“I must establish contact with this source,” she replied as she finished a small bowl of seafood bisque. “He, or she, needs control.”
“Seems to me that your source’s information is always a day late and a dollar short, and he’s shopping his stuff to too many people,” Kyle said. “He warns you of nothing beforehand that would let you plan some action to stop it.”
Tianha dabbed away a dollop of stray dressing from her chin. “He still provides a lot of rich background material that proves that Iran is deeply involved.”
“Having him say that, and basing your decisions on his word, are two different things, Doctor.”
“Which is why we have to control him from London. We can assume he is highly placed but untrained in what to report. An experienced case officer can remedy that, and this agent may be invaluable in years to come. Just imagine if we had reliable eyes inside the Tehran government.”
Kyle looked around. Nothing happening, and no one watching. “I don’t like your plan to draw him out by putting out the word that you are an MI6 agent. He probably will show up with a gun in his hand.”
“Knowing that I am not a threat will make it easier for him to contact me, I’m sure. I expect him to be cautious.”
The waiter appeared with their main courses, a steak for Kyle and shellfish for Tianha, refilled their wineglasses, and left them alone. “Do me a favor, then. Keep Omar nearby if this meeting ever actually takes place. It never hurts to have backup.”
“Of course,” she said and sipped the wine. “I thought when we started this adventure that you were going to be my bodyguard.”
“Nope. As the man said, you are a trained agent and you know Egypt as few others do. Just use good sense, and get out if something dangerous starts to cook.”
She actually giggled. “You mean like here in Sharm? I don’t think anything is going to happen here. It’s holiday heaven in the middle of nowhere.”
“Remember the Harpoons? Bad things are coming this way. Sharm’s a very strategic piece of territory. Cairo has the government, but Sharm controls the petroleum path for the whole world. It’s the cork in the bottle for the oil business. How much longer are you staying?”
“Another day or two. If there’s no contact by then, I will go to Cairo. Most likely that is where the Pharaoh will make contact. What about you?”
“I will stick around London visiting Jeff and Pat for a few days, then go back to Washington.” He put down his fork and leaned across the table. “I’ll keep an eye on you from afar. If there’s trouble, send up a flare, and I’ll do my damnedest to help.”
“Oooh. You’ll ride to the rescue like the famous 7th Cavalry?” The wine and food and excitement of the day were brightening her mood.
“Not exactly. That was General Custer, and he was slaughtered. I don’t get slaughtered.”
IRAN
At military airfields surrounding Tehran, a sky train was being assembled. Hundreds of soldiers of the Iranian Army of the Guardians were nervous in the night. They had moved to the airfields in trucks from their training sites, and officers had gathered the men assigned to each plane and personally inspected them. As with any army, the infantrymen settled down to wait. They smoked cigarettes and wrote letters to loved ones, aware they were facing the biggest challenge of their lives. Each wondered whether he would survive as a hero, die as a brave martyr, or perish in deserved shame if he proved to be a coward.
Cargo was loaded first, the ammunition, food, and minimum equipment to sustain them until aerial and maritime supply routes could be firmly established. While loading crews lashed down the crates and a few vehicles, mechanics and flight engineers combed the planes to be sure they were ready for the long flight ahead. Finally, the commander of each company stood before his men and announced the mission: Egypt had officially requested assistance to put down counterrevolutionary forces within that country’s army. They were reminded of the annihilation of the Iranian national soccer team and of how only yesterday an Iranian naval utility vessel — not even a ship of war — had been sunk in the Red Sea in an unprovoked assault by Egyptian missiles. The Guardsmen were chosen to stop that aggression.
Iran had assigned fifteen jet airliners and cargo planes to the task, including huge Boeing 707s and 747s, and there would be about two hundred soldiers with their equipment on each aircraft. It was to be a long and perilous journey out of the country and through the airspace above Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon, with the permission of those Muslim governments. They would not fly over Israel. Finally, the planes would form up in one long line and fly down the Suez Canal to the target, the airport outside of the coastal resort of Sharm el-Sheikh.
