Time now passed as if in a dream, and every moment seemed significant. Half an hour later he boarded the Gulfstream, where he was greeted with a thumbs-up from John Smith, who was talking on his BlackBerry. The long gray wig had been replaced by a black skullcap that covered his bald head.
Akil, Ritchie, and Mancini arrived silently and threw their gear into the baggage compartment under the wing. The Gulfstream took off. Approximately seven hours later, they landed at Naval Air Station Sigonella in Sicily to refuel and stretch their legs. Around six hours later they arrived at Al Taqaddum Air Base outside Baghdad.
Except for the sounds of the wind buffeting metal hangars and the whine of engines, the night was silent. Stars sparkled brilliantly with light from a distant time. Crocker stood near the jet waiting for the thud of distant explosions but heard none.
Two CIA officials in T-shirts and mirrored sunglasses greeted them and led them to a canteen, where they washed up, then ate scrambled eggs, hash browns, and fresh fruit, and drank coffee. Then they boarded an unmarked Blackhawk helicopter for the trip to Basrah International Airport.
Everyone they encountered-pilots, officials-seemed to understand the gravity of the mission. Crocker and his men felt it, too; there was none of their usual banter. Each man was occupied with his own thoughts. Each of them knew there was a good probability he might not come back. Nevertheless, Crocker didn’t waste time worrying about that or the difficulties they might encounter. He focused on how privileged he felt about finally getting the chance to take the fight directly to the Falcon on his turf.
In Basrah they waited on the tarmac while John Smith communicated with Ramin Kian via satellite phone. Smith returned an hour later and barked, “You’re good to go.”
“When?” Crocker asked.
“Ninety minutes. The helicopter is going to drop you by a scrap metal yard southwest of the city near the steel plant and the Imam Khomeini Freeway. Ramin will meet you there with two of his people. He’ll signal with a green laser marker.”
“Good,” Crocker said, gazing up at the three-quarters moon and canopy of stars. He was reminded of a camping trip with Holly deep inside Yosemite park and a night they’d spent in their sleeping bag holding each other and naming constellations. He cut off the memory and forced himself to focus.
Smith said, “The op will take place tomorrow night. Ramin’s got the details all worked out. We’re planning to extract you from the same site near the scrap yard at midnight. So be there.”
“We plan to.” The desert air had already dried out his nostrils and mouth.
Smith said, “If you encounter a problem, call me on the sat phone. I’ll be waiting across the border in the town of Nahairat. I can get to you quickly if there’s an emergency. But I have strict orders not to enter Iran.”
“Fine.” Crocker thought of asking why but decided not to. Washington always came up with strange restrictions, even at critical times like these. They couldn’t resist the urge to try to micromanage dangerous ops from halfway around the world, despite the fact that at this point there wasn’t a whole lot they could control. Nor could Crocker, for that matter-which he was well aware of. He’d never met Ramin, had no idea how competent he was, and had no details about the other people they’d be working with.
John Smith led them to an empty hangar, where they changed into black T-shirts and pants, and donned night-vision goggles. They did a final check on their black backpacks and weapons. Each man carried one Russian- or Chinese-made submachine gun and automatic pistol, extra ammo, two grenades, and an SOP knife. Crocker’s submachine gun was a Russian AEK-919K Kashtan with suppressor and folded buttstock, which resembled an Uzi and weighed less than five pounds. His choice of handgun was a Chinese-made TU-90 semiautomatic, which looked a lot like a U.S. M1911.
He also packed the emergency medical kit; Akil was responsible for the sat phone and radio; Ritchie carried explosives, detonators, and wire; Mancini toted extra ammo and other supplies.
As they walked back to the Blackhawk, Smith said, “The pilot is going to swing over the Persian Gulf and approach from the south. He’ll have to fly low, because the Iranians have pretty robust border security and a strong military presence in Ahvaz.”
Now you tell me, Crocker thought. He asked, “Is there a particular reason why? Didn’t the Iranians recently shoot down one of our drones near there?”
Smith had to shout over the helicopter engines, which were starting up. “The heightened security has to do with the unrest in 2006.”
“What unrest?” Crocker asked.
“Arab separatists blew up some banks, government buildings, a shopping center. Thirty or so people died.”
“Sounds serious.”
“There were some demonstrations and stone throwing, until the Iranians moved in and quashed it brutally. Naturally, they blamed us. Claimed the terrorists had been trained and armed by the CIA.”
“Were they?” Crocker asked.
Smith shrugged, which Crocker interpreted as an admission. That explained a couple of things, including why Smith wasn’t cleared to go into Iran. He was probably a marked man because of his participation in earlier operations.
He had one last question before he boarded the helicopter. “By any chance did this Ramin guy work with the Arabs who set off the bombs in 2006?”
“No,” Smith said. “Don’t worry. He’s a hundred percent Persian through and through.”
Persians are difficult people, Crocker said to himself as he strapped in and the bird lifted off. He’d worked with Iranians before, with mixed results. The ones he had dealt with were prideful in the extreme, suspicious of foreigners, and arrogant.
Their pilot was a Hispanic guy from San Antonio with a big smile and a bum right leg injured during a crash landing in southern Afghanistan. He warned them to expect turbulence due to warm wind blowing in from the east.
“Throw it at us,” Ritchie said. “We’re used to bumps.”
The copter skimmed in low over the desert. Outside all Crocker saw were hills of sand and rock. Banking slightly left, they passed over a patch of green and a small house with camels tied up to a post.
“Five minutes!” the pilot shouted over his shoulder.
They flew over more shacks, then a four-lane highway with a few headlights. Crocker felt adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream. He grabbed his pack and his Kashtan, held up two fingers, then slid the helicopter door open. Across from him Mancini and Akil nodded to signal their understanding.
Through the doorway he saw two tall smokestacks ahead. Below was a field of shipping containers, parked trucks, and piles of metal. The helicopter banked sharply right.
“Where the hell are you going?” Crocker shouted at the pilot.
“I’m trying to locate the green laser.”
The helo circled once, but they saw no green laser. The pilot shouted, “I’m going to circle one more time, then I’ve got to pull out.”
“Fuck that!” Crocker shouted back. “Let us out.”
“Here?”
“Here is fine. Hover so we can drop a rope.”
“But my orders say-”
“Fuck the orders. We’re getting out. You can blame it on me.”
Crocker threw out the rope. Ritchie slid down first, followed by Mancini, Akil, and himself. As he touched the ground he went into a crouch, his weapon cocked and ready. Seeing a large shipping container twenty feet away, he signaled to his men to seek cover behind it.
By the time he reached it, the helicopter had become a fading dark blot in the sky. He wiped the dust off his face, cleared his nostrils of sand.
“What now?” Ritchie asked.
“We wait for this Ramin guy.”
They hadn’t even started, and already things were wrong. Twenty minutes passed. Then Akil saw a pair of headlights flash twice in a parking lot near the back of the big steel plant.