Michael Walsh Bundle

by Michael Walsh

  At last, the West was using the East’s most potent weapon against it—superstition.

  Payback time.

  The time of the Black Angels and the guardian angels. He had his and she had hers. For the first time, they were in together, going into action the way Branch 4 teammates should, going into battle with another of their own.

  And they were all going home. Life would triumph over death. The end times, with all their apocalyptic carnage, would have to wait for another day, another year, another millennium, another eon. Back to the eternally receding future with you, O Legend. There was no need for ghosts here. Not among the living.

  He started firing. The Viper was a fine piece of equipment and the soldiers fell one after another, toy soldiers dying for a cause they didn’t understand and couldn’t understand. Pop pop pop pop pop . . . he was firing on semiautomatic, setting them up and knocking them down. There was no use in putting it on full assault-rifle auto and wasting ammunition. In his experience, when you got to the full-auto part of the program you were already in big trouble, and big trouble was a place he did his damnedest to stay away from. Full-auto was Last Stand time. Full-auto was a marksman’s pathway to hell.

  He was not ready for hell yet.

  He kept firing and the men kept dropping. Two of the three figures in the desert had dropped to the ground, the women sheltering each other, Skorzeny trying to make a run for it.

  Shoot him . . . shoot him now.

  He took aim.

  Thwack thwack thwack . . .

  And then he saw—the first missile was starting to launch.

  “Come on!” he shouted to Maryam.

  The big Black Hawk was directly overhead now. Would Danny lower the ropes or would he try to land?

  No time to ask. No time to worry. Danny would do what he had to do. And now he had to do what he had to do.

  He charged, firing as he ran.

  In the distance, he could see a phalanx of Jeeps, tearing out of the mountainside and streaming across the salt desert.

  Twin M240 machine guns spat hot death. Nobody could shoot and fly like Danny. Two of the Jeeps flipped and burst into flames.

  “Rockets, damn it, rockets!” he shouted.

  On the launchpad, the first of the Israel-bound Shahabs was shuddering on the launch pad. No time . . . no time . . .

  And Hellfire roared.

  AGM-114s. The specially equipped Black Hawk had two of them. It needed both.

  The missile was starting to lift off.

  Covering fire was raking the Black Hawk, but Danny wasn’t going anywhere. He kept the bird steady, trying to get the second Hellfire into position for a kill shot on the Shahab. Kill it on the ground, strangle it in its cradle, before the demon bird could take flight and visit destruction a thousand miles away.

  “Come on!”

  One of the Jeeps had a .50-caliber gun and it was firing as it raced toward the launchpad. Danny couldn’t fight back—his attention was on the missile. He was going to stop the missile or die trying.

  No need—the virus was already killing it. But he didn’t know that.

  Devlin had to stop the Jeeps.

  He was closer now, with a good bead on the Jeep. His first shot was a kill shot, right through the head of the gunner. The .50-caliber spun wildly, firing with a dead man’s hand on the trigger.

  Devlin’s second shot took the man’s hand off, and the firing stopped.

  His third shot penetrated the engine block and the fourth shot penetrated the driver’s skull. The Jeep careened, spun and flipped over.

  Just as—

  —the Shahab began to lift off and—

  —the Black Hawk fired its second Hellfire.

  Wobbling, the Shahab lifted into the air . . . and then started to gyrate wildly, spinning out of control. It was no longer going straight up but toppling . . . heading into the desert.

  A burst of gunfire to his right. Maryam had the Kalashnikov and was peppering the other Jeeps, taking out the front tires of one and sending it head over heels.

  Amanda was down, motionless, and Mlle. Derrida was screaming for the noise to stop as he passed the women. Skorzeny was up ahead, running into the missile field.

  He followed him. This time, he would not get away. There was no bolt-hole for the bastard. At long last Emanuel Skorzeny was his.

  Devlin closed the gap easily. Maryam and Danny could cover him.

  Closer . . . closer . . .

  And then the other missiles died.

  Inside each lethal weapon, the guidance systems melted down, obeying the instructions of the poisoned NSA computer. His instructions. Delivered by none other than Emanuel Skorzeny.

  Checkmate.

  He tackled him on the fly.

  He had his hands around his throat.

  He was choking him to death.

  “Die, you bastard,” he hissed. “Die. Die for everything you’ve done to me. Die for everything you’ve done to humanity. I don’t care what you die for, but die.”

  Skorzeny was gurgling, turning purple. There was no sport in choking to death an old man, but he didn’t care. His blood was up, he was doing the thing he had been trained to do all his life, all his life since his mother had died in his arms in Rome, since his father caught the terrorists’ bullets to save him, since his parents had died because of this man, this Skorzeny, this beast, this animal, this monster.

  “Stop!” cried Skorzeny. “You can’t kill me. I can’t die like this!”

  “Why not?” In the distance, beyond his bloodlust, he could hear Maryam still firing. Something was wrong. Danny should have her by now. The fight should be over.

  “Because it is not for you to kill me. You have not earned that right.”

  “Try me.”

  Something distracted him for just an instant, but an instant was all it ever took when you were parsing the line between life and death.

