Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)
Page 7
Or maybe not.
Truth? Another writer had said it was the first casualty of war. Harry was more inclined to the second opinion. But they were past the point of no return. They were going in…
Fifteen minutes later, a C-130 Hercules transport aircraft rose from a small military airfield north of Tel Aviv, heading west, across Syrian airspace, across northern Iraq, flying low to avoid detection by the American military radars. Destination: Iran…
Chapter Four
1:32 A.M. Tehran Time, September 24th
The base camp
Iran
Major Farshid Hossein glanced at his watch, shading its luminous dial with his hand. It was time. They would come—now, when a man’s bodily functions were at their lowest ebb. They would be warriors of the night, the elite of their nation, highly-trained and motivated.
Their training would do them no good. They would be dead before they could even reach the ground. He and his men would kill any that survived.
The night air chilled him and he wrapped his uniform jacket tight around his body. All around him, mountains towered toward Paradise, some of them already capped with snow. Beyond them, to the northeast, the shores of the Caspian.
The pack of Marlboros was tucked securely in his shirt pocket. He wanted one, but didn’t dare. He knew from experience how far away the glowing ember of a cigarette could be seen, how it robbed a man of his night vision. He would need all of his faculties in the next few hours. He walked back to the TOR-M1. Its crew members were silhouetted in the pale glow of the late September moon.
“Anything?” he asked.
“ Nah,” the technician shook his head. Nothing.
Hossein clapped the man on the shoulder, moving on. “Keep watching.”
1:37 A.M.
The Huey
Iran
“You have the bird, Jeff.”
“Roger that, colonel. Taking over.” The co-pilot smiled, taking the controls into his hands.
Tancretti removed the night-vision goggles and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Using the goggles was like looking down a pair of toilet-paper tubes covered with green foil. It shot his depth-perception to blazes, something not to be underestimated at the altitudes at which the Huey was flying. One wrong twitch of the control levers, and they would hit the ground. And yes, he had volunteered for this assignment.
“How far away is the LZ?” a voice behind them asked. Tancretti looked up to see the CIA team leader—Henderson, Nichols, whatever his name really was, standing over them.
“Forty klicks,” Luke replied, his words clipped and curt. “Your target is eight beyond that.”
The CIA man nodded quietly. “Thanks.”
4:43 P.M. Eastern Time, September 23rd
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Bernard Kranemeyer had just checked his watch when the phone in his shirt pocket rang, its shrill buzz disturbing his thoughts. The strike team should be well on their way. The mission had been launched.
“Kranemeyer speaking.”
“Director, this is Daniel Lasker.” The twenty-eight-year-old Lasker was head of ClandOps tactical communications. “Sir, we’re getting the first real-time imaging from the NRO down here in the op-center.”
His habit of referring to Kranemeyer as “sir” was a perpetual source of annoyance. The DCS, who was proud of his five-year career as a Delta Force sergeant major, associated “sir” with the officer class. He’d worked for a living, thank you very much.
“It’s about time Sorenson got on that,” he snorted in disgust. “What’s it showing?”
“That’s why I called, sir. We have a problem.”
“Why?” Kranemeyer demanded, irritation showing in his tones. “What’s going on?”
“The Iranians have moved a SA-15 Gauntlet on-site,” Lasker replied. “Our team’s flying straight into a trap. I need your permission to break radio silence.”
“Do it ASAP,” was Kranemeyer’s curt order. “I’m coming down.”
“Right away, sir.”
1:45 A.M. Tehran Time, September 24th
The Huey
“Thirty klicks,” Tancretti announced grimly, replacing his NVGs. “I have the bird, Jeff.”
“Roger, sir. We should be there soon.”
“What is the maximum range of your radar?” Major Hossein asked, glancing at the missile crew. It was a question he regretted not asking before.
“Twenty-five kilometers, sir. Wait a moment!” the man exclaimed, typing something into the small computer in front of him. “We have a contact, just coming into our range.”
“Identification?”
“Nothing, yet. It will take a couple of moments for the system to analyze the threat.”
Hossein watched the screen intently, waiting as the blip grew larger. “How soon can you engage?”
“Once the target is within twelve kilometers. At that point, we will switch on our fire-control radar and take them out.”
“Get it done.”
“Eight klicks out,” Colonel Tancretti announced over the intercom. “Get ready for insertion.”
Harry nodded wordlessly, looking around at his team. They were ready. It was time to do their job. To say they did not fear what lay ahead—that would have been an error. They were all afraid. Any sane man would be. But this was what they were trained to do.
“Seven klicks…”
4:52 P.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
Lasker was waiting for him when the elevator doors opened. “Sir, we just finished interfacing our comms with the Air Force network.”
Kranemeyer transfixed him with a hard glance. “What are you telling me for? Do it, for heaven’s sake.”
“Right, sir. Follow me.”
1:53 A.M. Tehran Time
The campsite
“Another kilometer, sir, and we can launch,” the technician informed him, glancing away from his screens.
