Overlord

by David L. Golemon

  “It means, Henri, that the war we’ve been fearing is starting.”

  COMMERCIAL LANDING FIELD

  MASALLY, AZERBAIJAN

  The three Russian-built troop transports, the Ilyushin IL-76 D “Desantnyis,” sat at the far edge of the northern-most runway. The security aspect of what was now known as Operation Zeus dictated the large force stay as far from the prying eyes of the Azerbaijani military forces as possible. From a distance the newest sets of eyes on the airstrip watched the activity of the Russian paratroopers as they made ready for their flight into Iran. It had taken close to three hours to get the Azerbaijani government’s permission to use Masally as a staging area. As it was, several large western newspapers and networks had gotten wind of the operation but were kept at bay at the main civil terminal far away.

  The lone helicopter sat between the large troop transports. The pilot made ready for the flight into the Caspian Sea staging site. His passengers had just arrived and were being outfitted inside the three large tents they had set up.

  Two miles away inside the run-down terminal, two Russian soldiers made their way through security and past the many prying eyes of the civilians waiting for their flights. The two officers, a man and a woman with very dark hair, turned sharply into the airline pilots’ ready room. The woman removed her cap and held a hand up, stilling the man as he stepped in behind her. She heard a shower running and a man somewhere inside the locker room whistling. She gestured for the man to take the whistler and she would address the shower situation. The man nodded, reached into his uniform jacket pocket, and removed a small syringe. He looked at the raven-haired woman one last time and she gave him a warning with her raised brows. He smiled and walked off.

  The woman pulled a duplicate syringe from her own pocket and with one last glance at her male counterpart moved to the shower stalls that lined the back of the pilots’ ready room. She heard the shower turn off and the soft humming of a woman as she opened the stall door. The woman in the absconded Russian uniform moved quickly to jab the female shower taker in the arm, then held the woman’s head as she easily collapsed into her arms. She laid her gently on the tiled floor, then looked over at the man who had accompanied her as he dragged the whistler into the shower area.

  “Place them in the janitor’s closet and seal the door. Someone should free them tomorrow morning when their cleaning shift arrives.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise. This fellow”—the man lightly tapped the drugged man with his right foot—“got a good look at me before I stuck him.” The dark-haired woman removed the combat fatigues from the wall hook, held them up for sizing, and tilted her head, thinking the large fit would have to do. She finally spared the man a hard look.

  “The last I heard, Israel wasn’t at war with Russia. We’re here to observe and report, that is all. If this weapon the Iranians have is meant for Israel, we have to know.”

  “You’re the boss, Major, I just work here.”

  Anya Korvesky looked at the man, then nodded at the captive at his feet. “Then by all means do your work and hide these two.” She looked at the wall clock. “And hurry, we’re on the clock.”

  Anya was bone weary. The two Mossad agents had been airlifted twenty miles out from Masally and had to walk in from there. Now they had but five minutes to make the flight line to be in on the raid into Iran. She was there to confirm the suspicion that the weapon the Iranians were using was being directed at the State of Israel. If it was, the Russians would have one chance to destroy it, and if that failed it would be left in the hands of the Israeli Air Force, which was on standby just outside Tel Aviv.

  Anya dressed quickly and looked around the locker room until she saw the briefcase. She opened it and made sure the two people they had replaced had all of their documentation and necessary credentials; they did. The man and woman the two agents replaced would have been the scientific advisors on nuclear energy and would be allowed on the raid to assist the American team flown in from a cruiser out in the Caspian Sea. Only it would be she and her partner who would be in on the combat jump into Iran instead of these two.

  Dressed in their combat gear, they walked out of the pilots’ ready room and into the night.

  The Mossad was jumping tonight with the elite of the Russian military.

  * * *

  Sarah nervously watched as the twin-rotor helicopter started up before them. She and Ryan were sitting on that cold tarmac next to a set of giant landing gear of one of the Ilyushin transports when the pilot of the helicopter waved them over for their flight to the Riga-class frigate Leschenko awaiting them in the Caspian Sea. They stood and both knew they were heading into a situation neither had expected.

