First Strike by Ben Coes Page B

you.”
    Dayan and Meir briefed him on the upcoming helicopter trip.
    â€œSyria has always been a level-one, on-the-dirt environment,” Dayan said. “It’s not safe. When I was in Sayeret Metkal, I preferred going to Beirut over Damascus. The Syrians are a bizarre, violent, untrustworthy people. Now it’s far more dangerous. You have a very paranoid Syrian Army, you have Russians, and you have local police and militia who are loyal to the Assads running around killing anyone they suspect could be affiliated with ISIS. I don’t like it. Whatever you’re going to Damascus for, it better be damn well worth your life.”
    â€œDamascus is very chaotic right now,” added Meir. “Refugees are everywhere. NGOs, aid groups. Mercenaries protecting them. It’s a humanitarian crisis. So it will be busy, hectic, and overflowing with people. Everyone from the smaller cities is coming there to get away from the war zones. Within the overall chaos, it should be relatively straightforward. You’ll blend in fine. I tend to worry less about the Syrian regulars. What you need to watch out for is ISIS. They’re inside Damascus, according to our sources.”
    â€œCan you tell us anything about the operation?” asked Dayan.
    â€œIt’s an exfiltration. Two VIPs, an American and an A-Rab.”
    â€œWho is he?”
    Dewey glanced at Dayan and Meir. “A top-level informant inside ISIS.”
    Meir was quiet as he registered Dewey’s words.
    â€œHis name?” asked Dayan.
    â€œHis name’s irrelevant.”
    â€œIf he played the run-up to the meeting incorrectly and ISIS suspects something, you’ll be compromised too,” said Dayan. “Is there some sort of check-in before you hang your neck out?”
    Dewey shook his head.
    â€œDewey,” said Dayan with a concerned look on his face, “I don’t need to tell you what happens if they capture you.”
    â€œThey’ll kill you,” said Meir. “Or worse.”
    â€œWhat’s worse than getting killed, Kohl?”
    â€œI would say being burned alive or having your head chopped off would be worse.”
    Dayan glanced at his watch.
    â€œLet’s go.”
    *   *   *
    They walked past the CIA jet to a helicopter—dull black, side door ajar, rotors slashing the air in violent rhythm. Dewey recognized the model: Eurocopter AS565 Panther, a medium-duty very fast combat chopper that constituted the heart of the Israeli Special Forces chopper capability set.
    Dewey turned to Dayan at the side door. “Bless you, son,” he said, bowing, getting into the spirit of his costume.
    Dayan laughed.
    â€œJackass,” he said, shaking Dewey’s hand. “See you guys tomorrow. Be careful.”
    The chopper rose beneath a black, wind-whipped sky. Dewey looked out the window at the massive spread of Ramat David Airbase, alight with activity: jets taking off, jets landing, refuel trucks moving, lines of soldiers running in formation around the edges of the buildings, barracks lit up. A hundred feet above the tarmac, the Panther suddenly tilted hard right, then ripped sideways as the pilot cut north toward the Golan Heights and, beyond, the Syrian border.

 
    13
    ALEPPO, SYRIA
    Aleppo, at three o’clock in the afternoon, was dry, dusty, and hot. That was normal in the desert city located in the windswept plains at the center of the country. What wasn’t normal were the swirling chimneys of smoke floating in all directions, dissipating at rooflines into dystopian clouds of smog. Fires burned in more than a dozen places. Automatic weapon fire rattled the air and provided a steady drumbeat to the afternoon. The mechanical rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire was interrupted by the occasional deep bassoon of a rocket-propelled grenade exploding or the high-pitched falsetto of a shoulder-fired missile as it tore into the limelight for a half second before