by Isaac Stormm
Wasir coughed a spittle of blood up in red bed bubbles, swallowed it only to cough it up again.
Zarin scooted his free hand underneath his head, raising it off the ground, the cycle of coughing stopping, hearing wheezing replace it. “Please my friend, for your Kurdish people. They will be saved.”
Wasir’s wheezing grew louder then stopped as the sound flooded his lips with more blood. “Darrius…Bakhtiar.”
“Informant for who, my friend. You must tell me.” He held his head up a little higher, seeing him tighten his lips in pain. “Please.”
“He—” he coughed again cutting off the pronouncement, then tightened his lips and rushed it out. “He-Hebrew.”
He lay the man’s head back down and looked off to the side. He saw nothing except that word in great big letters flash before him. He tried to move, but something seemed to paralyze him. The discovery. The Word. Something much greater. Something not even Tehran would have guessed would have had the courage. The sworn enemy, eternal. The Jews…Israelis. Damn it. They were here. In this nation. And close.
He gathered his excitement into a knot and forced his fingers to begin punching the radio’s keypad. Tehran first. General Nouri Hakim, military liaison to the Ayatollah. Head of the Revolutionary Guards.
A deep voice picked up, clearing its throat. “Yes?”
“The Israelis are here, General.” The words sped over his tongue. “They know about the explosion. I assume they are active right now in this area.”
“Who is this? Zarin?”
He stopped and cursed silent. His boyish exuberance embarrassing. “I’m sorry, sir.” He slowed down, careful not to seem excited, mark of a novice. “Yes, it is Zarin. Events have occurred that convince me we have a grave condition at hand.”
“Explain.”
“A rebel just confessed to me the name of an informant. One missing during our roundup of Buka’s inhabitants. He is a spy for the Jews. He was missing during our last count of the villagers. A truck carrying some men in my area also disappeared a few hours ago. I know this is not coincidence and I don’t want to take any chances. With your permission, I’d like to request a large force brigade to sweep the area of the village up to the detonation site. It is their target. It has to be.”
“Your request is granted. However, Only Revolutionary Guard units are to be used, including yours. Given the short time span since our achievement and its sensitive nature, no regular Army or Police forces are to be involved. Clear?”
“Yes, sir, thank you.” He smiled, relieved that he was given the opportunity to shine the greatest during this moment.
“I will be sending a brigade by air. You will have them arriving to you in less than three hours.”
“I understand. May I begin a preliminary search by flying to the mine?”
“Of course. But be back at Buka to coordinate the brigade’s movement. They shall be under your control.”
Even better. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your confidence in me. If the Jews are up to something, I am certain we will find them.”
He detected the line go silent and felt the same thrill he had when watching Cyrus’s men die. Fantastic. The emotion was one that had only grown through his successes. Right now, it was almost uncontrollable.
“Major.”
The voice snapped him out of the dream. He saw one of his men placing a hand on the rebel’s heart. The chest was heaving rapid, shorter breaths audible and straining. “Keep him alive.”
“Will be hard, sir.”
Zarin pecked the keypad again. “I need my chopper flown to my destination at the new village. We have a casualty to place aboard. It is most urgent.” Receiving the acknowledgement, he thought about what other secrets the man might hold. He needed to know now. “Did the spy tell you he was going to meet the foreigners? Hebrews? Americans? Anyone?”
Wasir raised a finger motioning him to come closer. He knelt down and the man started moving his lips. He lowered his ear toward him. Wasir’s hands leaped up, clamping around Zarin’s throat, tightening. Zarin thrust a hand toward Wasir’s face only to get it caught between the elbows of the eager hangman. His face turned red and with all his might, he pressed his other hand to the ground giving him leverage to try and roll himself away. He pushed once then twice getting the momentum and rolled over on his back, Wasir’s necklace of fingers becoming tighter. He clenched his teeth, looking into the dying brown retinas of his would be killer. A thick glob of blood sopped onto his uniform as someone’s hand grabbed a clump of Wasir’s hair and pulled his head back. A knife appeared, curling around his throat, dark red streams spouting around it when it swiped a deep cut. The force on Zarin’s neck released and he pushed the man off. Rising just as quick, gripping his knees, bending over, taking in lungfuls of air, he rubbed his throat and could feel the imprints of fingers disappear.
