There was a momentary silence on the other end; then the general spoke again. “You are certain that the soldiers are Iranian.”
“Without a doubt, sir. I met a couple of them up close and personal. Their ID cards said they were with the Revolutionary Guard.”
“How many?”
“I estimate they have about three to four thousand men on the ground right now from both the sea and air. Can you brief me what’s going on elsewhere? I only know what I can see.”
“Hey, Kyle.” A higher-pitched voice—Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers. “Mixed reports are coming in, mostly through the media, and we got an earlier info dump from your partner. The hotel massacre also looks like a stage show to us. The attack was pretty savage, but brief, and Iranian troops chased away the bad guys. The Egyptian military is being blamed, while the Iranians are being hailed as liberators by the Muslim Brotherhood on Al Jazeera. The Brotherhood is cranking up the crowds in Cairo to embrace these actions, so the legitimate government is stumbling for answers, and their denials sound weak. Our allies are extremely nervous, trying to figure out a response. It’s just too early in the game for us to know much more than you.”
The general’s voice resumed. “Gunny, no doubt that an organized plan will be pulled together here soon, but it will take hours to implement anything. The one item that you can consider to be true is that Iran will not be allowed to take a foothold in Egypt, particularly by force. Letting them keep Sharm would be a disaster.”
“So what do you want me to do? Just overwatch and report in every once in a while?” Kyle put an edge of sarcasm into the questions.
“We discussed it before you called, Kyle.” Sybelle again. “You are the only thing we have on the ground right now, so you have to go with your gut. Try to confuse and bother them, because they are operating very close to the edge of their capabilities. At some point, these Iranian visitor units must link up with the big forces of the Muslim Brotherhood for major support, and those are tied down in Cairo and the big cities right now.”
The general said, “That can’t happen, Gunny. Do what you can to delay and destroy. Make them chase shadows and shake them off schedule until the big cheeses around here figure out what to do. Buy me some hours, Gunny. Buy me a whole clock full of hours. Someone will be here 24/7 if you need to talk.”
“Yes, sir.” He terminated the call, already starting to think like a guerrilla.
In Washington, the Trident team members exchanged looks around the table until Commander Benton Freedman spoke. “One man going against thousands? Is it a suicide mission—a Jews at Masada or a King Leonidas at Thermopylae thing?”
“No, Liz. We are just unleashing the mutt.”
“Sir, are you referring to Marc Antony’s call to ‘Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war’? Shakespeare?”
“Whatever. Get out of my office. I’m going over to the White House to brief the president. You guys sift everything we have to determine how we can help Kyle and whether we can resupply him down there in the middle of nowhere. We need to feed our war dog. I think he’s going to bite some serious Iranian ass.”
18
OXFORD, ENGLAND
SIR GORDON FITZGERALD, THE chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service, was welcomed at the door of the cottage by Sir Geoffrey Cornwell and guided into the library, where Lady Patricia sat before a large fire, stroking the silver whiskers of a fat orange cat that had wandered in from outside a week earlier and made itself at home. The head of MI6 rubbed the cat with a pudgy finger. “Does this beast have a name?”
“Cat,” replied Lady Patricia. “Her assigned job is to keep away the elephants.”
“There are no elephants in Oxford,” C said, moving to a chair.
“She is very good.” The cat purred so contentedly that she vibrated.
Sir Jeff poured glasses of whisky and handed them around. “So, Gordon, have you come to release us from this ivy-covered prison?”
They clinked glasses and drank. “That would be one of the reasons. We have found no trace of any more threats against you since the attack in the tube station. We know now that the person behind the scheme, this Mansoor Shakuri fellow from Iran, held a high position with the Palm Group in Cairo—a cover, of course—but he seems to no longer be there. The major has popped up, of all places, in Sharm el-Sheikh.”
“I see.” Jeff finished off his drink and put the glass aside. “So he is off to fry bigger fish than us.”