  Somehow Skorzeny managed to squirm from his grasp. It was amazing what feats of strength a man was capable of, even an old man, when his life was on the line. That was the thing that always gave the lie to the nihilists and the atheists—that, when the chips were down and death was at the other end of the wire, every living creature struggled, nothing wanted to go gently into that doubleplusungood night, all fought for life, all pleaded, all begged.

  A falling missile nearly brained him. Devlin rolled away as it came down, but in that same motion Skorzeny also rolled away, the two of them scrabbling for a foothold on a desert landscape that was suddenly undergoing something very much like a man-made earthquake. His earthquake.

  The bastard was getting away.

  Another missile toppled over. Whatever satisfaction he could take in their destruction was lessened by his chagrin at seeing his nemesis escape.

  It was not going to happen.

  A huge burst of fire from the Black Hawk. He looked up to see the rope ladder hovering just above his head. Maryam was firing from inside the chopper.

  “Come on!” shouted Danny.

  Devlin saw the others were already aboard. He could not hold up the mission. He had done his job. Almost.

  Decide.

  He decided.

  He tugged twice on the ladder. “Go!” he shouted. “I’ll meet you at Desert One.”

  Danny wouldn’t have to be told twice. He would take orders from the mission commander. He would leave him behind, to die if necessary. It was the chain of command, the only way a military operation could work. No time for feelings.

  His last view was of her, looking down at him, the AK still in her hands, still firing at the new waves of Jeeps racing toward him.

  Then the Black Hawk banked and climbed and was gone, disappearing into the night sky.

  And then the Jeeps were upon him and he was alone, out there in the Iranian desert, with only his 1911 to keep him company.

  He liked his odds.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Qom

  On Iranian state television, the Grand Ayatoll
ah Ali Ahmed Hussein Mustafa Mohammed Fadlallah al-Sadiq was addressing the faithful:

  “O Muslims,” he said, holding up his right hand so that all might see the mark upon it, that they might know that he was the Seyed Khorasani of sacred prophecy, “today I bring you great tiding. A mighty miracle shall you witness, born today in the holy city of Qom.”

  The cameras cut to the holy city, and the mosque at Jamkaran, outside which an expectant crowd had gathered, then back to the Ayatollah in Tehran, to which he had returned for the great national moment. He was flanked by various mullahs and civilian members of the government, including the fractious president.

  “O Muslims,” he continued, “rejoice, for today marks the day of the Coming. A great awakening shall spread across the lands of Islam and even unto the dar al-Harb, the land of conflict and war wherein the final battle shall be fought. For has not Evil come into the land, everywhere assailing the forces of Good? In the words of the sacred sura 50: 41-45, ‘And listen for the Day when the Caller will call out from a place quite near. The Day when they will hear a mighty Blast in Truth: that will be the Day of Resurrection.’ So it is written and today, so shall it be done.”

  The screen split now, half the imam and half the sacred mosque. The Faithful knelt in prayer.

  “O Muslims, hear the words of the Prophet, and believe.”

  Off-camera, the Grand Ayatollah looked at the president of the Islamic Republic, who nodded confidently. The missiles were about to fly. The death of the Little Satan would quickly follow, and the great cataclysm to come would surely call forth the Imam Mahdi. He could therefore speak with confidence when he said—

  A cry went up from the crowd in Qom. The Grand Ayatollah looked at the monitor. Something was happening. Had it begun?

  “We can’t leave him there,” said Amanda, lying cradled in Maryam’s arms as the Black Hawk ascended. “They’ll kill him.”

  “He knows the risks,” shouted Danny, “and I follow orders.”

  Amanda had been hit by small-arms fire, but was still conscious, although bleeding profusely from a wound in her side.

  “I have to get you medical attention,” said Danny. “If I don’t, you’re not going to make it.” There it was: blunt. But this was no time to be coy.

  Maryam was working on her with the first aid kit, trying to stanch the flow of blood. It was a losing effort.

  “Go back!” shouted Amanda. “Don’t leave him there.” The exertion was too much for her. She sank back and whispered to Maryam, “Don’t let them kill him. We need him. You need him. Make him go back.”

  Maryam looked down, but she was rapidly losing sight of the battlefield. The toppling missiles had kicked up a minisandstorm; even if they’d wanted to go back for him, there would be no way a responsible pilot would make the attempt.

  “He knew the rules, Amanda,” said Maryam.

  Amanda gathered all her strength and struggled to a halfsitting position. Her eyes alighted on the pilot’s area, and on a photograph prominently displayed there. It was a picture of Hope, Rory, and a girl she didn’t recognize and one whom she very much did: Emma. Her Emma, the daughter she’d had for such a brief time in London. It was wrong what they had, she knew that now. She could think clearly now, more clearly than at any time in her life. She knew what to do, what to say.

  “To hell with the rules,” she said. “Save the man you love.”

  Maryam rose. From the day they had met, “Frank Ross” and she had been each other’s guardian angels. He would go back for her, she knew he would. He had crossed half the earth for her. Her obligation was clear—it was the mission, certainly. But he was the mission.

