Thunderstrike in Syria

Chapter Twelve

Once the three of us were outside the tent, we saw that Cham Elovitz had opened the hatch above his head and was standing up and looking at us.

"It's about time," he said, his eyes going to me. "If the SLA had killed you and Ben, we were going to run over the tent and flatten them like pancakes. What's our next move?"

"The Tower ruins," I said. "I think that's where the Hawk is hiding. There isn't any place else he could be, unless he's somewhere among the bodies."

Solomon, Wymann and I climbed the rear glacis plate deck and entered the T-54 through the commander's cupola hatch.

The tank rolled across the wreckage and headed for the Tower of Lions. Through the wide-angle periscope, I stared at the monstrous pile of stones, the structure looking even more forbidding in the deep twilight.

I didn't expect what happened next. I don't think any of us did.

A BTR-40 personnel carrier seemed to jump out at full throttle from behind the north side of the ruins, its engine roaring. I estimated its speed at roughly forty m.p.h. Right behind it came an L-59Gronshiv armored car, the gunner rotating the forward turret and its 50mm cannon toward us.

Mohammed Karameh!

"Carter! Do you see them!" shouted Solomon, who was watching through the commander's scope. "Blast that carrier! Blast it!"

I lowered the 140mm gun, my fingers slippery on the handle of the wheel, and pressed down on the right pedal, rotating the turret slightly. There was a loud crash from the front of the tank. The armored car had sent a 50mm shell at us. The enemy gunner knew he couldn't hurt us because of the T-54's massive armor plate, but I assumed he was trying to distract us just enough to give the Hawk time to escape.

My ears ringing, I turned the calibration knob and double-checked the reticle pattern. I pressed the firing button and the 140mm gun thundered. Several hundred feet ahead, there was a big bang and the gray vehicle turned into a brief but violent burst of red and orange, the explosion sending huge chunks of the car flying out in all directions.

"Damn it. Carter!" Solomon yelled in disgust. "You should have aimed at the carrier!"

I swung the turret to the right while Lev Wymann jerked out the used shell casing, shoved another AP shell into the gun, closed the breech and locked the cam-lever.

I was too late. By the time I started to zero in the gun, the personnel carrier had raced behind a low mound of granite.

Risenberg's deep voice, coming from the driver's compartment, was full of puzzlement. "Carter, why in hell didn't you fire that round at the carrier? Karameh wouldn't be in an armored car! He knows we'd try to destroy the car first because of its fifty mil gun."

"Turn us around and get us to one of the personnel carriers," I said. "We're ditching the tank. I didn't fire at the carrier because I knew that if I missed, I wouldn't have a chance to fire at the armored car. It would have moved behind the ridge before I could have smacked it. We…"

"The hell with the armored car!" Risenberg cut in angrily. "We've lost the Hawk. He's the one we want dead."

"Shut up and think for a moment," I snapped. "The main road out of camp is to the north. Karameh and his people took the narrow road to the east. I don't know what he has in mind, but this tank can t outrun a personnel carrier. We've got to use a carrier. I didn't want that armored car and its fifty millimeter job banging away at us in a carrier. We wouldn't have had a chance."

"On that basis, I suppose you're right." Risenberg's voice had softened. "But how do you propose we find Karameh — take the same route he's taken?"

"It's the only way, and the sooner you get us to one of the carriers that's left, the sooner we can catch him."

Risenberg spun the tank on its axis and headed it back to the two personnel carriers, the only vehicles left. I thought of Mohammed Karameh, admiring his cautiousness. He had hidden an armored car and a carrier in the ruins for just such an emergency as this. We had no assurance that we could catch up with him. I was counting on his carrier containing a full load, at least twenty people. There were only five of us. With less weight, our carrier would have the edge on speed.

"What about this tank?" Lev Wymann asked. "Are we just going to leave it?"

"We'll blow it up," I said, "as soon as we're sure we have enough gas in the carrier to get to Jordan."

Risenberg stopped the T-54 and the five of us got out. While Joe and I inspected one of the carriers, the other men, pistols drawn, gathered weapons and ammo belts from the various corpses on the ground. We found that the personnel carrier had a tank full of gas. There were also two jerrycans of gas in the storage compartment underneath one of the metal benches that was bolted to the inner side of the armored wall. The tripod, bolted to the flat section of the rear of the sloping cab, held a Czechoslovakian ZB30 light machine gun, the two box magazines full of 7.92mm cartridges. There were nine more boxes of ammo in the second storage compartment underneath the second bench in the rear.

