Flash Point (67 page)

“No. Those mothers shot me in the back. It hurts like hell,” he said.

The medic turned toward Woods. “He took a couple of ricochets in the back.” Quickly slicing through the plastic ties binding Wink’s wrists behind his back, the man began cutting away his flight suit. “No organs though,” he said as he examined the wounds. “He should be okay.”

“Thank you, God,” Woods said as he relaxed and quit fighting the lines holding him and the plastic ties around his wrists and ankles.

The second Pave Low crested the top of the mountain and hovered just off the ground as the first one had. The commandos still on the ground began a slow calculated movement toward the helicopter as they continued to receive opposing fire from the three or four Assassins now remaining. They returned fire, much more accurately, accompanied by the guns of the Pave Low. They made it into the helicopter one by one until there were only four men on the ground returning the Assassins’ fire. On a radio signal from the pilot the rest of the commandos dashed up the ramp into the armored chopper and it lifted off the top of the mountain, its guns still firing their angry red tracers at the small muzzle flashes coming their way.

As the helicopter rose, the Assassin who had been lying next to Farouk saw the shoulder-fired SAM that Farouk had been about to use. Dropping his AK-47, he stood up to use the missile, but as he did so the helicopter dropped below the summit, out of sight. Suddenly, it was quiet. The Assassin lowered the SAM in frustration.

“
Two’s clear
,” the pilot of the second Pave Low transmitted.

The Fire Control Officer in the Spooky orbiting above the hill had been watching the fight on his ALLTV. He had kept his crosshairs on the Assassins the entire time, not willing to shoot with American forces so close. His mouth suddenly went dry as he saw one of the Assassins stand and aim a shoulder-fired missile in his direction. He had waited an eternity for the second Pave Low to call clear. He was ready and fired the 105 at the man, the shell missing by many feet. “Shit,” he muttered. He directed the other two guns on the Assassins and put them on maximum fire as the airman in the back loaded another fifty-pound shell in the 105. The bullets rained down, but not before the Assassin fired his missile at the black sky raining death down on him.

The missile flew out of the tube at the end of a red-hot rocket motor just as a 40-millimeter shell tore the man apart. He dropped as the rocks around him splintered and severed the other two remaining Assassins.

“SAM! SAM!” the IR sensor operator screamed into the intercom aboard the Spooky.

The pilot of the Spooky reached behind him to his left and grabbed a handle hanging on the bulkhead with a long cable attached to it. He quickly squeezed one of the buttons and several flares dropped out of the back of the AC-130U as the pilot pulled up into a steep climb. The copilot was already pushing the throttles to their stops. As the flares lit up the sky around them, they climbed away and took a steep left turn to put the climbing SAM on their beam. The pilot pushed the yoke forward and the Spooky went into a steep dive.

Behind them the SA-7 missile continued to climb, but it was more interested in the flares than it was in the diving airplane. It slammed into one of the brightly burning flares and expired five hundred yards behind them.

The Spooky pilot leveled off, climbed back up to altitude, and headed west. “
One’s off
,” he transmitted.

“Two’s off, we’re right behind you.”

The Pave Low carrying Woods and the others came to the valley floor and headed west and north, going at the helicopter’s top speed.

One of the commandos bent down and untied Woods from the deck. He helped him sit up. “You okay, sir?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Where’s your ID, sir?”

“In my wallet in my pocket. Chest pocket. Left.”

The commando reached into the pocket of Woods’s flight suit. He pulled out the wallet and saw the ID in the plastic window. He shined the flashlight on it, then on Woods’s face. “What’s your Social?”

“Five six three, three three, five seven seven eight.”

The man reached behind Woods with a knife and cut the plastic ties on his wrists and feet, then undid his handcuffs.

“Thanks,” Woods said. He rubbed his wrists and crawled aft to Wink. “You okay, bud?”

“Yeah. It hurts, but I’m okay.” He rolled slightly toward Woods. “I want a Purple Heart. Think this qualifies?”

“Has to.”

Wink nodded. “’Cause if it didn’t, I was going to write to that congressman of yours. He’d make it right.”

