by Davis Bunn
All three gave their quiet assent. Marc saw a new glint in Lahm’s gaze, and took it as a good sign. He went on, “Our mission is rescue and recovery. Our aim is to get in and get out unnoticed. But if we have to go in guns hot, we will do so. Our survival-and theirs-depends on our professionalism.”
This time, Duboe answered for them all. “Roger that.”
“Okay. Josh, you and your men transfer Duboe’s gear into the buses. The bag with the comm links travels with me.” He turned to Lahm. “Let’s go have a word with your tame Iranians. Do you speak Farsi?”
“Enough.”
“Duboe, you need to be in on this.” Marc saw Josh working to hide a smile.
“What?”
“Nothing, skipper. Not a single solitary thing. We’re in the green and good to go.”
Marc pointed them toward the night. “We move in ten.”
Chapter Forty-One
T he six Iranians were seated on backpacks in a tight circle, almost surrounded by Lahm’s men. All male, all very nervous. Marc asked, “How much do they know?”
“Nothing.”
“Why did they volunteer?”
The men scrambled to their feet as Lahm replied, “I spoke with my closest friend in intelligence. These men, they are his best allies inside the Iranian community. Baghdad has many Iranian refugees. More come every day.”
“So many,” one of the Iranians confirmed directly to Marc, “Tehran has stopped all normal bus service to Iraq. No flights, no cars. Now the only way to travel is by pilgrim bus. For this you must have a travel pass from the ayatollahs or a conservative imam. Smugglers pay much bribes for these passes.”
That at least one in the group spoke English made things much easier. “What’s your name?”
“Fareed, honored sir.”
”Tell me why you’re here, Fareed.”
The man was stocky, almost barrel-like, with a scraggly beard covering a round chin. “We are all members of the resistance, honored sir. We hear from our friend in the Iraqi intelligence you have trouble with Iran. We volunteer. For anything.”
“We’re headed into Iran to rescue some friends,” Marc said. “They’re being held in a special military compound.”
“Please, honored sir, there will be fighting?”
“We hope not. But possibly. What we really need is for you to get us across the border. Once that’s done, we can drop you…”
But the young man was busy translating for his friends. There was a quiet confab, little more than a few words from each man.
“Please, honored sir. We volunteer for the fighting also.”
Marc hesitated. He glanced at Lahm, who was frowning.
The young Iranian said, “This compound where they hold friends, it is Revolutionary Guard, yes?”
“How do you know?”
“All of us, we suffer from the Guards. I and two friends, this man and this, we have served in the Guards. We are refugees because of them. They are the ayatollahs’ military arm. We fight for democracy and freedom-”
Marc held up his hand. “Wait. Stop. Okay, I want you to translate this. Tell your men exactly what I am going to say. Yes, our friends are being held inside a Revolutionary Guard compound. But each person gathered here is highly trained. We know what is required. Our aim is to get in and out without raising the alarm.”
He waited until the young man had finished. He asked Lahm, “Are my words getting across correctly?”
“He speaks very fast. But I am thinking, yes.”
“I tell my friends exactly what you are saying,” the young man assured Marc.
“We are not here to fight for democracy. We are here to rescue a group that has been kidnapped. Two groups, if we’re lucky.” Marc hesitated, then decided to add, “There is the chance that we may strike a blow against the Tehran regime. But that is for the politicians to worry about once we’re back and our friends are safe.”
When that segment was translated, Marc went on, “I am open to discussion on the road. But what I need to know now is this: Will you follow orders? If not, you will stay here. A successful mission depends on everyone accepting their role and doing exactly what they’re told. No argument, no back talk. That is your only choice.”
– – Marc traveled with Josh and his team and all the Iranians. The Persians’ open acceptance of his terms left Marc much more at ease. Two of them had never even held a gun before. Another had shot his father’s hunting rifle. The other three, however, were interesting. All had enlisted with the Revolutionary Guard. But they eventually had become involved in democracy movements and protests following the corrupt national elections. Two had been convicted and imprisoned for a time. The other had fled across the border, the intelligence service hot on his heels.
