Flash Point (57 page)

“Frankly,” Bark said, “I think that’s why we’re going to get a shot at it. The Air Force would never let us do it without elbowing us out of their way if it was up to them.”

Wink replied. “Right — until the B-2 dropped its highly accurate laser-guided bombs on the Chinese embassy in Belgrade, it had never seen combat. And that was with all those hot Air Force targeteers working the problem.”

“Trey,” Bark said, “run through the plan.”

“Yes, sir.” Woods picked up the chart and crossed to the sliding corkboard. He took the left side as Big stood at the right. The two men pinned it tightly to the board. “One of the keys is to make sure Iran doesn’t know we’re coming. We recommend that we launch with a diversionary strike. We need to keep up the impression of focusing on those two targets, and keep pounding them. But on one of those sorties, two Tomcats will peel off and head east. Way east. We go down to the deck and do a Night Vision Devices low level in the weeds all the way.” He took a pointer and showed where they would peel off. “As you can see, we avoid the SAMs most of the way to Iran and back. We’ll have to go through them on initial ingress and egress, but once into Syria, it should be clear sailing.” Woods looked at the chart as if having some new thoughts. “Then we drop these five-thousand-pound hogs and egress north and west,” he said, pointing to the chart, tracing the route that had been drawn in pencil including time on target and times over each way-point.

“Load-out?” the Maintenance Officer demanded.

“Each Tomcat will have one GBU-28. That’s about five thousand pounds. Limit ourselves to two Sidewinders each — another four hundred pounds — download the Phoenix rails, and we’ll both carry tanks. On the way in we’ll refuel feet dry as far east as we can sell it as part of a diversionary strike, and immediately on return, once feet wet. The four-hundred-fifty-mile transit will just allow us to pop-up and drop the 28s, then return low level. There isn’t much room for error.”

The MO scratched his chin. “That doesn’t leave you any afterburner at all.”

“True.”

“Fighter escort?”

“We want to minimize our radar signature. Four or five planes are much more likely to be seen.”

“We ought to at least think about some dedicated fighters. Never know who will show up.”

“You think the
Iranians
are going to show up?” Woods asked, implying the answer with his tone. He continued, skeptical. “They’d have to know we’re coming, or be awfully quick to get someone airborne. Their closest fighter base is Isfahan, and that’s three hundred miles away. Then they’d have to find us and intercept us at two hundred feet over the desert. At
night
. I like those chances, especially compared to sending in four big fighters instead of two.”

“Fair enough. We can think about it.”

“Anyway, there’s the route. We’ll pop up to altitude for the drop about a half-mile apart. If things go according to plan we’ll have somebody on ground lasing the target for us.” Woods glanced over his shoulder at Pritch. “Any word yet?”

Pritch shook her head. She was extremely uncomfortable, unhappy with Woods for even bringing it up.

Bark looked at the other officers. “Anybody see any problems with this plan?”

“Fuel,” Blankenship said. “How can you go into a mission like this and not have fuel for any afterburner? Too tight.”

“We’ve got to get in and out undetected.”

“You can’t even get shot at by one SAM. You can’t touch your burners at all. I don’t like it.”

“The only alternative is to send a tanker with them part of the way on the route—”

“Never happen. They’d all be sitting ducks.”

“Exactly. That’s why we ended up where we did. There’s no other choice. The plan kind of wrote itself.”

“Anybody else?” Bark asked.

“Who’s on the ground?”

“We’re not going to talk about that,” Pritch interrupted.

“Tell me how
sure
you are it will happen. How reliable is this . . . ground unit.”

“
Un
sure, sir.”

“Well, that doesn’t give me warm feelings. Fly a million miles in the dark on the deck with night-vision devices so someone or something that we’re ‘unsure’ about will be there to finish it for us? How much of this plan is based on the guy being there? ’Cause if it were my skin at risk, I’d be real unenthusiastic.”

“We don’t even know if . . . someone will be there. It is a possibility. I wouldn’t count on it.”

“So what if he isn’t? Can the LANTIRN god here,” Bark said, indicating Wink, “put it down the guy’s throat?”

