The Fourth War (6 page)

The general thought, then nodded. “I'll make arrangements,” he said and started walking away.

Bradley grunted thanks, then turned to Peter and lowered his voice even more. “Get those boys to the Sukkur storage facility before it's too late.”

“Roger that, I'll do all I can.”

“Washington wants me to brief the national security staff. By the time I get there I want to have some good news for him. I want to hear your boys have found the warheads and taken them under our control, that they are safe and secure in American hands.”

Peter nodded grimly and the two men turned to leave. Moving through the crowded control room, Bradley shot a sideways look to his friend and wondered suddenly when he would see him again. He stopped and grabbed Peter by the arm. “I know you were hoping for a few days to get home,” he said.

Peter pressed his lips and lowered his gaze. Bradley saw the look, the remorseful guilt in his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said softly.

Peter looked away.

“I'll tell your dad…if you want me to, I'll go…” Bradley started to offer, then paused as he searched for the words.

A painful looked crossed Peter's face, a shadow of emotion from somewhere deep in his soul, a broken responsibility that was painfully clear.

“Tell him…,” Peter said. “Tell him, if you need to, tell him good-bye for me.”

“I won't have to tell him. We'll get you back to the States. Very soon, I swear.”

The two men were quiet until Peter turned and walked from the room. Bradley watched for a long moment, then turned for the back door.

Tel Aviv International Airport
Israel

Twenty minutes later, Bradley was heading home. The engines were already running, and the small C-21 military executive jet started to roll before the air force lieutenant even had the door closed.

It took only minutes for the plane to climb to forty-one thousand feet. As the aircraft leveled off at trans-Atlantic cruise altitude, Bradley sat alone in the narrow cabin and stared out the window at the dark Mediterranean below.

Less than ten minutes later, an Israeli two-seat F-15 also took to the air. It too climbed to cruising altitude, but flew east, set on a course for southern India, more than two thousand miles away.

Leveling off and flying into the rising moon, the Israeli pilot adjusted his twin throttles to set his airspeed at just below subsonic Mach.

He had his instructions. And there was no time to spare.

Shin Bet Headquarters Compound
Tel Aviv, Israel

The man who commanded Shin Bet was a no-nonsense three-star general who had risen through the ranks of the intelligence community. Like the organization he headed, General Petate had a reputation for toughness and efficiency that was well deserved. An extraordinary military officer of Russian descent, the general was born on a
moshav
near the infant nation's northern border ten years after the Second World War, where he spent his youth patrolling the hills and open rangelands around his small village, a watchman against raiders from the neighboring Arab villages. By fifteen he was initiated into the Palmach, the famed Jewish underground force, where he honed his skills in ranging and reconnaissance. By seventeen, he became the youngest officer in the legendary Unit 101, the nation's first formal antiterrorist organization; at twenty-one he was the unit's lead sniper, at thirty-two in command.

Unit 101, though highly effective and even more highly feared, was a nearly schizophrenic organization that vacillated in its approach between two distinct and completely divergent models of leadership: the traditional method, which stressed a strict chain of command, and the Wingate model (first taught by British officer Orde Charles Wingate), which emphasized individual initiative, speed, severe risk, high payout, and direct accountability. Petate was a huge believer in the Wingate model and made no bones about his appreciation for high-risk, high-value military and intelligence opportunities. The higher the better. No risk, no return.

Which was why he found himself in command of Shin Bet; these were dangerous times, and his nation needed him now. It also explained where he picked up the nickname he had. Blackbird, the famed American SR-71, was the fastest and highest-flying aircraft in the world, and Petate flew like the Blackbird when he got on a roll.

And though over time Shin Bet became somewhat known to the press, the general remained in the shadows, always working behind the lines; few of his countrymen would recognize his face, and for obvious reasons he rarely exposed himself. Instead, he spent most of his time at the compound, and traveled only when necessary. Indeed, his existence was not dissimilar to that of some of the prisoners he held, though he drank better whisky and slept in more comfortable beds. He was a fearsome and focused man, not religious but practical, a man who had resigned himself to only one purpose in life—protect the state of Israel, whatever the cost. He considered it his mission, and he felt the special burden of loving his nation too much. The emotion burned, a hot coal, giving him the strength to do the things that he did.

