paperwork only confirmed that. He’d jumped at the chance for a Delta Force slot like a drowning man grabbing for a rope. He’d never looked back.
Buoyed by the self-confidence and selfdiscipline instilled by his Green Beret father, he’d made it through a rigorous physical and psychological selection process designed to weed out all but the best. Those tests had been followed by six months of around-the-clock instruction in commando tactics and covert operations. Since then he’d climbed steadily from a captain commanding a twenty-man troop to a lieutenant colonel leading one of Delta’s three assault squadrons.
Thorn rubbed his nose absentmindedly, feeling the thin, almost invisible scar that ran across its bridge and down under his right eye. The scar and a couple of metal pins in his right cheekbone were the only real reminders of a long ago helicopter crash that could have been a lot worse.
He grinned suddenly. It was ironic. He’d been shot at in Panama, hunted through the Iraqi desert, and ambushed during a brief, nightmarish tour in Somalia all without getting so much as a scratch. His only serious injury in sixteen years of active-duty service had come from an accident during a routine, peacetime training exercise. Not surprising, really.
Delta Force operated under a single constant admonition: Train hard, fight easy.
“Seat backs and tray tables up, please. We will be landing soon.” The flight attendant’s pleasant, German- accented voice brought Thorn back to the present. The slender, goodlooking brunette leaned across the empty seat next to him and deftly snagged the plastic cup of mineral water he’d been nursing for the last thousand air miles or so.
“Danke schon. He brought his seat back upright. The flight attendant smiled at him and moved off to check on the rest of the main cabin, swaying in time with the increased turbulence. She glanced back once to see if he was still watching and smiled again.
Down, boy, Thorn told himself. Duty before pleasure. Uncle Sam wasn’t paying the airfare for this jaunt so he could make a pass at a Swiss stewardess. Besides, she was probably more curious about him than seriously interested.
Even wearing a fashionable grey suit, button-down shirt, and conservative tie, he didn’t look much like his fellow passengers. Most of them were older and heavier solid-looking Swiss, German, and Iranian businessmen who were either still bent over paperwork or sacked out under airline issue blankets. There were more than he’d expected. America’s cruise missile strikes and the political upheaval they’d sparked had been bad for business. But now, as the first rumors of changed Iranian government attitudes began filtering out, commercial travelers were starting to return.
The DC-10 thundered low over the airport’s inner beacon line and dropped heavily onto the runway, braking hard after one jarring bounce that rattled teeth and shook a few overhead compartments open.
Thorn kept his eyes locked on the landscape sliding past the decelerating jetliner. Mehrabad International was busy crowded with jets and turboprops in the colors of Iran’s two national airlines and those of the major European carriers. Fuel trucks and baggage carts rumbled across the tarmac, crisscrossing between taxiing planes.
At first glance, it could have passed for any major airport anywhere in the industrialised world. A closer look dispelled that impression. Two camouflaged, twin-tailed interceptors were parked just off the runway. Ultramodern MiG-29s on strip alert, he realized kept ready to take off at five minutes’ warning. Further out, near the perimeter fence, there were sandbagged emplacements for antiaircraft guns and SAM launchers. Taleh might be making overtures to the West, but the forces he commanded weren’t letting their guard down.
Still bouncing slightly as it rolled across the rough, often patched tarmac, the SwissAir jet turned off the runway and slowly taxied toward Mehrabad’s single terminal building. The steady roar of the DC-10’s engines faded to a high pitched whine and then to silence. A bell chimed through the cabin loudspeakers. They had arrived.
Thorn sat motionless for a moment, breathing steadily to relax nerves and reflexes that were now on full alert. Then he unbuckled his seat belt, pulled a soft-sided bag out from under the seat in front of him, and stood up, leaning forward to keep from smashing his head into the baggage compartment above. Even though he stood an inch under six feet tall, his height exceeded the design specs for a window seat.
He ignored the standard announcements crackling through the intercom in German, French, Italian, English, and Farsi. If his old friend didn’t really have enough power to protect him from Iran’s radical Islamic fundamentalists, a knowledge of customs regulations and the local weather wasn’t going to matter one damn bit.
Thorn suddenly missed the comforting weight of a pistol at his side. Cheer up, Daniel, he told himself, it’s time to poke your head into the den and find out whether or not the lions really are friendly. He stepped out into the aisle and joined the other passengers already streaming toward the forward cabin door.
A lone Iranian Army officer in a neatly pressed dress uniform stood waiting at the end of the jetway. Thorn headed toward him, eyeing the tall young man’s unfamiliar rank and unit insignia.
“You are Colonel Thorn?” The Iranian soldier’s English was good, though heavily accented.
Thorn nodded. “That’s right.” He offered his passport and safe-conduct letter in proof. “Here are my credentials.”
The Iranian shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, sir.” He smiled.
“I am Captain Farhad Kazemi, General Taleh’s military aide. Welcome to Iran, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Thorn shook Kazemi’s outstretched hand, trying to conceal his surprise. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this casual, matter-of-fact reception.
“If you will follow me, sir.” The Iranian captain nodded toward the main terminal area. “I have a staff car waiting to take you to your quarters.”
Thorn moved off beside the younger man, striding easily through the men and chador-clad women waiting to board other flights. A few stared back at them, openly curious at the sight of an Iranian soldier escorting an obvious Westerner. He ignored them, more interested in getting an answer to the question uppermost in his mind. “And when do I meet with General Taleh?”
Kazemi turned his head. “Tomorrow morning, Colonel. After you have had a chance to rest from your journey.”
The Manzarieh Park camp sprawled across several acres in Tehran’s fashionable northern quarter. Surrounded on all sides by pleasant, suburban homes belonging to wealthy businessmen and government officials, the camp contained barracks, classrooms, armories, and firing ranges. Shade trees lined the wide, well-paved streets and open grounds inside the walled compound. At its peak, Manzarieh Park had housed nearly a thousand terrorist trainees from around the world.
Now it was on fire.
Clad in a set of unmarked Iranian Army battle fatigues, a bulky flak jacket, and a steel helmet, Lieutenant Colonel Peter Thorn double-timed across a broad avenue, heading for a bullet-riddled, burning gatehouse that marked the main entrance to the camp. Tough-looking Special Forces troopers formed a protective ring around him, their assault rifles at the ready.
Black smoke swirled across the street, billowing from the wrecked gatehouse. The smell of cordite lingered in the air. Corpses littered the pavement HizbAllah guards gunned down when Amir Taleh’s assault force smashed its way through into the training complex.
The leader of his escort force, a short, swarthy sergeant, peered around one corner of the burning building and then motioned Thorn forward. “Safe! Safe! All ended.” He pointed toward the sprawled bodies and drew one grimy thumb across his throat. “Understand?”
Thorn nodded. He loped through the gate with his escorts in tow.
The camp itself was a scene straight out of Dante’s Inferno. At least half the barracks and other buildings were ablaze, gutted by rocket-propelled grenades, satchel charges, and cannon fire. Bodies dotted the streets and lawns. Most wore the shapeless fatigues or civilian clothes preferred by the HizbAllah. A few, very few, wore the olive-drab uniforms and green berets of Iran’s Special Forces.
Soldiers combed through the burning compound, hunting for surviving terrorists with a care and precision that Thorn admired. Those moving were always covered by other teams prone and ready to fire. T-72 tanks and BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles sat at key vantage points, turrets swiveling as the gunners scanned their surroundings for
