The Inca Prophecy (12 page)

‘Aarr!’ Rashida growled, giving a remarkably good imitation of the universal pirate expletive. ‘Eight pieces and shiver timbers!’

‘Yes, pieces of eight and shiver-me-timbers … and the pirate ships have a big, black flag …’

‘And it’s very nasty and it’s called the Happy Roger!’ Rashida cried. ‘And it’s got a mean and horrid skull and bone-crosses!’

Close enough, Ahmed thought. ‘Avast, me hearties!’ Together, he and his sister roamed the seven seas. They stormed desert islands and explored the secret map in the centre of the book that gave directions on how to find the buried treasure, until at last, Rashida’s eyelids began to droop. Ahmed quietly closed the book, kissed her softly on the cheek, turned out the light and retreated to the deck. His mother had retired to finish clearing up in the kitchen, and Ahmed resumed conversation with his father.

‘Now they’ve moved in, the Israelis will never give up the Palestinian land in the West Bank,’ Ahmed observed. ‘All this talk of peace is just that – talk. The Israelis have stalled for decades, and all the while they build more and more settlements on Palestinian land in the hope the Palestinians will give up and move out.’ The evening dark had cloaked the village of al-Bazourieh in velvet. Heavy clouds scudded across the sky above Lebanon’s border with Israel.

Mansoor Shahadi didn’t reply immediately. He puffed contentedly on the silver stem of his hookah. The smoke from the scented tobacco was cooled as it passed through the water in an ornate green glass bowl that formed the hookah’s base. The water pipe had been a part of the café culture of the Arab and Persian worlds for centuries.

‘Ordinary Israeli people want peace, just like we do,’ Mansoor said finally. ‘And many Israelis don’t support the settlers. It’s the hardliners, the extremists, who claim God gave them the land. They’re never going to change their view.’

‘Exactly,’ Ahmed said.

‘But it’s not as simple as that, Ahmed. Over half the Israeli population are not religious at all, but it’s the ultra-orthodox hardliners who hold the balance of power in the Knesset, particularly in the current government, and they effectively veto any moves that would halt the settlements and achieve peace.’

‘Which is why I support Hezbollah,’ Ahmed replied, his eyes blazing with indignation. ‘The only way we’re going to force Israel to negotiate is at the point of a gun.’

‘When I was your age, I probably would have said the same thing,’ his father responded, ‘but now I’m not so sure. Israel is becoming more and more aggressive, and as a result, more and more isolated. She has very few friends left in the international community, and even the Egyptians and the Turks are beginning to distance themselves. Ultimately, I think international pressure will force Israel to negotiate.’

‘In the meantime, I’d still like to join Hezbollah,’ Ahmed protested. ‘Cousin Kazim’s now a team leader,’ he added wistfully.

‘And your cousin Kazim doesn’t hold an engineering degree,’ Mansoor admonished his son gently. He puffed on his hookah and stared into the night. Way in the distance, he could just pick out the faint glow of the security lights that marked the Israeli border fence.

Kazim focused his treasured pair of battered binoculars and searched the barbed-wire fence and the dusty road beyond that marked the UN Blue Line border between Lebanon and Israel. For the moment, the road was empty. The stocky team leader from the Lebanese border town of Aita Ech Chaab was a veteran of more than a hundred raids against Israel. He knew every detail of the rocky hills covered with abundant laurel trees from which his family extracted oil and made soap.

Kazim motioned the two younger members of the team to begin setting up their Katyusha rocket launcher behind a thick clump of laurel trees. The bearing to the town of Ma’alot Tarshiha in Israel, five kilometres to the south-west, was 217 degrees magnetic. Kazim stood behind the short, stubby missile, with its eight-kilogram projectile, signalling the team to adjust the launch direction and elevation. Tonight, Hezbollah’s headquarters in Beirut had ordered all teams to set their timers for ten-fifteen p.m., when Israelis in the northern border towns would be in their homes. Once the missiles were positioned, a simple battery would trigger the firing remotely. As well as Ma’alot Tarshiha, the Israeli towns of Safed, Nahariya, and Karmiel were all on the target list. The Katyusha rocket, Kazim knew, was not known for its pinpoint accuracy, but that didn’t matter. The powerful payload of explosive was designed to strike terror into the hearts of the Israelis, and as long as they landed somewhere in each town, that was all that mattered.

