The Gamma Option

by Jon Land

  “You’ll have to be patient. The hour of Firestorm is upon us.”

  “When?”

  The other end of the tunnel appeared as a grating in the ground that allowed the first light of the morning to cast a checkerboard pattern downward.

  “Dawn.”

  “You up for another run, Indian?”

  Wareagle’s gaze was noncommittal. “How strange it seems that we spend so much of our lives trying to reconcile ourselves to the hellfire that forged our spirits. And yet each time it beckons we return to it without pause.”

  “You once told me the hellfire wasn’t a place, it was a feeling.”

  “It is even more than that, Blainey. Our manitous are cleansed by the hellfire. It recharges us, gives us our worth. We lapse from it too long and we become the things we feared it would make us.”

  “Kind of like a fix, an addiction.”

  “More like an impulse to breathe. We cannot stop ourselves even if we try.”

  “This is no time to stop trying,” Blaine said, gritting his teeth. “Someone’s going to answer for killing Hiroshi, and I’ve got to get my son back.”

  “Dropping ourselves into a revolution might pose a difficult setting to accomplish either. The palace is our target, but even the spirits cannot lead us into it through the chaos and the crowds. We’re going to need something more this time, Blainey.”

  “Precisely why a little present’s going to be waiting for us on the aircraft carrier Kennedy when we land to pick up the Apaches.”

  The small group climbed out of the tunnel into the street with the first of the light and the first of the chaos. Already people were taking to the streets, haphazardly, with no real sense of purpose yet, as if some word had reached them and they were waiting for further instruction. Evira had been a party to such scenarios before. But the fervor she sensed in the morning air here was almost palpable in its commitment. The Israelis had done their job well.

  “It is happening,” said an Iranian student leader named Rashid who had been waiting for them at the escape hatch. “It is truly happening.”

  “And this is only Niavarin,” Yakov reminded them. Then he added to Evira, “The uprising will be focused in Tehran proper, spreading outward from there.”

  “A good strategy, if Hassani’s Revolutionary Guard doesn’t stop you in your tracks.”

  “We’re not totally alone here,” he told her. “Fifteen Apache helicopter gunships will strafe the strongest of enemy positions, starting at the estimated height of the battle three hours from now.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “The streets will be barricaded to slow the soldiers down, buildings will be burned to bring the people out. Those who have lived in fear and oppression for more than a decade will welcome the chance to rise up and be heard. I have been in this city for a year now. Believe me, I know.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “The starting point for our revolution: Talegahani Street, also known as Takht-e Jamshid.”

  “The American Embassy …”

  “Fitting, don’t you think?”

  During the thirty-minute drive across the city, Kourosh and Evira were able to gulp a restorative meal of bread, cheese, and water. The driver of the car maneuvered skillfully down side streets to avoid the throngs already beginning to spill out with screams of defiance. The Revolutionary Guards were restrained and fearful, unsure of the proper response to make. Clearly, they knew something was brewing. Reinforcements had undoubtedly been called in, but with the streets barricaded and, judging by the smoke spreading in the sky, some already burning, passage would not come easily.

  “This is as far as we can go,” Yakov announced when they reached an intersection that was barricaded in all directions. The barricades were constructed of wood, furniture, cinderblocks, abandoned cars, dumpsters, and garbage cans wedged firmly into place. An exultant mass of people was standing atop the heaps, shouting and waving their rifles.

  “Soviet Kalashnikovs, American M-16s, and Israeli Galils,” Evira noted. “Impressive.”

  “We got them everything we could lay our hands on.”

  “Revolution!” a freshly revived Kourosh yelled jubilantly as they exited the car, thrusting a tight fist into the air. “Kill the bastards! Kill them all!”

  His long hair danced in the wind, small face taut in its resolve. His feelings mirrored those of a nation frustrated by watching a reconstruction effort that had left the people worse off than ever before. The frustration was rampant now, set to brew by the Israeli plants but boiling over on its own.

