And he would be a part of this, if he lived. A shudder ran down his spine, as he remembered Malik. They had buried him just the day before.
Farshid closed his eyes, willing the image of his friend’s agony to go away, willing it to vanish. There would be more, that he knew, hundreds, perhaps thousands. Upon reflection, it might almost seem a pity. Such was the cost of war…
“So, Colonel, this is the route you plan to take?” Harry asked, scoring a line on the map with the tip of his combat knife.
Luke Tancretti nodded. “It’s about as short as we could manage, nap-of-the-earth all the way, dodging in and out of the mountains.”
“Who’s our pilot, may I ask?”
Tancretti glanced up. “I am.”
“I didn’t realize they sent bird colonels on combat missions anymore,” Harry observed, glancing around at his team.
“They do,” Luke replied, working hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. His visitors were no longer wearing their Air force uniforms, the uniforms that had never belonged to them, the uniforms that were nothing more than masks for who they truly were. He had earned the right to wear his uniform, earned the eagles on his shoulders. And he didn’t like being challenged. The tall man’s questions kept coming like rifle bullets, unexpected and piercing.
“Who’s in your crew?”
“The Pave Low requires a crew of six,” Tancretti began, referring to the large Sikorsky-made HH-53 helicopter. Packed with avionics and sensor equipment, it was often used for night missions. “That’s Lieutenant Cooper, Sergeant Gonzales—”
“Scratch that,” Harry interrupted him, “we’re not using the Pave Low.”
“What?” Luke demanded, unable to believe his ears. “There’s no way to pull off this mission without it!”
“You’ll find a way,” Harry replied, his cold blue eyes unwavering. “And if you can’t find one, you’ll make one. The Pave Low is undeniably American. If something goes south and it is shot down, our mission will be blown. They’ll know exactly who’s coming for them. That is unacceptable.”
“Then what do you propose using?” the Air Force colonel asked, forcing himself to accept this new reality.
Harry smiled grimly. “I think officially you call it the UH-1H Iroquois. I’ve always just known it as the Huey.”
Tancretti had no reply. He just stood there, shaking his head in disbelief, willing this madness to go away. “The Huey?”
A brief nod. “Pick out a good co-pilot and be ready by zero one hundred. I want to be inserted before dawn.”
Harry turned and left the Quonset hut, the rest of his team following behind him.
Thomas stopped him outside. “Do you think we can really pull this off?”
Harry glanced speculatively up at the fading sunlight. “We’ll be cutting it close. But I believe we can do it.” He looked at each of his team members. “Do you all have what you need?”
Everyone nodded, the time for words past. Harry looked down, checking his Doxa dive watch. “We leave in seven hours. Let’s move.”
“Remember, just stay on message. I’ve spent the morning working through the press pool to weed out any thorny issues, but we may still have a few reporters that want to play hardball at the press conference. Just don’t let them get you distracted. Play it cool.”
President Roger Hancock stopped tying his tie to shoot an aggravated look at his Chief of Staff. “Stop worrying, Ian. This isn’t my first seance, for heaven’s sake.”
Ian Cahill ran fingers through his greying hair and shook his head. The sixty-two-year-old Irishman had spent well-nigh thirty years of his life navigating the murky waters of Chicago politics before becoming Hancock’s campaign manager in the Wisconsin native’s senate run a decade ago. In the cutthroat world of the Beltway, no one had ever crossed Cahill — twice.
He was known as a ruthless operator with only one inviolable principle: win.
“Mr. President, I know that. I’ve been with you almost since your beginnings in Wisconsin. Which also means I know your weaknesses better than anyone else.”
“Weaknesses?” Hancock asked sarcastically, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. “As in plural?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” came Cahill’s acerbic reply, not a trace of humor in his voice. “You can’t resist bedding anything that wears a skirt and a deuce of a lot that doesn’t. You’re a sneaky, underhanded knave who thinks ‘honesty’ is a dirty word. And in a town where alliances change faster than hotel linens, you can never bring yourself to forget an injury.”
A smile tugged at the President’s lips. “Are you quite done, Ian? How did things go with Ellison?”
“Trevor’s playing ball,” Cahill responded, referring to the managing editor of The Washington Post, Trevor Ellison. “He’s going to give us two weeks on the Iran story.”
“Dare I ask what we had to give him in return?”
“An exclusive on campaign announcements from here on in. He breaks them first.”
It was better than the alternative. Apparently one of the American archaeologists had a niece who worked at the Post. And she’d been making inquiries. A Secret Service agent entered the room before Hancock could respond, phone in hand. “David Lay on the phone for you, sir.”
It was about time. “Hancock here.”
“Mr. President, we’re at final go-mission. TALON launches in seven hours.”
“I’ve issued the finding, director,” Hancock replied, shooting a glance across the room at Cahill. “See that it’s done.”
The chief of staff looked at him as he hung up. “What was that all about?”
The President smiled. “Ian, you can rest easy. I think I’ve just won the election…”
Harry slipped on his jacket as he left their sleeping quarters, shivering slightly as the cold night air of the desert washed over his body. The rest of the team was sleeping soundly, which was exactly what he should be doing. But he couldn’t. He never could before a mission. It was just a nervous habit he had acquired over the years. A bad habit.
There were just too many things to consider, too many contingencies to prepare for. And he had the weight of this mission resting on his shoulders. Everything was up to him.
He moved down the runway, his hands in his pockets, looking up into the September night sky. What moon they had was largely obscured by clouds, which was exactly the way he wanted it. Flying nap-of-the-earth should keep them out of the Iranian radar network, but it did nothing to protect them from the oldest detection system ever used by man: eyesight. The darkness should help.
A young sentry in a U.S. Army uniform loomed out of the night ahead of him, an M-4 clutched in his bare hands. “Who goes there?” he demanded, nervousness in his voice as it rang out a challenge as old as time itself.
“Colonel Henderson,” Harry replied. The soldier stepped closer, shining a flashlight full in his face.
“ID?” Harry handed it to him. He was little more than a kid, eighteen or nineteen at most. The year before he’d probably been in high school, his principal worry whom he was going to escort to the prom. Now he had a gun his hands.
“Very good, sir. I’m sorry I bothered you,” the kid replied, giving it back.
“No trouble, soldier. You’re just doing your job. Carry on.”