Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  He saw a guardsman reach toward the small tactical radio on his hip and pulled the pistol around, double-tapping the man. Center-of-mass.

  The radio dropped from the man’s nerveless fingers onto the scant grass of the ridgeline as he slid toward the ground, dead.

  “FULLBACK to EAGLE SIX, I have all clear,” Hamid announced. “Do you copy?”

  Harry smiled through the darkness at his old friend. “I copy, FULLBACK. Team Alpha, collect all civilian personnel and move down the ridge to LZ OSCAR. The bird’s fifteen minutes out.”

  9:50 P.M.

  The base camp

  Major Hossein knew from the moment he walked into the makeshift command center that something was going wrong. The expression on Larijani’s face told him everything.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve been unable to raise Patrols Four and Six,” the young colonel replied. “Still trying.”

  Hossein glanced at the map, but already knew everything it could tell him. They were the overwatch patrols on the ridgeline.

  “Base to Four,” Larijani continued, speaking into the radio’s mike. “Base to Six. Come in.”

  “Shut up,” the major snapped, jerking the radio from his hands. “They’re dead. We need air support in there at once. Now!”

  Another moment and he was connected with the helicopter base nineteen kilometers to the south, receiving the assurance that an Mi-24 gunship would be scrambled. ETA on the ridgeline, twenty minutes…

  9:56 P.M.

  The ridgeline

  They heard it well before they saw it, the unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors beating against the still night air.

  “Sit tight,” Harry told the archaeologists, instructing them to sit in a tight circle there in the middle of the plateau. He and Davood flanked them, AK-47s at the ready.

  “Perimeter, what do you have?”

  Hamid and Tex were still a hundred meters up on the ridgeline, providing cover for the extraction. “Nothing, Lead,” the Texan replied.

  “Good. Hold there.”

  And then they saw it, the huge helicopter sweeping in low, its rotors stirring up a sandstorm. A welcome sight.

  “Time to go!” Harry ordered, shouting over the roar of the Pave Low. “Move!”

  His gaze swept over the archaeologists as Davood herded them toward the open door of the Pave Low and the crew chief waiting there. They were frightened, still disoriented by the past twenty-four hours.

  None of that mattered now. Another short while, and they would be safe. Just a short while.

  “Perimeter, move in now,” he barked into his radio as the last civilian was loaded aboard. “Let’s roll this baby.”

  “Roger.”

  12:59 P.M. Eastern Time

  NCS Operations Center

  Langley, Virginia

  “Any luck, Michelle?” Kranemeyer asked, leaning over to look at her monitors. The agent in charge of comm shook her head.

  “He’s not answering.”

  “What’s the update on satellite?”

  “The Pave Low is on the ground at OSCAR,” she replied, tapping the keyboard a couple times to bring up the relevant screens on her monitor. “We should be receiving confirmation from JSOC any time now.”

  The DCS extended a finger to a windowed infrared screen near the bottom of the monitor. “What’s that?”

  Michelle turned to look and her eyes widened, grasping the image’s import in the same moment as Kranemeyer.

  “Patch me into the Pave Low’s comm feed,” the director ordered. “Now!”

  10:00 P.M. Tehran Time

  The Pave Low

  Padilla’s headset crackled with static. “Hold for Director Kranemeyer,” a female voice instructed. The major exchanged a puzzled look with his co-pilot, unsure what to make of the pronouncement.

  “Listen quickly, Major Padilla, this is Director Kranemeyer of the National Clandestine Service. You have an attack helicopter inbound on your position. You need to take off now, get my people out of there no matter what. Do you copy?”

  “Yes, sir. Leaving now.” He switched channels and reached up to flip on the intercom. “Take-off in forty seconds. Thirty-five. Thirty.”

  A figure ducked through the door. It was the NCS team leader. “What’s going on here, major?”

  “We have an Iranian attack helicopter coming in hot. My orders are to get you out of here, sir.”

  “Not without the rest of my men,” Harry retorted grimly. “I’m not leaving people behind.”

  “Then hurry things up, sir. We’re leaving ground.”

  Harry left the cockpit and hurried back to the door to find Tex and Hamid materializing out of the night, dark figures.

  Tex vaulted into the chopper, out of breath. Harry reached down a hand to help the shorter Hamid into the helicopter, grinning as he did so. “Let’s go home. Major! Go! Go! Go!”

  The helicopter throttled into full power, lifting into the air. Padilla held his breath as the Pave Low jolted forward, slowly gathering airspeed as it swept over the plateau toward the shelter of the mountains. And beyond them Iraq.

  If only they could stay below the Iranian radar…

  10:45 P.M.

  The ridgeline

  Silence reigned upon the ridgeline, the silence of the grave. Major Hossein nudged one of the bodies with his boot, rolling the corpse over on its back.

  The man had been shot twice, in the upper chest. Death had come quickly.

  Whoever the Americans had sent, they had been skilled professionals. Hossein straightened up, looking into the eyes of Colonel Larijani.

  “A good man,” he announced, “too good to die this way.”