C nodded and put down his own drink, then folded his hands over his ample belly. “Unfortunately, things are a bit too confused down there at the moment to conduct a thorough investigation, but the international finance boys in Europe and the United States are cracking the records of the Palm Group with the intention of interrupting the cash laundering from Iran. Doubt the Palm Group will be a bother much longer; it looks like nothing more than a front, anyway. Your own security can take over now, and you both can go home.”
“I shall abscond with this cat,” Lady Pat said with mock severity.
“Please consider the cat a small gift from a grateful government for your trouble and cooperation,” C replied. “Now, let us move to a more important point. Have you been in contact with Gunnery Sergeant Swanson?”
Pat and Jeff glanced at each other. “No,” said Jeff. “Has something happened to him?”
C lifted a hand as if to bat away any concern, although there was a moment of uncomfortable silence. “No, no, no. At least, none of which we are aware. Your lad and our agent did not get out before the Iranians arrived in Sharm, and they seem to be caught in the middle of those shocking developments. A report from Dr. Bialy said they are in an MI6 safe house for the time being. If they just keep their heads down, they should be fine until we can plan an extraction.”
There was a sharp laugh from Lady Pat, who unceremoniously dumped the large cat from her lap onto the floor and brushed her hands together to get rid of the sticking fur. “Kyle is not going to keep his head down when all of that, that mess is going on.”
“Dr. Bialy warned us that Swanson is proving difficult, if not impossible, as a working partner. Please, if he calls you for any reason, tell him to remember his role: He was to have the private conference with the Egyptians and then report back here. That was all. Dr. Bialy has the very different assignment of identifying and contacting a valuable source, and he was to assist her in whatever way he could. He has proven unwilling or unable to do that.”
Lady Pat went to the bar, poured herself another shot, then refilled the glasses of the men. She picked a thin cigar from a silver box and lit it. “That partnership was doomed from the start, Gordon,” she said. “We can dress Kyle up in a nice suit and tell him to act like a civilian and play second fiddle to the doctor, but Kyle is what he is. He has a very low tolerance for bullshit, pardon my language.”
Sir Jeff picked up the thought. “With Sharm going to the devil for the moment, according to the telly, there is simply no possible way that Kyle will sit still. He has probably contacted his people in Task Force Trident back in Washington by now, although I do not know that for a fact. It would be best to understand that he is now back under their command, and no longer under yours.”
“Jeff, this American must not interfere with Dr. Bialy’s mission!”
“Let us just wait and see if Swanson and Bialy live through this next twenty-four hours, George. There will be plenty of time later to worry about your unknown source.”
SHARM EL-SHEIKH
KYLE SWANSON STOOD BENEATH a hot shower, washing away the muck and blood of the night and letting the clutter of thoughts settle in his mind. Soap and shampoo did not require much mental power, so his mind was free to roam, and possibilities swept along like scenes in a slide show. “Delay and destroy,” the general had said, a process that Kyle had already begun. Next step? What’s the next step?
He had been up all night, seen action, created some chaos, but was now running on battery power and needed rest. Sleep d
iscipline was important to any operator who needed to maintain his edge over a long period of time, and he had not had much rest since leaving California. He turned his face to the falling water and let it sluice around his eyes and into his ears, then leaned against the tiled wall so the hot stream could work on the knots in his neck. It was interesting that with an invasion under way, the water and electricity still worked.
Recon. That was the next step, and he did not have to do it all himself. The two MI6 people in the next room were virtually indigenous to the area, spoke the language, knew the strange customs, and could go out and mingle with the populace without arousing suspicion. They would be just two more people on the street in what was bound to be a day of unrest. Done with the shower, he toweled off. Were they sleeping together? The way Omar protectively rubbed Tianha’s shoulder as they stood side by side last night back at the hotel indicated their relationship was more than casual. So what? Their business, not his, unless he could use that nugget of information somewhere down the road.