  “What about McCracken?” Evira asked of Yakov as they shouldered their way through the masses, which grew thicker the closer they got to the former American Embassy. “Did he say anything else, anything about Yosef Rasin?”

  “All I know is that he arranged for your rescue.”

  “Is he coming? Is he here?”

  “I know nothing more than what I’ve told you.”

  Evira realized she had lost track of Kourosh and almost panicked. She located the boy rallying with a group of children his own age holding clubs and mallets as weapons. He was cheering them on and might have been all set to join them when Evira arrived to pull him back to her side. She marvelled at the restorative effects a bit of food and water had had on both Kourosh and herself. Of course, the fervor and excitement they were in the midst of deserved a measure of the blame, too.

  “It’s wonderful!” The boy beamed. “Isn’t is wonderful?”

  She wanted to tell him that war was many things, but it was never wonderful. Innocent people were unquestionably going to die there today. The Israeli plot had as its primary aim the toppling of Hassani from power. The loss of Iranian life to accomplish that end was simply a means, accepted and condoned. The people, the masses Kourosh was cheering for, were mere pawns, sacrifices to a greater end.

  These thoughts turned Evira cold. Was it no different for her rallying of the Arabs of Israel, urging them to organize and work toward a greater voice in the government? Yes, her means were nonviolent, but people had similarly been hurt working toward a higher cause they could not wholly grasp. She was using them, just as the Israelis were using the Iranians, to fulfill her own ends and goals.

  They continued forcing their way through the swelling mass, more people joining it by the second. The plan would be for those in the street to smother the Revolutionary Guard as best they could by neutralizing the guards’ superior weaponry and keeping them from the strategically placed barricades for as long as possible. It was a numbers game, one of bodies as well as bullets, and success depended on the people wearing the guard down and outlasting it until the Apaches arrived. At that point the powerful attack ships would strafe positions of Revolutionary Guard strongholds in the hope of opening a clear path for the masses to their ultimate target: The royal palace in Niavarin. To be overrun, ransacked, destroyed.

  A red-faced man struggling for breath spotted Yakov and approached. Evira recognized his features as Israeli as well.

  “The guardsmen are taking control at the embassy area,” he reported grimly.

  “Already? How?”

  “They responded quicker and better than we anticipated.”

  “Perhaps they knew, were warned.”

  “They didn’t hesitate. They fired their guns into the crowds without a single warning. It was awful. The people fled in all directions, stampeding over the bodies left behind. I’m just ahead of them.”

  “The word will spread, then,” Iranian student leader Rashid said. “Others will scatter and run when their own deaths confront them.”

  “All right,” Yakov conceded. “Give Hassani round one. What do you hear of Shah Reza Boulevard?”

  “The barricade is forty feet high at the head of the square. The people are chanting and are ready to burn buildings as soon as the guardsmen show themselves.”

  “We’ll make our stand there, then. A different start for the revolution, maybe even an improv
ement.”

  They were changing direction now, fighting to make their way through the frenzied masses blocking the route to Shah Reza Boulevard. Evira grabbed Kourosh by the arm and held him tight, his eyes still gleaming at the sights around him.

  “Come,” Yakov beckoned her. “We can get to the boulevard quicker this way. It’s only a few blocks from Talegahani Street.”

  And the Revolutionary Guard, Evira thought.

  In McCracken’s mind the Apache was without question the finest attack helicopter ever built, the latest generation AH-64A model’s maneuverability matched only by its power. In appearance it was a species all to itself, sleek and narrow down the body with no bit of wasted space. It had a top speed of over one-hundred-eighty miles per hour and could maintain a five-hundred-mile flying range with the new fuel it was burning. The Apache’s armaments included dual sets of four Hellfire missiles and nineteen aerial rockets suspended beneath each wing and a 30-millimeter chain gun mounted on the underside.

