by David Bruns
“I know about you, sir.” He nudged Brendan’s injured leg with his knee. “I know how this happened. A stunt like that gets people hurt or killed. We will not be turning our backs on any prisoners today. Clear?”
He was so close Brendan could smell coffee on the man’s breath. A hot flush crept up Brendan’s neck, and he choked back a desire to smash his fist into Coyote’s tight-lipped mouth. Over the man’s shoulder, he could see Ringo watching them.
Brendan jerked his body armor away from Coyote.
“Crystal.”
CHAPTER 43
Zagros Mountains, south of Gerash, Iran
17 May 2016 – 0430 local
Hashem chewed what was left of his fingernails as he watched Yusef and Valerie put the access panel back on the missile. In the end, it had all come down to quality control: the gyros they had stolen from the Iranian assembly line were defective, causing the failed launch. Hashem grimaced at the irony that the gyros, which he’d been able to steal because they “failed” quality inspection, actually had failed the quality inspection.
Yusef jumped down to the ground next to Hashem. Valerie followed, moving his ponderous bulk carefully as he stepped down from the top of the TEL. “It will work now. I guarantee it,” Yusef said.
Hashem ignored him, directing his questions to Valerie. “How long before the third missile is ready?”
Valerie shrugged. “We know what we are looking for, so we can have it done before sunrise.” His hand shook; Hashem knew he wanted a drink.
“Do it,” Hashem barked at them. “And hurry!”
He looked at his watch, trying to think. Maybe the Americans had missed the failed launch. He was so used to thinking of their technology as being invincible. Even if they saw the launch, what would they do? Counterattack? Tell the Israelis? If the Israelis knew, they would have ended the nuclear talks immediately. According to Al Jazeera, which he was checking every half hour, the two sides had entered a marathon negotiating session with the goal of reaching an accord this very night.
Not if he had anything to say about it. He could feel his chest swelling with pride at the actions he was about to take on behalf of his brother and his country.
“Colonel!” The interrupting voice was insistent. “Colonel, sir.”
Hashem broke out of his reverie with a jolt. “What?” He had gone so long without sleep he was starting to daydream.
The security guard held up his phone. “The check-ins are one minute overdue. I know it’s only one minute but you said to—”
Hashem held up his hand to stop the man as he pulled his own phone from his pocket and shifted it to all-call. One of his first actions while they were building the bunker was to install a local cell network repeater so that he had perfect connectivity within the bunker and with the external security personnel.
“All stations, report.”
No response. He frowned. Either the network had chosen this most inopportune moment to go down or . . . they were being jammed.
“Shut the outer doors! Do it now!” The uniformed soldier by the door slammed the lever down and the heavy gray doors began to move inward.
The ground outside the bunker erupted under the impact of heavy-caliber gunfire. The soldier next to the door disappeared in a wave of shrapnel. One moment the security captain was speaking to him about check-ins, and the next he fell against Hashem, his body riddled with bloody puncture wounds.
Using the body as a shield, Hashem wriggled behind one of the massive tires on the TEL. The heavy-caliber bombardment ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The doors had stopped in their tracks halfway closed. Hashem cautiously peeked out from behind the now-deflated tire just in time to see two helicopters descend to the valley floor and unleash a barrage of machine gun fire directly into the cavern entrance.
The lights died out, dousing the cavernous space in darkness. Hashem pressed his back hard against the tire until the lug nuts, each as big as his fist, cut into his back. His breath came ragged and fast, loud in the darkness.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, his ears ringing in the silence. He risked another peek toward the entrance. The half-open doors framed a gray landscape of predawn desert and mountains. He could hear the beat of helicopter rotors outside. Two, maybe three. The next wave would be ground assault forces.
Hashem pushed himself up, a sharp pain lancing into his side. He had been hit after all. No matter, he would still be able to get away. No one knew these tunnels like he did. He just needed to get away from the entrance.
He took a step and nearly fainted from the pain.
The golf cart. It stood on the other side of the doors, pointed toward the depths of the cave. And lights, it had lights and a first aid kit. He just needed to get there.
Hashem steeled himself and ran for the cart. His legs felt weighted, as if he were running in thick mud. He tripped over something in the dark, crashing face-first into the floor. Something soft and wet—a body, or what was left of one. Hashem could taste the dirt in his mouth as he crawled the rest of the distance. His fingers found the running board of the golf cart; he pulled himself up. The vinyl seat, the plastic steering wheel. His fingers fumbled for the keys.
From the corner of his eye he sensed movement near the open doors, a shifting of shadows against the sharp edges of the steel frame. They would have night vision goggles on . . .
His fingers found the keys and he wrenched them into the ON position. There was an audible click, and he threw the switch to turn on the lights.
Two soldiers were framed in the intense beams of the headlights. They both dropped to the ground, flipping the night vision gear away from their eyes, their weapons sweeping in Hashem’s direction, already firing.
Hashem dove for the safety of the rock wall.