  “Go back,” she said to Danny.

  “No way, sister,” he shouted. “The zone is too hot.”

  She put the Colt 1911 to his head. “Go back.”

  “We go back, we all die.”

  “No, we won’t.”

  Danny turned his head. The safety was off and he knew there was a round in the chamber.

  Would she shoot him? A sane woman would not. Shooting him meant they would all die. But who said she was a sane woman?

  The gun nuzzled his ear. “Now,” she said, “before it’s too late.”

  She certainly had a way with words.

  Danny banked the chopper and looked down. The place he had last seen “Bert Harris” was in a choking cloud of dust and debris. And there was one other complication—the Super Hornets would be there any minute. Even now, they were streaking across the Iranian sky. He’d been through some shit in his time, but this would be right up there.

  What the hell. He was in the shit business, wasn’t he? What was a little more shit among friends?

  He swung hard and headed down. “You got it, sister,” he said. “Now take care of Amanda—and get ready to fight when I say fight.”

  He felt the gun move away from the side of his head, then felt her face next to his. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and then she was gone.

  Behind the mosque, a huge cloud of dust was rising. Surely, this was a sign. The crowd before the mosque began to chant: “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”

  In the studio in Tehran, a phone rang in the distance, but the Grand Ayatollah was only dimly aware of it. His attention was riveted on what was going on in Qom. At any moment now, the Shahabs should be leaping into the air, on their way to their appointment with destiny in Israel. The order had been given, and it was just a matter of time now....

  “What? What?” He could hear shouting. But the cameras would be back on him very soon, so he could not react.

  There! There was that damned red light again. This demon of Western technology would wait for nothing.

  “O Muslims,” he began again, and then stopped. Something was moving in the sky about the holy city.

  Allah be praised, it was a miracle....

  Since the disaster at Desert One, helicopters had come a long way in desert warfare. A decade and more of fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan had taught the manufacturers exactly what sort of conditions their products would be used under, and they had built in all sorts of protective devices. The new generation of special-ops MH-60Ks were all-weather capable and boasted terrain-hugging radar that let the pilot fly practically blind. In any case, a KG-10 real-time map display told the pilot where he was at all times and on-board radar would alert him immediately to any laser targeting. With the two external extended-range fuel tanks, he could still make the rendezvous point and get out of Dodge when the time came.

  This was about as good a horse as a cowboy was going to get. Danny took a deep breath and dove.

  On the ground, it was an inferno and about to get worse, Rocket fuel was flowing from the damaged Shahabs and the whole place would go up any minute. Using the cloud as cover, Devlin was moving away from the field as fast as he could, heading for the small shelter of some hills to the east.

  Through the dust, Devlin could see the troops streaming across the desert, firing. He wasn’t afraid. A lucky bullet might catch him, but then a lucky bullet might catch anybody. He had his 1911 and a couple of magazines.

  This was the way he’d always wanted to go. Last stands were not for cowards.

  He began firing as soon as they came in range. They might not be able to see him, but he could certainly see them. He went for the drivers first, and got two of them immediately. The Jeeps spun out, collided, rolled over, and crashed into the rocket debris.

  His fire attracted the attention of the others, and they turned, heading for him. He was fast but he couldn’t outrun them, and it was still another fifty meters or so before he made the hillocks.

  He ran, firing as he went.

  Bullets kicked up all around him.

  He dropped to the ground as a .50-caliber opened up on him, rolled, then popped back up to his feet and shot the gunner. Then he turned and ran again.

  Almost to the hills now . . . almost . . .

  The .50-caliber opened back up. Someone must have jumpe
d into the dead man’s shoes. No time for tricks. He had to make safety. He cast a glance backward....

  The man had a bead on him. He wasn’t going to make it.

  The man opened fire. Bullets tattooed the desert floor, heading right at him.

  No time, no time . . .

  And then a miracle happened—

  It was a miracle, just not the kind of miracle the Grand Ayatollah was half expecting.

  It was a helicopter. An American Black Hawk, painted to look like part of the Iranian Army. But the Grand Ayatollah knew that the army had no such Black Hawks like this one. In a blatant violation of international law, the Americans were attacking Iran!

  He could sense the consternation behind him. He could hear shouts—something was destroying all the Islamic Republic’s missiles right on their launchpads, all across the country.

  This was no miracle. This was treachery. And he knew just whom to blame:

  Emanuel Skorzeny.

  This was the second time the man had betrayed them. He had lied to them about the event in New York, and that had cost the mullahs one of their best go-betweens in Arash Kohanloo. The only real miracle there was that Tyler hadn’t come after them with everything he had. But such was the beauty of asymmetrical warfare: that without a smoking gun to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law, the great powers could no longer act. They were not led by men, but by lawyers, many of them women.

  And now this. He had partnered with them, told them that the bomb they had purchased at great expense from a rogue Russian agent would explode in the Jews’ hospital, the one they named after the place where their prophet Moses was said to have received the Ten Commandments. Instead, the only thing exploding were the Islamic Republic’s missiles.