Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  Thomas knelt by the corpse, an unspoken question in his eyes as he glanced over at Sirvan. Was the child’s body mined?

  Sirvan extracted a thin, wicked-looking knife from a sheath under his armpit and slid it under the girl’s body, probing gently.

  “A grenade,” he announced a moment later, his voice curiously emotionless. “She’s lying on the spoon of a hand grenade. The pin’s gone.”

  Thomas nodded, his mind running through their options, considering and rejecting each scenario in turn.

  Finally he drew his combat knife and motioned to Sirvan. “Hold the body still.”

  There was pain in the Kurd’s eyes as he took his place at the girl’s head, pinning her arms tight to hold the corpse completely still.

  Thomas reached up with the knife in his hand, gently slicing away her garments until the thin, malnourished torso lay exposed in the moonlight, the flesh blackened by the spread of the plague.

  A muffled curse broke from Sirvan’s lips and Thomas took a deep breath, the oppressive heat of the biosuit suddenly closing in upon him.

  His fingers trembled as they closed once more on the hilt of the knife. He had never been a religious man, but his actions seemed suddenly obscene.

  Thomas raised the knife above the corpse, looking down into the girl’s eyes, wide-open and staring with death. “God forgive me,” he whispered.

  And the knife swung down…

  3:40 A.M.

  There were only two men. Harun could hardly understand it. Their garb puzzled him even more. They were wearing what looked like Western-made biological warfare suits. It was as though they had been prepared.

  It would not do to expose the full force of the men under his command to deal with these two. They needed to be taken out quickly.

  He turned to the sniper at his side. “Can you take them?”

  The soldier nodded. “I could make sure of it closer in.”

  “Then do so.”

  “Tubes,” Thomas ordered. Sirvan passed the sample tubes over from the bio-kit wordlessly.

  Working carefully, Thomas squeezed the syringe in his right hand, filling the tubes with the black blood. The cassettes filled with tissue already lay in their tray of formalin at his feet.

  He replaced the tubes in the bio-kit and closed the lid, his fingers trembling at the thought of the death that reposed inside.

  “We’re done here,” he announced, his voice flat and void of elation. One glance at the gutted body of the girl-child at his feet robbed him of any joy he might have felt.

  Sirvan nodded, touching the girl’s forehead with a gloved hand as he rose. “This is what they have done to my people,” he whispered, anger present in his tones.

  Thomas started to speak, started to respond to his friend’s question, when suddenly the report of a rifle shot exploded from the heights to the east.

  The young Kurd groaned in almost the same instant, pitching slightly forward and staggering against the side of the house.

  He caught himself at the last moment, a hand clutched tightly to his left side. Blood seeped from between his fingers.

  Things seemed to slow down. Thomas reached forward, shoving Sirvan to the ground just as the sniper fired again.

  Two shots. Harun swore in frustration as he watched the men start to move. They had wounded one, but they were still mobile, running now toward the edge of the village.

  All at once, the faint crack of a rifle smote his ears and the sniper beside him collapsed into his arms, the top of his head blown off.

  Splattered with blood, the young colonel dove for the cover of the rocks, unslinging his AK-47 as he lay there. His marksman was dead. His fingers felt wooden, clumsy as he toggled his field radio on. They needed fire support…

  They reached the edge of the village in a weird, halting run, Sirvan’s arm flung over Thomas’s shoulder as he struggled to support the Kurd.

  No more shots followed their footsteps. “Estere,” Sirvan whispered. “She took them out.”

  Thomas nodded, then pushed him on, his heart hammering against his chest as they moved across the rocky terrain. No time. Wherever the Iranians were right now, they would be on their heels soon.

  The first Katyusha rocket came in at a low trajectory, exploding in the village behind them.

  Thomas looked back in shock, watching the village go up in a fireball, the concealed explosives adding to the conflagration.

  The Iranians had been waiting for them. He slipped an arm around Sirvan’s waist and pushed on, toward the mountain path. They could still make it, if only…

  In the shadow of the mountain, Sirvan pulled away from him, standing there swaying weakly in the pale moonlight. “It’s done, my friend,” he whispered, coughing as he did so. Flecks of blood stained the visor of his bio-suit.

  Thomas stared at him, unable to speak, though the protests rose to his lips.

  Sirvan put a hand to his side, leaning back against the wall of rock. “Tell me the truth—when the suit is punctured—the bacteria…”

  Thomas nodded wordlessly.

  “Then there’s nothing to be done,” the Kurd continued, his words more a statement than a question. “Give me an extra magazine.”

  “I’m not leaving you here,” Thomas retorted, finding his voice at last.

  Sirvan didn’t respond at first, just stared off into the night at the fires lighting up the village. Another rocket slammed into the mountainside above their heads and seemed to goad him into speaking.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said finally, holding out a hand toward him. “One of us needs to live.”

  Thomas drew a loaded mag from the pouch at his waist and placed it in Sirvan’s outstretched hand.

  “Good luck,” he whispered, the words falling empty and banal from his lips. Good luck, indeed. A meaningless wish to one whose luck had run out.