Risenberg and I yelled for the others to get back and soon they had piled in the rear behind the driver's compartment, bringing with them a variety of weapons, including a Soviet AKM assault rifle, a Belgian CAL machine gun, a Franchi L557 sub-gun and a Vietnamese MAT 19 submachine gun. Ben Solomon even had two sacks of Chinese stick grenades.

"Now we get rid of the tank," I said. I turned and looked through the open oval hatch between the driver's compartment and the rear of the carrier. "Two of you get out and lob several grenades through the commander's hatch. We'll move ahead a hundred feet."

Elovitz and Wymann jumped from the rear of the carrier and moved to the tank. Risenberg moved the carrier forward. Seconds later we heard muffled roars from inside the tank. The two men were back inside the carrier and we were roaring ahead when the heat from the fire reached the 140mm shells and the T-54 blew itself apart.

"We've only a fifty-fifty chance of catching up with Karameh," Risenberg said grimly. "I suppose it depends where he's headed and how many people are weighing down his vehicle. Have you stopped to think that he might have another tank hidden up there?"

"I've considered the possibility," I said. "All we can do right now is play out the hand we've been dealt. If you have a better suggestion, I'd like to hear it."

"I wish I did."

Turning east, we took the same route that the Hawk and his people had taken, the eight solid rubber tires of the personnel carrier bouncing over small stones. To either side of us mounds of piled slab rock grew larger the further east we moved on the partially man-made road.

Bouncing up-and-down in the bucket seat, I considered all the possibilities, predicated on the premise that Mohammed Karameh was a very intelligent man. Either this trail was a shortcut leading out of the As-Suwayda hills, or else Karameh had some kind of hidden base in one of the numerous caves. But I doubted it. Whatever he had in mind concerned us. It had to be another trap.

Where the road was more or less level. Risenberg pushed down hard on the gas, speeding up the vehicle to maximum, almost 52.7 mph. We didn't have any trouble seeing ahead through the 5" X 16" driving slits. However, we had closed the square hatch covers above our heads. With them open, it would be too easy for a hidden sniper to zero down on us. For the same reason, the three men in the rear were crouched down.

Gradually the trail wound into a large arroyo; the stones underneath the tires became bigger which turned our forward movement into a series of up-and-down vibrations. To the left and right loomed granite and sandstone walls which formed, in places, a partnership with black Vishnu schist — crystalline rock having a foliated structure and lying in sheets. Here and there were red spider-web formations caused by iron oxide that had washed down from shale during the rainy season. Looking at all this barrenness, I became doubly determined to find the Hawk. As for Miriam Kamel, I had very special plans for her. Which reminded me of Risenberg…

"How did you know that Miriam Kamel had lied about the tower containing arms and ammunition?"

Risenberg gave me a quick, surprised glance. "What's the difference? We know she lied."

"I have a thing about knowing the full score, and when two and two add up to five, I get nervous."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I think you're more than an Israeli tankman," I said. "I think you're a Hamosad agent. If you are, maybe you have information that would help me. Let's be practical. Our goal is the same: to smash the Syrian Liberation Army and either kill or capture Mohammed Karameh. Once he's dead-meat, the entire organization will fall apart."

Risenberg slowed the Prime Mover and shifted' into low. "Would it ease your mind if I told you that Khalil Marras is working for SCID?"

"The Syrian Counterintelligence Department," I mused. I was confident now that in his way he was admitting to being a member of Israeli intelligence without actually putting it into words. "Does Karameh know about Marras?"

"I don't even know if he suspects. If he does, there isn't anything he can do about it. Karameh couldn't operate without the approval of the Syrian government. Marras is around to keep an eye on operations and keep Damascus informed. How about you, Carter? I have a feeling that AXE und Hamosad are working together on this operation. Does AXE have any information on KGB involvement with the SLA?"

I smiled inwardly. Risenberg was with Hamosad. No doubt about it. Just the same I said innocently, "What makes you think I'm with AXE?"

He laughed. "The same reason you think I'm with Hamosad. And you're not exactly unknown in the world of intelligence. Carter. At least by name."

"We don't think the Russians are involved directly," I said. "Anything the Kremlin is doing it's doing through the Syrian government. The KGB would have a fit if they knew what the Hawk is trying to do."

Quickly I told Risenberg about the liquified natural gas plot, watching his eyes widen as I talked.

"It's diabolical," he said after I had finished. "But it's typical of Karameh. You know what it adds up to as far as you're concerned: He has to kill you."

"Which leads me to believe we could be driving into another trap." I thought about the two men we had left behind, who had been blown into eternity in the stone prison building.

"What about the two Israelis we left behind?" I asked. "Were they with you and the others when the SLA grabbed you?"

