Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors) Page 8

  So, there had been survivors. No matter. They would not live long. Thanks to one of the chosen…

  2:13 A.M.

  The Israeli C-130

  “We are four kilometers from the drop zone, sir. Get your men ready to jump.”

  Gideon nodded, his dark black eyes betraying no emotion. This was his job. This is what he had trained for. He bent low, leaving the plane’s cockpit. His team was already up and standing, ready for the moment when the green light would flash, the cargo door of the C-130 Hercules open wide.

  The two patrol vehicles were positioned right by the door of the transport. Their parachutes would be activated by an onboard altimeter.

  He walked down the line of men one last time, inspecting their gear, making sure they were prepared. Chaim Berkowitz would be the first to jump. His M24 sniper rifle was broken down and disassembled in his backpack. If they encountered hostiles upon landing, he would use the Uzi submachine gun slung across his chest. His eyes locked with Gideon’s for a moment and the lieutenant saw uncertainty there. This was new for all of them.

  Yossi Eiland was enjoying a final cigarette before the jump. As Laner approached, Eiland crushed it out between thumb and forefinger, smiling at the momentary flash of pain.

  “Ready?”

  “Of course,” was the quick reply. Gideon smiled and slapped his second-in-command on the back before turning away. The man was a veteran.

  The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “One minute to jump. We’re coming up on the DZ.”

  “Roger. One minute to jump.”

  A light flickered in the corner of Gideon’s eye. Green.

  “GO, GO, GO!”

  2:15 A.M.

  The crash site

  Davood ran quickly toward the wreck, around the front. He could see the co-pilot’s body hanging limply, nearly beheaded by the rotor. It seemed strange. He had never learned the man’s name. Now he never would.

  A shrill, discordant cry arrested his movements. He turned, trying to place the sound. And then he saw him. Tancretti. Pinned against the instrument panel.

  He looked around. There was no time to get help. He dropped the Kalishnikov and ran toward the wreck, pulling his combat knife from its ankle sheath.

  Perhaps he could cut him free…

  “Sitrep, LONGBOW?”

  “Overwatch position achieved, EAGLE SIX. No hostiles in sight. Acknowledge.”

  “Roger that, LONGBOW. Copy no hostiles.”

  Major Hossein smiled in the darkness. They were still unobserved. The radio chatter from the American team confirmed that. He glanced up around him at the hills. The overwatch mentioned could still be most anywhere. They wouldn’t know where until the bullets started flying.

  The heat seared Davood’s face as he moved forward, smoke filling his lungs. The door of the Huey was jammed shut, its metal crumpled like paper from the force of the impact. Tancretti’s survival was a providence of Allah, nothing less. But time was running out.

  He reached in through the broken window with his knife hand, extending it toward the pilot. No good.

  “One moment,” Davood whispered, more to himself than to Tancretti, sweat streaming down his face as he wedged the combat knife in between the pilot’s chest and the seatbelt.

  One moment…

  5:17 P.M. Eastern Time

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  “Very good, Director. Keep me posted on any further developments. Thank you.” President Hancock replaced the phone on his desk and stood, turning to gaze out the window of the Oval Office. The sun was sinking low in the western sky. In Iran, it would be pitch-black. A team of his countrymen would be fighting for their very lives.

  Nothing this night had gone as planned. This had been meant as a political coup, decisive military action against a regime feared by the Jewish lobby and hated by the warmongers on the right. Both groups would have applauded a daring, Entebbe-style hostage rescue. And now the quicksand had opened beneath him.

  He swore under his breath, eyeing the phone on the Resolute desk. Cahill hadn’t been cleared for TALON, and he wasn’t about to read him in now. This time he was going to have to run his own damage control.

  5:18 P.M.

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Director Lay left the elevator the very moment the doors opened onto the seventh floor, striding hurriedly toward his office. His secretary, Margaret Caudell, was bent over her desk, organizing paperwork in preparation to leave. A common sight.

  She had already stayed twenty minutes over her time, which was also all too common. If she had learned nothing else in the seven years that the two of them had worked together, it was that there was no such thing as a fixed schedule.

  “Good evening,” she smiled, glancing up at his entrance.

  It wasn’t. “Get the secure line to the White House ready, Margaret. I need to talk to the President.”

  2:20 A.M. Tehran Time

  The crash site

  His shoulder hurt like the devil, pain shooting through his body. He moved his fingers up the length of his right arm, gently massaging the flesh. It wasn’t broken, or at least he didn’t think so.

  But it was dislocated, that was sure enough. And it was his gun arm. He was out of it.

  He hadn’t heard from the team.

  Tex raised himself from the hard ground where he had fallen, wincing at the pain. His head throbbed and when he reached up to check himself, his hand came away sticky with blood.

  How long he had been unconscious, he had no idea. He moved his good arm down to his waist, checking for his radio. It was still intact. He adjusted the lip mike and went on the air…

  Harry’s headset crackled suddenly. “GUNHAND to all team members. Come in, come in.”

  “GUNHAND, this is EAGLE SIX. What happened to you?”

  The voice that answered him was uncertain, almost groggy. Something had gone wrong. “Knocked myself out on landing, sir.”

