Authors: David Tindell
Mark shoved his way to the comm console. “Anything more from Kabul?”
The sergeant pulled his headphones off. “I’m monitoring the nets, sir. Lemonnier has a Predator with eyes on the target.
Kearsarge’
s birds are in the air. ETA, maybe fifteen minutes.”
“Can you get any real-time video from the drone?”
“I’ll try, sir.”
Mark made his way back to Krieger and relayed the news. “Fifteen minutes,” the German-American said. “I’m not sure your brother has that much time, Mark. He has fought incredibly well, but he’s only a man.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Somalia
J
im had to
go to one knee. If they charged him again, he would be virtually helpless. Then he felt someone beside him.
“Water!” Denise yelled at Heydar. “Give him some water!” Jim felt her steadying grip on his shoulders. He reached up with his free hand and touched hers, and it was almost as if he felt strength flowing from her, into him. Why had they let her leave her chair and come to him? Jim saw what might have been a look of respect in Heydar’s eyes, quickly replaced by a hard glare.
The Iranian motioned to one of his men, who tossed a water bottle. It rolled toward them and Denise snatched it up. Thankfully the cap had stayed on. She unscrewed it and held the bottle to Jim’s lips. “Not too much,” she said. “Slow down.”
He drained half the bottle, then poured the rest onto his chest and shoulders. The water cooled him slightly, and he felt some energy returning. He stood up. “Thanks,” he said.
“Hang in there,” she said. “They’ve made a serious mistake. Hopefully it won’t be long now.” Through his fatigue and pain, he couldn’t quite understand. Mistake? He looked around, wondering what the hell she was talking about. The lights from the trucks blinded him for an instant.
It hit him like a jolt of electricity, and he felt a surge of hope pushing back his fear and pain. The lights. He looked up, saw the stars overhead, and hoped someone, or something, was up there watching.
The Iranians were shouting now for Heydar, and some of the other men began taking up the chant. “He looks pissed,” Jim said.
“You can beat him,” Denise said. “Here he comes. I have to get back to my seat.”
“If you can find a gun, that would be a big help.”
The Iranian major was advancing on him now, flexing his arms, then windmilling them with some dynamic stretching. The cocky smile was returning. When he was within ten feet, he began slowly circling. “You have fought well, American,” he said. “Much better than I expected. My men did not fight smartly.”
“A credit to their sensei,” Jim said. He moved, too, hanging on to the tonfa, keeping Heydar out of kicking range. Taekwondo stylists emphasized kicks, and Jim noted that Heydar had not removed his combat boots. That would slow him down a little. On the other hand, getting hit with a booted foot going full blast would end the fight. This wasn’t
Walker, Texas Ranger,
where Chuck Norris could deliver a roundhouse kick that barely fazed the other guy.
But Jim still had the tonfa, and Heydar knew it. “Why don’t you drop that weapon, American? Fight me hand to hand, man to man. Just our skills matched against each other.”
“I don’t think so,” Jim said. Man, his ribs ached. He had been able to use some of his Systema breathing techniques to expel the pain, but not all of it, and his knee was feeling more tenuous by the minute. He’d have to finish this guy the first chance he got, assuming he got one.
Maybe he could create his own chance. Heydar was talking again. “I look forward to fucking your woman. American women are not compliant like Arab women are. She will be—“
“Right behind you, Heydar.” He nodded toward Denise, sitting again but behind the Iranian now, and when Heydar flinched just a bit and glanced back, Jim attacked. He stepped in and bought the tonfa around for a crushing temple strike, but the Iranian reacted just in the nick of time, stepping in himself and bringing his right arm around in an outside-inside block that caught Jim on the inside of his forearm. The force of it broke Jim’s grip and the tonfa fell away. Heydar stayed with the turn, coming around for a turning side kick with the left leg. Jim had barely an instant to react, coming down with his left forearm in a scissors block that deflected the kick just enough to avoid full impact, but the Iranian’s boot still grazed Jim’s left side and he cried out as the ribs lanced him with pain.