It would be best not to shave this morning, for every man in town wore at least a stubble of beard. In the mirror, he saw that a nick on the side of his neck was only a small, clean cut that was already beginning to heal, not much more than the bite of a razor, although it had been inflicted by a piece of flying shrapnel when the airliner blew up. He dug into the shaving kit for the bottle of meds, shook out a five-milligram tab of Ambien, and swallowed it dry. Marines sleep when they are told, but Kyle also believed in better living through chemistry. The sleeping aid would help put him down and keep him down for a couple of hours without being bothered by the bright sun and the noise outside while Omar and Tianha went out to see what was what. By the time they returned, he would be up.
Wearing loose gym shorts and a T-shirt, he went into the living room to discuss the situation, praying that Bialy would go along with his suggestion for a change. He wanted them to find out what was happening around the city and chart strongpoints, comm centers, headquarters areas, gathering places of the soldiers, vulnerable points, and guard positions, then come back and transfer whatever they found to a city map. From that, Kyle would make a target list.
PELELIU LHA-5
CARRIER STRIKE GROUP ONE
PERSIAN GULF
THE EYE MEF WAS defanged almost before it could gather its gear. The 1st Marine Expeditionary Force was the go-to unit to make a sudden and heavy strike into hostile territory where civilians had been slaughtered and Americans were at risk or being held against their will.
As soon as the headquarters at Camp Pendleton in California was alerted to the situation developing on the Egyptian peninsula, mission-planning wheels began turning. Plans were already on the shelf for almost every conceivable place on the globe where hostilities might erupt, so the experts were basically doing a cut-and-paste job on contingencies that had been studied and updated for years. They did it all the time in practice, so doing it in real time made little difference.
The closest suitable unit to the action was the Marine Expeditionary Unit (Special Operations Capable)—known as MEU (SOC)—which was prowling the Persian Gulf. They had reacted immediately, without waiting to be told by Washington to gear up, and elements of the 5th Fleet Carrier Strike Group, built around the massive USS Carl Vinson, were surging forward to get within helicopter range of Sharm el-Sheikh.
From a cold start, the MEU could technically launch into an emergency situation in three hours. Leaders of the various sections were in the thick of assembling an attack scenario that could drop more than two thousand U.S. Marines on top of the Iranians at Sharm and back them up with warplanes, support ships, tanks, artillery, naval gunfire, and an amphibious landing. Drones were already flying and the satellites were looking down to help choose a landing zone. Special ops teams were being tasked to hit specific targets, and a precise fire support plan was coming together. Once ashore, the combat fighter-bombers and land troops would retake the airport, and the Iranians wouldn’t have a chance to recover.
One member of the strike team was Captain Aaron Clay, who was out on the broad flat deck of the Peleliu LHA-5, chilly in his olive drab flight suit even as the morning sunshine promised forever visibility once over the target. He watched the crew arming up his stumpy AV-8B Harrier jet with the five-barreled 25 mm Gatling cannon, the 70 mm rockets, and the CBU-100 cluster bombs that would seriously put a hurt on somebody. Clay was feeling twitchy, as he did before any mission, prebattle nerves. All of the other Harriers on the deck were getting fueled and ready, too, and the troop-carrying helicopters were being nursed as if made of gold. Below deck, Marines were gearing up for the fight, and the AAV-7 amphibious assault vehicles were being given a final going-over.
“Looks like the package is coming together good, Fearless Leader,” said Lieutenant Andrew McCore as he walked up beside Clay. “You ready to fly through the valley of death and fear no evil?”
“Born ready, Andy. Have they finalized our targets yet?”
“Nope. Should be ready pretty soon. I came out here to bother you while the analysts nail things down. I have a question.”
“Wait a second until the COD lands.” A big twin-engine transport plane that routinely ferried material and passengers to and from the carrier roared in with its engine at full power, caught the three wire, and jerked to a spine-jarring halt, going from about a hundred knots an hour to zero in a heartbeat. As the noise subsided, Clay said, “Go ahead. Shoot.”
