by Eric Meyer
The stupid bastards!
Scarface saw the direction of his gaze and sneered.
"You see. We have your phone, and we can find every person you have called from its memory, everyone, from your contacts in Tehran to your own family. Believe me, we will be paying them a visit, and they will suffer badly. Talk to us, Commander."
He was only half listening. If Guy and Domenico were half the men he knew them to be, they would already be aware something was badly wrong, and one of their first actions would be to triangulate the signal from his cellphone. He had to hold out for a little longer, and with luck they would arrive to rescue him. Except that when they got there, there may be only a bloodied corpse left to rescue. It all depended on how he could hold up against the brutal interrogation, and how long he could string them along for.
"Leave my family out of this!" he shouted. "Does it turn you on, making war on women and children? Is that where you get your kicks, you sick psycho?"
"We are soldiers of Allah," Scarface screamed back at him, "Everything we do, we do in his name. If people have to suffer, it is for His greater glory."
He raised his fist to strike again, but Talley had only one card left in the deck. He had to play for time. It was time to produce the carrot.
"If you leave my family alone, maybe we could strike a deal."
The man stopped and considered for a few moments. He turned and snapped out an order, and one of his men came to stand directly behind Talley. He took hold of Talley’s hand and gripped it hard against the solid wood of the chair arm. There were two remaining Iranians in the room, and one of them opened the door and shouted to two men on guard outside.
Guy, where the hell are you?
"If you play any more games, I have told the man standing behind you to use the butt of his pistol to smash your fingers."
Talley looked down and saw the steel butt of a Russian Makarov held over his right hand like a hammer.
"Then he will smash the fingers of your other hand and then start on your toes. I have also ordered the men outside to begin noting the numbers on your cellphone. We will soon know everything about your family, their names, their addresses, and we will send our people to visit them. This is your last chance. Tell me who you contacted while you were in Tehran."
So he'd run out of time. He knew he was about to suffer the long, agonizing descent that would lead to a painful death. So be it, he was a soldier, a warrior, and he'd always known, ever since the day he signed on, that it could come to this. He was out of options. There was nothing more he could say, no more insults to throw, or broken teeth to spit out. All he could do was grit his teeth and try to bear the pain. He watched Scarface steadily, waiting for the nod that would be the order to smash the butt of the Makarov down onto his right hand, and start hammering at his fingers until they were a mangled ruin. There were no more excuses, no more delays, nothing to be done. It was finished. He watched and waited for the start. As if in slow motion, he saw Scarface nod. It was almost like a film reel being undercranked. He could smell the dampness of the atmosphere in the room, meaning it was an underground basement. What a place to die! He would never see blue skies again or the faces of Joshua and James. To feel the breath of warm, California wind on his skin. All he could see was the flaking white paint on the ceiling. He felt a faint tremble as a white flake fell down, and then another.
What was that?
Scarface turned, still in slow motion, to look at the door. His mouth opened to speak to one of his men. It was like a gently choreographed ballet, and in his head Talley understood he was already on a different plane, his mind and body steeled to cope with the agony that was to come. And then Scarface was tossed across the room like a piece of broken rag, as an explosion blew the door in, and the shockwave sucked the breath out of his lungs. The room filled with choking white smoke, and he fought to suck in the last of the precious oxygen that remained. A group of men crashed through the door, all of them heavily armed and armored in vests and helmets, and wearing respirators against the choking gas. He recognized the first man in immediately.
Guy Welland rushed forward, strapped a mask over his face, and started to cut him loose. Half a dozen more Echo Six troopers were in the room, and they knocked down the Iranians with a few well-aimed shots from their MP7s. Outside, Talley could see more of his men setting up a defensive position. It was magical, a clockwork precision ballet, just as they’d practiced a hundred times before.
"Are you injured?" Guy asked, his voice mirroring his concern.
"I'm okay, there's nothing broken." He got to his feet and felt his legs wobble, but Guy steadied him.
"You sure?"
"I'm fine. How do we stand?"
More gunfire cracked and whistled along the passage outside the door, and it was obvious that wherever he was held captive it was well guarded and fortified. Guy started to explain they were in the basement of the Iranian trade delegation, and a unit of the Revolutionary Guard was staying in an annex at the rear as part of Ahmadinejad's protective detail.
"How many are we facing?"
"We estimate about thirty of them. We've knocked out a half-dozen, but we have a fight on our hands."
Talley was about to reply when the awesome, mechanized drumbeat of a Minimi drowned everything out, and the gunner raked the passage.
"That was Roy,” Guy explained. “He’s covering the entranced to this part of the basement.
“They're bunching for a direct assault," Reynolds shouted, dependable as ever in a tough situation.
"Use grenades, all of you," Talley shouted. “Kill the bastards.”
"You sure, Boss? It’ll cause a lot of damage. This is a diplomatic mission, so we're pushing the envelope as it is. You want us to wreck the joint?"
"Roy, I don't give a fuck for diplomacy. They're the ones who caused it, not us. Toss the grenades!"
"You got it."