Jim broke contact and staggered away. The tonfa was gone, his one advantage, and Heydar knew it. He attacked with a roundhouse right kick to the side, and Jim moved to block it but the leg feinted the kick to the side and came up to the head, the toe of the boot cracking into the side of Jim’s head. He fell back, seeing stars, but shook it off, thankful that he had instinctively turned his head just enough to avoid the full impact, and here came Heydar again with a combination of kicks and punches. Jim blocked the first two but the third got through, a solid punch that connected squarely with Jim’s breastbone.
Jim tried to shake off the shot but he couldn’t, he was gassed. The crowd was roaring louder than ever. He sensed Heydar coming alongside and here came a fist up into Jim’s gut. With almost the last energy he had Jim was able to relax enough to absorb the blow and force it out through his breathing as the Russians had taught him, but his vision was now blurry and he couldn’t focus well. He felt Heydar’s arm coming around him in a headlock.
The men were chanting in Arabic now, but some were shouting it in English, “Kill him! Kill him!” The forearm tightened on his throat. He heard Heydar laugh. Jim reached up to grab the arm but he didn’t try to pull it away, just loosened it so he could turn his head to the left, into the crook of Heydar’s elbow, enough to clear the windpipe. There was an escape from this hold; he’d practiced it in the dojo, but what the hell was it? His brain was getting foggy. He glanced down at the ground, saw Heydar’s booted left foot next to him. The arm was starting to tighten.
He didn’t know where it came from, but suddenly he remembered with perfect clarity. He brought his right foot around and stomped as hard as he could on Heydar’s instep. The Iranian yelled in pain and surprise. Jim reached up with his right hand to the left side of Heydar’s head, inside his left thigh with his left hand, and twisted clockwise.
Heydar’s hold broke, and he twirled around to his right. Jim pulled the head down, brought it into a guillotine hold and pulled upward quickly and hard. Heydar gagged. Jim reached deep inside himself, deeper than he ever had, and the energy came boiling up on command. Some of it came out in a ferocious kiai yell, but most stayed right where he wanted it, in his thighs and butt, into his abdomen and up into his shoulders. All that work on his core, the endless planks and situps, push-ups and pull-ups, everything came together. Jim heaved again, putting his core into it this time, feeling the adrenaline surge into his muscles. The energy flowed through him and into his adversary, to the delicate vertebrae in the neck. Jim felt them pop, heard the ugly sound along with a choking whimper from Heydar as the rest of his body seized up, shuddered, and went limp. Jim released the grip and the Iranian dropped lifelessly to the ground.
Jim dropped onto his good knee again, drenched in sweat and covered with grime. He felt his remaining energy draining away. He was more tired than he’d ever been and damn if the Iranian captain was coming for him. Jim tried to get up but couldn’t. Through his bleary vision he saw the Iranian’s angry face and saw him reaching for a sidearm, but then there were two sharp cracks from somewhere and two red spots bloomed on Khorsandi’s chest as he fell back.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Afghanistan
M
ark had never
felt such a surge of raw emotion as he did when Jim dropped the officer. How in the hell had he done it? Men were slapping him on the back; word had spread quickly that the Colonel’s brother was the American who was seriously kicking terrorist ass for all the goddamn world to see. If Jim lived through this he’d never have to buy a drink the rest of his life.
“Brilliant!” Krieger shouted into his ear as he pounded him on the shoulder. “Your brother is a master!”
“Holy Christ!” someone yelled, and the men hushed quickly as the video jerked a bit and picked up another man in fatigues walking toward Jim, reaching to the holster on his right hip. Mark’s emotions took another roller-coaster dive. Then came two tinny cracks through the speaker and the man with the gun jerked once, twice, and fell backward.
