where its wheels first kissed the ground.
Bearded soldiers wearing Iranian Army uniforms were charging down the aircraft’s rear cargo ramp even before the second C-17 came to rest.
NEMESIS command team Flanked by Diaz and a five-man team, Colonel Peter Thorn jogged up the ridge to meet their CIA contact. He slowed down near the crest, studying the scruffy, dirty-faced men waiting for them. They looked more like brigands than truck drivers, he thought grimly.
He mentally crossed his fingers. Dealing with local talent on a covert op was always chancy. You never knew how far you could trust them.
The oldest of those waiting for him, a scarred, thinbearded man with a hooked nose, stepped forward and smiled. He bobbed his head and spoke in understandable, though heavily accented, English. “Peace be upon you, my friends. My name is Hamir Pahesh. The code name given to me by your CIA is Stone.”
Thorn introduced himself and looked at the other man’s fidgeting companions. Most still seemed stunned at the sight of so many troops pouring out of his grounded aircraft. One, taller than the rest by half a head, looked blackly furious.
Diaz caught his nod in that direction and slipped off to the side.
Thorn turned back to Pahesh. “These men are the drivers we asked for?”
The Afghan nodded. “Yes.” He rattled off their names in quick succession and then asked shyly, “You have the money I have promised them?”
Thorn touched the backpack he had slung over one shoulder. “I have it, Mr. Pahesh. Twenty thousand American dollars apiece. Five thousand now. Fifteen thousand more after we reach Tehran safely.”
The big man, the one called Mohammed, reared back. “You are a crazy man, Pahesh!” he sputtered in rough, broken English. “I do not put my head on the chopping block to carry spies into the city. Not for thousand of dollars. Not for million of dollars!”
Mohammed fumbled for the weapon stuck in his trousers and then froze suddenly, his eyes wide, as Diaz ground the muzzle of an M16 rifle into his ear.
“Slowly, pal. Very slowly,” the sergeant major said softly. “I’d sure hate to mess up my nice new uniform with your tiny little brains.”
Diaz held his weapon on target until another Delta trooper stepped in and relieved the big trucker of his pistol. Without pausing, a third member of the command team bound Mohammed’s wrists behind his back and marched him away to-ward the parked C-17s.
Thorn turned back to the dumbfounded Afghans. His eyes sought out those of Pahesh. “It seems that Mr. Mohammed will not be joining us this evening after all. Do any of your other associates feel a burning desire to go on strike?”
The older man shrugged, amusement plain in his own expression. “I will ask them, Colonel Thorn. But I suspect they will see reason and profit in doing as you ask.”
A hasty, whispered conference in Pushtu confirmed Pahesh’s assessment. None of the other Afghans looked very happy at this unexpected turn of events, but none of them seemed unhappy enough to prove treacherous.
Nonetheless, Thorn planned to take out a little insurance of his own. He glanced at Diaz. “Tow, please tell Major win I want one of our Farsi speakers riding shotgun in each truck cab. And have these gentlemen taken back to their vehicles.”
“Sure thing, Pete.” Still holding his M16 at the ready, the sergeant major trotted off into the darkness. Escorted by other Delta Force soldiers, the three remaining truck drivers followed him at a discreet distance.
Thorn turned back to the older Afghan. “Now, Mr. Pahesh, if you’ll come with me, I’ll tell you where we need to go and what we plan to do.” He led the way back down the ridge, pleased by all the activity he could see around the parked aircraft.
Nobody was wasting any time. The sixty men he was taking into Tehran were carting their weapons and equipment toward the waiting trucks. A fourth twenty-man troop would remain behind to provide security here. They were busy deploying machine guns, antitank guided missiles, Stinger SAM teams, and sniper teams to cover all avenues of approach to the improvised landing strip. Aided by some of the C-17 crewmen, Scott Finney’s helicopter crews were already beginning to assemble their birds four lJH-1N Hueys and a tiny AH-6 gunship.
Now that they all were safely on the ground inside Iran, NEMESIS was starting to take its final shape.
Three hours after leaving the isolated desert landing strip, the five canvas-sided trucks pulled off to the side of a quiet Tehran street and parked. Their long trip northward had been uneventful. The forged travel orders supplied by Pahesh got them through the checkpoints without much trouble. After all the military hubbub of the past several days, trucks full of Iranian soldiers no longer drew much attention. Even the most curious citizens and police had been sated by the sight of so many weapons and olive-drab vehicles moving through their streets. In any case, it was past midnight and few lights were on anywhere in the sprawling, sleeping city.
Thorn dropped out of the back of the lead truck and went forward to speak to Hamir Pahesh. The Afghan slid out from behind the wheel and joined him on the pavement.
The older man pointed down the road. “The headquarters is three blocks further up this avenue, Colonel. You know the building?”
Thorn nodded once. He’d spent so many hours studying the blueprints and satellite photographs he felt sure he could practically find his way blindfolded through Taleh’s lair.
He glanced up at the apartment houses on either side of this street. None of the plain concrete five-and six- story, flat-roofed buildings would have won any architectural prizes for elegance or style, but he was not interested in esthetics. They were important because they were the tallest buildings in this poor, rundown neighborhood and because they offered a clear line of sight to the roof of the Khorasan Square military headquarters.
Thorn turned back to the Afghan. “Will your friends obey my orders, Mr. Pahesh? You know this will be very dangerous.” “They will obey you,” Pahesh said firmly. “All of us have seen war before, Colonel.”
“Fine.” Thorn spun on his heel and strode to the last truck in line.
Captain Doug Lindsay peered down at him through a half open flap. With his flaming-red hair and mustache dyed black, the commander of the NEMESIS force sniper teams looked alien, almost unrecognisable.
“You ready for us, Pete?” the younger man asked.
Thorn nodded. “You know the drill, Doug. You’ve got five minutes to move your people into position. Then, when I give you the word, you do your stuff. Clear?”
“Clear.” Lindsay swung away from the opened flap. “Everybody out. Shaw takes the building on the left. I’ll take the building on the right. Let’s move!”
Thorn watched the heavily laden soldiers scramble out over the truck’s tailgate before heading back to his own vehicle. Without further orders from Lindsay, the snipers formed up on the street and then split apart. Four two-man teams crossed over to the other side and entered the tallest apartment building on the block. Four more teams disappeared inside the nearest tenement.
Breathing normally even under the weight of his weapon and other gear, Captain Doug Lindsay took the narrow, dimly lit stairs to the roof two at a time. Boots rang on concrete as his troops followed him up.
Farsi-speaking soldiers stopped long enough on every landing to yell stern warnings at any sleepy Iranian civilians who poked their heads out of apartments to see what was going on. “Everyone inside! This is Army business!”
Doors slammed shut again as the building’s inhabitants obeyed their shouted orders. No one who lived this close to General Amir Taleh’s headquarters wanted trouble with the Army.
Five flights up, Lindsay pushed open an unlocked metal door and came out onto the tenement’s flat roof. It was deserted. He nodded to himself, noticing his breath steaming in the cold night air. In the summer they would have found people camped out here driven out of their tiny, crowded apartments by the heat. Now, this close to the winter, temperatures were already dropping fast toward freezing once the sun went down.
Followed by the sergeant who would serve as his spotter and backup, the Delta Force captain moved closer to the edge of the roof He dropped prone and started setting up his weapon, conscious of the faint rustle of clothing and scrape of metal on either side. The rest of his teams were moving into place.
Lindsay slid an eleven-round magazine into his Barrett Light Fifty sniper rifle. Nearly five feet long and
