Acts of War

ELEVEN

As they swept along the Euphrates, Ibrahim had peered through the waves of heat rising from Mahmoud's busy 20mm cannon. The ripples had distorted the reservoir and its mighty dam as their attack ravaged it.

The Syrian's hands had been resting on the stock and trigger of the side-mounted machine gun. It hadn't been time for him to act, so he'd watched chunks of stone explode inward along the center of the dam, chewed up by the barrage. Though Walid kept the chopper steady, Ibrahim kept his legs braced firmly on either side of the backpack, which lay between them.

As the helicopter flew over the dam, Ibrahim had seen one large piece of stone strike the dam engineer as he tried to surface. The blow probably hadn't been enough to kill him, though that wouldn't matter. In just a few moments the engineer would be dead.

The helicopter had come in low over the dam, and Walid swung it around sharply for another pass. As they'd flown toward the control house, Ibrahim had peppered the structure with fire from his machine gun. Though one Turk died in the doorway, Ibrahim's task had not been to kill the occupants. It had been to keep them crouched under tables or chairs, away from the windows and from the radio. Walid hadn't wanted anyone to see is which direction they were headed when they left. If they couldn't get back to Syria, they wanted to get as close as possible before they were pursued.

In the back seat, Hasan was tossing out strips of aluminum to jam signals from the control house. At the same time he was monitoring military communications on a radio headset. If someone in the control house did manage to get a message out, perhaps by telephone, and they were pursued, the plan was to land the helicopter and scatter. Then they would make their way individually to one of two safe houses. The huts were located in southern Anatolia on the Syrian border, run by Kurdish sympathizers.

The helicopter had swung around for another pass. Once again Mahmoud's powerful 20mm shells had slammed against the center of the dam. Shards of stone flew in all directions as the cannon fire pounded down. The attack wasn't designed to weaken the dam. It was being used to create a foothold for the package between Ibrahim's legs.

Now that the moment was nearly upon them, Ibrahim unzipped the backpack to make sure that everything was in order. He looked down at the four sticks of dynamite bound neatly in a pack with electrical tape. There was a timer hooked to an ignition cap on top. He ran his finger along each of the wires and fuses to check the connections. They were secure. The nails were also fast, the heads taped to the inside of the bag. The entire package would sit firmly in place when lodged amid the bullet-shattered stones.

Walid lowered the helicopter to just a foot above the dam. Ibrahim hopped out, placed the bag in the largest crevice, and set the timer for one minute. Then he climbed back into the chopper and it soared off.

The young Syrian pulled off his sunglasses and looked back. He saw the sun rippling along the top of the water. Birds pecked at the fish, and the sky behind them was unusually clear. Then, in an instant, the tranquility was rudely destroyed.

Ibrahim winced as a yellow-red burst of flame grew quickly from the top of the dam. The sound reached them a moment later and caused the helicopter to shudder. Hasan and Mahmoud also looked back as the long stone expanse folded outward at the center. As it did, it pulled the sides of the sweeping structure with it. The reservoir came cascading over the crumbling top of the dam, swallowing the fireball and turning it to steam. The giant wave disgorged the stones it had swallowed, spilling them over the shattered top of the wall. The flood pushed down the center of the dam in a giant V shape that reached almost to the base. Water poured through the breach, easily brushing aside the ends of the earthen dam and crashing onto the trees below. The steam quickly dissipated as churning white breakers slapped away the control house and carried its shattered remains into the valley beyond.

The sound of the deluge filled the cabin, dwarfing the roar of the rotor. Ibrahim couldn't even hear his own shout of triumph. He saw but did not hear Mahmoud praise Allah.

As the helicopter raced south over the thundering waters, Hasan suddenly tapped Walid on the shoulder. The pilot half turned. Has an held his hand out, palm down, and swooped it forward. Then he held up two fingers. Two jets were on their way.

Hasan was clearly annoyed. The helicopter had been flying too low to be spotted by radar, and he'd apparently heard no transmisison from the control house radio. Yet somehow the Air Force knew what had happened here.

"I am sorry, my akhooya, my brother!" Hasan shouted.

Walid held up his hand. "We put our trust in the word of God!" he shouted back. "It is written, 'He that flees his homeland for the cause of God shall find numerous places of refuge.' "

Hasan did not appear consoled, though the other members of the team seemed exultant. The mission had been a success and their place in Paradise was secured.

Still, no one was quite ready to give up. As Walid guided the helicopter over the vast, swelling Euphrates, Mahmoud began loading another belt into his cannon. Ibrahim turned to his left to help him. Paradise notwithstanding, they would fight for their lives and for the privilege of continuing to do the work of Allah in this world.

Suddenly, Walid shook his head. "Saa-Hib!" he shouted. "Friend! You will not need that."

Mahmoud leaned toward him. "Not need?" he yelled back. "Who will do battle for us?"

Walid replied, "He who is the Sovereign of the Day of Judgment."

Ibrahim looked at Mahmoud. Both men believed in Allah and they had faith in Walid. But neither of them believed that the strong hand of the Lord would reach down and protect them from the Turks.

"But Walid—" Mahmoud said.

"Trust in me!" Walid said. "From safety you will see the sun set."

As Walid flew on with some purpose in mind, Ibrahim contemplated their chances of surviving. The nearest Turkish Air Force base was two hundred miles to the west. Traveling at maximum cruising speed, the fighter planes — deadly American-made Phantoms, most likely — would be here in about twenty minutes. The helicopter would still be far from the Syrian border. From his Air Force days he knew that each of those jets probably carried eight heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles under each wing. Any one of those rockets would be enough to destroy the chopper long before the jets could be seen or heard. And the Turks would shoot them from the sky rather than let them leave the country.

Still, Ibrahim thought, let the Phantoms come. He looked away from his brother. The Ataturk Dam, the pride of Turkish arrogance, was in ruins. The Euphrates would flow as it did in ancient times, and the Syrians would have more water for their needs. Towns for dozens of miles downriver would be flooded. Villages upriver, which depended upon the reservoir, would be without water for their homes and crops. Government resources in the region would be sorely burdened.

As Ibrahim turned and looked back at the maelstrom, he was reminded of a passage from the Koran:

"Pharaoh and his warriors conducted themselves with arrogance and injustice in the land, thinking they would never be recalled to Us. But We took him and his warriors, and We cast them into the sea. Consider the fate of the evildoers."

Like the taskmasters of Egypt and the sinners drowned in Noah's flood, the Turks had been punished with water. Ibrahim was briefly moved to tears by the glory of what had just transpired. Whatever suffering might await him, it could only enhance the sense of holy purpose that filled him now.