The downlink of imagery continued as the airframe transited the Elburz. But the transmission was brief. The plane soon navigated the rift valley and vanished into the night across the border into Iran. Moments later the silence of the night again descended across the isolated mountain barrens on the edge of nowhere.
"Let's --"
Rempt stopped in mid-sentence.
Something else was coming, something that hadn't been anticipated. Rempt quickly punched keys at the console of the mobile command station and let out a whistle. Breaux saw it there too, moments before they arrived -- Mi-24 Hinds, two of them. Both mammoth gunship helicopters were heavily armed with rockets and automatic cannons.
Breaux judged they had been sent along on this mission to ride shotgun on an especially important cargo. Maybe the brass back at Kharkov had gotten nervous and wanted to add a little insurance coverage to the package. Whatever the reason, the Hinds had tagged along.
Suddenly Breaux saw the signs of struggle out of the corner of his eye. It was at a nearby rock ledge occupied by a group of Peshmerga. To his horror Breaux saw two men wrestling each other, heard their quarrelsome oaths echoing across the canyon, saw and heard other Peshmerga rushing to the scene.
Again he looked up toward the Hinds, relieved to see that they continued on along a straight path, for the moment oblivious to the commotion below.
Breaux turned his attention back toward the struggle. Now one of the Kurds knocked the other down and rose to his knees, and the dark silhouette of a blunt-ended tubular object described a tangent in the night as it pointed at the sky.
Damn -- he was going to fire a Stinger missile at one of the Hinds.
Breaux moved quickly, sprinting across broken ground, his combat knife already unscabbarded, knowing what would have to be done, and done quickly to avoid blowing the entire mission. As he advanced, Breaux saw the prone man rise, knock the other down before he could fire. The black tubular weapon fell into darkness once more. Breaux would not give it a second chance to sweep upward again.
In moments he had reached the scene of the continuing struggle. The first man had again shoved the other one down. Breaux reached the Kurd with the Stinger shoulder-fire weapon as he raised it again.
Breaux sprang and grabbed the hill man by the hair, pulling his head back and twisting his neck with a savage wrench. The neck broke in a second with a dull, wishbone-snapping sound and the man went limp. Breaux cradled the dying man's head in the crook of his arm, slowly lowering him to the broken earth and silencing any noises he might have made as life left him.
He lay prone and watchful beside the corpse, searching for the Hinds. To his chagrin he saw that the gun ships had slowed their forward progress. They were now hovering in a search pattern, as though they had seen something on the floor of the ravine.
Breaux's hand moved to the missile launcher that had fallen near the dead man. If they attacked, he would have to use it anyway. There would be no other choice. The entire operation would be compromised and Eagle Patcher commandos would probably be killed in the fire-fight that would follow.
In the air, the immense steel dragonflies darted and hovered, moved to and fro, circling through the canyons. Amplified by reflection off the sheer rock walls of the defile, the chugging of the Hinds' main rotors took on a deafening cadence, crept into the skull like rats into a hole, chewed its way into the brain.
It quickly became a contest of nerve, a battle against the fear-fed urge to strike first before the Hinds shot up the valley with cannon fire or air-to-ground missiles and the voice of prudent caution that counseled, "Stay put, wait it out, see what happens."
The Hinds continued to dart and hover, circle and dance, rise and fall. More tense moments ticked away. And then suddenly the two helos climbed for altitude and sped westward along the track of the departed Antonov.
Moments later they were gone.
Breaux was rolling the corpse of the Peshmerga guerilla who had been panicked into nearly firing at the Hinds into a convenient chimney in the rocks. The other Kurd, the one who'd tried to stop him, was jabbering away in Dari, the Kurdish dialect of Farsi, while bowing and trying to kiss Breaux's mud-spattered boots. Rempt translated, something about how Allah might bless him for saving them all with his quick thinking.
Breaux's response was to kick the sniveling Kurd in the face, shattering his nose, and walking away as the injured hillman howled in pain.
All Breaux knew was this: these shits had fucked up. They could not be trusted. They were a liability and Detachment Omega did not need liabilities -- there were far too many on this mission already.