  Sirvan nodded, laying the AK-47 on the rock ledge in front of him. Preparing to do battle. “May Allah go with you, my brother.”

  Thomas turned away, picking up the bio-kit and disappearing into the darkness…

  Ten minutes passed as the young Kurd waited, leaning forward against the ledge of rock he had propped his rifle upon. His side was numb, and he was weakening, weakening by the moment as the wound in his side continued to bleed. He had taken off his gloves and shoved them into the bullet hole, as a rude bandage. It wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t need to.

  Everything seemed plain and crisp, as though the hastening approach of death had served to clear his mind. A stone dislodged on the path below him, its rattle warning him of the approach of his enemy. He picked up the assault rifle and held it tightly, his knuckles whitening around the pistol grip, the folding stock extended fully against his shoulder.

  It couldn’t be much longer. He prayed that it would not be—that the Iranians would come while he still possessed the strength to fight them.

  Another rocket slammed into the mountain above him, the explosion lighting up the night sky. There—a flash of movement on the path, silhouetted so briefly. He dug into the rucksack at his waist and brought out a grenade.

  He waited, listening, then pulled the pin with his teeth, rolling the grenade ever so gently over the ledge.

  It bounced once on the rock below him, then exploded. Screams. Sirvan smiled, his cheek pressed against the folding stock of his Kalishnikov as he aimed down the path.

  A head appeared in his line of vision and he swung the rifle to cover it, triggering off a short burst. The man moaned and collapsed, his body sprawling on the ground.

  He should have moved after the first shots. He knew that. But his body was drained of its strength. So weak. So he stayed where he was.

  He saw an Iranian soldier dragging a wounded comrade off the path, to the shelter of the rocks. Both of them were dead a moment later, as he calmly took aim and fired, killing first the helper, then the wounded man.

  And still he stayed.

  A movement out of the corner of his eye alert
ed him to danger and he threw himself against the rock, bringing the AK to bear on the threat. Knowing even as he did so that he was too late.

  His mind barely registered the man standing there among the rocks before the pistol in the man’s hand exploded in fire…

  Harun lowered the Makarov semiautomatic and walked forward, to where the body of the intruder lay crumpled against the mountainside. The mask of the biosuit was half-off and he could clearly see the man’s face. He was a Kurd.

  And he was still living. As Harun moved closer, the intruder turned his head and spat in contempt, a filthy stream of phlegm and blood.

  Harun raised his pistol and shot the man once more, between the eyes.

  1:57 A.M. Local Time

  The marina

  Eilat, Israel

  The marina at night was not a quiet place, light splashing across the water from a thousand boats filled with tourists.

  Everyone seemed to be playing their own brand of music, and the ocean itself seemed to move to the discordant beat.

  Chaim Berkowitz walked along the pier, a deliberately insolent swagger to his step as he moved in and out of the crowd of tourists. An FN Five-SeveN pistol was tucked into his waistband, covered by the loose Hawaiian shirt he wore. The suitcase in his left hand held a field-stripped Remington M24 sniper rifle.

  A few moments later, the GPS unit in his cellphone beeped and he paused, looking left and right. Ahead of him, in the alcove of a boathouse, was where he would set up his hide.

  Time to move…

  3:57 A.M. Tehran Time

  Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  Thomas didn’t need to look back. The brief bursts of gunfire and abrupt silence following immediately thereafter told him the whole story.

  His friend was dead.

  He moved more quickly now, his bio-suit discarded in the swift-flowing mountain stream a hundred meters back, a crude procedure Langley had recommended for cleansing himself of the toxin. Heavy as his clothes now were with water, he could move freely.

  Voices sounded ahead of him, a body of Kurdish fighters moving down the mountain. Another moment and Azad Badir appeared, at the head of a score of rebels. At the sight of Thomas he held up a hand to halt his men.

  “Did you retrieve the samples?” the guerrilla leader asked, seeming only then to realize that Thomas was alone.

  Estere appeared behind him, her face pale as she stared into his eyes.

  Thomas saw her lips form the question, and in that instant it felt as though his heart would break.

  “He’s gone,” he whispered, unable to say more.

  “No,” she responded, shooting him a look of fragile defiance as she shook her head. She placed a hand against the trunk of a nearby tree to steady herself. “No.”

  Badir stepped forward, placing a hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder. “Allah has appointed unto us a time for mourning,” he began, his own voice trembling with emotion, “but it is not now. Mr. Patterson, I trust that you were successful in your mission?”

  Thomas nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “I was.”

  The Kurd spoke sharply in his native tongue and the guerrillas began to scatter, taking up defensive positions farther down the mountain. In a few moments, it was only the three of them standing there by the tree.

  “The time has come for us to part,” Badir announced, turning back to Thomas.

  Thomas nodded in reply, but the old man wasn’t done.

  “My granddaughter will guide you to the border,” he continued. “In a cave twelve kilometers to the west you will find two horses. They are young and strong, and should make the journey easily.”

  “I do not know how I could repay this kindness,” Thomas responded formally.

