"Keep her above three hundred meters on the approach." Ramirez's hard
voice cut through the roar of the 2,200-hp Isotov turboshafts. Down
below, the cold, dusk-shrouded Aegean churned with a late autumn storm.
"Any lower and there'll be surface effect."
"I'm well aware of that," the Iranian pilot muttered, a sullen response
barely audible above the helicopter's noise and vibration. It stopped
just short of open disrespect.
Sabri Ramirez did not mind. The two Iranians had been an unfortunate
necessity, but in three days they would be dead. The others, the
professionals, were the ones who counted. When he hand-picked the
European terrorists now resting on the four litters in the main cabin,
he had gone for the best. Each man had a track record and a purpose.
Ramirez, however, was the leader, fully in control. He had planned,
financed, and now commanded the operation.
In the ghostly light of late evening, his sleek cheeks, iron- shaded
temples, and trim mustache gave no hint of the extensive plastic
surgery that had created this, his latest face. He wore a black
jumpsuit, like the others, but under his was a $2,000 Brioni charcoal
double-breasted--perhaps more suited for a three-star dinner in Paris,
at L'Ambroisie or La Tour d'Argent, than the operation at hand. All the
same, he felt comfortably at home in this Hind-D helicopter gunship,
the most lethal assault machine ever. Their operation had two
objectives, and the first had just appeared on the bright green cockpit
radar.
It was the 2,600-ton U.S. frigate Glover, Garcia class, which the
National Security Agency had converted into a Mid-East spy platform.
Loaded with missile-tracking and communications-monitoring antennas, it
had to go.
Ramirez expected no difficulties. Like the USS Stark, the frigate
disabled by Iraqi Exocet missiles in the Persian Gulf in 1988, it was a
perfect target. With only one gun, it would be child's play for a
fully-armed Hind.
"Activate IFF," he ordered, glancing back at the instrument panels.
"They should acquire us on radar within two minutes now."
"IFF on." Salim Khan, the still-brooding Iranian, nodded and reached
for the interrogator/responsor in the panel on his right. They were
using the NATO Identification System, a low-band interrogator, into
which they had programmed the false Israeli Identification Friend or
Foe code. The gray box would receive the electronic query, "Are you a
friend?" and it would automatically reply, "Yes, this aircraft is
friendly."
Ramirez watched with satisfaction as the green numbers flashed.
Deception, he thought. The key to everything.
In the intelligence dossiers of Mossad, and the U.S. CIA, he was known
as the Hyena, killer of hundreds in Europe and the Middle East. But his
most cherished recent fact in those dossiers was the item declaring the
disbanding of his private organization. He thankfully had been written
off. Of course, the self-important analysts reasoned over their pipes
and printouts, of course the chimera named Sabri Ramirez must be dead.
His unmistakable touch had not been on a bombing in years. The playboy
terrorist who flaunted silk suits, had cellars of rare vintage wines in
Tripoli, Damascus, Baghdad, and Beirut . . . that man wouldn't just
retire. He had to be _gone_.
They were half right. He had wearied of the squabbles and disputes of a
far-flung organization; however, he had not lost his taste for money.
Or his hatred of the United States.
Now that NATO was falling apart, America was trying to take over the
Middle East--aided by its European lackeys. But he had put together a
plan that would end America's global military intimidation once and for
all. Not coincidentally, he was going to acquire eight hundred million
dollars in the process.
"We'll be exposed," he continued, "but just for about three minutes.
They only have one gun, a .38 caliber DP Mark 30, mounted on the
forward deck. It is in plain view. Remember I need a clear ten-second
window for the Swatter. After we neutralize their main ordnance, we
come about and strafe the communications gear."
He hoped this dense Iranian understood the approach profile. He had
briefed the man over and over, but still he was not sure it had sunk
in. He examined Salim Khan one last time--the bulky face with sunken,
almost depressed eyes--and stifled a sigh of exasperation. Iranians.
Still, he had better not offend the man's much-vaunted honor. After
all, Salim had single-handedly stolen the Hind gunship they were now
flying from the Iranian Air Force, providing a crucial component in the
overall operation. A rare prize, the Hind had been secretly purchased
by the IAF from an Afghan rebel unit--which had captured it in 1987.
Iran had wanted to see one up close, against the day the Soviets might
turn their anti-Islamic paranoia against them and try to invade. That
day had never come. And now this disaffected air force lieutenant had
simply stolen it. At last, Ramirez thought with satisfaction, their
valued prize would be put to use.
Salim Khan had mastered the Hind's controls years before, had flown it
often, and just four days ago he had taken it up, shot his weapons
operator, and used a fake identity to file a new flight plan, setting
down to refuel in Rawalpindi. The theft had caused a tempest. When they
discovered it, the mullahs had blamed America and engineered a
demonstration in the streets of Tehran so they could bray in the press.
But by that time he had already taken it out over the gulf and landed
it on the camouflaged Greek cargo ship they had waiting. After
navigating the Suez Canal, that ship was now anchored safely off
Crete's main port of Iraklion. For Salim Khan, who had twice been
passed over for promotion to captain, the taste of revenge in that
theft was sweet indeed.