▪▪▪▪▪▪
Sometime later, the Antonov set down on a desert runway marked by luminous green chemlights. The Spetsnaz commander ordered his crew to start offloading the cargo onboard the Vafl'a -- which meant "Flying Dick," a Russian nickname for any cargo aircraft -- to the small convoy of waiting GAZ 3937 Vodnik four-bys that loitered near the airstrip.
While this was taking place, there was one other detail to which he had been instructed to attend.
"You are Karlovich?" asked Major Ogarkov, as he compared the color photograph he had produced from his field jacket pocket with the face of the man standing before him in the night.
"Yes, tovarisch," answered the physicist. "You are my driver, then?"
"That is correct, tovarisch," replied the Spetsnaz, finishing another Sobranie and flicking it into the night. "Your bag, please."
The commander accepted the scientist's grip and stowed it in the rear of the staff car, then pulled open the door.
"Please have a seat."
"The ride will not be long?" asked Karlovich.
"No," replied Ogarkov, "it is very short. You will be able to rest and wash up in no time."
"I meant..."
"Ah yes, I see," Ogarkov cut in. "That is not a problem. The entire desert is yours."
Karlovich muttered something and walked off into the night. The Spetsnaz leaned against the side of the staff car as he watched him disappear around a large rock formation and lit another smoke. He took a long, deep drag and then shrugged, thinking that now was as good a time as any.
Pushing himself erect off the side of the vehicle, Ogarkov followed Karlovich's footprints in the loose sand covering the desert crust. As he reached the outcropping, the major drew his 9-millimeter Makarov PM (Pistolet Makarov) semiautomatic service pistol and casually threaded an eccentric-chamber LARAND-type suppressor tuned to the specific sound dynamics of the weapon onto its muzzle.
None of his men heard the volley of rapid clicks that signaled the entry of bullets into the back of the traitor's skull. Major Ogarkov's roughened hand unthreaded the now hot silencer, dropped it into the pocket of his field jacket and re-holstered the semiautomatic pistol.
Some blood spatter had gotten on his palm -- he had held it upraised as a splash guard -- and he wiped it clean on the sand. It was a lucky break that the traitor had a weak bladder; saved him a trip into the night to do the job. But burying him -- ni khuya -- that was work for one of his men. The major would have no part of that.
"Ryabov! Kushkin!" he shouted toward the trucks as he two-fingered another smoke from the crushed pack in his pocket. "Get the fuck over here on the double. I have a job for you two lazy svoloki...."
Chapter Eight
Breaux walked through the mostazafin encampment, feeling the hostile eyes of the Peshmerga upon him. He was on his way to Rempt's yurt to be briefed on new developments concerning Force Omega mission in the Elburz. Just ahead of Breaux, a group of pancake-hatted and turbaned men carrying Kalashnikovs had congregated, and it was clear by their glances and gestures that Breaux was the topic of conversation.
It was also clear they weren't paying him any compliments. No matter that the trigger-happy rag head would probably have signed all their death warrants by shooting at the Hinds. All that the clannish hill tribesmen knew was that Haneen had left behind a bereaved widow and five hungry chi
ldren.
Far worse was the fact that Haneen had been killed by an unclean foreigner, one who fucked dogs, as it was said of Americans. The hands of an American infidel had snapped Haneen's neck, and such a death was an ignoble one.
The near-debacle at the surveillance post in the mountains had marked a clear turning point in Omega's
mission. From that point on the shit had began hitting the fan with a vengeance. Tensions in the Kurdish encampment had been inflamed by the loss of one of their own people. Rempt had intervened with the khadkhuda, the Peshmerga tribal council, to restore order with some success, but it was obvious that the blood of the Kurds was up and a thirst for vengeance went unslaked.
Rempt had come down hard on Breaux, blaming him for having stirred up a hornet's nest.
"There was no other way," Breaux had protested. "What was I to do, let him fire? The fucker was disobeying orders. There was no other choice. I had to take him out."
