by Larry Bond
Colonel Peter Thorn’s unruffled voice came back through his headset. “We’re all set, Mack. Let her rip.”
McPherson pulled November One-Zero into a tight, diving turn to the right, angling east-southeast toward the Iranian border. He kept his eyes fixed on the altitude indicator winding down on the right side of his HUD. Trailing one thousand feet behind, the second C-17 followed him down with its own navigation lights off.
Now ten thousand feet above and several miles behind them, the three KC-10s and the spare transport curved right in a gentle, sweeping turn that would take them back toward Incirlik.
McPherson leveled off just three hundred feet above the sharp-edged, snow-covered ridges that separated Turkey from the Islamic Republic of Iran. The two American aircraft crossed the border in total darkness, flying low at nearly four hundred knots over the great salt lake of Orumiyeh and on over an arid, sparsely populated plateau.
Fourteen minutes after entering Iran, he began throttling back, slowing the C-17 to two hundred and fifty knots. The ground ahead was rising steeply, thrusting skyward to become the boulder-crowned foothills of the Zagros Mountains.
With his eyes locked to the HUD and his hands to the controls, McPherson jinked suddenly hard right, lining up with a narrow, winding valley that cut east and south through the mountains. Sheer rock walls rose above the C-17 on either side, sometimes crowding in so close that a fiery, rolling impact seemed inevitable.
The tall, lanky lieutenant colonel grinned tightly as he nimbly maneuvered the large, four-engine aircraft through box canyons and over rugged escarpments. He’d like to see some hot-shit fighter jock try following in his wake tonight. Hell, this was real flying.
Back in the C-17’s troop compartment, Thorn nearly let go of his map case when another abrupt bank threw him forward against his seat straps. “Crap,” he muttered.
Diaz heard him. A broad smile spread across the sergeant major’s face. “You want a puke bag, Pete?” he asked helpfully. “I guess the ride’s a little rough after all those cushy Pentagon executive flights, huh?”
Oh, very nice, Thorn thought wryly.
“No thanks, Tow.” He shook his head and then nodded solemnly toward the two forty-foot-long shapes tied down in the middle of the troop compartment. “I was just hoping the guys who loaded those birds knew what they were doing.”
The “birds” were UH-1N Hueys painted in Iranian camouflage and markings. Even with their rotors off, each weighed nearly two tons. If the chains and guy ropes holding them in place gave way under the stress and strain of the aircraft’s repeated sharp turns, the helicopters would first crush the soldiers seated against the side and then smash straight through the C-17’s fuselage.
“Oh, man,” Diaz chuckled. “You’re just full of cheerful thoughts tonight, aren’t you?” He raised his voice loud enough to carry over the steady roar of the engines. “How about you, Mike? You checked your lottery ticket, yet?”
“Sure thing, Tow! You’re looking at the first Delta Force millionaire.”
Thorn listened to the banter passing back and forth, keeping his own growing worries to himself. The Duke of Wellington’s advice to his officers at Waterloo seemed apt: “Anything that wastes time, indulge it.” He and his troops were still at least two hundred and fifty miles from the landing zone. During this hair-raising, low-level flight, none of their hard-earned skills would make one damn bit of difference to whether they lived or died.
Kabul landing site, Iran
Hamir Pahesh kept a close eye on his companions around the campfire. Even his friend Agdas was growing more nervous as the minutes and hours ticked past. The others, those who had less reason to trust him, were now openly suspicious. Mohammed was the worst of all.
“These friends of yours are very late, Pahesh,” the big, bearded man rumbled slowly. He scratched his stomach idly, a movement that kept his hand very near the pistol stuffed into his waistband.
“Our business does not always run on a timetable,” Pahesh reminded him sharply. “You should know that.”
“Perhaps they have trouble,” another man said. His gaze kept darting off into the darkness beyond the fire at the slightest change in the sound of the wind.
“Or perhaps they are leading the Komite here to catch us all sitting on our asses,” Mohammed snarled, still irked at being cut short so rudely.
