by Robert Gandt
A pall of blackness lay over the Persian Gulf. Dawn was still an hour and a half away. The Bu Hasa commander had insisted the exchange be conducted in darkness, which, for the Americans, was fortuitous. With advanced-technology night vision goggles, they owned the night. The schedule also permitted an egress in the pinkness of dawn, which would provide enough light, if it became necessary, for Boyce’s strike fighters to find Sherji targets.
“Hell of a thing for a couple of fighter pilots,” said Gracie Allen, sitting next to Maxwell. “Trapped in a chopper full of snake eaters.”
Maxwell gazed around the darkened cabin. Allen was right. The interior of the SH-60 was filled with black-faced Marines in battle dress, all clutching M-16A2 combat rifles.
“Let’s hope we don’t need them,” Maxwell also hoped they didn’t need the rest of the entourage—the Cobra gunships and AV-8B Harriers escorting the SH-60, or Boyce’s strike fighters flying high cover. Ditto the EA-6B Prowler, on station to jam and spoil any Iranian air defense radar activity.
The Cobras and Harriers would stay offshore while the SH-60 with the Raven Swoop team continued inland. The fighters would remain on station, rotating to an orbiting KC-10 tanker for refueling, for as long as the team was in country.
Maxwell and Allen were dressed alike, wearing camo BDUs. Each had a PRC-6725 field radio and a Trimble GPS navigation unit hooked to his belt. In a satchel they carried extra ammunition magazines and a set of PVS-7 night vision goggles.
Allen wore his standard-issue Beretta nine-millimeter in a web shoulder holster. He looked at Maxwell’s sidearm, strapped in its faded leather holster. “What the hell is that?”
Maxwell slipped the pistol half out of the holster. “Colt .45. My dad passed it down to me.”
Allen shook his head. “He should have passed it to a museum.”
Maxwell shrugged and reholstered the weapon.
He saw Bronson watching them from across the cabin. His face was blackened like the others. He wore BDUs, with the same radio, GPS, and NVG kit hanging on his belt. Instead of a Beretta, he wore a Glock semi-automatic strapped to his hip.
It was odd, thought Maxwell. Since the mission began back on the Saipan, Bronson had changed. He seemed to shed some of his hostility, becoming businesslike, almost cordial. Maybe he had misjudged Bronson. He was still an asshole, but at least he was a professional asshole.
Close to Bronson sat Jamal Al-Fasr, his wrists bound with a tie wrap, a black watch cap pulled down over his eyes. Bronson had taken personal custody of the prisoner, insisting that Allen and everyone else to stay away from him. No communication, no contact.
Maxwell knew that the CIA hated giving up a valuable prisoner like Al-Fasr. He guessed that Bronson’s people had already given him a thorough interrogation. More than thorough, probably. He would also bet that they had gotten nothing of value.
For forty-five minutes the big helicopter clattered through the night. The darkness outside was nearly total. It was as if the chopper and all inside it were swallowed in a black void. No lights, no hint of height or horizon or even stars outside the cabin window.
Lt. Col. Aubrey Hewlitt, the senior Marine, stepped out of the cockpit and flashed two five-finger signals to his sergeant. He turned to Gracie Allen. “We just crossed the shoreline. Ten minutes to the LZ.”
It meant the Raven Swoop team was on its own. No gunship escorts, no Harriers close at hand in case of an ambush.
Maxwell thought again of the operation in Yemen. They had blundered into a trap set by the same man they were now transporting to Iran—Jamal Al-Fasr.
His looked again at the dark shape of the terrorist commander, opposite him in the cabin. In a detached sense, he could understand Bronson’s anger over the prisoner exchange. Al-Fasr had been one of the most wanted fugitives on the planet. Capturing him had been a coup for the CIA.
Now they were setting him free.
A thought came to Maxwell’s mind. Are we doing the right thing? Al-Fasr hadn’t changed stripes. Were they setting him free to wreak more atrocities on the world?
