End of Enemies

68

After another two hours’ intermittent work, Tanner managed to lever the rest of the nail from the gunwale. It was more a spike than a nail, he saw, six inches long and as big around as his thumb. It would do, he decided. He slid it back in place, then sat back and stared at the passing coast.

The shore here was rocky and spotted with clumps of brush. Earlier they’d passed a large harbor he assumed was Haifa, so that put them just north of Tel Aviv. He leaned his head over the gunwale until he could see forward.

In the distance, he could see six plumes of smoke on the horizon. They were ships in convoy formation. He focused on the lead vessel and could make out a five-inch gun on the forecastle. Israeli or U.S.? Probably the former, heading to meet Tsumago.

Azhar and Ghassan walked onto the deck. Ghassan unlocked Tanner’s cuffs. “Stand up, Briggs,” Azhar said. “Into the pilothouse!”

As Ghassan shoved him inside, Tanner heard the thumping of helicopter rotors approaching. The sound increased until it was poised directly overhead. The water swirled from the downwash. Standing at the wheel, Salim glanced nervously at Azhar.

“Keep going. We are in international waters.”

“Attention unidentified vessel, this is the United States Navy. You are approaching a military exclusion zone. Turn about. Acknowledge.”

Azhar walked onto the afterdeck and looked up, shielding his eyes. He shrugged, tapped his ear, and shook his head.

“Unidentified vessel, I say again: You are approaching a military exclusion zone. Turn back at once.”

Azhar shrugged, waved, then ducked back into the pilothouse. After a few moments, the beat of the rotors increased, then faded into the distance.

“What do we do?” asked Salim.

“Keep going,” said Azhar. “There is nothing they can do.”

“They will attack us!”

Azhar shook his head. “By the time they realize we’re not a stray fishing boat, it will be too late. We’ll be inside the zone. They won’t dare follow us.”

“Looker Four-Zero-Five, this is Homeplate, over.”

“Looker,” Sterling replied.

“Vector one-seven-five and switch to button four for Black Horse.”

“Rog,” said Sterling. He flipped open his call sign book and skimmed down until he found Black Horse: USS Ford. Sterling switched channels. “Black Horse, this is Looker, over.”

“Looker, Black Horse. We have an unidentified and non-responsive fishing vessel approaching our exclusion zone. Request you make a photo pass. Vessel is on your one-seven-seven for eight-zero nautical.”

“Roger, Black Horse, I am en route.”

Once the helicopter disappeared over the horizon, Azhar locked Tanner’s handcuffs to the cleat and left Ghassan standing guard. In the midday heat, it took only a few minutes until the man’s eyes began to droop.

In the distance Tanner heard a whine. He cocked his head, trying to localize the sound. He looked aft. A dot appeared on the horizon. It grew quickly, taking shape, until he realized it was a jet.

Tanner glanced back at Ghassan. The man’s eyes flickered open, then closed again. In the pilothouse, Azhar and Salim were staring out the windscreen.

The dot grew larger until Tanner recognized it as an F- 14. Why a Tomcat? he wondered. It had no antisurface weapons…. No, but it had TARPS.

The Tomcat was two miles out now, moving fast and low above the waves.

“Ghassan! You idiot!” Azhar yelled from the cabin. Boots pounded on the deck.

Tanner kept his eyes fixed on the Tomcat. It was nearly overhead, engines screaming. As the underbelly flashed past, he stared straight into the camera pod.

“Damn you, Briggs!”

Ghassan struggled to his feet and charged. Tanner sensed him coming but kept his face on the retreating Tomcat. Come on… see me! Ghassan jammed the AK’s barrel under Tanner’s chin.

“Stop, Ghassan!” Azhar called.

Panting, his face bloodred, Ghassan glared down at Tanner. He reversed his rifle and rammed the butt into Tanner’s forehead. Light exploded behind his eyes, and everything went dark.

Five minutes after Sterling landed, he and his Rio were standing in the CAG’s (commander air group) office. “Which one of you saw it?”

“I did,” said Chuck. “He was looking straight up at us.”

“So he’s a gawker.”

“No, Skipper, this was different. It was like… like he wanted to be seen.”

“Grinder?”

“I agree.”

“Okay, what else?”

Chuck said, “Once we were past, some guy rushed out and stuck an AK in the guy’s face… I mean hard, y’know. Like they were not friendly.”

The CAG thought it over. “Where are your pics?”

“More images from Inoy, General.”

“How many?” asked Cathermeier.

“Put ’em up in sequence.”

A black-and-white image of a fishing boat filled the screen. Sitting on the afterdeck was a single figure.

“Next.”

Now the boat’s afterdeck filled the screen. The figure was leaning backward, his face pointed upward. “What are we seeing, Chief?” said Cathermeier.

“A TARPS image from a Tomcat According to Ford, this boat’s approaching the exclusion zone. We warned them off, but they’re still coming.”

“How far from the zone?”

“Three miles from the outer ring.”

“Next.”

The next image was tightly focused, with the boat’s gunwales nearly touching the photo’s borders. The face was staring straight into the TARPS lens.

Dutcher bolted from his seat. “Good God.”

“What?” said Cathermeier.

“It’s him. It’s Tanner.”

Camille pushed through the doors of the room and looked around. Like the pentagon’s NMCC, the TDF’s headquarters was filled with conference tables, communications consoles, and large-screen TVs. Technicians and messengers scurried from station to station, and the air hummed with radio chatter.