“Hush!” Pahesh held up a hand for silence. He cocked his head, listening. He could hear the sound of jet engines whining somewhere off to the south, drawing nearer at a rapid clip. “There! You hear them? The planes?”
They all nodded.
The sound faded abruptly.
“Pah! So where did these friends of yours go now …” Mohammed began belligerently.
He was drowned out by the rippling, piercing howl of jet engines at full thrust. All four men looked up in stunned surprise as a huge aircraft popped up over the low ridge and banked sharply to circle back around for a landing. Another plane followed the first only seconds later.
“Come!” Pahesh led the other four men toward the top of the ridge at a stumbling run.
They arrived in time to see the first C-17 dive, flare out suddenly, and touch down near the end of the fire-marked dirt road. Thrust reversers kicked in with an ungodly roar as the enormous camouflaged jet rolled past them, trailing a billowing cloud of dust, sand, and gravel. It braked to a complete stop only a thousand meters from where its wheels first kissed the ground.
Bearded soldiers wearing Iranian Army uniforms were charging down the aircraft’s rear cargo ramp even before the second C-17 came to rest.
NEMESIS command team
Flanked by Diaz and a five-man team, Colonel Peter Thorn jogged up the ridge to meet their CIA contact. He slowed down near the crest, studying the scruffy, dirty-faced men waiting for them. They looked more like brigands than truck drivers, he thought grimly.
He mentally crossed his fingers. Dealing with local talent on a covert op was always chancy. You never knew how far you could trust them.
The oldest of those waiting for him, a scarred, thin-bearded man with a hooked nose, stepped forward and smiled. He bobbed his head and spoke in understandable, though heavily accented, English. “Peace be upon you, my friends. My name is Hamir Pahesh. The code name given to me by your CIA is Stone.”
Thorn introduced himself and looked at the other man’s fidgeting companions. Most still seemed stunned at the sight of so many troops pouring out of his grounded aircraft. One, taller than the rest by half a head, looked blackly furious.
Diaz caught his nod in that direction and slipped off to the side.
Thorn turned back to Pahesh. “These men are the drivers we asked for?”
The Afghan nodded. “Yes.” He rattled off their names in quick succession and then asked shyly, “You have the money I have promised them?”
Thorn touched the backpack he had slung over one shoulder. “I have it, Mr. Pahesh. Twenty thousand American dollars apiece. Five thousand now. Fifteen thousand more after we reach Tehran safely.”
The big man, the one called Mohammed, reared back. “You are a crazy man, Pahesh!” he sputtered in rough, broken English. “I do not put my head on the chopping block to carry spies into the city. Not for thousand of dollars. Not for million of dollars!”
Mohammed fumbled for the weapon stuck in his trousers and then froze suddenly, his eyes wide, as Diaz ground the muzzle of an M16 rifle into his ear.
“Slowly, pal. Very slowly,” the sergeant major said softly. “I’d sure hate to mess up my nice new uniform with your tiny little brains.”
Diaz held his weapon on target until another Delta trooper stepped in and relieved the big trucker of his pistol. Without pausing, a third member of the command team bound Mohammed’s wrists behind his back and marched him away toward the parked C-17s.
Thorn turned back to the dumbfounded Afghans. His eyes sought out those of Pahesh. “It seems that Mr. Mohammed will not be joining us this evening after all. Do a
ny of your other associates feel a burning desire to go on strike?”
The older man shrugged, amusement plain in his own expression. “I will ask them, Colonel Thorn. But I suspect they will see reason and profit in doing as you ask.”
A hasty, whispered conference in Pushtu confirmed Pahesh’s assessment. None of the other Afghans looked very happy at this unexpected turn of events, but none of them seemed unhappy enough to prove treacherous.
Nonetheless, Thorn planned to take out a little insurance of his own. He glanced at Diaz. “Tow, please tell Major Witt I want one of our Farsi speakers riding shotgun in each truck cab. And have these gentlemen taken back to their vehicles.”
“Sure thing, Pete.” Still holding his M16 at the ready, the sergeant major trotted off into the darkness. Escorted by other Delta Force soldiers, the three remaining truck drivers followed him at a discreet distance.
