Acts of War

pocket, which allowed him to trigger the blast anytime, anywhere. Those kinds of attacks were virtually impossible to protect against; those kinds of terrorists were damn near impossible to reason with. The most frustrating and ironic part was that a single terrorist was far more lethal than a group. A lone operator had total tactical flexibility and the ability to surprise.

Herbert clicked off his phone. 'Viens is on the case for us. Says he can get the 30-45-3 away from the Defense Department in about ten minutes. It's one of the older jobs, no infrared capacity, but we'll get good daylight pictures.'

The designation 30-45-3 referred to the third satellite looking down on the longitudes thirty to forty-five degrees east of the prime meridian. That was the region which included Turkey.

'Viens's a damn fine man,' Hood said

'The best.' Herbert turned. He snickered as he wheeled toward the door. 'At least Stephen's keeping his sense of humor about the investigation. He told me there're so many nails in his coffin he's thinking of nick-naming the division the Iron Maiden.'

'We won't let Congress close the lid on him,' Hood promised.

'That's a nice sentiment, Paul. But it'll be real difficult to make happen.'

'I like the difficult, Bob.' Hood smiled faintly. 'That's why I'm here.'

Herbert glanced back as he opened the door. 'Touche.' He winked as he rolled into the hallway.

THIRTEEN

Monday, 5:55 p.m.,

Oguzeli, Turkey

Ibrahim and the radio operator Hasan stood on the windy plain as Mahmoud knelt between them. They had Czechoslovakian Samopal submachine guns lying across their shoulders and Smith & Wesson.38s tucked into holsters on their belts. There were hunting knives sheathed on their hips.

Ibrahim held Mahmoud's weapons as his brother bent low on the hard earth. Tears trickled down the older man's dark cheeks and his voice cracked as he quoted the Holy Koran.

'He sends forth guardians who watch over you and carry away your souls without fail when death overtakes you'

Just minutes before, Walid had deposited his three passengers and their backpacks and weapons on this dry hillside. He'd given Mahmoud a gold ring he wore, one which was topped with two silver daggers crossed beneath a star. It was the ring which identified him as a leader of the group. Then he'd taken off again and flown the helicopter back toward the flood. Racing headlong into the raging waters, he'd allowed the helicopter to be swallowed up. A geyser of spray and steam had briefly marked its death. Then the three survivors had watched in horror as the helicopter's shattered remains were carried away by the torrent.

Walid had sacrificed himself and the chopper because it was the only way to erase the ship from Turkish radar. The only way to keep the team from being shot from the skies. The only way to protect the others so that they might continue the important work of the Kurdistan Workers' Party.

Mahmoud finished his prayer, but he continued to bow low. His voice soft and sorrowful, he asked, 'Why you, Walid? You were our leader, our soul.'

'Mahmoud,' Ibrahim said softly, 'patrols will be covering this region soon. We must go.'

'You could have shown me how to fly the helicopter,' Mahmoud said. 'My life was not as important as yours. Who will lead the people now?'

'Mahmoud,' Ibrahim said more insistently. 'Min fadlak — please! You will lead us. He gave you the ring.'

'Yes.' Mahmoud nodded. 'I will lead you. It was Walid's dying wish. There is still a great deal to be done.'

Ibrahim had never seen such sadness and then anger in his brother's expression. And it occurred to him then that perhaps this was something else Walid wanted. The fire of hate in the hearts and eyes of his soldiers.

As Mahmoud stood, Ibrahim handed him his Parabellum and a.38.

'Thank you, my brother,' Mahmoud said.

'According to Hasan,' Ibrahim said with quiet confidence, 'we can reach Sanliurfa by nightfall. We can stay in the foothills and hide if necessary. Or there is some traffic in the region. Perhaps we can capture a car or truck.'

Mahmoud turned to Hasan, who was standing a respectful distance away. 'We do not hide,' he said. 'Is that understood?'

'Aywa,' said both men. 'Yes.'

'Lead us, Hasan,' Mahmoud said. 'And may the Holy Prophet guide us to our home and to the homes of our enemies.'

FOURTEEN

Monday, 6:29 p.m.,

Oguzeli, Turkey

Before coming to the Middle East, Mike Rodgers had done what he always did. He'd read about the region. Whenever possible, he'd read what other soldiers had said about a nation or people. When he was here for Desert Shield and then Desert Storm, he'd read T.E. Lawrence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom and reporter Lowell Thomas's With Lawrence in Arabia. They were two views of the same man and the same region. This time he'd re-read the memoirs of General Charles 'Chinese' Gordon of Khartoum as well as an anthology about the desert. Something by Lawrence — the English author D.H., not the soldier T.E. — which had been published in the latter had stayed with him. That Lawrence had written in part that the desert was 'the forever unpossessed country.' Rodgers had liked that phrase very much.

Like the polar regions, the desert could be borrowed but not owned. Unlike the polar regions, where ice could be melted for water and there was relatively solid ground for construction, the desert had moods. Now broiling, now cool. Savagely windy one minute, utterly still the next. One had to bring not only water and shelter but commitment. Unlike the Arctic or Antarctic, a traveler didn't get off a boat or a plane, move inland a mile or two, take pictures or readings, then depart. From ancient times, when camel caravans crossed these regions, if a person came to the desert it was with the intention of crossing it. And here in these high, dry lands where the earth was not just sandy but parched, where travel was measured in yards instead of in miles, crossing it required luck as well as stamina.

Thanks to radios and motorized travel, traversing the desert or Turkey's dead meadows was not the purgatory it had been until the turn of the century. But they were still places of staggering desolation. After a half hour of riding on the back of Colonel Seden's motorcycle, Rodgers had noticed that even the ranks of insects had thinned and then dwindled to nothing.

Rodgers leaned forward on the big Harley. The wind knifed through his short-cropped graying hair and pushed hard against his shoulders. He looked at the small compass that was bracketed to the top of the dashboard, just above the tachometer. They were still headed in the direction where the helicopter had last been seen, along the outer perimeter of the flood. He looked at his watch. They should be arriving in another twenty minutes or so.

The sun was low behind the hills, its ruddy light fast fading. Within minutes the sky was as star-filled as any Rodgers had ever seen.

Colonel Seden half turned. 'We are nearing the plains,' he shouted back. 'Above this region there are dirt roads. They are not well traveled, but at least the ride will not be so bumpy.'

Those were the first words Seden had spoken since they left. That was fine. Rodgers himself wasn't a talker.

'A Navy fast-attack craft in rough seas is bumpy,' Rodgers yelled back. 'This is fine.'