  Blaine figured the chain gun would be the most crucial weapon at the start, followed by the Folding-Fin Aerial Rockets once Revolutionary Guard strongholds were effectively pinned down. Commands to fire both these and the superpowerful Hellfire missiles were channeled directly by the copilot-gunner through a TADS (Target Acquisition and Designation Sight) directly into the fire-control computer. The margin of error was almost nonexistent as a result. From a defensive standpoint, the Apache’s armored shell could tolerate rocket hits that would fell any other helicopter gunship and was virtually undetectable to incoming infrared missiles.

  The only real problem facing them was fuel consumption. To circumvent part of this, the plan was to use the aircraft carrier Kennedy, on its patrol in the Persian Gulf, as the operation’s staging ground. And even then one midair refueling would be required to reach Tehran and a second needed to return to the carrier upon the mission’s completion. The jet carrying Blaine and Johnny Wareagle landed first on the Kennedy’s deck, which had been cleared of everything but the Apaches.

  “This way, gentlemen,” a barrel-chested soldier with an unlit cigar stuck in his mouth said after they had climbed down. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the idling jet engine. “I’m Gunnery Sergeant Tom Beeks. Got the equipment you requested all ready.”

  He led them through a hatch and then down a short corridor into a conference room deserted except for the materials laid out on the table.

  “To begin with,” the sergeant started, reaching down for a thick black bodysuit with the bulk of a catcher’s chest protector and the look of long underwear, “this is a Kevlar bodysuit. Armors you from chest to ankles with added reinforcement in vital areas. It can stop ordinary and hollow point bullets of virtually any caliber. But the drawback is it’s very hot and uncomfortable and the most you can wear it is a half hour before you literally bake alive.”

  “An eternity,” Wareagle noted to McCracken.

  Blaine accepted one of the suits from Beeks and ran his hands through it. “What about the firepower I asked for, Gunny? To take the palace we’re gonna need something special.”

  “That was a tough one. Had to use my mind a little, but fortunately these babies just came in.” He pulled back a dark plastic cover to reveal a pair of long weapons dominated by a thick cylinder with slots for six separate barrels on its end.

  Blaine’s eyes bulged. “Vulcan 20-millimeter miniguns. What’d you do, pull these off your antiaircraft stations? Not exactly light issue, Gunny.”

  “Lighter than you think, sir. These were designed to cut response time and fire differential. Teflon coated with extra-thin titanium construction. They’re not really made to be hand-held, but when you described what you might be facing, I figured we’d better improvise.” He pointed to the cylinder’s multi-barreled front. “Fires 1,000 rounds per minute, but if you try that you’ll end up with a melted casing. Short, controlled bursts are your safest bet, no more than five seconds in duration with a half second in between.”

  “I can handle that. How do the rounds get fed?”

  “Through the pack worn on your back.”

  “Weight?”

  “The ammo about sixty pounds and the gun assembly about seventy, down from over twice that.”

  Blaine didn’t look convinced. “Which makes the Vulcans fine for firing straight ahead, but as soon as we try to maneuver them sideways the force of the cylinder rotation will kick either up or down.”

  “I considered that too, sir,” the gunnery sergeant said as he lifted a leather strap with hooks on either end from the table. “One end of this fastens into a belt you’ll be wearing. The other attaches to the Vulcan to take up all the slack. Gun might want to kick, but it won’t be going anywhere.” Beeks noted Blaine’s approving stare. “Ever fire a minigun before?”

  “Only from choppers.”

  “It’s pretty simple,” Beeks said, and moved closer. “Just lock the main cylinder home and turn it until you hear a click.” The sergeant did just that and showed Blaine how to position his hands to repeat the motion. “Safety’s here. Click it off and you’re ready to go. Rotation of chambers assures no pause in ammo expulsion. Perfect for urban encounters with unfriendly masses.”

  “I should say so.”

  “Only thing that ain’t perfect is what a 20-millimeter shell does to man at this velocity. Gonna make a hell of a mess by the time you’re finished.”

