“Got it, boss.”
To Ascarus, he said, “Okay, here we go. We approach those three slowly, smiling and chatting. You identify yourself as IRGC Captain Ascarus here to take on fuel. You also have orders from Tehran to speak to Dr. Saffari about the possibility of a naval showdown with the Americans in these waters and you require his assistance. It is urgent that you speak with him immediately. Please open the gate.”
“If he refuses?”
“Tell him the IRGC officer standing to your left has a pistol aimed at his head and is one second away from blowing his brains out. Open the damn gate.”
“Right.”
They started walking toward the gate together. Hawke was eyeing the enormous celestial observatory that surmounted the entire citadel. Few universities in the world had anything to rival it. He could only imagine how a superintelligent machine might make use of such a formidable piece of optics. But he had no doubt that it did.
“They’ve snapped to attention,” Hawke whispered to Ascarus. “Maybe this will be easier than we thought.”
“IRGC uniforms strike fear into the heart of every sane Iranian.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll behave.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Hawke said, “Navy Blue, this is Big Red One.”
“Go ahead, Big Red.”
“Approaching the gate. We get through it alive, that’s your signal. On my order, snipers fire, take out the sharpshooters up on the wall, over.”
“Roger that, over.”
“Navy Blue, confirm SEAL squads aboard are go when the wall is secure and the gate is open.”
“Affirmative. Go when entry is secure, roger.”
“Big Red One over.”
Smiling, and chatting casually, Hawke and Ascarus approached the heavy steel gate. It was set into the massively thick stone wall, just one of three such entrances to Saffari’s kingdom. The guards looked wary, but respectful of their uniforms and Hawke’s newly acquired black beard. Hawke had his SIG in his right hand, hidden in the folds of his blousy trousers. They reached the gate, paused, and he stood to one side as Ascarus addressed the captain of the guards.
“What did he say?” Hawke whispered quietly.
“He said he has to clear any entrance with his commander.”
“Tell him about the gun.”
Hawke witnessed the man’s eyes go saucer-wide as he saw Hawke’s gun go up, aimed at his head. These were clearly guards who’d pulled easy duty. They’d likely never had a gun pointed at them before. Ascarus pulled his weapon and covered the other two, and Hawke was pleased to see them lower their automatic weapons.
“Tell him he has one second to decide.”
Ascarus barked and the steel-barred gates parted and slid back inside the thick stone wall.
Hawke and his companion stepped through quickly and purposefully. After five yards, they wheeled about and dropped the three guards with double-tap head shots before they could reclose the gate. Then Hawke told Stoke to destroy the gate’s locks with a fragmentation grenade. He didn’t want his exit blocked should he return in rather a hurry.
The two men ducked inside the long tunnel.
“Snipers, commence firing,” Hawke said into his radio. He heard the crack of the SEAL M110 sniper rifles split the air. Immediately, the tunnel echoed with the sound of heavy AK-47 return fire coming from the wall above their heads as well as fire from the men pouring off the patrol boat and racing toward the now opened gate.
He looked at his watch. He and Ascarus now had a two-minute wait until the entire assault team arrived at the gate. He started a check of his equipment, weapons, and ammo, the frag grenades hanging from his webbed belt. Then he moved quickly to the far end of the tunnel and did a recon of the citadel’s interior. In the distance, above a morass of oddly shaped rooftops, he saw his immediate destination, the white marble residence, to his left. To his right was a maze of buildings of every shape and size. In one of those buildings the Blue Team would, he hoped, locate and destroy that bloody machine.
His whole body was thrumming.
Alex Hawke was in his familiar zone, white-hot with life, seething with a red-hot desire for revenge.
Fifty-one
Red Team stormed through the steel gate first, the SEALs charging close behind, hard on their heels, each man leaping in turn over the three corpses. Every single combatant had his Mark 16 combat assault rifle on full auto, blasting away in short bursts at targets Hawke couldn’t even see. He could hear the distinctive return fire of AK-47s from the sharpshooters on the wall above him. He was elated when his last man made it inside the tunnel alive.
Hawke was studying his aerial map of the citadel, calculating the shortest route through the narrow streets and alleys, the maze of shanties and ancient villages inside the wall. He wasn’t too worried about street fighting. He was concerned about getting across the huge white marble piazza that housed the residential palace. He and his men would be totally exposed but he had no choice.
Stony Stollenwork, the Blue Team leader, said to Hawke, “Commander, we are go on your command.”
“Aye. Red goes left to the residence, Blue goes right into the main village. By the looks of it, there are civilians. Keep a weather eye out for snipers, Stony. Assume they have night-vision capability just like we do. The guards I’ve seen, however, do not. Good hunting, guys. On my signal.”
Hawke motioned for them to follow and headed for the mouth of the tunnel where he paused.
He turned and faced his group of determined men, the best trained men in the world, and bristling with the best equipment money could buy. He studied their faces for a moment and saw what he was searching for. They all had it, down to the last man. They all had the “look.”
“Red left, Blue right, go, go, go!” Hawke said. He took the point and sprinted across the broad white marble piazza toward the residence. He could hear Stoke and his men right behind him. He was about two hundred yards from the covered entrance when he heard Stoke cry aloud in his earpiece, “Shit!”
“Talk to me, Stokely,” Hawke barked into his radio.
“Snipers with noise suppressors. Second floor on our left, bossman. One of the bastards stung me.”
“You okay?”
“Hell, yeah, I’m okay. It was only a bullet, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t like it, man,” Hawke heard Brock say.
“Like what?”
“Taking fire from high ground. Sucks, big time. Anybody besides me a graduate of the War College?”
“Take them out then, Harry, that’s your job description,” Stoke said.
“Aw, shit, man,” Brock said. “These assholes are killing us down here. I got a guy spilling his guts out on my spit-shined boots.”
“Don’t say fuck, Harry,” Stoke said, firing as fast as he could. “Boss don’t like it. Told you that in Afghanistan.”
“Yeah? Fuck him. Somebody up there just blew half my fucking ear off.”
“So? Shut up and shoot back, man, God and country.”
“I don’t need no Negro inspirational messages right now, awright? Especially from you.”
“Yeah? I don’t need no closet homos afraid of a few little bullets, awright?”
“You know what you can do? You can go-”
“Don’t say that F-word again, Harry. Boss kick your skinny white ass.”
The sudden thump-thump of Harry’s heavy machine gun rent the air. Huge chunks of cement, calved off, raining down on the marble. Harry was finally cooperating in earnest.
Red Team was now spitting lead, and the air suddenly filled with tracer rounds as their fire chewed up the walls and obliterated the windows above. Hawke spotted guards emerging from the domed entrance, scattering, but running straight toward them. He wanted a gunfight and it looked like he was going to get one. He saw at least two of his men drop, obviously mortally wounded. Others were getting clipped, but kept on fighting, spraying fire at the dispersing enemy fighters.