This time of night, the convoy shared the highway mostly with trucks. The pavement was rutted and poorly marked. Yet the road was wide enough to permit passing. They made good time.
Three hours before dawn, the two buses pulled off the road. Lights from the last petrol station before the border glowed on the horizon. But here was only the dry desert night. Lahm’s men used a portable burner to heat water and make tea while Josh passed around ready meals and energy bars. Marc’s senses were filled with vague desert fragrances, sorrel and thyme and dry earth and diesel fumes from the highway.
They were separated from the road by a rocky mound. Every vehicle that passed lit the hill up like a desiccated camel’s hump. Josh stationed one of his men on the hillside while they ate and prepped. Marc continued to search the empty night. Somewhere in the distance a sheep bleated once, then went still. Otherwise there was no sign of life beyond the highway. One of Lahm’s men passed around a sack of dried apricots. The flavor suited the moment.
They went through the plans once more. To the untrained observer, going over and over plans was the definition of futility. But these men were pros. They understood that lives depended on repetition, drilling every sequence down so deep it became ingrained below the level of conscious thought. When things went wrong, the fallback structure would hopefully fit automatically into place. And in a situation like this, there was every chance that things would go very wrong indeed.
The images flashing on Duboe’s laptop helped drive the plans home. The group visually tracked their way around the encampment’s perimeter, mapping out responsibilities and positions. Lahm translated for his men. Fareed, the Iranian who spoke English, did the same. Marc waited for one of Josh’s or Hamid’s men to object to the Iranians being involved in these discussions. But they all seemed content to follow his lead in the matter. Another very good sign.
They off-loaded Duboe’s duffels and spread out the contents. There were special high-frequency comm links, the size of Bluetooth earpieces but with dedicated protocol to avoid being overheard. There were sniper-grade rifles and automatic machine pistols with clips long and curved like sabers. Grenades, both frag and compression. Lightweight body armor. Each man received a sheaf of plastic-tie handcuffs and backup rolls of silver tape.
The real prizes, as far as Marc was concerned, were slender canisters with fold-up nozzles as long as silenced pistol barrels. “One spray and your adversary’s out cold for eight hours,” Duboe said. “The spray’s tightly directed, shoots to fifteen feet. Take care not to breathe it. Be better if you don’t get it on your skin; it can slow response time. That’s what the gloves are for.”
Marc gave them time to sort through the gear, then checked his watch and said, “Mount up.”
It was gratifying to see them respond as a unit. The Iranians embraced and split up between the two buses. Josh and his men clambered back into the first bus, where Marc and Duboe traveled. Hamid and his team returned to the second vehicle. But as Marc started to join them, Duboe caught his arm and pulled him further into the night.
When they were alone, Duboe unzipped his pack and flashed a thick wad of bills. “Twenty-five thou in hundred dollar bills. Straight from the ambassador’s private safe. Use
it or lose it.”
The money only confirmed what Marc had suspected since Duboe had revealed his cache. He called softly, “Hamid.”
The police officer stopped in the process of entering the second bus. “Here.”
“You need to ride with us. We’ve got something more to cover.” He turned back to Duboe, who was frowning now. “Let’s roll.”
Once they were back on the highway, Marc drew Duboe and his two team leaders to the back, well removed from the others. Marc told Hamid and Josh about the money, then said to Duboe, “Now give us the flip side.”
“Come again?”
“Your handlers didn’t pass along all this gear and the cash just to help rescue some missing Americans and Iraqis.”
“In case you missed it, we’re talking about the future of the Alliance.”
“I’ve spent enough time in Washington to know there’s a hidden agenda,” Marc replied.
Duboe looked from one face to the next. Hamid was clearly confused, but his gaze remained upon Marc. Josh, however, watched Duboe like he was choosing his target.
