by Jack Mars
The world zoomed by with dizzying speed. Luke glanced out the bay door. They were maybe thirty feet above the water.
Suddenly the chopper went into a spin.
“Tail rotor gone!”
The chopper zoomed along, spinning like a pinwheel. Luke was pressed against his seat. The chopper lost altitude, dropping with a sickening lurch. He looked out again—they were just above the water.
“Prepare for impact.”
The chopper smacked the water hard, skidded along the surface for a second, then flipped. Luke felt it go, nothing gradual about it, upright one second, upside down the next. The chopper rolled, tumbling in darkness. Luke’s head whipsawed and:
Everything went black.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
10:12 a.m. Tehran Time (9:12 a.m. Israel Time, 2:12 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Deep Underground
Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps
Al Ghadir Missile Command
Iran
General Lotfi Farhadi walked quickly through the hallways of the missile command center, on his way to what he often thought of as “the war room.” Several aides flanked him, trailing him by a few meters. The group’s footsteps echoed along the otherwise empty corridor.
The general had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Just ahead, a wide automatic door slid open. He passed through the doorway and into the swirling chaos of the command center’s main room. The chatter of voices hit Lotfi like a wall as he entered.
The ceiling was three stories high, causing an echo effect. At least two hundred people filled the room. There were fifty computer consoles, many with two or three people huddled around them. Twenty feet above the heads of the personnel were a series of video display monitors.
Screens showed digital maps of Iran, Iraq, the Persian Gulf, and Saudi Arabia, as well as the wider Middle East. There was a map of Israel, the Palestinian Territories, Lebanon, and Syria. Satellite imagery showed smoke rising from explosions inside Iranian territory. Digital reports scrolled across a screen in Persian script—hundreds of conventional missile silos across the Iranian heartland were reporting combat readiness.
It was now or never, as people sometimes said.
Farhadi clapped his hand on the shoulder of a young man, a first sergeant monitoring a computer screen.
“What has happened?” he said.
“Simultaneous precision attacks at Parchin, Isfahan, and Bandar Abbas, sir. Moments later, a deep penetration attack at Khojir National Park. The first three are our nuclear missile facilities, are they not?” the sergeant said. “That makes sense. But why would they bomb a national park? There’s nothing there.”
General Farhadi ignored the question and asked his own instead.
“Air defense response?”
“Ineffective, sir. High-altitude American bombers with stealth technology, escorted by advanced supersonic attack fighters.”
“Okay,” Farhadi said.
It was interesting to him how resigned he was—not just to the destruction of nuclear capabilities so many years in the making, but also to his own fate.
Just then, a wide-eyed colonel rushed up to him. “Brigadier General Javan requests an immediate response to these unprovoked attacks.”
“What are the reports from the nuclear silos?” Farhadi said.
“None. Complete destruction. All systems down. Preparedness at zero.”
“Khojir?”
“A firestorm, as far as we can tell.”
“Then what response can there be? We are left only with conventional missiles, and we will receive nuclear apocalypse in return.” He paused. “Have they attacked anywhere else?”
“No, sir. Only the nuclear facilities. They made precision strikes, then fled as fast as they arrived.”
“The Americans?”
“Yes. We believe so. Almost certainly.”
Then that was it. The Americans, or Israelis, had succeeded to wipe out all of their nuclear weaponry. Somehow, they had found it all.
Now it was too late. Just moments ago, he had been prepared to launch all of Iran’s nuclear missiles.
But with them all destroyed, there was nothing he could do.
“Then, as I indicated, there is no response.”
Suddenly, the colonel stood ramrod straight and tall. “Sir! The Brigadier General insists on a response in kind.”
Farhadi shook his head. “I cannot help him with that. It is suicide. I will kill myself before I kill the entire Iranian people.”
It occurred to General Farhadi then that he would like to take retirement, if such a thing were possible. Of course, it was far too late for that. He turned to leave the war room. There was no sense staying here. If there was time, he would at least like to see his wife again.
“Sir! Need I tell you what the reaction of the Supreme Council will be to this abject failure to act?”
The automatic door slid open, ejecting Farhadi into the long corridor. It felt like a release from bondage. He didn’t even bother to answer. For every epic failure, there must be a scapegoat.
“You were right, General. You are killing yourself.”
Farhadi nodded. “I know.”
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
Time Unknown
Whereabouts Unknown
Someone slapped him across the face.
“Wake up, mister! Wake up.”
There was going to be hell to pay.
For what seemed like hours, Luke had faded in and out of consciousness, resisting his body’s urge to wake up. He knew very little. They had made a run for it over the Caspian Sea. They had been shot down. They hit the water.
And he was alive.
He was on a cot somewhere, and in pain. The cot was narrow and uncomfortable, with a hard backing—like a prison cot. His eyes were covered by some kind of bandage, so he couldn’t see. It was impossible to toss or turn, even if he wanted to—his body seemed to be fastened to the cot somehow.
