The screen flashed white, the connection cut, without further elaboration.
In Iraq
31 May 1997
0607
JED BARCLAY SETTLED HIS HANDS ONTO HIS THIGHS, FINgers rapping to the beat of the rotor as the MH-60 Special Forces Blackhawk whipped toward the agreed exchange site near Kirkuk in northern Iraq. The Iraqi radar operator sat next to him on the shallow and uncomfortable jump seat, as much of a mystery to Jed as when they first met.
The Iraqis had agreed to exchange the remains of the two American pilots who had died for the live prisoner. Jed RAZOR’S EDGE
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had objected—though he hadn’t told them anything, the man clearly knew a great deal about the state of Iraqi defenses and their tactics. Having gone to RPI, he might be an engineer or some sort of scientist, not merely a technician. But everyone else had dismissed his objections—
Americans, even dead ones, were worth more than any information the Iraqi could possibly give.
They had a point. The barrage tactics hadn’t been effective; it was clear now that the Iranian laser had shot down most if not all the aircraft lost in the last few days.
Part of their Greater Islamic Glory campaign? Jed had his doubts. They had made overtures to the U.S., acted as if they wanted to help in the war against Saddam, even made noises about getting rid of the Chinese. Perhaps they’d found the communist yoke a little too much to bear, even in the name of Allah.
Jed hadn’t even tried to sort it out yet. The NSA intercepts would make interesting reading once he got home.
So would the reports on the laser. It was unlikely that they’d killed everyone associated with the weapon.
Would it turn up again? If so, where? Iran? China? Something to ponder back home.
The helicopter began banking for a turn. Jed glanced at the Iraqi. His eyes gave nothing away. Maybe he was thinking of the hero’s welcome that awaited him on the ground.
MUSAH TAHIR SAT PATIENTLY UNTIL THE AMERICANS LIFTED
him from the bench toward the exit of the helicopter. His hands were unbound at the top of the ramp, then his guards gave him a slight push; they seemed almost anxious to be rid of him.
The light of the Iraqi afternoon blinded him. A row of soldiers stood at attention a few feet away. A pair of pickup trucks sat behind them.
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Tahir took a few steps, then turned and watched as the pickup trucks backed toward the helicopter. A metal coffin sat in each. Two Americans from the helicopter nodded grimly at the Iraqis in the back of the trucks; they shouldered the coffins and slid them into the helicopters, arranging them awkwardly in the interior. Tahir seemed to have been forgotten.
He had wanted to say good-bye to Barclay. The American struck him as a decent man. But Barclay signed some papers for an Iraqi Air Force colonel Tahir didn’t know, then got on the helicopter without looking back at him.
It lifted with a roar. Tahir looked toward the colonel but he had disappeared. Turning, he nearly fell over General Hadas, the man who had first given him his mission.
“General,” he said, snapping a salute. “I told them nothing.”
Hadas frowned and raised his hand. There was a pistol in it. By the time Tahir realized what would happen, the gun was level with his forehead. He had time only to close his eyes before it fired.
Anhik Base, Iran
0610
THE RUINS CONTINUED TO SMOLDER. THE STRIKE HAD BEEN
quick and precise; they had examined the laser, then destroyed it. At least twenty of Sattari’s soldiers were dead, probably many more.
His duty was to go to them now, to comfort them, to rally them for the challenges ahead. Khamenei or the Chinese might choose this moment to mount their own attack. Perhaps some unknown rival or rivals might be encouraged.
A small part of him wanted to flee. Another small part RAZOR’S EDGE
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wanted him to end the struggle completely—to give in to the urge of futility, to no longer fight the tide. Suicide would be so easy, a matter merely of pulling the handgun from his belt and placing it into his mouth.
Sattari felt a shiver run through his body. A prudent commander might find it necessary to retreat or even to surrender. But while he lived, there was hope, there was always hope.
Killing himself was the coward’s way.
He had one thing to live for now—revenge. He would get the men who did this. He would destroy the black-robed traitors. He might, if his rage continued unabated, destroy the whole world.
Sattari felt his heart stutter in his chest, overcome by the anger he felt.
But then it calmed. It was a soldier’s heart, trained to survive. Anger was meaningless to it.
He had known the risks and calculated them; if things seemed bleak now, they were not as bleak as they could be. He would survive, and he would have his vengeance.
The general began to walk down the road, past the parked vehicles, ignoring his driver’s call, ignoring the questions from the bodyguards. He would walk into his post by foot; he would comfort his men; he would rebuild.
Incirlik
0805
FACED WITH THE LONG PLANE RIDE HOME AND NOTHING TO
do, Zen had decided to do something he hadn’t done on an airplane in a long, long time—read a book.
But High Top didn’t have much of a library. In fact, it didn’t have any library at all. When they landed at Incirlik, Bree told him he didn’t have time to explore—they 418
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
were only here to refuel. And since when was he reading books, anyway?
Fortunately, his cousin Jed Barclay came by to say hello.
“You have any books handy?” Zen asked his cousin after they exchanged the usual back and forth.
“Computers and Foreign Policy Decisions During the Twenty-first Century,” Jed suggested. “Hot topic.”
“How about something else?” said Zen.
Jed, who was lugging his bags en route to a transport, knelt down and pored through them on the Megafortress’s Flighthawk deck. “Coonts thriller?”
“Read ’em all. Most of ’em twice.”
“Well, I have volume one of Burns’s biography of FDR,” said Jed, retrieving the book. “Good book.”
“FDR?” Zen looked at the large paperback, which seemed to have been used as a football, door stop, and hammer.
Roosevelt. He’d been paralyzed too, right.
Good book for a gimp.
Zen had started to reach for the book but now stopped.
He remembered the hallucination of pain he’d had, the feeling that his legs were still part of him.
They were part of him. They were there. They just weren’t there anymore.
Was he doomed to think about them forever, at his worst times?
“I’ve been reading it for a year,” Jed was saying, holding it out. “When I was in college, this professor—”
“Okay,” said Zen, taking the book to forestall a long dissertation.
Knowing Jed, he didn’t even make the connection about Roosevelt being paralyzed. Zen’s cousin was the perfect absent-minded professor—an expert on the world, oblivious about what was in front of him.
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“Wish I could fly back with you,” said Jed.
“You can, cuz,” said Breanna, coming up the access ladder at the rear of the Flighthawk control bay. “We have a jump seat upstairs. Let me stow your gear.”
“Can’t.” Jed gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m supposed to be in D.C. tonight.”
“Then you better hustle. Your plane’s about to take off.” She winked at Zen.
Jed turned white. “Oh, man, I’m in for it now,” he said, grabbing his things and rushing down the ladder.
“It’s not, is it?”
“I was just talking to them on the radio,” said Breanna.
“He’s got an hour and a half.”
“You’re cruel,” Zen told Breanna.
“He’s cute when he’s dizzy. Kind of reminds me of a puppy I used to have.”