This part of the plan was not supposed to have happened for a few more months. But with the escape of the two Americans from the island in the Pacific, Jinshan had thought it wise to act soon. Moving up the timetable meant that they had to compromise in several areas. Her own participation was not ideal. A woman of her ethnic background would quite possibly attract undue attention. The original plan had been to contract this job out to local personnel — or perhaps employ Chinese special operations commandos.
Because the timeline had been moved up, however, Lisa became the best option. Jinshan had told her that he would make other arrangements to complete this mission. He’d said that it actually might not be such a good idea to send a woman into Iran to do this type of work. He informed her that one of her less-capable male counterparts would go instead.
She’d known Jinshan was manipulating her. This Iranian step — the staged war — was a crucial part of the macro-plan. There could be no mistakes made. It was sheer sexist stupidity to think that a man would be better suited to perform this task. Lisa was better than any man at this type of work. Jinshan knew that. And he knew that she knew it. In the end, she didn’t care if Jinshan was manipulating her. She had worked too long and hard to see someone of lesser ability fuck it up.
To compensate for the risk of being seen, Lisa had approached and would soon exit from the sea, and under the cloak of night. She’d had assistance from Chinese naval commandos, embarked on their Shang-class submarine, while she’d traversed the waters of the Arabian Gulf. Now on land, however, she was by herself.
Well, almost. There were a few hired gunmen that knew nothing of who was really pulling the strings. Still, strings could be traced — and Lisa was here to make sure that didn’t happen.
She checked her watch. It was thirty minutes past sunset. Almost time. She took another look through her binoculars. She was just able to make out the Iranian Kilo-class diesel submarine that was docked in the base’s small harbor. A brass band and several dozen ornately uniformed Iranian servicemen stood in formation next to it. In front of them, just beside the sub, was a small tent. The water in the cove had a rough chop. The winds were just a bit stronger than she would have liked.
Three sleek black cars with tinted windows pulled up to the tent. Each of the cars had two Iranian flags flapping from its hood. The ceremony was wrapping up. Iran’s newest submarine was a source of national pride in a country that was often challenged by the mightiest militaries in the world. This was a good opportunity for national leaders to be seen. Hence, Ahmad Gorji and his beloved wife had attended the ceremony. Killing a prominent Iranian politician would make national news. Killing his wife, a relative of the Iranian Supreme Leader, would start a war.
Lisa looked at the tiny phone that lay in the dirt next to her. She had two spare batteries and a solar charger in case she ran out of power. She typed a text message in Farsi: LEAVING NOW. She squirmed in her position, trying to loosen up her muscles.
The real test would be after she fired her weapon and began her departure. By her estimate, she would have about twelve minutes to make it to the beach. There would be a lot of running. She had been through worse before, but that didn’t make this any easier. She kept calculating the times and distances in her mind, going over the details of each step and evaluating options. She wondered what would go wrong. Something always did.
Adrenaline began pumping through her veins as the time for action drew near. Lisa reached for the large, narrow bag that lay next to her. Inside was an Israeli-made Galatz SR-99 sniper rifle. It was over forty-three inches long and weighed a moderate thirteen pounds. There was one 7.62mm round already in the chamber and a box of extra ammunition in the pack. Lisa unfastened the cover of the very large scope mounted on top of the rifle and looked through it, making sure that her earlier adjustments were still appropriate. She typed in a few buttons on her phone and got wind estimates. She then made a few adjustments on the scope to ensure her shots would be accurate.
It had been a long time since she had been to sniper school. Her instructors there had immediately noticed her natural talent. She was able to relax her body and control her breathing better than ninety-nine percent of the other sniper school students. Her body was limber and her eyes sharp. She also had an innate predictive ability. When faced with a human target, she seemed to know exactly how they would move and could adjust her aim appropriately. And more important than all of those qualities, she was patient.
She was an expert shot at the farthest of distances. At this range of only four hundred meters from her intended target, Lisa was lethal. She repositioned the stand that propped up the barrel and gave her stability, then looked through the scope towards the highway. The dusty black cars with flags streaming from their front had about a mile to drive before they reached the contact zone.
A large cargo truck was pulled over along the side of the road in between the base entrance and the airport entrance. Right where it should be. The driver was looking at the engine under the shade of its raised hood. Lisa observed him slam down the hood and get back into the rig. If all went according to plan, he would remove the truck to block the highway just as the black cars arrived.
The men hiding inside the back of that truck had all been chosen because they had two things in common: One, they knew how to fire a weapon. Two, they each had a loved one who had been killed by the Iranian regime. Before yesterday, many of them had never met. It didn’t matter. They didn’t have to perform well as a team. They didn’t even need to win the firefight that would soon erupt. This was revenge, they were told. Revenge for what had been done to their wives, their brothers, and in some cases, their children.
When the black cars stopped, the would-be assassins were supposed to get out and fire their Israeli-made submachine guns into them until they ran out of ammunition. Several of the men carried armor-piercing rounds. They were told to fire at the drivers first, and then proceed to walk their fire through the rest of the targets. They were all to stand on the north side of the highway so they would not chance firing at each other.
In one of the cars, the men were told, was a prominent Iranian politician. The men in the truck knew what the future held after they pulled the trigger. Most of them probably suspected that they would not live through the night. But to them, a chance to take aim at the Iranian regime, to fire on the symbol of everything that they hated in their nation’s corrupt government — and a chance for revenge — was well worth it.
The black cars turned out of the base security gate and headed west on the highway, moving fast. Their tinted windows made it impossible for the men to see the faces of those that they would be firing upon. They would likely never know that the politician’s wife was also in one of the cars.
Lisa sucked water from a straw connected to a Camelbak pouch while looking through the scope. She moved her hands into firing position on the weapon. She took one glance into her pack, rechecking the location of the extra rounds. She could easily grab them if she needed to reload. But if all went as planned, she shouldn’t need more than the six rounds that were already loaded in the magazine.
The cars were about one minute away from the target zone when Lisa sent another text: START MOVING.
Through the scope, Lisa observed the truck shake to life and begin to roll forward from the road shoulder and onto the highway. The cab swerved to the left and blocked the entire road with its large frame. One hundred yards away, the black cars began to rapidly slow down. The caravan of vehicles crept up to a point about fifty feet behind the truck and came to a halt.