Operation Golden Dawn
George Wallace
OPERATION GOLDEN DAWN
Copyright © 2013 by George Wallace.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Severn River Publishing
www.SevernRiverPublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-64875-031-1 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64875-032-8 (Hardback)
Contents
Also by George Wallace
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
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Thanks for Reading
Final Bearing
FINAL BEARING: Prologue
FINAL BEARING: Chapter 1
FINAL BEARING: Chapter 2
Read Final Bearing
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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Final Bearing
Dangerous Grounds
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Fast Attack
Arabian Storm
Warshot
Hunter Killer
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Prologue
12 Jul 1974, 1530LT (1330Z)
The scorching hot sun burned through the dusty haze, painting Mdoukha with a burnished golden glow. The ancient village, little more than a clutch of mud huts haphazardly thrown up alongside a stone road, sat high up on the Eastern edge of the Bekaa Valley, hard against the mountains marking Lebanon’s border with Syria. Little had changed since the same road had been trod by Roman legions two millennia ago, save the granite being worn down by generations of wandering feet, ox carts, and recently the stray car.
Twelve-year old Mustaf al Shatar sat on the ground; his back braced against the olive tree. The weathered, scarred tree inhabited a tiny, narrow space between the main street and the open fronted ramshackle cafe. The shop served dark, bitter Turkish coffee to old men who sat and argued the day away. The arguments always covered the same topics, the unbelievable injustice the Western World had visited on the Palestinian people and retribution to be exacted on the Israelis when they regained their rightful homeland.
Mustaf half listened to the chatter as he idly tossed pebbles at an ant struggling to carry its load back to the nest. The hot afternoon sun, barely filtered by the scraggly blue-green leaves, beat down on his shoulders.
The young boy watched the dust swirl in thick clouds behind the cars as they roared up to the bedraggled two-story building across the street. Mustaf counted more than a dozen as they stopped only long enough to disgorge their robed and turbaned passenger’s. Papa was hosting an important meeting in their cramped second floor apartment. He sent Mustaf out to watch over his seven-year old sister, Rachel. With so much traffic, it wasn’t safe for her to play alone on the street and the apartment was much too small for her and all the important guests.
The Mercedes and Citroens roared off as fast as they arrived. Parking and waiting anywhere near here would only draw the Israeli’s war birds. Even the tiny farming village was constantly under their prying eyes.
Mustaf tossed another pebble, smashing the ant just before it reached the fissure in the gnarly old olive tree’s bark that it called home. He looked around for another target to vent his frustration. Sitting out here babysitting a little sister was beneath the dignity of a Palestinian freedom fighter. He should be upstairs with Papa, planning another daring raid across the no-mans-land into Israel. He was a warrior, not a child.
Maybe Papa really wanted him to guard the meeting. That was it! Papa knew Mustaf was smart and brave. Papa knew that Mustaf would figure out the real mission. He would sit out here and guard against any surprise attack from the Israelis. If they came, he would shout out a warning and charge into the fight.
His right hand drifted under his robe so that he could feel the soft leather of his sling. He clenched his jaw tightly and looked grimly up and down the road. He carefully selected a half-dozen stones of just the right size and shape, and put them in his other pocket. He was ready.
Rachel scampered by on some imaginary errand, clutching her doll in one hand as she chattered to some make-believe friend.
Mustaf wasn’t quite sure what Father did for Uncle Yassir, but he knew it was important and dangerous. Father was fighting for the return of Palestine and the end of the Jewish invasion. Someday Mustaf would be a famous freedom fighter, too.
This house was so very different from the one they had just left in Beirut. A faint smile flitted across Mustaf’s young face as memories flooded back; the bustling market, all his friends, the house he loved and the busy excitement of the city.
Then, early one morning, Father appeared unexpectedly, weeks before he was supposed to return. He spoke quietly and quickly to Mama. Words that Mustaf couldn’t hear. But he sensed the fear descending over Mama. The family rushed out of the Beirut house, leaving everything behind, even his best soccer ball.
Father drove the small Fiat at breakneck speed, out of the city and across the broad valley. He barely slowed for the military checkpoints that dotted the road. The guards seemed to know they were coming and waved them on through. Still, the trip took all day, jolting over dusty, bumpy back roads, avoiding villages along the way. At last Papa screeched to a halt in front of this house.
Today would likely be the last day in Mdoukha. Then they would be
