by Larry Bond
He frowned. It was too damned quiet.
His lead teams were drawing close to Taleghani Avenue—an east-west road that intersected Roosevelt and formed the embassy compound’s southern border. He planned to blow straight through the wall there, attacking north to clear the complex from bottom to top. Time constraints robbed the NEMESIS force of any hope for further tactical subtlety. The more time they spent driving around through Tehran’s awakening streets, the more time the men inside Taleh’s headquarters had to prepare their defenses.
“One Alpha, this is Tango Seven Bravo. Movement on the wall, near the southeast corner,” one of the forward teams reported over the radio.
Rifle shots rang out suddenly, joined a second later by the staccato chatter of a light machine gun. A parachute flare soared high overhead and burst into incandescent splendor with a soft pop, spilling light across the area.
Thorn and Diaz dove for cover. Machine-gun rounds ripped down Roosevelt Avenue, blowing shop and car windows inward in a hail of flying glass. Someone behind them starting screaming.
The sound of gunfire rose in volume. Delta Force troops armed with M16s and HK21 light machine guns were shooting back now, aiming at the muzzle flashes winking from atop the embassy’s brick wall. An M203 launcher mounted under an M16 went off with a hollow thump, propelling a fragmentation grenade toward the Iranian defensive position.
It exploded right on target, throwing deadly fragments through a wide circle. The Iranian guns fell silent.
Thorn jumped to his feet, waving his troops forward. They had to do this fast. Delay only aided the enemy. “Move out!”
He and Diaz led twelve men in a rush across Taleghani Avenue toward the wall. When they were halfway across, another Iranian machine gun opened up, firing from a position near the embassy’s main gate.
“Christ!” Thorn felt a slug rip past his face. He threw himself forward onto the pavement. Men all around him were falling—hit and badly wounded or dead. Diaz dropped prone beside him, calmly hunting for targets through the scope attached to his M16. Another heavy machine gun burst hammered the street and sidewalk, gouging fist-sized holes out of the concrete and asphalt.
“Can’t stay here, Pete!” the sergeant major yelled to him. “We get pinned down … we get killed!”
Thorn nodded. He craned his neck to look behind them. Doug Lindsay’s sniper teams were smashing their way into the shops and homes fronting Taleghani, but it would take them time to set up and provide covering fire. The same went for Major Witt and the reserve teams he’d stationed back by Pahesh’s trucks. Wonderful.
He belly-crawled over to one of the bodies sprawled on the street. The dead soldier had been carrying an AT-4, a one-shot disposable recoilless rifle, slung across his back. Basically just a fifteen-pound tube with a cone-shaped flare on the back end and a ridged muzzle, the AT-4 was a Swedish-made weapon designed to knock out light armored vehicles and bunkers. It fired an 84mm round that could penetrate up to 420mm of armor. Two men in every assault team carried one.
Working furiously, Thorn tugged the weapon off over the dead man’s shoulder and peered through the night vision scope attached to it, sighting toward the main gate. Come on, you bastards, he thought grimly, let me see you.
The Iranian heavy machine gun fired again, sending a stream of bullets slashing right over his head. A trooper behind him moaned and then fell silent—hit several times.
Thorn shifted his aim to the center of the dazzling flashes and squeezed the AT-4’s trigger.
WHUMMP. The enemy fighting position vanished in a cloud of flame and smoke.
He threw the spent tube to one side and got to his feet. He and Diaz and the five other Delta Force soldiers who’d escaped the fusillade unhurt hurried toward the shelter offered by the brick wall, dragging their wounded with them. They left four men dead in the middle of the street.
More assault teams tried to cross the avenue and were driven back by Iranian rifle and machine-gun fire—this time coming from around the soccer stadium and from the upper floors of the chancery building. Several Americans fell writhing to the ground.
“Hell!” Thorn swore out loud. His men were being cut to pieces by a dug-in enemy ready and waiting for them. Taleh’s security troops had cross-fires laid on every approach to the embassy and they were showing perfect fire discipline—never shooting wildly, always waiting for the Americans to show themselves.