"No. And they weren't Hamosad either. They couldn't tell Karameh anything because they didn't know anything to tell. Karameh didn't believe them." For a few moments Risenberg was silent, then he said, "I don't know about you, Carter. But I have a feeling we're not going to get out of this alive."

"We're not turning back," I was firm.

"Don't misunderstand me," he said quickly. "I don't mind dying. I just want to make sure the Hawk goes a few minutes before me."

The road — more precisely the bottom of the arroyo — turned to the southeast, and Risenberg and I became positive in our conviction that Karameh and the people with him were not taking a shortcut to the main road. We had to be driving into a trap.

Around the bend the road stretched straight out for several miles, a ribbon of wasteland that turned due south, to our right. The twilight had become a memory and there would have been complete darkness if not for the full moon.

We noticed, too, that there was no longer an arroyo. While there were immense slabs of granite and basalt and riffles of limestone, polished like marble, to our left, to the right there was only a long slope of hummocky sandstone.

"Take a look to the right," I said to Risenberg. "Does that slope give you any ideas?"

"What have you got in mind, Carter?"

"How far ahead of us would you say Karameh is?"

"Three or four miles. He had to go through the same stuff as us."

"I'm thinking that we can drive up and across the slope," I said. "With a bit of luck we might come out in front of Karameh, or right behind him."

Risenberg thrust out his chin. "We'd be taking a chance, Carter. For all we know, there might be a precipice on the opposite side. We could even get in a spot where we couldn't turn around. Then what?"

"I say it's worth a try," I said stubbornly. "The carrier has a four-wheel drive, and the slope's not all that steep."

"I say we're both nuts, but I've got to agree. It's a move the Hawk won't expect and it might give us the lead. Tell the others."

I turned in my seat toward the open hatch between the driver's section and the rear of the carrier. "Hang on back there," I yelled. "We're going up the slope."

Risenberg stopped the personnel carrier, shifted gears and backed away from the slope as far as he could. He shifted gears again and headed toward the slope, then jammed down on the gas and the enormous vehicle headed upward, the engine laboring from the effort, the huge tires grinding against the rough surface of the rock. The armored vehicle bounced and, at times, dipped; it would then rise and drop again, or we would find ourselves tilted either to the left or right, at times dangerously so. Finally, however, we were over the top and on the summit.

Risenberg turned off the engine and we stared ahead. In back, Cham Elovitz called out, "Damn it! How much more of this are we going to have to go through?"

In the bright moonlight we saw that we were confronted with about two miles of rough terrain, with a monstrous natural terrace on which were hills of various sizes and shapes. The area was truly a Brobdingnagian garden of sculptures shaped by centuries of wind; bathed in the white brilliance of the moon, it was eerie. And though I wanted Mohammed Karameh for professional reasons and Miriam Kamel for personal ones, I didn't want us to get trapped up here by the rocks. The personnel carrier was our only means of escape to Jordan.

"The moon is plenty bright," I said, "but do you think we can go ahead without turning on the lights."

"With our lights on, they could spot the beams a long time before they could hear the engine," Risenberg said. "Anyhow, there's more than enough moonlight."

"I had to give Risenberg credit; he was one hell of a driver. Carefully and expertly he moved the carrier through the rocks, shifting gears almost constantly…fighting the wheel… his feet overworking on clutch and gas pedals. At times he had to slow down almost to a full stop; at no time could he move faster than fifteen mph. A roller coaster ride was mild compared to the ups-and-downs the carrier made, its huge springs groaning. Half a dozen times one of the front wheels would slide into a hollowed depression or a large crack and Risenberg would have to gun the engine to free the rubber screaming against bare granite or rock coated with marl. At other times he crashed the big towing hook directly into toadstool-shaped structures of tufa stone, none over five feet high, crumbling them as though they had been made of talc.

Ultimately we neared the end of the highplain, this evident when we saw the rim in the distance and, beyond the rim, empty space. Cautiously, Risenberg brought the carrier to a full stop, fifty feet from the edge. He and I then got out, hurried to the edge and looked down. The three men in back jumped down and came to the edge, the five of us relieved to find that we were staring down a slope, yet one that angled very steeply.

I had guessed correctly. By cutting across the hill instead of going around on the road, we had caught up with Mohammed Bashir Karameh. His personnel carrier, moving straight south, was only half a mile away.

"Can we get down there?" Lev Wymann asked. "The slope looks damned steep to me!"

Risenberg clapped him on the back. "Don't worry, Lev. If we don't make it, you'll know it when we start sliding and the carrier comes crashing down on top of us."