He realized he was not in his right mind. He assumed he was in Iran, likely to be tortured and executed just as soon as they got around to figuring out who he was. But the people around him seemed to speak a language he could not understand—if it was Farsi, they were speaking too fast for him to catch even a single word.
All until a moment ago. Now, the man slapping him was speaking English.
“Wake up, please!”
Suddenly, the man’s hands removed the blinders that had covered Luke’s eyes. Light flooded in, and Luke blinked and squinted in response. A smallish man with café au lait skin stood over him. His brown eyes were bright and merry. He slapped Luke across the face again, not hard, not soft, but firm. It was a firm slap. There was no menace in it.
“Don’t slap me,” Luke said. “Okay?”
“I’m just waking you up.”
“Thanks.”
Luke glanced around. He was in a room, very rustic, with wood paneling, a wooden table, and a chair. It was chilly in here. There was a large window. Through it, Luke could see the water in the distance. This building appeared to be on a hillside.
He looked at the cot he was on. He wasn’t fastened to it. He was under wool blankets, including his arms, and the bed was made so tightly, and tucked so well, that Luke could barely move. It was less a preparation for torture than the handiwork of an overzealous maid.
“Where am I?” he said.
“You are in Turkmenistan,” the man said with evident pride. “Your helicopter crashed into our territorial waters, and our navy rescued you. We thought you were Iranians, but now it seems you are Americans. I am fluent in English, so I am your assigned guide and translator. My name is Gurbanguly Gorski. You can call me Gurbanguly, if you like.”
“Thanks, uh…” Luke said.
“Gurbanguly,” the man said again.
“Yes. Are any of my friends alive?”
“All of them, of course. We rescued everyone. A pilot, a large black man, another man, and a woman who was sit
ting next to the pilot.”
“She’s also a pilot,” Luke said.
The translator seemed momentarily troubled by that idea. “Oh? Yes, of course. All of them alive and well, in any case. With minor injuries only.”
“What now?” Luke said.
“Well, you’ve been identified as the leader of this group.”
“Yes.”
“The President of our country is eager to meet with you. He loves Americans.”
“Ah,” Luke said. “What is his name, please?”
Gurbanguly looked at Luke closely, again momentarily troubled. “Saparmurat Berdimuhamedeow,” he said with a shrug, as if such a thing should be obvious. It was a household name in Turkmenistan. Would it not be in America?
“And when would he like to meet with me?”
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, right now. He is outside the door, waiting for me to awaken you. That’s why I was slapping you. It seemed the speediest way. I will inform him you are awake.”
As the translator went to the door, Luke worked to wrench his arms free of the blankets. A moment later, another small man appeared in a blue suit, a custom fit. He seemed slim, with somewhat beefy jowls and very black hair. It was impossible to guess his age. A procession of people followed behind him. Luke tried to determine who they were. A few functionaries, several big bodyguards carrying Uzis, and finally a photographer snapping pictures.
The President walked to Luke’s bedside, accompanied by the translator and the photographer. He took Luke’s right hand and first gave it a Western-style handshake, then held it between both of his own. He said something.
“President Berdimuhamedeow welcomes you to Turkmenistan,” Gurbanguly said.
The President continued to talk, the words tumbling from him like a waterfall. To Luke, it sounded like beautiful nonsense. “He invites you to dine with him at Oguzkhan Presidential Palace this very evening.”
“I’d be delighted,” Luke said.
“President Berdimuhamedeow is great friends with your President Susan Hopkins, and he would like to present you this photograph as a welcoming gift.”
One of the functionaries behind the President handed him an eight-by-ten color glossy photo. The President took it, held it for a moment, then passed it on to Luke. It was a shot of the man standing between Susan and her husband, Pierre, in the Rose Garden on a sunny day. They were all smiling—positively beaming, in fact. Susan in heels was three inches taller than President Berdimuhamedeow. Pierre was close to a foot taller. Susan wore a red mini-dress, the hem just above her knee. She looked beautiful, ethereal. She made it very hard to notice the other two.
“As you know, Turkmenistan and the United States confer most favored nation trading status upon each other.”
Luke nodded. “Oh yes.”
“It is President Berdimuhamedeow’s great hope for you that one day you too will meet the American President Hopkins.”
“Thank you,” Luke said. “That is my great hope as well.”
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
December 18
1:00 p.m. Israel Time
Mount Herzl Cemetery
Jerusalem, Israel
It was a sea of people.
The mourners, thousands of them, walked quietly through Mount Herzl, the military cemetery. The body of Daria Shalit had been returned to Israel as part of the ceasefire agreement with Hezbollah. Hezbollah claimed she had been killed in the Israeli bombing of southern Lebanon. The Israelis claimed she had been shot at close range, execution style, by her captors, probably moments after her abduction.
So it went.
The people who knew her stood in the center of the massive crowd, near her freshly dug grave. Luke, Ed, Trudy, and Swann stood high on a green hill, overlooking the scene. Luke and Ed wore United States Army uniforms, flown in especially for the occasion. Trudy wore a black dress, a headscarf, and a veil. Swann wore a bizarre white suit with what appeared to be polka dots. Luke didn’t know for sure because he couldn’t bear to look at it.