The camera swung to the right and there was someone with an AK-47, and he opened up on the men at the far end, where the officers had gathered. The woman dashed out into the arena and grabbed Jim, pulling him backward. Now the picture zagged around wildly, showing men running pell-mell, bringing weapons up and firing everywhere. The audio was drowned out in screams and gunfire. The camera jolted hard and pointed upward. Something was moving up there, moving fast.
“Choppers!” a soldier yelled, pointing at the screen. “Here they come!” Lances of bright light came down from the blackness and cut through the running men like a scythe through wheat, sweeping around toward the camera, and then the picture went black. Static sizzled through the speaker.
Somalia
Jim had no idea what was happening, but whatever it was, it was very loud and very dangerous. Denise had him by one arm, leading him away, screaming “Stay low! Stay low!” Another hand gripped his other arm and they picked up speed. It was suddenly darker as the headlights on the trucks winked out. Something buzzed past his head, then another. Two of the terrorists were firing their AKs wildly up into the sky and suddenly they were ripped apart by fiery beams of light. Tracer rounds, coming from above. Jim heard the roaring pulse of helicopter rotors. A man appeared in front of them and brought up his rifle. Jim grabbed at Denise to pull her out of the line of fire, but as the man’s fingers fumbled on the trigger guard another round snapped past Jim and the top of the man’s head disappeared in a blur of pink and red.
“This way!” It was Joe, and Jim felt pulled to the right, and there were men rushing past them. They rounded a corner and now the gunfire was behind them. The sound of the helicopters seemed to focus in one spot. Jim risked a glance back, and over the low top of the building he saw men sliding down zip lines from the hovering helos. The cavalry had come over the hill.
They burst through a door and into a dimly-lit building. “In here!” Joe led them through a beaded curtain and released him. Jim saw a chair in front of a desk and collapsed into it, trying to clear his head. Denise, next to the doorway, had somehow gotten hold of an AK. Joe was over at the far wall, on his knees, clawing at something on the floor.
There were shouts from the hallway and gunfire ripped through the curtains. Jim threw himself off the chair onto the floor. Denise hugged the wall, and the hail of bullets stopped. She came around with the gun when a man appeared in the doorway, another of those goddamn Iranians in green fatigues. How the hell many of them were there? He had an AK and was swinging it toward Denise when he spasmed forward, eyes going wide as blood spat from his mouth. The Iranian staggered a step, dropped the rifle and collapsed onto the floor. Denise kicked the weapon away and shot him twice in the back, just above a dark splotch on his back.
Another man appeared in the doorway, an African like Joe, holding a bloody knife. He dropped the knife and held his hands up as Denise trained her rifle on him. “No shoot! I am friend!”
“Amir…my brother…”
Jim looked at Joe, and he was slumped against the wall, one hand on his stomach, blood seeping through his shirt. “Yusuf!” The African bolted past Denise and knelt next to Joe, saying something in yet another foreign language. He embraced Joe, weeping.
Jim tried to get up but his knee gave out. Ignoring the pain, he crawled over the dirt floor to the two men. Joe saw him coming and reached out one hand. “James, my old friend,” he said softly in English, and coughed. “You are alive. I am glad.”
“Stay with us, Joe. The good guys are here.”
“James, this is Amir, he has been…a brother to me. He…is the one who shot Khorsandi.”
The African looked at Jim, tears streaming down his face. “I shoot him,” he said, forcing the words out in English, “to save Yusuf, to save friends of Yusuf.”
“Here, James, take this,” Joe said, reaching over with his other hand. He pressed something into Jim’s. It was a computer flash drive. “Give this…to your CIA.”
“Hang in there, Joe, we’ll get a medic in here for you.”
“No…James…” Joe’s eyes unfocused a bit. “Allah calls to me.” He squeezed Jim’s hand, then reached for Amir. “My brother…go with the Amer…icans…it is Allah’s will.”
“Peace be upon him, and upon you,” Amir whispered. “I do as you say, brother.”