Thorn turned back to the older Afghan. “Now, Mr. Pahesh, if you’ll come with me, I’ll tell you where we need to go and what we plan to do.” He led the way back down the ridge, pleased by all the activity he could see around the parked aircraft.
Nobody was wasting any time. The sixty men he was taking into Tehran were carting their weapons and equipment toward the waiting trucks. A fourth twenty-man troop would remain behind to provide security here. They were busy deploying machine guns, antitank guided missiles, Stinger SAM teams, and sniper teams to cover all avenues of approach to the improvised landing strip. Aided by some of the C-17 crewmen, Scott Finney’s helicopter crews were already beginning to assemble their birds—four UH-1N Hueys and a tiny AH-6 gunship.
Now that they all were safely on the ground inside Iran, NEMESIS was starting to take its final shape.
DECEMBER 14
Near the Khorasan Square headquarters
(D MINUS 1)
Three hours after leaving the isolated desert landing strip, the five canvas-sided trucks pulled off to the side of a quiet Tehran street and parked. Their long trip northward had been uneventful. The forged travel orders supplied by Pahesh got them through the checkpoints without much trouble. After all the military hubbub of the past several days, trucks full of Iranian soldiers no longer drew much attention. Even the most curious citizens and police had been sated by the sight of so many weapons and olive-drab vehicles moving through their streets. In any case, it was past midnight and few lights were on anywhere in the sprawling, sleeping city.
Thorn dropped out of the back of the lead truck and went forward to speak to Hamir Pahesh. The Afghan slid out from behind the wheel and joined him on the pavement.
The older man pointed down the road. “The headquarters is three blocks further up this avenue, Colonel. You know the building?”
Thorn nodded once. He’d spent so many hours studying the blueprints and satellite photographs he felt sure he could practically find his way blindfolded through Taleh’s lair.
He glanced up at the apartment houses on either side of this street. None of the plain concrete five- and six-story, flat-roofed buildings would have won any architectural prizes for elegance or style, but he was not interested in esthetics. They were important because they were the tallest buildings in this poor, run-down neighborhood and because they offered a clear line of sight to the roof of the Khorasan Square military headquarters.
Thorn turned back to the Afghan. “Will your friends obey my orders, Mr. Pahesh? You know this will be very dangerous.”
“They will obey you,” Pahesh said firmly. “All of us have seen war before, Colonel.”
“Fine.” Thorn spun on his heel and strode to the last truck in line.
Captain Doug Lindsay peered down at him through a half-open flap. With his flaming-red hair and mustache dyed black, the commander of the NEMESIS force sniper teams looked alien, almost unrecognizable.
“You ready for us, Pete?” the younger man asked.
Thorn nodded. “You know the drill, Doug. You’ve got five minutes to move your people into position. Then, when I give you the word, you do your stuff. Clear?”
“Clear.” Lindsay swung away from the opened flap. “Everybody out. Shaw takes the building on the left. I’ll take the building on the right. Let’s move!”
Thorn watched the heavily laden soldiers scramble out over the truck’s tailgate before heading back to his own vehicle. Without further orders from Lindsay, the snipers formed up on the street and then split apart. Four two-man teams crossed over to the other side and entered the tallest apartment building on the block. Four more teams disappeared inside the nearest tenement.
Breathing normally even under the weight of his weapon and other gear, Captain Doug Lindsay took the narrow, dimly lit stairs to the roof two at a time. Boots rang on concrete as his troops followed him up.
Farsi-speaking soldiers stopped long enough on every landing to yell stern warnings at any sleepy Iranian civilians who poked their heads out of apartments to see what was going on. “Everyone inside! This is Army business!”
Doors slammed shut again as the building’s inhabitants obeyed their shouted orders. No one who lived this close to General Amir Taleh’s headquarters wanted trouble with the Army.
Five flights up, Lindsay pushed open an unlocked metal door and came out onto the tenement’s flat roof. It was deserted. He nodded to himself, noticing his breath steaming in the cold night air. In the summer they would have found people camped out here—driven out of their tiny, crowded apartments by the heat. Now, this close to the winter, temperatures were already dropping fast toward freezing once the sun went down.