“Bastard.” He didn’t bother thanking anyone, he just gave a swift kick into the side of the corpse. This man had humiliated him in front of everyone. Worse, it took one of his men to save him. He would have done it himself, he kept saying in his mind. The rebel would have died. So sure was he. By his hand. It just would have taken longer and been a good lesson to his men.
He walked past his rescuer saying nothing, focusing only on Majheed, looking for the slightest hint of him displaying satisfaction. Majheed dropped his eyes to submit. Or was it to hide a fleeting expression of amusement? He would find out.
He cupped his hand and placed it under Majheed’s chin and with a quick yank, raised eyes to his. “Your lies against the state will not go unpunished old man. I never bargain with terrorists even after promising them I won’t harm their people as that scum begged me to do. As leader of this village, I ask you now to step forward.”
Majheed’s lips quivered. Yet he didn’t lower his eyes. He did as Zarin commanded, stepping forward to face him just a few inches away.
Zarin backed away, motioning him to keep walking. A few more steps then “Halt.” Zarin placed his hand on his shoulder, turning him around to face his people. “Squad, take positions.”
They assembled in front of Majheed shoulder to shoulder, rifles in front, muzzles pointing skyward as if to hand them off for inspection.
Zarin leaned in to Majheed’s ear. “If I see you looking away, just once, I’ll stop shooting immediately, leaving some wounded. There they will bleed to death. Do you understand?”
The old man didn’t even blink, causing a smile to creep at the corners of Zarin’s mouth. “Aim.” He didn’t bother looking at the executioners or the victims. Just at the indifferent look on Majheed’s face. He placed his fingers on his chin again almost to mock him by pretending to hold his head steady.
Then came a sound. Low in tone at first. Gathering intensity. A buzzing. Rising in pitch by the second, it became thicker, broader in its acoustics like a thousand angry hornets filling the air space. Eardrums tingled then started to ache as the tone continued its rise beyond earthly bounds. It seemed alive though it wasn’t. Something manmade, mechanical, starting to orbit the high air between Zarin and the villagers. Eyes raised to the sky. They saw nothing, but the mechanical scream started descending, ever louder to numb their senses.
Majheed followed the tiniest speck down toward his granddaughter, Lela. It looked mere inches away from her torso when the child burst cleanly in two at the midsection. A geyser of blood splashed over the others as more specks hurtled downward and collided with flesh.
The entire group splintered, everyone running in the direction they thought safety lay. The tiny bots sped after them, propellers screeching as they locked onto each villager. They slammed almost simultanesously into more bodies, blowing them apart. Those remaining, fell to their knees, arms outstretched toward heaven, screaming for deliverance. The artificial assassins locked onto their cries and plowed into them, plunging through backs, exploding out their chests. The wailing stopped.
A tear streamed down from Majheed’s eye to run over Zarin’s hand. He l
et it drip to the earth before releasing him, the sound of the helicopter approaching. “You did real good, my friend.” He walked away leaving Majheed to fall to his knees and begin crying. He pounded the ground and buried his head in his hands. A single shot rang out and he fell to his side, blood gurgling from a tiny hole just behind an ear, gray brain matter spilling from a gaping hole in his forehead.
Zarin put the 9mm away and walked toward the helicopter. The rest of the men followed and clambered aboard. One of the crewmen asked where the casualty was. Zarin responded by making a cutting motion across his neck. “To Buka.”
