B008RLW6LA EBOK

by Jack Coughlin

  The Black Hawk noisily spooled up its engines, the loadmasters finished strapping everything down, and the five men of the Pathfinder team settled in for what was going to be a long ride over a lot of water because the fleet was so far away from the target area. They were patient men who were used to such intervals, knowing that by daybreak the insertion would be complete.

  Bubba ran through his mental checklists and stared at his radios that had been lashed down nearby. He would not put on that heavy pack until they were only a few minutes out from the target. Only then would he replace his beret with a helmet. OK, here comes Bubba and his boys. Finally, he settled back, closed his eyes, and jacked up the volume on his iPod to let Johnny Cash wail the “Folsom Prison Blues.”

  The Black Hawk lifted away from the lighted deck, banked to starboard to reach clear space, and was soon swallowed by the darkness.

  HOTEL ROW

  IT TOOK THIRTY MINUTES of lying prone on the bathroom floor, a time during which Major Shakuri dared not summon his aide or call for help out of fear of starting a rumor that he was a coward. He would rather be dead than disgraced. Eventually, the nerves settled and the heartbeat slowed. Convinced that he was still alive, he struggled to his feet and took a long, soapy shower to wash away the imaginary blood that seemed to cling to him like a coating of accusation. The major smeared on cologne and brushed his teeth and put on a fresh uniform. Back to work.

  His spirits rose sharply about midnight, when his intelligence officer arrived with good news that helped push away the memories. One of the objects of the manhunt that had been ordered by Colonel Naqdi, the mysterious archaeologist from Great Britain, Dr. Tianha Bialy, was back on the scene, not in hiding after all but checking into the elegant Four Seasons Hotel, and under her own name. Shakuri would go see her first thing tomorrow, and that would certainly please the colonel.

  So, progress was being made, despite the bloody business in the park, and he was able to enjoy a late-night salad and fish dinner that was sent up from the hotel kitchen. He finished his paperwork at two o’clock in the morning, by which time his feelings of guilt were solidly back under control, so the major retired to his suite and took another quick shower before crawling, exhausted, between the clean sheets. He immediately fell asleep.

  * * *

  AT TWO THIRTY, DETONATOR timers simultaneously registered 00:00 and triggered the chain of explosions throughout the Iranian ammunition dump at the airport. Brilliant and silent flashes rent the darkness as fast as an eyeblink, followed immediately thereafter by earth-jarring thumps that seemed like the old gods of Egypt were angrily stomping the planet, and a heartbeat later came the first thundering crashes that stopped time. A false sun began to coagulate above the Sharm airport.

  Kyle Swanson heard it begin from miles away, as he waited for the Pathfinders beside the shoreline in the north. The sky colored with pulses of gold and yellow and red as the ammo cooked off with wild abandon, each exploding crate feeding the ignition of its neighboring containers. Rockets began to zip out of the inferno only to fall back and explode elsewhere and start other fires.

  The big hangar adjacent to the stockpile of ammo was crushed by the pressure; the roof fell in, and the big Boeing transport airplane inside was blown to pieces, along with the mechanics working on it. Deadly shrapnel scythed through the air, and the wild fire churned into a concentrated inferno within the first minute, oozing a giant mushroom cloud into the night. By the time the alert sirens started screaming, they were useless. No one needed to be told that something huge was happening.

  Major Mansoor Shakuri was thrown off of his bed by the harsh detonations that shook the hotel like an earthquake. An instant later, one of the big windows in his bedroom crashed inward, and a shower of glass splinters lanced across the mattress where he had been resting a moment before. His head was woozy and his ears were battered, a staccato of major explosions as he scuttled into the dark bathroom and curled up in the tub, knees to his forehead and hands over his head.

  A similar experience rocked Tianha Baily awake at the Four Seasons Hotel, but her reaction was far different. She rolled onto the floor beside the bed, reached up to the night table, and grabbed her cell phone as it chirped. Omar was calling from the rooftop plaza and reported that the ammo dump was blowing sky high. “There’s no danger to us here at the hotel, but all hell’s going on at the airport. Come on up and watch the show,” he said. “Nobody’s getting any more sleep tonight.”

