remain confident that our security forces are up to any new challenge, and we pledge again to do whatever is needed to protect this nation.”
The president had been analyzing the information while the others talked, just as he had done when he ran one of the biggest electronic and computer companies in the world. Finally he said, “I think this Saladin fellow made a mistake. He gives no deadline for responses to the auction idea because he knew that any potential bidders will need time to get their acts together.”
The secretary of state interrupted. “True. But what do we do with the extra time?”
“Find him. Kill him. Bury him.” Steve Hanson pulled himself erect, all five foot six of him, and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“We don’t assassinate heads of state,” huffed Waring.
“He isn’t a head of state, Ken!” Hanson said. “He’s a fucking terrorist who has already attacked London and is now coming after us! Anyway, we won’t be the only ones after him. Al Qaeda and other big players are going to try to take that formula for free. They don’t want some bit actor like Saladin grabbing power away from them.”
The president waved a hand. “Okay. Go easy, Steve. The secretary of state is correct: The United States does not assassinate people. You guys get things moving while I go upstairs and shave and put on fresh clothes. I want an NSC briefing in an hour.” He shook hands with the secretary of state and thanked him for bringing the bad news.
Once Waring left the Oval Office, the president turned to his chief of staff. “Get General Middleton over here right away, Steve. I think we’re going to need Kyle Swanson very soon.”
CAMP BAHARIA
IRAQ
Swanson had to smile at the astonishment on the face of Delara Tabrizi when he walked into the special ops briefing room with Travis Hughes and Joe Tipp. They had collected new clothing on the way over and now, instead of American soldiers, they looked like Iranian farmers: baggy pants, long tunics, and wrapped head coverings. Each carried a heavy sheepskin coat. He went over to her. “Thank you for this new information, Miss Tabrizi. However, you really don’t have to go in with us. In fact, it would be better if you stayed here.”
Her gaze was steady. “No. I must go.”
“We can find your brother, if he’s there, and bring him out.”
“You don’t know that country,” she said and walked over to a map hanging from the wall. She spread her hand over an area circled in red. “This is my home village of Kamveh, and I grew up roaming those mountains, tending our sheep and goats. I know the general location of this other horrible place where Iranian people are being tortured and murdered, and I know pathways that can get you there.”
“It will be dangerous.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “For us, every day we live is dangerous. I am going with you.”
“Just try to keep up.”
Delara Tabrizi bristled at the condescending tone.
She looked up at him with determination in her dark eyes, her face framed by wisps of black hair that escaped from the edges of the emerald green scarf covering her head. Kyle realized that she was beautiful. Less than thirty years old, she stood only about five-five and could not have weighed more than 115 pounds, but she carried a sense of self-assuredness that had been honed by being a woman with a will of her own living in a country run by men and religious police.
The previous year she had been ordered by police to attend classes on respecting the proper attire for Islamic women. Like many of her generation, she still bent the rules concerning the
“I just need a pair of good boots and I’m ready to go. Give me a pistol, something small like a Makarov, and you won’t have to rescue me again,” she said.
“We can do that,” laughed Travis Hughes, enjoying the exchange of barbs between Shake and Delara. “You know how to shoot?”
“I grew up in the mountains. Everybody has to know how to shoot to protect our herds.”
“Girl knows her guns. Cool,” said Darren Rawls, stepping up beside Kyle. “Gunny, I want to go, too.”
“You can’t. You’re black, remember? Ain’t no brothers up in those mountains,” said Joe Tipp.
“Shit,” said Rawls.
“You and Rawls go by the armory and get us all weaponed up. In case we have to use them, we don’t want to leave an American signature with the shell casing. I’ll take an AK-47 and a Dragunov sniper rifle. Grab an RPK light machine gun and some RPGs. Get plenty of explosives, water, binos, and rations for three days. Travis, you outfit Miss Tabrizi with whatever she wants. I will make a final comm and logistics check with Captain Newman. Rendezvous at the helo pad in thirty minutes. We are going to have to push it to get into position before daylight.”
A few lights from Baghdad illuminated the bottom of the cloud cover far to the south as the Pave Low raced through the night, each mile seeming to Swanson to take forever. If they could not find a good position by the time the sun came up, they would just have to burrow in somewhere and wait all day long, and he believed that they could not afford the luxury of just staying put for twelve hours. The first site had been totally destroyed, and he wanted to see this second one before it suffered the same fate. He felt in his gut that the time was close. Whoever was running that operation was cleaning up loose ends, and somehow the entire thing was wrapped up with the attack in London. He fought the nervousness and settled into the racket of the Pave Low helicopter. He could not make this bird go any faster.
A crackle came on the radio in his ear. “Bounty Hunter, Bounty Hunter, this is Slider Base. Come in.” Sybelle’s voice!
“Slider Base, this is Bounty Hunter.”
There was a comforting sense of crisp professionalism in her voice. “Confirming Trident on deck here. Mission is yours.”
Excellent! The spur-of-the-moment special operation to return to Iran had clicked into place, with Rick Newman holding the fort until Sybelle Summers had arrived at Baharia to take over. Now Kyle could stop worrying that some colonel might find out about what he was up to and order a stop to it all or, worse, start meddling to change the mission. He now would report to Sybelle, who reported to Middleton, who reported to the president of the United States. That simplified things.
“Slider Base. Roger on Trident. Out.”
He didn’t need to go into any further explanation. Between Newman and Sybelle, all of the support elements would be in place, and whatever they did not have on hand, they could whistle up in a hurry. The best offense was still total secrecy, but it was nice to know that a pair of Marine Harrier jump jets might just happen to be flying near the border soon, along with a few Cobra gunships to protect the helicopter during extraction.
The Zagros mountain range in northwestern Iran was a natural geographical barrier that discouraged visits deep into its saddles and peaks. People only went into the stark and barren reaches if they had a purpose, and population centers were few. Adding to the isolation were roving patrols of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, who were absolutely vicious in protecting an area that the government had designated to be off-limits because of its importance. Some people who wandered into the area were never seen again.
The mountains could be an advantage for interlopers, since it was impossible for the Iranian military to tightly control the entire rugged area. Roads petered out to paths, communications were difficult, and the villagers were sullen, even hostile, doing what they were told to do only under the threat of force. The mountains also were a resting place for small packs of bandits who enjoyed ambushing a patrol to ransack its supplies. As a result, the Iranian troops stuck close to their small bases during the night.
Because resupply was always a problem, the villagers of Kamveh paid scant attention to the brief clatter of a