The chopper revved its twin Klimov turboshafts to maximum and lifted straight up. It rotated slow to the left then dipped its nose, gaining speed. It flew directly over the bodies, fluttering their bloody garments in a quick blast of hot wind and dust. Then it rose to a hundred feet, still increasing speed.
Aboard, Zarin asked for a radio. “The drone demonstration has concluded with smashing success,” he said.
Azerbaijan.
Martin felt the hand shaking his shoulder then caught the last end of “Sir, sir” being said by the Israeli radio operator.
“Yes? What is it?” He rousted up, rubbing an eye, feeling like he needed more rest.
“A new development in the mission. The operator sent me. He says it’s critical.”
Martin pushed himself up from the unpadded cot and headed out the door. He started a jog with the Israeli right behind him. When he reached the van about 50 meters away, he reached for the headset.
“We have trouble,” the operator said. “I picked up an uncoded radio transmission in our area of operation. Someone saying the Israelis are here and got permission to launch a Brigade search starting from Buka.”
“Shit.” He leaped into the back. “When did it occur?”
“Couldn’t have been more than three minutes ago.”
The signals in MOSSAD had little lag time. They often used their warnings to complete escapes from the occupied territories the moment Hamas or Fatah units left their bases. Now they gave him news that he had no clue as to how the Iranians got. It must be something no one foresaw.
“Did you contact the team?”
“Yes. They acknowledged and reported back none of them have been killed or captured. They’ve been told about the chopper and are off-road out of sight. They also state they’re in position to move toward the objective.”
“Grozner told?”
“Yes. Both he and the president.”
“Connect me.”
The tone beeped twice before he heard the pickup. “Mr. President, our team is likely in great danger,” he said, worry apparent in his tone.
“I know. This changes our effort. Give me your suggestion.”
“They can abort. We change the LZ. Get them out before the Iranians sweep too far.”
“Any chance they can reach the mine and get out in time?”
“No. They’ll be airlifting in troops. Probably have tracking dogs. Their own Special Forces. Every exit will be covered. I suspect they want them alive. So they can parade them before the cameras. Accuse us of an act of war.”
“I will not allow that to happen. Get them out now.”
“Agreed.” He changed frequencies, suspecting the team had already found a safe place to store the truck. It would come in useful to at least get them out of the area, maybe before being spotted from the air. He looked at his watch, it was 5:12 p.m.. By 6:30, he reasoned the first elements of the Iranians would be arriving in force at Buka. First there was the matter of the chopper which would pass over near the team at any moment. Probably close enough for them to hear it.
Iran
5:17 P.M.
David picked it up first, craning his head back, trying to peer through the million slivers of light forming between leaves in the forest canopy. It sounded low, maybe a mile distant to the south, a few degrees off of their position. Close enough it may pass over less than a few hundred meters away.
The rest of the group looked for any sign of it as the engines defined into a steady beat of its rotors.
“There.” Carslon picked it up through a small opening to their right just before it vanished. “Russian ‘Hip.’” The sound of rotors transitioned back into a solid sound that started to rev higher.
“Landing,” Foxmann said. “We got to get the hell out of here.” He took his pack off and heaved it into the back and twirled a fist over his head. “Everybody back aboard.” He pulled open the door and had the engine stuttering to life before Carlson completed his entry. A black belch of diesel filled the air and he jammed the lever into reverse. He watched the side mirror and the rear wheels spewed dirt as they spun free, finding traction. The truck slammed through low branches, raining leaves onto the men in back. They bounced out onto the road, skidded to a stop then grinded through gears which took them forward.
Foxmann modulated the throttle, slowing to take the tight turns. “I’m going to ditch this thing at the base of the hill where there’s still some woods. We’ll make our way west through there. Request alternate LZ.”
Carlson sent it, receiving an ‘am working on it’. Then GPS coordinates read out. He then switched to the map and typed in the coordinates which appeared on a topographical overlay of the region. “Three and a half miles. Still looks like it’ll be on a hill in the woods. Must be a clearing.”
