above.
Ravi's delight at the absolute precision of the detcord blasts was tempered only by his chilling awareness that the Israeli Paratroopers could arrive any second, in helicopter gunships. He could not have known that possibility had disappeared because the man in the office on the phone had only had time to shout, 'THE JAIL IS UNDER ATTA… '
At the other end, the nineteen-year-old girl soldier who had received the call was replying, 'I did not quite catch that. Who is speaking, please? This is Israel Army HQ Northern Command.'
The line was now dead, issuing an ominous dial tone and nothing else. The operator tried again, tapping the phone cradle up and down, saying, 'Hello… hello… Is anyone there?'
But there was no further sound. The girl called her supervisor and reported she had received a 'funny- sounding call.'
'I thought they said something about a jail underwater,' she said. 'But the line went instantly dead.'
'What jail?'
'They never said, sir. But I was sure I heard 'jail.' And I thought I heard 'underwater' but it didn't make sense… The caller did not say another word.'
'Well, let's give it another few minutes and see if anyone calls back. If not, it sounds like a wrong number. You think jail could have been gale, stale, rail, or some other word?'
'Well, I suppose it could have been. But I did think it was jail. If it had been gale, and underwater, it could have been a ship's distress call on the wrong frequency. But I still think it was jail.'
'Okay. Let's leave it for fifteen minutes and see if we hear anything else. By the way, did you announce who you were, you know, Northern Headquarters, etc.?'
'Yes, sir. I did. Right at the beginning. And after, the line went dead.'
'Okay. Good girl. Lemme know if they come through again.'
Meantime, back on the Nimrod ramparts, one of the lookouts spotted the first helicopter, clattering in from the north, flying low over the Lebanese border, straight toward the jail.
'HELO INCOMING, SIR!' roared the lookout. 'HIGH SPEED… DEGREES THREE SIXTY… LOW ALTITUDE.'
General Rashood swung around and charged back outside through the main gates, past the group of truly incredulous political prisoners, who were mostly too stunned by events even to speak, even to express their thanks. They just stared, as the Hamas CO, holding a pair of Israeli binoculars he had just stolen, trained them on the northern skies.
There it was, one mighty Sikorsky CH-53D Sea Stallion hammering its way toward them, making 130 knots through clear skies. It looked military, it sure as hell had once been military. But right now it was painted bright white with blue trim, with a commercial insignia in Arabic presented boldly in still-wet paint, stay cool with frosty's. On the fuselage, a contented polar bear licked a giant ice-cream cone.
Down on the lower rampart below the level of the jail, two of Ravi's men were holding orange flags aloft, waving in the big assault chopper, which was originally designed to carry thirty-eight U.S. Marines fully loaded for combat.
But this morning it was empty, and the General bellowed his next order: 'EVERYONE TO THE LOWER LEVEL… STRAIGHT DOWN THE HILL TO THE GUYS WITH THE FLAGS… THEN BOARD THE HELO… GO! GO! GO!'
Two distant thumps told him that eight more prisoners were out, and he stood in the courtyard waving them on as they ran into the yard. 'STRAIGHT ON,' he roared. 'STRAIGHT ON… KEEP RUNNING… STRAIGHT DOWN TO THE HELICOPTER… ALL ABOARD… ALL ABOARD… WE'RE OUTTA HERE… RIGHT NOW… GO! GO! GO!'
Ravi knew the Sikorsky, right now on loan from the Syrian Army, was built for soldiers carrying huge packs and weapons. These prisoners had nothing, and it would thus carry more, maybe fifty if necessary with its overload capacity. He had counted on a total of eighty-six and had instructed his loadmasters to board the first thirty-two prisoners, plus sixteen of his own men on the first journey.
By now the Sea Stallion was on the ground and the prisoners were pouring through its open doors. And right then, the lookout called again: 'HELICOPTER INCOMING, LOW ALTITUDE… DEGREES THREE SIXTY… HIGH SPEED… IDENTICAL… REPEAT, IDENTICAL… '
All forty-eight men had clambered aboard the helo, and it was already lifting off, shuddering upward almost vertical. Then it tilted, its engine howling, and rocketed east, thundering toward No Man's Land and then the Syrian frontier.
The second Sea Stallion was now making its approach, and more and more prisoners were racing down the path toward the lower rampart. Two more bangs signaled eight more men were free. Thus far, General Ravi's men had been inside the jail for three quarters of an hour, and there was just one more batch of prisoners to release.
The second helicopter circled, wearing the same commercial livery, and as it did so, the Ops Room in the Israel Army's Northern Command Headquarters burst into life. A young Captain was listening intently as a supervisor stared at a computer screen, calling the information. 'Another one, sir. No doubt. Incoming helicopter. Three sixty degrees. Speed one hundred knots. Altitude under five hundred. American built. But no military radar. Destination Nimrod Jail…
'First helo taken off, track 238… headed zero-nine-zero, speed one hundred thirty knots. Altitude under one hundred feet'
'How long was it on the ground?'
'Four minutes maximum, sir.'
'ANY COMMUNICATION FROM THE JAIL?'
'Trying, sir. No response.'
A new voice (stressed) '… Did someone say JAIL?'
'Right. Nimrod.'
'Holy shit!'
'What's up?'
'One of my operators took a call this morning, a garbled sentence. She thought it said, 'the jail is underwater,' then the line went dead and no one called back. No one mentioned the name of the jail or anything.
'I wonder if the real sentence was, 'the jail is under attack,' not water, but he couldn't finish the word.'
'AIR CREW GO TO ACTION STATIONS. GUNSHIPS TO NIMROD JAIL–IT MAY BE UNDER ATTACK. ASSAULT GROUPS ONE AND THREE.'
The station Commander bellowed for someone to connect him to the observation post up on the Disengagement Line, due east of Nimrod.
'Yes, sir. We saw him alright. A big single-screw helicopter, traveling east to Syria. Commercial aircraft, sir. No military radar. It was white, looked like an ice-cream van with a rotor.'
'A WHAT!'
'An ice-cream van, sir… white and blue. It had a big polar bear painted on it.'
'A WHAT!'
'A polar bear, sir. It was licking a pink-and-white cone.'
The phone crashed down. 'FUCK ME!' yelled the Captain.
It took twelve minutes to fire up three IDF helicopters, load up the troops, and get off the ground for the twenty-mile flight up to Nimrod. But as the Israelis took off, General Rashood's second big Sikorsky was ready to go. Its rotor was screaming, the big passenger door was wide open, and the General was running for his life down the path, leaving the massive Israeli truck an inferno behind him, flames from its fuel engulfing the entire front side of the jail.
Ravi hit the fuselage of the Sikorsky running, hauled himself up, and rolled into the rear cabin. Someone slammed the door and they took off instantly flying east out toward the Syrian border, hanging on grimly to a ten- minute start, although this was as yet unknown.
Sprawled in the rear, the General was talking to his men.
'Well, we never lost anyone, and we got 'em all out. Not a bad morning's work.'
Just then, the Navigator called back, 'Sir, I got three paints on the screen right here, maybe fifteen miles off
