the day. And that it might well be necessary for Striker to move before the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee had a chance to okay their actions. Hood told Herbert he'd sign a Director's Order taking full legal responsibility for any Striker activities. He had no intention of letting Striker sit in the desert if they had a chance to rescue Rodgers and the team.
Herbert wished Hood well on his mission to Damascus and hung up. Sitting alone in the dark, quiet room, Hood took a moment to consider what he was prepared to do. To save six people they only hoped were still alive, he was committed to risking the lives of eighteen young commandos. The math didn't make sense, so why did it seem right? Because that was the job Striker was trained for, the job they wanted to do? Because national honor demanded it, as well as loyalty to one's colleagues? There were many excellent reasons, though none of them neutralized the terrible burdens of command and the execution of those commands.
Where is Mike Rodgers, the walking Bartlett's, when you need him? Hood mused as he rose from the heavy lacquered chair.
Hood's footsteps were swallowed by the Persian rug as he crossed the room and rejoined Warner Bicking, who was waiting for him in the outer office. An embassy secretary offered Hood coffee, which he accepted gratefully. Then Hood, Bicking, and a young official chatted about the developments in Turkey as they waited for Dr. Nasr.
Nasr arrived at five minutes to seven. He entered the main hallway and approached briskly. The native Egyptian stood a few inches over five feet tall, but he walked like a giant. His head and shoulders were pulled back, and his sharp salt-and-pepper goatee was pointed ahead like a lance. Nasr's eyes were also sharp behind his thick- lensed glasses, and his crisp, light gray suit was nearly the same shade as his wavy hair. He smiled generously when he saw Hood and extended his small, thick hand from half a room away. The gesture made him seem paternal now rather than self-impressed.
'My friend Paul,' he said as Hood rose. Their hands locked tightly, and Nasr reached up to pat Hood on the back. 'It's so good to see you again.'
'You're looking very well, Doctor,' Hood said. 'How's your family?'
'My dear wife is fine and getting ready for a new series of recitals,' he replied. 'All Liszt and Chopin. To hear the
'Thank you,' Hood said.
'Tell me,' Nasr said. 'How are Mrs. Hood and your little ones?'
'Last time I checked, everyone was happy and not so little,' Hood said guiltily. He turned to where Warner Bicking was standing behind him. 'Dr. Nasr, I don't believe you've ever met Mr. Bicking.'
'I have not,' Nasr said. 'However, I did read your paper on the increasing defensive democratization of Jordan. We'll talk on the plane.'
'It will be my very great pleasure,' Bicking replied as the men shook hands.
As they walked to the car, Nasr between the other two, Hood quickly briefed them on the latest developments. They climbed into the sedan, Bicking taking a seat up front. As the car started out, Nasr lightly stroked the tip of his beard between the thumb and index finger of his right hand.
'I believe you are correct,' said Nasr. 'The Kurds want and require their own nation. The question is not how far they're prepared to go to get it.'
'Then what's the question?' Hood asked.
Nasr stopped playing with his beard. 'The question, my friend, is whether the blowing up of the dam was their big gun, or whether they have something even bigger in store.'
THIRTY-THREE
The Bekaa Valley is an upland valley which runs through Lebanon and Syria. Also known as El Bika and Al Biqa, the Bekaa is situated between the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon mountain ranges. Seventy five miles long and ranging between five and nine miles wide, it's a continuation of Africa's Great Rift Valley, and is one of the most fertile farming regions in the Middle East. 'Coele Syria,' the Romans called it: 'Hollow Syria.' Since the beginning of recorded history, wars have been fought for the control of the wheatfields and vineyards, the apricot, mulberry, and walnut trees.
In spite of the valley's lushness, fewer and fewer farmers work its most remote and fertile areas. These regions are bordered by the tallest peaks and thickest woods. Despite the presence of the Beirut-Damascus highway, the mountains and trees create a very real sense of isolation. From the ground, many of these places can only be reached by a single road. From the air or from the peaks, these same places are hidden by ledges and year-round foliage.
For centuries, these hidden places have given sanctuary to religious sects and cabals. In the modern era, the first group known to have hidden here were the men who helped to plot the the assassination of General Bake Sidqi, the oppressive leader of Iraq, who was slain in August of 1937. In their wake, Palestinian and Lebanese guerrillas came to the valley to train and plot against the formation of Israel and then against the state itself. They came to conspire against the Iran of the Shah, against Jordan and Saudi Arabia and other governments which embraced the infidels of the West. Though archaeologists rarely come to the valley to dig for Greek and Roman ruins anymore, the soldiers have uncovered more caves than the archaeologists ever found. They sell antiquities they discover to raise money, and use the caves as headquarters from which to mount their military and propaganda campaigns. Arms and printing presses, bottled water and gas-powered generators sit side by side in the cool caverns.
With the blessings of the Syrians, the PKK has operated in the Bekaa Valley for nearly twenty years. Though the Syrians are opposed to the idea of a Kurdish homeland, the Syrian Kurds have spent much of their time and efforts helping their Turkish and Iraqi brothers survive the forces sent against them. In fighting Ankara and Baghdad, the Syrian Kurds strengthened Damascus by default. By the time Damascus realized that it might finally be a target as well, the Kurds were too well hidden, too well entrenched in the Bekaa to be easily evicted. And so the Syrian leaders took a wait-and-see position, hoping that the brunt of any assaults would be turned north or east.
Ironically, it was United Nations pressure on Ankara and Baghdad to relax attacks on the Kurds that only recently allowed them, to focus on mounting a unified offensive. A series of meetings at Base Deir in the deepest caves of the northern Bekaa followed. After eight months, representatives of the Iraqi, Syrian, and Turkish Kurds devised Operation Yarmuk, a plan to use water and surgical military activity to throw the Middle East into disorder. In command of the base and its operation was a fifty-seven-year-old Southern California-educated Turkish Kurd named Kayahan Siriner. Siriner's longtime Syrian friend Walid al-Nasri was one of his most trusted lieutenants.
Mahmoud had used Hasan's radio to let Base Deir know that they were coming in. They used the same frequency used by the more prosperous farmers in the region to keep in touch with their shepherds, and referred to themselves by code names. Anyone who was eavesdropping electronically would not suspect their real identities. Mahmoud had informed Siriner that they were coming in with several oxen — enemies who were unmanned. Had he told them that he was bringing in bulls, it would have meant that the enemies were armed and the Kurds were the hostages. Still, Siriner knew that Mahmoud could have been coerced into making the broadcast. The Kurd leader would not take any chances.
The appearance of the ROC was preceded by over a minute by the sound of it crawling up the gentle slope. Stones and dead branches cracked thickly beneath its tires, the engine hummed and echoed, and finally it was visible through the trees. The ROC made its circuitous way toward the cave, avoiding the land mines and stopping when the trees became too thick. When the passenger's door opened, four armed Kurds ran out of the cave, each wearing a black