  * * *

  A PECULIAR-LOOKING AIRPLANE KNOWN as an E-2C Hawkeye had been carving a long oval high in the sky far in front of the USS Kennedy for three hours, with its advanced electronics suite sweeping the sky and ocean alike, simultaneously monitoring a multitude of tasks. The Hawkeye’s crew and computers were out there to detect any long-range threats to the carrier, which was a vital mission since Iran possessed both ground-to-ship missiles and submarines. Among its other duties was to monitor the flight of the stealth Black Hawk helicopter of the Pathfinders and act as a communications relay point for the ship.

  Technicians had detected a new heat bloom at the Sharm airport, which also had shown up on satellites and was being tagged for further investigation. That did not skew the total attention of a crewman tracking the inbound Black Hawk, which carried a transponder that automatically registered its position on a radar screen. Suddenly, he blinked, then fidgeted forward in his seat as much as the seat belt would allow. The blip was gone! He did an automatic reset, and the screen did an instant reactivation, but there was nothing there.

  “Charlie Brown, Charlie Brown,” he spoke into his headset, calling the aircraft carrier’s Combat Information Center, keeping his voice neutral. “This is Snoopy Two.”

  “Copy, Snoopy Two. Send your traffic.”

  “We have lost track of Red Box. Repeat, we have lost all signal from Red Box.”

  “Hold one.” The tech in the carrier CIC checked his own screen, which confirmed what the tech in the plane was seeing. “Same on my screen, Snoopy Two. No signal from Red Box. Alter course for a closer look.”

  “Roger that.”

  The Pathfinder helicopter had disappeared. The CIC launched helicopters to the last known location and to vector any allied warships into the area. A covert insertion had changed in an instant into a massive search-and-rescue effort.

  Going through the checklist, a Navy lieutenant dialed a number that activated the portable satellite telephone that was on the ground beside Kyle Swanson at the rendezvous site. After some buzzing interference while the connection was made and the proper code words given, the lieutenant said, “Bounty Hunter, be advised that the mission is off.”

  “Say again your last, Charlie Brown.” Swanson looked up into the night out over the sea. No sign of any Black Hawk. The voice from the carrier confirmed the notification that the mission was now inoperative. Kyle thought the choice of words was interesting; the guy had not said it was “aborted” or “ordered terminated,” just that it was “off,” which left Swanson with no idea of what had happened to the Pathfinders and their helicopter.

  That did not matter. He immediately moved out, stacking his gear in the 4Runner and hitting the road, back toward where the sky was absolutely glowing with deathly colors and thunder rumbled. Whatever happened with the chopper was no longer his business, because he knew all too well that unexplained shit happens in war. Plans can fail in a moment, and a new plan has to be implemented.

  Meanwhile, the ammo dump was back there exploding like the biggest Fourth of July celebration he had ever seen, and that was just too damned good a diversion to pass up. He could still make something happen.

  CAIRO

  COLONEL YAHYA ALI NAQDI of the Army of the Guardians was sitting on the side of his bed in Cairo, taking deep breaths to control the emotions churning within him. It had been a rather pleasant night at the end of a work-filled day, and he had left work behind at five o’clock so as to have a very private dinner with a beautiful yellow-haired young Swed
ish woman who was hired because of her skills at pleasing rich men. It went on for hours. Their lovemaking had reached a fever pitch, and afterward she departed quietly with a full purse and left behind another satisfied customer. Naqdi had immediately fallen asleep.

  The private military telephone beside his bed blinked a red light and purred softly, just enough to alert the occupant that he was being summoned. It took a few moments for Naqdi to unsnarl himself from the tangled sheets and deep sleep before he answered, and the operator, an enlisted man, politely said, “Colonel. You have an urgent call from General Khasrodad in Sharm el-Sheikh. He insisted that I connect him without delay.”