“I’m sure he would.” Woods smiled. “Let me know if you need anything.” He stood up and staggered to the bench seat. The crew chief strapped him in. It was loud inside but smoother than he had expected, only an occasional bump as they flew along close to the desert floor. The Pave Low beat its way quickly toward Turkey, and safety.

Woods leaned his head back against the bulkhead as he sat motionless. Zev’s hands were still handcuffed and bound together as he lay on the deck. Woods rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t realized how tired he was. He thought of sleep, but he wanted to be completely aware of everything that happened the entire way back to safety. He looked at one of the commandos and pointed to Zev, still lashed to the deck like a menacing shark. “You going to let him up?”

“No, sir. No idea who he is.”

Woods wasn’t buying that. He found the commando captain. “Let him up,” he said, pointing at Zev.

“Don’t know who he is, sir.”

“I’ll tell you who he is,” Woods shouted angrily. “He saved our lives on the ground back there. He hid us out for a day and put his own life in danger. He was the one who told us we
succeeded
in getting the Sheikh, and if we hadn’t, he’d have done it himself. Now let him up!”

“I’ll let him off the deck, but I’m not going to undo his hands.”

“Fine,” Woods said.

The man crossed to Zev and unleashed the lines holding him down. Zev nodded gratefully and joined Woods on the bench seat. The crew chief tossed Woods a helmet, which Woods put on Zev’s head. He strapped Zev into the seat next to him. As the helicopter bounced through some rough air, Woods and Zev put their heads back against the bulkhead and closed their eyes. In spite of Woods’s determination to stay awake, he dozed off.

He was jerked from sleep when his feet flew up from the deck of the Pave Low as it pitched over toward the ground. His boots slammed back to the deck when the helicopter pulled up and banked hard right, in a desperate attempt to escape something. Wink slept and Zev looked confused. The crew chief studied something Woods couldn’t see. A Lieutenant came down from the cockpit and strapped into the seat across from Woods. He looked grim.

“What’s going on?” Woods yelled to him.

“Fighter. They didn’t see him coming. He didn’t turn his radar on until the last second. Now he’s all over us.”

“Fighter? Syrian?” Woods asked, his mouth dry.

“Not sure. They’re working the ESM gear to identify him now.”

“What about the gunships? Can they help?” Zev asked, overhearing the conversation.

“No, they’re air to ground only. No help at all against an airplane. They’re just hoping he doesn’t see them.”

“So what do we do?” Zev asked.

“Not much. Try to evade him.”

The crew chief listened in his helmet, then crossed to the Lieutenant, grabbing hard points of the helo to avoid falling. He spoke into his ear, then crossed back to his station.

The Lieutenant looked at Woods. “It’s an F-14.”

“What?”

Woods reached for the buckle to his seat belt. “Get him on the radio! It’s one of ours! Try guard 243.0!” Woods said, shouting and trying to stand. “It’s probably someone from my sq — “ He froze. “It’s Iranian,” he realized.

“Iranian?” the Lieutenant yelled.

“Only other country in the world that has them,” Woods yelled back.

“Great,” the Lieutenant said as he made his way back to the cockpit to relay the good news.

Woods ran up to the cockpit, tearing up the three steps to the elevated area where the pilots sat. He had to get to the pilot to help him evade. If he didn’t do it just right he could fly them right into oblivion.

The helicopter jerked madly back and forth and then tried to slow to a near hover right on the ground to let the F-14 go by. Woods grabbed a steel bar next to the ladder to keep himself from falling down into the cargo area. The helicopter went left and right, spinning on its axis as it tried to avoid the F-14’s deadly 20-millimeter Vulcan cannon, the Gatling gun that could fire six thousand rounds of heavy ammunition a minute. The helicopter had no ability to defend itself from a fighter. Woods looked for an extra headset so he could talk to the pilot on the ICS when a flash to their right made him cover his eyes.

“What the hell was that?” the copilot yelled as Woods peered out the window over his shoulder.

Woods smiled. “Missile impact. Somebody got him.”

“Who?”

The Captain replied, “Fighter. F-18s from the
George Washington
staged out of Batman. They were supposed to cover our egress. You know any of them?” the Captain asked Woods.

Woods smiled as he thought of Terrell Bond bagging an Iranian F-14. He would be impossible. “Yeah, I know them.”

