Operation Golden Dawn Read online

  Operation Golden Dawn

  George Wallace

  OPERATION GOLDEN DAWN

  Copyright © 2013 by George Wallace.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Severn River Publishing

  www.SevernRiverPublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-031-1 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64875-032-8 (Hardback)

  Contents

  Also by George Wallace

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Join the Reader List

  You Might Also Enjoy…

  Thanks for Reading

  Final Bearing

  FINAL BEARING: Prologue

  FINAL BEARING: Chapter 1

  FINAL BEARING: Chapter 2

  Read Final Bearing

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by George Wallace

  By George Wallace

  Operation Golden Dawn

  With Don Keith

  The Hunter Killer Series

  Final Bearing

  Dangerous Grounds

  Cuban Deep

  Fast Attack

  Arabian Storm

  Warshot

  Hunter Killer

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  Wallace-Keith.com/Newsletter

  Prologue

  12 Jul 1974, 1530LT (1330Z)

  The scorching hot sun burned through the dusty haze, painting Mdoukha with a burnished golden glow. The ancient village, little more than a clutch of mud huts haphazardly thrown up alongside a stone road, sat high up on the Eastern edge of the Bekaa Valley, hard against the mountains marking Lebanon’s border with Syria. Little had changed since the same road had been trod by Roman legions two millennia ago, save the granite being worn down by generations of wandering feet, ox carts, and recently the stray car.

  Twelve-year old Mustaf al Shatar sat on the ground; his back braced against the olive tree. The weathered, scarred tree inhabited a tiny, narrow space between the main street and the open fronted ramshackle cafe. The shop served dark, bitter Turkish coffee to old men who sat and argued the day away. The arguments always covered the same topics, the unbelievable injustice the Western World had visited on the Palestinian people and retribution to be exacted on the Israelis when they regained their rightful homeland.

  Mustaf half listened to the chatter as he idly tossed pebbles at an ant struggling to carry its load back to the nest. The hot afternoon sun, barely filtered by the scraggly blue-green leaves, beat down on his shoulders.

  The young boy watched the dust swirl in thick clouds behind the cars as they roared up to the bedraggled two-story building across the street. Mustaf counted more than a dozen as they stopped only long enough to disgorge their robed and turbaned passenger’s. Papa was hosting an important meeting in their cramped second floor apartment. He sent Mustaf out to watch over his seven-year old sister, Rachel. With so much traffic, it wasn’t safe for her to play alone on the street and the apartment was much too small for her and all the important guests.

  The Mercedes and Citroens roared off as fast as they arrived. Parking and waiting anywhere near here would only draw the Israeli’s war birds. Even the tiny farming village was constantly under their prying eyes.

  Mustaf tossed another pebble, smashing the ant just before it reached the fissure in the gnarly old olive tree’s bark that it called home. He looked around for another target to vent his frustration. Sitting out here babysitting a little sister was beneath the dignity of a Palestinian freedom fighter. He should be upstairs with Papa, planning another daring raid across the no-mans-land into Israel. He was a warrior, not a child.

  Maybe Papa really wanted him to guard the meeting. That was it! Papa knew Mustaf was smart and brave. Papa knew that Mustaf would figure out the real mission. He would sit out here and guard against any surprise attack from the Israelis. If they came, he would shout out a warning and charge into the fight.

  His right hand drifted under his robe so that he could feel the soft leather of his sling. He clenched his jaw tightly and looked grimly up and down the road. He carefully selected a half-dozen stones of just the right size and shape, and put them in his other pocket. He was ready.

  Rachel scampered by on some imaginary errand, clutching her doll in one hand as she chattered to some make-believe friend.

  Mustaf wasn’t quite sure what Father did for Uncle Yassir, but he knew it was important and dangerous. Father was fighting for the return of Palestine and the end of the Jewish invasion. Someday Mustaf would be a famous freedom fighter, too.

  This house was so very different from the one they had just left in Beirut. A faint smile flitted across Mustaf’s young face as memories flooded back; the bustling market, all his friends, the house he loved and the busy excitement of the city.

  Then, early one morning, Father appeared unexpectedly, weeks before he was supposed to return. He spoke quietly and quickly to Mama. Words that Mustaf couldn’t hear. But he sensed the fear descending over Mama. The family rushed out of the Beirut house, leaving everything behind, even his best soccer ball.

  Father drove the small Fiat at breakneck speed, out of the city and across the broad valley. He barely slowed for the military checkpoints that dotted the road. The guards seemed to know they were coming and waved them on through. Still, the trip took all day, jolting over dusty, bumpy back roads, avoiding villages along the way. At last Papa screeched to a halt in front of this house.

