Kella had to slow down as she negotiated wide-paced steps, eventually winding up on a small parking lot with pedestrian-only access to the beach. She shut off the bike motor to listen.
***
Kazemi piloted his boat due west, away from the bridge and toward the Soledad. His four passengers stayed below deck, while he hoped the Coast Guard vessels were not out so early in the morning. Now comes the hard part, he thought. Navigating through the fog using charts and the boat’s depth finder. The sun was up, and daylight was breaking, but with the fog it didn’t help.
Worse, what should have been a black exfiltration had become a well-witnessed spectacle, including the loss of one of the team. How long would it take for the Coast Guard to come after them? They had all heard the shooting and been forced to leave the Raider behind. They were all confident the Raider, if he was still alive, would not reveal the escape plan, at least not until they were safely aboard the Soledad. But their greatest advantages—surprise, stealth, and deception—were long gone. The SWAT teams that had been lured to the airport by the public statements orchestrated by the general had probably been called off.
Kazemi examined his charts again. Instead of skirting the coves and inlets of the coast, he would avoid the rocks and take the safer route: first west, then north, and then east to the beach. He preferred to deal with visible dangers than underwater hazards.
Failing to reach the general on his cell to inform him that four of the five team members were safely on his boat, he had not been in communication with him since the night before. He could only assume the general was alive and on his way to the beach. But what if the FBI or the CIA had captured him?
Perhaps he should go straight to the Soledad.
***
The general had seen the motorcycle and the SUV turn around near the overlook to move in his direction. What would these people be doing in this area at this time of the morning? And why would they be following him? Whatever the answer, it did not augur well. He plunged ahead even faster in the fog.
Although he and his bodyguard had been on this road with Kazemi a few days before, their reconnaissance had been in daytime. The little there was to see no longer looked familiar. Yosemani also struggled to find his bearings in the fog. Rather than leave his car by the side of the road to take the hikers’ shortcut down to the beach, he had decided to drive past the lagoon to hide the car among the empty buildings of Fort Cronkhite and then go to meet up with Kazemi.
The Fort, they had learned during their survey of the area, was now only a tourist attraction, but once it had been part of the West Coast’s defensive system against a possible Japanese invasion force. Battery Townsley, on the other side of the Fort, had two 16-inch guns capable of firing one-ton shells a distance of over twenty-five miles. The three men had grinned at the primitive defenses. The American Marines would be greatly surprised if they ever decided to assault Iran’s coastline.
The car had followed him over the causeway past the lagoon. This was no longer a coincidence; the black SUV was definitely in pursuit. He turned off his lights and turned away from the fort’s visitor parking lot to enter a ghost town of empty military barracks.
Events had moved faster than anticipated. The beach pick up had been scheduled between 0630 and 0645. He looked at his watch. He had at least fifteen minutes to wait. Knowing there were no hiding places on the beach, he looked in his rear view mirror to confirm the SUV did not have a line of sight on him. He made a quick turn between two buildings and parked in back of one. Making sure he had his automatic weapon and the laser-signaling device, with which he would show his position to Kazemi, he left the Hummer and ran toward the building closest to the beach.
***
Steve had lost sight of the Hummer after he crossed the causeway. He glanced at the SUV’s GPS map. The narrow road did not go farther than Fort Cronkhite and dead-ended at Battery Townsley. He swung into the visitor’s parking lot and, not seeing the Hummer, drove along the empty streets separating the barracks. He decided to park across the road in front of the parking lot to block the general’s exit. He turned off his lights and called Al.
“Al,” he said, “the general’s playing hide and seek with me. Get the bird over here. Over.”
“You’ll have to give me a few minutes. I’ve been keeping track of the boat, which is now west of the bridge and turning north. He could be heading out to sea. Over.”
“Or he could be heading to Rodeo Beach, which is where I followed the Hummer. He’s somewhere between the beach and Fort Cronkhite. But I can’t find his car. If I could find the Hummer, then I’ll have my hands on the remote triggering device. Can you get Skylark 3 in the air? We may need it since the Coast Guard doesn’t seem to be around.”
“You freaking civilians don’t have a clue. Do you know it normally takes a crew of five people to operate one of these birds? Now you’re asking me to handle two by myself. America’s Got Talent, here I come!”
“Just tell me where the Hummer is. Out.”
Steve left the SUV blocking the entrance to the fort. Even if the general tried to break out, he would make enough racket to alert him, and he could call Al to put the bird on his tail. Wearing his night goggles and carrying his H&K417, he jogged down the road, making sure he stayed between the beach and the nearest building to the beach. Immediately regretting he had not also called Kella to determine her position, he headed toward the first barracks in a crouch but feeling very exposed.
He had not gone more than ten yards when he felt his transceiver vibrate. He kept on running until he reached a dry irrigation gully that crossed a field in front of the barracks.
“I got it!” Al said. “The Hummer is behind the fifth building from the right looking from the water. Second street from where you are; they all parallel the water. Over.”
“Thanks. Out.”