Joe looked past Jim, and his eyes widened. “I see…how can this be?” His mouth curled into a smile, and then his head slumped back.
“Joe.
Joe!”
Jim sat back hard, ignoring the pain in his knee, the pain everywhere. There was another shout from the hallway, but his one was different. “United States Marines!”
“In here, Marine!” Denise answered. “CIA! Americans!” She carefully set the rifle down and stepped back. A heavily-armed man came in, wearing a uniform Jim knew very well indeed.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Iran
“
F
ive minutes to
target.” Mark checked his gear one more time, and once again it was all in order. Across from him, Nelson, the British lieutenant, mouthed something that Mark had no chance to hear over the roar of the Black Hawk’s engines. Might’ve been
Bloody well fun,
or something like that. Nelson had been in the Special Air Services before volunteering for Unit 7. Nothing but the best for this outfit, and SAS was certainly one of the best.
Three of the Night Stalkers’ Black Hawks comprised the strike force, escorted by four Apaches. Behind them, orbiting just inside Afghan air space, an AWACS radar plane, radio code Zeus, kept an eye out for Iranian air assets. So far, everything looked clear ahead. What they would find when they reached the target might be another matter.
The advance planning they’d done over the previous few days meant they were able to get airborne within ten hours of receiving the mission package. Mark had managed to get an hour in his rack, which he needed badly; he’d hardly slept at all the night before after the stress of watching Jim in combat. They’d picked up the Predator’s video feed after the terrorists’ camera went dark, watched the raid in real time, and although there was no audio, Krieger and the other Unit 7 men kept up a running commentary. Mark tried hard to keep up with it but he couldn’t stop thinking about his brother, wondering whether he’d survived the assault. It was near midnight when the phone call came from ISAF, with the General himself delivering the news. Jim had made it out, injured but not seriously. The female CIA agent had also made it, but the defector had been killed.
Not, however, before giving them intel, and from what the General said, it looked like valuable intel indeed. Maybe not the treasure trove the SEALs had recovered in Abbottabad, but certainly a prime collection, and from that had come the mission package for the cross-border strike. There was a high-value target here in the mountains, valued enough for the White House and NATO to give the order for Unit 7 to go in. Mark had sat in on the briefing the General gave to Krieger and his officers by radio. This HVT might be the key to preventing all-out war between the U.S. and Iran. Mark knew from long experience that the General was not one to exaggerate, so what he said was sobering indeed.
The tactical challenges of the mission were enough to keep the men’s minds on their preparations, but the strategic implications weren’t very far behind. Mark didn’t spend a lot of time wondering about the political implications. If they failed, if they were killed or captured, the Iranians would have an enormous propaganda victory, their biggest over the West since the failed EAGLE CLAW mission in ’80, the attempt to rescue the hostages in Tehran that had gone so horribly wrong. And if the General was right, the political fallout would be nothing compared to what would follow.
Well, that left only one option, didn’t it?
Marolda was piloting the lead Black Hawk, with Krieger and his squad aboard, and the Night Stalker captain was in overall command of the helos. His voice came over the headset. “Target in sight. Raven Flight, engage.”
“Raven One, copy.” The three other Apaches acknowledged. Mark couldn’t see them, but he knew the attack birds were now roaring ahead to take out the three anti-aircraft gun emplacements that were shown on the satellite photos of the compound. The fourth bird was backup on the AA attack but would also hunt for vehicles. “Hellfires away.” Mark could envision the missiles launching from the pods, zeroing in on the gun emplacements with laser-guided accuracy.
“Wolf Pack, up and at ‘em.”
Mark removed his headset and strapped his helmet on, flipping down the night vision goggles. The inside of the helo became an eerie green world. He and his five men would take zip lines down from the side doors as the bird hovered about twenty feet up. Their target was one of two small buildings that seemed to be living quarters. Krieger’s team, Wolf One, had the other building, while Wolf Three was designated to mop up what was left of the security detachment after the Apaches had done their work. Over the roar of the engines Mark heard the crump of explosions.