General Petate sat alone in his office staring blankly at a coffee table containing some of his personal effects; a picture of his wife and two children, beautiful daughters—early twenties, blond, smiling, their arms around their father's neck. An eighteen-inch bronze statue of a bucking stallion sat next to the picture of his family. Beside that was a fist-size piece of granite enclosed in glass, a gift from a close friend who had climbed Mount Everest. Beside the chunk of granite was a picture of a smiling Palestinian girl with a news clipping attached, a Knight Ridder dispatch from the West Bank town of Abu Qash:

The clipping reminded Petate that he wasn't only fighting for his daughters, but for other daughters too. The Palestinian girl deserved to live, just like his daughters did.

Staring blankly past his personal effects, the general shuddered, an angry determination building in his chest.

His deputy knocked and entered. “Sir,” he said simply. Petate turned slowly as he held up his hand, unwilling to break his thoughts. The deputy waited quietly. The general brought his fists together and pulled them to his chin.

“We will not suffer this,” he said after a full three minutes of thought.

The deputy nodded. “Sir, I agree.”

Petate tapped his chin with his fists, then stood and leaned against the side of his desk. “Watch the U.S. agent,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “His real name is Peter Zembeic. He's one of Thomas Washington's men and has a serious nose for the fight. He's had a hand in some of the most significant intelligence operations of the past half-dozen years; but he's also a cowboy, the kind who has a hard time staying in the box. That makes him nervous, but Thomas still loves him and uses him every chance that he gets. So I want you to keep a man on him twenty-four hours a day. Never, and I mean
never,
let him out of our sight. Move our people around, use whatever assets we have, he is our only priority now. I want to know what he knows, I want to see what he sees, I want to smell what he smells and think what he thinks. If the Americans locate the warheads, he will lead us to them.”

The deputy nodded. “But sir, he's just one man. Do you really think he will lead us to the—”

“Yes, I do,” the general cut in. “And let me tell you something about this agent and what we are dealing with here. Remember the battle at Kirkuk in the early days of the Iraqi war? Zembeic was there with a dozen CIA and paramilitary men. They were in a convoy, heading out of the city after the rebels had taken over, when they came under attack. Half his men went down in the first thirty seconds. Two of their Humvees were taken down by RPGs, killing almost everyone inside. Zembeic and his remaining men fell back and called for chopper extraction. As they waited, a couple rebels fought their way forward, moving toward the burning Humvees. Zembeic realized it was going to be Somalia or Fallujah again—crazed teens prancing over some shot-up American Humvees, pictures of American bodies being dragged through the streets, video on al-Jazeera, you know the scene, Iraqi and foreign insurgents gloating over destroyed U.S. hardware while some hooded thug hangs a burned corpse from a bridge.”

Zembeic decided he wasn't going to give the rebels another chance to get on CNN. He ordered his men to stay and fight, but they were ordered back. Nothing doing, Zembeic said. The extraction choppers came in, but he wouldn't get on. Absolutely refused to get on board the choppers. His second in command put in a call to headquarters. Thomas ordered Zembeic to get on the chopper, but he pretended satellite interference and cut the connection.

“For the next thirty-six hours, he holed up in the fourth floor of a bombed-out apartment building, shooting anyone who even came close to the bodies of his buddies or the burned-up machines. He was that serious about protecting the remains of his fallen comrades, that serious about denying them a propaganda tool. He used a silencer and shot from almost a full block away, so they never found him, never knew where he was. I guess they thought it was silent death straight from God. By some counts he killed half a dozen insurgents, some say it was more, but who really knows. Two days later, marines regained control of the area. The fallen soldiers were repatriated to U.S. forces, and Zembeic finally crawled down from his sniper outlook.”

