forward progress improved. Without the oxygen tanks, they traveled at six feet forward for every foot down. Their only radio was assigned to the smallest man, but was unusable inside a compartment in his wing.
The Captain used the village lights for navigation. The night sky was nearly moonless with crystal clear air, so even the scarce early morning lights could be seen from almost a hundred miles at high altitude. After a few minutes of straight flight, he saw fire light near where the camp should have been, and adjusted their flight path. Foreboding passed through him--it looked bigger than it should.
Six was in the lead as they stayed in a tight “V” formation, using luminescent tape on the trailing edge of the wings ahead for reference. South of the camp, they circled, losing altitude, until reaching five hundred feet AGL then popped backup parachutes. The small chutes were designed for rapid descent and they landed hard in rocks, brush and uneven ground, each man thankful to be alive and with the team. It took several minutes to regroup and hide their jump gear. Two men were limping, but everyone made it to the landing zone.
The Ayn Tzahab camp trained fanatics in sabotage, kidnapping, intelligence gathering, bomb making, and guerilla warfare for the Islamic Jihad Organization headquartered in Lebanon and Syria. The IJO promoted terrorism around the world. Syria allowed the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Hamas and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine complete freedom in its camps to train and plan attacks. Funding and supplies came from private charities and Government funding throughout the Middle East.
Two kilometers south of the camp, they stopped and huddled close together. Six said, “Okay men, you all saw what I did...let’s start moving but keep it quiet.”
One of the sergeants whispered, “Sir, I saw a lot of fires.”
“Yeah, I know.”
In the still desert air, camp smells and sounds were clues to the size of the force ahead. The camp was essentially asleep, but sentries would be moving around and campfires were still smoldering. Diesel fuel and sanitary smells commingled in the air clearly identifying the camp ahead as military.
They had minimal weapons and no support, attacking alone without artillery, grenades, armor or air power. Each man had an M4A1 assault rifle with seven 30-round magazines. They had one HF radio, no night vision, and no machine guns or mortars. The Op plan did not expect much resistance. The camp was one of dozens under constant surveillance using the Defense Support Program (DSP) satellites controlled at a classified facility in Northern Virginia. It usually held only 50-100 trainees, plus about a dozen instructors. Weapons were locked in the armory at night, except when training. Two of the rangers were assigned to secure the armory. With Razzaq at the camp, his security guards would be armed, but the Rangers had planned for less than a dozen armed enemies.
Four Rangers were assigned to contain the students in their sleeping bunkers with two others assigned to the communications tent. The others would enter the headquarters trailer where Razzaq was expected to sleep. Every member of the team had Razzaq’s picture emblazoned in his mind, and wanted to take him alive; but, they could also kill him if capture was too difficult. Since the mission was inside Syria, they were to avoid collateral damage in the process, recognizing that diplomatic repercussions would follow. There would be no military support until they reached the Israeli border. No other Americans would enter Syria.
The team spread out, ten feet apart and began moving slowly, without noise. Every strap or article on their bodies was secured; they crouched with arms away from their bodies and widely spaced legs. Their steps were heal-leads with a rolling foot motion. Without a word, everyone knew that the Op Plan no longer applied. The tactical situation had changed and they would need to improvise. The enemy force was huge. Their only surveillance device was the Master Sergeant’s Thermal Weapon Site (TWS). “Master Sergeant,” the Captain said in a low voice.
“Sir.”
“Scan the camp Link.”
“Roger that.”
The sergeant moved to the top of a small dune with his M4. The TWS could recognize a human target at 1000 meters in total darkness. It was the one advantage they had over the enemy that did not possess the technology using body heat radiation to show a picture. The Sergeant panned his weapon for several seconds. Voices can be heard for long distances in the still desert night, so communicating was done in low whispers.
He reported, “That’s a big-ass camp sir. I could see dozens of vehicles and hundreds of hot spots moving around.”