Major Hossein nodded, impatient. This was it.
The Huey
Tancretti’s headset came alive suddenly, a burst of static over the hitherto silent radio network. “Colonel, this is Danny Lasker, communications coordinator for Operation TALON.”
What on earth?
“I’m ordering mission-abort, colonel. You’re flying into a trap.”
“Say again, sir?”
“Luke, we’ve got a problem,” the co-pilot exclaimed. “We’re being illuminated by fire-control radars, type ‘Scrum-Half’, I repeat, ‘Scrum Half.”
“Roger,” Tancretti acknowledged, his mind whirling. A narrow canyon appeared in front of him and he pulled back on the control levers, forcing the old helicopter up and over…
Two 9M331 missiles rose from their launcher, accelerating rapidly as they flashed across the desert, their burning tails like a meteor in the night sky.
Kill probability: ninety-five percent.
Harry heard the conversation in the front, heard the warning, felt the helicopter lurch upwards. The ground flashed past below him, only feet away. “Out! Out!”, he heard a voice scream, realizing a moment later that it was his own.
He grabbed Davood by the shoulders and shoved him toward the door, following a moment later. Harry hit the ground on his side, the impact driving the breath from his body, his AK-47 landing a few feet away.
Rolling over, he started to reach for it, groping blindly in the darkness. The next moment, the world exploded around him…
4:55 P.M. Eastern Time
NCS Op-Center
Langley, Virginia
Five thousand miles away, Daniel Lasker could hear the explosion over the open comm link.
“Colonel! Colonel!”
There was no response. Only the hoarse echo of his own voice in a suddenly still operations center. The comm specialist turned to face Kranemeyer, his face a ghostly white.
“They’re gone,” he whispered. “They’re all gone.”
The campsite
The major could see the explosion off in the distance, hear it reverberate through the mountains. The technician looked up from his radar screen. “Target destroyed, sir,” he reported, making no attempt to conceal his excitement.
Hossein nodded. “Good. Corporal, I want you to get off a report to Tehran. I’m taking a detachment down there to check for survivors.”
The technician’s smile was barely visible in the darkness. “I don’t think you need to worry, major. There won’t be any survivors.”
Harry rolled over on his back, blinking against the fiery glare of the explosion. The Huey had struck the edge of the cliff and then cartwheeled into the canyon, disappearing from sight. He reached down, feeling for the NVGs that hung around his neck. His rifle was somewhere, in the darkness around him.
Whether anyone else had survived, he had no idea. And that wasn’t his chief concern at the moment. First he had to recover his primary weapon and prepare for battle.
Each man of the CIA team was trained to fight alone, if need be, as well as a part of the team. Alone, they were deadly. Together, they were almost unstoppable.
But someone had managed to stop them— all of them, Harry reflected grimly. Blown them out of the sky without warning. Without a chance.
His hand touched the folding metal stock of the Kalishnikov and he pulled it toward him, flicking the safety off with a practiced motion.
He dropped to one knee behind a rock, toggling his headset mike. “EAGLE SIX to all teams. Come in, come in.”
Their radios were the latest generation of encrypted technology, eight-kilometer range, a built-in jammer to prevent enemy direction-finders from locking in on their signal. “Come in, come in.”
“EAGLE SIX, this is LONGBOW.” Thomas.
“Check, LONGBOW. Situation report?”
“Down fine. Taking up overlook position.”
“Keep your eyes open. EAGLE SIX to all teams, come in, come in.”
“SWITCHBLADE, signing in.” Davood.
“Sitrep, SWITCHBLADE?”
“Lost my rifle in the landing.” There was uncertainty in the voice. Fear. “Looking for it now.”
“Roger. Where did you come down?”
“I think I can see you, EAGLE SIX,” the Iranian-American agent responded. “Raise your gun above your head.”
“Roger.” Harry shifted the AK in his hand, lifting it briefly in the air.
“About five meters to your right.”
“I’ll be with you momentarily. EAGLE SIX to all Teams, come in, come in.”
Nothing.
“GUNHAND, FULLBACK, come in.”
The silence was eerie, mocking him. “LONGBOW, SWITCHBLADE, we have two guys out there. Any sign of them?”
5:04 P.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“I’m not getting any response from the helicopter, sir.”
“Thank you,” Director Lay replied slowly. “Disconnect the comm.”
He looked over at the DCS. “Do we have another way of communicating with the teams, Barney?”
Kranemeyer nodded. “Nichols is carrying the TACSAT-10, a secure satellite phone made of sterile components. The phone was assembled in America, the encryption technology was developed up at Fort Meade, but everything else is European-manufactured. It—”
“All right, all right,” Lay interrupted, turning on Daniel Lasker. “Have you tried contacting him?”
“Yes, director. We have.”
“ And?”
“He’s not answering.”