  The young colonel flinched at the tacit accusation, but his mind was too preoccupied with other matters to pull rank. “Are you sure they have gone?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The major smiled at the pallor of Larijani’s cheeks. “Not quite sure,” he responded wickedly, grinning at the way the young man jumped.

  “Of course,” he amended. “You can see the marks of helicopter downwash on the plateau below here. They were secluded on this peak during the daytime, and took out our patrol only moments before they were extracted. No doubt they are safely within imperialist lines in Iraq by this time.”

  “Your man was supposed to prevent this!” Larijani exploded suddenly, his confidence returning with his feeling of safety.

  “My man? BEHDIN?”

  “Yes!”

  “Another few years in the field, sir, and you will find that the impossible cannot be prevented. No doubt there were extenuating circumstances that prevented his further communication with us.”

  “Tehran must hear of this,” the colonel continued, still fuming.

  Hossein sighed, his eyes locking with those of the young man. “Never fear, my colonel. They will…”

  9:56 P.M. Baghdad Time

  The Pave Low

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Major Padilla announced over the helicopter’s intercom, “we’ve crossed the Iraqi border. We’re in friendly territory now. ETA in Q-West is thirty minutes.”

  Harry allowed himself a weary smile, leaning back against a crate of machine-gun ammo stationed near the pintle-mounted 7.62mm. Time to stand down.

  Reaching over, he removed the clip from the ammo port of his AK-47 and separated rifle from ammo. His pistol remained at his hip, loaded as it always was, mission-status notwithstanding.

  The archaeologists were huddled together toward the back of the cabin, their faces still showing bewilderment from the events of the last forty-eight hours.

  The roar of the Pave Low’s turbos made conversation impossible, which was just as well, from Harry’s point of view. There wasn’t a great deal he wished to discuss, at least nothing that couldn’t wait for the debriefing at Q-West.

  Someone had betrayed his team. And he had lost a man because of it. There was nothing in all that to take pride in. Nothing at all…

 
; 11:25 P.M. Tehran Time

  The camp

  Perhaps they expected him to sleep, Thomas pondered, sitting down upon the rude wooden cot in the corner of his room. Cell would be a more appropriate name for it, for that’s what it was.

  At least an hour had passed, he surmised, maybe more, it was impossible to tell. His Doxa dive watch had been taken from him, along with the rest of his belongings, including his clothes. His tradecraft told him they were likely burning them, well away from the camp, to destroy any possible electronic tracking devices. In their place he was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt loaned him by Badir’s grandson. His request for shoes had been turned down with the smile from Sirvan. Whatever their plans for him, they had no intention of him going anywhere without them, and despite his physical stamina, Thomas doubted that he could make it through the terrain barefoot.

  The room wasn’t wired. He had been searching for a bug ever since his “hosts” had departed and hadn’t found one yet. Just stark concrete block.

  Thomas leaned back against the cot, taking off the t-shirt to ball up and use as a pillow. He needed rest before he could try anything. Haste would accomplish nothing.

  2:30 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  The phone on Director Lay’s desk rang suddenly and he reached over to press the speaker button. “Yes?”

  It was Carter’s voice. “We just got confirmation from JSOC. The Pave Low is on the ground in Iraq. Hostages and remaining team are safe.”

  Good, Lay thought, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. Relief, however, was a transient feeling. Back to business. “Is Petras in position?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have her set up a video uplink from the base to us. I want to be patched into the debriefing live, along with Director Kranemeyer.”

  “I believe the uplink is already on-line. I can stream it through into your terminal when the team is ready to start.”

  “Do it.”

  10:34 P.M. Baghdad Time

  Q-West Airbase

  Northern Iraq

  Harry and his team were down the rear ramp of the helicopter almost as soon as it was lowered. Each of his men had a hostage by the arm, leading them down the ramp. To safety.

  A line of Marines was drawn up about fifty feet from the chopper and a tall woman stepped from among them at the team’s approach. She looked to be in her mid-forties, perhaps a touch older, dressed in a business-like blue pantsuit that seemed strangely incongruous there on the desert airbase. Her gaze never wavered as the rotor wash continued to swirl around her, kicking up a veritable sandstorm.

  “As I live and breathe,” Harry murmured, recognizing the CIA’s Chief of Station(Baghdad). “It’s Rebecca Petras.”

  “Mr. Nichols!” she greeted, shouting to make herself heard as the Pave Low shut down behind them. “You will please turn over your weapons, gentlemen. Leave them with the Marines.”

  She moved past Harry toward the hostages, but he turned to face her. “What’s going on here, Petras?”

  Their eyes locked together and he felt her gaze wash over him. “Your team is being isolated, Nichols. Langley needs answers for what happened out there. Do we have a problem with that?”

  “No, ma’am,” Harry replied, biting his tongue to suppress the retort that sprang to his lips. No matter the folly being perpetrated here, angering her wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

  He turned away, unclipping his holster to hand the Beretta over to a fresh-faced Marine corporal.

  “Briefing room, Mr. Nichols,” Petras ordered as she moved back past him after ensuring that the hostages’ needs were being seen to by Navy corpsmen. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Roger that.”