  Khasrodad? Why is Khasrodad calling me directly? General Khasrodad normally was the commander of Iranian’s airborne division and had been temporarily assigned to lead the commando forces down in the peninsula. Naqdi considered him competent and loyal. The general, however, answered up the military chain of command, and he was under orders that Naqdi was in overall command of the Egyptian invastion and that Major Shakuri was on site down there and should be handling whatever this was. The colonel took a drink of water from a bedside bottle. “Put him on. Don’t listen in.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” The operator made the connection with a clicking sound.

  “Has Shakuri called you?” The gritty voice of Khasrodad jarred the colonel. He was clearly furious about something.

  “No. Why?” He looked at the small clock on the dresser. Four o’clock.

  “Let me report, then.” The voice was almost a venomous hiss. “I’m sure you’re aware of his reprisals against the civilian population last night, but listen to this…”

  Reprisals? He had heard nothing about any reprisals. The colonel was now wide awake, then stood up as the sound of explosions came through the receiver. “I have been out of contact this evening. What is happening, General?”

  “Our main ammunition dump at the airport has been attacked by unknown forces and is in flames. It is so wild right now that we cannot get near it, much less contain the damage, which is going to be substantial. The cause is unknown, so I can’t say whether it is sabotage or a military assault. I’ve taken steps to draw in our perimeter around the airport for better protection.”

  “Isn’t Shakuri out there? Let me speak to him.”

  “That’s the reason I’m talking to you directly, Naqdi. Your man Shakuri is not answering his telephone. I’ve dispatched an officer over to his headquarters to find him.”

  There was a pause. “Thank you for alerting me, General. I will come down to Sharm in person as soon as I can.” Now for the delicate part. “Have you notified your superiors in Tehran?”

  The general’s tone eased. “Not yet, both as a favor to you, my old friend, and because I do not have enough specifics. I do not think your man Shakuri is up to this job.”

  “You have my gratitude, Medhi.” It was a huge favor from an old friend, and a costly debt that would have to be repaid at some later date. “Now, let me ask you plainly. What is the overall situation in the area? Is this serious?”

  “The ammo dump will be a hard blow to us, but it is not fatal. We can make do until we get some resupply and the Brotherhood reaches us, although we will have to be even more cautious. I hope those Brotherhood people get here fast. The reprisals in the city are a problem. In my opinion, those have put Sharm on the brink of switching sides, and the ammo dump blowing up shows weakness on our part. Serious mistake, Colonel. Very serious.”

  Naqdi sat back down, telephone to his ear, elbows on his knees, eyes closed. “For some reason, the major has neglected to inform me of any reprisals. Tell me what happened. From the start, old friend.”

  23

  FOR KYLE SWANSON, IT was now open season on Iranian soldiers anywhere he found them. So far, the big guns of the military forces of the United States and its powerful allies remained muzzled, and the diplomats were slogging along doing whatever it was that diplomats did. His MI6 partner was off doggedly pursuing her own agenda and of little help to him, and unfortunately she had taken along Omar, who would not leave her. Ah, fuck it. He drove on rapidly, watching the fire in the distance. The massive round of initial explosions had quieted, but there were new ones cooking off sporadically, still jarring and strong, and flames rolled across the airport, which meant firefighting was at a minimum. He believed that all the Iranians could do was form a tighter perimeter, try to extinguish the smaller fires, and let the big one cook unchecked until the things stopped popping.

  A new plan was forming in his mind as he drove, pushing away the absence of the Pathfinders, for there was nothing he could do about that anyway. For the present, momentum and darkness and surprise were still on his side, and he wanted to strike again, to lay on even more pressure to knock the Iranians further off stride.

  He pulled to the side of the road, shut down the Toyota, and used his small flashlight to study the crude map that Omar and Tianha had made for him showing Iranian strongpoints, tracing a finger across the northeastern edge of the city to a place they had labeled MOTOR POOL. An old saying, Napoleon or Frederick the Great or somebody, proclaimed that an army marches on its stomach, but modern armies didn’t march much at all. Wheels, Kyle thought, remembering the hodgepodge convoy that had transported the first wave of invaders from the beach to the airport. He suspected that the Iranians did not bring any trucks with them on the airliners; it would have been a waste of space. A few small armored vehicles probably came in, but not plain vanilla trucks. Omar said they had officers all over town yesterday buying a small fleet of large-capacity vehicles from the locals. Those were all driven to a large garage that was being outfitted as a maintenance and fueling center for the military force.

