By order of Major Mansoor Shakuri,
Commandant of the Iranian Peacekeeping Mission
THE SAFE HOUSE
KYLE SWANSON HAD NOT showered all day, because the dirtier he looked, the better his disguise as a common man on the street. The accompanying itchiness and filth did not matter. Tianha and Omar had already left for the Four Seasons, so he was alone to putter around the apartment, killing time and restraining the urge to get out there and do something, anything, to throw another wrench into the Iranian plans. You’re a sniper; you know how to wait. Here he was sitting on his ass during a sunny afternoon, with absolutely nothing worthwhile accomplished.
He felt almost like a prisoner in the spacious apartment, but his rendezvous with the Pathfinders in a few hours was too important for him to expose himself unnecessarily. He had to remain hidden for a while longer. Still, he could not help being restless and aware that vital time was slipping through his fingers. The longer the Revolutionary Guards remained unmolested, the more likely it was that they would succeed in securing their foothold in Egypt.
He did not listen to the radio nor turn on the television set, although he checked briefly with Washington and was advised that the Pathfinders were still on schedule. Once they were in place, other options would open up, but meanwhile he still had permission to act independently. The political side was wrestling with the rapid developments, and the Muslim Brotherhood–orchestrated riots in Cairo and other countries seemed to have reached a temporary stalemate, as if the core of the movement were being reorganized into a more military-oriented force. Neither side held the upper hand twenty-four hours into the invasion.
After the messaging, he dropped to the floor to pump out some exercises, made a good meal, and thought about creating some kind of diversion that would keep the Iranians busy looking the other way when he went to fetch the Pathfinders at 0300. He found the keys that Omar had left and made a quick trip down to the garage to check out the new set of wheels, a like-new Toyota 4Runner Trail with automatic transmission, four-wheel drive, and a powerful V-6 engine that ordinarily was used to run tourists out to distant attractions in the desert. The back windows were tinted, which made it perfect for hauling in the Pathfinders tomorrow morning. Satisfied, Swanson went back upstairs.
Knowing he would probably get no more sleep for a while, he planned to take another nap while he could, and the idea came to him while he dozed, forcing him awake with a start. The Iranians had to be tight on ammunition, having only what they carried on their persons and in the aircraft that brought them and whatever was being unloaded among the beans and tents and other gear back on the beach. They could be leaning on the locals for food and some supplies, but each bullet might become worth its weight in gold until this advance force was relieved by some other force. The weakness was their inability to resupply. If he could somehow damage the supply line, they would have trouble.
He went to the telescope and examined the airport again until he found that stack of crates that had to be the ammo dump, then studied the scene and drew a detailed map. Swanson stepped back, drank some water, and thought, I want that! Pleased to finally have found another goal, he ransacked the closets. The problem of sneaking up on the airport stash crossed his mind only in terms of the possible tactical approaches. He never doubted success, particularly when he had a cushion of several hours to assemble a homemade ghillie suit that would help him vanish during the approach.
He assembled his camouflage suit out of the darkest cloth he could find, cutting it apart and then using a sewing kit from the bedroom table drawer to stitch it back together in the rough shape of his body. Dirt from some potted plants in the safe house helped ugly it up, as did splotches of black paint and ripped rags. Finally, he tried it on before the full-length mirror and saw something that appeared misshapen from head to foot, more like a couple of mounds than a human form. It was lacerated with tears at frequent intervals, into which he would insert vegetation from the immediate area of the stalk once he was on scene. A pillowcase became a camouflaged bag that he would drag along behind him.
As the sun began going down, Swanson lugged his gear down to the 4Runner and joined the evening traffic through the outskirts of the city. As opposed to the earlier complacent freedom he had seen, there now seemed to be some tension in the town. Groups of people were talking and gesturing on the corners, arguing in public, and the few soldiers that he saw were grim instead of being placid. Perhaps everyone was settling into the idea that Sharm el-Sheikh was no longer a good place to be, that the Iranians were here to stay, but he wondered if something had happened that he did not know about. The problem with being cut off from Omar and Tianha was that he could not keep up on the local gossip. No matter; that could wait.