The Black Hawk dove down and then heeled back into a level hover. Mark’s stomach barely had time to recover when he was at the door and down the line, the rope slipping hotly through his gloved hands. He landed on gravel-covered ground, brought his M4 around and headed for the building twenty-five meters away.
A man appeared at the doorway in front of him and Mark dropped him with a three-shot burst. He flattened against the outer wall with Nelson on the other side of the doorway. The Brit tossed in a flash-bang grenade, and the men averted their eyes from the dazzling burst of light. Dust flew out of the door from the concussion of the blast. “Go! Go! Go!” Mark shouted, leading the way inside.
They cleared the two-story building inside of five minutes, bringing down one other man, dressed in robes but trying to bring an AK into play. Nelson double-tapped him with calm efficiency. Three others were taken alive, their hands zip-tied behind them. Outside, the Black Hawks had veered off to avoid any incoming fire while the Apaches buzzed angrily overhead. The defenders’ gunfire, sporadic to begin with, dribbled away into an occasional crack, then nothing. The distinctive pops from the raiders’ weapons continued for a few seconds, and then silence descended over the compound, except for the crackling of fires at the AA sites and the motor pool and the sweeping roars of the Apaches.
“Building two, clear!” Mark said into his pencil-thin microphone.
“Building one, clear!” Krieger’s voice. “Perimeter is secure!” came a third voice with a French accent. Lieutenant LeClaire, in charge of Wolf Three.
“We have Cochise,” Krieger said. “Wolf Two, gather what you can and head to the rally point. Disembark in ten minutes.” Mark ordered his men to make another sweep through the rooms, taking anything that looked like it might have intel value. There was one room that looked like an office, with a couple of laptop computers. They’d be coming along. Another raider filled a pouch with documents from a small file cabinet.
Out in the courtyard, Mark turned off his NVG’s. The burning gun emplacements along the perimeter provided plenty of light. He saw Krieger and his men coming out of the other building, leading four men dressed in robes that looked like sleeping clothes. LeClaire and his men were near the perimeter.
“I have three,” Mark said. “Which one is Cochise?”
“He’s with this group,” Krieger said. “Time to find out which one.” The four men stood before him. One or two looked defiant, the others were trembling. Mark couldn’t have picked out the HVT; they had no photographs, but had been told he was definitely the youngest of the mullahs. Krieger faced them from two feet away, his weapon at the ready. “Which one of you is al-Qa’im?” he asked in Farsi.
None of them said a word. Krieger repeated the question, again got no response, and then he drew his sidearm, a Luger, and pointed it at the head of the man on the far left. “I ask one more time: which one is al-Qa’im?”
One of the men stepped forward. He appeared younger than the others; his beard was entirely black, but his eyes were the bluest Mark had ever seen in this part of the world. In the flickering light they almost appeared to be glowing. “I am he.” Krieger pointed the Luger at the man’s head.
“Swear before Allah that you are telling the truth.”
“Only Allah, blessings be upon him, knows my heart, infidel.”
Marolda’s voice crackled through Mark’s earpiece. “Wolf Leader, this is Eagle One, Zeus reports inbound aircraft, ETA thirty minutes. We have to bug out, right now.”
“Take them all,” Mark said. “We’ll sort them out when we’re out of Indian country.”
Krieger holstered his weapon, rather reluctantly, Mark thought. “Eagle One, Wolf Leader, acknowledge exfil now. We have seven prisoners.”
“Gonna be tight for them on the ride out of here, Wolf Leader.”
“Too bad for them, they’re used to flying first class.” Krieger passed the word to the raiders and they prepared for the inbound Black Hawks. Mark took one more look at the prisoners, wondering which one of them was worth the risk of starting a war. Then again, he thought, this guy might just be the key to preventing one.