  His mind made up, he folded the map, cranked the SUV, and headed south along Al-Sheikh Zayed, splitting between the tranquil big hotels on his left and the burning airport ammo dump on his right.

  A mile later, buildings became more numerous in a light industrial area, and Swanson was able to use less-traveled roads, dodging into lanes and nooks when he saw oncoming headlights. Steadily, he wound toward the big garage that hulked on one of the wider streets. An apron of light in the big parking area of sand and gravel was almost as good as a WELCOME sign. A number of buses and trucks were parked in the yard, side by side with military precision, while the noise of power tools and voices came from the open bay doors. Mechanics were at work inside. A single soldier lazily walked the yard with his rifle across his chest, guarding the wide front gate in a weather-scarred chain-link fence and watching the ammo dump go up at the airport. Several workers were taking a break in the yard, with their attention also glued to the dazzling show on the horizon, and one man in a stained mechanic’s overalls was in the wide bay door, wiping his hands on a rag. Kyle drove around back, into the shadows.

  No one was there, as if any threat were expected to politely walk up and announce itself to the guy with the gun in the lighted front. There was absolutely no sense of panic, despite the rolling thunder from the airport still occasionally vibrating the ground and the buildings. The surprise of the initial blasts and shocks was over, and people with work to do were losing interest. He maneuvered the 4Runner until the mirror on the passenger door brushed the fence, and he left the motor running, got out and climbed atop of the SUV, then spider-dropped over the barrier. Moving in a crouch, he reached the first of three sets of fuel pumps and planted his last brick of C-4, with the timer set for thirty minutes. Since fences surrounding businesses are designed to keep people out, not in, Swanson found a wooden loading pallet leaning against the wire, stepped on it, grabbed the top rail, and pulled up, over, and out. He checked his watch and drove away. Total elapsed time inside, less than three minutes.

  * * *

  THE 4RUNNER HAD BEEN tricked out by Omar to provide tourists with comfort, but nothing had been given away that would make it any less reliable off-road, for some intrepid prima-donna adventure seekers would insist on heading out where no man or woman
had ever been before, as if every square inch of Egypt had not been explored over the past few thousand years. Swanson engaged the rugged four-wheel drive and peeled away from the paved road and into the dirt, lights off and steering by the cold January moon. Mercury and Mars nearby hung like bright ornaments.

  Ten minutes later, a halo glowed at a new checkpoint that had been established on the main highway, maybe a mile away. Slowing, he closed the gap to what he guessed was a half mile, beyond the reach of the light bubble, then stopped and switched off the engine so the exhaust vapors would not curl up like a smoke signal. Swanson dug out and assembled the rifle and put the laser range finder on the target. Just under half a mile: 2,640 feet or 880 yards. He could make that shot but wanted to be absolutely certain, which meant closer observation, so he walked forward carefully, letting his toe feel the way before planting his heel and shifting the weight. When he was almost on the edge of the lights, he went to his stomach and crawled until he found a small depression at the base of a sad old palm tree that would provide cover and concealment.

  He settled in against the rock-strewn sand, brought up the stock of the rifle, and allowed the Leupold 10-power scope to carry him right inside the Iranian outpost. The laser range finder snapped the number right at six hundred yards. Just like at the motor pool, these guys still didn’t get it, even with the ammo dump still thudding like a jackhammer; they did not understand the danger zone they were in, because they were elite fighters and everyone was supposed to be afraid of them. One rifleman was on the road to wave down oncoming traffic, a second was ten yards behind him, and a third, apparently the noncom in charge, was standing beside a Jeep to make sure the others did what they were told. A .50 caliber machine gun was mounted on the Jeep, but it was unmanned, apparently there to show passing motorists the soldiers meant business. These guys were asking to die, standing there with their dicks in the wind staring stupidly down a corridor of dark road, talking loudly, even laughing, and pointing out particularly impressive fireworks over the airport. According to his watch, there were two minutes left before the motor pool provided still another light show.