Followed by the sergeant who would serve as his spotter and backup, the Delta Force captain moved closer to the edge of the roof. He dropped prone and started setting up his weapon, conscious of the faint rustle of clothing and scrape of metal on either side. The rest of his teams were moving into place.
Lindsay slid an eleven-round magazine into his Barrett Light Fifty sniper rifle. Nearly five feet long and weighing in at thirty-five pounds, the M82A1 Light Fifty was badly misnamed, but it had several features that made it perfect for special operations use. First, it was a simple, rugged, semiautomatic weapon accurate out to twelve hundred meters. Second, it fired the same enormous .50-inch Browning round used in the U.S. Army’s heavy machine gun. More than three times the size of the 5.56mm bullets used by most modern assault rifles, the .50-inch round had enormous penetration and lethality. To handle the recoil, the Barrett Light Fifty was equipped with a muzzle brake and a thick butt pad. A bipod mounted near the muzzle helped steady the rifle.
With practiced ease, the Delta Force officer attached an ITT-made optical sight to his weapon and peered through the scope. Two AA batteries powered an image intensifier that turned the night into day. He flicked to 8x magnification and shifted his aim to one of the emplacements on top of the squat, drab building roughly four hundred meters away. His crosshairs settled on an Iranian soldier seated behind a twin-barreled ZU-23 light anti-aircraft gun. The man looked tired and bored.
Lindsay held his aim steady. The ZU-23 was virtually useless against modern attack aircraft, but its rapid fire could murder infantry caught out in the open. He frowned. Something seemed odd. Fewer than half the defensive positions atop the enemy headquarters were manned. Maybe this guy Taleh wasn’t so thorough after all.
One by one, his teams reported that they were in position.
Lindsay contacted Thorn and confirmed their readiness. “November One Alpha, this is Sierra Four Charlie. We’re dialed in. Standing by.”
“Understood, Four Charlie. We’re moving now.”
The sniper focused all his attention on the bored Iranian anti-aircraft gunner, waiting for the single command that would open the attack. He could hear motors revving up on the street below. NEMESIS was under way.
Three trucks crammed with Delta Force soldiers rolled down the Avenue of the 17th of Shahrivar, heading for Khorasan Square. A fourth truck veered right, peeling off to come in behind the main entrance to the headquart
ers building. The men it carried would seal off a rear exit, killing anyone who tried to escape outside when the rest of the attack force went in.
Peter Thorn rode up front now. A staff sergeant who spoke Farsi fluently sat wedged in between Pahesh and him. The sergeant, an olive-skinned man named Alberi, wore Iranian Army insignia identifying him as a captain.
Alberi also held a 9mm pistol outfitted with a Knight noise suppressor in his lap. Although the device made it impossible to fire more than a single shot without working the slide to manually feed another round into the pistol’s breech, it reduced the sound of firing to that of a child’s air rifle.
Thorn carried a Heckler & Koch MP2000 submachine gun. The weapon, an advance over the similar MP5, had a silencing system built in. Holes in the barrel allowed some of the propellant gases to bleed away, slowing the rounds being fired to below supersonic speed—and cutting the noise they made dramatically. For open combat, the gas bleed holes could be closed. Right now, he had the weapon set for silent fighting.
They turned into the square and rumbled straight toward the headquarter’s main gate. The truck’s headlights flashed across a guard post that barred direct access to an open courtyard visible beyond the gate. When they were within fifty meters, an Iranian soldier came forward, signaling them to stop. Four more sentries manned a sandbag redoubt built adjacent to the entrance. Two were talking to each other, arguing cheerfully about something. The others leaned against the piled-up sandbags near a light machine gun sited to sweep the square. One of them had a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Pahesh stopped right in front of the gate and cranked his window open.
The soldier who had flagged them down walked right up to the truck cab, yawning slightly. The guards here must be very used to comings and goings at irregular hours, Thorn decided, vaguely surprised by their nonchalance. He had expected somewhat tighter security.
