The Last Days (22 page)

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

The senior controller snapped to attention.

He hadn't been drifting off. But after nine hours on patrol on an E-3 AWACS some 33,000 feet above the barren deserts of Iraq in the middle of the night, he wasn't exactly in top form. His eyes were heavy, his breathing slow. He was on his umpteenth cup of bad coffee and starving for something decent to eat.

But all that suddenly changed. He had an unknown contact—it had to be hostile—and he snapped back to life. The controller held the headphones tight against his ears and scanned his instruments. He called over to his commander. He had a vehicle of some kind—no, two—wait, make that three, and they were moving west-northwest.

“Can't be up to any good, can they?”

“Not likely, sir.”

It was a convoy all right, racing for cover at eighty, maybe ninety miles an hour.

“Breaking for the Syrian border, are they? I guess we'd better stop them.”

He punched a few buttons and opened up a secure channel with a pair of Apache helicopter gunships on patrol to the north.

“Mongoose One Five, Mongoose One Six, this is Sky Ranch, do you copy, over?”

“Sky Ranch, this is Mongoose One Five, copy you five by five.”

“Ditto that, Sky Ranch. This is Mongoose One Six. Tell me you've got some action, sir. Ain't nobody out there but the Eighty-second, the Third ID and a whole lot of sand.”

“If you hustle a little, this just may be your lucky night.”

“Every night is lucky with you, sir.”

The E-3 commander filled in the Apache pilots on what little he knew so far.

“Nobody gets across that border. That understood, boys? Nobody.”

“You got it, sir. Mongoose One Five, inbound hot.”

“Mongoose One Six, I'm right on his tail.”

The Apaches broke out of their patrol pattern and raced south. Their rules of engagement didn't allow them to cross into Syrian airspace. That meant they didn't have much time. At most, they had three or four minutes to intercept whoever was in such a hurry to get out of the frying pan and into the fire. Who knew? This could be fun.

 

The large red-and-white bus pulled away from Dizengoff Center.

It was a miserable night to be out, still pouring rain. The storm hadn't let up a bit. The driver made a few stops along the way, then began making his way north toward the Tel Aviv University campus. It was the last run of the night, which made it the last run of his career. He'd been with the Israeli transit authority for exactly twenty-five years and one month and he was retiring to spend more time with his wife, his four grown children, and his six grandchildren. His two daughters still lived in Israel. One just got married. His two sons and their families lived in the United States—one in Los Angeles, the other in Seattle.

They were good kids, and smart. For that he and his wife were blessed. They'd worried themselves sick with how to pay for each of them to go to college. It wasn't easy to raise a family on a bus driver's wages, even if his wife worked part-time as a dental hygienist. But they needn't have worried at all. In the end, each of their kids had won full scholarships to MIT, Caltech, Cornell, and Princeton. They met good Jewish kids along the way, got married, and started having children of their own. Now, finally, it was time to enjoy them—all of them—and as soon as they were finished taking some vacation time of their own down in Eilat, they'd start their “world grandkids tour.”

The bus was noisy and chaotic. It was packed with foreign students, mostly Americans from TAU's Overseas Student Program, all of whom had just stumbled out of a row of bars just now closing. Everyone was on break for a few weeks, celebrating Hanukkah and Christmas. How could they all be so drunk during the holidays? Didn't any of these kids have a religious bone in their body? Of course, thought the driver, his didn't either. Nor did he, for that matter. At least he wouldn't have to drive on New Year's Eve. Maybe he'd get drunk himself. One more stop and they'd be at the TAU campus. He could let all these kids off and he'd be free at last.

He pulled over to the curb and opened the door. A young woman got on, the only person dumb enough to be out in the rain this late at night, the driver noted. She couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty-one, maybe younger, and she wore the green fatigues of the Israeli Defense Forces, and a thick, padded army jacket. She was carrying an armful of packages and struggled up the steps. But she paid her fare quickly, nervously looked from side to side, presumably for a seat. There weren't many, the driver told her in Hebrew, maybe one or two in the back.