  “Status report?”

  “I’m approx sixty meters north-northeast from the crash site. Feels like I dislocated my shoulder.”

  “Are you combat ready, GUNHAND?”

  “Negative, EAGLE SIX. I can defend myself. That’s max. It’s my right arm.”

  “Copy that. Will move team to support you. EAGLE SIX to LONGBOW, stay put. Provide covering fire. Acknowledge.”

  “Roger, EAGLE SIX,” Thomas replied. “I have covering position.”

  “EAGLE SIX to SWITCHBLADE, status report? I repeat, SWITCHBLADE, have you reached BIRDMASTER?” Harry demanded, repeating Colonel Tancretti’s code name. There was no answer. Only the sound of his own voice. “Come in, SWITCHBLADE.”

  No response.

  “EAGLE SIX to all team members. I have lost contact with SWITCHBLADE. Do any of you have visual on the crash site?”

  “That’s a negative, boss.”

  5:22 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “I warned you, director. This operation was meant to reduce our exposure, not blow it wide open.”

  There was a dangerous calm in the President’s voice. A part of Lay’s brain registered that fact as he stared across his office, fighting down the angry words that rose in his throat.

  The selfishness of it all! “I trust it has occurred to you, Mr. President, that we have soldiers in harm’s way.”

  “Soldiers?” Hancock asked, irony rich in his voice. “I prefer to reserve that term for those who proudly wear the uniform of this country.”

  There could be no response equal to the bigotry of the comment, nothing that could be said without igniting a pointless debate. Lay held his tongue, staring bitterly at the wall as the President went on, apparently not expecting a response.

  “The last thing this country needs is a hostage crisis, Lay. That’s why we launched this ‘op’ in the first place.”

  The last thing your administration needs, the CIA dire
ctor reflected. That was why the operation had been launched, and he had gone along with it, in hopes of proving the efficacy of the Clandestine Service to a man who had tried to eliminate their funding time and again. And now people were dead.

  Dead. That’s the way it was out there on the edge. Out where mistakes meant lives ended, not political careers…

  2:24 A.M. Tehran Time

  The crash site

  Davood shoved his combat knife back into its ankle sheath and reached through the window, wrapping both arms around Tancretti’s upper body. “Easy, colonel,” he whispered. “I’m going to get you out of there.”

  The blood streaking down the Air Force colonel’s face glistened in the light of the flames, adding to the macabre aspect of the scene. His body refused to budge, the legs still pinned between the panel and the seat, and he screamed in pain as Davood tugged at him.

  A jagged edge of plexiglass window cut into the agent’s hand as he struggled, gashing the flesh. “Come on, come on,” he whispered, ignoring the pain, his fingers wrapping themselves around Tancretti’s legs.

  They started to slide out from underneath the instrument panel, slowly but surely. Almost. The fabric of the colonel’s uniform pants caught on the metal, holding him fast. For a moment Davood considered reaching for his knife again, cutting him loose.

  There wasn’t time for that.

  He circled his arms tight around the pilot’s torso, struggling to slow down his breathing, gather his reserves of strength for one final effort.

  If he had any reserves. “Relax, colonel,” he whispered in Tancretti’s ear. “I need you to relax.”

  If the man understood him, he showed no sign of it. Davood was going to have to do the whole job himself.

  Tancretti screamed again as Davood pulled fiercely against him, pulling toward the window, toward safety. Tancretti’s pant leg ripped open, the metal that had held it cutting into his skin. His arms and upper body came through the window. He was held by one leg.

  Flames licked toward them, consuming the helicopter. Another few moments and the fire would eat through the protective lining of the fuel tank. His time was almost gone.

  Davood balanced the pilot’s torso on his shoulder, freeing his hand to reach through the window again. His fingers closed around the trapped ankle, pulling with all his remaining strength.

  It came free suddenly and he staggered backward, losing his balance. The colonel landed on top of him, crying out as his leg struck the ground.

  They lay there for a moment of time, heat washing over them. Tancretti opened his eyes, looking the CIA man in the face.

  “Thanks,” he whispered, forcing the words out past cracked and bleeding lips.

  Davood nodded wordlessly, rolling over and running his fingers quickly down the pilot’s legs. A grimace spread slowly across his face.

  Both legs were broken below the knee. Tancretti was out of commission.

  He leaned down and scooped up the colonel in his arms, staggering to his feet. Flames crackled behind them as he straightened, taking one last look behind him.

  The Huey was almost consumed.

  He took a step away from the wreck, toward safety. And then the night exploded behind them…

  “Copy explosion at the crash site. LONGBOW, do you have visual?”

  “Negative, boss. Line-of-sight blocked by the hill behind me.”

  “GUNHAND?”

  “Nothing clear, the fire’s messing with my NVGs.”

  Major Hossein looked up from the map he was studying, shading his flashlight with his hand. He touched his corporal on the arm. “The American they call LONGBOW is somewhere in this area. Take five men and eliminate him.”