Staying hidden in the ditch, Steve quietly called Kella. “Our guy is somewhere in Fort Cronkhite. I’m between the parking lot and the barracks heading to the right. I’m looking for the Hummer where I expect to find the electronic trigger. That leaves you as his door to the beach. Remember, he’s probably got night goggles, too.”
***
Scanning the road leading back to the overlook with his binoculars from the second floor of the barracks, the general saw the SUV blocking the entrance but no movement. He had expected a team of at least four men. Now he wondered why they did not simply assault the building if they knew where he was. Once the Hummer was found, they would call for reinforcements and begin tightening the noose. He lifted his scan toward the beach to see if Kazemi’s boat was nearing: nothing. He resolved to not stay hidden long enough to be killed like a rat. He would keep moving.
Yosemani ran down the stairs and out a back door. Making his way from building to building, he directed his steps toward Battery Townsley. A gusty breeze was starting to lift the fog, and he remembered the road to the battery was devoid of cover. But he had taught his soldiers to excel at cover and concealment during the Iraq-Iran war, and he was confident he would find a way.
***
“Al,” Steve said on the transceiver, “I’ve got it, it’s in a briefcase. How do I turn it off? There are several switches, including a red button. Can I assume that’s the one I shouldn’t touch?”
“Don’t touch anything! Now that you’ve got it, can I turn off the jammer? Then we can have communications with the rest of the world and let the FBI pukes earn their salaries.”
“Okay, turn off the jammer. But I’m too busy to start calling JTTF. Where’s the boat?”
“Funny thing you should ask. The boat’s heading inland, toward Rodeo Beach.”
“Kella,” Steve called on the radio, “I’ve got the trigger, but he could be in any one of thirty or forty buildings. Our only chance is to intercept him when he tries to get to the beach, which is where Al says the boat’s heading. Go up the coast about a hundred yards away from the water’s edge, and I’ll come to you.”
***
A fiery red ball was now rising well above the horizon, burning through the fog and shining straight in the general’s eyes. He pulled down the brim of his Yankees cap and put on sunglasses. Hiding under the huge, semicircular concrete overhang that had protected the fort’s 16-inch guns, he thought the position would be excellent for defense, even for a man in his situation. But he had no intention of getting into a firefight with the Americans. He would get to the boat, make it back to Iran, and continue his country’s struggle with the Great Satan.
He looked at his watch again. Although he could not see the boat, he expected it to arrive at any moment and, looking carefully to each side, he sprinted silently across the road and started to negotiate a steep descent toward the water.
***
Kella had left her bike and the beach behind and, staying about halfway between the water and the road, she headed toward Battery Townsley. The narrow road from the Rodeo Beach parking lot was about fifty feet above the shore and, closed to visitor traffic, it stopped in front of the battery. Although this was not the ideal geography for a boat pick up, it would not be impossible for the general to get on board, she reasoned.
She chose a recess among the rocks and woody shrubs halfway up the hill and, turning her back to the bay, she scanned left and right up the hill then waited, her hand on her weapon.
***
Yosemani watched the woman choose and settle into her place of concealment. He was surprised the Americans allowed women in their SWAT units, if that was what he was dealing with. But where were the ten or eleven others that usually made up a SWAT team? Adjusting the binoculars, he could just make out her profile. He was surprised again. He now recognized her as Kella Hastings, who had pretended to be someone else in Brussels. If the Hastings woman was here, he thought, Steve Church must be the driver of the black SUV. He felt confident that despite his lack of field experience in recent years, he could still best two young Americans at this game. Church presumably had more men with him. He pointed his binoculars toward the water and finally saw the outline of Kazemi’s boat approaching the beach. He calculated the distance to the girl to be 50 yards or less. He needed to take her out before she could hear the boat. But he needed to do it quietly, to avoid bringing Church and others to her assistance. Trusting that the sound of the waves would cover his approach, he started to move toward her, unsheathing a serrated knife from his jacket.
***
Steve was now on the bay side of a small public restroom, a brick structure looking inland, when a muffled engine sound made him turn around. “Kella,” he said in his lapel mic, “I can see the boat. It cannot be farther than seventy-five yards or so. There’s no one on the beach, so I assume the general must be near the battery, closer to you. I’m starting to move in your direction.”
He picked up the briefcase containing the remote triggering device and, keeping the building and some small evergreens between him and the boat, he started running toward Kella’s position.
***
Seeing the boat approach, the general, now only twenty-five yards from Kella, was forced to turn his attention away from her and toward the boat. Crouching behind the bushes, he pointed his laser device toward Kazemi and began signaling to him.
***
Kella was now facing the bay. She had to stand in order to see the boat and, in that position, she could see the back of a man below her near the water. Almost as soon as she realized her quarry was so close, a hail of bullets struck to her right and she hit the ground instantly, trying to lie as low as possible. The firing must have come from the boat. She looked toward the beach and could now see Steve stopped, crouching and looking toward her.
She heard more firing. This time the bullets were aimed at Steve, whom she could no longer see.
Then she heard noise below her and crawled away from her first location. Peering around the bushes, she could see the general starting to wade toward the boat, which was now only ten yards away from him.