General Petate's aide bit his lip. “Sounds like he needs his head examined,” he said.

“Yeah. Maybe. And what would I give to have a few more like him.”

The deputy took a step back and said, “Alright, sir, we'll stay with him.”

“You do that, Colonel, and he will lead us to them.”

“And when we find the warheads?”

“You know what to do.”

Typhoon 57
Over the Eastern Mediterranean Sea

Colonel Bradley's aircraft was just passing over Cyprus when he got the call he was expecting on the secure telephone. Dr. Thomas B. Washington, Deputy Director of Operations (DDO), United States Central Intelligence Agency, spoke into the STU-IV. Bradley listened to his boss, holding the receiver away from his ear as the DDO cursed through the satellite phone.

As DDO, Washington specialized in HUMINT, or Human Intelligence. For almost twenty years he had been working with various intelligence contacts overseas—smugglers, spies, traders in human flesh, traitors, officers, and even the occasional king, president, or premier; men who for one reason or another—money, sex, power, hatred, or revenge—had been willing to trade what information they had for what they wanted most. Washington knew these men; he knew who they were and what they had done. The secrets in his head were worth many lives.

And because his professional life was a shadow of covert operations and lies, the elements of which he rarely seemed to be able to control, Washington compensated by demanding perfection from his underlings and staff. And the one thing he
couldn't
tolerate was being caught unaware. And the fact that none of Washington's informants, none of the dark work he had done, none of top-secret sources he had cultivated over the years, had provided him with an early warning of the pending catastrophe, only made the bitter news worse. Washington had sold his soul to satisfy these dark, evil men, and none of them had come forward to warn him in time.

Bradley calmly sipped at a bottle of water and watched the passing night clouds, while Thomas Washington ranted on the phone, knowing it would take another twenty or thirty seconds before his boss would settle down.

Despite the tirade, the men had a good relationship, though both would admit it was often strained. For one thing, their personal backgrounds were as different as their skin color; Washington, a black man from the inner city, Bradley, a white kid from the upper middle class. Dr. Thomas B. Washington, Ph.D., was a self-made intellectual raised in the ghettos of Detroit: slumlords and slum schools—he had seen nothing but crap since the day he was born. Indeed, he was one of the very few children in the United States who actually grew up hungry, sucking on dirty bottles filled with sugar water and playing among discarded beer bottles thrown in the corners of his mother's drug-infested bedroom. He was barely more than eight when he saw his first murder, by ten he was running acid and heroin, slipping tiny plastic bags under neighborhood doors. But, through it all, there was something inside him, something hot, rich, and angry, something that sensed the great waste that he had become, something that screamed with a fury,
“you are better than this!”
Sometime during his fourteenth year he made a decision. He was getting out. He would not die this way, twenty years old and destroyed by life. Guts and grit (he had not yet discovered his brains) were all that he had, and all he could hope was that it was enough, but he swore that one way or another he would scratch his way out of this dead, lethal world. When he started high school, Washington moved in with an aunt who, if she didn't quite live on the good side of the tracks, at least didn't reside in the human garbage dump either. He worked hard, driven by the hunger inside, and after teaching himself to read, graduated near the top of his high school class, not enough to get a scholarship, but enough to get admitted to NYU. Government grants and odd jobs kept him flush through his years of earning an undergraduate degree. From there, he worked days while going to school at night, earning his doctorate in International Studies. He spent a few years as a consultant to the Department of Defense before being recruited by the CIA, where he found his home, and he had been there ever since.

Bradley, on the other hand, grew up in the upper middle class, his father a well-known and hard-core army general. The old man, one of McNamara's masterminds, raised his sons tight and straight—tight like his crew cut, straight as the crease in his pants. To this day, if Bradley closed his eyes, he could still hear his old man's voice.
“Army! You hear me! Boys, there is nothing else! Not air force, not navy! They're nothing but spit in the wind! You walk the gray line and you sweat army green!”