The basement shook as four of his men lobbed their grenades. They weren't a moment too soon. The Pasdaran had bunched up for a fanatical charge on the enemy who had dared to invade their territory. Talley felt recovered enough to poke his head outside the door and look along the passage. He was in time to see a closely bunched squad of soldiers hurtle toward them. They were all firing AKMs on full auto, and the hurricane of gunfire swept the passage in a torment of lethal, hot metal. Two of his men took hits, one on his helmet and the other on the shoulder of his armored vest. Reynolds grunted as two shots hit him in the hand, and he was forced to drop his Minimi. Talley and Guy grabbed him by his boots and hauled him inside the room. The other men lobbed more grenades and dived through the door as they exploded.
The room was filled with smoke and dust. Flakes of plaster continued to drift down from the ceiling. Guy looked out again through the doorway.
"They're coming back through the smoke," he shouted, as he scooped up Reynolds' Minimi. He worked the action and looked at it in dismay. The bullets that struck Roy in the hand had smashed the breech. "Shit, it's useless," he snarled, tossing it to the floor. He looked out through the door again and jerked his head back inside as a hail of bullets ripped along the passage, narrowly missing him.
"We underestimated them," Guy snarled. "I guess I should've known they would have more of their people here to guard Ahmadinejad. There must be as many as forty or fifty of them out there, judging from the incoming fire."
"Grenades?" Talley asked.
Guy shook his head. "If you recall, we were attending the promotion ceremony in our dress uniforms. When we guessed you’d been taken, we only had time to grab some basic equipment and go after you. Those grenades were all we could find at short notice."
They heard shouting from along the passageway. It was obvious the Pasdaran commander was preparing his men for a new assault. Talley assessed the situation, and it was grim. The men had torn off their respirators and were checking their remaining ammunition. They looked at him, waiting for a solution.
"Hey, this is some kind of a r
escue," he smiled, trying to ease the tension. No one smiled back, "If you hadn't come, I would have been dead by now. So I owe you one, men, all of you. As soon as they mount the next assault, I want Guy and three other men to dive out and lie flat in the passageway, emptying their clips into their first wave. Four more men will be standing in reserve. As soon as the first four have emptied their clips, they're to come back inside, and the second group will dive out and do the same. That should blunt their enthusiasm. Soon as they start to fall back, the remaining men will charge out and meet their attack head-on. We’ll see if we can push them back to where they came from."
"I guess that was the Devil's asshole," one of the men remarked.
That did raise a chuckle, but they quietened down as they heard the Iranian commander bellow the order to attack. Talley nodded to Guy.
"Get your men out there now, and let them have it."
Guy's group flung themselves low through the doorway onto the floor, and as the hurricane of gunfire crashed over their heads, they emptied their MP7s into the onrushing Pasdaran and slid back inside the room. The second group of four launched themselves outside and repeated the attack. They heard multiple screams of agony from the Iranians torn to shred by the unexpected resistance.
"You men! Back inside now and reload. The rest of you, let's go. Charge!"
He didn't have an armored vest, but he didn't care. They were heavily outnumbered and in a situation escape from seemed unlikely. Their only chance was to take unexpected action, to shock and awe the enemy with a ferocious attack that would hopefully get them on the run. They were low on ammunition, and some of the men fired single shots and short bursts as they ran. They had the satisfaction of seeing some Iranians fall, and the rest turn on their heels to try and escape the ferocious and accurate gunfire that was tearing them to bloody ruin. As Talley reached the corner and looked around, a machine gun opened up and fired a long burst at him that echoed and ricocheted along the concrete walls. He snatched his head back, but not before he'd seen the machine gun blocking their exit from the basement. Low on ammunition, out of grenades, it was only a matter of time before they were overcome by the seemingly limitless supply of men and ammunition the Pasdaran had at their disposal.
Guy ran up behind him, and Talley rapidly explained the situation.
“Dom was hit," he said ominously, “It looks bad.”
Talley looked around to see Rovere lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Buchmann was working on him, pressing a dressing down hard to staunch the flow of blood from a volley of bullets that had taken him in the stomach. Domenico’s healthy tan had faded to a pale gray. He rushed over to him.
“How bad is it, Buchmann?”
The German looked up at him. “He needs an ER room, and fast. He's all torn up. I estimate he was hit by at least three bullets, all in the same area. I think they missed the lungs, but his abdominal area, the intestines are going to need major surgery. If he makes it that far.”
“Shit!”
Rovere was unconscious, perhaps a mercy. At least he wasn’t suffering any pain.
“We’ll get you out, Dom, that’s a promise,” he murmured to him. “Guy, we have to get past them. If we don’t, Dom is going to die.”
“Yeah, I know. It’ll have to be frontal assault. Do or die,” he smiled.
Guy sounded as calm and laconic as ever. There was no sign that any of the men of Echo Six realized they were facing defeat. Yet Talley knew no matter how they played it, the enemy had them trapped. An eerie silence descended on the basement as the Iranians ceased fire. Guy looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“You reckon they’re out of ammunition?”
Talley shook his head. “No, but let's see what ammunition we have left."
Guy stared back at him. "So it's to be the final charge?"
Talley grinned. "Yes. Maybe they’ll turn and run when we hit them."