SHARM EL-SHEIKH
It was after midnight, but Kyle Swanson could not fall asleep. Normally, he could order his body to shut down and grab a rest period whenever he wanted. Even in fierce battle situations, sleep discipline was important. He lay on the king-sized bed, between soft 1,200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and stared up at the ceiling for an hour. He turned on the light to read a paperback murder mystery but found it impossible to concentrate. The television set offered a menu of movies guaranteed not to hold his interest. From his window, he could see the reddish orange glow that marked where the tanker Llewellyn still burned fiercely. Within a few days, the pristine coastline would be slick and sticky as oil rode in with every wave. He wished he had not yet given most of his guns to Omar. Throwing those two duffel bags into the trunk of the Mercedes felt like tossing his own child over a cliff. Omar could retrieve the MI6 weapons shipment at the airport on his own.
He thought of knocking on the door of the connecting suites to see if Tianha was awake, too. No. Don’t even go there. One o’clock. Two o’clock. Every sense he possessed tingled with the ominous feeling that something just wasn’t right, although there was absolutely nothing going on. Hell with it. I can sleep when I get to London.
He got up, dressed in a comfortable black sweat suit, laced up his gray Nikes, tucked his personal weapon, the Colt .45, in a belt clip holster beneath the shirt, pocketed the cell phone, and headed out for a run along the beaches of Hotel Row. The Blue Neptune was strangely active for so early in the morning, as the hired help was preparing to handle the expected morning rush of departing guests.
Kyle did not stop the elevator at the lobby level but descended to the parking area and walked the aisles until he found Omar’s white Mercedes parked nose-out and tight against a wall as an extra precaution to keep its cargo safe. Swanson patted the car affectionately, then set off at an easy lope along the main traffic route, heading into the stillness, hoping to do five miles.
The town of about thirty-five thousand inhabitants was mostly asleep as he trotted along, staying within the sphere of illumination from the hotels on his right to avoid tripping over some obstacle along the unfamiliar road. He soon settled into an eight-minute-mile pace and felt the start of the familiar burn as his body shook off the fatigue and the muscles stretched. No one bothered him. With plenty of time and breathing easily, he decided to increase the distance to three miles out, then three miles back. Twenty-five minutes from the Blue Neptune, he found a traffic circle that could serve nicely as a halfway point, ran around it, and headed back, changing his route to rack in some running on the hard sand of the beach.
Then something clicked in his brain, a familiar sound that should not be there, the distant rumble of multiple outboard motors. He took a few more steps, slowed, and stopped and stared out at the water. Already the sound seemed closer. Why would motorboats be out there in the middle of the night? There were the usual warning lights on ships in the channel, and the distant fire on the Llewellyn, but that was all, other than the new, ominous humming. It could mean only one thing, and Swanson was too experienced a Marine not to recognize the opening phase of an amphibious assault. Boats were coming in. He ran to an outcropping of rocks and ducked into the darkest shadow he could find, pulled his pistol, and waited.
Swanson got the
telephone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial button for the number of Tianha Bialy. It rang three times before her sleepy voice answered, “Hello? Kyle?” She had checked the voice ID. “What—”
“Tianha, listen up. I’m down on the beach, and big trouble is brewing. It looks like an attack is about to begin.”
“Hunh? An attack?”
“You’ve got to get out of there right now. Call Omar and get him up, and meet me at his car. We need to get out of this area as fast as possible.”
“Kyle, are you sure?” A yawn.
“Dammit, Tianha. You don’t have any time to waste. There’s going to be a lot of shooting soon.”
“Kyle, I’m standing at the window of my room now, and I don’t see anything unusual.”
“Stand there much longer and you might be a dead woman. Get out while you can. I’ll meet you both in the underground garage.” Kyle folded the phone to cut the connection. Whether she did the right thing was now up to her, because the motors were louder and closer. If they were inflatables, commandos would be clinging to handholds with all of their strength as the boats reared out of the water for the final dash to shore. He leapt from the shadows and ran for his life.