If so, Maxwell thought, he would have himself to blame. Through Claire’s contacts, he had set the wheels in motion in Washington to force the exchange.
The whining, clattering noise of the helicopter’s turbine engines changed pitch. Maxwell could feel the SH-60 slowing, maneuvering for a landing.
“Heads up, Marines,” called out Hewlitt. “Show time.”
< >
Abu Mahmed was instantly alert. The familiar throbbing sound came from the south, from the direction of the sea. Even though his eyes had adapted to the darkness, he was unable to penetrate the inky gloom of the night.
His satellite phone buzzed. From the southernmost surveillance post came the excited voice of the sentry. “They’re here, flying low up the river.”
“How many?”
“Just one, I think.”
“Are you sure? No escorts, no gunships?”
“I don’t think so. Only one large helicopter.”
“Where are they landing?”
A pause. “I’m not sure. I can’t see them any longer. It sounds as if they are landing at the levy, near the mouth of the river.”
Abu nodded. The CIA contact claimed he couldn’t say the specific location of the landing zone. It depended on visibility and weather conditions, he said.
If they were alighting at the mouth of the river, it meant they were no more than five kilometers from the village. Fifteen minutes hiking time, twenty at the most.
How many troops? Abu wondered. Perhaps the sentry could count them. If they came in only one helicopter, they couldn’t number more than fifteen.
Abu climbed down from the Land Rover and entered the darkened hut. The prisoner lay asleep, curled up on the floor in a corner.
Abu gave him a kick in the small of his back. The prisoner grunted and rose up on one elbow.
“On your feet,” said Abu. “Move quickly.”
The prisoner looked up at him. “Where are we going?”
“Shut up.” Abu delivered another kick, this time to the prisoner’s stomach. The prisoner groaned and doubled over.
“You will do exactly as I tell you or I will shoot you on the spot,” said Abu. “It would give me great pleasure. Do you understand?”
The prisoner looked at him through dull, pain-filled eyes. He nodded his understanding.
With Al-Fasr gone, Abu had not felt constrained in his treatment of the prisoner, particularly after his attempted escape and the killing of the Sherji guards. No longer was it necessary to coddle the infidel, treating him as a fellow officer as that posturing fool Al-Fasr had done. The prisoner was a disciple of the Great Satan, an enemy of the Islamic revolution. He deserved neither pity nor respect.
Abu had already decided to put a bullet in his brain. But then came the strange message from the CIA officer, Bronson. A mission to exchange Al-Fasr for the American.
So now they were playing a deadly game. Though he and Bronson were mortal enemies, each was using the other for his own purposes. In the end there would be only one winner. Abu had already decided who that would be.
“Quickly,” he said to the Sherji assembled outside the hut. “Take your positions. It is time to greet the infidels.”
Chapter 23 — Revelations
Manama, Bahrain
0245, Wednesday, 24 March
She fumbled for her key.
The big leather bag was full of gadgets—pens, cell phone, Palm Pilot, digital recorder. The electronic room key was somewhere in the bottom. As she fumbled she was conscious of Tyrwhitt’s familiar, rumpled presence. He was quiet, not his ebullient self.
She came up with the key. “Thanks for a very nice evening, Chris. It was good fun.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he drew her to him. He kissed her, not the obligatory, sloppy social kiss he bestowed in the restaurant, but a long, tender kiss that swept her back to the whirlwind courtship of five years ago.
She
felt dizzy. The vodka tonics had kicked in, and so had Chris Tyrwhitt’s potent outlaw charisma.
She let him take the key card from her and slip it into the slot in the door fixture. The green light flickered. He opened the door.
It had been a long time, she thought. They had not made love since their days in Istanbul, before she threw him out of the apartment. She couldn’t even recall the particulars, only that it was another of his classic affairs, something involving the wife of a diplomat. A Scandinavian, as she recalled. Ash blonde hair, large blue eyes, the behavior of an alley cat. Tyrwhitt had a thing for alley cats.
Ancient history, she told herself.
