Direct Action

16

“Don’t forget Roselli’s First Rule, Boss,” Razor told Murdock as they sped up the highway. “The more fucked up an operation starts off, the more successful it’s going to end.”

“We’ve got nothing to worry about then,” Murdock replied.

They’d gotten down off the mountain road, which was only slightly more improved than a goat path, without any more problems. The highway into Baalbek was two lanes, paved. There wasn’t much traffic in the Bekaa Valley at one o’clock in the morning. Not many had the guts.

The occasional car they did encounter gave them a wide berth at the first sight of their markings. Syria kept its thumb firmly on Lebanon with the help of a forty-thousand-strong army of occupation. Ever since the civil war of the 1970’s, their methods had been simple, effective, and ruthless. Whenever a faction became too powerful, the Syrians would ally with the faction’s enemies and crush it. These alliances could shift with dizzying speed; friends would become enemies and then make friends again over the course of a week or two.

The Syrians currently had close links with Iran, whom they’d backed in the 1980’s war with Iraq. And the Iranians were the founders, backers, and directors of the Lebanese Shiite Moslem Hezbollah, or Party of God, perpetrators of the Marine barracks bombing in Beirut, kidnappers of numerous Westerners in the 1980’s.

Though Syria liked to protest to the world that the religious fanatics of Hezbollah were uncontrollable, their arms shipments and Revolutionary Guard advisors from Iran had to come into Lebanon through the Damascus airport. This gave Syria notification and veto rights over Hezbollah operations. And Syria used Hezbollah to keep up military pressure on the Israeli Army in southern Lebanon, through car bombs and ambushes. Conveniently, this meshed well with Hezbollah’s stated goal of killing as many Jews as possible.

“Okay,” said Murdock, hunched over his map. “Fork coming up. Right is the dirt road to Ain Bourdai, left is to the Roman ruins. We’re going straight.”

“We should be hitting a checkpoint pretty damn soon too,” said Razor.

As they approached the outskirts of Baalbek, the checkerboard fields changed to tiny villages of low-slung stone buildings, thickets of roadside trees, and the large murals that were the Lebanese equivalent of billboards.

The first one they saw proclaimed, in English: Hezbollah welcomes you by his pioneer values.

It provoked some general snickering inside the car.

“Remember that intel report?” said Murdock. “The one about Hezbollah trying to persuade tour groups to come and visit the Roman ruins west of town?”

“The temples used to be a big tourist attraction,” said Razor. Then: “Check this out.”

The next mural was a crude representation of fists punching through American and British flags, and demanded: Israel must be eliminated.

“I think the tourism committee needs to sit down and take a meeting with the hate committee and the translation committee,” said Razor.

“Come visit Baalbek,” said Murdock. “We’ll throw you in a prison, we’ll chain you to the wall. You’ll never want to leave.”

“The whole family will love it!” Razor exclaimed. “It’s really too bad their marketing campaign is going to be ruined in about an hour.”

They both chuckled. It was good to release some of the tension.

“Checkpoint ahead,” Razor said calmly.

Murdock shifted the Kalashnikov in his lap, and keyed his radio. “This is One, checkpoint three-hundred meters.”

“Two, roger,” Doc Ellsworth responded from the Mercedes behind them.

“Three, roger,” said Magic Brown from the second limo.

“Four, roger,” replied Ed DeWitt from the Shorlands bringing up the rear.

The transmissions were encrypted, so anyone who might be listening to a scanner was just picking up hums, clicks, hisses, and static.

The rain and the wipers beat against the windshield. The headlights fell upon a concrete shack, and a few figures, attracted by the light, began to emerge from it. Murdock could make out the familiar silhouette of the Kalashnikov in several hands. One of the figures balanced on his shoulder what looked like a piece of pipe with a cone on one end. An RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher, an antitank weapon with enough penetration to punch right through the Shorlands steel armor and probably continue right out the other side.

“No hesitation,” said Murdock. “We’re going right through, one way or the other.”

“Drop the armored visors over the windshield?” Razor asked.

“No,” said Murdock. “We’re just driving along, we’re not concerned. He made sure all the external lights were on, and that the large Syrian flag flapping from the aerial hadn’t fallen off. It was still there. A glance in the rearview mirror showed him that the limos had their flashing lights on.