‘Sooner or later,
Insha’allah,
’ Kazim muttered to himself, ‘the arrogant Israelis will get the message and stop building their illegal settlements on Palestinian land.’

Kazim set the timer on the battery and again scanned the border,
less than a kilometre from his position. Suddenly, two Israeli armoured Humvees rumbled to a halt and then reversed onto the bend on the border road, just north of the Israeli settlement of Shtula. Clouds of dust rose into the circle of arc lighting from the fence. Fearing the Israelis might have their night-vision goggles trained for any sign of movement, Kazim took cover and signalled for the two younger guerrillas to do the same. The Israeli Defense Force was more active than usual, he thought, but by the time the deadly Katyusha arced into the night sky, he and his team would be long gone. Lying on his stomach, he focused his binoculars.

Reservists, he thought contemptuously. The Israelis had dismounted and put on a brew of coffee, leaving their vehicle-mounted machine guns unmanned. Kazim reflected on the secretary-general’s command that it was every member of Hezbollah’s sacred duty to capture Israelis. This might just be the chance they’d been waiting for. He signalled the other members to move forward and join him.

Using the laurel trees for cover, Kazim led his team towards the border. In addition to their AK-47s, each of his guerrillas carried an RPG-7 slung over their shoulders. The shoulder-launched, rocket-propelled anti-tank grenades had been supplied by the Iranians and were designed for just such an occasion as this. When they were only 50 metres from the fence, Kazim signalled his men to go to ground. Kazim had proudly qualified as a sniper, and his AK-47 had been specially modified with a silencing suppressor. He adjusted the telescopic sights and fired. The arc light to the right was abruptly extinguished. He fired again and the light to the left went out. Kazim waited, observing the Israelis to see whether or not
he’d triggered any alarm, but they continued talking and laughing, brewing up their coffee.

Kazim led the way forward to the darkened fence and signalled for it to be cut. Even with the arc lights disabled, he knew the odds were against them; the fence was under constant surveillance by Israeli security cameras and at any moment the control centre might alert the patrol to the light failure, but it was a risk he was prepared to take. The guerrillas ran across the road and Kazim led them swiftly through the scrubby vegetation and up a slight rise towards the Israeli position. He reached the crest and quickly positioned the the RPGs, allotting each a separate Humvee.

‘Take your time,’ he whispered to his young charges. The Soviet-designed rocket grenade launcher had seen service in every conflict since Vietnam, and now, thanks to the Iranians, Hezbollah had acquired an RPG variant with a telescopic sight. The weapon was deadly accurate at a range of up to 200 metres, but Kazim had guided his team to a position less than half that distance from the Israeli patrol.

‘Breathe easily … aim for the open doors … fire!’ Kazim hissed. First one explosive charge, then another launched the projectiles towards the Humvees. Ten metres from the launchers, the rocket motors took over, boosting the high-explosive anti-tank rounds to a speed of nearly 300 metres a second. The unsuspecting Israelis didn’t stand a chance. First one round then another blasted into their targets with an explosive roar. Both Humvees burst into flames and Kazim raked the area with a burst of 7.62 mm automatic fire.

He slammed another thirty-round magazine onto his weapon. ‘Let’s go!’ he yelled, and he ran towards the Israeli position, firing
from the hip. He covered the distance in less than twenty seconds and it took another few seconds to determine that four Israelis were dead and two were wounded, writhing in agony on the ground.

‘Fireman’s lift!’ he yelled, indicating the wounded Israelis. His two younger accomplices were both powerfully built, and neither had a problem with slinging their captives over their shoulders. More slowly now, they made their way back to the hole in the fence. The operation had taken less than ten minutes, and Hezbollah now had two prisoners with which to negotiate the release of their countrymen. Neither Kazim, nor the Hezbollah High Command in Beirut, had any idea of the firestorm that was to follow.

