CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
12.01pm. Beirut, 10/31/02.
Najib Shawa was escorted into the storeroom just as the bomb went off. He flinched and ducked as first the blast and then the noise of the detonation struck him. A few seconds passed. With the realization that he was unharmed, came a fierce joy. The hated Abu Asifah was dead; his power base of terrorist thugs gone with him, but the successes of the Blood of Shatila movement remained. He, Najib Shawa, would inherit those successes, his status would increase, and his wealth was safe and would grow.
He turned to go back to the room where his enemies had perished. He wanted to gloat. His head full of his own triumph, he didn’t see the sand filled canvas tube swinging in a fast arc behind his head. It struck him behind his right ear, an expertly delivered blow. His triumph exploded in a burst of stars and he slumped to the ground. He was still unconscious when Andy and Jim returned, and would remain so for some time to come.
‘What do you want done with this specimen?’ Digger Trench enquired mildly, hefting Najib by the waistband like a weekend grip.
‘He’ll have to take his chances, we’ll make his survival look as miraculous as possible, shove him under here.’ Andrew pointed to a thick concrete workbench. It was supported on strong concrete plinths, and was in the corner of the storeroom, near to the outside door, where supplies would normally come in. Najib Shawa was unceremoniously stuffed into the cramped space between two plinths, and the heavy wooden table on which the lethal bomb had been assembled, was turned on its side and leant in front of the opening.
‘If Najib Shawa wants to be a leader he needs to be a hero,’ Andrew said sardonically to Jim and Digger, ‘a bit of realism will ensure his credibility!’
Jim, Digger and the two assault engineers all grinned at his remark, they knew what was about to happen, and Najib Shawa was not going to enjoy it one bit.
‘Seedy, are all the charges in place?’ Andy asked.
‘Yeah and the delays are connected. All we have to do is reel out to a safe distance, connect up and blow her in on herself,’ Seedy Fields told him.
‘Right then, let’s get moving, withdraw all the sentry pairs,’ Andrew ordered.
Jim and Digger sprinted off to give the order to the pseudo-sentries.
Andrew and the two assault engineers left by the outside storeroom door and, unreeling a drum of electrical detonation cable as they went, they mounted the concrete steps up to ground level at the side of the damaged apartment block. There they waited for the rest of the team to join them.
From the defensive sangars, from the roof of the building, from deep within the terrorist stronghold, pairs of men sprinted for the rendezvous at the top of the concrete steps. Andrew counted the team members in as they arrived. From the time of the explosion only three minutes had elapsed, but the time now was three minutes past twelve, three minutes after noon, a busy time of day in Beirut. People were already looking to see what had happened.
‘Form up, double, march.’ Jim gave the order quietly in Arabic, and the team of men began to jog away from the terrorist headquarters towards the road leading to the football stadium.
They all wore their black and white keffiyehs, and they looked like armed Palestinians reacting to the recent explosion. A careful eye would have noticed the twin line of thin black insulated wire which was unwinding from a reel, held on a short length of steel tube between two men in the centre of the compact group.
A crowd of onlookers was beginning to gather on the opposite side of the waste ground. They had heard and felt the explosion, and being local residents they knew the nature of the building and its occupants. They were keeping a discreet distance.
Jim steered his group of “Palestinians” directly towards the onlookers. ‘We are under attack, get back, there may be more bombs,’ he shouted in Arabic.
The crowd of people that had gathered were not strangers to bombings, living and surviving in Beirut as they did. There was a scramble away from the area, and in a few moments the waste ground was clear.
Andrew, Jim and the team crossed the waste ground in under a minute and reached the entrance to the first street. Spud and Seedy ducked into a convenient doorway. Quickly they cut the cable they were unwinding, parted the two strands, bared the ends of the wires, and connected them to a magneto shot-firing unit. That job done, they looked across the street at Andrew and gave him the thumbs up.
Andrew looked around. There were people in the street, but the two explosive experts were well shielded from view. Andrew gave the thumbs up signal to Jim. Jim checked his area was clear. ‘Blow it,’ he ordered.
12.30pm. Jerusalem.
Of George Liani there was no trace. Moments after the massive bomb detonated, below the art garden, he removed the stolen cross country motor bike from the bushes and rolled quietly, in neutral, from the car park. His new belongings left at the King David Hotel were abandoned. He did not go near the place again but made his way via back lanes and footpaths to an address in the Wadi el-Guz district. There he shaved off his moustache and donned the black burqa and leather facemask of purdah. His identity papers as Suleiman Yavas were burned and a new identity given to him. He became Fatima Hezzan, wife of Yousuf Hezzan and mother of Abdul, a member of a devout family and part of a group of Syrian pilgrims touring the Islamic Holy sites of Jerusalem.
All border crossings were warned, but without result, he did not go near them. Air and seaports were put on maximum alert. Photographs were faxed and sent to every point of departure out of the country, all to no avail.
The most ruthless and dangerous terrorist associated with the Blood of Shatila organization had vanished.
12.30pm. Beirut.