***
Brendan was able to see the whole assault through the front windshield of the MH-47 Chinook. The AC-130 Spectre gunship started the high-altitude assault using 105mm rounds to soften the steel front doors. The gunship flew in a tight circle at 10,000 feet using infrared spotting to ensure hyper-accurate firing while the rest of the assault team moved into place. The Spectre’s job was to hammer open the front doors for SEAL Team Six to gain entrance.
The assault force commander had already released the MH-6 helos. These Little Birds, sniper platforms for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR), swept over the surrounding terrain, clearing the remaining external guards off the hillsides.
The pounding from the AC-130 ended as abruptly as it began, and a pair of Little Birds armed with side-mounted mini-guns dropped to the valley floor, hosing down the entrance to the bunker with thousands of 7.62mm rounds.
The call for assault teams to land came at the same time, and Brendan felt the Chinook drop rapidly toward the sand. His landing team was the last stick. He ran out the back of the idling helo close behind Coyote. He could feel every jolt in his injured knee, and the borrowed combat gear hung heavy and awkward on his frame.
Brendan’s stick was a reserve combat force, so they hunkered down near the doors awaiting direction from the assault force commander. Kneeling behind Coyote, his side pressed against an enormous boulder, Brendan did his best to control his breathing. The assault force commander was a fellow Navy lieutenant commander, a SEAL within a year group of Brendan. That could have been me. He realized how much his life had changed in the last few years.
The squad leader’s radio crackled. “All clear, all clear. All Tangos are dead except for two. Send in the retrieval team and the medics.”
“That’s us, gentlemen,” the squad leader said. “On me.” He jumped to his feet and double-timed it to the doors. As they approached, the interior lights came on, flooding the opening with light. The ground, the walls, and the gray steel doors were riddled with heavy-caliber holes the size of golf balls. Beyond a fifty-foot radius of destruction around the door, the ground was untouched.
The inside of the cavern was massive, with high arching ceilin
gs and an orderly cluster of small buildings and straight-line roads stretching back into the depths of the space. Three TELs, one empty, two still carrying missiles, were parked inside the entrance, riddled with bullet holes.
The squad leader let out a low whistle. “Look at this place. Man, these guys were serious.”
The assault force commander was waiting for them by the TELs. “McHugh,” he said. “I need you to verify that these are the launchers you tagged.”
Brendan nodded and climbed on top of the first TEL. He showed the petty officer where to cut into the composite material. The sound of the hand tool whirred until he had opened a large enough hole to let Brendan look inside.
The space was empty.
The petty officer jumped to the ground, and clambered up the second TEL. The cavity between the cab and the launcher was empty on this vehicle, too. Brendan’s knee was on the verge of locking up, and he could feel Coyote’s eyes on him as he climbed the final TEL. By the time he made it to the top, the petty officer had cut a square into the truck body.
“After you, sir,” he said, punching the material free.
Brendan peered into the hole. The sensor he had placed there three years ago winked up at him. He flashed a thumbs-up sign to the raid commander. “We got something. Verifying now.”
He pulled a small container of solvent from a pocket of his cargo pants and squirted it on the adhesive that held the sensor in place. After a few minutes of working the device back and forth, he managed to pull it off. He checked the lower right corner where he knew Martinez had scratched his initials. There it was: MM. To be sure, he punched in the unique verification code Baxter had given him. The green light on the device shifted to blinking yellow.
He looked down at the raid commander. “We’re verified. This is the launcher.”
“Roger that, McHugh. Thanks.” He stepped away and spoke into his radio. “We have positive confirmation on the launcher. The retrieval teams are starting work now.”
From his perch atop the TEL, Brendan had a good view of the whole cavern. It went back at least another few hundred yards, with structural steel in place to shore up areas where they had cleared out overhanging stone. He knew the plan was to use the daylight hours to ransack the cave for useful intel, then transport everything off site under cover of darkness tonight. Everything that remained would be destroyed.
A team hustled two stretchers toward the cave entrance. One of the patients was a younger man with a head full of heavy dark curls, the other an older man with a thin face and—
Brendan froze. He knew that face.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Stop those corpsmen!” He half slid, half fell off the TEL, landing on his bad knee. A bolt of pain lanced up his leg. He gripped the side of the truck and pulled himself to his feet, hobbling after the stretchers. “Wait!”
Outside, a thin line of orange defined the eastern horizon, and the air was cool and dry. A MH-47 Chinook, dual rotors idling, waited with its ramp down.
The medics were moving at a quick pace; their job was to get any injured off site before dawn, and they were running out of time.
“Wait!” Brendan screamed at their backs. He broke into a run.
Coyote streaked past him, catching the corpsmen on the ramp of the waiting helo. They were arguing when Brendan puffed up. He knelt next to the stretcher.
It was him. The Iranian diplomat, the man he had seen at the Iraqi Ministry of Justice, the man from Don’s file. His dark eyes were open, and as Brendan’s face came into view, they focused on him. A light of recognition dawned.
“You,” he rasped. “Lieutenant McHugh. I know you.”
Brendan nodded.
The man grimaced, a horrible show of tobacco-stained teeth and blood. He whispered something, but it was lost in the noise of the rotors.