A good place to stash the Toyota opened up when he found a small market that had closed early. The lights were out, latticed steel bars were padlocked on the windows and doors, and the small parking apron was shielded from view by an adjacent industrial building. He pulled into the most distant parking spot, got his gear, locked the Toyota, and began to walk casually toward the southern end of the airport. He looked back down Hotel Row, where many of the usual lights had not been turned on tonight. Darkness slammed down. Perfect.
By eight o’clock, Swanson was only a mile away from his target, unseen in the night with his face blackened with soot, his ghillie filled with thistles and brush, and his drag bag tied to his ankle. The painfully slow stalk was going surprisingly smoothly, although he did not rush things; the closer he got, the slower he went, until he was moving even slower than the gentle breeze coming across the water. Time did not matter as he progressed an inch at a time in a belly-scraping low crawl, down with the worms and the beetles.
THE PARK
THE EXAMPLES, FOR MAJOR Shakuri preferred to think of the six Egyptians who were about to die as examples and not real people, had not been brutalized when they were arrested. They were neither clubbed nor kicked but were treated almost as if they were invited guests of the Iranian military. Shakuri, after all, was not a barbarian. The prisoners had been told what was going to happen, and why; then they were allowed private time with their families and a period of solitude with the comfort of reading the Koran. Food and drink were made available, but most barely touched it.
At exactly eight thirty in the evening, Shakuri’s driver parked the commander’s Rolls-Royce alongside the main entrance to a five-acre circular park in the middle of the city, a peaceful oasis of green grass and trees that was tended carefully all year because it was a favorite place for residents and tourists to stroll, for lovers to rendezvous, and for children to play. Clean sidewalks edged the circumference of the park, and two wide lanes flanked with benches crisscrossed the circle, meeting in the middle at a large fountain that splashed geysers of water. Decorative blue tiles lay in patterns beneath the ripples. Very nice, the major thought.
When he lifted his eyes, the image was jarred by a wall of sandbags that sprawled with menace beside the southern walkway to the fountain, awful tiers that measured seven feet high and twenty feet in length. Lined directly before the sandbag barricade were six thick posts that stuck out of the grass at three-foot intervals. This would be the killing ground, and it would be left in place to remind the Egyptians not to assist enemies of the Iranians. The major was puzzled that only a small crowd had gathered. Maybe a hundred people, not much more than the families of the prisoners. He had thought there would be more.
The troops that had erected the wall and the posts had returned to the airport, for the duty that came next could be trusted only to hand-chosen soldiers who would not flinch from an unpleasant task. The firing squad of ten strong young men was at parade rest, wearing green-patterned camouflage uniforms with white scarves tucked around their necks, green berets, and white gloves on their hands. AK-47 assault rifles with curved magazines that were loaded with thirty rounds each hung from their right shoulders. Major Shakuri was saluted by the captain in charge, then did
a quick review of the smart-looking troops, their neat garb reflecting both the solemnity of the occasion and respect for the men they were about to kill.
When Shakuri took his place to one side, ten paces behind the soldiers, the captain ordered the captives brought forward, and the six prisoners emerged under guard from a pastel-colored building on the east side of the park. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, and they wore clean clothes. Five watched the ground, while the sixth held his head erect, staring with anger at the Iranians, and when his gaze swept to Major Shakuri, it locked there in challenge. Shakuri recognized him as the mayor of Sharm el-Sheikh, who had argued with him against the reprisals only to be added to the list. He was a popular local figure, the owner of a marina, and Shakuri knew that putting the mayor before the guns would definitely send the message that the Iranians were not to be attacked.
Each man was placed in front of a post and tied tightly; then black cloth hoods were placed over their heads. Shakuri had held the strange man’s stare and had felt the heat of those dark, accusing eyes. He heard low voices muttering prayers. Some women wept.
