by Mark Alpert
The only difficulty, Cyrus discovered, was a personal one: as his efforts accelerated, he grew more and more impatient. He was so eager to enter the Kingdom of Heaven that he began to loathe his old life and his repellent body. Every time he looked in the mirror he thought of the Book of Joshua, chapter seven, verse thirteen: There is an accursed thing in the midst of thee. Cyrus started to wear a head scarf when he was with his True Believers, and soon his self-loathing grew so intense that he wore the scarf even when he was alone. The corruption of the universe was written on his face, and he longed to be rid of it.
Now, after several minutes of hard climbing, Cyrus glimpsed the mouth of the backdoor tunnel. Nicodemus and a few other soldiers rushed ahead, cradling their rifles, just in case there were any enemies standing outside. The True Believers quickly secured the area and Cyrus stepped into the sunlight. Its rays warmed the fabric of his head scarf, which he’d donned again after praying with David Swift. Turning around, he gazed at the mountain from which he’d just emerged, and in his mind’s eye he pictured the 960 solders inside the cavern, ignorant of what awaited them. Cyrus’s eyes filled with tears—all those marvelous young men, so steadfast and trusting! He imagined the soldiers looking at him as if he were their father, and Cyrus—who had no children of his own—was overwhelmed with love.
He wished he could take the men aside and rejoice in the wonder of their sacrifice. With one grand gesture they would erase all their sins. The light of God’s love would flash through the cavern, and thunder would echo in the bowels of the earth. Satan’s minions in America and Russia and China would see the flash and hear the thunder, but they wouldn’t recognize God’s hand. Steeped in darkness, the leaders of the corrupt world would see only death. The president, the most powerful leader of them all, would respond by hurling more death at his foes. But his warhead would strike Excalibur, God’s mighty sword, buried at the foot of an Iranian mountain. And Excalibur would resurrect the universe, turning death into life eternal.
Cyrus and his True Believers turned left, heading for the wide plateau that lay in front of the cavern’s main entrance. After two minutes they came close enough to see the pair of CV-22 Ospreys that had just been rolled out of the cave’s mouth. McNair’s soldiers had unfolded the wings of the aircraft and rotated the tilt rotors to their vertical takeoff positions. Under the original plans for Operation Cobra, the tilt-rotor aircraft were supposed to spearhead the Ranger assault on the Iranian nuclear facility in Ashkhaneh. But that attack would never happen, of course. The assault wasn’t scheduled to begin until well after nightfall, whereas Little Boy would detonate in just fifty-two minutes.
The soldiers who’d fueled and prepared the Ospreys had already returned to the cave. Cyrus didn’t need any aviators from the Special Forces to fly the craft; he had his own pilots and navigators. But a lone man came toward them, a tall, gaunt soldier in a combat uniform with three black stars arranged in a vertical line below the collar. It was Lieutenant General Sam McNair. He spread his arms.
“I came to see you off, Brother,” he said. “And wish you Godspeed.”
The general seemed much cheerier now than the last time he and Cyrus had talked. He doesn’t have to worry anymore, Cyrus thought. Even if McNair’s superiors at Central Command discovered what he was doing, they couldn’t stop him now. There wasn’t enough time. “Thank you for readying the aircraft,” Cyrus said. “How did you explain the situation to your soldiers?”
“I told them that Operation Cobra was canceled because the Iranians had agreed to surrender their nukes. It’s a fairly preposterous lie, but my men accepted it.” He pointed at the Ospreys. “They believe these aircraft will transport a special delegation to the Ashkhaneh facility to supervise the destruction of the Iranian nuclear devices. Again, it’s not the most believable story, but we only need to buy a little more time.”
“And what happens when the Pentagon’s airborne radar detects the Ospreys flying into Iran? Have you prepared for that possibility?”
“Yes, Brother. I’ve shut down all communications in and out of the cavern. I’ve told my men we need to stay inside and go radio dark for the next hour.”