“The decision of who to tell, if and when, was left to my discretion,” Duboe finally said.
“That works fine in Baghdad,” Marc said. “Out here, our survival depends on operating as a team.”
Duboe jerked a nod. “I need my computer.”
“Josh.”
“On it.”
Duboe ignored the soldier’s cold glare, accepted the laptop, opened it and linked up. “I received these orders an hour before departure. From the ambassador. Who got them from Mr. X.”
Marc explained, “A top gun in Washington intel. I’m thinking, CIA deputy director for operations.”
Josh asked, “You know him how?”
“He was on the comm link when I requested help on the target for this mission. We’ve got our objective because he flashed us the green light.”
“Only because he had a secret motive,” Josh said, still staring at Duboe.
“The man is on our side,” Duboe replied. “And our objectives are the same.”
“Feds,” Josh snorted, then noticed Hamid’s grin. “Something funny?”
“This talk, it is so very Arab.” Hamid linked his arms behind his head. “I am hearing this conversation all my life long.”
Duboe keyed up a satellite photo of the valley. “This was taken two nights ago. This is our target, the house here. Now look at the central road.”
Josh moved in closer to the screen. “Are those trucks?”
“Articulated vehicles. Seven of them. Intel claims they’re all from the same special unit. Don’t ask me how they know, but the lady Marc spoke with was totally certain.”
“She knew her stuff,” Marc confirmed.
“These trucks are specifically tasked to carry missiles. Nothing else. The cover is pulled back on the first truck.”
The men leaned in closer. “Crates,” Josh identified.
“Intel claims they’re packed with surface-to-surface and surface-to-air missiles. Shoulder fired. Laser-guided and heat-seeking both. The Iranians have been pushing hard on new homegrown varieties.” Duboe tapped the screen. “Intel insists they’re here in this valley for one reason only.”
“They train the Shia extremists from Iraq,” Hamid said grimly. “The extremists bring them back here.”
“That’s our best guess.”
“Is no guess. The Shia extremists, they go to Iran and are fed lies.”
“Indoctrinated,” Duboe said.
“All lies. Yes. We stopping too many road bombs. So this their answer.”
Josh looked from Marc to Duboe and back. “What’s the plan?”
“Your call,” Marc replied. “You signed on for a rescue and recovery mission.”
“Hey. We’re here for the whole dance. Right, Hamid?”
The police officer had aged. “How many missiles?”
“The intel lady had it cold. Four launchers to a crate. Sixty crates to a truck.”
“Seven trucks. That makes…”
“Sixteen hundred and eighty missiles.”
“Much death, much trouble,” Hamid sighed.
Josh snorted. “First they’ve got to get those things by us, right?”
Hamid looked at him. Then he turned to Marc and nodded.
Marc said, “We’re in.”
“Okay, here’s the thing.” Duboe tapped the keys. “The missiles show up. Then here the next day, poof, the trucks are gone.” He pointed at the screen. “There’s no warehouse around there big enough to stow that many missiles. Not to mention all the other gear required to maintain a unit of up to three hundred operatives who come to blow things up.”
“Caves,” Josh said.
“That’s intel’s thinking also.” Duboe switched images once more. “This was taken late afternoon. These shadows in the cliff face suggest possible openings.” He switched again, to a night image. “Here you see heat signals indicating a patrol behind the house where the hostages are most likely kept. Only the house backs up to the ridge.”
Josh said, “Show me the daytime shot again.”
Duboe shifted back to the former image. Hamid said, “They walk a path above the village.”
“There must be a ledge,” Josh agreed.
“Only one reason for them to be spending that much time on a narrow cliff path,” Marc said.
Josh said to Marc, “My team searches out the caves. You and Hamid’s boys go for the hostages.”
Marc asked, “That work for you, Hamid?”
The major squinted at the laptop screen a moment longer, then replied, “I will talk with my men. But I am thinking yes.”