  “Right about now would be a good time for the colonel and Mr. Everett to make an appearance.” Ryan threw his bag over his shoulder and looked at Sarah.

  “Yeah, it would be nice to have them along,” Sarah agreed as Ryan helped her to her feet.

  “No, not to come along, but to replace us. I don’t know about you, but those Russian boys don’t look like they’re heading for a picnic.”

  Sarah watched as the paratroopers of the elite Russian 106th Guards Division started loading onto the three transports that would take them into harm’s way.

  “Strange how soldiers look the same all over the world, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the look in their eyes,” Jason replied.

  “Look?”

  “Yeah.” He took Sarah by the elbow and started steering her toward the idling helicopter. “The look that says they would sure as hell rather be somewhere else.”

  Sarah had to agree. She started forward when she accidentally bumped into a soldier making her way to the second Ilyushin in line. The two women locked eyes for the briefest of moments but it was enough to make Sarah stop in her tracks. Jason Ryan saw exactly what she had seen. Sarah managed to get her feet moving as Jason pushed her forward.

  Anya Korvesky felt her heart sink when she saw who had bumped into her. She knew Sarah was going to say something and then that, as they say, would be that, and their little ruse would be over before they entered Iranian airspace. Both parties managed to separate without a word.

  Sarah slowly turned her head just as Anya did. The two sets of eyes met again and then they both turned away.

  “What in the hell is she doing here?” Sarah asked as Jason managed to get her moving again. “Where’s Carl?”

  “I don’t know, McIntire, but if we draw attention to her we could damn well be responsible for getting the major shot, so move on and let’s forget we even saw her—at least until we can inform Group.”

  Anya turned one last time. She had met the two Americans in Romania and knew them to be Carl’s best friends outside of Colonel Collins. She was grateful that Ryan and Sarah seemed to realize what would happen if Sarah had exposed her identity. With a sigh of relief Anya Korvesky adjusted her chute and equipment, then stepped onto the rear loading ramp of the Ilyushin just as it started to rise, closing out the sight of the small helicopter lifting off with Sarah and Jason.

  As the ramps of the three transports closed, a large red flare shot into the sky, and then the first of the giant transports started to roll.

  Operation Zeus was on the move.

  5

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Hiram Vickers winced as the bullet was slowly pulled from his upper right calf. He hissed as the old doctor removed the insulting object from his body. He was lying on a gurney in a shabby office of a man he had only sent people to for injuries—never, ever his own.

  “Aw, come on now,” the old doctor said in German-accented English. “It barely qualifies as a flesh wound. I’ve done worse to myself with a—”

  “Shut the fuck up and keep your witticisms to yourself. Can I travel without too much discomfort?”

  The doctor allowed the misshapen bullet to fall free of the clamp and Vickers heard the ting of the bullet as it hit the stainless steel bowl. He then placed a gauze banda
ge over the wound and started to tape it.

  “As I said, it was nothing more than a flesh wound. It barely hit the muscle. If you can withstand a little discomfort I’m sure aspirin will cover it.”

  Vickers eyed the man and was about to comment on the doctor’s opinion of his pain threshold when his cell phone chimed. He cursed when he saw the secure number displayed. He pushed the old doctor away and answered it.

  “You son of a bitch, do you think this is going to stand?” he said angrily into the phone.

  “You brought this down on yourself. You gave us no choice in deciding your fate, and you knew going in that if your dirty tricks and acquisitions department became public knowledge you would do what needed to be done. You didn’t do what was expected, so your retirement was determined to be essential. As I said, you brought it on yourself, and unless you have a plan that will make the president of the United States forgive and forget, some sort of leverage, you will be the most hunted man in the country. The FBI has already tagged you for the murder of four men at your apartment. Believe me, if I were you I would handle my retirement myself and not allow Jack Collins to do it for you. And you know that you can’t go and turn yourself in—we can get to you anywhere.”