“Attention!” roared the captain, and the firing squad soldiers assumed their proper stances and brought up the AKs, jamming the wooden stocks into their shoulders. “Prepare to fire!”
Shakuri forced himself to remain immobile, rooting himself to the spot, but felt his entire body tighten as if he were one of those unfortunates tied to the posts. His face betrayed nothing, but his heartbeat increased to an irregular, hard thump in his chest, and the arithmetic of the moment came to mind: Ten automatic rifles with thirty rounds apiece equaled three hundred rounds to expend on six men. Fifty bullets each and please, Allah, let that be enough. Inshallah. God’s will.
“Fire!” shouted the captain, and the ten triggers were pulled simultaneously, unleashing a storm of bullets at the helpless targets, raking up and down the line and hitting each man again and again. A layer of smoke flattened in the space between the firing squad and the condemned men, and Major Shakuri noted the bright orange flashes that spat from the multiple muzzles. Once the shooting started, it did not stop until the magazines were empty. Most of the defenseless victims surged forward upon the impact of the first strikes, then twisted or slumped toward the ground, still hanging from their posts. The bodies were ravaged by the continuous fire until there were no more bullets, and the captain said, “Cease fire.” The soldiers dropped their weapons across their chests and came to attention, their faces blank.
There was no moaning and not a twitch of life from the destroyed bodies, and Shakuri’s hearing came back to the sound of wailing from wives and children and other family members of the deceased. The captain saluted, and he returned it, then made the long walk back to his waiting limousine, struggling to hold himself together. During the trip back to his headquarters, he remained haunted by the flood of blood that had spouted from deep, gouging wounds and the fragments of brain and oozing trails of intestines and torn flesh that had been flung against the sandbags and covered the ground around the men. Most of all, he remembered the calm, furious stare of that one brave condemned man, the mayor, who would not be intimidated and cowed and bent to the will of the Iranians just because someone put a gun to his head.
The major took a few minutes to go to up to his suite, and when he looked in the bathroom mirror, he saw that his face was bright red. His stomach twisted, and he made it to the toilet just in time to vomit up his dinner, going to his knees in pain. He thought he might be having a heart attack, and he lay on the cool tiles until his breathing slowed while the visions of the execution continued to flash through his mind. I had to do it! There was no choice!
22
THE AIRPORT
SWANSON HAD FROZEN IN place, nose to the ground, when he heard the long burst of automatic weapons fire in the distance. AK-47s were buzzing in a sustained staccato of fire, but it was far behind him, somewhere back in the city. He glanced at his watch: nine o’clock. Plenty of time.
Slowly, he surveyed the area around him again and saw nothing had changed. A static guard position forty yards away still remained quiet, with one soldier sitting on a lip of sandbags, a rifle across his knees, and talking down to his partner in the hole. The Iranians had not yet even thrown coils of barbed wire around the ammo dump, depending for security on the human eyes of men with guns, who generally saw only what they expected to see.
By ten o’clock, he was within a quarter mile of the small mountains of cases and crates, which were showered with bright lights. To Kyle, that also meant the reverse—those same glaring lights created helpful corridors of darkness between the stacks. He paused and checked his surroundings once again. The static guard post was now behind him, and a single roving soldier was on duty around the dump. Swanson had timed the man passing the same point every ten minutes. That opened a huge window of time.
Their training was working against them. The commandos were honed to be frontline fighters and were not accustomed to the rear-echelon garrison duty that had been thrust upon them; it was demeaning, and they were not good at it. When the rover guard passed the next time, Kyle eased his right leg forward and untied the drag bag, then slowly and softly assembled the M-16A3, putting in a fresh magazine. The faint clicks of the metal against metal sounded like thunderclaps to him but were unheard by anyone else. He waited another ten minutes for the guard to pass again before moving to his final position.