We got back inside the carrier and Risenberg started the engine. He drove the carrier slowly to the edge, gave the engine a bit more gas and shifted gears. The front wheels kept rolling straight ahead until they were over the edge and the carrier was being pushed ahead only by its rear wheels. At the very last second, Risenberg shifted into neutral. The carrier stopped moving, five feet of the driver's compartment sticking straight out over the edge.

"Here we go, Carter!"

Risenberg shifted gears again. The front section of the cab dropped. The wheels touched ground. The personnel carrier began to go down the slope. I glanced at Risenberg. His face was one big mask of strain.

Down the slope we went. There was always the danger that, as the vehicle picked up speed, Risenberg wouldn't be able to dodge a large rock, in which case we might turn over or, worse, lose one of the front wheels.

Faster and faster we went, the carrier's own thirty-five tons increasing its momentum. It didn't take long before we realized that our downhill plunge was right on the verge of being out of control, that the carrier was moving as much from its own momentum as from the power of its engine. I got the feeling that Wymann might very well feel the carrier coming down on us.

Risenberg shut off the engine and applied the brakes. For several moments the carrier slowed. Then it resumed its former speed, the tires screaming in protest.

Try the emergency," I suggested. "We're at least another hundred feet from the bottom."

Risenberg used the emergency brake, but quickly pushed the lever forward, disengaging it, when the rear end of the carrier started to swing around.

Bouncing up-and-down in the seat, I leaned forward, stared through the vision slit and watched the rough ground moving faster and faster toward us. I glanced at Risenberg, who was cursing in Hebrew. It was all he could do to control the front wheels and to keep the big vehicle from turning over or the rear end from swinging around. If that happened, we'd turn over and keep rolling until we reached the bottom.

Assuming we would reach the road, we would then have the problem of keeping the front end of the carrier from slamming into the rock face of the opposite wall. We were moving downward at almost fifty mph and such a crash would crumple the front end and render the carrier useless — and us with it! The only thing Risenberg could do was apply the emergency brake at the right moment. And that is what he did.

The carrier was sixty feet from the closest side of the road when Risenberg applied the emergency brake and jammed down hard on the pedal of the regular brake. But the carrier continued to move ahead at a furious rate of speed. Risenberg turned the wheel to avoid hitting a boulder the size of a washtub, the slight turn causing the vehicle to rock violently from side to side. Brakes whining, rubber screaming, the carrier reached the end of the slope and started across what could be called a road. The instant the front tires touched the level section, Risenberg began to turn the steering wheel slowly to the right.

Realizing his strategy, I yelled through the hatchway, "Hang on back there and stay to the left."

Risenberg had a method in his madness: he was not only slowing the big vehicle, but also keeping the front end from hitting the granite face on the opposite side of the road. If he miscalculated the turn, however, the rear of the carrier would swing around too soon and we'd turn over. At the last moment, he gave the steering wheel half a turn. The cab moved to the right, away from the granite, while the left rear side swung around toward the rock. Risenberg turned the wheel again, and the left end corner of the carrier's boxlike rear slammed into the rock face. Risenberg and I braced ourselves. The personnel carrier came to a dead stop.

Risenberg and I exchanged glances. I yelled through the hatch, "Anyone hurt back there?"

"We're all right," came the reply from Solomon.

"Now we'll see what kind of shape we're in," Risenberg said and turned on the ignition. He shifted gears, let out the clutch and stepped on the gas. A few minutes later we were on the pebbly road and jerking back and forth from Risenberg's testing the brakes. They were sluggish but worked to our satisfaction.

"Now catch up with that psychopath who calls himself the Hawk," I said scornfully.

"Don't count your terrorists until they're caught." Risenberg laughed. "We'll catch him. His carrier is weighed down. Ours isn't. He must have twenty or more men with him. The odds sure as hell aren't on our side."

"They can hear our engine," I said. "You might as well turn on the lights. As for the odds, keep your fingers crossed and pray."

Risenberg switched on the front and rear lights and gave a low laugh. "Who knows? We might just get out of this alive."

At top speed, we raced down the trail, engine roaring, the carrier shaking and shuddering as it rolled over various sized rocks. Five minutes passed…eight minutes…ten. Then we spotted the enemy carrier, the white light from the washtub-sized moon outlining it and the surrounding rocks in stark, silent clarity.

"I estimate they're not more than a quarter of a mile ahead," I said. "We'll try to pull alongside of them and our men in back can start throwing grenades. Thank God the rear of these carriers doesn't have a roof." I turned and yelled to the Israelis in back. "We've sighted them. Stay down and be careful. I'll join you when we get closer."

An unpleasant thought struck me: Within an hour, either the mission will have succeeded or I'll be dead.