Woods and all the others looked at Wink. He was the only one who could answer the question with any confidence. Wink thought about it for what seemed to those waiting like a long time. He knew the mission hung on his answer. “We’ll hit where we’re aiming. I can guaran-damn-tee you that. The problem is knowing where to aim to put it in the Sheikh’s ready room. I’d say the chances of getting him if we do it ourselves are low.”

Everyone stiffened slightly as the Air Wing Commander strolled into CVIC. Bark spoke first. “CAG. Good morning.”

“Well,” CAG said noncommittally, surveying the people before him and quickly scanning the chart. “What have we here?”

“Strike planning,” Bark said, with a hint of a defensive tone. “Contingency strike planning.”

“Into Iran, I see.” He looked at Woods.

Woods held his tongue. He really wanted to say something clever, but he didn’t want to torpedo his plan or his career right now.

CAG wasn’t really expecting a reply. “I’m surprised Washington signed off on this. Flying a GBU-28 out here on a day’s notice to be dropped by aircrew that have never dropped one before? Incredible. Who do you know in Washington?” He stared at Woods, still not expecting a reply. CAG examined the chart. “It really isn’t a bad idea,” he said, looking at Bark. “That’s what separates Navy Air from everybody else, you know?” he said, suddenly taking ownership of the idea, especially if it was going to be successful. “Flexibility. Adaptability. Better than the Air Force. For us, when things change, we make new plans. Better plans. Change to make it work. It entails some risk. But to succeed in this life, you’ve got to take some risks. Right, Lieutenant?”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Woods replied, fighting back a smile. “What do you think of the route?”

CAG looked at the chart again and studied the pencil lines. “How far?”

“Four hundred fifty miles one way.”

“Low level?”

“A lot of it. After we peel off from the diversionary strike.”

“Diversionary strike?”

“Yes, sir, a regular strike on the fortress in Syria. We pull away from them and get down on the deck and head east.”

“NVDs?”

“Yes, sir, once we get down on the deck, we’ll be on the goggles all the way in.”

“Hell of a long time.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“What’s the longest you’ve ever flown on NVDs?”

“Couple of hours.”

CAG wanted no part of that kind of flight. “Damned things give me a headache. Like looking through a drinking straw. Narrows your field of vision too much. Keep up the planning. Bark, I want you to show me the final plan. Nobody goes unless I sign off on it.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Bark replied as CAG walked toward the TV studio section of CVIC.

“Sami, my office!”

Sami jumped when he heard Kinkaid’s voice from over the padded cubicle wall. He knew he had said too much, but he hadn’t even said everything he felt. He didn’t care if Kinkaid fired him. He didn’t want to be a part of the charade of being the American arm of Israel’s military. He stood up and walked straight into Kinkaid’s office. He closed the door behind him so hard it slammed loud enough to make both of them jump involuntarily.

“Sir—”

“Shut up,” Kinkaid said, silencing him.

Sami waited, his anger building.

“You were way out of line.”

“I was just saying what I was thinking—”

“And that justifies it?”

“It’s my obligation as an officer—”

“Your obligation is to do what you’re
told
! What do you think you’re doing running around reading old investigation files and dreaming up grand conspiracy theories? Who do you think you are?”

“I’m not making it up. It’s what makes it all make sense.”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about! I’ve been doing this since before you were born! And you stand there in front of a task force I’ve put together and insult the Agency, insult me, imply there are spies in our house, and I’m just supposed to take it because
you’ve
got it all figured out?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that—”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t. I should end your little career for that stunt. You’d have no future in Washington, I’d make sure of it.” He studied Sami’s rigid face. “Why are you so suspicious of the Israelis?”

“They’re untrustworthy.”

“Sami, they’ve done things you could only imagine doing. You’ve read a few things, and think you know the whole picture. They sent men into the desert alone in the Gulf War to find Scud sites for
us
. They ate lizards for days to find where the launches were coming from.”

Sami smiled. “For
us
? Those Scuds were being shot at Jerusalem! What did you expect them to do? They seem to think the big favor they did for us was by letting us fight
that
war for them too! We begged them to stay home, while we risked our lives for them! They got praise from our government for being willing to do nothing. It was bullshit!”

“They give us intel that you don’t even know about.”

“Like what?”

“You’re not cleared—”

“Of course. So tell me the great stuff they’ve given us that I
am
cleared for.”