“Tell whoever that was that I owe him a case.”

“I guess that means I owe you at least two cases.”

“Two cases should just about do it.”

“You just let me know when and how to deliver it.”

“I sure will.”

“Are we in Turkey yet?” he asked, examining the screen in the middle of the cockpit.

“In about two minutes.”

Woods began to relax for the first time since the cat shot off the carrier. They might actually make it home. He turned and headed down the ladder to the cargo area.

Woods sat next to Zev. “Is your name really Zev?”

“No.”

“You sure we got the Sheikh?”

“Yes,” Zev said. “I am sure.”

“You heard it?”

“Yes. Almost made me deaf.”

“How did you get a bug into that mountain?”

“
I
never could have.”

“Who did?”

“One of our best.”

Woods was curious. “Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Woods wanted to know, but he looked straight ahead and said nothing.

Zev spoke. “A woman.” He paused. “Spoke Arabic and Farsi. She made herself an Iranian farm girl bringing fruit for them from a distant valley. They let her into the fortress to deliver food. Several times.”

“She was one of you?”

“The best I’ve ever seen.”

“Was she with the Mossad?”

“I can’t really say—”

“Why not?”

“I talk too much. Comes from sitting in the desert by yourself for days without talking to anybody.”

“Was she with the Mossad?” Woods asked again.

Zev looked at Woods for a long time before he spoke again. “
Kidon
.”

“What?” Woods asked, leaning forward.

“
Kidon
. Special unit for . . . assassination.”

“An Israeli assassin?” Woods was amazed. Then he went cold. “Was her right hand mangled?”

Stunned, Zev said quickly, “How do you—”

“Irit,” Woods said breathlessly, as too much came to him at once.

Zev tried to imagine how a U.S. Navy Lieutenant could possibly know her name. “She was preparing a . . . gift for the Sheikh. It went off before she was ready. It ruined her hand.”

Woods stared. “
She
’s the one they were after on the bus.”

“They found out.”

Woods had to know. “Where was she going when she was killed?”

“Tel Aviv.”

“To interview with El Al?”

Zev’s eyes strained through the darkness to see if Woods was joking. “No. She was coming to help plan our next mission. To see
me
. We are . . . were in the same unit. Twelve of us.”

“Not to interview?”

“No.”

Nothing was fitting together. “Why was she in Italy?”

“She went there often. Vacation.”

“I met her there.”

“You met Irit?” Zev said, his surprise now complete.

“She and my roommate were seeing each other.”

“The American Naval officer?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah,” Zev said. “Now I see.” He frowned thoughtfully. “So your bombing strike was personal. You against the Sheikh. For your roommate.”

“You too. For her.”

“It was my fault. They never should have found her.”

“I’ve got to know one thing, Zev.”

“What?”

“What was Tony Vialli doing in Israel?”

“Who?”

“My roommate. The Navy officer.”

“With Irit?”

“Right.”

“I never knew his name. He came to visit her.”

“Did someone else want him there?”

“Just the opposite. She was afraid his coming would draw too much attention to her. I told her he should not come. It was a risk to be seen with him.” Zev was quiet for a long time, remembering Irit and all she had meant to him, and to his team, a look of profound sadness over his barely visible face.

“So why did he go?”

Zev looked at Woods and shrugged. “Because they were in love.”

I would like to express my gratitude and admiration to Commander Sam Richardson, USN, an F-14 pilot and the Commanding Officer of VF-14. He was kind enough to read the manuscript and give me excellent guidance. I would also like to thank Commander Dave Pine, USN, Commanding Officer, and the officers and sailors of VF-31, the Tomcatters, and the F-14D squadron aboard the USS
Abraham Lincoln
, who treated me like a member of the squadron during my visit there. I am also grateful to Captain J.J. Quinn, USN, and the men and women of the USS
Abraham Lincoln
for allowing me the run of the ship and helping me remember what carrier life is like.

I am also greatly indebted to the fine men and women of the 16th Special Operations Wing of the United States Air Force at Hurlburt Field, Florida, and in particular those in the 20th Special Operations Squadron who fly the MH-53J Pave Low III helicopters, and the 4th Special Operations Squadron who fly the AC-130U Spooky. Their advice and assistance were invaluable.