No, Washington and Bradley couldn't have come from more opposite worlds; but the result was the same: they were both determined men. But ambition and clandestine operations were a volatile mix. And through the years that they had worked together (years during which Bradley resented being called away from the cockpit and the flying he loved), they had butted heads more than once. But still there was enough respect that they enjoyed working together; and truth was, each considered the other a good friend.

 

After cursing and ranting about the situation in general, venting an anger that was born of frustration and gut-wrenching fear, all the time knowing it was ultimately his fault, Dr. Washington settled down and finally got to the point. “The risk is too great to not take action,” he said. “The NSA staff is on board. We're calling POTUS now.”

“Where is he?” Bradley asked.

“Up in New York. About to have dinner with the delegation from Oman.”

Bradley thought a moment, then questioned hesitatingly. “Are you certain we have enough evidence to request a DARKHORSE operation?”

Washington only scoffed. “You're kidding me, right!?”

“No sir, I'm not. I think we need to ask the question before we jump off this cliff. Do we understand the situation enough to—”

“No, Shane, we don't understand! We don't understand anything, which is the
entire point
. We don't understand the situation, which is exactly why we
must
act.”

Bradley waited, sucking on his cheek as he thought. “And you believe POTUS will authorize an operation?” he asked into the phone.

Washington didn't waver. “Yes.”

 

After completing the conversation with Washington, Bradley made his own call to Col. Dick “Tracy” Kier, his vice wing commander, back at Whiteman Air Force Base.

It took several minutes for the call to patch through. “Colonel Kier,” his friend finally said as he picked up the phone.

“Tracy, it's Shane,” Bradley announced hurriedly.

“You okay?” Kier asked, a worried tone in his voice. If Shane was in trouble, then, baby, he was there. He was as protective of Bradley as any subordinate could be.

Bradley almost smiled. Loyalty and dedication were only two of the reasons he had selected Colonel Kier to be his second in command. “I'm fine,” he answered quickly, “but we've got a problem here.”

There was a short pause. “What's up, boss?”

“Stay close to your intel office. You should be hearing soon.”

Kier grunted, an apprehensive reply. He was one of the few men in the air force who was aware of Bradley's responsibilities in the CIA, and he knew Bradley only worried when things were an inch from the fan.

Kier paused a moment. “Anything you can tell me?” he asked.

“Not yet. But stay close. And Tracy, I think I'm coming home.”

“Good. When will you be here? I'm tired of doing your job.”

“A day, maybe two. But meanwhile, I need you to do something, okay?”

“Anything you say, boss. You know I'm your guy.”

“Take a look at the regulations governing Group 21. I think we might get a mission, and I want everyone prepared.”

Bradley heard Kier swallow, a dry gulping sound. “No kidding,” he answered.

“Wish I was,” Bradley replied.

The Waldorf-Astoria Towers
New York City

The presidential protocol officer stood in the spacious dining room at the top of the Waldorf Towers, the U.S. ambassador to the United Nation's official residence for the last thirty years. He studied the table. The china was elegant: white plates ringed with blue and overlaid with an image of the presidential seal, the eagle facing the olive branch in a gesture of peace. The table centerpiece was made from pink roses and white baby's breath. The napkin's tight cotton weave was also edged in blue. The military waiters, young naval enlisted men, stood off to the side in their military tuxedos, pressed uniforms so crisp they nearly crackled when they moved. Four marine color guards walked through a side door and were sent toward the entrance. A dozen secret service men came and went, all of them intent and serious, listening to the wires in their ears. The official White House photographer slipped into the room and was quickly accosted by two security agents. Though they recognized him, having worked together for almost three years, they still asked the photographer to unzip his bag and leave it on the floor so a short-haired German shepherd could sniff it for bombs. “Let me see you operate that,” a dark-eyed agent said to the photographer as he motioned to his cell phone. As the protocol officer watched, a steward began placing the name cards in their positions—the calligraphy radiating the power of the men who would soon arrive. The president would sit at the head of the table, with His Excellency, the President of Oman on his right and the secretary of state on his left. From there, the guests would be seated in pecking order; Gen. Shif' Amonnon, Oman's secretary of state, Omar Mushar, then the United States secretary of state and the U.S. ambassador.

