Burke furtively studied the two men in the backseat. From time to time he opened his mouth as though to ask exactly what had happened inside Malcolm’s office, but each time, he closed it without speaking. Halovic ignored him, calmly studying the city streets, checking to make sure they weren’t under surveillance.
Still pale and in a state of shock, Kaller slumped back against the rear seat, staring straight ahead, shivering occasionally. But when they turned onto the highway leading out of Richmond without any sign of police pursuit or even interest, he seemed to settle down. His shivers died away and his color began coming back.
Halovic watched the younger man with some interest. Keller was apparently learning how to come to terms with the blood bath he had witnessed. That was good. Given time, he might even learn to control his fears and to act with the discipline and ruthlessness a successful secret war required.
They were ten miles outside the Richmond city limits when Keller leaned forward, closer to Burke, and nodded toward Halovic. “Jesus, Jim, you should’ve seen it. Karl blew that damn nigger away like you’d put down a stray dog! He offed two more of ‘em, too. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers.
Burke stared at Halovic. “You shot three people?”
“It was necessary.” The Bosnian shrugged. “One man or three it makes no difference.” He smiled crookedly. “You cannot keep count in a war, Mr. Burke.”
His own calm was not an act. He had killed many times in Bosnia, so many that he had lost track somewhere along the way. The faces of the dead sometimes came to haunt him in nightmares, but they faded in the waking day. Besides, eliminating Malcolm had proved to be child’s play an act without significant risk. These Americans were all so open, so unprepared so unsuspecting. Killing them required less real effort than posting a letter.
“Then all this stuff about your group, about the alliance, about the guns and bombs you can get for us… that’s all true? No bullshit?” Burke asked rapidly.
Halovic could hear the excitement building in the other man’s voice. This was the reaction he had hoped for. Confronted for the first time by a man who would do what he had only dreamed about, Burke was beginning to see the prospect of his hate-filled rhetoric bearing real fruit.
He nodded somberly. “What I have told you is true. My comrades and I in Europe have the weapons… and the will to use them.” His eyes narrowed. “The question I put to you, Mr. Burke, is this: Do you and your men of the Aryan Sword have the courage to join with us in this war? Can you really kill to save the white race in America?”
“Hell, yes!” Burke exclaimed. He sounded almost surprised by the certainty in his own tone. Then he thumped his fist on the seat back for emphasis. “You get us that heavy duty hardware, Karl, and we’ll set this whole god damned state on fire before we’re done! The blacks and Jews won’t know what’s hit them!”
Keller nodded sharply, seconding his leader’s sudden resolution.
“That’s right!” He slapped McGowan on the back. ‘-‘Ain’t that right, Tony?”
The driver flinched and mumbled a tentative assent.
Halovic ignored him. McGowan was nothing a drone. Burke and Keller were the key men in their twisted group, the brains and the muscle of their so-called Aryan Sword.
He hid a satisfied smile as Burke started bargaining in earnest, making the complicated arrangements needed to covertly acquire a wide range of weapons and explosives. Clearly, the older man now believed they would help make him a leader in the new crusade to “purify” America.
Well, Halovic thought grimly, let him dream. If Burke and the other extremist leaders truly believed in the coming Armageddon, they might even work up the courage to act on their own when the time came. And if not, the armaments they were about to receive would still make them useful stalking-horses for General Taleh’s special action teams.
Either way these foolish Americans would be made to serve a greater purpose.
CHAPTER 8
LOCK-ON
Three Russianmade GAZ jeeps were parked on the crest of a low, boulder-strewn rise north and east of the industrial city of Ahvaz. Iranian Special Forces troops in full combat gear stood guard at key points on the hill, forming a protective perimeter around the high-ranking Army officers clustered near the three vehicles.
Standing at the center of the small group, General Amir Taleh swept his binoculars slowly back and forth, carefully scrutinising the area selected as a training range for the newly reequipped 32nd Armored Brigade. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. It was good ground.
Regular patches of green dotted the distant northern and western horizons some of the date and sugar plantations that made Ahvaz Plain an important agricultural region. Oil wells were visible to the south, marking the edge of one of the vast gas and petroleum fields that had made the province both one of Iran’s richest regions and a prime objective for neighboring Iraq during their bloody, endless war. Brown, rugged slopes rose to the east the foothills of the Zagros Mountains.
No plantations or oil wells marred the emptiness of the stony, uneven landscape immediately to Taleh’s front. There were only the rusting hulks of obsolete tanks and armored personnel carriers. Thousands of track marks were visible crisscrossing the barren plain, silhouetted by the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. Heat waves shimmered among the abandoned fighting vehicles, distorting distances and shapes.
The long, low, deadly silhouettes of modern T-80 tanks and BMPs crammed with Iranian infantry maneuvered in and around the hulks. Dust kicked up by their speeding treads merged into a single, ragged brown cloud. The tanks and infantry fighting vehicles were firing on the move, all the while smoothly deploying into platoon-sized wedge formations.
As each T-80 fired, 125mm shells screamed through the air. Even at more than two thousand meters almost all of them burst somewhere around the target hulks. Taleh smiled, pleased by the accuracy the 32nd Brigade’s tank gunners were demonstrating.
One round triggered a bright, orange-red ball of flame.
Taleh turned in surprise toward the bearded, hawk-nosed brigadier who commanded the 32nd. There shouldn’t have been any reaction from those burned-out vehicles.
“We place tanks of diesel fuel and a few rounds of outdated ammunition inside the hulks before each exercise. My crews are trained to shoot until they see a fireball or explosion,” the other man explained. “I have found that it increases the realism of the battle drill.”
“An excellent idea, Sayyed.” Taleh nodded approvingly. Like the other armies in the region, too many of Iran’s battalions and brigades were hollow units accumulations of first-rate hardware and second-rate, poorly trained men. Leaders who understood the danger of that and who could forge their commands into capable units were rare and valuable soldiers. Clearly, he had chosen the right man to command this formation.
He glanced at Kazemi and indicated the burning wreck now visible through a gap in the smoke. “Make a note of this, Farhad. We will recommend the technique to all units.”
Taleh swung back to watch the rest of the armored assault as it swept across the barren, explosion-torn landscape before him.
An hour later, with the exercise complete, the small convoy of three jeeps rolled through the gates of the Ahvaz Garrison, heading for a long, low building that contained the brigade headquarters. Barracks, maintenance sheds, and storehouses lined the paved road on either side. Most were dark in the fading light.