The Captain went to see for himself. Looking through the TWS, he could see that they were either at the wrong camp, or intel had screwed up. The central camp layout was correct, but a large force surrounded it, which was at an alert status. Something had gone wrong. The mission had become suicidal. With only a couple hours until daylight, they were exposed in open terrain with no good place to hide. Their footprints and jump gear would be found and they would be overwhelmed. They had no choice but to evacuate any way possible.
Returning down the mound, he signaled for a huddle; “Okay guys, this place is crawling with bad guys. It’s at least two companies, maybe a battalion. We need to get out of here before the sun comes up. Our best way is in one of those trucks, if we can get rolling and not attract attention. It’s about twenty miles to the border. We can’t hide out here in the open after daybreak, so we’re leaving now.” He wished that it would be as easy as it sounded, but all knew that military actions never went as planned.
There was several hundred yards of open ground between them and a row of parked trucks. They moved quietly down a dune onto the flats. Fortunately, there was little moonlight and they remained invisible. Weapons were cocked and selectors on “safe.” After 100 yards, the Captain raised his right fist and signaled for a thermal recon. After a few seconds, the Sergeant made hand gestures indicating guards at the front and rear of the truck line. A cigarette was visible from one of the guards.
Following muffled orders, two rangers went to take out the guards, while the rest stayed low. The TWS verified when the guards went down. There was no sound.
When the last guard fell, the team moved forward to the nearest truck. Six and the radioman went to the cab of the large open personnel carrier. But, as the radioman opened the passenger door, someone in the darkness yelled an alert in Arabic then bullets strafed the truck. Men were hit behind the truck, and some inside the bed were wounded.
They returned fire as team mates jumped off to help the wounded. Six vaulted into the unfamiliar vehicle and turned every switch on before stomping the starter solenoid on the floor. The diesel engine churned and took several seconds for the glow plug to ignite the fuel. Meanwhile, the firefight intensified as more enemy soldiers surrounded them. The truck’s running lights were on, and the firefight grew extremely violent. The engine bellowed, coughed, and started. “Are all aboard?” he yelled.
The reply was “Go, go!”
Before the truck rolled, an enemy soldier jumped onto the running board on the passenger side, shooting a pistol wildly at the cab. The Captain released the gearshift, grabbed his sidearm from his chest holster and fired twice into the man’s face. Most of the soldier’s shots had missed, but the radioman was hit. Six kicked the throttle to the floor testing the engine then crashed into first gear and lurched forward. As he did, he tried to support his radioman. He steered south into the desert, flooring the throttle and killing the lights. It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. Bullets hit the truck as they charged into the welcoming darkness, but in less than two minutes they were under fire again from trucks in pursuit.
The rear of the cab was open to the cargo bed. He yelled for a situation report, but got no response. He yelled again, and someone shouted that all were wounded, but two were returning fire. Struggling for control, he grabbed fabric on the now dead radioman to pull him closer. He yanked the handset for the PRC-64 radio and pressed the button, “Angel, Angel, Striker, over.”
br />
---Static---He stretched across the body and turned the volume up.
“Angel, say again! Over.”
The radio blared, “Striker, this is Angel, what’s your situation? Over.”
The Captain gripped the wheel with his bloody left hand, trying to drive and use the radiophone, “Angel, we’re driving South-Southwest from bingo, off road in mil truck with heavy pursuit, need gunship and medevac—ASAP!”
“Striker, report casualties, over.”
“Me and two others known alive, over.”
“Striker, wait one.” The response took too long. The support unit under Lieutenant Colonel Lesley Briggs was deployed with a battalion of Israeli Defense Forces, including an air assault squadron. Muscle pain shot down his side while struggling to control the wheel using only his left hand. Holding the handset to his ear, he crashed over a ridge, losing his grip and slammed his head into the steering wheel, breaking his nose.
“Striker, this is Angel, request is denied. Repeat, denied.” Unbelievably, the Colonel was going to follow political doctrine and not come to aid his soldiers!
Grappling to regaining control, pain and dread turned to anger, “Shit Colonel, I’ve got nine men down and trouble up my ass. We need support! Over.”
“Understand son, hold it together. Negative on air support. Good luck. Out.”