“Like hell,” she said out loud, reaching for her semi-automatic rifle. But just as she lined up to fire, the boat exploded, propelling the two shooters off its deck like rockets. A few seconds later, she caught sight of one of Al’s birds, and then the other, circling a hundred feet or so above the boat like hawks. The general, momentarily stunned, had dropped under the water.
She jumped up and ran toward the shore. When he resurfaced, she shouted, “Get your hands up!”
The general froze in place, but then she saw him pivot and draw a pistol from his jacket with lightning speed, aiming it at her.
They fired almost at the same time, but her bullets punched into the general’s body first, pushing him off balance. However, his first shot hit Kella causing her to fall sideways.
49. The Oval Office
“I hope this meeting is not too soon after your recovery, Kella,” President Tremaine said sitting with his back to a fireplace bookended by white Corinthian columns.
“Fortunately, Yosemani’s shot hit my Kevlar vest,” Kella replied from a white sofa perpendicular to the fireplace and the president’s massive wooden desk. “What’s another bruise?” she said with a rueful smile.
“I’m glad you’re taking it so lightly but I’m not surprised. You’re definitely my hero. However, I’m highly upset,” President Tremaine said, feigning insult. “Thérèse tells me you two got married. I thought we had an agreement that I was going to be invited.”
Marshall in his power chair next to the president grinned, as he and everyone else looked toward Steve and Kella, who sat together. Vice President Baxter occupied a brown leather armchair on the other side of the president.
“Mr. President,” Steve said, “We were taking care of business in Romania up to the day before the wedding. We really didn’t know for sure it was going to take place at all.”
“The wedding was in Paris,” Marshall said, “and neither my wife nor I attended, either. But we are planning to give our dynamic duo a reception, and you can be sure everyone in this room will be invited.” He navigated his power chair onto the oval gold rug that reflected the design of the ceiling and the earth tones of the wallpaper. He glanced at Frederick Remington’s “Bronco Buster” bronze statue his left and wondered if it had replaced the bust of Winston Churchill that Tremaine had returned to the British government in a fit of pique at Great Britain’s colonial past.
“What I don’t get,” Baxter said, “is how you had time to get married between capturing an Iranian hit team in Romania and stopping what would have been the worst terrorist attack since 9/11.”
“Steve and Kella’s original mission,” LaFont said from the other sofa, “was to capture the Quds Force commanding general while he was in Belgium. The order was rescinded, until he got too cocky and overplayed his hand by coming here.”
“That was not my decision, you understand,” Tremaine said. “That was Dalton. My decision to hire her was based on a positive background check. Obviously, that procedure needs to be fixed. What was her code name again?”
“The Nightingale, Sir,” Kella said. “She and General Yosemani were husband and wife.”
“Mr. President,” Baxter said, “It is my considered opinion infiltrating the senior White House staff and trying to destroy the Golden Gate Bridge, an American icon and a major economic pathway to a major urban center, are acts of war.”
Before Tremaine could react, LaFont leaned forward in her seat and spoke. “Events were moving so fast, sir, we did not have time to brief you fully on Yosemani’s total plan. He had also intended to bomb our headquarters building on the same day as the San Francisco attack.”
She looked toward Marshall, who picked it up from there. “The media will have the story tomorrow,” he said. “They will report two small explosions, one at the commuter bus stop inside the CIA compound, and another in the cafeteria. The number of casualties will be unknown as well as the terrorist group responsible for the attack.”
“What really happened?”
Tremaine asked, looking at LaFont.
“We were able to monitor the planning for the attack through a double-agent operation. And this is the part of the story that can never become public. If it did become public, our agent’s life would be in danger, and we believe we can continue to run her against Iranian intelligence by allowing them to believe she was successful.”
“Deception can be a two-way street,” Tremaine said. “The Persians claim they invented chess. Maybe, but this time we checkmated them.”
“By the way, Mr. President,” LaFont said, “five of the seven survived, and one of them, who was living in California under deep cover, has asked for asylum if we can get his girlfriend over here, which is entirely doable.”
“Will this knowledge, as well as the intelligence that will come out of Yosemani’s interrogation, be useful during the negotiations you are about to have with the Iranians?” Steve asked.
“All acts of war!” Baxter said. “Instead of keeping everything secret, we should be publicizing these damnable acts of Iranian terrorism. And before then, we should fire a few dozen Tomahawk missiles against their Ministry of Intelligence or whoever the Quds Force works for. That’s what we should have done when they held our diplomats hostage for 444 days, when their Hizballah puppets blew up the Marine barracks and the American Embassy in Beirut, when their ally al Qaeda car-bombed Khobar Towers and sent a suicide boat against the U.S.S. Cole.”
“Tomahawk missiles would certainly teach them that attacking the United States has consequences,” Marshall said. “But in the short term, as Vice President Baxter’s ideas can be considered, we could expel Iranian intelligence officers and persuade our allies to do the same. If I can comment on the forthcoming negotiations, I would not be surprised if the Iranians suggested Iran and the United States should be allies rather than enemies in Syria, because we should be more concerned about the radical Muslim then about the al-Assad regime. And that’s probably an analysis shared by the Israelis.”
The Red Cell Page 23