Cyrus nodded, satisfied. McNair had done his job well. Not only had he finalized the arrangements at Camp Cobra, but he’d prepared Cyrus for the last stage of his journey. Because each Osprey held up to thirty-two soldiers, Cyrus could take all his True Believers with him to Ashkhaneh and still have room left over for the Russian X-ray laser. Flying across the border wouldn’t be a problem either, because the Iranians were expecting them—Cyrus had promised the Revolutionary Guards another shipment of U-235. And the flight would take less than half an hour, so they should reach the Ashkhaneh facility just before Little Boy went off. The plan was perfect, he thought. Just as the Lord had promised.
“Then there’s nothing left to do,” Cyrus said. “Except bid each other good-bye.” He stepped toward McNair and placed a gloved hand on the general’s forehead. “The Lord is well pleased with your sacrifice, Samuel. And we will make sure that your sleep lasts only a few hours. The air force will retaliate swiftly, as soon as night falls. And then you and I will step into God’s kingdom together.”
Brother Cyrus prepared to give McNair a final blessing, but the general didn’t lower his head. Instead he looked Cyrus in the eye. “Brother, one more question. Have you eliminated David Swift?”
“No, I left him in the lower chamber of the cavern. Under heavy guard, of course. Fifty minutes from now, he’ll make the same sacrifice as you and your men. Let’s hope that in his last moments he contemplates the Lord and sees the error of his ways.”
McNair frowned. “Swift is an unbeliever. He doesn’t deserve to be with us at the end.”
“Even the unbelievers serve God. And soon we will all be together in the Kingdom of Heaven. So let us be generous.” He stared at McNair for a few seconds to drive the point home. Then he nudged the general’s head downward and delivered the final blessing, rushing a bit through the Latin. Cyrus still had many things to do, and he was anxious to get going. He needed to disable the transponders on the Ospreys and send a radio transmission to the Iranians. And once he reached Ashkhaneh he needed to place the X-ray laser at the target coordinates.
Taking a deep breath, he left McNair and walked with his men to the Ospreys. They were odd-looking, hybrid aircraft. They had wings like an airplane, but at each wingtip was an enormous three-bladed rotor attached to a turboprop engine. When the rotors pointed up, the Osprey could take off like a helicopter, but once the craft was in the air, the rotors tilted forward and functioned as propellers. As Brother Cyrus stared at the ungainly things, a group of True Believers approached the nearer of the two craft. His men held the Russian X-ray laser, carrying the long aluminum cylinder as pallbearers would carry a heavy coffin, with three men on one side and three on the other. The cargo door at the back of the Osprey dropped open, and the soldiers carefully slid the laser into the fuselage. Then the aircraft’s turboprops started up and the rotors began to turn, their black blades cutting the sky.
35
THE SLOW, LOGICAL VOICE OF GENERAL YARON, COMMANDER OF UNIT 8200, came over the phone. “I’m sorry, Aryeh. I relayed your information to the IDF General Staff, but that’s all I can do.”
Aryeh had known Yaron for a long time—they’d once worked side by side in the army’s code-breaking unit—but he’d never realized until now how much he disliked the man’s voice. In America, Yaron would be considered emotionless, but for an Israeli he was positively robotic.
“I don’t believe this!” Aryeh shouted. “Don’t they see how dangerous the situation is? This Bennett schmuck is cooperating with the Iranians! Didn’t the General Staff look at the messages we decoded?”
“Yes, they saw the messages. But the evidence is sketchy.”
“Sketchy? The messages are crystal clear! Bennett stole Excalibur from the Livermore lab and installed it at the Kavir site just before the Iranian nuclear test! And no
w he’s making his next move in Turkmenistan!” Aryeh realized he was losing control, but he couldn’t help it. He was overcompensating for Yaron’s lack of emotion. “At the very least, couldn’t the IDF inform the Americans that one of their Pentagon officials has gone berserk?”
The line was silent for a few seconds. This was another infuriating thing about Yaron: he always thought before he spoke. “The General Staff has already contacted their liaisons in the U.S. Defense Department.”
“And what did the Americans say?”
Another aggravating pause. “They said nothing. They simply thanked us for the information.”
“Ach, don’t you see what’s happening? Bennett has a whole goddamn brotherhood of spies. They’ve infiltrated the Pentagon and the FBI and even Shin Bet. Bennett’s friends are protecting him, you see? They’re covering up his plans until it’s too late!”