"The most important part of the approach," Ramirez went on, "is to make
sure we're ID'd by their VIS, their Visual Identification System. It's
crucial they make our Israeli markings."
The Hind-D looked like nothing else in the world, one of a kind. Its
visual profile, dark green against the sunset hues of the sky, should
be unmistakable. Or so he hoped. Almost sixty feet long and over twenty
feet high, it had a main rotor fifty-five feet in diameter and a heavy,
retractable landing gear. The tandem stations in the nose for the
weapons operator, and the pilot above him, had individual canopies,
with the rear seat raised to give the pilot an unobstructed forward
view. Any schoolboy should be able to identify one a mile away, as well
as its Israeli markings--the blue Star of David in a white circle.
"I still think it's unnecessary," Salim Khan mumbled into his beard.
"It only adds to our risk. It would be better--"
"A visual ID is essential." Ramirez cut him off. "When they make it,
they'll go through the Sixth Fleet HQ in Gournes for verification,
then--"
'They just acquired us on radar," the Iranian interjected, as a high-
pitched alert sounded from the instrument panel and a line of green
warning diodes turned red.
"Right on schedule." Ramirez nodded. "The U.S. Navy never sleeps." He
turned and motioned to one of the men crouched on a litter in the main
cabin, shouting above the noise. "Peretz, it's time to start earning
your share."
Dore Peretz, a veteran of the Weizman Institute, was a specialist in
strategic weapons and their delivery. But that was another life. Now he
was free-lance. Ramirez had picked him for his technical skills, and
his greed.
He rose and made his way forward, working carefully through the jumble
of legs and automatic weapons. He was younger than he appeared; his
prematurely salt-and-pepper hair made him look late forties, though he
actually was only thirty-nine. He settled into the weapons station
below Salim, pulling down his black turtleneck, the better to
accommodate a flight helmet, and went to work.
"Are you ready?" he asked Salim, in perfect Farsi.
"I am ready if God is ready," the Iranian replied grimly, his eyes
beginning to gleam from the strain.
Peretz reached down and switched the radio to 121.50 megahertz, the
military emergency channel.
"Mayday. Mayday. Israeli Hawk One requesting permission for emergency
approach." He then repeated the announcement in Hebrew. It was, of
course, a pointless gesture for the illiterate Americans, but for now
verisimilitude counted.
"We copy you, Hawk One. This is USS Glover. We've acquired you on
radar," came back the response, a Southern drawl, young and slightly
nervous. "What seems to be the problem?"
"One of our turboshafts has started losing oil pressure. We could use a
visual check. What's your position?" He glanced down at the green radar
screen and grinned. It showed the frigate's coordinates to within
meters.
The radioman complied with his request, then continued. "There could be
a problem, Hawk One. The storm's just pushed the sea over four feet.
It's a helluva--"
"Permission to approach. We have a situation here," he continued in
English.
"Have to check that with the TAO. We've got a perimeter," came back the
uneasy answer.
"Fuck your perimeter, sailor." Peretz' voice was harder now. "This is
Lieutenant Colonel Leon Daniel, Israeli Air Force. We've got an
emergency and we're coming in. Tell that to your TAO, and get us
perimeter clearance. We're coming by." He switched off his mike.
"Well done." Ramirez nodded his approval. "Just the right combination
of entreaty and bravado. I think the Americans will be stymied. The
good-neighbor policy they like to talk about."
He leaned back and wished he had a cigar. The other men waiting,
crouched in the dark, had understood only some of the English. They
were four Germans, a Frenchman, and a Greek.
"Conditional clearance granted," crackled the radio. "But we have to
visual ID you first. Approach from vector three-two-zero. Emergency
rescue op being readied, just in case."
"Roger, USS Glover," Peretz spoke back sharply, in his best military
style. "Keep the coffee hot."
"It's always hot, sir. This is the U.S. Navy."
"Appreciated."
"Glad to be of help, Hawk One."
Peretz clicked off the radio and turned around. "I think they bought
it."
"So far so good," Ramirez nodded.
He descended the three steps down into the lower cockpit, the weapons
station, and stood behind Peretz, looking it over again. The Hind's
offensive capability included a four-barrel Gatling-type 12.7mm machine
gun in a turret under the nose, as well as 32-round packs of 57mm
rockets secured on hardpoints on each stubby auxiliary wing. Finally,
the wingtips carried four Swatter homing antitank missiles, two on each
side. Plenty of firepower for what he intended.
"Remember," he said to Salim as he moved back up, "no hint of hostile
action until after they make the ID." Would the stubborn Iranian hold
steady? Stick to the procedure?
He checked his watch. Four and a half minutes should take them inside
the VIS range. The altimeter showed that they were now at eleven
hundred meters, and so far the Iranian was bringing her in perfectly.
Of course, after the frigate confirmed they were flying a Hind . . .
but by then it would be too late. . . .
_"I was doubling Cape Maleas when the swell, the current, and the North
Wind combined to drive me sidelong off my course and send me drifting
past Kythera. The force of the gusts tore my sails to tatters, and for
nine days I was chased by those accursed winds across the fish-infested
seas. But on the tenth I made the country of the Lotus-Eaters."