  Harry felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to find the newly disarmed Hamid standing there, his gaze following the retreating form of the CIA official.

  “Any idea what’s going on?”

  “No.” Harry shook his head. “But they sent her, and we both know what that means.”

  A faint spark of humor glinted in the Iraqi agent’s eyes as he nodded. “Brace for storms.”

  2:43 P.M. Eastern Time

  NCS Operations Center

  Langley, Virginia

  “Uplink completed. Time to briefing—four minutes.” Kranemeyer acknowledged the message with a nod. This, the debriefing, the after-action report, was nearly as important as the mission itself. Particularly when as many things had gone wrong as had on this particular mission.

  “Boss.” Kranemeyer turned to find his communications officer standing in the doorway of his cubicle.

  “What is it, Michelle?”

  “I just received the status update on Parker.” He could tell from the look on her face that the news was not good.

  “And?”

  “Both trackers we were using to pinpoint his location stopped transmitting twenty minutes ago.” There was a distinct look of worry on her face and for a moment the DCS wondered if there wasn’t a touch more than professional concern for Thomas’ well-being in play here.

  If there was, there wasn’t time to worry about it. “Do we have a fix on his last location? Or shall I say, the last location of the trackers.”

  She nodded. “It’s a cave about eighteen kilometers north of the PJAK camp that Azad Badir has made his headquarters.”

  “Clearly,” Kranemeyer stated, his tone insufferably calm, “Badir doesn’t want us to know our man’s exact whereabouts.”

  “But we’re on his side,” Michelle replied.

  He shook his head, a grim smile crossing his face. “Azad Badir is a canny old goat—hasn’t survived this long in that region by trusting anyone. Which, incidentally, is a good example to follow. Back-time the satellite to see if you have anything from the timeframe. He’s more than likely covered his tracks, but…” Kranemeyer shrugged. “See what you can find.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned back to his terminal just as the video uplink went live and the face of Harold Nichols filled the screen.

  “Mr. Nichols,” the disembodied voice of Rebecca Petras began, “you’re on with Director Lay and Director Kranemeyer. I have been requested by Director Lay to oversee the debriefing from Operation TALON. Shall we begin at the beginning?”

  The devil danced in the agent’s eyes, a faint sardonic smile flickering across his face. “That sounds logical.”

  Four hours later, it was the face of Jack Richards before the camera as the debriefing continued.

  Director Lay’s brow furrowed as the agent answered a question posed by Petras, and he toggled the voice-over-internet mike.

  “Let’s go back, Richards,” he interjected. “You and Agent Sarami were tasked with blowing the base camp’s fuel supplies. Correct?”

  A nod was the only reply.

  “Yet, one of the tankers escaped. How did that happen?”

  Richards hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the direct question. “It was parked at some distance from the others—too far to rely on chain ignition. We had to blow it separately, and something went wrong with the charges. Simply put, we fouled up.”

  Kranemeyer broke onto the live feed. “I am going to assume that in the interests of time, the tactical responsibility for the tankers was split between the two of you. Is that an accurate assumption?”

  Another nod.

  “Then, the tanker that failed to ignite, in whose area of responsibility did it lie?”

  Lay could see the reluctance in Richards’ eyes. These men were like a brotherhood, and though a rookie, Davood Sarami was already far more accepted than a man like himself could ever be.

  Finally the Texan’s eyes lifted to face the webcam, all emotion gone from their black depths.

  “Agent Sarami’s.”

  “Thank you, Agent Richards. Please continue, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca Petras glanced from the clock on the wall back to the CIA officer in front of her. The debriefing had been go
ing on for five and a half hours.

  Davood Sarami was the only member of the NCS team that she had never met before, and she had studied his dossier during the helicopter flight up from Baghdad.

  Overall, if she were going to find out anything irregular that had happened on the mission, the rookie would likely be her source. She had worked with Nichols in Basra back in ‘05, when she had first arrived on station and he was running spec-ops liaison with the military.

  Technically, that put her in charge of his operation, but the two of them had never quite seen eye to eye on where the division in command fell.

  They had hardly hit it off well back then and the hour-and-a-half long debrief of him she had just conducted had done nothing but convince her that the years had not changed him.

  He was still as aloof and impenetrable as he had ever been, and Rebecca had little doubt but that he had told her exactly what he wanted her to know. Nothing more. Not that he would deliberately jeopardize national security, she believed, but his loyalty to his fellow team members might cause him to neglect certain facts. Perhaps.

  Loyalty. The other thing she remembered about Nichols was his ability to command intense personal loyalty from those who followed him into battle. A useful asset, to be sure, but as she had noted in a fitness report back during the Basra days, it had its dangerous points.

  She had known from the start of the debrief that nothing would be said by his fellow team members to reflect negatively on Nichols. She had hoped the new man would be another story, but so far it wasn’t working.

  Her eyes flickered to the computer monitor at her side. A speech-to-text program was running on-screen, transcribing every word spoken during the debriefing for later review.