In her room, Tianha turned from the window. She was naked. “Kyle says we should get out, Omar. Something about an assault. I don’t see anything, though.”
Omar Eissa crawled out of bed and went to stand behind her, wrapping her in his arms and holding her close. He turned her loose, stepped to one side, and slid the big window open to the chill of the night air, instantly hearing the shrill screams of approaching outboard motors. At the same time, they saw the crests of white foam at the bows of speeding boats that were otherwise still invisible in the darkness. “He’s right, Tianha,” he snapped. “I think the Iranians are here.”
* * *
Major Mansoor Shakuri stood about ten feet back from the waterline and slowly moved a flashlight-sized infrared green laser signal toward the incoming boats. He had flown in the previous day from Cairo to be the advance spotter for the raiders and to assume overall command once they had all landed. It felt good to be out from under the thumb of his demanding superior and back in the field, doing some of the real work for which he had spent his lifetime in training. This was a command worth having.
Ten boats had been scheduled to be put in the water by a wallowing, nondescript cargo ship that had carried the entire seaborne attack force to within ten miles of the beach. Each boat was to contain ten commandos, so there would be a hundred men coming up in the first wave. They would do nothing more than secure the beach while the boats went back for a second load and then fetched in the third and final wave. Shakuri would have three hundred soldiers across the beach by 0400. Even if detected, they were not to move out until ordered. Defend only, not attack, at this point, Colonel Naqdi said. Be patient and give the plan time to unfold.
The first boat hit the sand and slid forward, with the assault force jumping out and running past him to the shelter of a belt of small sand dunes at the top edge of the beach. One soldier, hard and lean with a grease-blackened face, and dressed entirely in black, peeled away, came close, and saluted. A belt of machine-gun ammunition hung around his neck, and an officer’s tab was on his tunic. “First Lieutenant Taghavi reporting, sir. First wave is present and accounted for. One man lost his grip and fell off. Perhaps the boats can pick him up on the return trip, although he probably drowned.”
“No matter, Lieutenant. Spread your men in good defensive positions and hold. It won’t be long before a force this size is spotted, and we cannot be certain of the Egyptian response. And have the men dig, Lieutenant; the deeper the hole, the better they are going to like it if a firefight breaks out. Assign someone to take over this signal laser for me.”
As Major Shakuri turned, he saw the shadow of someone darting away nearby but ignored it. The first wave was safely on the ground.
15
Major Shakuri forced himself to remain calm as he walked the broad area where a makeshift convoy of vehicles was gathered. The drivers were all members of the Muslim Brotherhood, but not a one had ever taken part in a real battle, so they were drawn to the spectacle of the black-clad soldiers who had stormed ashore in front of the Blue Neptune Hotel. Shakuri, with his pistol out, snarled as he pushed them to regain their attention and focus on their job for the night. “All drivers to your vehicles immediately. Start the engines and stay in your seats, prepared to receive passengers. We will move out as soon as the men are loaded. Do not be left behind, or you will be severely punished.”
There were excited whispers as the drivers retreated to their cars and trucks and buses, for they had not been informed of their exact duties tonight. The cover of deception had been pulled away, and the drivers saw Iranian soldiers on the sands, moving with precision and purpose. Shakuri still had not disclosed the destination to them all; just that they were to get ready to move. In moments, the motors turned over, and the area hummed with the coughs and pops and whine of a traffic jam.
By the time he had completed a quick walk-around inspection, the major heard the boats at the beach again, coming in protected by the first wave of defenders. Another hundred men splashed out of the surf and ran to the parking lot. Shakuri climbed into an Egyptian army J8 Jeep with a 12.7mm machine gun mounted in the rear and pointed the lead group into the Toyota pickup truck just behind it. Black-clad shock troops filed like ants into the vehicles, remaining totally silent. Even when equipment snagged, someone tripped, or there was a mix-up about who went where, every problem was sorted out with hand signals, with noncoms pushing the troops into position.
