by Isaac Stormm
“I’m going to make a recommendation. You can take it or leave it. But I would double the guard at least until we hear this embargo thing has cooled off some.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Sorry if it seems like we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just very jittery nowadays.”
Kearny extended his hand and Carlson shook it. “No offense taken,” he said. “I do have to let you know we are under orders from CENTCOM to allow the Iraqis to train at our range.”
“Just be careful.”
“And now here is what I was sent here for. This envelope is to be opened directly by you only.”
Carlson took it, a plain manila letter size, and went back to his bunk. Kearny departed, and he stuck a thumb up under the flap and ripped it open.
Inside was a two-page letter and a dossier on an Iranian. A black and white photo with a name under it. It also read: ‘This was provided by CIA. A man named Jasper Talibi, an Al-Quds member, is linked to a man named Rashidi Zarin who specializes in drone warfare. It is believed to have been he that pursued you in Iran. His adjutant is Talibi who is believed to be operating and advising the Iraqi government as well as Shia militant groups. We’d like to take him down and know his location is about 30 miles from F.O.B. Johnathan in Sadr city sector of Bagdhad, under protection of Mahdi militia.’
Sadr city was a cesspool of the Mahdi, many of which harassed the U.S. forces after they took the country. Now that they were gone, they only increased their presence and made sure their Imam Moqtada Al Sadr was well protected and playing a day to day role in Iraqi events. This was not going to be easy and of course they’d have to be disguised.
“I’m going to the Comm’s room,” he said to Huffman and Wilson. “I’ll tell you about the letter later.”
Israel
10:03 P.M.
As soon as he heard they knew the location of the BeeKeeper, excitement shot through Foxmann. He was the first on the tarmac with 49 other men piling aboard a C-130. They each wore a main parachute on their backs and smaller reserve chute on their chests, with oxygen masks hanging off their cheeks. Their silence grew even more as they found their seats. All had been part of the Qom op and now were in action less than 24 hours later.
Foxmann and Gil David came up last, patted the loadmaster’s shoulder and sat next to the folding ramp which began to rise as they started conversation.
“Intel’s working better,” Foxmann said. “I figure they’d have a hard time tracking this guy down. So far they’re staying right on him.”
“Just like World War II.” David adjusted his helmet. “Going in like this, I mean. Parachuting behind enemy lines. Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“My second. I did it once in 1996. We didn’t find what we were looking for. He was a hotshot like this BeeKeeper is. I heard we later blew him up with a car bomb.”
Foxmann grinned. “You have to admit, we’re very thorough.”
“Hope we can be tonight. Are the Iranians up to anything yet?”
“No movements. I don’t like it one bit. They’re up to something.”
“We’ll face them at one point or another.Little exercises like getting this bloke first, though.”
Foxmann nodded. The ramp rose and sealed them with a gentle click. The engine noise began to rise and Foxmann felt them start to move. He was taken to a thought back when he was with the Americans. He wondered just what they were doing tonight. Probably snug at their bases back in Europe or America. Not. He knew a guy like Carlson was just like he was, thrilled at the hunt. He reckoned he was close by, probably in Iraq wondering the same thing he was.
The C-130 sped quickly down the runway pulling up as the moon’s beams speckled its wings. In a few minutes it was but a dot being swallowed by the ever-increasing darkness.
Foxmann ran his battle plan through his mind. They would drop HALO (High Altitude Low Opening) about one mile from the target. Make their way just off a dirt road up a hill to where the command bunker lay below a small house. The house was occupied by a family. Shades of many of his earlier ops, he thought.
“Heard anything on last night’s target?”
“The radiation? Nothing. All is good I’m assuming.”
“Then we got nothing to worry about.”
Foxmann cleared his throat and nodded.
Lebanon
11:08 P.M.
Zarin was flustered. At just after 8:00 p.m., Rustani gave proof he was alive and called him directly. Soon, he would approve the Hezbollah offensive. Zarin hoped it would be a combined effort with Iranian forces given free passage through Iraq, Syria and into Lebanon. ISIS would be swept out of the way beforehand then the Zionist state would feel the true power that Iran could yield.
“Major. The Ayatollah is speaking on the radio,” its operator said. He turned up the volume.
“My fellow citizens of Iran. Yesterday our nation was illegally attacked by Zionists belonging to the criminal state of Israel. They came to destroy our way of life and our desires for new forms of peaceful energy. They also attempted to assassinate me. Rest assured in that endeavor they failed. Sadly, we have lost some of our greatest warriors to their callous act. However, we have not lost the ability to defend ourselves. Which we will. The Zionist’s supporter, the ‘Great Satan,’ that is the United States is now viewed as being a co-conspirator and enemy of our people. We had made overtures in the past days to alleviate their fears of our nuclear program. Now, with the Zionist’s actions, they clenched their fist at our outstretched hand and insulted us. They will pay harshly in time. First, there is the matter of the Jewish state and it will never be resolved unless it is removed from the face of the earth.”
He heard applause in the background and wondered if Rustani had a live audience. The speech sounded not unlike the American’s Franklin Roosevelt and his December 8, 1941 address. He prayed every Iranian heard it. It was the call to arms.