  The man nodded briefly, rose up from behind the rock where they both crouched. Moved off into the night. Went to his death…

  The American would not be taken easily, Hossein knew that. The men he had sent out would die, pawns in the game that had begun in these mountains. Their sacrifice would enable him to pinpoint the sniper’s location.

  A means to an end.

  “Any sign of FULLBACK?” Harry whispered into his lip mike, clutching his Kalishnikov in sweaty hands as he knelt behind a large boulder.

  “Negative, EAGLE SIX.” It was Tex. His voice sounded strained.

  “You’re sounding like a broken record, GUNHAND,” Harry replied, grinning for the first time that night. Their conversation was rudely interrupted.

  “EAGLE SIX, I have targets.” It was Thomas. “Northwest of your position. Engaging.”

  Thomas took quick aim down the scope of the SV-98, resting his cross-hairs on the chest of the point man. Center-of-mass.

  That would have to do, until he could find out how badly his scope had been jarred in the landing.

  His finger curled slowly around the trigger of the Russian-built sniper rifle, memories flooding back through his mind. Of missions past. Of the men he had killed. Of the last time he had used the SV-98. Azerbaijan…

  The rifle’s report echoed through the night like the crack of a whip, a bullet speeding through the darkness. The corporal leading the patrol straightened suddenly, a red stain spreading across the stomach of his shirt.

  He crumpled then, like a broken doll, his body sprawling across the sand and dirt. His men scattered, seeking whatever shelter they could find.

  Thomas nearly took his eyes off the scope in surprise. He had expected the first shot to be a miss. Chalk one up …

  He was shooting a little low, but there wasn’t time to correct that. He would just have to compensate for it.

  The figures running for cover glowed pale green in his night-vision scope. A sharp click, the bolt-action sliding crisply into place as he racked another round into the chamber of the SV-98.

  Another shot, another kill, another body collapsing into the dust. It was like a shooting gallery…

  2:29 A.M.

  The drop zone

  “Lieutenant, the perimeter is clear. No hostiles. Copy?”

  Gideon cupped his hand to his ear, listening to Chaim’s report. “Affirmative. I copy.”

  He turned back to the FAV, spreading out a small cloth map on the hood of the vehicle. “We have thirty-two kilometers to go in the next half-hour. Yossi, I want you to take the lead vehicle to an overlook position—here,” he indicated, drawing a circle on the map with his index finger. “Chaim will go with you and prepare to snipe down into the camp. Nathan and I will take the second vehicle and go in the back way.”

  He paused and looked around at his team members, their faces shadowed in the glow of his flashlight. “Intelligence indicates our target is inside this building here. We’ve got to hit that building fast, secure it, then escort SCHLIEMANN to the extraction zone. I’ll be sending him with you, Yossi. Understand?”

  The small sergeant nodded briefly. “Right, chief.”

  “What about the other archaeologists?”

  It was Nathan Gur. Gideon glanced at him in the darkness, saw the look on the young man’s face. “We do not have room in the vehicles,” he replied brusquely. “They will be left behind.”

  He folded up the map and replaced it in an inner pocket. “Let’s move out.”

  2:33 A.M. Tehran Time

  The crash site

  Davood came back into the realm of the conscious feeling a hand touch his shoulder, a voice whispering to him, “Are you okay, my brother?”

  It was Hamid.

  Davood rolled over on his back, biting his lip as pain shot through his veins. Tancretti was nowhere to be seen. The explosion must have flung them apart, he thought numbly, the sound still ringing in his ears. He wondered how long he had been unconscious.

  “BIRDMASTER?” he whispered, gazing up into Hamid’s face as the tall man bent over him. “Where is he?”

  Hamid stood to his feet, glancing around them. Finally he spotted a figure stretched out in the sand about six feet away.

  “There,” he said solemnly.

  Davood raised himself up
on his elbows, testing himself carefully. Nothing seemed to be broken. Just cut—and bruised. Hamid was looking at him again, his face looking strangely misshapen with the night-vision goggles covering his eyes. A giant bug-like creature from one of the American alien movies Davood had watched as a child.

  “Do you need help?” he asked.

  “No. I have to check the colonel,” was his reply, carefully rising to his feet.

  “Very good,” Hamid retorted shortly, “I will report our situation to EAGLE SIX.” He paused. “Where is your radio?”

  Davood’s hand went to his belt, searching for the small transmitter. He shook his head, a rueful smile crossing his face. “Must have lost it in the explosion.”

  A curt nod. “EAGLE SIX, this is FULLBACK. Sitrep?”

  12:36 A.M. Local Time

  The personal residence of Avi ben Shoham

  Overlooking Lake Galilee

  Counting sheep had never worked for the Mossad chief. Neither had counting terrorists, for that matter. He knew them by heart, every last man who had struck Israel and was still living to boast about it. They didn’t help him sleep. He went back to his nightstand and closed the dossier on Ibrahim Quasim.

  Case closed. Another body in a Palestinian morgue. Another terrorist dead.

  His eyes flickered to the portrait of his wife hanging over the bed. It had been a long-time wish of hers. Painted when he had worked in the Israeli Embassy in Paris, it was the way he wanted to remember her. A beautiful woman in the prime of her life.