  “I do,” was Badir’s blunt reply. “I want you to escort Estere across the border to Qandil Mount. Our people are there and she can find safety in their ranks.”

  “But what about you?” Estere exclaimed, seizing hold of the old man’s arm, anger not unmixed with grief in her voice.

  A burst of rifle fire from down the mountainside served as the answer to her question. Badir unslung the Kalishnikov from his shoulder, extending the stock with a single, purposeful motion.

  “I am a soldier!” she hissed, fighting back tears as he turned away from her. “My place is here!”

  The old shepherd cast a final look back over his shoulder. “If you are to be counted a soldier, you must follow the orders you have been given. Take our friend to the Qandil. Do not return.”

  5:00 A.M.

  Isfahan, Iran

  Hossein was standing on the steps of the mosque when his cellphone went off. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen before answering. It was the Supreme Leader.

  “Good morning.”

  “I don’t think so,” came the reply, sending a chill down the major’s spine. “It’s begun…”

  7:13 A.M. Local Time

  Eilat, Israel

  The job had taken all night, but it was done at last. Farouk leaned forward, placing his laptop on the hood of the explosives-filled Jeep Grand Cherokee.

  “You will drive here along the road,” he instructed, tracing an imaginary line across the on-screen map. “Then turn into the Hotels Zone. Park here—approximately two hundred meters from the Crowne Plaza Hotel. You will await my call to close in on your target, which will be approximately—here.”

  A young jihadist from the Eilat cell nodded, his face pale with excitement. Farouk turned away to hide a smile of contempt.

  It would be the young man’s first and last mission. He had been chosen for a reason. Simply put, he had not shown enough skill to justify continuing his training. So, he was expendable.

  The Hezbollah leader fingered the cellphone in the pocket of his jeans. The bomb was wired for remote detonation should the boy’s nerve fail at the last moment of the suicide mission, as it often did.

  Sad, he mused, that devotion to Allah should waver in the face of death. Had they not read the sacred verses of the Quran?

  7:59 A.M.

  The Crowne Plaza Hotel

  Eilat, Israel

  “I think I’ve got it here.”

  “What is it, Sarah?” Gideon asked, still focused on the Uzi submachine gun he was loading.

  “I’ve got the name,” the young woman replied, looking up from her laptop.“Nichols is registered here at the Crowne Plaza under the name Joseph Isaac. Fifth floor, room 347.”

  Laner laid the gun on the bed and crossed the hotel room to stand behind her, his hand resting easily on her shoulder. “Good work—how hard was he to find?”

  “Not hard,” she responded, smiling up at him as she touched his fingers lightly. “The hotel system was an easy job—a relatively simple firewall backed by Blowfish encryption. Once in, they scan the photo IDs provided at the desk and store them on the intranet. It was just a matter of cross-referencing the photos with our database and Nichols came up. Apparently, he’s a low-level diplomat with the U.S. State Department, because he’s traveling under a diplomatic passport.”

  Gideon chuckled, his hand moving to stroke her mane of dark hair. “Not the last time I checked.”

  He walked back across the room and replaced the Uzi in its specially-designed briefcase, casting an affectionate glance back at the young woman as she returned to her work.

  In addition to being the resident tech expert, Sarah Halevy was a bat leveyha, an escort agent whose task on this particular assignment consisted of posing as his spouse.

  They had worked together before, and although official Mossad regulations prohibited romantic entanglements between personnel, in reality it prevented very little. Gideon cast a glance around the room where they had spent the night and smiled with the realization. They had moved beyond acting a long time ago.

  “Do we have confirmation from Chaim and Yossi?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Sarah replied without looking up. “They are in position as of 0300 hours. Currently—Ei
land has the gun.”

  10:08 A.M. Tehran Time

  The Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  “The cave is just ahead.” Thomas’s head came up at the sound of her voice—the first words she had spoken since they had left the band of peshmerga. They had walked the twelve kilometers in dark, brooding silence, silence broken only by the rattle of small-arms fire from the east, punctuated by the occasional scream of a rocket.

  Turning a corner in the mountain path, he saw the cave, there in the side of a cliff and nearly invisible to the casual eye, obscured by a carefully planted screen of pistachio trees.

  “A mountain shepherd tends to the needs of the animals,” Estere explained, pushing her way through the brush covering the entrance. “The border peoples are forbidden to own horses, but the order is disregarded more often than not, particularly by those friendly to our cause.”

  He ducked his head to enter the cave behind her, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. There, in rough-hewn stalls cut into the side of the mountain, were stabled two large horses, a black and a dappled grey. Slinging her rifle over her shoulder, Estere walked into the stalls and brought out the mounts, one by one.

  “This is Kejal, the gazelle,” she announced, handing the reins of the grey to Thomas. He looked up at the massive flank of the horse and grimaced, suddenly feeling rather foolish.

  He had just begun to place a foot in the stirrups when her voice arrested him. “No, no. Kejal is my horse. You will ride Bahoz, the black.”

  “Oh,” he responded, flushing in spite of himself. She reappeared in a moment leading a black stallion that seemed even larger than the grey, if that were possible.