Seedy Fields gave the handle on top of the shot-firing unit a sharp twist. On the other side of the open ground a ripple of expertly placed and carefully timed explosive charges went off from the centre outwards. Flashes and spurts of smoke and dust shot out sideways from the building. As heads turned to look, the damaged apartment building collapsed in the centre first then folded inwards on itself, almost in slow motion, amid a roiling cloud of dust. Slowly the dust cleared. A pile of rubble emerged, a mass of concrete and steel, burying deep beneath it the remains of one of the most vicious terrorist organizations of modern times.
Andy Cunningham looked at Jim and saw the mixed emotion on his face. ‘Good riddance,’ he said, ‘a pity we can’t get rid of all terrorist groups that way.’
‘Let’s get the hell out of here before somebody rumbles us, Jim replied. Even as he spoke they heard the familiar crack-thump of rounds fired in their direction, and then the crack-crack-crack, thump-thump-thump, of in-coming automatic weapons fire.
Andy dived to the ground, but three men were already hit. The rest of the team had taken cover as a reflex action in positions from which to return fire. They knew that to get their heads down was not enough, it was necessary to return fire, make the opposition cower down so as to regain the initiative.
Andrew peered round the base of a low wall. Digger Trench, and Spud Murphy, one of the assault engineers, lay out in the open. They were ominously still.
‘Where did the shots come from, did anyone see?’
Loud, almost indecipherable swearing came from a hollow in the rubble. ‘Ra poxy rag-heed bastards ’r innat hoose o’er ra street. An ahm shot ’n ma arse.’ Wee Willy Andersen’s aggrieved voice came back at Jim.
‘White house, green door, left nine o’clock, row of ground floor windows.’ Jim translated Willy’s Glaswegian into a classic fire order description, and in seconds all eyes, all weapons were directed at the row of ground floor windows. As they watched, two hands appeared holding a Kalashnikov, which was poked, out of the window. A totally random burst of fire was sprayed about the street. No one else was hit.
12.40pm. Beirut.
Najib Shawa regained consciousness slowly and with increasing pain. His head throbbed, his mouth was full of dust, he couldn’t see clearly, and could barely move. He had no memory of w
hat had happened to him, did not remember the blow to the head which had rendered him unconscious.
Horror and panic began to grow inside his head; he began to struggle, tearing at his surroundings with his bare hands and screaming at the top of his voice. He could make no impression on any part of the place he was trapped in. He stopped screaming, tried to remember what had happened, remembered the bomb. Had it been too powerful? Had it brought the building down on top of him? Yes, that must be it, he was buried alive. Claustrophobia had always been one of his terrors. His fear rose to a new pitch, he wet his pants, his bowels loosened and the stench filled the confined space. Najib Shawa, a Statesman - in his own mind a leader of men on the world stage - filled with self-pity, began to sob.
12.40pm. Beirut.
Jim pulled a face at Andy. ‘Lucky shots?’
‘Yeah, firing like that they couldn’t’ve hit a barn if they were inside the bloody thing,’ Andrew replied caustically.
‘Must train ’em with hose-pipes,’ Jim growled back.
‘Section two, get ready to move,’ Andrew shouted the order. ‘Section one, target, row of windows, short bursts, fire at will.’
Instantly a crash of return fire; well aimed and deadly, smashed through the windows from which the original shots had come. Glass exploded inwards, shards and splinters of wood flew, the protruding Kalashnikov dropped to the ground outside. As the gunfire spat out, Jim Savage and his section leapt to their feet and sprinted out into the open area, picked up their three injured mates and dragged them back into cover.
Andrew yelled another set of orders. ‘Medics, over here!’ The two men carrying the first aid bags sprinted to get to the casualties. ‘Cease rapid fire! Aimed shots only, keep their heads down!’ He turned to the medics,
‘How bad are they?’
One of the medics looked up. ‘Spud’s a goner. Digger’s concussed; a head wound, lots of blood but it’s superficial, he’ll be okay to move when he’s got a field dressing in place. Willy’s got a brain wound; he’s hit in his arse. He’ll have to limp.’
Andrew peered out into the now deserted street. The citizens, used to such events on the fraught streets of Beirut, had vanished at the sound of the first shots. No more shots came from the row of ground floor windows.
‘Okay, we move out and take them with us, share out their kit and weapons and take turns in giving fireman’s lifts. It will slow us down but no one or anything gets left behind. Two section, get ready to move, one section, covering fire, now!’
Jim and his men set off down the deserted street as Andrew’s section laid down a barrage of small arms fire. The three men carrying the casualties ran with short staggering steps for the first hundred yards, and then eased them down as the section went to ground and took up new fire positions.
Jim gave the same fire order, ‘Row of ground floor windows, short bursts, fire at will. More shots crashed out, shots that gave Andrew his cue to move. Andrew and his group disengaged, and in turn sprinted down the street past Jim and the others in his group. In this way the two groups conducted a fierce fighting withdrawal which gave no one any desire to tangle with them. Slowly and carefully using these pepper-pot tactics they made their way through the streets. Andrew used the radio to warn the rearguard that their arrival was imminent. Minutes later they were back at the football stadium, where Dave Prendergast had lookouts posted to cover them as they came in.