She seemed confused, even intimidated by so many kids, not much younger than her, yelling and laughing and carrying on. She slowly began making her way down the aisle. The driver closed the door, checked his mirrors, and began pulling away from the curb. Two more miles, and he'd have peace and quiet all the way back to the bus compound.

 

“You hear that, Colonel?”

Daoud Juma was finally asleep. After two days and hundreds of miles on the run, he was bone tired and desperate for rest. But someone was calling him. Someone was asking him a question. Why? Couldn't they see he wanted to be left alone?

“Colonel? Colonel Juma? Sir, can you hear that? Something's approaching?”

It was Arabic. Daoud could hear the words. He knew someone was talking. But he struggled to understand the words. He was fighting his way out of REM sleep, and he wasn't happy. He tried to open his eyes. They were covered over in film. The infection was coming back. He angrily wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and cursed the driver he now could see and hear all too well, even in the darkness.

“Sir—Colonel—I'm sorry to wake you….”

Sure you are,
thought Daoud.

“…but I think that's the sound of a chopper echoing through the canyon.”

The night was as black as he'd ever seen it. But for their headlights and the internal lights of the dashboard, there'd be no light at all. He looked out the side windows, but all he could see was his own reflection. He'd have to take this kid's word for it. They were in a canyon of some kind, probably still winding along the Euphrates River. They couldn't be far from the border now. Or had they crossed over already and he hadn't been told. No, that was impossible. They wouldn't dare fail to keep him apprised. Even if he was sleeping. And there'd be border guards. Passport checks. Officials to confer with. Money to change hands.

A chopper?
Is that what he'd just said? No one had helicopters out here—not coming from behind them. The Iraqis certainly didn't. Not anymore. That would have to be American. Daoud's eyes widened.

The junior officer's radio crackled to life. The men in the minivan behind him were also reporting what sounded like a helicopter several miles behind them. For a few moments, there was a lot of cross-chatter. Then came the question from one of the fedayeen commanders. What did Colonel Juma want to do?

“Any of you geniuses have a Stinger missile?” he barked over the walkie-talkie sitting on the backseat beside him. He was fully awake now.

“Yes, sir. We've got one left.”

“Then in the name of Allah, use it,”
he shouted.

Surely he'd trained these men better than this. The convoy sped up now, hugging the dirt road through hairpin turns. On straightaways, they were pushing at least ninety miles an hour. The problem was none of them knew the road well and were having trouble anticipating upcoming twists and turns. On top of that, the dust and sand they were kicking up was cutting visibility—already minimal—to just a few dozen yards, at least for the second and third drivers in the convoy.

Someone from the Range Rover came over the radio asking if they should all cut their lights. Daoud put an end to such nonsense. If this was really an American helicopter, it was an Apache or a Cobra gunship, perhaps a Blackhawk. Either way, all of the Americans had night-vision systems and state-of-the-art FLIR technology—forward-looking infrared thermal imaging systems that could pick up the heat signatures of their bodies and engines. Shutting off their headlights wouldn't trick the infidels, he stormed. It would only cause the three of them to crash into the canyon walls or into the river. Just floor it, he told them, and get that Stinger ready to fly.

The minivan driver was on the radio. His eyes were glued on the road ahead, but several of his men could see the lights of the chopper behind them. It was coming in fast and low. It couldn't be flying more than thirty or forty feet above the ground and was coming in at upward of a hundred eighty knots.

The Stinger operator raced through his procedures. He hadn't even had the thing out of the box until a few seconds ago. He was having trouble getting everything together in the dark, in the back of a packed minivan. But he'd have to do it fast. The chopper was bearing down on them and he was running out of time.

OK, he was almost ready. He needed to power up the battery, and establish the range to target. Just a few more seconds, that's all he needed.

 

“What the—we're getting painted.”

“Mongoose One Six, this is Sky Ranch, say again—I repeat, say again.”

“Sky Ranch, I said we're getting painted. Probably a Stinger.”

“One Six, do you have a visual on the convoy?”