“We’re going to hit the Iranians with everything we’ve got, right?”
“One could assume that.” On the horizon, Clay could make out the bulk of the Vinson, and he knew the big carrier was humming with activity, preparing its own squadrons. Destroyers were cutting through the sea, throwing aside foam, and cruisers were preparing missiles. Mine-clearing ships were way out front, and all around were support ships; running deep under the water, two submarines were on the prowl.
“So if we know it, don’t you think the Iranians know it, too? They don’t want to really mess with us. Little isolated force like that wouldn’t last a day of serious fighting.”
Clay folded his arms across his thick chest, licked his dry lips, and nodded in agreement. “I am a big believer in using brute force. The more violent, the better.”
“Spoken like a true Marine aviator. One more question.”
“What?”
“Sir, if you die, can I have your watch?”
“Sorry, Andy, but I’ve already promised it to somebody else. You’re too late, as usual, which is why you are still a mere lieutenant.”
“Well, fuck a duck.” McCore wandered off. “I’ll go try Reese. He’s got a Rolex.”
Clay sucked in a deep breath of sea air that was heavy with aviation fuel. Goin’ to war soon. He would shake off the nerves as soon as he climbed into the cockpit of his vertical takeoff machine and started the checklist. Just another mission; out, boom, and back, rearm and do it again. Can’t lose.
Everything was ready. Nothing could stop them now.
His eyes roamed over to the COD, which sat with its propellers motionless as it discharged a small group of people: five men in camo, lithe and solemn. No one was there to greet them, and they disappeared into the base of the tower as quickly as they had arrived. Captain Clay had never seen them before, but there were hundreds of men around wearing camo.
SHARM EL-SHEIKH
A LINK HAD BEEN established from the Blue Neptune Hotel to the CNN bureau in Cairo, and an Iranian Army officer appeared on television screens around the world, calmly preparing to read a short statement. His uniform was neat, and there was a sense of confidence about him. He looked directly into the camera while listening to directions through an invisible bud in his right ear. When the invisible voice said, “Now,” he spoke.
“Good afternoon. I am Major Mansoor Shakuri of Iran’s Army of the Guardians, and I am broadcasting from the Blue Neptune Hotel in Sharm el-Sheikh. A terrible attack on civilian tourists by radical Egyptian army troops
has been defeated. I must report that casualties among the civilians have been substantial, but I now can also report that Iranian peacekeeping troops have stopped the bandits and Sharm el-Sheikh is once again safe.”
He paused for effect, then continued. “During this entire turbulent time, we have been aware that other nations have been concerned about the safety of their people. Let me offer this comfort: No foreign nationals are being held prisoner, and steps are being taken to fly out anyone who wishes to leave. Your people are safe, and your wounded are being tended with the best of care. All are free to contact families and friends.
“Although the airport will remain closed to civilian traffic for the time being, airlines will soon be able to resume normal operations. Media representatives have already been allowed in, as evidenced by the broadcast. We urgently appeal for medical help from international organizations and look forward to assistance from the United Nations. Once an appropriate UN force arrives to provide protection for all the people, and are able to secure the Suez Canal and the oil routes from the renegades in the Egyptian military, the troops of Iran will leave.” He put aside his papers and looked at the camera. “Thank you.”
In Cairo, Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi had watched Shakuri’s performance with a great deal of pleasure, and now he clapped his hands in applause. Perfect. Just as you win some battles with bullets, you can also win some by stringing words together like pearls. Shakuri’s statement on worldwide television would blunt military responses from America, Great Britain, and NATO. By delaying the actual departure of the foreign nationals, the Iranians would, in effect, have human shields against airstrikes. Russia and China would veto any swift UN deployment with many speeches over a period of weeks, or even months. Iran was there to stay. The colonel was satisfied with the speech, and with how Major Shakuri had become the face of the invasion, another cutout between the colonel and repercussions—what the Americans called a “fall guy.”
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