He glanced quickly right and left. Two of the men who’d made it safely across with him were busy administering first aid to the wounded. Diaz and the other three were already busy slapping breaching charges against the wall, but the seven of them were not going to be enough to clear that vast compound. He needed more firepower.
Thorn keyed his radio mike. “Four Charlie, this is One Alpha. I need you to suppress those people in the chancery. Now!”
“Roger, One Alpha.” Doug Lindsay’s voice crackled through his earphones. “We’ll do our best.”
Thorn contacted Witt next. “John, use half our guys to lay down a base of fire on those bastards in the stadium. I need the rest here—on the double! Got it?”
“Got it, Pete!” the major acknowledged briskly.
Thorn heard the first distinctive, high-pitched cracks made by the Barrett Light Fifties. His snipers were going into action, picking off Iranian marksmen and weapons teams sited inside the embassy compound.
The Delta Force troops deployed near the intersection cut loose, methodically shooting toward half-hidden enemy positions. Grenade launchers thumped, lobbing fragmentation and smoke grenades toward the soccer stadium to suppress and blind the Iranian defenders there.
A gray haze drifted across the street, building steadily in size and thickness as more and more grenades went off. Moving in pairs, another twelve American soldiers dashed across Taleghani Avenue. One man went down—shot through the temple and killed instantly—but the rest made it safely. The Iranians were still firing, but they were firing randomly now, unable to see their intended targets.
Thorn grabbed his team commanders as they each reached the wall and snapped out his orders for the attack in a few, terse sentences. “Here’s the drill. Three breaches. Three teams. After we blow the charges, nobody goes in until we use the AT-4s to blow the shit out of the chancery building’s ground floors. Clear?”
Strained faces nodded.
“Good.” Thorn checked to make sure the wounded had been moved far enough down the wall to be safe and then nodded toward Diaz. “When you’re ready, Tow!”
The sergeant major gave him a thumbs-up signal and bellowed out a warning, “Fire in the hole!”
WHAMMM. WHAMMM. WHAMMM. The three breaching charges went off in rapid succession, blowing huge gaps in the brick wall. And the Iranian troops defending the embassy compound itself immediately opened up, firing from concealed positions inside the chancery. Hundreds of steel-jacketed rounds came whizzing and tumbling through the empty breaches.
Thorn grinned to himself. You just made your first big mistake, you bastards, he thought grimly. He keyed his mike. “You see them, Four Charlie?”
“Yeah,” the sniper commander answered coolly. “Ground floor. From right to left. One MG in the third window. Riflemen in the next two. Another MG …” He methodically detailed the exact location of each of the newly revealed enemy positions.
The guns gradually fell silent as the Iranians realized they were shooting into thin air.
At Thorn’s signal, the six men carrying AT-4s popped up and fired their 84mm rockets into the chancery. Explosions tore across the front of the building, smashing through walls, doors, and windows and spraying deadly shards across the rooms behind them.
“Move! Move! Move!” Thorn shouted. He and Diaz were the first ones through the right-hand breach, scrambling and slipping across a mound of smoking, shattered bricks. He had his submachine up and at his shoulder as he ran, firing bursts at anything moving ahead of him.
His assault teams flooded through the breache
s behind him. One six-man team peeled off through the rising smoke and dust to clear the old embassy residence used by the ambassador. The rest followed him inside the chancery.
Thorn burst in through a blown-open door. He swiveled left and right, scanning for enemies. There. Three Iranian soldiers were sprawled near a twisted machine gun. They were dead. He moved deeper into the building. Diaz and four of his men were right behind him.
They came out into a long corridor running the width of the chancery. Gunfire echoed in all directions as his troops began the ugly business of clearing the building room by room. Now where?
The sergeant major pointed to a painted sign in Farsi on the corridor wall. “The CP’s downstairs! Go left!”
Thorn nodded. It made perfect sense for Taleh and his top staff to set up shop in the building’s reinforced basement. Their primary concern would have been an American air raid—not a commando attack.