“I need to borrow that laptop.” Josh rose to his feet. He glared at Duboe. “You should have told us before now.”
“I’ve got my orders, soldier. You’ve got yours.”
When the others had moved away, Marc said, “Josh was right. You should have discussed this earlier.”
“We can dance around this thing all night.” Duboe’s face was iron hard in the passing headlights. “It still comes down to orders.”
Marc decided there was nothing to be gained by further argument. But as he turned away, Duboe added, “I thought Walton was nuts, sending a greenie into the Red Zone. I told him that too. Want to know what he said?”
Marc wasn’t sure what he wanted, beyond rescuing Alex and bringing his team back alive. But he said, “Fire away.”
“Walton told me that if I gave you a chance, you’d knock my socks off.”
Marc had no idea how to respond, so he remained silent.
Duboe glanced over to where Josh was surrounded by his team, their faces lit by the laptop screen. Hamid Lahm sat two rows back, his cellphone attached to his ear. He said, “I’ve been bouncing around the Middle East for twenty-three years. What I’m looking at here is a genuine first. These people aren’t just taking aim. They’re building trust. With each other. With you. They’d follow you anywhere.” Duboe went quiet for a moment, then added, “Tell the truth, so would I.”
Chapter Forty-Two
O nce they passed the final Iraqi village, the road became much rougher. Concrete pyramids littered the fields to either side of the highway. They shone in the headlights like broken teeth. Hamid said, “Antitank barriers. From our war with Iran.”
They knew when they had reached the border because the traffic ground to a halt. They all worked to stow their gear at the back of the bus. Then Hamid passed out black shirts and pilgrim headscarves emblazoned with Farsi script. That done, he opened the bus door, shook Josh’s hand, saluted Marc, and trotted back to the second bus.
Over the comm link, Hamid confirmed the second bus was ready. Marc said, “Time to shift over, Josh.”
“On it.”
Marc had decided he would rather have his top fighter controlling the first bus in case of trouble. He watched as Josh traded places with his man who had been driving. Marc took a seat across the aisle from Fareed. “We clear on e
verything?”
“Oh, very much, yes.” The stout Iranian had already sweated through his black T-shirt. They were all hot. The A/C in both buses was out and only a few windows opened. Marc moved in close enough to study the man’s eyes. Fareed looked scared, but also eager.
“Okay, Josh, let’s roll.”
Fareed had explained that the customs officials normally flagged the buses forward, ahead of the line of crawling trucks. The pilgrim traders paid special bribes for this swift processing. Hamid had obtained a go-anywhere letter from the security minister. But using it on the Iraqi side of the border risked showing their hand. They were planning to talk their way through.
Traffic was relatively light, one of the reasons Marc had wanted to make this approach in the dead of night. Several truck drivers leaned against their vehicles and watched as the buses crawled past them.
They threaded their way through the traffic cones and approached the brightly lit border. Marc said, “Okay, Fareed. You’re on.”
The Iraqi Customs guard was exactly what Marc had hoped for. The man was so sleepy he stumbled as he climbed the bus steps. He would have gone down if Fareed had not been there to catch him. The customs officer swatted at Fareed’s hands, which caused Fareed to drop the cash he held. The customs officer came to full alert when he spotted the five fifty-dollar bills scattered at Fareed’s feet.
Fareed’s hands fluttered in protest as the officer scooped up the money. He glanced down the bus aisle, but the only working lights were the dashboard controls and the officer’s own flashlight, which the man could not aim because of his fistful of dollars and Fareed’s rising protest. He grunted and swatted at Fareed a second time. Fareed ducked the hand and tried to claw back some of the money he had dropped. The officer’s light bounced over Josh, who had slumped over the wheel, one hand pushing back his black bandana to rub at tired eyes. The customs officer snapped at Fareed and clambered back down the stairs, stuffing the bills into his pocket.