“They’ve given us entire SAM systems they captured. It gave us a great advantage.” Kinkaid waved his hand. “I don’t need to defend them.”

“They look out for their own interests. Period.”

“We all do.”

“Not true. We have helped a lot of other countries when there was no direct benefit to us.”

“And they have helped us. Just take my word for it.”

“In another ‘unofficial’ exchange between you and this Efraim guy?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes in more official channels.”

“For every one of those — and I’d love to be able to check them — there are two where they’ve either stolen from us or hurt us.”

“No—”

“Like Pollard—”

“Don’t go banging that damned Pollard drum again, Sami. I’m tired of it—”

“Do you know how many documents he stole for Israel?”

“Sure, a lot,” Kincaid replied.

“How many?”

“I don’t remember, exactly. It was a long time ago.”

“Five hundred
thousand
pages of classified information.”

“Like I said, a lot.”

“You know how he came to find Israelis that were interested?” Sami asked.

“It doesn’t matter—”

“A party in New York. Big party for the Israeli pilot who bombed the Iraqi nuclear plant. Big hero. Our boy Pollard makes contact and starts pumping out the Secret and Top Secret documents to the Israelis.”

“True,” Kinkaid acknowledged.

“But you know what they did with them?”

“Read them.”

“After they read them.”

“What?”

“They wanted to make the Soviet Union happy so it would release more Jews to emigrate to Israel. They gave the documents to the KGB.”

“That’s never been proved—”

“So they’re our
friends
?”

“Intelligence can be dirty business.”

“Like the
Liberty
.”

“Sami—”

“That’s right. Don’t look at history. It doesn’t matter. Joe,” he said, “we’re targeting an old fortress based mostly on my historical analysis of something that goes back nine hundred years.” He smiled ironically. “You won’t even look back thirty years?”

Kinkaid eyed his telephone as if waiting for it to ring. “The
Liberty
was a mistake. We’ve already talked about that.”

“What about their nuclear program?”

“What about it?”

“How did Israel get the uranium for it?”

Kinkaid didn’t reply.

Sami studied his face. “See, you
do
know. Rich Jew in Pennsylvania faked ‘losing’ two hundred pounds of it from his manufacturing plant after the Israelis visited. He had given
millions
of dollars to Israel before that. They denied it, if you can believe that.”

“What’s the point?”

“If it is to further
their
interests, they’ll sell out the U.S. so fast it will make your head spin.”

“Why do you care so much?”

Sami stared at his boss and leaned against the closed door. He stood there silently. “Back to that, huh? The young Turk.”

“Haddad. That’s your last name. Any relationship to Ali-Haddad? The most radical group of the PLO in the ‘80s?”

Sami’s mouth dropped. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just showing you how faulty apparently logical thinking can be.”

“I can’t believe you even said that.” Sami sank into the chair in the corner of Kinkaid’s office. “I’ve spent my entire time here studying Arab terrorists. Trying to anticipate them, to defeat them. And now you accuse me of
being
one of them?”

“I’m not accussing you of anything. I’m just showing you how you can go off track with seemingly straight thinking.” Kinkaid became reflective. “It goes back to Henry Kissinger.”

Sami looked at him with deep confusion. “What does?”

Kinkaid sighed and closed his eyes. “America made a deal with the devil. The Red Prince. The most effective PLO terrorist ever.”

Sami’s face reddened. “Ali Hassan Salameh.”

“You know of him,” Kinkaid said, surprised.

“Also known as Abu Hassan. Of course I do. He married Georgina Rizak, the Lebanese Miss Universe.”

Kinkaid smiled. “I’m impressed. He had targeted the U.S. We got wind of it. Based on Kissinger’s instructions, we talked to him.”

“How could we
talk
to him?” Sami asked, amazed. “He was the mastermind behind the ’72 Olympic attack!”

“We made a deal. We agreed not to pursue him if he would leave American citizens and property alone. He agreed. Not only did he agree, he became one of our best sources. Not about the PLO, but anybody else was fair game.” He paused and waited for Sami to look at him. “We knew where he was. Often. But we
never
told the Mossad. And he was number one on their hit list for years, until 1976 when they got him without our help.”