02.00pm. Beirut.
Exhausted, Najib Shawa’s racking sobs eventually stopped. Realizing that he could still breathe he became calmer. Air was getting into the space in which he was trapped. If air could get in, then sound could get out. He began to call for help. After what seemed an age, rescuers heard his feeble cries. Lumps of shattered concrete were thrown clear from the steps leading down to the storeroom door. The remains of the door were prized open with a length of iron bar, the overturned table smashed and pulled out in bits.
Najib Shawa, covered in dust and grime, was extricated feet first from the safe niche in which he had been placed. His rescuers extracted him as quickly as possible without looking closely at his rubble covered location. His safekeeping was hailed as an act of God. He was praised as a hero of the cause, an honor he did nothing to refute. His indignation and fury were quite real. He had not expected to have the whole headquarters collapse on top of him; that had not been part of his plan at all. He was suitably enraged.
02.00pm. Beirut.
Exactly on time the strike team entered the football stadium via the player’s entrance. As they went through the dressing rooms they passed the stadium staff that had been captured, bound and gagged as they arrived for work that morning. They were not happy with their circumstances, but apart from a few hours of indignity and discomfort, they would be unharmed.
Immediately on arrival Andy spoke to Dave Prendergast. ‘Send the signal for the transport.’
‘Already done, it’s on its way in now,’ Dave replied with a grin, ‘better get outside now, this is one bus I’d hate to miss!’
With a battering of sound, the UH-60A Black Hawk tactical transport helicopter slammed over the edge of the Beirut stadium. Taking off from a military airstrip near Haifa, it had flown West out over the Mediterranean, North to a point due West of Beirut and then due East at sea level to cross the coast over the beaches South of the headland of Ras Beyrouth. It had no markings. Crossing the coast flat out at its maximum speed of two hundred and ninety six kilometers per hour, and at a height of fifty feet it took forty-eight seconds to reach the football stadium. The pilot sat the machine on its tail and used the main rotors to brake his approach, then, leveling off, dropped within the stadium confines and hovered, wheels barely touching the dusty turf.
The now conscious but still groggy Digger Trench, Willy Andersen, and the unfortunate Spud Murphy were put on board, the last one with his face covered. Jim’s section boarded next, then Andrew’s section. Dave Prendergast and the rearguard came in last, walking backwards, weapons trained outwards in case of trouble. There were no incidents; the withdrawal was taking place too rapidly for any opposition group to realize what was happening. The last two men leapt into the chopper as it began to move and were grabbed and pulled inside by their colleagues either side of the door.
With a terrific clatter of rotors, a storm of dust and a roar of powerful engines, the big machine tilted forward, gained airspeed, lifted easily over the perimeter of the stadium and powered out towards the open Mediterranean. As it gained speed, at ten-second intervals, the co-pilot fired pairs of magnesium flares in order to decoy any heat-seeking rockets that may have been fired at them as they departed. None were.
They left as suddenly as they had arrived, the element of surprise their armor against attack. Within the hour the helicopter was inside Israeli air space, had heavily armed helicopter gun-ship escorts, and was on its way to the air force base nearest to Jerusalem.
Inside the helicopter the members of the team were quiet and withdrawn. The Blood of Shatila terrorist group had been destroyed; they would shed no more innocent blood. Even so, Andy and Jim could take no joy from their success. Reaction and anti-climax were setting in.
Andy leaned forward and shouted over the noise, ‘Well, that’s it, Mike’s brother is avenged.’
Jim nodded. The loss of Spud overshadowed their success. They lapsed into silence each man thinking his own thoughts.
03.00pm. Jerusalem.
Stunned by the force of the massive explosion, it took Ben Levy several minutes to recover his wits, but he quickly realized that his objective had been achieved. The Knesset was safe and undamaged, the government of the country functioning and intact. The massive truck bomb had been detonated well away from the building itself, and the first part of the new blast wall had done its job. There was no loss of Israeli life.
Mike too was stunned by the massive detonation, but knew that he had prevented a greater catastrophe. He was not pleased to learn that George Liani was not yet in the net, but with the e
xception that Liani was still on the loose, the operation had been a success.
John Henderson had the bigger picture ready for them at the air base. The United States had sent stern diplomatic warnings to Iraq, Iran, and Syria backed up by massive force. A US Naval battle group steamed to the head of the Persian Gulf, another to the Eastern Mediterranean, their cruise missiles and aircraft at the final state of readiness. Britain too sent a diplomatic warning, armed its Tornado force in Kuwait, and flew more Tornadoes to bases in Turkey. The Israeli Defense Force had gone to maximum alert and had scrambled its Air Force and deployed it to its borders.
Iran, Iraq and Syria did nothing. The conflagration in the Middle East had been averted.
Ben had received a signal that the Blood of Shatila HQ was destroyed and that the strike team had been extracted complete, although not unscathed. The Israeli Government would deny all knowledge of these events and would issue absolute denials of any involvement. Ben mulled over these events as he was driven to the air base. The use of a high quality team of professional mercenaries had distinct advantages. Smiling quietly to himself, he began to list other problem areas that could be resolved by such a team.