  “Listen to me, Mr. Peachtree, if you don’t help me get the hell out of here I will do something that will not only ensure that I hang, but you and several others will also.”

  “You have nothing on either me or Speaker of the House Camden. You started the department and you are the one that went rogue on us and killed two American citizens, and agency people at that. No, I think the best way out for you and your family name is to do the retirement ceremonies yourself. Or your very own Black Teams will hunt you down and do the retirement in a most brutal manner—their way.”

  “Listen to me, I will—”

  Vickers cursed when he realized he was speaking into a severed connection. He closed the cell phone, then looked at the doctor, who was wiping his hands on a towel and looking his way.

  “Find something funny in that?” he asked as he slowly slid from the table.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it’s not often that I treat a dead man. May I suggest you run for your life?” He smiled as he started to turn for the door.

  Vickers angrily reached into his coat, pulled out the .32 automatic, and fired six times into the old doctor’s back. He limped over to the fallen man as he rolled over.

  “Still find it funny?” he asked, and fired two more times into the upturned face.

  Vickers turned and rummaged in the medicine cabinet until he found some pain medication, then quickly swallowed three pills. He reached out with his good leg and kicked the doctor’s head to remove the staring and blank eyes from him. He shook his head as he realized that the entire law enforcement community of the planet would be looking for him. He knew he needed leverage, the likes of which would sway the president into not proceeding with his retirement. He stepped around the murdered doctor and faced the far wall.

  “I’ll bring you all down before this is over,” he said as he leaned his head against a large wall map of the United States. He knew he was a lost man as he took a deep breath and straightened. His eyes fell on the map and then they strayed to the western part of the United States. They centered on the southern portion of the multicolored map and he slowly started to smile, feeling better almost immediately with the sudden burst of inspiration. He stepped back and looked at the map and his smile grew. He knew he had found his get-out-of-jail-free card. His hand reached out and slapped the area he was staring at. He smiled at the streak of blood he left on the spot. He then turned away and left the dilapidated office building, exiting Washington for the last time.

  On the wall map there was a blotch of red blood smearing the small town in Arizona that would see Vickers free of his dilemma: Chato’s Crawl—the home of the Matchstick Man.

  USNS ALAN SHEPARD

  UNITED STATES NAVAL SUPPLY VESSEL

  The Alan Shepard rose on the twelve-foot swell and then rolled slightly to the starboard beam as her blunt but powerful nose fought free of the foam and sea that had so suddenly sprung to life around her. She went from a five-knot wind and light seas to having to take on ballast to keep her firmly placed in the water. Her captain leaned forward and peered through the wipers that tried in vain to keep her bridge windows clear. The swirling skies above were taking on a shape that the young captain didn’t like at all. He turned and looked toward his executive officer.

  “I want damage control to standby near the ammunition lockers. This would be the time we find out that someone went slack on their loading procedures because no one was expecting this an hour ago.”

  “Already done.” The exec reached for a control panel just as the Alan Shepard rolled again, this time to port. Lightning illuminated the interior of the bridge and many worried looks from her young crew were exchanged at the sudden appearance of the swirling storm.

  “Captain, we’re starting to get a severe current slamming us from the starboard side. We’re having a hard time keeping course.”

  “Maintain course, bring speed up to fifteen knots. I want to get out of this corkscrew. This is beginning to look like a typhoon.”

  “I heard the North Sea was rough, but this is ridiculous,” the exec said as he finally gained control and steadied.

  “Captain, you better look at this,” called out one of civilian load handlers. He was looking through binoculars and gesturing in the growing darkness of the raging storm. The captain grabbed a pair of glasses and turned to his second-in-command.

  “Get a message off to South Hampton and warn them about this. They have to get word out to those deep-sea oil platforms—this thing could tear them apart. Message the Royal Navy that they may have a situation brewing out here.”