Kranemeyer swore softly. “It’s what I was afraid of. From the moment I heard about the SA-15 being deployed at the campsite. The team’s gone.”
“Sir, all due respect, but perhaps Nichols is just too busy to take calls at the moment.” Lasker managed a smile. “He’s been known to ignore us in the past.”
Lay turned, heading for the door of the Communications Center. “Keep trying, Barney. And keep me posted. I need to get word up to the President.”
“Right.”
2:06 A.M. Tehran Time
The crash site
They were gone. It had been too much to ask that they would all survive the crash. Tex. Hamid.
Harry stared out into the darkness, his eyes hooded with sadness. They were both old friends. To count them among the missing.
The memories. He could remember his first meeting with the Iraqi agent— in Iraq, Tikrit to be exact. Hamid Zakiri had still been an Army Ranger back then, a tough, decisive NCO.
He’d been the one that had talked Hamid into joining the Agency when his hitch was up. And now he was gone…
“LONGBOW, SWITCHBLADE, what is the chopper’s status? Repeat, what is the situation at the crash site?”
“EAGLE SIX, LONGBOW. I can see the crash site from my current position. The missiles did not—repeat, did not hit the chopper. They slammed into the mountainside when Tancretti took evasive action.”
“Then what happened?”
“The Huey struck the edge of the canyon and went down. It’s at the bottom.”
“Status?”
“In flames, boss. I see no movement. Copy that?”
“I copy, LONGBOW,” Harry acknowledged slowly, reluctantly. “SWITCHBLADE, make your way down to the crash site and check for survivors. See if there’s any equipment you can salvage, but move it along. That sucker’s gonna blow any minute.”
“You see any way down the cliff?” Davood asked.
Harry scanned the ground ahead of him, the dark rocks appearing a strange fluorescent green through the filter of the night-vision goggles he wore.
“Approx eight meters in front of you. Get on it.”
Fire. Blood and fire. Searing pain. Tancretti’s eyes flickered open as he returned to consciousness, flames crackling in the background. He was still strapped in the seat of the Huey, pinned against the instrument panel. It took him a moment to realize where he was, to remember what had happened.
The pungent smell of gasoline filled his nostrils and suddenly everything came flooding back. The warning, the crash. The explosion. Fear gripped him suddenly and he struggled to get free, pushing his body against the instrument panel in an effort to wriggle out.
“Jeff!” he screamed, the heat of the flames searing his throat. “ Jeff!”
He turned his head, looking over to where his co-pilot had been seated only a few short moments before. The corpse still sat there, its head hanging at an obscene angle, a deep bloody gash in the neck. One of the rotor blades had sliced through the roof.
Tancretti closed his eyes, trying to shut out the vision, focusing on his own situation. He didn’t have much time left…
Thomas leaned forward against the rock, his hand cradling the barrel of the SV-98, squinting one eye as he swept the terrain with the scope of the sniper rifle. It had survived his jump intact, which was a miracle in and of itself.
A grimace crossed his face. The impact had jarred the scope. A target or two would be needed to sight it in. He chuckled wryly.
They would be forthcoming.
The Huey had nearly broken in half on impact, Davood realized as he hurried down into the canyon. He still hadn’t found his rifle. No time to worry about that.
Not now.
Flames were licking feverishly at the metal skin of the Huey, eating away at the helicopter. It couldn’t be long before the gasoline tank went up. He needed to hurry.
2:10 A.M.
There was something —ahead of them in the darkness. Major Hossein held up his hand for a stop, bringing the Kalishnikov up against his shoulder.
A figure advanced out of the night, dressed in camouflage. His hands were raised in the air, his only visible weapon a pistol strapped to his waist.
“ Salaam alaikum .”
“Who are you?” Hossein demanded, ignoring the salutation.
“They call me BEHDIN,” the figure re
sponded quietly, switching from Arabic into perfect Farsi. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“ Baleh,” Hossein nodded. Yes. Behdin, a man of good religion. Of pure heart. More importantly, the code-name of the operative who had supplied their intelligence. The sleeper.
Oh, yes, it meant much to him.
“What do you bring me?”
“You’ll never find them unless you can track them.” The man gestured to his belt. “May I?”
“Of course,” the major replied. The man’s hands moved to his waist, unclipping a small camouflage case. A wire ran from the case to his ear. He handed both to Hossein.
“Take this radio,” he instructed. “The frequencies are set to the band used by the American team. The access code is Alpha-One-Tango-Niner. You can listen in.”
“And what will you tell them?”
The sleeper smiled briefly. “That it broke, and I lost it in the darkness.”
“Good.”
A glance over his shoulder. “I must go.”
“Allah go with you, BEHDIN.”
“He will. And if I should be forced to shoot any of your men, they will be ushered into Paradise.”
“ Khayli mamnoon,” Hossein replied, irony in his tones. Thank you very much. He adjusted the radio to his own ear as the sleeper vanished into the night, as his patrol moved forward.