Briggs was close, but frozen at the border. Even without lights on his truck, the dust left a clear trail to follow. At another ridge, his shattered mirrors filled with headlights less than a quarter mile behind. If he’d been alone, he would abandoned the truck and used terrain to escape, but he’d to save his team. Gunfire could be heard above the truck noise. He hoped it would hold together. The Syrians knew where he was headed.
Using their headlights, the enemy trucks could drive faster and continued getting closer. Some flanked left and right, getting out of the choking dust. Russian military trucks were built for severe off-road abuse. The 7.62mm bullets from flanking trucks were missing, as the enemy continued shooting from their their bucking platforms, but persistent fire would ultimately do the job. He pressed the accelerator when more bullets ripped into the front of the truck. Two men were still firing in back, but had to be low on ammunition.
Jumping over another small dune, a dry riverbed suddenly appeared which he saw at the last second, almost driving over the edge. He used all his strength pushing and pulling the wheel to turn right, almost capsizing as the wheels chattering on the rocky ground. After driving a mile parallel to the wash, the bottom of the dry gorge got shallower and he turned southwest again across the riverbed. Momentarily, the chase trucks had a good oblique angle as he turned, and were firing frantically, some hitting their target. The engine compartment and doors and driver window were armored, and the tires were solid. The truck continued working for the Rangers; but there was no more firing from his men. Covered in blood from shard and fragment wounds, he was alone.
He grabbed the handset, “Angel, this is Striker. Over!”
“Go ahead Striker.”
“Sir, I again request air support, all my men are down!” he’d never pleaded for support from a fellow soldier before.
Briggs was hesitant when responding, “Striker, we’re tracking you with Global Hawk, only two miles away, keep coming! We’re moving with you; ETA four minutes, over.”
“Roger that!” he threw the handset in fury, aiming the truck across the riverbed. If Briggs had ever been in a firefight he would know that four minutes was an eternity! At the other side of the wash, he gunned the engine and turned on the lights, figuring it would help the choppers see him. With lights, he pressed the throttle harder.
Hasan Abdul-Razzaq
Razzaq’s grandparents were shepherds and farmers in Palestine prior to 1948. They lived in a small dwelling in the district of Jaffa, the ancient seaport near modern Tel Aviv. Their families had lived there for generations. Their home had been passed down, and Razzaq often heard fond stories of village life from his grandparents, before they were expelled by the British. In 1949, the family was forced to flee north to the Shatila refugee camp in Lebanon when his parents were too young to remember anything about life in Jaffa.
They grew up in the refugee camp, disenfranchised under constant fear of expulsion or attack. Conditions were squalid and unemployment was always above twenty five percent. Shatila camp was located adjacent to the Sabra ghetto in the southern outskirts of West Beirut. Over several years, the camp became known as “Sabra and Shatila” as the boundaries merged, caused by swelling numbers of Palestinians and Shiites escaping wars to the southeast. The camp was technically administered by the United Nations, but there was little actual assistance. The indigenous Lebanese population, mixed Christian and Muslims, hated the camp people.
For years, the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) used southern Lebanon as a staging base for attacks on Israel. In 1982, Israeli Premier Menachem Begin demanded that Lebanese President, Bachir Gemayel, remove them from his country. However, Gemayel had to balance interests of competing factions within Lebanon and refused many of Israel's demands, including his refusal to allow the Israeli Army to enter his country.
On September 14, 1982, a Syrian agent assassinated Gemayel, and even though the Palestinian and Muslim leaders denied any connection, within hours of the assassination, the Israel military decided to occupy West Beirut. The United States had given guarantees that it would ensure the protection of the camp; however, Ariel Sharon, the Israeli Defense Minister, later told the Knesset, Israel’s parliament: “Our entry into West Beirut was in order to make war against the infrastructure left by the terrorists.” On September 15th, the Israeli Defense Force (IDF) surrounded the Sabra and Shatila camp, blocking all entrances.