She spotted Sherabi standing beneath one of the monitors on which was projected a map of Tel Aviv’s coast and the surrounding ocean. Beside Sherabi were the chief of staff, the prime minister, and another man she did not recognize; he had a crew cut and a slight paunch.

Sherabi saw her, hurried over, and embraced her. “Thank God you’re safe,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you had made the pickup.”

When news of the invasion reached Sherabi, he arranged for a helicopter loaded with Sayeret Mat’kal commandos to slip through the SLA lines to Camille’s emergency exfil point near Sayda.

“I have to talk to you,” she said. “The assault—”

“I know. The building was empty.”

“That’s not what I mean. Why did you do it, Hayem?”

Sherabi took her by the elbow and walked her to the corner. “What?”

“You burned the American agent.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You’re lying.”

“Mind your tongue!”

“Tell me why you did it.”

“I suggest you file your report, then go home and get some rest. When all of this is over, we will talk.”

Sherabi started to turn away. Camille grabbed his arm. “I want an answer.”

“Camille, do not test me. You can either leave voluntarily or—”

“Hayem,” the chief of staff called, waving him over.

“Get out of here, Camille,” Sherabi muttered.

Sherabi rejoined the group. Camille hesitated, then followed.

“… word from the Americans,” the chief of staff was saying. “They’ve spotted a fishing boat approaching Tsumago. It will enter the zone in a few minutes. According to them, it’s carrying several men and an American… one of theirs.”

Camille felt the room spinning around her. Briggs! It had to be. She saw Sherabi and the crew cut man exchange a glance.

“What’s his status?” the crew cut man asked. Camille recognized his accent as American. Briggs’s controller, she thought.

“He was handcuffed to the deck and under guard, it appeared.”

Camille could no longer restrain herself. “But he was alive, General?”

The chief of staff turned. “Who is this, Hayem?”

“One of mine. She just returned from Beirut. She’s on her way to debriefing.”

“Let her stay,” said the prime minister. “If she’s been in Beirut, she may be able to lend some insight to what’s going on.”

Camille turned to the chief of staff. “General, was he alive?”

“Yes, he was alive. But if he stays on that boat, he won’t be much longer.”

Casting a heard stare at Camille, Sherabi and the crew cut man walked past her into a nearby conference room. As the door swung shut, she heard the American say, “When those choppers lift off, I gotta be aboard. If he gets back…”

They’re going to board ship. Camille knew her career — and perhaps her life — was teetering over a precipice. What she was contemplating was impossibly dangerous. Mossad had a long memory and an even longer reach. The hell with it. She took a deep breath and walked into the conference room.

“Camille, get out of here!”

“I will not!” she snapped. “You! Who are you?”

The American stuck out his hand. “Art Stucky.”

“Well, you can go fuck yourself, Mr. Stucky. And you, too, Hayem.”

“Camille!”

“You fed Briggs to the wolves, both of you. You bastards!”

Sherabi’s eyes narrowed. “Tanner? The same man you—”

“Yes.”

“You knew he was in Beirut? Good God, Camille, what have you done?”

“Don’t dare lecture me! I may not understand why you did it, but when I figure it out, I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

Sherabi grabbed her arm. “Not another word! If you keep your mouth shut, you may—”

She jerked her arm free. “You have three choices, Hayem. Either you have me dragged out of here and put a bullet in my head; you get me on whatever chopper this asshole is talking about; or you get used to having the CIA as your enemy.”

Stucky jabbed his finger in her chest. “Look, you cunt—”

“Stucky, shut up! Camille, for the sake of your father’s memory, please—”

“My father would be sickened by what you’re doing. Make your decision!”

For a long ten seconds, she and Sherabi stared at one another.

Stucky said, “Hayem, you can’t actually be thinking—”

“Shut up, Art. All right, Camille, all right. You win.”

Forty miles north of Tel Aviv, Newman ordered Minneapolis to periscope depth. “Sir, we are at PD, reading zero bubble.”

“Very well. Sound general quarters.”

The GQ claxon blared, and the conning tower’s lights went red. Throughout the boat, watertight hatches slammed shut, and men raced to their stations.

“Captain, all stations manned and ready. All boards green.”

“Very well.”

Newman joined Speke and the fire control officer at the tactical table. Under their elbows lay a laminated chart of Israel’s coastline.

“Radar, conn,” Newman called. “How’s our track?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Read ’em off, starting with the target.”

One by one, the operator recited the bearings and ranges of Tsumago and the picket ships around her. Newman studied the plot. Tsumago, at the center of the ring, lay seventy miles to Minneapolis’s southwest and forty-five miles from Israeli territorial waters.

“Okay, we’ve got six friendlies to worry about, all within twenty-five miles of the target,” Newman said. “It’ll be tight shooting. Fred, we’ll go RBL.” Newman referred to a range and bearing launch. Its counterpart was a bearing only launch, which sent the Harpoons downrange, armed and looking for the first target to cross its path. An RBL, on the other hand, would direct the missiles to attack only those targets it found within a certain patch of ocean.

“Right,” said the fire control officer.

“We’re shooting four. All of them have to hit within ten seconds of one another, so make sure your way points are dead-on. Radar, conn, what’s the target course and speed?”

“Course, one-one-zero, speed three-two knots.”

“Conn, aye. Fred, start your track. Unless you hear otherwise, be ready to launch the minute she crosses the twelve-mile mark.” Newman checked his watch. “Seventy-three minutes from now.”