the men he had summoned assemble.
His audience was a distinguished one. It included not only the full Defense Council and staff but senior officers from each of the armed forces. Significantly, it also included the remnants of the Pasdaran command structure and many of his most powerful political enemies. All had been summoned with only a few hours’ notice after morning prayers and whisked here by limousine, helicopter, and military aircraft.
Taleh had invited his enemies to his headquarters for two reasons: First, Kazemi’s reports made it clear that their opposition to his declared policy of detente with America was growing stronger with every passing day. Assassination was no longer his sole concern. Some in the Pasdaran were moving closer to open revolt particularly as many of the Army’s best troops were moved further from Tehran. By asking them here, to his visible center of power, he was invoking the oldest traditions of Persian hospitality. For the duration of this meeting at least, he was their host and they were his honored guests. None of the various factions would move against him or each other under those conditions. More important, though, these men needed to be here. This was the time for truth-telling. A time to drop the mask that had so enraged them.
One worry still nagged at him. He turned to Kazemi. “Has there been any further word from Halovic’s team?”
The young captain shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing since we received their December 4 situation report.”
Taleh nodded. It was as he had feared when he first heard the American news reports crowing about the destruction of a neo-Nazi terrorist cell near Washington, D.C. The Bosnian and his men were undoubtedly out of action. He sighed. That was unfortunate. He had grown fond of Halovic over the past months. Like Kazemi, the Bosnian had been a perfect weapon. “And we are sure that the Americans took no prisoners, Farhad?”
“Yes, sir,” Kazemi replied with satisfaction. “Their broadcasts make it clear that Halovic and his men fought to the last even as their house burned down around them. The Americans are still stumbling around like lost sheep.”
“Good.” Taleh shrugged off the Bosnian’s death. Casualties were to be expected in any war and he had seen many brave men die to less purpose. Besides, his other special operations teams were still at large, undetected, and conducting terrorist attacks to keep the United States in a state of confused panic.
Colonel Najmabadi, his chief intelligence officer, stepped closer and whispered, “Sir, I believe we are ready to begin. All of those invited have arrived.”
Taleh nodded briskly. “Very well.” He stepped forward.
The gentle hum of whispered conversation hushed abruptly as heads turned in his direction. He was pleased to see more fear and uncertainty on their faces than open hostility. His grip on power was still firm enough.
“I am glad to see you, my friends,” Taleh began smoothly. He showed his teeth in a thin smile. “Much as I regret it, I cannot waste much time on the ordinary pleasantries. Time presses in on us.”
The mullahs and Pasdaran leaders stirred uneasily, dearly wondering what justified such urgency.
Taleh went on without pause, ignoring their unease. “This should be considered an operational briefing by all military officers present.”
That drew muttered exclamations. The terms he was using were usually reserved for times of war or crisis.
“By now, you are all familiar with the exercise currently under way,” Taleh said.
Heads nodded irritably throughout the room. Code-named PERSIAN HAMMER, the exercise had been authorised as a test of Iran’s ability to coordinate the movements of its ground, air, and sea forces at short notice. As part of the exercise, all military leaves had been canceled, and security had been greatly tightened around all ports, airfields, and military installations. Many of those present had condemned the endeavor as a foolish waste of desperately needed resources.
Taleh smiled again, a fighting grin this time. “What I can tell you now, my friends, is that the real name of this operation is not PERSIAN HAMMER, but SCIMITAR.” He saw their puzzled expressions and delivered his bombshell. “In precisely seven days, at 0600 hours local time, the armed forces of the Islamic Republic of Iran will begin landing in Saudi Arabia by sea and air. They will conduct an offensive that will change the course of world history…”
As he outlined his long-held plans, Taleh saw members of the Defense Council, politicians and mullahs alike, rising to their feet in shock, ready to protest this wild, insane move.
He continued speaking forcefully, glaring at them to sit and listen. Such was their fear of him that they sat.
Taleh smiled again, relishing the moment. He had saved his biggest surprise for the last. “Best of all, the Americans are in no position to intervene against us. The seeds of violence we have sown through our carefully orchestrated terror campaign are now bringing forth their own fruit. Our great adversary is tearing itself apart. By the time Washington awakes to its peril, it will be far, far too late.”
More astonished exclamations greeted his latest revelation. Most of the men inside the room had followed the news of death and destruction in America with mounting delight. Only a handful had any idea that the terrorists had been trained and armed in Iran.
Taleh ignored their amazement, intent on his own great vision. “When SCIMITAR is complete, Iran will hold the balance of world power. We will command the respect of all who yearn for Islam throughout the world! We will begin the long march back to greatness the long march back to a united Faith strong enough to subdue the infidel!”
He stopped speaking as the new Pasdaran commander rose abruptly. He was young, in his forties, and he brought zeal but no real skill to his job. A jet-black beard and mustache hid a soft face, but he was known to be one of Taleh’s bitterest surviving enemies. Much would depend on his reaction.
The Pasdaran general suddenly raised his arms over his head and cried out aloud, “I praise you, Amir Taleh! You have made the Great Satan suffer as I have only dreamed! You are a worthy commander a true leader of the Faithfull You are a man of God! A man of vision!”
Others took up the cry. In moments the entire audience was on its feet, chanting his praises. Taleh tried to remain calm, but his exhilaration would not let him.
Nothing could stop Iran now.
The sound of automatic-weapons fire rattled through the Delta House of Horrors, rising in volume as more and more troopers opened up on suspected targets. Sharp thuds punctuated the noise as smoke grenades went off to cover movement down staircases and into enemy-held rooms. White smoke drifted lazily out through the building’s open windows.
Peter Thorn and Sergeant Major Roberto “TOW” Diaz stood near the front steps, observing the rehearsal closely. The short, dark-haired noncom held a stopwatch in his hand.
They were watching the lead elements of each handpicked assault team show off their paces. Where possible, sections of the House of Horrors had been altered to mimic portions of Taleh’s operations headquarters. Using the existing building for training was a stopgap expedient at best, but it would have to do for now. The construction crews feverishly erecting mock-ups of the buildings around Tehran’s Khorasan Square were still at least two days away from finishing their work.
Thorn nodded in satisfaction as the first Delta Force troopers fell back out through open doors and windows. They had a strange, wild look about them. Like him, anyone with lighter colored hair had dyed it black. And all of the men assigned to the NEMESIS force were letting their beards and mustaches grow. Roughly half of them wore Iranian uniforms. The rest were still waiting for the seamstresses to finish sewing.
“Jesus, what a motley crew,” Diaz muttered with a grin. “I keep expecting someone to raise the Jolly Roger.”
“Sorry you signed on for this little jaunt, Tow?” Thorn asked.
“Hell, no, Pete!” Diaz shook his head. “Believe me, it sure beats waiting by the phone for Jimmy to call. All the kid does is piss and moan about how rough it is being a plebe! I’m looking forward to a little peace and quiet when we hit Tehran.”
“Sure,” Thorn said, not believing a word of it. West Point Cadet James Diaz was his father’s pride and joy. Still, he was very glad to have the sergeant major aboard. TOW Diaz was the best rough-and-tumble soldier in the