It was a little after eleven when the guard went by on his usual route, watching the ground as if studying his own footsteps, and ducking his eyes from the bright lights that blazed from portable wheeled stands all around. Kyle grinned: He’s blind as a bat!
Swanson had maneuvered to a spot where the illumination changed sharply into shadow, and slowly rose up beside a row of tall telephone poles, letting them mask his bulk. Five yards away was the deep valley of crates and containers, and he crossed it with three easy strides that would not draw a curious eye. Then, once in the wider cavern of shadow, he ventured deeper into the complex, his path determined by the patches of dark, until he was fully surrounded by the peaks of the containers loaded with explosives, bullets, grenades, and shells. No guards patrolled the interior area.
He took his time to plant bricks of C-4 at various points, picking out containers that he thought would cause the most damage. He was not after a hit-or-miss fire-and-light show but wanted to create a volcanic bonfire that would be almost impossible to extinguish. Then, when the rocket-propelled grenades exploded, they would fly all over the place, igniting even more explosions. Cases of hand grenades would pulverize whatever was around. Fifty-caliber bullets would cook off hot and punch through other cases, and the entire thing would sizzle and boom for hours. Knowing the Pathfinders would be bringing in more ammunition of all kinds, Kyle decided to expend all of his C-4 but for a single brick to be kept back for an emergency. The det cord was strung, and the timers were all set for 0230.
It was almost midnight when he left the place as quietly as he had entered, moving faster once he got past the guard post. He wished he could have taken those guards out, but their bodies would have called attention to the fact that somebody had been in the area. Anyway, those two would have enough to worry about in a just little while.
At the edge of the final field, he stripped away the ghillie, broke down the rifle again, put it all in the drag bag, and, once again in his baggy Egyptian clothes, walked back to the waiting 4Runner. It was time to go pick up his people.
ABOARD THE USS JOHN F. KENNEDY
THE RED SEA
TECH SERGEANT BUBBA TALBOT suppressed a smirk as he cocked the unique scarlet beret that identified him as an Air Force Combat Controller to just the right angle so the wind across the flight deck would not sweep it off his head; he was the man tonight. Four of the deadliest men on the planet walked with him to the Black Hawk helicopter that was sitting in the busy gloom aboard the giant aircraft: a two-man SEAL sniper team, a Marine Recon explosives expert, and s
ome weird-looking dead-eyes dude with a big gun from the Christians in Action, better known as the CIA. All were sneak-and-peek gunslingers, and their job was to protect Talbot, the Combat Controller. The five experts had been chopped without explanation for temporary duty with something called Task Force Trident, assembled at Fort Bragg on the double, then flown across the Atlantic, and finally boarded the COD for the final leg to the carrier.
Talbot, the burly Air Force Combat Controller, had spent more than a year going through rigorous training on everything from advanced communications to parachuting out of airplanes to swimming underwater before being allowed near a battle zone. Four years later, he was one of the best in the business, a combat veteran, a dead shot with rifle and pistol, physically superior, fearless, and a respected brother within the tight special operations community. He had been at home watching television when he got the call to drop everything and get his ass over to Bragg.
For Bubba did something special, something none of the others could do, which was the purpose of tonight’s mission. In exactly one hour, at 0300, the Black Hawk would deliver them to a designated spot on a beach in Egypt, they would slide down thick ropes while the loadmaster simultaneously lowered extra gear, and the helo would turn and return to the carrier. Waiting on the ground as their guide would be a Marine who had been caught behind the lines when the Iranian attack had hit. Must have been on a diving vacation, Talbot thought. Wrong place at the right time.
Once proper security was established, the show belonged to Bubba, the man who could talk to the sky and make amazing things happen. With his specialized comm gear, he would organize and bring in the main assault when it happened—everything from guiding helicopters toting giant fuel bladders for building a temporary forward airstrip to calling bomber strikes on targets and targeting the thundering offshore naval gunfire. The Iranoids have no idea how much shit I can bring, thought Talbot. He had no pity for his future enemies.
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