  Today would likely be the last day in Mdoukha. Then they would be off to some other tiny apartment in some other dusty town. Papa explained to them every move was necessary to protect them from the Mossad and the Israeli bombs. Papa kept them moving too much for Mustaf and Rachel to have any real friends, only make-believe ones and, of course, each other.

  Momma complained every time they moved. Mustaf listened through the paper-thin walls as Papa and Momma argued long into the night; Momma complaining that the children had no friends and were not getting any education. Papa yelling back that friends were a luxury they couldn’t afford. Except for reading the Quoran, schooling would come when they had a homeland of their own.

  Papa was a leader in the holy fight to regain their rightful homeland. He was a fighter who had won many battles against the Israelis. Scores of freedom fighters in the fedayeen followed Papa on his jihad.

  Papa trusted no one outside the family, except possibly a very select f
ew in the Palestine Liberation Organization. The Mossad had agents everywhere. The hated Israeli secret service would search out and kill Papa and the family if they could. Mustaf learned early that a leader in battle had to be as wary of betrayal as he was fearless. In family was the only trust.

  Maybe they would be lucky this time and go to Damascus for a few months. Mustaf hoped so. The short time they lived there when he was four or five, when Rachel was born, was the happiest time of his young life.

  Damascus was such a big, bustling city. There was always something exciting to do and, for the only time in his life, Mustaf felt really safe. He could explore the warren of streets in the old city; enjoy a thousand adventures as he rushed through the bustling crowds.

  “Mustaf, come play with me,” Rachel wheedled. She grabbed his hand and tried to pull him upright. “You be the Papa and I’ll be the Momma.”

  She cradled her doll and smiled down at it. “Little Bea will be our baby.”

  Mustaf growled in his most manly voice, “Silence woman. I am on duty. Father ordered me to guard our house.” The boy stood and pulled his sling from under his robe. “No Israeli will sneak up on us.”

  “Oh, Musta,” Rachel giggled. “Father only said that to keep you busy. Now, come play with me.”

  Mustaf shook off her hand and growled, “I am a freedom fighter. I don’t have time to play baby games. I have to guard Papa’s meeting.”

  “Oh, pash!” Rachel cried, tears coming quickly into her deep brown eyes. “You aren’t guarding anything. You’re just being mean. You don’t want to play with me! I’m going to go tell Momma.”

  Rachel scampered across the street, her black hair streaming behind her just as another large black Mercedes screeched to a halt, barely missing the little girl. The back door flung open. A short, fat man dressed in wrinkled khaki fatigues and wearing a checkered turban clambered slowly out. A grizzled salt-and-pepper beard hid a pudgy face and beady black eyes.

  “Uncle Yassir,” Mustaf called out.

  The little man looked up and glanced across the street just as Rachel darted toward the apartment building. He smiled and waved at Mustaf and headed around behind the car, his arms opened wide to greet the boy.

  Rachel ran from the house, happily calling, “Uncle Yassir! Uncle Yassir! Candy! Did you bring candy.”

  Uncle Yassir smiled and waved at the young girl.

  Mustaf heard the roar before he saw anything. Four jets flew low and very fast. They just cleared the ridge top before screaming down the valley directly toward them. Mustaf barely had time to recognize the distinctive shape of an F-4 before he saw the black bombs fall away from under the wings. The vision of the Star of David on each wing burned into his brain as the jets past overhead, the screaming engines shaking the very earth.

  Mustaf watched in horror as the bombs dropped away and glided down, right at him. They fell in awful slow motion, coasting over the olive tree and across the street before slamming into the apartment. Piercing the walls and roof of the house, leaving holes where they flew through the dried mud and wood.

  Time slowed to a crawl. For a split second, nothing happened. Mustaf dared to hope they were duds. Then the house disappeared in a roaring blast of yellow, orange, and black. It hit Mustaf just a millisecond before the pressure wave tossed him to the ground. His world went dark.

  Mustaf slowly shook his head and blinked. The branches of the olive tree came into focus. Something wasn’t right. There weren’t any leaves on it. Where had the leaves gone? The acrid smell of smoldering rubber and plastic burned his nostrils.

  Mustaf eased himself up until he was sitting. The big jets came roaring down the street again. He could see the white Star of David painted on the sides of the American made F-4 Phantom jets as they roared overhead. He thought he saw the pilots smiling and waving.

  The pain changed in a flash to pure hate. Someone would pay. He would make the Americans and their stooges, the Israelis, pay. If it took all his life, they would pay. Mustaf yelled in absolute rage, shaking his fist, daring the pilots to come back and fight. He would kill them! He would kill them all!