This time the silence lasted a full twenty seconds. Yaron was thinking very carefully. Aryeh suspected that the general was trying to determine how much he could safely reveal. “There’s another possible explanation,” he finally said. “As you know, the Americans have tried to restrain us from striking Iran’s nuclear facilities. They’ve insisted on taking care of the problem themselves. It’s possible that the decoded messages are connected to that effort. Turkmenistan, you see, is one of Iran’s neighbors.”
It took Aryeh a little while to catch Yaron’s meaning. “You think the Americans are planning an assault? They’re going to attack Iran from Turkmenistan?”
“I’m just speculating. I have no evidence.”
“But that makes the situation even more dangerous! This Bennett schmuck is out of his mind, but the scientific theory he’s—”
“Aryeh, I’m sorry, but I have to end this call. I recommend that you continue your work on the intercepted communications. If you uncover any more relevant information, please let me know.”
Then the line went dead.
DAVID LAY IN THE DARKNESS, SCREAMING BEHIND HIS GAG. HIS ARMS WERE still tied behind his back and his ankles were bound together, and a third rope tethered him to a spike lodged in the ground. About half an hour had passed since Cyrus ordered his men to remove him from the large tent where Little Boy was and bring him to this smaller, darker tent. He wasn’t sure of the time—with his hands behind his back, he couldn’t look at his watch—but his best guess was that it was between one and two o’clock. Which meant that the bomb could explode at any moment.
Then the tent flaps opened and a pair of Army Rangers stepped inside. David’s heart leaped—he’d finally gotten someone’s attention!—and he screamed even louder, still yelling “BOMB! BOMB! BOMB!” even though he knew it sounded more like a stream of muffled Ahs. But his hopes sank once he got a good look at the soldiers. One of them was the guy who’d kicked him in the ribs, the giant with the buzz cut and the razor burn, Sergeant Morrison. The other was an older man, tall and thin. His uniform had three small black stars under the collar and the name MCNAIR on the right side of the chest. This was Brother Cyrus’s accomplice, David remembered, the general who commanded the Ranger camp. The man looked at him with undisguised hatred.
Morrison stepped forward. “That’s him, sir,” he said, pointing at David. “That’s the son of a bitch who killed Colonel Ramsey.”
McNair nodded. “He doesn’t look like an Iranian, does he? Or like a Turkmen either.”
“I heard a rumor he was American, sir. A fucking traitor.”
David shook his head violently. McNair knew exactly who he was. The general was just feigning ignorance now, the same way he pretended to be ignorant of the nuclear device in the middle of his camp. David felt sick as he stared at the man. McNair was going to sacrifice his own soldiers. He’d condemned them to death without a second thought.
The general grunted. “Well, whoever he is, he understands English. Get him up, Sergeant.”
Morrison removed a combat knife from his belt and cut the rope that tethered David to the ground. But he didn’t cut the bindings on David’s ankles or wrists, and worse, he didn’t remove the gag. Instead, he and McNair grabbed his arms and dragged him out of the tent.
The floodlights in the lower chamber of the cavern made it almost as bright as day. David squinted as McNair and Morrison pulled him through the tent flaps. Two more Rangers who were stationed in front of the tent snapped to attention. “Sir!” one of them shouted. “Do you want us to transfer the prisoner? We can—”
“At ease, gentlemen,” McNair replied. “I just want to have a chat with him. He didn’t answer a few questions in his last interrogation, so I thought I’d take another crack at it.”
The guards nodded, glaring at David. “You need any help, sir?” one of them asked. “I’d love to ask this bastard a few questions.”
“No thank you. Sergeant Morrison and I can take care of it.”
As they hauled David away, dragging him across the rock shelf toward the underground lake, he spotted the larger tent where he’d seen Brother Cyrus, the tent that held Little Boy. It was surrounded by soldiers now, at least a dozen, all carrying assault rifles. David jerked his head in that direction, screaming, “OVER THERE! OVER THERE!” behind his gag. But McNair and Morrison took him the other way.