They approached the checkpoint at a bold forty miles per hour, don’t-screw-with-me speed. As they got closer Murdock could see the figures move more urgently and start to bring their weapons up.

“The lieutenants going too fucking fast,” Jaybird said to Doc Ellsworth.

“So?” Doc replied calmly. “It’s not like we can do anything about it, so why sweat it?”

Jaybird cocked the big Russian PKM machine gun lying across his lap and slid the barrel into the door gun port of the Mercedes. “I only see one RPG. When the lieutenant and Razor catch that rocket, try to go around them so they screen us from the checkpoint. I’ll hose ‘em down, and if we’re lucky we’ll all get through before they get the launcher reloaded.”

“Hey,” Doc said sharply, “enough of the bad karma, all right? Those motherfuckers pick up any negative energy from this car and I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Okay, okay,” Jaybird relented. “I’ll start thinking positively, I swear.” Nothing else you could do, he thought, if the nuttiest one around was your medical corpsman. They should never have let Doc near California; he was way too cosmic to be in with.

Pleased, Doc smiled. “Good. Now put that weapon back on safe and shoot some warm and fuzzy thoughts at those rag-headed bastards.”

As they sped closer to the checkpoint, the silhouetted figures slowly changed into men. Murdock saw the rifles ready on their shoulders, the RPG gunner tracking them through his sight. They were about twenty yards away now. Murdock reached down and flicked the siren switch, just one quick arrogant blast.

They passed through the checkpoint, and Murdock waited for the rocket’s impact. He looked again in the rearview mirror. Everyone was talking with their hands, gesturing wildly. He could almost hear them yelling at each other as the limos passed. Then the armored car. They were all through.

In retrospect, at least, it was clear that the psychology was perfect. No matter how suspicious, paranoid, or dedicated the men at the checkpoint had been, they were much like the highway patrolmen watching the car of the governor’s wife weaving down the road late at night. They knew they ought to do their job, but they also know just how sorry they could end up being.

“We’re in,” said Razor. “The Lebanese might fuck with each other, but no one fucks with the Syrians. And even the Syrians don’t fuck with Syrian big shots.”

“Let’s get a move on anyway,” said Murdock. “Before someone picks up the phone and calls down the line to see if any visitors are expected.”

They sped through two more checkpoints, the men manning them exhibiting the same indecision. Then they were inside Baalbek. It was a town of a little more than sixteen thousand people. Green banners hung from houses. A huge mural of a woman in a full-body chador exhorted the ladies of the town to maintain Islamic modesty in their dress. If they knew what was good for them, Murdock thought. Iranian flags flew in the streets. Around Baalbek lay the remains of the fallen empires. The Phoenicians; the Romans, who had called Baalbek Heliopolis, the city of the sun; the Crusaders, whose forts littered the landscape; and in the 20th century the French. Now the Syrians, and Iranians far from home spreading a Revolution that hadn’t managed to make it past a few poor towns in the Bekaa Valley.

There were occasional sandbagged gun emplacements in front of buildings, but they were unmanned. The streets were narrow and deserted. The rain and the Friday Moslem Sabbath had seen to that. Murdock doubted there was much nightlife in Baalbek anyway.

“Is this the turn?” Razor asked suddenly.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Murdock replied, counting the streets off in his head. He reached under his seat and took out a Kevlar helmet. He placed it on Razor Roselli’s head. Razor tugged the chin strap into place. Murdock put on his own helmet. A hundredth look in the rearview mirror, and the others were still with him.

“There’s the warehouse,” Razor exclaimed.

They dropped the two steel shutters over the windshield, and now the forward visibility was restricted to two narrow armored glass slits.

Murdock keyed his radio. “This is One. Rattler, over.” It was the code word to execute the primary attack plan. None of the contingencies they’d thought up would be necessary. The other three vehicles acknowledged.

The four separate fuses that led back to the explosives were taped to the dashboard in front of Murdock. He peeled off the tape and gathered them all up in a bunch in his left hand. He took a deep breath and let it out.

“Time to earn all that combat pay,” said Razor Roselli.

Murdock noticed that the rain had stopped. He didn’t believe in omens, but it gave him a little shiver.