  He looked across the street. Uncle Yassir was just rising from behind his limousine. The car was shattered, torn from shrapnel tossed from the explosion. But where was the apartment? Where were Momma and Papa? There was nothing but a burning, twisted pile of rubble where the old building had once stood. Heavy black smoke swirled and twisted in a massive column reaching toward the sky.

  The bitterness of his failure hit Mustaf with a hammer blow. Papa had sent him out to guard the family. He had let the Israelis attack. It was all his fault. If he had been quicker, stronger, braver; Papa and Momma would still be here.

  He slumped to the ground, tears welling from his eyes. Then he saw the doll’s torn, bloodstained arm. He knew he had lost everything.

  He pulled himself erect, using the olive tree to steady himself. The world swayed and whirled for a few seconds. The dizziness passed. He felt a strange burning pain from his cheek and felt the hot and sticky flow of blood running down the side of his face.

  Uncle Yassir lifted the boy by the shoulder. “Come, my son. We will fix your first war wound. Then we will teach you how to use that hate. Your battles have only just begun.”

  1

  15 Mar 1998, 0130LT (0130Z)

  Mustaf al Shatar pulled the black hood over his head, carefully adjusting the cloth. It mustn’t block his vision. His smoothly shaved face felt strange. His thick black beard normally hid the old scar, but the angry red welt was plainly visible as it zigzagged across his cheek. Mustaf ran his fingers lightly over the tortured tissue, reflecting that this was only a reminder of a much deeper scar in his heart. Rachel would be avenged.

  A fleeting smile crossed his face. A good, devout Moslem should not shave the proof of his manliness, but the exigencies of battle with the infidel necessitated a clean shave. Mustaf was a practical man and knew that Allah would smile on any action that brought grief to the enemies of the true faith. Tonight was a time for revenge.

  It felt good to be on an operational mission again, back amongst men of action instead of the political animals that inhabited the PLO headquarters. Uncle Yassir had taught him well, both in the arts of battle and in the political infighting needed to build an army. Mustaf had excelled at both, but only the rumbling growl of an AK-47 or the sight of the enemy’s blood brought any joy.

  Mustaf glanced around at his small team. These five had been with him in the training camps in Syria and Libya. They had fought with him in the Golan Heights and the occupied territories. They were men he trusted with his life.

  Six men in black coveralls crowded in the back of the speeding van. Their pockets bulged with extra clips of ammo and grenades. Each had a wickedly sharp assault knife strapped to the inside of their left calf, just above cloth and rubber combat boots.

  Moussiari sat at Mustaf’s right, just as he had for the last twenty years, ever since Uncle Yassir had brought the young orphan boy to the training camp hidden high on the Eastern side of the Bekaa Valley. Moussiari was a young freedom fighter then, but already blooded from the fighting in Beirut and a couple of airliner hijackings. Uncle Yassir charged Moussiari with guarding and training the boy. Mustaf learned the techniques of battle at Moussiari’s hand and the value of loyalty from the man’s devotion. The big man saved Mustaf’s life twice on earlier missions.

  Moussiari pulled open the aluminum trunk sitting in the center of the van, between their out-stretched legs. Six gleaming new AK-47 assault rifles rested inside, carefully secured in black foam.

  He grabbed a weapon, flung the action back and tossed it down the line. The man sitting next to the rear door caught the rifle, slammed a magazine home and slid a round into the chamber. Moussiari picked up the next AK-47 and passed it down. He repeated this until there were only two left. He held one up for Mustaf before taking the last one for himself.

  Mustaf snatched the Kalashnikov from Moussiari’s hand and w
orked the action, ramming a round into the chamber. The rough, powerful shape of the Russian automatic rifle felt good. It had been too long since he had last felt the weapon’s heavy recoil or heard its deep bark.

  Mustaf leaned back against the van’s metal side and tried to ease the tension in his taunt muscles. He smiled as he remembered how it was always like this just before a mission, as if his body was coiling to strike.

  Where had all the time gone? Had it really been five years since he last led a team of fedayeen on a mission of jihad? What would his Wahabi say if he knew that his star pupil had wasted his time playing political games?

  Mustaf shrugged. Such was life. Politics bred power. Power was the name of the game. Righteous causes counted for nothing. Alliances for even less. He would grab as much power as possible, and then the world would feel his pain. He would avenge the murder of his family.

  Moussiari asked quietly, his voice heavy with worry, “Are you sure you want to do this, my leader? The team can finish this mission. There is no reason to endanger you.”

  Mustaf glanced across the van. The big, dark featured Iraqi could always be counted on to be at his side or covering Mustaf’s back.

  “My friend,” Mustaf whispered. “I need to do this. Do you want our men to think I am some weak political animal like Uncle Yassir, ready to bend whichever way the wind blows? The rifle is my right hand, the bomb my tool. Allah must be avenged! Our cause is righteous.”