Although he had been watching closely, Shakuri was surprised when a soldier appeared at his side, as if out of the night itself. “Ready, sir. Ninety-eight men counted.”
Above the rumble of the idling vehicles, the major could detect the higher-pitched engines on the inflatable boats, which were already speeding away to bring in the final wave of troops. He ran a mental count to be sure he had enough wheels and was certain that he did. “Drop a sergeant here to guide the next convoy, with the driver of that Jeep, who has been briefed.”
He did not know if the soldier saluted, for the lieutenant had disappeared just as fast as he had arrived. Shakuri’s nervousness melted away as he settled into his seat. He was on his own, out from beneath the thumb of Colonel Naqdi, and his confidence was bubbling. “Head out,” he barked at the driver. “Airport.” Behind him, the gunner racked in a belt of ammo.
* * *
On the beach of the Blue Neptune, a security guard in a crisp white shirt and dark pants let his curiosity get the best of him. He opened the door that led from the main building to the swimming pools, walked down the sidewalk through the lush foliage, and stopped when he looked out at the edge of the water. Little boats filled with men were roaring to the shoreline, and more were gathered on the sand below him, not moving. His job had required him to draw his sidearm before, when particularly bothersome thieves and muggers were molesting guests, and the reflex of facing danger made him reach for the pistol. A pair of silenced submachine guns coughed, and the bullets almost cut him in half, dropping him dead on the spot. “Fool,” said Lieutenant Taghavi. No one was supposed to die yet. The third force was almost out of the water and heading for the transport rendezvous point. For now, staying with the plan was all that counted.
Inside the building, Tianha and Omar heard nothing other than their own footsteps and heavy breathing as they fled down the concrete fire stairwells, hands grasping the metal bannisters. Each floor had a red door that opened onto hallways, but they bypassed those exits in a dash to the parking basement. Their survival lay in getting to the car and leaving the area before the soldiers closed it down. Regular hotel guests probably would be safe enough in their rooms, but a pair of agents from British intelligence would definitely not fare well in whatever was about to unfold.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Satellites and computers throu
ghout the Middle East had painted the big aircraft since they had lifted off the tarmac of various military airfields in Iran and joined in a loose three-plane formation and headed east, with permission, through the skies of its friendly neighbor, Iraq. No American warplanes rose to challenge them, for there had not been any U.S. combat troops in Iraq since December 2011, and most of the billion-dollar airbases had fallen into total disrepair after being thoroughly looted. The Iraqi Air Force had only a handful of F-16s and not enough trained pilots to fly them, so they stayed on the ground because they were not being attacked.
The huge Iranian air fleet lumbered along a carefully predetermined route that skirted the American zone of control that still existed over Afghanistan and dodged Israel entirely. Instead of hiding their presence, the planes flaunted it, broadcasting to anyone who asked that they were on a humanitarian mission at the request of the United Nations and the Egyptian government. In both the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea, U.S. Navy fighter jets with air-to-air missiles on hard points sat on carrier decks in position for hot launches. Fighters flying Combat Air Patrols above the American battle groups extended their patrols into wider circles. Fighters from Israel zoomed up to take a look. No one could detect any overt threat, and the Iranian planes sped on.
“What the hell is this?” asked Wilson Patterson, a former four-star general who was now the national security adviser for the president. The results from the computer readings were plainly projected on a wall screen in the Situation Room of the White House. “Iran is running a mercy flight to Egypt? That is horse shit!” Patterson had never lost his Marine vocabulary.
“The United Nations has not authorized any such thing. The only request came from the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt just a few hours ago. No one has acted on anything yet, and there has been no meeting of the Security Council.” Belinda Hawkins was the president’s chief of staff, and she had come to the big conference room wanting answers, not more questions.
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