”
Azhar walked to the door. “I promised I would listen, and I have. Ghassan!” Bucket appeared in the doorway. “Take him away.”

“Abu,” Tanner called.

Azhar turned. “What?”

“Do me one more favor: Think about it. What if I'm right? What if I'm not lying? Think about ten thousand children just like Amarah lying dead in the streets of Tel Aviv.”

Azhar's eyes glazed over, then went cold. “Good-bye, Briggs.”

National Military Command Center

The President pushed through the doors. “Talk to me, General.”

“Syria's Bekka Group is gearing up,” Cathermeier said. “We've got hundreds of heat signatures; everything they've got is running. I've ordered a visual pass. It should be en route now. That's first.”