two hours since last contact. The call he had been secretly dreading.
“Kranemeyer here.”
“Director, this is Nichols. We’ve arrived at the alternate extraction zone with the rescued archaeologists. Where’s the Pave Low?” The voice on the other end was clipped, abrupt. As though the instincts that had kept the officer alive through fifteen years of field operations were now warning him of impending trouble.
The DCS took a deep breath, looking at the last sat coverage of the field team’s position. They were vulnerable. And he could do nothing about it.
“I’m sorry, Nichols. JSOC can’t get a helo in and out before daylight. You’ll have to take up defensive positions, hold out until nightfall.”
Dead silence filled the line for the space of forty seconds. “We’re sitting ducks here, boss. LZ OSCAR is
“I know it. The general refuses to move his assets into place. Sit tight until nightfall and we’ll get you out.”
“Roger,” came the grudging reply. “Any contact with Parker?”
“No, we’ve not heard a thing. You?”
“Negative, sir.” Harry paused, then added, “Have the Pave Low bring out some body bags. We’ll need them by nightfall. Nichols out.”
Kranemeyer started to respond, but the phone was dead in his hand. He shook his head wearily, leaning back in his chair. He had been there once himself, back in his Delta Force days, a small team running cross-border interdiction in the Hindu Kush. The chopper that had never come.
He swore bitterly and stood, wincing as he did so. Pain was flickering through his right leg, phantom pain from a leg that was no longer there. Placing a hand on the desk for support, he reached down to rub his knee, biting his tongue as fingers slid over the flesh of the knee to the prosthesis below it. An IED had put a permanent end to his spec-ops career. Oh, yes, he’d been there. Done that…
Harry replaced the phone in its holster and strode back to the small group, his Kalishnikov held loosely in one hand. Hamid was keeping an eye on the rescued hostages and looked up at his approach.
“Let’s pack it up and move it out,” Harry ordered, his tones clipped, his face a mask. The Iraqi looked at him, his eyes shadowed by worry.
“What’s the matter, boss?”
“We’re too exposed here,” Harry stated flatly, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. “We need to get atop that ridge,” he continued, his index finger indicating an elevation perhaps another ninety feet higher than where they were standing and a quarter-mile off. “It’s better for defense. Tex, how’s your shoulder?”
“It went back in place,” the big man replied, massaging the muscle with his free hand. “I can use it.”
Harry acknowledged him with a nod. “Good. I want you to take up overlook on the southern bluff. Take binoculars and your rifle. Dig a hide and keep me advised of anything that happens. Hamid, Davood, you and the archaeologists are coming with me to the ridge. We’ll dig another hide there, wait this out.”
“The chopper’s not coming.” This from Tex, his usual economy of words showing itself in the statement.
Harry nodded. “Not ‘til evening. Let’s move them out.”
“Did he say why?” General Shoham asked, a cool wind fluttering at the corners of his jacket as he stood atop the roof of the headquarters building. The rain had stopped and now a raw breeze blew in off the Mediterranean, raising the hair on the back of the old veteran’s neck.
His bodyguard replied with a shake of the head, his tall form burrowed into the folds of a poncho. “ETA is three minutes. We should know soon.”
Shoham nodded, pulling the jacket closer to him. Dawn was still a good hour away. The night was cold, made colder still by the news he had just received.
In heaven’s name, what was wrong with Dr. Tal? The general’s mind flickered back to the early days of their relationship. He had recruited Tal personally, their joint interest in archaeology drawing them together, their joint patriotism keeping them there.
When the Iran mission had come up, Tal had been the first to volunteer, his liaison with the Ayatollah Isfahani forming the basis of their success.
And now all that was gone. The commandos of Sayeret Matkal had risked their lives to rescue him and he was refusing to help them in return. Somehow-some way, the Iranians had turned him. And Shoham didn’t know how.
The twisting, rhythmic
It settled down upon the helipad and the side door flew open almost the minute the wheels touched down. Lieutenant Gideon Laner emerged first, his face tired and dirty in the harsh glare of the helipad lights. A Galil assault rifle was cradled loosely in the crook of his arm.
Shoham could feel his bodyguard stiffen, the man’s body instantly at attention at the sight of the weapon. Another occasion and it would have been a cause for humor. But the night was far too grim.
The rest of the Sayeret Matkal team exited the chopper behind him, and the general could recognize Dr. Tal flanked by Sergeant Eiland and Corporal Gur. Each of them had a purchase on one of his arms. It was price he paid for not cooperating. They had to be prepared for anything now.
“Moshe,” Shoham greeted familiarly, striding onto the platform and sticking out a hand from the folds of his poncho. The soldiers released their captive, leaving him standing in front of the Mossad chief.
“It’s good to have you home again, my dear friend,” Avi ben Shoham said, painfully aware of the reproachful look in Tal’s eyes. His hand hung there awkwardly, unaccepted. “We can take you in and start the debrief, if you so desire.”
There was no response, the only sound the helicopter’s engine shutting down, a dull roar in the background. Shoham could barely hear it as he focused in on his old friend’s face, the world shrinking to the two of them. Everything faded away as he searched for the man he had once known. He was gone, leaving a stranger standing before him.
“I am sorry, Moshe. We should have never used you. Others would have been more expendable.”
“Like those you abandoned tonight!” the archaeologist flared, anger flashing in his eyes before he fell silent once more. Smoldering.
Bewildered, Shoham turned toward Lieutenant Laner as though expecting an explanation. Dr. Tal provided it without him even asking, his cold glare piercing to the soul. “I will tell you nothing-you abandoned my people. You left them to die…”
Sun had not yet dawned when the hides were finished. They had dug not one, but three, about twenty meters apart, laid out with interlocking fields of fire. Each one was just large enough for two people, overlooking the landing zone below. A gently sloping, grassy plateau, there was hardly an inch of cover anywhere within range of their rifles. Harry laid his entrenching tool to the side and stretched. “Digging doesn’t agree with my constitution, I’m afraid.”
Hamid grinned, his white teeth visible in the darkness. “Running around the mountains all night doesn’t agree with mine, either.”
Davood and the archaeologists just stood there looking on, as though not knowing what to make of the old friends’ jest. Harry cast another look at the horizon and all traces of good humor vanished without a trace.
“Let’s get under cover,” he said tersely. “Davood, take Professor Peterson. Hamid, Mullins. You’ll come with
