The real prizes, as far as Marc was concerned, were slender canisters with fold-up nozzles as long as silenced pistol barrels. “One spray and your adversary’s out cold for eight hours,” Duboe said. “The spray’s tightly directed, shoots to fifteen feet. Take care not to breathe it. Be better if you don’t get it on your skin; it can slow response time. That’s what the gloves are for.”
Marc gave them time to sort through the gear, then checked his watch and said, “Mount up.”
It was gratifying to see them respond as a unit. The Iranians embraced and split up between the two buses. Josh and his men clambered back into the first bus, where Marc and Duboe traveled. Hamid and his team returned to the second vehicle. But as Marc started to join them, Duboe caught his arm and pulled him further into the night.
When they were alone, Duboe unzipped his pack and flashed a thick wad of bills. “Twenty-five thou in hundred dollar bills. Straight from the ambassador’s private safe. Use it or lose it.”
The money only confirmed what Marc had suspected since Duboe had revealed his cache. He called softly, “Hamid.”
The police officer stopped in the process of entering the second bus. “Here.”
“You need to ride with us. We’ve got something more to cover.” He turned back to Duboe, who was frowning now. “Let’s roll.”
Once they were back on the highway, Marc drew Duboe and his two team leaders to the back, well removed from the others. Marc told Hamid and Josh about the money, then said to Duboe, “Now give us the flip side.”
“Come again?”
“Your handlers didn’t pass along all this gear and the cash just to help rescue some missing Americans and Iraqis.”
“In case you missed it, we’re talking about the future of the Alliance.”
“I’ve spent enough time in Washington to know there’s a hidden agenda,” Marc replied.
Duboe looked from one face to the next. Hamid was clearly confused, but his gaze remained upon Marc. Josh, however, watched Duboe like he was choosing his target.
“The decision of who to tell, if and when, was left to my discretion,” Duboe finally said.
“That works fine in Baghdad,” Marc said. “Out here, our survival depends on operating as a team.”
Duboe jerked a nod. “I need my computer.”
“Josh.”
“On it.”
Duboe ignored the soldier’s cold glare, accepted the laptop, opened it and linked up. “I received these orders an hour before departure. From the ambassador. Who got them from Mr. X.”
Marc explained, “A top gun in Washington intel. I’m thinking, CIA deputy director for operations.”
Josh asked, “You know him how?”
“He was on the comm link when I requested help on the target for this mission. We’ve got our objective because he flashed us the green light.”
“Only because he had a secret motive,” Josh said, still staring at Duboe.
“The man is on our side,” Duboe replied. “And our objectives are the same.”
“Feds,” Josh snorted, then noticed Hamid’s grin. “Something funny?”
“This talk, it is so very Arab.” Hamid linked his arms behind his head. “I am hearing this conversation all my life long.”
Duboe keyed up a satellite photo of the valley. “This was taken two nights ago. This is our target, the house here. Now look at the central road.”
Josh moved in closer to the screen. “Are those trucks?”
“Articulated vehicles. Seven of them. Intel claims they’re all from the same special unit. Don’t ask me how they know, but the lady Marc spoke with was totally certain.”
“She knew her stuff,” Marc confirmed.
“These trucks are specifically tasked to carry missiles. Nothing else. The cover is pulled back on the first truck.”
The men leaned in closer. “Crates,” Josh identified.
“Intel claims they’re packed with surface-to-surface and surface-to-air missiles. Shoulder fired. Laser-guided and heat-seeking both. The Iranians have been pushing hard on new homegrown varieties.” Duboe tapped the screen. “Intel insists they’re here in this valley for one reason only.”
“They train the Shia extremists from Iraq,” Hamid said grimly. “The extremists bring them back here.”
“That’s our best guess.”
“Is no guess. The Shia extremists, they go to Iran and are fed lies.”
“Indoctrinated,” Duboe said.
“All lies. Yes. We stopping too many road bombs. So this their answer.”
Josh looked from Marc to Duboe and back. “What’s the plan?”
“Your call,” Marc replied. “You signed on for a rescue and recovery mission.”
“Hey. We’re here for the whole dance. Right, Hamid?”
The police officer had aged. “How many missiles?”
“The intel lady had it cold. Four launchers to a crate. Sixty crates to a truck.”
“Seven trucks. That makes…”
“Sixteen hundred and eighty missiles.”
“Much death, much trouble,” Hamid sighed.
Josh snorted. “First they’ve got to get those things by us, right?”
Hamid looked at him. Then he turned to Marc and nodded.
Marc said, “We’re in.”
“Okay, here’s the thing.” Duboe tapped the keys. “The missiles show up. Then here the next day, poof, the trucks are gone.” He pointed at the screen. “There’s no warehouse around there big enough to stow that many missiles. Not to mention all the other gear required to maintain a unit of up to three hundred operatives who come to blow things up.”
“Caves,” Josh said.
“That’s intel’s thinking also.” Duboe switched images once more. “This was taken late afternoon. These shadows in the cliff face suggest possible openings.” He switched again, to a night image. “Here you see heat signals indicating a patrol behind the house where the hostages are most likely kept. Only the house backs up to the ridge.”
Josh said, “Show me the daytime shot again.”
Duboe shifted back to the former image. Hamid said, “They walk a path above the village.”
“There must be a ledge,” Josh agreed.
“Only one reason for them to be spending that much time on a narrow cliff path,” Marc said.
Josh said to Marc, “My team searches out the caves. You and Hamid’s boys go for the hostages.”
Marc asked, “That work for you, Hamid?”
The major squinted at the laptop screen a moment longer, then replied, “I will talk with my men. But I am thinking yes.”
“I need to borrow that laptop.” Josh rose to his feet. He glared at Duboe. “You should have told us before now.”
“I’ve got my orders, soldier. You’ve got yours.”
When the others had moved away, Marc said, “Josh was right. You should have discussed this earlier.”
“We can dance around this thing all night.” Duboe’s face was iron hard in the passing headlights. “It still comes down to orders.”
Marc decided there was nothing to be gained by further argument. But as he turned away, Duboe added, “I thought Walton was nuts, sending a greenie into the Red Zone. I told him that too. Want to know what he said?”
Marc wasn’t sure what he wanted, beyond rescuing Alex and bringing his team back alive. But he said, “Fire away.”
“Walton told me that if I gave you a chance, you’d knock my socks off.”
Marc had no idea how to respond, so he remained silent.
Duboe glanced over to where Josh was surrounded by his team, their faces lit by the laptop screen. Hamid Lahm sat two rows back, his cellphone attached to his ear. He said, “I’ve been bouncing around the Middle East for twenty-three years. What I’m looking at here is a genuine first. These people aren’t just taking aim. They’re building trust. With each other. With you. They’d follow you anywhere.” Duboe went quiet for a moment, then added, “Tell the truth, so would I.”
Chapter Forty-Two
O nce they passed the final Iraqi village, the road became much rougher. Concrete pyramids littered the fields to either side of the highway. They shone in the headlights like broken teeth. Hamid said, “Antitank barriers. From our war with Iran.”