"They told me you were a hard case," Rempt said. "They warned me you were a crazy motherfucker. That you were out of control."
"You didn't answer my question," Breaux had replied.
Rempt repeated his meaningless catechism about Breaux being crazy, out of control, and several other things besides. Breaux would notify Rempt that he was pulling his people out. For Detachment Omega the mission was over, and fuck the CIA.
As Breaux continued on the winding path up the hillside to Rempt's yurt, the group of hostile hill men moved toward him. They now blocked Breaux's path. One of them stuck out his hand, giving Breaux the finger.
"Charra alaik! American fuck! Charra alaik!"
He spat on the ground, keeping his black button eyes glued on Breaux's face. He was saying "Shit on you" in Dari. The other men began circling, moving out of Breaux's direct field of view.
Breaux gave him the finger right back. He knew a few choice words in Dari himself. "Coos!" he shouted. "Tal hazi zib umak!" This meant, "Fuck you. Call your mother over to suck my dick."
"Telhazi teezi -- Go suck my ass," shouted back the Kurd. "Coos, American. Coos! Coos!"
"Coos yourself, shitbag."
Breaux looked around for a rock to throw at the evil-smelling, foul-mouthed, rag-clad hill men whom he had come to regard by now as little more than a noisy species of two-legged, humanoid cockroach, when he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision.
Before the raghead to Breaux's left could bring the butt of his Kalashnikov down against the side of his skull, Breaux pivoted, sidestepped the blow and launched a spinning giri at the attacker's heart region. The karate foot blow shattered the Kurd's collar bone and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Breaux was already centered on the follow-through, turning to face the vengeful cousin who had raised his Kalashnikov to fire a burst into Breaux's chest. As the cousin pulled the trigger, Breaux grabbed a knife-wielding rag head by the beard and one arm and heaved him around right into the line of fire.
The cousin's automatic burst punched a ragged hole in the hill man's stomach. Breaux launched another foot blow and knocked the rifle to the ground. A couple of well-placed punches to the cousin's face reduced his nose and cheeks to red, pulpy custard. The would-be killer howled in pain as he tried to hold his busted nose together amid the blood pouring out of his smashed septum, then ran off into the encampment.
The staccato sounds of automatic fire made all the parties to the brawl turn and look up at the source of the sudden report. Rempt stood outside his yurt on a rock ledge about thirty feet above them. He clutched a Kalashnikov in his right hand, barrel upraised.
The beard-and-turban contingent picked up their wounded and limped off, muttering curses in their local dialect and directing angry looks at Breaux.
Breaux walked on, reaching Rempt on the precipice above, still clutching his AKS just outside his yurt.
"What the hell was that about?"
"Take a wild guess. A couple of rag heads ambushed me on the way over. One of them said he was the cousin of the clown I had to take out. He said they were going to do some nasty things to my pecker with their knives."
"Shit, fuckin' shit," Rempt cursed. "Just what we need here. A vendetta. I want you to know I hold you responsible, Breaux. If you hadn't --"
"-- Hadn't what, Rempt?" Breaux had taken two steps toward the spook and grabbed him by the collar. "I've taken enough crap from you and from them. What I came here to tell you, my friend, is that I'm pulling my force out of this quagmire as of three hundred hours."
"You can't do that." Rempt had squirmed free of Breaux's grip by this time. "I'm in command of this operation."
"You're in command of diddly squat, Rempt," Breaux shouted back. "I don't take my orders from you. I, and my forces, only liaise with you. My orders come down through the military chain of command, and you're not one of the links." Breaux reached into his shirt pocket. "This is a printout from Washington."
Rempt read the telex, which had been delivered over satellite downlink less than an hour before. The orders stated that Colonel Breaux would keep his force in theater at his own discretion.
"Unless you have a very good reason to the contrary I'm yanking my people out of this hellhole in three hours."
Rempt stood dumbfounded for a few minutes, his eyes darting to and fro. Here was a guy whose mental gears you could almost see turning inside his skull, thought Breaux.