“Our day of vengeance will come.” Zarin said. “I know everyone is hungry. Let’s make sure everything is in operational order. I want to do a quick rundown of all the drone locations and whether they need to be moved forward to close the range. We’re not going anywhere. We will be ready to strike them the moment we receive the authorization. I wish to speak in private to Itaya.”
The radio operator offered a seat as well as his headphones. He turned the frequency dial and sent out a code to Itaya’s command center.
“Leave me,” Zarin said, knowing he would have to speak in hushed tones to prevent anyone from hearing, for the radio operator seat was far from private.
He placed the headphones on and gripped the microphone. Someone squelched at the other end of the line. “Zarin?”
Zarin kept from speaking for just a moment. Then softly said, “Commander Itaya, it is good to hear your voice again. I take it you heard the Ayatollah’s speech?”
“Yes, very powerful. Still does not excuse our being out of action.”
“Nevertheless, we must follow orders. I take it everyone is ready to play their roles.”
“Yes.”
“Have you decided to return back to regional headquarters or are you staying in your command bunker tonight?”
“I will coordinate all efforts from the regional command center.”
He was betrayed. The regional command center was the building that had been destroyed by the Israelis. A new one had yet to be found and this wasn’t Itaya, even though it sounded remarkably like him.
The Israelis know I’m here. He released the talk switch and ripped the headphones off. Where was his driver? He found him standing just inside the door. Zarin grabbed him by the shoulder. “Get the car.” He turned back to the assemblage of people, some of who looked at him with curiousity because of his animated state. “Everyone out now. Close everything down.”
Everyone appeared to be in suspended animation. Their movements frozen by his words. Then they got through. Plugs were pulled and laptop screens s
hut down. They rushed for the space in the doorway to the outside. Somebody made it to a car first and switched on the lights, illuminating the rest of the group flooding from the door.
Zarin was already outside and pulled on the car door. It wouldn’t open. He kicked it and his driver leaped in and unlocked it. Zarin scooted in beside him and the engine gunned with chokes in protest, then caught and revved to life. The tires peeled the gravel from underneath, spraying the others still trying to get to their vehicles. He looked up into the night sky. Drones. Aircraft. He hated the uncertainty. His life measuring perhaps in seconds as the car wound its way over the holes and ruts on the outskirts of the village. Then they passed right down its middle. Still not safe. He looked up into the blackness again as if his senses took over. They were coming. He knew it. This time they were really coming.
The windshield shattered into a thousand shards, their sharp edges spattering into his face. The blood flowed from a dozen punctures. The driver tried to duck but was too late. He jerked the wheel hard left and the car lifted two of its wheels and started skidding on its side. Zarin fell over into the driver’s greasy body that spurted blood. The car dug into the earth and rolled, pulling Zarin out the window. Its force slammed him to the ground as the car stopped upright, its horn blaring its demise.
Zarin tried to shake the pain from his face. It felt like someone had driven scorching pins into it. He heard the gunshots back from where he was seconds ago. Was he hit? Why was the blackness coming and going. He tried crawling and recognized it was an uphill motion. Somewhere up there was a crest and he had to get over it. His hands burned with the pinpricks every time he tried to complete a motion. The shots grew louder, connected together all at once. Automatic weapons. He gave no thought to the others. He must reach the crest. And then he did, pulling himself over and rolling down. He could still smell the automobiles interior, locked in his senses, the leather and sweat he once paid no attention to. Then he gulped a fragrance of clear clean air, the sound of gunfire continuing but somewhat muted by the landscape’s protection. Yes. I will make it. Allah wills it. He pressed his fists down into the grass and began to rise up. His body felt wet with blood and his hands fumbled for his pistol. It was gone. Damn it. The bastards are here and I cannot fight. But I’m not supposed to fight. I must live. The greater battle shall be mine.
Someone grabbed him and threw him to the ground. “Major Zarin! I found you.” He didn’t hear the gunshots that took the man down on top of him. He realized it was someone from the house. He saw the shimmer of a flashlight come toward him over the grass. Its bluish light almost caught him as he rolled away.
The light seemed to grow narrower and he tried to steady and restrict each lungful of breath. Another light merged with it illuminated near him and he heard the eloquent tongue of the language he despised. Hebrew.
Then it came from nowhere. A boot kicked him in the side, the pain filling him, almost bursting out of his mouth. He held it in. Someone else hollered in Hebrew. They seemed to be contemplating their find. Then, the lights went dark. The Israelis rolled him over. He still did not move. Then, his palms were spread and placed on a fingerprint pad, and a camera shutter flashed its quick light upon his dirty face.
“How’s our time?” Foxmann asked David who strode up to him.
“Nine minutes. We sure caught them in the nick of time. We’re almost done getting their prints.”
“I wish I had a picture of what this guy looked like. Not a general features description.”
David bit his fingernails. “I’d say time to call in the extraction.”
Foxmann cued his mike. “Perseus requests extraction.”
The radio crackled “Roger, Perseus. The birds are departing rendezvous at sector Bravo 84.”
