He took it from her, noticing the Mossad crest at the top of the cover sheet. What did they want?
“I understand, Scott, I do understand. But tell Sorenson I want that satellite coverage ASAP — as Kranemeyer requested. Keep on him. Goodbye.” Director Lay hung up the phone, sighing heavily as he did so. The NRO still wasn’t providing the real-time sat coverage that had been requested. Their regional KH-13 was apparently tied up covering one of the interminable uprisings in Indonesia.
Lay slammed his fist against the solid oak of his desk. To blazes with Indonesia! His teams weren’t there, weren’t headed into harms’ way in that godforsaken part of the globe. They were going to Iran. And something was giving him a bad feeling about all this. There was something wrong.
He had become DCIA six years before with a clear mission from Hancock’s predecessor. Transform the Agency. And, as much as was possible, he had done so. He had successfully lobbied the Hill to increase the budget for human intelligence and special operations by over fifty percent, started running operations the like of which hadn’t been done for forty years. And there were people in this town that didn’t like that. They didn’t like it one bit. Which was why he had to be careful.
He rose from his chair, going over to the window, his hands in his pockets as he gazed out over the city. From his office he could see the Washington monument, the tall granite obelisk that towered over the city, stone glistening in the autumn sun.
They couldn’t understand, it seemed no one could anymore. The price of freedom. The sacrifices necessary to obtain it. Sacrifice. The politicos that inhabited the swamp inside the Beltway defined sacrifice as the necessity of leaving their Washington lifestyle and heading back to their home districts every few years to campaign.
Sacrifice. With a weary sigh, Lay sank back into his chair, reaching for a photograph on his desk. The face of a woman in her mid-twenties smiled back at him, a baby cradled in her arms.
He’d had a family once upon a time, but that was where the resemblance to a fairy tale started and stopped.
Trisha. His wife and their baby girl, Carol. The Cold War had been in its death throes when he’d joined the Agency, running agents between Moscow and Havana, working through the immigrant communities of Miami. Back in those halcyon days when religious zealotry had barely crossed the CIA’s radar. He’d had to leave them both in Washington when he moved south pursuing his career — Agency protocol that his family be insulated from danger.
Patriotism? Or blind ambition? The nights he’d spent in search of an answer to that question. Trisha had left him when their girl was four, citing emotional abandonment in the divorce papers that he found on his desk upon his return, papers already three months old by the time he got them.
That was twenty-six years ago, and all hope of reconciliation had died along with Trisha when she had succumbed to a long battle with lymphoma at the age of forty-eight.
His fingers moved to the second photo and a tender smile touched his lips. In all those years, he had never seen his daughter. Her mother had taken back her maiden name and legally changed Carol’s name as well, moving to the opposite end of the country to live with her parents. Buried in his work, he’d convinced himself that it was for the best, that he never could have become the father she needed. But the desire never left him, to know, to answer the aching question. What had become of her?
And then a twenty-eight-year-old young woman had shown up on Langley’s doorstep two years ago, armed with a tech degree from MIT and the ruthless instincts of a computer hacker. He nearly hadn’t recognized her at first. Until he saw her mother in her eyes…
Lay sighed, turning his attention back to the phone and the President. There were sacrifices he regretted…
The surface-to-air-missile system was the flower of Russian technology. A further development of the competent SA-15 “Gauntlet”, as code-named by NATO, the TOR-M1 9M330 had been supplied to Iran in December of 2005. It was a system capable of detecting and tracking forty-eight targets, and engaging two targets simultaneously with over a 92 % kill probability, making any sort of low-level attack a virtual suicide mission. The twenty-nine transport launcher vehicles, or TLVs, which Tehran had purchased had cost them the equivalent of over a billion dollars in U.S. currency.
One of them now sat on top of the rock outcropping Major Hossein had designated. He rubbed his hands together as he looked up at it, smiling to himself.
There was a part of him that was like a child with a new toy. He really couldn’t wait to try it out.
One of the technicians came around the back of the vehicle. “Everything is ready, commandant.”
“Good.” Hossein smiled. “What is the chance of an aircraft getting through your screen?”
“What type of aircraft?”
The major thought for a moment. “A transport aircraft. Or a helicopter. I’m not sure which.”
A smile crossed the technician’s face. “None, major. None at all…”
“What do you think of our chances for success, lieutenant?”
The young man looked up slowly, his eyes locking with the Mossad chief’s. “My father was a rabbi, sir,” Gideon said finally. “He taught me never to gamble.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across his features. “But with these odds — I’m not even tempted.”
“I knew your father, Gideon,” General Shoham replied. “He was the chaplain of my unit in the Golan.”
“He’s spoken of you too, sir.” Lieutenant Laner turned back to the matter at hand. “You’re wanting to launch this mission tonight?”
The Mossad chief glanced at his wristwatch. “That’s correct, lieutenant. Nine hours. Before daybreak tomorrow, I want your team on the ground. In Iran.” His eyes narrowed. “Can you do it?”
“I think so, sir. You’re cutting us close. Not much prep time.”
“I know that, lieutenant. There’s no help for it. A C-130 Hercules transport will deploy you forty kilometers from the target. You will use the two fast attack vehicles to get in position. The plan is relatively simple: make a surgical strike, rescue Dr. Tal, eliminate the Iranian communications facilities and proceed to the extraction zone.”
“What about the other archaeologists?”
“You won’t have room in the extraction helicopter,” the general replied, watching Laner closely. “Your mission is to get our man out. That is all.”
Gideon never even blinked. “Understood, sir. I’ll go assemble my team.”
“Right, director. I understand. Good-bye.” Harry replaced the TACtical SATellite phone in his shirt pocket and walked back to the barracks, Kranemeyer’s last words ringing in his ears.
Good luck.
They were going to need a lot more than luck if they were going to survive the next few hours. He pushed open the door. Tex was lying back on one of the bunks, apparently asleep.
A moment passed, then he opened one eye, gazing carefully at Harry.
“Where’s the rest of the team?” Harry asked, looking over at his friend.
“Over at the hangar. Reloading the equipment in the Huey. What’s going on?”
Harry walked over to his locker, pulling out the equipment he would take with him. “I just talked with Kranemeyer,” he said finally. “We have go-mission.”