The door was still open. Say good night, she ordered herself. Get him out of her before it’s too late.
Then it was too late.
Before she could protest, he scooped her up and carried her into the room.
< >
Haw Umm Qasr, Iran
The landing zone turned out to be an intersection of ancient cart paths near the southern edge of the lake. The blades of the SH-60 were kicking up a cloud of fine dirt and stones and dry weeds.
As the wheels of the helicopter neared the ground, the Marines hit the ground running. Within seconds, they had blended into the night.
Maxwell followed Gracie Allen out the door. Behind them came Bronson, yanking the prisoner along behind him. They stopped fifty yards from the helicopter, crouching beneath a low outcropping of rock.
In the darkness Maxwell heard radios crackling, low voices reporting perimeter positions secured, the metallic sound of automatic weapons being set up. The turbine engines of the helo settled down to an idle whine, the blades rotating in a slow whoosh.
Hewlitt appeared out of the darkness. He muttered something into his handheld transceiver, then turned to Allen. “Perimeter secure, sir. No sign of troop movement, no IR returns, no emissions. That’s the best we can do. Your people are good to go.”
Allen nodded. He looked at Bronson, then Maxwell. “I want position reports. Stay in contact all the way. Transmit ‘Raven Swoop’ when the deal is done. If I don’t hear anything for five minutes, we’re coming to get you. If things turn to shit, the call is ‘Basher.’ We hear that, and the grunts are coming in hot.”
Allen clapped each man on the shoulder. “We do this right and we’re gonna make a lot of people happy tonight. Instead of killing, we’re going to bring someone back to life. Good luck, gentlemen.”
Bronson turned to Maxwell. “I have to say something, Brick.” His voice was low, almost respectful. “All that stuff between us back on the ship—well, that was anger and ego talking. I was wrong, and I apologize. I’m a professional, and from what I hear, you are too. Let’s put it behind us and get this job done. Okay?”
He extended his hand.
Maxwell was caught off guard. He shook Bronson’s hand, thinking that this was definitely not the Bronson he remembered. He’d been wrong about the man. “Okay. We’re on the same team, Ted.”
Bronson squeezed his hand for another second. “Good man. Now let’s go make it happen.”
He hauled the prisoner to his feet. Al-Fasr recoiled as Bronson pulled out his Glock semi-automatic and held it under his nose. “Stay in front of me. No communicating of any kind, not one word, no abrupt movements. I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your head. Got that?”
Al-Fasr nodded his understanding.
Bronson slung an MP-5N submachine gun over his shoulder, then prodded Al-Fasr to move on down the path.
Bronson and Maxwell each strapped on their NVG. They looked like alien creatures, the two eyecups and the long snout extending six inches from their faces, a faint green glow behind the eyepieces. Through the NVG, the impenetrable blackness became a greenish daylight. Maxwell could see the rutted path for a quarter mile ahead of them. Weeds, rocks, low-hanging shrubs stood out in minute detail.
The hood over Al-Fasr’s eyes had been removed. Without NVG, he moved warily in the darkness, his boots scuffing the rocky path. Night birds flitted in the nearby low shrubs. In the reeds beside the path, the slow-moving river made a dull gurgle.
For six minutes they walked, stopping every hundred yards or so to scan the terrain. Rounding a bend in the path, they saw the squarish outlines of low buildings, huts, an ancient wall.
Bronson signaled a stop while he scanned the area.
“Somebody’s home,” he said in a low voice.
Maxwell peered through his own goggles. He saw no sign of life. The huts looked abandoned, the roofs partly gone, windows missing.
“What do you see?”
“On top of that building to the left,” said Bronson. “Somebody watching us.”
He gave Al-Fasr another prod. “Okay, let’s go close the deal.”
They followed the path through an opening in the crumbling wall, between single-story buildings. They stopped at an open space in the center of the village.
The courtyard. The designated meeting place.
Bronson scanned again, sweeping the area from side to side.
A voice came from the darkness. “Stay where you are. Identify yourselves.”