Sharon, and his Chief of Staff met with the Lebanese Christian militiamen, called Phalangist units on September 16, suggesting they enter the Sabra and Shatila camp to kill Palestinian militants. Israel did not want to be seen as attacking Muslims and risk upsetting the US Government. The first unit of Phalangists, armed with guns, knives and hatchets entered the camp at 6:00 p.m. and began slitting throats, axing, shooting, and raping the population, often lining people up for mass execution.
Hasan Abdul-Razzaq had been born in the camp and never known the outside world, except for stories. He was ten years old when the attack came, and paralyzed by fear. During the first night, Israeli forces fired illuminating flares. Hasan huddled with his mother and sister in their tent while his father tried to defend them. His father was a peaceful man, yet the Phalangists killed him. Hasan found his father’s mutilated body after the attack. For two days, the Phalangists massacred the inhabitants of Sabra and Shatila, while the Israelis prevented anyone from escaping. Early in the morning of the second day, Hasan’s mother grabbed his baby sister, saying “We must get away from here, come with me.” As they ran from their tent down the narrow rows, Hasan heard people scream and plead as they were butchered, and as his mother led him through the maze toward the outskirts, he saw mutilated bodies of women, children and men. he’d to jump over corpses to keep up.
When they reached one of the main pathways out of the camp, his mother began running, carrying her baby in her arms as Hasan kept pace. When they reached the outskirts, there were IDF soldiers, many just teenagers, blockading their escape. She begged to let them through, but the soldiers refused. When she pleaded about her baby and son, the soldiers pointed their guns and told her to run back into the camp. Hasan’s mother, engulfed in tears yelled, “Come, this way, we must find a place to hide!” After running a few rows into the tents, she led them to a place already ravaged by the Christians. “Here, in here, we must hide here with the dead.” She pushed Hasan into a tent over the bloody remains of a young woman. Inside, he saw her two children, dismembered and reassembled in some grotesque montage. They stayed in that tent, surrounded by horror throughout the night, while Israeli illumination continued to
cast eerie shadows of cold white light.
At dawn of the third day, speakers blared, saying the violence had ended and all remaining refugees were to assemble on the main paths. Terrified and sobbing, the Razzaq family emerged with others and followed instructions. They had been conditioned for two generations to follow instructions. When they assembled with the others, many covered in blood of loved ones; the Phalangists forced the survivors to march out of the camps, randomly killing more people. In the confusion, militiamen forced Hasan’s baby sister from his mother’s grasp and handed her to him. His mother was knocked to the ground and dragged away. When Hasan tried to help her, he was clubbed nearly unconscious. His mother cried for help, but was dragged into a tent where several men ravaged her before cutting her throat. Hasan lived, by omission and never saw his sister again.
On the third day, foreign journalists were allowed into the camp at 9:00 a.m. where they found the bodies scattered about. The first official news of the massacre was broadcast around noon, and the actual number of victims was never reported.
Hasan was given medical attention and some food by a foreign medical team. Dazed, he was unable to process the horrors leveled on his family and other innocent people. They had been peaceful, and he’d no comprehension of such brutality. he’d seen horrors no child should endure. For the next three years, he educated himself on the events chronicled about Sabra and Shatila. He blamed Israel for the killings; and, he learned to blame the Americans for supporting Israel, while abandoning his people. It sickened him to hear American rhetoric endorsing the Israeli cause while deploring the Palestinians. He became brainwashed in anti-Zionist dogma beyond comprehension of normal children. For generations, his family had been beaten, driven from their land, humiliated, yet only wanted to live as they had before 1948. Based on his experience at Sabra and Shatila, Razzaq the terrorist emerged. He wasn’t driven by any altruistic motives; he just wanted to kill Jews and Americans.
The official dossier on Razzaq stated that he was a high school dropout. He was believed to have journeyed through Jordan, then to Iran, as a young boy, before he went to Afghanistan to fight the Soviets in the late 1980s. He was described as slightly under six feet tall, dark, bearded and thin, like ninety percent of the Muslim male population. It was in Afghanistan that he began his association with al Qaeda and met an expatriate American