“Sir, we need to get him out of here before first light,” the corpsman shouted over the noise of the rotors, a note of irritation in his voice.
Brendan held up a hand. He leaned closer to the injured man until he could feel his hot breath against his ear. Even then, his voice was growing weaker.
“You think you’ve won . . . with your technology and your . . .” He coughed, a deep gurgle. The corpsman tried to push past Brendan, but Coyote held him back.
“We have won,” Brendan replied, staring into the man’s dark eyes.
The Iranian shook his head, his eyes swimming with the effort of staying conscious. A bluish pallor crept over his features. “No,” he whispered in a strangled voice. “Dozdi shomal.”
His labored breathing stopped suddenly. The corpsman swore and shouldered Brendan out of the way.
Brendan let himself be pushed back. It didn’t matter what the medic did—the Iranian was dead.
CHAPTER 44
Tehran, Iran
17 May 2016, 1815 Tel Aviv (1945 local)
The long-awaited press conference from Tel Aviv was a carefully orchestrated event. They had negotiated all the previous day, through the night, and into the next day. The people on the stage looked like it.
Prime Minister Netanyahu led off the press conference, his voice raspy with exhaustion, but with what might pass for a smile on his square features. He yielded the podium to the Iranian President, who took a moment to gather his notes before he looked into the cameras. The paper shuffle was an old trick of his, Reza knew, to project a sense of slight disorganization and build a tinge of empathy with his audience. When he looked up and smiled, he was wearing his best stern grandfather face.
“Today we have made an historic movement toward peace and stability in our region. If Israel and Iran—two supposedly mortal enemies—can agree on terms to make this region a safer place, then together we can achieve anything. My country has never desired nuclear weapons, and has never had nuclear weapons. Our nuclear aspirations have always been for peaceful purposes. This accord, which will be signed by all parties in Helsinki on Monday, September fifth, of this year, will prove to the world that Iran is a peaceful nation dedicated to the prosperity of our people.”
The US Secretary of State represented the P5+1 nations. Of the three speakers, he looked the freshest, his long face split by a genuine smile. A smile of relief that his deception of the Israelis has not come to light, Reza thought. The Americans had taken a massive gamble that had paid off—so far. With the US elections only a few months away, the outgoing President needed a win, a big win, for his party. In one fell swoop, he could bring stability to the Middle East and set his Republican opposition back on their heels. With Israel on his side, the Congress would not dare cross him. It was a bulletproof plan—as long as Reza did his part.
Aban had given him little to work with. There was another weapon, he was sure of that much, and it had gone to Hezbollah, to a half brother that Aban had never met. All he had was a name: Rafiq Roshed. A quick search of the Iranian Hezbollah files yielded nothing. If Rafiq even existed, he was off the grid.
Reza considered the possibility that Aban was lying, trying to string him along with new information. For now, he kept the ayatollah under house arrest while he looked into this Rafiq character.
The secure phone on his desk buzzed and he picked it up. He listened for the three-tone signal and the green light that told him the line was secure. “Congratulations, Mr. President. A great victory, sir.”
“One that was nearly undone by my own people,” came the reply. The mellow, grandfatherly tones of the press conference were gone, replaced by a harsh sharpness.
Even on a secure line, they hesitated to speak openly. Rouhani paused as he chose his words carefully. “Our friends are in town now, and they picked up three packages, including the damaged one. They’ve been cleaning all day today, but should be out of the house in a few more hours. For good. Do we have any nosey neighbors back at home?”
Reza frowned and decided he meant any local backlash. “No, it’s been quiet here at home. No problems.”
“What about the traitor?”
Reza�
�s eyes shot up; that was a pretty clear word for anyone listening. “I have him staying at home. No need to raise the ire of his followers.”
The only response was a hiss on the line.
“Mr. President?”
“Leave him there. For now.” He paused again. “Is that all the, uh, packages? Are there more?”
Reza didn’t hesitate. Whatever happened, his job was to insulate his president from damaging information. “I have it under control, sir.”
“Good. That’s what I want to hear, Reza.”
***
Oval Office
17 May 2016 – 1830 Tel Aviv (1130 local)
The President clicked off the TV and tossed the remote onto the coffee table. He leaned back in his chair. “Now that is what I call a good day’s work.”
Each of them—Chief of Staff, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, DNI, and National Security Advisor—responded with some variation of an appreciative chuckle and a nod.
The President threw a glance at the Chairman. “How’d we do on the ground?”
“Very well, sir. JSOC took two minor casualties in the raid. All the hostiles were taken down and three nukes recovered. It was like a Johnny Cash ‘One Piece at a Time’ operation in there. They literally stole bits and pieces of missiles for the last ten years and cobbled together three birds. The launchers, which they couldn’t steal, came from the North Koreans. We’ll strip the site and incinerate what’s left. Our team will be out of Iran by tomorrow morning.”
“And the warheads?”
The DNI answered. “They’ve been heavily modified, but initial indications are that they originated from Iraq. As far as we can tell, Rouhani’s clean.”