First Strike by Ben Coes Page A

afternoon.”
    â€œGood luck,” said the female pilot.
    Dewey turned just as the hydraulic for the Gulfstream’s door made a series of low chimes, then pushed the door open and down, as a set of air stairs unfolded. He pulled out his phone and hit Speed Dial, calling Calibrisi once more.
    â€œI’m about to go in,” said Dewey.
    â€œYou get the add-on to the SPEC?”
    â€œYeah, that’s why I called. Tell your drone guys to back off. I don’t want to tip our hand.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œI gotta run.”
    He descended the steps just as a group of Israelis from the barracks building arrived beneath the jet. Two armed soldiers separated and formed a two-point cordon around Dewey and the two Israelis.
    â€œDewey,” came the booming, gravelly baritone voice of the older man, Menachem Dayan, Israel’s top military commander.
    â€œGeneral Dayan,” said Dewey as he stepped onto the tarmac. He grabbed Dayan’s hand and shook it vigorously.
    Dewey’s eyes moved to Dayan’s left.
    â€œHi, Dewey,” said the younger man in tactical camo, Kohl Meir.
    Dewey grinned, stepped to Meir, and grabbed his hand.
    â€œHi, Kohl. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”
    â€œYou think I’m going to let you go inside Syria without me? You’ll be dead in fifteen minutes.”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œWe need to get you rigged up and moving,” said Dayan. “We have a tight window to get over the valley.”
    Dewey followed them to the barracks. He was led to a brightly lit room lined on both sides with lockers. In the middle of the room stood an elevated chair, like a barber’s chair. A tall woman in a white uniform was already in the room. Dayan nodded to her and she moved to Dewey’s side, quickly measuring him, then searched a long rack of clothing at the back of the room. She returned with an outfit, which Dewey changed into: a dark gray robe with red piping and a red sash.
    Dewey stepped to a mirror and examined himself, a slightly quizzical appearance on his face.
    â€œReligious garb,” said Dayan. “You will be dressed like an aging cleric.”
    â€œDoes this mean I can perform weddings?” asked Dewey.
    Dayan and Meir ignored Dewey’s joke.
    â€œThe SLA usually leave the clerics alone,” said Meir. “If you were smaller, perhaps we could dress you up like a woman, but I don’t think there are any six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Syrian women running around.”
    â€œTwo twenty-five,” said Dewey.
    Meir arched his eyebrows as he scanned Dewey from head to toe.
    â€œSure, Dewey.” He nodded, a big shit-eating grin on his face. Meir looked at Dayan.
    â€œHe must be, how do you say, ‘big boned,’” added Dayan, grinning.
    Dewey laughed, shaking his head.
    The woman snapped a finger and motioned for Dewey to take a seat in the elevated chair.
    She studied his skin for several seconds. “You’re tan,” she said. “That’s helpful.”
    She dusted Dewey’s face with a light layer of makeup, which had hints of black, making his skin appear more weathered and old. Then she colored his hair with dry dye, making Dewey’s hair mostly gray with some remnant black. Unlike wet dye, it would wash out. She did the same with his mustache and beard.
    â€œThis is designed to hold for a short period of time,” she said. “If you need to, it will all wash out and clean off with water and soap. It will not last more than a day.”
    As she worked on Dewey, Dayan and Meir stood in front of him. Dayan lit a cigarette. Meir stood, arms crossed.
    â€œWhat if someone says something to me?” asked Dewey.
    Dayan shook his head, grinning.
    â€œDon’t open your fucking mouth,” he said. “Trust me. You’re like baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet all rolled up into a gorilla. Even the clerics will try to kill