“Not too bad,” Foxmann replied, turning the wheel hard right, the gravity pressing his shoulder toward the door “We’ll be there before nightfall. Set up a perimeter. We might have to SPIE out.”
SPIE referred to the Special Patrol Insertion/Extraction method, a way of lifting a team out of an inaccessible area or water by the clever use of harnesses. Foxmann didn’t particularly care for the system, but knew it was safe enough and necessary, especially if the LZ became hot.
“This looks nice.” He slowed the truck then veered it to the right off into a ditch where foliage enveloped it. Branches smashed into the window which held off the force until he shifted into neutral leaving the truck within a cocoon-like covering of leaves. “Everybody out. Form up.” He exited parting branches and moved toward the rear of the vehicle where everyone took a knee around him.
“The new LZ is three and a half miles west, over terrain like this,” Carlson said. “Quinn, get on point. I’ll stop you when we get close, and help recon the area before we move into it.”
They pointed themselves west and began parting branches, staying low as the leafy flooring crackled under their boots. Foxmann sent the message they were under way on foot. The acknowledgment from Tel Avivread ‘Good Luck.’
They heard the blades of the helicopter again. Further off, likely passing over the position where they were camouflaged before. For reasons Foxmann couldn’t comprehend, the sound of those blades sent an extra shot of worry through him. Of all the possible encounters with the Iranians, he dreaded being pursued from the air the worst because it would be too difficult to hide, and most of all, tiring. He never told David or anyone else that that was his greatest fear. Of being hunted by helicopter. Having to stare at the armaments wielded by it, all aiming for him. And he, knowing it was the end, closing his eyes, just able to feel the rush of heat from the rocket explosions before he disintegrated into atoms.
Azerbaijan
6:18 P.M.
Martin noticed Ashford sitting with his feet outstretched, arms folded and head lowered, taking a nap. He was sitting beside his co-pilot near the corner of the hangar.
He walked up and nudged Ashford’s boot with his. It took a couple more before he raised his head.
“Trouble.”
“Yes.” Martin knelt down. “Our team is having to abandon their mission. The Iranians have picked up from somewhere that they were in the area. I’ll need the chopper. I’m going to send word that we’re going to leave before nightfall. With the storms coming in, I want to be on the ground by the time our people arrive.”
“Everything for naught.”
“Looks like it. I don’t know what our country will do next.”
“If they’re smart, they’ll attack.” Ashford’s candidness surprised him. “Our deal with them didn’t do a damn thing. They played us.”
“I wish the president could be as convinced as you.”
“I guess the drama now shifts to New York.”
Martin nodded. “You know one thing I don’t like about this whole thing,” he said, “is that there were no grenades issued to us. They’d come in handy if we needed to break contact tonight.”
Iran
8:16 P.M.
The Team never saw just how thick the clouds were gathering overhead.
Coming in from the west, the clouds seemed to become stationary over the region. They bumped and morphed into continuous silvery and black trimmed masses, bowels laden with heavy rain. The first bolts of lightning played amongst them with thunder, adding the sound effects to a spectacle happening far below.
Quinn raised his hand. The team sat down behind him.
“Turn on the NVGs. We need to lose the bio suits,” Carlson said. He lifted Foxmann’s flap and pulled out the apparel in a quick yank. He turned around, letting the same be done to him. The suits did nothing but add unnecessary bulk and weight. Besides, they would be at the LZ by the time the dogs showed up.
He looked at his watch. They were making good time. They’d already covered two of the three and a half miles and still no sign of Iranian helicopters. Foxmann estimated they would be at their destination at this pace within 45 minutes. “Come on.” He felt the first drops of rain start to peck and ruffle the foliage, though he didn’t feel it on his shoulders.
A thunderclap echoed close causing the team to hit the deck. Quinn smiled at the timidity of their reaction and motioned for them to keep going. The green hue made it appear more peaceful than what nature was stirring up.