Flash Point by James W. Huston Page A

with him, “Come,” he said, gesturing with his left hand, something not done in the Arab world — the left hand was for other things, and never part of conversation or polite gesturing.
    They followed him into another opening in the rock face, walking in near darkness through a tunnel, wet with condensation. They could hear the underground river below them, the river that no one outside knew about, which had sustained those who had come here through the centuries — the flowing water feeding the lush gardens hidden in the inner paths of the mountain.
    Coming out of the tunnel, they entered a green garden filled with waterfalls and ponds. Tired, their black robes dusty from their travels, they sat heavily on the stone ledge surrounding one of the fountains and waited. Two of the men drank from a spigot that spilled water into the fountain.
    When a man appeared the group stood as one and followed him, moving across a small entrance so low they were forced to duck down. The room into which they were ushered was light and dry, its openings and doors facing a deep cavern. The only approach to the room, the central space of this invisible fortress, was through the small cave and garden from which they had just passed.
    Here were thirty or so men, dressed in black like the newcomers, standing quietly around the room’s walls. A man in the middle of the room sat at the table studying a map. He made one final notation and rose. Six feet tall and solidly built, his weathered face was covered by a closely cut, stiff beard that was mostly black but had a hint of brown. His eyes were black and hidden in a shadow of his heavy brow. In his forties, he commanded the attention of everyone in the room, without protest or doubt. He spoke in beautiful Arabic, addressing the leader of the group that had just arrived. “Welcome back, Farouk. Your mission was a success. The reports preceded you.”
    “Thank you,” Farouk said. He looked directly at his leader, his gaze intense. “It went better than we had hoped. We lost no one.”
    “Excellent,” the bearded man replied. He glanced around, making sure no ears were present that shouldn’t be there. Satisfied, he continued. “You must rest and recuperate. In a very short time, I have another mission for you.”
    Farouk waited.
    “We have located the one about whom we spoke. We must strike first.”
    Farouk nodded. “When?”
    “Soon. And then it will be time to tell the world who we are. They must know. If they don’t fear us, we will never accomplish our goals.”
    “We will leave now if we must.”
    “Not yet. Perhaps tomorrow, but today, rest, refresh. For this will be the hardest thing I have yet asked you to do.” He pointed to the map on the table. “The plan is ready.”
     
5
     
    Woods and Wink stepped onto the flight deck and lowered their dark visors at the bright sunshine reflecting off the blue Mediterranean. The
George Washington
(CVN-73) moved slowly westward through the water away from the climbing sun. Woods handed his knee board to the plane captain who stood by the ladder to the Tomcat.
    “Morning, Benson,” Woods said, as he ducked under the wing to begin his preflight.
    “Morning, sir,” replied Airman Reece Benson.
    Woods knew Benson well. He was highly regarded in the squadron even though he was only nineteen. He cared a lot about his plane and the people who flew it. He took Woods’s knee board and Wink’s helmet bag, which never carried his helmet, just charts, navigation books, and knee board, and climbed up the ladder to store their gear in the cockpits.
    The wheels of the Tomcat straddled the centerline stripe at the very aft point of the flight deck, the round down. The back third of the plane protruded past the deck and hung over the sea. Woods checked every panel, every hole, every place where something might go wrong. He bent over and continued aft as far as he could go on each side without falling into the water. He ran his hands over the