He grunted. Whoever the Iranian commander was, he was no patsy. He’d regrouped his men after they fled in panic and got them back in the fight. Yet the one word that might have saved the lives of Echo Six, the option that troops faced with defeat often considered, ‘surrender’, was not voiced. It was not part of their training, not part of their vocabulary. As long as they had a gun in their hand and breath in their body, they would fight.
"Are you ready?" Talley asked them. “Buchmann, stay with Dom. We’ll need the rest of you for the attack.”
They all nodded and tightened the grip on their guns. Their expressions were calm but determined. The action had come down to the very essence of what they were paid for, trained for, and selected for. They were the best of the best, and no one would make them give up the fight. Talley opened his mouth to give the order to attack, and closed it as he heard a new voice shouting orders. The voice switched to English.
"It's over! You can stand down."
They looked at each other. Guy shook his head.
"No fucking way is this over, not until we finish it."
"No, wait,” Talley stopped him, “there's something else. Listen!"
The man shouted again, in English but with an Iranian accent, "My President wishes to speak to you. Hold your fire!"
"We're listening," Talley shouted back. He heard footsteps approaching, and he risked a quick look around the corner and blinked, in case he was dreaming. The President of the Islamic Republic of Iran was walking toward them; Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the archfiend, despised enemy of America, Israel, and at times it seemed like the whole world. His interpreter accompanied him.
"I have ordered these men to stop shooting," the man passed on his President's words, "This should never have happened. I offer you my apologies. You may leave."
They stared at him, wondering when the trap would spring. But how could it be a trap? The President of the Islamic Republic had put his life in danger to call off the fight. Talley turned to his men.
"It looks kosher, men." He smiled as he saw Ahmadinejad flinch at his use of the Jewish word.
Interesting, you understand English. Or maybe the word is the same in Farsi.
"It's genuine. We're out of here."
As he walked past Ahmadinejad, the man held out his hand again, and once more Talley refused to shake it. He stopped and stared at him.
"I don't know what your involvement is, Sir, but I do know that if you could have killed us all, you would have done so."
He could hear the interpreter translating his words, and he continued.
"I won’t shake your hand. There’s too much blood on it. But I'll do you a favor instead. This man," he turned and indicated Guy Welland, "wants to kill you. I'll keep him away from you until such time as you are safely back inside your own country. After that, all bets are off."
The President spoke a few words. His eyes were cold, glacial, and Talley had a glimpse of the ruthless fanatic that terrorized the Middle East.
"You are correct. All bets will be off."
The Iranian President stood to one side, allowing them to walk past and up the staircase that led to the first floor and the street exit; and freedom. Four of the men gently carried Rovere, who still had not regained consciousness.
The Iranian trade delegation building was surrounded by a cordon of cop cars, ambulances, and a detachment of NATO troops, and in front of them stood their boss, Vice Admiral Carl Brooks.
So that’s why he had to stop it. He couldn’t allow the Revolutionary Guard to take us out, not with the cavalry parked up here.
“Medic! We need help here! Make it fast, you people!”
Two Belgian paramedics ran up to him, and he directed them to Rovere. They worked like lightning. Seconds later, he was transferred to a gurney, and they hung drip stands over his inert form and put needles into him to transfer the drugs that might save his life.
"Is that all of you?" Brooks asked, counting Talley's men as they filed out.
"That's it, Sir, all of us."
"Any other casualties?"
Talley indicated
Sergeant Roy Reynolds’ broken and bleeding hand. "We need to get him to an emergency room, and fast."
"He can go in the ambulance with Rovere. What happened in there?"
Talley answered with one word. "Pasdaran."
"And they let you go?" Brooks continued, his face reflecting his surprise.
"They didn't let us go, Sir. It was the Iranian President, Ahmadinejad. He intervened."
"He intervened?" Brooks said, astonished. We didn't even know he was inside the building."
"Yeah, he was there, and he called off the dogs."
Brooks shook his head. "If that don't beat all. That bastard helping you out of a nasty situation."
Guy intervened. "Only after he'd helped put us into it in the first place. He must have been behind it."
Talley shook his head. "I don’t know, Guy. But remember that Iranians' politics are a strange business at best, and he’s no friend of the Pasdaran. He just used us against them."
"How do you mean?" Brooks pressed him.
Talley grinned. "Remember the old saying, Admiral. The enemy of your enemy is your friend. When we went into Iran, we were the enemy of the Pasdaran, and the Pasdaran are making a play for power, trying to overthrow Ahmadinejad. They’re his enemy, and I reckon that made us his friend. For now."
"I'd still like to shoot the fucker," Guy murmured.
"I reckon you'll get your chance," Talley replied, "It was a setup."
He turned to Brooks. "Did you know any of this, Sir?"
"I don't know what you mean, Talley."
"We’ve been going around and around in circles ever since this mission started. It looks to me like NATO discovered the Pasdaran faction inside Iran was trying to snatch power. That would make open warfare in the Middle East almost inevitable, especially between Iran and Israel. Admiral, those nuclear warheads the Rostam was carrying, I noticed they had American trigger mechanisms. Care to comment, Sir?"