Acts of War

There was a short consultation on the other end. 'Captain Galata says you are to proceed at your own discretion,' the dispatcher told him. 'What about the Syrian border guards?'

'Both men are inside the booth,' said the pilot. 'They appear to be unharmed. Do you want us to try and raise them?'

'Negative,' said the dispatcher. 'They'll be contacted through government channels.'

The pilot wasn't surprised. If the dead and dying were Syrians, then the Syrian border guards would not say anything to the Turks. If they were Turks, the Syrians would not be believed. Just getting the pilots across the border to talk to them would require high-level approvals. The entire process would be a long and practically useless exercise.

The pilot dropped the 500D to forty feet. He circled again. The rotor whipped the loose sands and obscured their view. He told the copilot they were going to have to land.

The chopper settled down nearly fifty yards from the three cars. Both men retrieved old Model 1968 submachine guns from the wall rack just inside the cabin. They put on goggles to protect themselves from sands swirled by the rotor blades. The copilot exited first. He shut his door and came around to the pilot's side. Then the pilot got out. He left the rotor on in case they had to get away quickly. He closed his door. The men walked one behind the other toward the first car, a Cadillac, where the driver was still alive.

The man was leaning through the partly open window. His arm was hanging along the door, blood dribbling from under the sleeve of his robe, down to his fingers, and onto the sand. He looked up with obvious effort.

'Help me.'

The copilot raised his weapon. He looked to the left and to the right. The pilot walked in front of him, his weapon pointed up.

The pilot turned. 'Cover me,' he said as they neared the car.

The copilot stopped, tucked the stock of his weapon against his shoulder, and aimed the gun at the driver. The pilot continued to walk ahead, slowing as he neared the vehicle. He peered into the back and then walked sideways, moving around the car and bending to make sure no one was hiding beneath it. He checked the blown tires and then returned to the driver's side.

The bearded man looked up at him.

'Who are you?' the pilot asked.

The man tried to speak. His voice was a whisper.

The pilot leaned closer. 'Say it again.'

The driver swallowed. He raised his bloody hand. And then with one swift and fluid motion he reached behind the pilot's neck and pulled his forehead hard into the top edge of the open window.

The pilot was blocking the copilot's fire. As he shifted to shoot, a man rose from the sand behind him. He had been lying beneath it, his gun at his side; the Turk never saw the burst of gunfire that ended his life. As soon as he went down, Walid released the pilot. The Turk staggered back and fell. Sand was still falling from Mahmoud's shirt and trousers as he shot the pilot.

Ibrahim rose from the sand on the other side of the car. He had been waiting there in case the helicopter had landed on that side. The other Syrians climbed from the trunks of the three cars.

Walid opened the door and got out. He untied the leather thong around his upper arm and removed the packet of goat's blood that was under his sleeve. He threw it into the car, then retrieved the pistol that had been under his right thigh. He tucked it into his belt.

Walid jogged toward the helicopter. 'We lost no one,' he shouted proudly. 'The extra men we brought — not needed. You planned well, Mahmoud.'

'Al-fi shukr,' Mahmoud replied as he vigorously brushed sand from his hair. 'Thank you very much.'

Ibrahim ran after Walid. Except for the former Syrian Air Force pilot, Ibrahim was the only one with any knowledge of helicopters.

'I feared—' said Ibrahim, angrily spitting sand. 'I feared the rotors might uncover us.'

'Then I would have shot the Turks,' Walid said as he opened the pilot's-side door. Before he got in, he put his hand over the switch to turn off the radio.

Ibrahim went around to the copilot's door. As the other men came running over, he prepared to close down the helicopter's tracking beacon. When Walid nodded, he and Ibrahim shut the switches simultaneously. At Mardin, the Turks would assume the helicopter had suddenly lost power and gone down. Rescue efforts would be centered on the flight path.

'The Turks are not what bothers me,' Ibrahim said. 'We planned every detail of this operation. I repaired helicopters and you flew them. Yet neither one of us anticipated that.'

'There is always the unexpected,' Walid pointed out as he climbed into the cockpit.

'That's true,' Ibrahim said. 'But this was our area of expertise.'

'Which is why we overlooked it,' Walid snapped. 'This was a warning. We are told, 'Nor do We punish a nation until We have sent forth an apostle to forewarn them.' We have been forewarned.'

Ibrahim reflected on Walid's words as the other men ran over. Three of them embraced the others and wished them well. Then they returned to the cars to drive them back to Syria. With a helicopter gunship at their back, the Syrian, guards would let them through without any questions. Nor would they help investigators from Damascus or Ankara, for fear of reprisals.

'Now we don't look back,' Walid said to the three men in the helicopter. 'We look ahead. Backup aircraft will be here in less than ten minutes.' Walid glanced over his shoulder. 'Are you ready?'

Mahmoud had waited for the other man, Hasan, their radio operator, to get in. Extra containers of fuel were loaded from the car, along with a backpack, which was handled gingerly. It was studded from the inside out with nails. When Ibrahim had settled into his seat with the backpack nestled between his feet, Mahmoud climbed,aboard.

'We're ready,' Mahmoud said, shutting the door.

Without a word Walid checked his instruments and throttled up, and the helicopter was airborne.

Ibrahim watched the desert sink away. The road became lace, patches of asphalt covered with patterns of sand, and the carnage below became even more impersonal. He turned his face to the sun. It burned through the windshield, dwarfing the efforts of the air-conditioner to keep them cool.

As we will burn through the Turks for attempting to keep our own fires from burning, Ibrahim thought.

Walid was right. They'd made a miscalculation; just one. And they'd still managed to achieve their goal. Now they must look ahead to the next, much bigger target. To an adventure that would be celebrated throughout the Kurdish world. To an act which would force the world to pay long-overdue attention to their plight.

To the beginning of the end of the world order as it stood.

SEVEN

Monday, 7:56 a.m.,

Washington, D.C.

'I'm unhappy about it too, Matt,' Paul Hood said as he finished his first Op-Center cup of coffee. 'Stephen Viens has been a good friend of ours and I'd like to help him.'

'Then let's,' Stoll said. He sat on the couch to the left of the door, nervously moving his knee up and down. 'Cripes, we're secret agents. Let's abduct the guy and give him a new identity.'

Hood frowned. 'I'm open to serious suggestions.'

Stoll continued to look at Hood instead of at Political and Economics Officer Martha Mackall. She sat to his left on the couch. Her arms were crossed and she wore an unsympathetic expression.

'Awright, I don't know what we can do,' Stoll admitted. 'But the bloodhounds on the Hill won't get to work for another ninety minutes or so. We can do something by then. Maybe we can put together a list of the missions Stephen's assisted us on. Or we can bring in people whose lives he's saved. Jesus, that's got to count for something.'

'Not unless those lives add up to a hell of a lot of votes,' Hood said.