  “Gotta make one to clean another up, Gunny,” Blaine returned. The ready horn sounded on the Kennedy’s deck. “Come on, Indian, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

  “The Apaches took off from the Kennedy ten minutes ago,” Isser reported to the prime minister.

  “You didn’t come here just to tell me that,” the old man said knowingly.

  Isser didn’t hesitate. “If McCracken’s hunch is right, we stand to lose even if he succeeds in Tehran. Never mind the problems Rasin can cause us if McCracken brings him back. The fact is we cooperated with him. In the end we sanctioned his madness, and that reality can destroy us as surely as Gamma.”

  “And McCracken?”

  “McCracken knows. McCracken knows everything.” The Mossad chief took a deep breath. “We cannot allow him to leave Tehran alive.”

  Chapter 30

  THE CROWD WAS CHEERING loudly when the small party led by Yakov finally reached Shah Reza Boulevard. It wasn’t hard for Evira to pin down what the cheering was all about: at every corner, the street signs originally put up by Khomeini’s Revolutionary Council were being replaced by crudely painted signs that returned the boulevard to its former name during the time of the Shah.

  Those on the street not watching the small ceremonies taking place had their attention fixed on the completion of the massive barricade at the head of the boulevard. Nothing had been spared. It measured over three stories high and was sixty feet deep, stretching from the south side of the boulevard to the north, running from building to building to totally seal that end of the street. The construction was hardly thought out, the piled elements mundane, but the structure was awe-inspiring. The people rallied and packed toward it like bees to their hive, renewing and recharging their enthusiasm at its mere sight. The piles of wood and steel were stacked upon lower layers of cars both new and old. Where any holes appeared down low, cinderblocks were being jammed into place. The higher it grew, the lighter the debris composing it became, heap piled atop heap until the sky seemed a reach away. It looked invincible, but Evira knew this to be a fantasy that the first bomb would shatter.

  A pair of Iranian jets streaked through the air above, causing only a temporary lightening in the enthusiastic, fervid cheers.

  “Just a show of force,” Yakov said.

  “They would never bomb Tehran,” Rashid agreed.

  “Pride?” Evira wondered.

  “No,” the Iranian student leader told her. “Practicality. They have no bombs for their jets. They’ll keep buzzing us, though, try to scare the people off.”

  They continued t
o make their way toward the huge barricade. The going got tougher the closer they got, the true fanatics of the uprising unwilling to yield their cherished spots. Rashid and Kaveh had taken the lead now, ordering the crowds aside in Iranian, knowing just the proper phrasing to use. The two other Iranian students in their party brought up the rear, effectively boxing Yakov, Evira, and Kourosh amidst them to keep them safe from the crowd.

  “We’re not natives,” Yakov told her. “That could cause problems if we’re spotted.”

  “I am a native!” Kourosh claimed staunchly, as if hurt.

  “You don’t look it, boy. Too western. Today, appearances are everything.”

  “I’d join them if I had a gun!”

  “If we’re successful here today, you’ll never have to hold a gun. Not ever,” Yakov assured him, which drew an angry stare from Evira, who knew his feelings for the Iranian people extended only as far as the need of Israel to make use of them.

  “I want a gun,” the urchin persisted, the demand too insistent to carry even a hint of cuteness with it.

  “If things go poorly, we’ll need every hand we can get,” Rashid said, turning back toward them. “Let’s all pray they don’t.”

  They reached the barricade moments later. Rashid signaled those on watch and a car forming a moveable gate was driven aside to let them enter. The impetus of the swelling throng forced more in after them, and these were not so politely turned back and the car was driven back into place to seal the barricade once more.

  Evira gazed around her and marvelled at what she saw. The confines of the barricade made for a stark contrast with the chaotic rabble they had just left on the far side. Weapons and ammunition were laid out neatly on planks laid over crates and cinderblocks. Posts had been set up for both food and the attending of wounded. There was a communications center in the form of a table lined with radios and walkie-talkies, linking the Israeli-led rebel leaders with every major sphere of the revolution as it progressed through the city.