Weapons ready, they moved down the corridor, looking for stairs leading down.
Auxiliary Command Post Three
“Sir!”
Amir Taleh looked up from the maps he’d been studying and saw Kazemi’s agonized face. “Yes, Captain?”
“The Americans have broken through my defenses. They are inside the building.” The young aide swallowed hard. “You and the others must leave this place before it is too late!”
“Agreed.” Taleh nodded, still staggered by the speed of the American attack. Who could have dreamed that they would demonstrate such audacity? Still, all was not yet lost. He could regain control over his invasion forces at another of the alternate command posts. He turned to his deputy. “Assemble the senior staff, Hashemi.”
Most were already prepared, clutching briefcases stuffed full of hastily gathered maps and documents. Surrounded by Taleh’s personal bodyguards, the group hurried toward the nearest staircase.
The Chancery
Thorn crouched at the top of the stairs, watching Diaz get set. They’d heard the clatter of boots and the metallic clink of weapons drawing closer for the last several seconds. Whoever was coming up had almost reached the bend in the stairs.
He nodded sharply and his lips formed the unspoken command, “Now!”
The sergeant major yanked the pin out of the fragmentation grenade he was holding and tossed it down the stairwell.
Taleh heard something clattering down the stairs from above and froze. A small cylindrical shape bounced into view, rolling toward them. His eyes widened in shocked recognition.
Without hesitation, Captain Farhad Kazemi threw himself forward onto the grenade just before it went off.
WHUMMP. Thorn felt concussion punch into his lungs, and buried his face against his arms to shield his eyes from the smoke and debris billowing up out of the stairwell. Then he was on his feet, charging downward with Diaz at his side.
They rounded the bend.
Iranian officers and enlisted men jammed the staircase in a tangled knot. Some were bleeding. All of them were dazed. Only one, though, was dead—the victim of his own sacrifice.
Thorn opened fire with his submachine gun, sweeping from left to right. Diaz took the other side. Each burst sent one or more Iranians tumbling down the stairs. It was a methodical, mechanical slaughter. Those who were armed were too closely crowded together to use their own weapons effectively.
He felt a single bullet tear a burning gash across his upper left arm and shot the man who’d winged him. His finger eased on the trigger. He couldn’t see any more targets—any more men to kill.
Then Thorn spotted movement near Diaz out of the corner of his eye. He started to spin in that direction. He was too late. He was too slow.
A man in a blood-spattered uniform reared up from the stairs and fired a pistol into Roberto Diaz at point-blank range, aiming upward. The bullet caught the short, stocky sergeant major in the throat. He toppled backward with a surprised look frozen forever on his face.
“You son of a bitch!” Thorn squeezed off a burst that slammed the Iranian back against the wall.
“Oh, Jesus.” He knelt beside his friend, fumbling desperately for a field dressing. But TOW Diaz was beyond his help.
“Peter …”
Thorn spun back toward the man he’d shot—toward the man who had once been another friend.
General Amir Taleh stared up at him, breathing heavily, bleeding from several wounds in the chest and stomach.
Thorn stared down in contempt. “You bastard! I trusted you. I looked up to you. I thought you were a man of honor—not a goddamned terrorist who would kill women and children!”
Taleh’s face twisted in sudden pain. “What I did to your country, Peter … You must understand. It was war.”
“No, sir,” Thorn said coldly, “it was murder.” He raised his submachine gun, aimed carefully at Taleh’s head, and fired three more shots—one after the other.
Over Tehran
Four UH-1N Hueys flew low across the Iranian capital, dodging over rooftops and around taller buildings to throw off any ground fire. They were heading south. A tiny, rocket-armed AH-6 gunship paced them, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble.
Aboard the lead helicopter, Colonel Peter Thorn sat silently beside a covered stretcher. Unwilling to leave the Iranians anything to desecrate, the soldiers of the NEMESIS force had brought their dead out with them. He shivered and stared down at his shaking hands.