  “Aye,” the exec replied and moved off to get the word out.

  The captain quickly raised the glasses to his eyes as the Alan Shepard went deep into a trough of water that plunged her no less than a hundred feet down a steep waterfall of terror. She corrected and then her bow shot almost straight up. Lightning flashed and eyes flinched as they broke free to the surface once again.

  “My God,” the captain said beneath his breath as he eyed the most amazing sight he had ever seen in the natural world—one he knew few had ever seen before. The clouds swirled in a clockwise motion high above them and thirty miles to the south. It looked as if it was a hurricane forming but the captain knew it was swirling far too perfectly. What he was seeing looked almost animated. The colors of blue, purple, green, and reds turned at an amazing speed. The sea directly beneath was churned up into a whirlpool that covered no less than ten miles of the North Sea. A giant wall of water was reaching up to touch the bottom of the tornado of light. The captain flinched and turned away when the windows were blotted out by a thousand streaks of lightning as they broke free of the swirling mass and struck out into the sky in all directions.

  “Captain, sea temperature has risen by ten degrees, current winds approaching one hundred miles per hour!” The shout came as the captain regained his sight and once more looked out into the raging hurricane.

  “Bring us hard to port—get us the hell out of here! All ahead flank!”

  The large supply ship turned hard as the captain saw a sight that froze his blood. Far above and twenty miles away the great tornado of clouds, water, and Lord knew what else, slammed into the sea. The two met with a powerful explosion that sent the sea three miles into the sky, and that still was not enough to hide the terror of the mass of swirling light as it met the ocean. The captain turned away just as the bridge windows exploded in. He looked up and then his heart sank just as five objects of tremendous size exited the twirling tornado. The sound they made even broke through the passion of the raging winds—a deep base tuba that hurt the ears of men twenty miles away. Five times the excruciating noise broke through as the sound of the objects exiting the storm finally diminished and then was gone. The giant round struct
ures then vanished into the eruption on the surface of the North Sea. They disappeared as fast as they had arrived and even then the captain truly wondered if he had seen them at all.

  “God!” came a scream of terror as the Alan Shepard rolled hard to starboard as the rogue wave slammed into her. Men lost their grips and fell. Cargo meant for the USS Nimitz carrier battle group broke free and crushed many below decks, and still the giant supply ship rolled. A tremendous scream rent the air as the ship began her death roll.

  Three minutes later the bottom keel broke the surface of the North Sea and the USNS Alan Shepard rolled lazily on the now-gentle surface. The sun gleamed off her red-painted underside as men started to bob to the surface of the cold sea one and two at a time. The storm had completely vanished as if it had never been there at all. There was only the debris of a once-proud supply ship that marked the graves of many a sailor.

  UNIVERSITY OF APPLIED SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY

  BIRJAND, IRAN

  Mahmoud Ahmadinejad looked on angrily from behind the protective three-foot glass wall as technicians raced to put out the fire that blazed at the base of the alien power plant. General Hassan Yazdi was standing beside him and too saw the debacle that the final test had turned out to be. He felt the anger rolling off of Ahmadinejad in waves. The ex-president reached out and struck the intercom button with a closed fist.

  “Turn off that cursed alarm,” he said over the intermittent beeping of the fire warning system. He waited as the alarm was finally silenced. He turned to the general. “As if these incompetents couldn’t realize on their own that they had a fire, they had to be warned?” He shook his head as he watched the fire being brought under control. “How does the placement of your men progress?”

  “The First Guards Division is entrenched outside of Tehran, and the Third Guards are at this very moment approaching the holy city of Qom. We will have no trouble from the clerics—nor, dare I say, the ayatollahs. The bulk of the men believe they will be preventing a coup, not initiating one. Once the president falls, the religious right will fall in line with the plan, especially since it will be too late to stop it.” He looked into the dark eyes of the smaller man. “That is if this infernal device works correctly and the target actually is struck.”