This meant the landing zone was two miles away.
“We’ll depart and be there at 0100 hours. Out.” He handed the phone back. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He rubbed his hands, ready to clap them. Odd but the thought did cross his mind. Not out of accomplishment, but the need to hurry.
David rounded up the men as fast as he could. Their weapon lights extinguished as they formed up behind him.
Foxmann changed the channel and spoke into the mike again, this time to the team. “Move out.”
As he said that, the house exploded into a bright orange pyre that collapsed it to the ground. The group maneuvered their way past a couple of shot up cars, the occupants crumpled inside or laying strewn where they tried to escape. All had been fingerprinted and would be checked against an extensive database once back in Israel.
David tapped Foxmann’s shoulder. “This was a good mission, boss.”
“Yeah. How long will our luck hold out, though. And by the way, you don’t have to call me that.” He knew David was just being lighthearted. In the Israeli Defense Forces, everybody regardless of rank was on a first name basis. Experience is what counted.
Washington, D.C.
The limousine entourage exited the White House driveway headed for Andrews Air Force base. The president’s car, shining a beautifully polished deep black finish, maintained a steady clearance from the Secret Service SUV in front. Inside, Anderson was speaking with Secretary of Defense Mitchell about the Ayatollah’s threat.
“The bastards just equated us as being collaborators with this attack. I’m worried about our people in Syria and Iran. Has there been anything indicating a threat to them?”
“We’ve been monitoring all the cables starting to come out of Iran. Besides the Ayatollah speech, there’s only been a handful of issuances of orders and that was for forces still in Iran. None of it indicates that they would want to make a move toward any American targets yet.”
“Or perhaps they have sleeper cells that automatically respond when something like this happens. We have to take that into account.”
“Mr. President, that is what our biggest fear is. Very difficult to defend against. However, all of our people are on alert now in case something shows up.”
“I don’t want another damn Benghazi. See to it our people have access to reinforcements that can get there soon if they’re attacked.”
“Will do.”
“And James, I’m not going to act like what the Ayatollah said is anything more than hot air to the American people. Think they’ll buy it?”
“They are forgiving, Mr. President.”
“I hope so. Cause if we can’t prevent a hit on us, it’s going to be one hell of a shit sandwich we have to take a bite from.” He sighed and rubbed his eyelids. “If you were a betting man, if they did decide to stop and strike us, where you think it would happen?”
“Well, obviously, our bases in the Middle East would have to be prime targets because of their proximity. But I would also venture to say they could have cells here in the U.S. gearing up for something.”
“Put the mosques back under surveillance.”
“If word gets out you implemented a George W. Bush plan, they’re going to roast you over an open fire.”
“Maybe so, but we have no choice. They’ll understand if we get wind of something about to happen.”
“One second, Mr. President.” It sounded like Mitchell was putting his hand over the phone’s speaker. Then he continued. “Sir, we received word that bases in Iraq are likely under imminent attack threat. This comes directly from CENTCOM based on intelligence they’ve gathered from Shia militia groups. They say they were contacted by the Revolutionary Guard commanders about conducting operations against foreigners though they didn’t specifically mention Americans.”
“That’s close enough. Make sure all available air assets can get to our people in a hurry. Send this on to NATO too. I’m on my way to Japan and will be airborne shortly. If any attacks occur, I’ll turn back.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President, in fact we already have made the arrangements with NATO. The word is being sent right now.”
“If any of our people get hit, I want instant response. So get some targets
in Iran you think would be worth hitting if it in fact does occur.”
“I’ll be on it.”
“And James. Get a hold of Katrina. Repeat the discussion we just had to her and tell her what we’re going to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
He placed the cell phone back in his jacket pocket and looked out the window. He looked at the Jefferson Memorial and wondered just how trying it was on him during the height of the American Revolution and if he could’ve handled what was happening now. Probably not. Simpler men for simpler times.
Chapter Eighteen
Iraq
May 25
F.O.B. Johnathan
7:22 A.M.
Carlson, Wilson, and Huffman walked past the returning HUMVEE as the men dismounted. Their tired eyes met with the three only for a second as they stretched and spoke in hushed whispers. The dirt on their uniforms spoke of contact. Hard running and lots of prone position gunfire. He’d seen it all before and had been part of it all many times. He turned his eyes back to the mess hall, a squat building that you entered going downstairs in the sand. It was reinforced with HESCO barriers on top. Inside, the smell of bacon greeted him and he went and got in line behind another group of men who were just as dirty as the ones out front. He collected a tray, a knife, and a fork and moved slowly past the feeding stations. Once the meal was ladled out to him, he chose a seat at a table by the wall. There were no windows in the place and Huffman and Wilson joined him a couple minutes later.
“I don’t like it,” Carlson started off. “I’ve been getting this tingly feeling down my spine ever since I got here. Never had it like that before. When I did have any kind of similar feeling, we always got hit not long after. Wait and see. I say we get hit sometime today before tonight’s mission.”
“Negative waves from an officer in the morning,” Huffman quipped. “Say it ain’t so.”