Soon they reached the edge of the lake, where the greenish water lapped against the shelf of gray limestone. The rotten-egg smell of hydrogen sulfide was stronger here, and columns of bubbles rose to the surface. David looked up and saw bats flitting near the cavern’s ceiling, heading toward the black grottoes at the far side of the lake. The soldiers moved along the lake’s edge, dragging David farther away from the tents and the illumination of the floodlights. They finally stopped at a shallow pool that was adjacent to the lake. A narrow channel connected the two, but the pool was frothier than the lake and the water in it was a brighter green. The sight of it made David uneasy. It reminded him of the hot springs at Yellowstone Park, which he’d visited several years before.
McNair and Morrison dropped him on the muddy ground near the edge of the pool. “We call this the Sour Tub,” McNair said, pointing at the bright green water. “When we set up camp in this cave a few days ago, some of our boys decided to go swimming in the lake down here. But they noticed that if anyone swam too close to this pool, their skin would start to burn. Here, let me show you.”
The general stepped forward and dipped the toe of his boot in the pool. He let only a couple of inches get damp, but David heard a hissing noise and saw bubbles appear on the tan cowhide. And now he remembered something else from his visit to Yellowstone: when he’d sat on a wet rock next to one of the springs, the moisture had burned a hole in his pants. The shallow pool contained high concentrations of sulfuric acid, which formed in the water when hydrogen sulfide combined with oxygen.
McNair smiled at David for a moment, then turned to Morrison. “Sergeant, please step back twenty paces. I want to have a private conversation with the prisoner.”
Morrison looked uneasy. The giant soldier sucked in his razor-burned cheeks. “Sir, are you sure you—”
“You know my motto, Sergeant: no one left behind. This man killed Colonel Ramsey, and now he’s going to tell me where he left Ramsey’s body. One way or another, I’m going to get the information from him. So please step back.”
Reluctantly, Morrison retreated into the shadows. McNair waited until the sergeant was well out of earshot. Then he bent over David and grasped the front of his shirt, balling the fabric in his fists. “As you may have guessed, I don’t really care about Ramsey,” he whispered. “Brother Cyrus ordered the colonel’s execution, and I know exactly where his bones lie.”
David thrashed on his back, trying to wriggle free, but McNair held on to his shirt and dragged him toward the pool. Standing at the edge, the general suspended David’s head and shoulders over the water. “Ramsey was executed at the burning crater. A very painful death, but at least it was quick. Your death will be a little slower. We have twenty-five minutes until the mom
ent of our sacrifice.”
Then McNair dipped him in the pool. He carefully lowered David into the water, as if he were baptizing him. The general didn’t let him go under—the water touched only the back of his head and the tops of his ears—but it felt like a swarm of bees was stinging his scalp. David screamed behind his gag again and struggled to lift his head.
After a few seconds McNair pulled him out of the water and threw him into the mud. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” McNair said. “But you hurt us, too. You and the Israelis nearly upset our plans. And your idiot son corrupted Tamara, and she was a woman I held very dear.”
David lay on his back, nauseous from the pain. He realized that McNair had just been talking about Michael, but he was too terrified and confused to make any sense of it.
The general rested his hands on his hips. “I’ve never understood unbelievers like you. Do you think it’s funny to scoff at God? To laugh at things like faith and patriotism?” He curled his lip. “It’s all just a joke to you, isn’t it? Something you can snicker about with your friends in New York City?”
Weakly, David shook his head.
“Did it ever occur to you that while you were laughing at us, my men were risking their lives to protect you? That you were slandering the very soldiers who kept you safe?” McNair came closer, crouching beside David. His voice was thick with contempt. “No, you didn’t care. Because you’re an ungrateful sinner. But now it’s time for you to make amends.” He reached for the damp gag that covered David’s mouth. “I want you to apologize, before God and my men. Apologize for your whole filthy existence. If you don’t, you’re going back into the tub.”
Using both hands, McNair pulled the gag off. David felt a rush of adrenaline—here was his chance! But when he tried to yell, “BOMB!” again, he could barely make a sound. His jaw ached from being propped open for so long, and his throat was raw from all the screaming he’d done already. “Please,” he managed to gasp. “Don’t do this . . . to your men . . .”