His casualties had been high—far higher than anything he had imagined. Nearly half of his sixty-man assault force had been killed or wounded. Medics were working frantically in the rear of each overcrowded helicopter, trying to keep the worst hurt alive long enough to reach a hospital.
Thorn felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over into Hamir Pahesh’s sympathetic face.
“I am sorry, my friend. I know that many brave men died in this battle,” the Afghan said simply. Then he shrugged. “But you have made your enemies shake in terror. You have thwarted their wickedness. That is worth much.”
Pahesh smiled shyly. “And now we go home, eh?” The Afghan’s bravery had earned him the right to a new country.
“Yes, now we go home.” Thorn slumped back in his seat, his eyes already closing. Home to America, he thought wearily. Home to Helen Gray.
Behind him, the fires set by Tomahawks lit the night sky.
DECEMBER 15
Walter Reed Army Medical Center
Helen Gray woke suddenly from a restless, pain-filled sleep, hearing a change in the tone of the television in her room. She’d left it on for company during the long nights. She opened her eyes.
Live satellite pictures showed a burning city. “Reports from the Pentagon now confirm that American Delta Force commandos attacked and destroyed the Tehran headquarters of General Amir Taleh early yesterday morning. Although officials claim the mission achieved its primary objectives, they also admit that casualties were extremely heavy …”
Helen sat rigid. Like her, Peter Thorn led his men from the front. She held her breath for a moment, fighting down her fears for his safety. She might recover. But what about Peter? She blinked away sudden tears. What if he had been killed? How could she live without him?
A wire-service photo of a trim, bearded Iranian flashed onto the screen. “According to U.S. intelligence sources, General Amir Taleh was the man directly responsible for orchestrating the bloody terrorist campaign that has ravaged this country since early November.”
The images shifted to a series of maps and black-and-white satellite photos shot from high overhead. “In a related development, White House sources have released intelligence information showing that the Iranian-sponsored terrorist campaign was part of a much larger plan to invade Saudi Arabia and, ultimately, to dominate the entire Persian Gulf. If so, the Delta Force raid has smashed Tehran’s grand imperial design. There are growing reports of bitter factional fighting in Iran’s major cities as various groups struggle for control over the now-leaderless Islamic Republic.”
The television p
icture cut back to a somber announcer. “The President is expected to address the nation at six P.M., eastern standard time.”
Helen lay in bed, watching the pictures flooding in from halfway around the world—desperately eager for more details. She shifted impatiently. If only her foot would stop itching …
She took her eyes off the television and looked down. Her foot itched.
Her damaged nerves might be healing. The doctors had warned her that a full recovery would take months, maybe even years, of rigorous physical therapy, but this was at least a start—a promise that she could regain the mobility and freedom she feared had been lost forever.
Helen turned her head as the door to her room opened quietly.
And Peter was there.
In Red Phoenix, he foretold a renewed
military threat in Korea.
IT HAPPENED.
In Vortex, he envisioned a new upsurge of
right-wing power in South Africa.
IT HAPPENED.
In Cauldron, he prophesied a new Europe
dominated by a remilitarized Germany.
IT HAPPENED.
Now bestselling author Larry Bond challenges Follett and Forsyth, Ludlum and Higgins with his most electrifying scenario ever—and a warning cry that cannot be ignored.
THE ENEMY WITHIN
“NONSTOP ACTION…REAÛERS WILL
MORE THAN GET THEIR MONEY’S WORTH OUT
OF THIS ONE.”—CHICAGO TRIBUNE
“A SUPERIOR READ.”—HOUSTON CHRONICLE
“NO WRITER LIVING CAN PRODUCE
THE DEPTH OF POLITICAL INTRIGUE LIKE
LARRY BOND. IF YOU WANT TO READ A TALE SO
CLOSE TO REALITY IT’S FRIGHTENING, READ
THE ENEMY WITHIN.”—CLIVE CUSSLER
An Alternate Selection of Book-of-the-Month Club®