Many people near them were openly weeping.
Below them, a military honor guard, men in olive drab dress uniforms, wearing brown berets, moved through the crowd with a coffin on their shoulders. The coffin was draped in the blue and white flag of Israel, the Star of David across the top. Carefully, they placed the coffin on the ground near the open grave.
A young pregnant woman stood over the grave. Soon, she started to speak. A man next to her held a microphone near her mouth. The woman rubbed her own belly. Her voice hitched in her throat. “Daria,” she said, her amplified voice echoing across the hillside. “I can’t say goodbye to you. I want my son to know you. I want you here with your big smile. I want to thank you for all the years you were my dearest little sister. How can we live on without you? You left us orphaned.”
She stopped speaking, tried to start again, stopped. She shook her head, indicating that she couldn’t continue. A man wrapped his arms around her, and they moved away from the grave.
Everywhere, the women were crying. Now the soldiers were crying, too. Men and women in the maroon berets of the paratroopers and the special forces, the gray berets of the air force, the many colors of the many different corps, all weeping for Daria, and maybe for themselves.
A rabbi stood over the grave now. “Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world,” he said, his voice strong and booming. “May He establish His kingdom in your lifetime and during your days, and within the life of the entire House of Israel. Say Amen.”
“Amen,” said the entire crowd, thousands speaking as one.
“May His great name be blessed for ever and to all eternity.”
Luke felt a tug on his uniform. Ari was there, wearing a black suit with a dark blue tie. He wore a black yarmulke on his head. The welts on his face were beginning to heal. He indicated with his head to come with him. Luke nudged Ed. They both followed Ari up the hill. The ranks of mourners were thinning up here. Below them were rows upon rows of gravesites covered in green grass, embedded in concrete plazas, thousands of individual graves.
“Hey, Lumpy,” Luke said. “Looking sharp.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said.
“We’d call you something else,” Ed said, “if we knew what it was.”
Ari shrugged. “I guess Lumpy will have to do.”
“What are we doing up here?” Luke said.
“Saying goodbye.”
“Really?” Ed said. “Just like that? I thought we were at least going to have drinks. The man took a bullet for me, I’m going to buy him a beer.”
Ari shook his head. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Against your religion?” Ed said.
“No. Against my fitness regimen.”
They stared at each other in a silence of mutual respect.
“I could use you on the Special Response Team,” Luke said.
Ari’s eyes widened just a bit, clearly surprised by the offer. Luke could sense that he was touched and honored.
“I come up from underground. Then I go back under. That is who I am,” he said.
Luke nodded; he understood. And yet he wondered if one day their paths might cross again. He had a feeling that they would. And his feelings were never wrong.
“But look,” Ari said. “There is another reason why we are up here. One other person wanted to give his regards before we go. He said he’d like us all to be together.”
He gestured to his right, down the hillside, but away from the crowds. A short, thick-bodied man walked up the hill, surrounded by half a dozen larger men, all in dark suits. The bigger men carried Uzi submachine guns close to their bodies.
As they came a little closer, Luke recognized the ears and the silver comb-over on the smaller man. This time, the hair was covered with a dark blue yarmulke with the Star of David in gold across the top.
Yonatan Stern labored just a bit to make it up the last of the stee
p hill.
“Gentlemen,” he said, shaking each man’s hand in turn. “I will be speaking in a few moments, so I’m afraid I must make this brief. You have my thanks, and the thanks of every person in this nation, from the youngest to the oldest. Your abilities are matched only by your courage. You have our greatest respect.”
As the pleasantries were being exchanged, Luke felt something that he had rarely felt before. It took him a moment to identify it. It was homesickness. Yes, he wanted to see Gunner desperately, and he wanted to see Susan.
But watching all these people, and their ties to this land, made him realize that he had a land as well. He wasn’t as much of a vagabond as he may have imagined himself. He wanted to go home.
“You know,” Yonatan Stern said. “You would all be candidates for the Medal of Valor, our highest military honor, if it were not for one thing.”
“What is that one thing?” big Ed said.
The Prime Minister sighed, and then smiled. “We must all agree that this recent mission never happened.”
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
December 20
6:35 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
The Family Residence
The White House, Washington, DC
It was starting to feel a lot like Christmas.
Susan sat in the White House family dining room, at the small round table. The overhead lights were dimmed, but that was because the whole room was strung with Christmas lights. Also, there was a nice fire crackling in the fireplace, and having the lights down was a nice way to enjoy it.
The doors to the dining room were closed, one Secret Service man right outside, listening in on an earpiece. Susan had a feeling she was safe right now, Secret Service or no Secret Service.
She took a sip of red wine and glanced across at her guests.
Luke Stone and his son, Gunner. Luke’s hair was cut short and his face was clean shaven. The look brought forward the rugged handsomeness of his features. This was the engaged Stone, the one who was going to stay awhile. When his hair and his beard started to grow, and he started to take on that wild-man look, you had to keep your eye on him because he was liable to disappear.