“Roger that, sir. We can see the convoy. Three cars. The last one just shot out their windows and they're painting us up. Do we have permission to fire, sir?”

“How many people in the last vehicle, One Six?”

“Looks like five or six, sir—they're on the run.”

“Roger that, Mongoose One Six, you have authorization to fire.”

The canyon narrowed. The convoy was moving at nearly a hundred miles an hour. It was a wonder the Renault could keep pace. But it wasn't the Renault they were after.

“I've got lock.”

The Apache was closing in, but the pilot could also see the mountain walls narrowing still further. He might have time for one clean shot. After that, he'd have to pull up and reacquire the convoy on the other side of the pass.

“I've got tone.”

The Apache pilot could see someone leaning out of the back of the minivan. The Stinger was ready to fire. He flipped a switch and took his weapons system off safety.

“Fox one, fox one.”

The Hellfire missile exploded from the side of the chopper. It sizzled through the cold night air and devoured its prey. The fireball filled the canyon. The Apache pilot pulled up immediately and narrowly cleared the mountain pass ahead of him. The Renault lost control. It skidded from side to side, then careened off the right side of the road, down toward the banks of the Euphrates and barely coming to a stop before plunging into the fast-moving river.

The Range Rover kept moving. Its driver and crew didn't have time to worry about the fate of the men behind them, even Colonel Juma. They blew through the narrow mountain pass and figured they had the Americans beat. Until they came around the next bend. That's when they saw Mongoose One Five. The other Apache. It was a half mile down the road, hovering no more than twenty feet off the road and exploding from its side was a Hellfire missile with their names on it. Every man's eyes went wide with fear. And for good reason. It was the last image they'd ever see.

 

The driver glanced back at some of the rowdies.

They were throwing paper airplanes and singing “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” in English and Hebrew. These kids were in college? It was pathetic. They were like a bunch of five-year-olds. The Americans should put all their high school graduates into the military for a few years, he decided. All of them. Put them through basic training. Make the guys serve at least three or four years. Make the women serve at least two. Just like in Israel. Teach them some discipline. Teach them some manners, if nothing else. It had worked for his kids—zapped the childish arrogance right out of them.

It had worked for him, too. He'd loved the army—and his annual reserve duty. It had forced him to get in shape, and stay in shape. And driving a Merkava tank sure beat driving a bus. He wished he was mobilizing right now. He'd love to bulldoze his way into Gaza. He'd love to blow Mohammed Dahlan's headquarters to kingdom come. Too bad he was too old.

The driver noticed the young woman in the IDF garb sitting toward the back of the bus. She said nothing. She didn't look anyone in the eye. She was soaking wet but didn't seem to care. He looked back at the road, and stopped at the approaching red light. It was odd, he thought. She didn't have a weapon with her. No sidearm. No M-16. Wasn't it dangerous enough to be out, alone, on a night like this? And come to think of it, she wasn't wearing boots, was she? Those were tennis shoes. Not even nice ones. They weren't just soaked from the storm. They were filthy. And cheap. As the father of four and the grandfather of six, the man knew sneakers. He knew each brand and he knew how much they cost. After all, he'd been footing the bill for them for almost thirty years.

He glanced in the mirror again. They weren't American sneakers, or anything from Europe. They weren't made in Israel either. Those shoes were from…where were they from? The light turned green and he pressed down on the gas and began turning right. Hebron. They were from Hebron, the kind you could buy for a few shekels in East Jerusalem if you were too poor to buy anything else. After his brother was gunned down by a Palestinian sniper in Bethlehem when he was a kid, he'd vowed never to buy any product made by the Arabs. And he didn't care if he was just a lousy bus driver. He wasn't buying his kids sneakers made in Hebron. He'd rather take out a loan from the bank and…

Oh my God.

He slammed on the brakes. Everyone lurched forward. He glanced back. The woman had fallen facefirst on the floor. He reached down under his seat and grabbed for his pistol. She was getting back up. Everyone was screaming. Her coat was off. She was wearing a suicide bomber's belt. The driver found his gun. He flicked off the safety and wheeled around in the aisle.