Chapter 14

The meeting of the Israeli cabinet had been called immediately after it became known that Hezbollah held two of Israel’s young soldiers. The mood was tense as the Israeli Defense Forces chief of staff briefed the Prime Minister and his ministers.

‘The latest intelligence from AMAN indicates that Hezbollah’s strength may be as high as 5000, including up to 500 hardcore combatants who have undergone training in Iran with the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps,’ the chief of staff said. AMAN, the Israeli Defense Force Directorate of Military Intelligence, had been working around the clock to try to pinpoint Hezbollah’s dispositions north of the Israeli border. ‘Our strategy is based on a ten-week operation,’ continued the Israeli defense chief, a former fighter pilot and veteran of the 1973 Yom Kippur war. ‘The air campaign will focus on destroying Hezbollah’s rockets and mortars,
and a ground operation in southern Lebanon will aim to destroy their bases.’

Several of the ministers around the cabinet table exchanged glances. The first Israeli invasion of Lebanon had been launched in 1982 to remove the PLO, Yasser Arafat’s Palestine Liberation Organisation. Over 80 000 troops, 800 tanks and 1500 armoured personnel carriers had been sent in to crush the PLO, but by the time the Israeli Defense Forces had extracted itself eighteen years later, Israel had lost nearly 700 soldiers, and a further 2000 had been wounded, many maimed for life. The Lebanese had lost over 17 000, many of them women and children. Israel was war-weary, and the Prime Minister knew Israelis would not tolerate another major conflict, particularly one that would require the mobilisation of thousands of reservists.

The chief of staff flicked his laser pointer towards a map marked
Top Secret
. ‘Hassan Nasrallah’s command centre is here, in the Dahiye area of southern Beirut … essentially in the Haret Hreik region,’ he said, pointing to an area just north of the international airport. ‘The terrorist television station al-Manar is also located in Dahiye; al-Manar, the airport and the Haret Hreik areas are all high-priority targets, as are the port and highway bridges.’

Again there was more than one raised eyebrow around the table. The southern suburbs of Beirut were amongst the poorest, most highly populated areas in the world. Civilian casualties would be high, inviting more international condemnation. Worse still, the Lebanese had only just rebuilt a major part of their country destroyed in the last war, at a cost of billions of dollars. If the airport, seaport and vital bridges were to be targeted again, the
international media would need careful handling.

‘Just to the north of Tyre, you can see the Litani River runs essentially from east to west,’ the chief of staff continued. ‘The area between the Litani is controlled by Hezbollah’s Badr Command, and it’s here that Hezbollah has deployed its longer range rockets. Our intelligence indicates Iran has supplied Hezbollah with up to one hundred Fajr-5 artillery rockets, which Hezbollah has renamed Khaibar-1.’ It was an ominous reference to the battle of Khaibar in 629, when the Prophet Muhammad had conquered a large group of Jews who had barricaded themselves in an oasis in the north of Saudi Arabia.

‘The Khaibar-1 has a range of over 75 kilometres,’ the Israeli chief observed, ‘putting northern cities like Haifa and Afula well within range. The Iranians have also supplied Hezbollah with Zelzal rockets, which have a range in excess of 120 kilometres.’

The minister for defense whispered to his deputy, ‘The Fajr-5 rockets are bad enough; the Sea of Galilee and over a million people are threatened. But 120 kilometres – that puts Tel Aviv in range!’

‘The area in the south, from the Litani River to the border, is controlled by Hezbollah’s Nasser Brigade, and large numbers of Iranian-supplied Katyusha rockets are located there. This area will be harder to target, although the border villages like Naqoura, Ramiye, Aita Ech Chaab and further to the north, al-Bazourieh, Hassan Nasrallah’s home town, will merit particular attention. Finally, we will also hit Hezbollah’s rear logistics and training base in the Beka’a Valley,’ the chief of staff said, pointing to the fertile region near the border between Lebanon and Syria. Known for its warm, dry summers and snowy winters, the Beka’a Valley
had been a major source of agriculture. ‘But we will need to act quickly,’ the Israeli chief of staff urged, ‘before any of our detractors are able to mount pressure for international intervention.’