At the sound of the heavily accented voice, Al-Fasr cocked his head, peering across the darkened courtyard.
“We have a gift from the sea,” said Bronson, reciting the prearranged script. “There are three of us.”
“Do you have Jamal?”
Bronson pressed the muzzle of the Glock into Al-Fasr’s neck. “Tell him.”
“I am here,” called out Al-Fasr. “They speak the truth.”
In the artificial green light, Maxwell saw figures appear on the far side of the courtyard. There were three men, two with weapons, one unarmed. The unarmed man was tall, moving with a shambling gait. He had nearly white hair. His face was gaunt.
Maxwell felt the excitement rise up in him. Raz. It had to be him. Thirty yards from freedom.
“The prisoners will advance,” said the voice across the courtyard.
< >
Manama, Bahrain
Like old times, thought Tyrwhitt.
She used to like being picked up like this. She always put up a token resistance, then relaxed and allowed herself to be carried inside the hotel room.
A flood of old memories came over him. He remembered the familiar feel of her legs on his arm, the chestnut hair brushing his face.
He let the door close behind them.
“Put me down, Chris. This is a very dangerous idea.”
He continued holding her in his arms. “Begging your pardon, Madame, but it seems to me to be a perfectly good idea.”
“Put me down, damn it.”
He held her several more seconds, savoring the scent of her hair. As he lowered her feet to the floor, he noticed something on the sideboard behind her.
A vase filled with fresh roses. A card lay beside the vase.
“We are now at the point,” he said, “when you’re supposed to say mix yourself a drink while I get into something comfortable.”
“You don’t need a drink. And I’m in something comfortable.”
He positioned himself in front of the roses so that she couldn’t see them.
“Why don’t you put on some music then? It’ll help you relax.”
“I’m already relaxed. Numb, in fact.”
“Oh, humor me, darling. Just a little music, a quick drink, and I’ll go. Promise.”
She gave him a wary look, then went to the CD player across the room. “Still like jazz?” she said. “Here’s something from Sonny Rollins. You know him?”
“Good stuff. Play it.”
While she loaded the CD, he turned to the sideboard and removed the card that lay beside the vase of roses. Even before he read the card, he knew who it would be from.
My dearest Claire,
Our anniversary, sort of. Remember this night a year ago in Dubai? Wish I were there with you. Duty calls, but not for much longer. See you soon.
All my love,
S
am
She was still fussing with the CD player. He waddded up the card, then pulled out one of his business cards. On the back he scrawled a hurried note.
To my darling Claire,
Like old times.
Chris
“What’s that?” said Claire, turning away from the CD player.
He slipped the card onto the sideboard beside the roses. “Oh, just a little something,” he said. “I remembered how much you like roses.”
“Roses?” Her eyes widened. “Where did those come from? Did you. . .”
She went to the flowers, then picked up the card.
He watched her read the card. There was something about roses, he thought. When everything else failed—the booze and soft music and personal charm—you could count on roses. Roses were magic.
Of course, these weren’t exactly his roses, but that was a technicality. It was the thought that counted.
She was smelling the roses, clutching the vase to her. “I’m very touched, Chris. Thank you.”
“I remembered how much you love roses.”
Her eyes were misting. “Still a romantic, aren’t you?”
He smiled. “Some things never change.”
“But a dangerous romantic.”
“Not so dangerous. I’m the same chap you were in love with ten years ago.”
“I don’t know.” She clutched the roses to her. “So much has changed in ten years.”
“One thing hasn’t changed. I love you as much as always.”
At this, the hazel eyes became more misty. Her wariness seemed to be melting away.
Gently he took the roses from her and returned them to the sideboard. Gently, he took her into his arms. Just like old times.
< >
USS Ronald Reagan
“Holy shit,” said Bullet Alexander.
He and Carson were in Alexander’s stateroom. On the desk between them was Carson’s digital recorder. The device was not much larger than a cigarette lighter. Inserted in a shirt pocket, it could pick up every word spoken within ten feet.