The protocol officer studied the menu, which was embossed with the presidential seal:

 

Mixed Green Salad         Goat Cheese and Herb Vinaigrette

Fillet of Lamb with Rosemary Au Jus      White Sauce with Split Beans

Georgia Sweet Potato Tartlet

 

He knew the president had requested steak. Rare. With A-1 sauce, mashed potatoes, and maybe a beer. But he got white sauce with split beans and fillet of
halal
lamb, which meant it had been blessed, making it clean and pure. The officer suspected the president would have lifted his arms to the heavens and blessed the young lamb himself, if it would have helped to keep the Omanians happy. The world had grown complicated, and friends were in short supply.

 

Outside, a line of black sedans pulled onto Park Avenue. The ambassador's wife scurried in, harried and tense. “Larger water glasses,” she demanded after surveying the table. “Less ice. Crushed, not cubes. And the napkins need to be folded like this!” she instructed the headwaiter while folding a crease across the nearest blue napkin. The headwaiter nodded, but didn't make a move. This wasn't her lunch, it was a White House affair, and he knew how to fold napkins, thank you very much. The ambassador's wife waited, then huffed and scurried from the room. Minutes later, the president's voice could be heard from the foyer and a charge of electricity filled the air. “Gentlemen, this way,” the president said as he led the delegation into the room. Passing the marines, he stopped to inspect the honor guard. “How old are you son?” he asked the first soldier.

“Twenty-three, sir,” the marine barked in reply.

The president studied him a moment more. “You look sharp. Real sharp. Tell your mom she did a real good job. And tell all your buddies that I'm counting on them. Tell them I think of them every day.”

The marine broke role and smiled, then forced a stern look once again. “Yes sir, Mr. President. I will tell them,
sir!
”

The president slapped the marine on his back, then swaggered into the dining room. It seemed to ignite with energy.
The Man
had arrived!

The president paced around the table, inspecting the name cards, then motioned to the delegation, directing them to their chairs. The gentlemen were just sitting down when a short-haired army colonel slipped in from the hallway to approach the president's chair. “Sir, if I could?” he whispered in his ear.

The president looked up. “What's going on, Frank?”

The officer swallowed. “Sir,
Mayer Smith
is on the phone.”

The president froze, recognizing the code instantly. He forced a quick smile and excused himself from the table. “One of my mayors,” he explained to the Omanian president. “They probably lost their power again.”

The president followed the army officer out of the room and the two men stopped and stood in the hall. “General Massarif is dead,” the colonel explained in a low voice. “His aircraft went down a little more than an hour ago.” The president swore and furrowed his brow. “There's more, Mr. President,” the colonel went on. It took him several minutes to explain everything. “Sir, the national security staff recommends that we send in an interdiction force,” was the last thing he said.

“Do it!” the president commanded. “Get the team in the air.”

Camp Thor
Extreme Western India

Peter had barely climbed down the tiny built-in steps of the fighter and pulled his helmet off when a U.S. Special Forces sergeant ran up to him.

“Peter Zembeic?” he screamed, holding a finger in both ears. The F-15 engines screeched behind them, just fifteen feet away. Peter nodded while reaching down to unzip the g-suit from his waist.

“Come with me. We're ready to go,” the sergeant said.

Peter heard the sound of helicopters, their rotors already beating the air. He glanced to his left to see six choppers running, their exterior lights off, the smell of burning jet fuel hanging heavy in the dry desert night. “You been waiting for me?” he asked.

The sergeant shook his head as he turned. “You aren't that important, sir.”

Peter nodded, then followed the special forces soldier, leaving his F-15 flying gear on the tarmac. Behind him an American crew moved toward the waiting Israeli F-15. Its right engine was still running, and the ground crew worked quickly to refuel the jet and get it back in the air.