“I hear the Banker’s already to work,” Lay stated as the elevator doors closed on the two men, his tones clipped. Shapiro had earned the derisive nickname for his habit of keeping minimal hours. He was a political appointment, like Lay, but from the Hancock administration, and they had crossed swords more than once.
Carter glanced at him across the top of his glasses. “Does it mean something?”
“Does it?”
“Perhaps,” the analyst shrugged, handing Lay the folder. “Here’s the update on Operation TALON.”
“Break it down for me.”
“Status quo. No comm with Parker, regular burst contact with Nichols and the team. General Benet’s got a Pave Low saddled up and ready to fly at twenty hundred hours.”
“Has Nichols been informed?”
“Yes. He’s holding tight, but the Iranians have launched a massive air and ground search. According to his last report, they’ve had a Hind fly over more than once. He believes it’s only a matter of time.”
“Will they break off the search at nightfall?”
“Impossible to say, sir,” Carter said, pressing a button to keep the elevator doors closed a moment longer. “China’s been funneling the Iranians increasing supplies of high-quality NVGs for years. It appears that the detachment at the base camp was not supplied with them last night. I’m sure that’s changed.”
Lay nodded, his mind elsewhere. “Keep me posted, Ron,” he stated, walking out of the elevator. He turned to face the analyst just before the doors closed again. “And keep your eyes open.”
“Anything?” Hossein asked, coming back into the operations center. The young colonel shot him a dark look and shook his head in the negative.
“Patrol Five reports hearing something that sounded like a burst of gunfire coming from the west about thirty-five minutes ago.”
The major didn’t need to look at the map to know what Larijani was implying. Patrol Two had been west of Patrol Five. “They were taken out. Just after their transmission. I warned you to reduce report-back times!”
“We don’t know that,” the young man replied defensively, ignoring Hossein’s bitter indictment. “I’m converging patrols on that area as we speak. If the Americans are there, we will find them.”
“Have the patrols double-up outside the contact zone,” Hossein instructed, drawing a circle on the map with a dull, stubby pencil. “That way they will be less vulnerable. Two men are too easily taken out.”
Just then, the radio crackled with static. Harun bent down, his brow furrowing as he listened intently to the transmission. He straightened up.
“They’ve located the bodies. Both men were shot dead.”
Thomas laid the assault rifle on the ground beside him, digging away at the rock with his bare hands. The cache was here, he knew it. It was the only place surrounding LZ RUMRUNNER that matched the tells he had memorized before leaving Q-West.
The team was nowhere to be seen, no trace that they had ever been there. Again, Thomas cursed the loss of his team radio, the severing of that link with Harry and the rest. Perhaps plans had changed.
The rock came away suddenly, nearly rolling back on him. A satchel lay behind it, a small desert camouflage rucksack. US Army issue, appropriated by the Company through one of the myriad back-channel procurements used to equip the NCS.
Inside was a silenced Beretta, three magazines of 9mm ammo, a small pair of night-vision binoculars, a GPS unit, and last but not least, a TACSAT.
Thomas resisted the temptation to place the call from where he was. He was too exposed, and the Iranians were still in full search mode.
He put the rock back where it was, smoothing the dirt around it once again and darted up the hill to find better cover.
A large rock seemed to offer it and he hunkered down, the AK-47 at his side, his service Beretta on his hip. The new automatic he left in the bag, for emergencies.
He opened the TACSAT and tapped in the encryption sequence. “Phone home,” he murmured, hitting speed- dial…
“Boss, I think you’d better have a look at this.”
Barney Kranemeyer’s eyebrows went up, a facial expression thought characteristic by those who knew him well. He tended to affect an air of being completely surprised, when that was seldom the case. As Director of the National Clandestine Service, it was his job to make
“What is it, Michelle?”
“A call just hit our servers. It’s coming in on an Agency TACSAT, from GMT +4.”
“Take it here,” Kranemeyer ordered crisply, his voice brooking no argument.
He reached down, past the half-eaten bagel on her workstation, taking the second headset and adjusting the microphone to his lips.
“Hello.”
“This is Parker,” a voice announced on the other end of the line.
“We’ve been waiting. Where in the devil are you?”
“RUMRUNNER. Has the rest of the team been extracted?”
“Negative, Parker. How are things going?”
“They’ve been better, boss,” came the reply, avoiding the duress code. Kranemeyer nodded. They were clear. If Parker had used the word
“The team is waiting at OSCAR. They’ll be picked up at twenty-one hundred hours, your time.”
There was a muffled curse from the other end of the line. “Apologies, sir,” Thomas said finally.
“Can you make it to OSCAR by twenty-one hundred hours?” the DCS asked. There was a pause, and for a moment he thought the line had gone dead. “Parker, do you copy? I repeat, can you rendevous at OSCAR by twenty-one hundred?”
“Negative. The Iranians are conducting an extensive land-air search, it took me all day just to get here.”
“I see. Do you foresee difficulties extracting the rest of the team?”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, director,” Thomas continued conversationally, “the whole day has been one big difficulty. Why should extraction be any better?”
“What is your status?”
“A little gouge in my thigh from a ricochet, bandaged it up with the med kit here at RUMRUNNER. It’s just a scratch, I’m still fully mobile.”
Kranemeyer turned, covering the receiver with one hand. “Anya, I need a run-down of our available assets in the area. ASAP.”
“Right on it,” the woman replied, tapping a command into her terminal.
“Hold one, Parker,” Kranemeyer ordered, returning to the phone. “We’re investigating our options.”
“Gee, thanks, boss,” Thomas replied, sarcasm in his tones. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Sending to your terminal, sir.” Kranemeyer looked down at his computer to see the list. “Listening, Parker?”
