The three SEALs huddled together. “Weapons?” Murdock said.
“We’ll need three of the Bull Pups,” Jaybird said. “No chance to get more rounds for them here.”
“I’d say the rest MP-5’s except for one 21-E machine gun,” DeWitt said.
Murdock nodded. “I agree, only just two of the Pups, and one more MP-5. We’ll be mostly close-in work. I’ll get to the local ordnance guy.”
Murdock sought out the Israeli ordnance man, and he and the SAS trooper went with him to work out the details for more ammunition and plastic explosives.
10
Omar Rahman sat behind his plain desk in the PLO headquarters building in Gaza City, staring out at the sea and rubbing his left knee. Where did the cartilage go? The X-ray showed almost none left between the bones in his left knee joint. Sometimes it hurt like a knife going deep into his thigh. He had felt knife wounds before. At those times he simply could not walk, couldn’t bend his knee. He sighed. Old age creeps up on a person. It certainly had on him. He was only sixty-two, and already he had the feeling his body was falling apart. He had been sturdy all his life, almost never sick, no broken bones, no heart problems, not even prostate difficulties as some of his friends had.
He looked out at the surf again past the gentle sloping sand. It was always a worry to him. They were naked here. Their leader, Yassir Arafat, was exposed and vulnerable. For a time they had planted mines in the inviting sand of the beach. Then two young girls ignored the warning signs and ran into the sand toward the inviting cool of the water just a few yards away. One of them died. The mines were taken out the next day.
Omar looked back at his desk. Why was there so much paperwork? He adjusted his store-bought magnifying glasses and read the letter again. More troubles on the West Bank. Didn’t they think the Leader had enough trouble here, and with his worldwide jaunts to promote Arab unity and the glory of Allah?
Darkness slipped up on Omar like an angry woman. He pushed his feet into his sandals and eased away from the desk. Standing was no problem as long as he had something to push up on with his hands. He did so now and tested the left knee. Easy, easy, now full weight. Yes, it was not painful right now, he could walk, he could check the guards. They were loyal to the cause and to Yassir, but still they needed reminding sometimes. There was always danger. The Jews could come creeping out of the water at any time. The guards were on one-hundred-percent alert all night, every night.
He worked around inside the complex of rooms to the four open sentry windows. The men with their automatic rifles sat well back in the rooms so they couldn’t be seen outside. The rooms were nearly dark. As light faded completely, the guards moved up to the windows where they had better firing lines. Nothing. Good.
Omar waved at the four, then went on to the rest of them. Ten guards every night. Only three times had they been needed, but they had saved several lives those nights.
After his rounds, Omar went to the former formal dining room. It had been changed into a mess hall where forty soldiers and workers could sit down at once. Tonight there would be visitors. More than twenty of the best of the leaders of the al Fatah and the Tanzim wing would be there for a conference, then an all-night planning session. They wouldn’t leave until at least three A.M. It would be an historic occasion. Yassir Arafat himself would chair the meeting until midnight. Then he had to take his armored car to the small airport where a plane was waiting for him.
Omar saw some of the early arrivals. He knew most of them. Shook hands, then picked up his evening meal from the line and ate at a table by himself. He knew the chef on duty tonight. Omar would send half a dozen rolls home to Hinda, his wife of forty years. He pushed stringy white hair back from his forehead. His beard was almost white now as well. If he trimmed it he would look elegant, but he preferred to let his wild hair have its own way, making him look unkempt and dirty. Dirty? Omar snorted. He took a bath every night.
Just before he left the compound, a messenger came with a letter for him. Omar opened it quickly. It was in writing, so it must be serious. He read it, then again. It was from Arafat, who said he would be late and might not get there at all. He asked Omar to stay for the meeting, and to help all he could until the session closed at three A.M.
Omar nodded to himself. A person loyal to the great Arafat did not even think of refusing a request from the great man. He would stay. Omar went back to the dining room, where the meal was almost over. He took another helping of the lamb stew. He would need the extra strength for the session tonight. Hinda would have to wait for her rolls. He put them in the white paper sack the cook had given him and took them back to his office. When he arrived home late the next morning, he would awaken Hinda and they would heat the rolls and eat them with strawberry jam. Hinda loved strawberry jam.
Back in the assembly room the meeting had begun. Nabil Oweida held the floor. He would fire up the members of the groups and urge them on to more and more action against Israel and the Americans. The young man hated the Americans almost as much as he did the Israelis.
“I tell you again, my fellow warriors for the glory of Allah. We must strike first, we must strike hard, we must strike every day of the year. We must kill the Americans, we must push the infidel Jews out of our holy lands.” Nabil Oweida paused and took a sip of water. He was young in Omar’s eyes. Young and idealistic, with that firebrand fervor that Omar had once projected himself. Oweida wasn’t tall of stature, probably no more than five feet six inches, but when he spoke, when he warmed to his subject, he came across to the faithful as twenty feet tall.
“Tonight we will make plans to coordinate our efforts. We will strike the Jews wherever we find them. We will not allow peaceful coexistence. The very term shall be banned from further use. We will push the evil Jews into the sea and let their god rescue them.
“Do you remember Article One of the Palestinian National Covenant? Palestine is the homeland of the Arab—” He stopped and stared hard at the thirty leaders who sat in straight rows in front of him. “All of you who remember it, recite it with me. You all had to memorize it. Don’t let me down this early. Let’s try it again. Palestine is the homeland of the Arab Palestinian people; it is an indivisible part of the Arab homeland, and the Palestinian people are an integral part of the Arab nation.”
By the time they were halfway through, almost all of the men in the room were barking out the words. When they ended, there were shouts and screams of vengeance from every man there.
“This is our mandate, our responsibility, to drive the hated Jews out of Palestine where they have no business being in the first place. The United Nations made a great and horrendous blunder in 1948 when they divided Our Great Land into two sections, Israeli and Palestinian. Half of our homeland is now in enemy hands. We will continue to fight to regain it.
“Article Two, you must remember it: Palestine, with the boundaries it had during the British Mandate, is an indivisible territorial unit.”
Again a great cheer went up from the thirty-two Arab throats, and Omar felt his blood surging, felt the old hatreds surface, knew that he could go out tonight and, damn his knee, attack a Jewish settlement, fire a machine gun, plant a bomb in a Jewish market. Omar wiped sweat from his face, and realized that his whole body had responded and he was sweating like a he-goat chasing a female in season.
Nabil continued. “Perhaps you didn’t memorize Article Three, but you know what it says: The Palestinian Arab people possess the legal right to their homeland and have the right to determine their destiny after achieving the liberation of their country in accordance with their wishes and entirely of their own accord and will.”