Marc could see he was going to get nowhere by arguing. “You need to answer one question. Can you follow orders?”
Barry Duboe stowed his grin away.
“We’re not investigating any longer,” Marc continued. “We’re going off the grid. Our survival depends on a solid chain of command. If you come, you are subordinate to me, Lahm, and Josh Reames. Can you handle that? Yes or no.”
Duboe hesitated, then jerked a nod. “I’m a team player.”
“Josh, he’s on your squad.”
“Aw, man…”
Marc swiveled three inches and glared.
He sighed. “Aye, sir.”
Marc kept his tone calm, his voice low. “We need to keep our team in perfect tandem. We are no longer Special Forces and Baghdad police and CIA and a Washington lackey. We are one unit. We have to show the noncoms here a single unified command. Tell me you understand.”
All three gave their quiet assent. Marc saw a new glint in Lahm’s gaze, and took it as a good sign. He went on, “Our mission is rescue and recovery. Our aim is to get in and get out unnoticed. But if we have to go in guns hot, we will do so. Our survival-and theirs-depends on our professionalism.”
This time, Duboe answered for them all. “Roger that.”
“Okay. Josh, you and your men transfer Duboe’s gear into the buses. The bag with the comm links travels with me.” He turned to Lahm. “Let’s go have a word with your tame Iranians. Do you speak Farsi?”
“Enough.”
“Duboe, you need to be in on this.” Marc saw Josh working to hide a smile.
“What?”
“Nothing, skipper. Not a single solitary thing. We’re in the green and good to go.”
Marc pointed them toward the night. “We move in ten.”
Chapter Forty-One
T he six Iranians were seated on backpacks in a tight circle, almost surrounded by Lahm’s men. All male, all very nervous. Marc asked, “How much do they know?”
“Nothing.”
“Why did they volunteer?”
The men scrambled to their feet as Lahm replied, “I spoke with my closest friend in intelligence. These men, they are his best allies inside the Iranian community. Baghdad has many Iranian refugees. More come every day.”
“So many,” one of the Iranians confirmed directly to Marc, “Tehran has stopped all normal bus service to Iraq. No flights, no cars. Now the only way to travel is by pilgrim bus. For this you must have a travel pass from the ayatollahs or a conservative imam. Smugglers pay much bribes for these passes.”
That at least one in the group spoke English made things much easier. “What’s your name?”
“Fareed, honored sir.”
”Tell me why you’re here, Fareed.”
The man was stocky, almost barrel-like, with a scraggly beard covering a round chin. “We are all members of the resistance, honored sir. We hear from our friend in the Iraqi intelligence you have trouble with Iran. We volunteer. For anything.”
“We’re headed into Iran to rescue some friends,” Marc said. “They’re being held in a special military compound.”
“Please, honored sir, there will be fighting?”
“We hope not. But possibly. What we really need is for you to get us across the border. Once that’s done, we can drop you…”
But the young man was busy translating for his friends. There was a quiet confab, little more than a few words from each man.
“Please, honored sir. We volunteer for the fighting also.”
Marc hesitated. He glanced at Lahm, who was frowning.
The young Iranian said, “This compound where they hold friends, it is Revolutionary Guard, yes?”
“How do you know?”
“All of us, we suffer from the Guards. I and two friends, this man and this, we have served in the Guards. We are refugees because of them. They are the ayatollahs’ military arm. We fight for democracy and freedom-”
Marc held up his hand. “Wait. Stop. Okay, I want you to translate this. Tell your men exactly what I am going to say. Yes, our friends are being held inside a Revolutionary Guard compound. But each person gathered here is highly trained. We know what is required. Our aim is to get in and out without raising the alarm.”
He waited until the young man had finished. He asked Lahm, “Are my words getting across correctly?”
“He speaks very fast. But I am thinking, yes.”
“I tell my friends exactly what you are saying,” the young man assured Marc.
“We are not here to fight for democracy. We are here to rescue a group that has been kidnapped. Two groups, if we’re lucky.” Marc hesitated, then decided to add, “There is the chance that we may strike a blow against the Tehran regime. But that is for the politicians to worry about once we’re back and our friends are safe.”
When that segment was translated, Marc went on, “I am open to discussion on the road. But what I need to know now is this: Will you follow orders? If not, you will stay here. A successful mission depends on everyone accepting their role and doing exactly what they’re told. No argument, no back talk. That is your only choice.”
– – Marc traveled with Josh and his team and all the Iranians. The Persians’ open acceptance of his terms left Marc much more at ease. Two of them had never even held a gun before. Another had shot his father’s hunting rifle. The other three, however, were interesting. All had enlisted with the Revolutionary Guard. But they eventually had become involved in democracy movements and protests following the corrupt national elections. Two had been convicted and imprisoned for a time. The other had fled across the border, the intelligence service hot on his heels.
This time of night, the convoy shared the highway mostly with trucks. The pavement was rutted and poorly marked. Yet the road was wide enough to permit passing. They made good time.
Three hours before dawn, the two buses pulled off the road. Lights from the last petrol station before the border glowed on the horizon. But here was only the dry desert night. Lahm’s men used a portable burner to heat water and make tea while Josh passed around ready meals and energy bars. Marc’s senses were filled with vague desert fragrances, sorrel and thyme and dry earth and diesel fumes from the highway.
They were separated from the road by a rocky mound. Every vehicle that passed lit the hill up like a desiccated camel’s hump. Josh stationed one of his men on the hillside while they ate and prepped. Marc continued to search the empty night. Somewhere in the distance a sheep bleated once, then went still. Otherwise there was no sign of life beyond the highway. One of Lahm’s men passed around a sack of dried apricots. The flavor suited the moment.
They went through the plans once more. To the untrained observer, going over and over plans was the definition of futility. But these men were pros. They understood that lives depended on repetition, drilling every sequence down so deep it became ingrained below the level of conscious thought. When things went wrong, the fallback structure would hopefully fit automatically into place. And in a situation like this, there was every chance that things would go very wrong indeed.
The images flashing on Duboe’s laptop helped drive the plans home. The group visually tracked their way around the encampment’s perimeter, mapping out responsibilities and positions. Lahm translated for his men. Fareed, the Iranian who spoke English, did the same. Marc waited for one of Josh’s or Hamid’s men to object to the Iranians being involved in these discussions. But they all seemed content to follow his lead in the matter. Another very good sign.
They off-loaded Duboe’s duffels and spread out the contents. There were special high-frequency comm links, the size of Bluetooth earpieces but with dedicated protocol to avoid being overheard. There were sniper-grade rifles and automatic machine pistols with clips long and curved like sabers. Grenades, both frag and compression. Lightweight body armor. Each man received a sheaf of plastic-tie handcuffs and backup rolls of silver tape.