"Okay, look," he said. "I can contest these orders. The DCI will have one of his deputies camping out in front of the Oval Office before the page comes out of the printer at Meade. But I agree that your mission's been compromised by the events of last night and SFOD-O should pull out. Except not tonight."
"Why not?"
"Tonight is important," Rempt said. "Tonight is the culmination of a lot of behind-the-scenes work. Trust me, Breaux. We have to do this."
"I'd sooner trust a rattlesnake. Convince me."
Rempt tried. Breaux listened to the intelligence field asset talk about the planned mission. Another mission up in the hills of the Elburz watching big Russian planes dance on the thermals. But it was more than watching this time. Much more.
The plan was pure spook. Insane. Yet it was precisely the kind of operation that would in fact have the DCI's hatchet men camping out on the White House lawn if necessary. Breaux knew this for sure. Were he to balk and insist on extraction, Rempt would make his calls and the Eagle Patchers' orders would change.
"Let's assume I were to agree to keep the force in this shithole another twenty-four hours, Rempt," Breaux began. "What would keep the whole camp from going ballistic. You saw what happened on my way over. The Kurds have their tits in an uproar. They won't let it alone."
"You leave that to me," Rempt advised. "I'll handle it."
Breaux told Rempt that he doubted he could, but he would keep SFOD-O in theater an additional twenty-four hours in order to conduct the night's final mission into the Elburz.
"There's something else besides," Breaux added. "In my opinion the entire support operation here's been compromised. Those Hinds last night -- I don't think they just happened to be there by coincidence. I think the Russians knew, or suspected, that something was shaking."
"That'll be my problem too, Breaux," Rempt answered. "After tonight's mission you and your force will be history."
Something about the look in Rempt's cold blue eyes as he said that gave Breaux the creeps. It could just be common, garden variety spookery -- every one of them had a streak of James Jesus Angleton in his soul-- but then, again, maybe it was more than that. Breaux would keep his guard up, and pass the word to his men.
▪▪▪▪▪▪
The night mission proceeded on schedule. Their fearless leader Rempt had been true to his word, after a fashion. He had succeeded in quelling the fires of discontent in the encampment, but the uneasy truce between tribesmen and US specwar personnel had been bought rather than negotiated.
Rempt had dug into his Company imprest fund and paid off the tribal khadkhuda in fif
ty dollar gold pieces. He had also promised a new consignment of better weapons at the next air drop. But first came the mission.
As with the last mission into the heights of the Elburz range, the mixed force was deployed along the rocky ledges and jagged outcroppings of the Bottleneck, awaiting the next clandestine resupply run out of Kharkov. Only this time there were a few wrinkles that had not been in evidence during the previous mission.
One of these wrinkles was not even present in the operational area at all. On the contrary, it was parked in low earth orbit some hundred miles above the action. It was a satellite that bore the code name Cerberus, and it differed from most other satellites in that it was mostly a huge rectangle, about the size of a trailer, filled with wet-cell electrical storage batteries.
Another wrinkle on the night's operation was a tubular weapon that was mounted on a tripod. The tube did not fire a projectile of any kind, however. Instead, a series of cables ran from the rear of the tube to a regulated power source and an electronic device housed in a MIL-SPEC-hardened carrying case. Rempt had set up the rig himself, calibrating the weapon by means of a head-mounted display that was plugged into the central processing unit.
The rest was standard operating procedure. The team got into position well in advance of the expected arrival of the airborne shuttle run and settled down to wait in the darkness and biting cold of the arid, windswept heights.
Time ticked by, and then the first satellite warnings of the approach of the Antonov came over the downlink and the ghost images of overhead thermal surveillance appeared on the tactical computer screens of the ambush force.
Breaux crouched in the darkness of the windswept heights, overlooking the rift valley below him, waiting for the plane to come gliding in. As was the case previously, Detachment Omega was strung out around the north face of the cliffs above the yawning ravine, ready to intervene with rocket and small arms fire if the situation demanded aggressive response.
Rempt stared transfixed at the screen of the battlefield computer station, his fingers poised above the keyboard.
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