“Charlie Brown, Charlie Brown,” he spoke into his headset, calling the aircraft carrier’s Combat Information Center, keeping his voice neutral. “This is Snoopy Two.”
“Copy, Snoopy Two. Send your traffic.”
“We have lost track of Red Box. Repeat, we have lost all signal from Red Box.”
“Hold one.” The tech in the carrier CIC checked his own screen, which confirmed what the tech in the plane was seeing. “Same on my screen, Snoopy Two. No signal from Red Box. Alter course for a closer look.”
“Roger that.”
The Pathfinder helicopter had disappeared. The CIC launched helicopters to the last known location and to vector any allied warships into the area. A covert insertion had changed in an instant into a massive search-and-rescue effort.
Going through the checklist, a Navy lieutenant dialed a number that activated the portable satellite telephone that was on the ground beside Kyle Swanson at the rendezvous site. After some buzzing interference while the connection was made and the proper code words given, the lieutenant said, “Bounty Hunter, be advised that the mission is off.”
“Say again your last, Charlie Brown.” Swanson looked up into the night out over the sea. No sign of any Black Hawk. The voice from the carrier confirmed the notification that the mission was now inoperative. Kyle thought the choice of words was interesting; the guy had not said it was “aborted” or “ordered terminated,” just that it was “off,” which left Swanson with no idea of what had happened to the Pathfinders and their helicopter.
That did not matter. He immediately moved out, stacking his gear in the 4Runner and hitting the road, back toward where the sky was absolutely glowing with deathly colors and thunder rumbled. Whatever happened with the chopper was no longer his business, because he knew all too well that unexplained shit happens in war. Plans can fail in a moment, and a new plan has to be implemented.
Meanwhile, the ammo dump was back there exploding like the biggest Fourth of July celebration he had ever seen, and that was just too damned good a diversion to pass up. He could still make something happen.
Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi of the Army of the Guardians was sitting on the side of his bed in Cairo, taking deep breaths to control the emotions churning within him. It had been a rather pleasant night at the end of a work-filled day, and he had left work behind at five o’clock so as to have a very private dinner with a beautiful yellow-haired young Swedish woman who was hired because of her skills at pleasing rich men. It went on for hours. Their lovemaking had reached a fever pitch, and afterward she departed quietly with a full purse and left behind another satisfied customer. Naqdi had immediately fallen asleep.
The private military telephone beside his bed blinked a red light and purred softly, just enough to alert the occupant that he was being summoned. It took a few moments for Naqdi to unsnarl himself from the tangled sheets and deep sleep before he answered, and the operator, an enlisted man, politely said, “Colonel. You have an urgent call from General Khasrodad in Sharm el-Sheikh. He insisted that I connect him without delay.”
Khasrodad? Why is Khasrodad calling me directly? General Khasrodad normally was the commander of Iranian’s airborne division and had been temporarily assigned to lead the commando forces down in the peninsula. Naqdi considered him competent and loyal. The general, however, answered up the military chain of command, and he was under orders that Naqdi was in overall command of the Egyptian invastion and that Major Shakuri was on site down there and should be handling whatever this was. The colonel took a drink of water from a bedside bottle. “Put him on. Don’t listen in.”
“Yes, of course, sir.” The operator made the connection with a clicking sound.
“Has Shakuri called you?” The gritty voice of Khasrodad jarred the colonel. He was clearly furious about something.
“No. Why?” He looked at the small clock on the dresser. Four o’clock.
“Let me report, then.” The voice was almost a venomous hiss. “I’m sure you’re aware of his reprisals against the civilian population last night, but listen to this…”
Reprisals? He had heard nothing about any reprisals. The colonel was now wide awake, then stood up as the sound of explosions came through the receiver. “I have been out of contact this evening. What is happening, General?”
“Our main ammunition dump at the airport has been attacked by unknown forces and is in flames. It is so wild right now that we cannot get near it, much less contain the damage, which is going to be substantial. The cause is unknown, so I can’t say whether it is sabotage or a military assault. I’ve taken steps to draw in our perimeter around the airport for better protection.”
“Isn’t Shakuri out there? Let me speak to him.”
“That’s the reason I’m talking to you directly, Naqdi. Your man Shakuri is not answering his telephone. I’ve dispatched an officer over to his headquarters to find him.”
There was a pause. “Thank you for alerting me, General. I will come down to Sharm in person as soon as I can.” Now for the delicate part. “Have you notified your superiors in Tehran?”
The general’s tone eased. “Not yet, both as a favor to you, my old friend, and because I do not have enough specifics. I do not think your man Shakuri is up to this job.”
“You have my gratitude, Medhi.” It was a huge favor from an old friend, and a costly debt that would have to be repaid at some later date. “Now, let me ask you plainly. What is the overall situation in the area? Is this serious?”
“The ammo dump will be a hard blow to us, but it is not fatal. We can make do until we get some resupply and the Brotherhood reaches us, although we will have to be even more cautious. I hope those Brotherhood people get here fast. The reprisals in the city are a problem. In my opinion, those have put Sharm on the brink of switching sides, and the ammo dump blowing up shows weakness on our part. Serious mistake, Colonel. Very serious.”
Naqdi sat back down, telephone to his ear, elbows on his knees, eyes closed. “For some reason, the major has neglected to inform me of any reprisals. Tell me what happened. From the start, old friend.”
23
For Kyle Swanson, it was now open season on Iranian soldiers anywhere he found them. So far, the big guns of the military forces of the United States and its powerful allies remained muzzled, and the diplomats were slogging along doing whatever it was that diplomats did. His MI6 partner was off doggedly pursuing her own agenda and of little help to him, and unfortunately she had taken along Omar, who would not leave her. Ah, fuck it. He drove on rapidly, watching the fire in the distance. The massive round of initial explosions had quieted, but there were new ones cooking off sporadically, still jarring and strong, and flames rolled across the airport, which meant firefighting was at a minimum. He believed that all the Iranians could do was form a tighter perimeter, try to extinguish the smaller fires, and let the big one cook unchecked until the things stopped popping.
A new plan was forming in his mind as he drove, pushing away the absence of the Pathfinders, for there was nothing he could do about that anyway. For the present, momentum and darkness and surprise were still on his side, and he wanted to strike again, to lay on even more pressure to knock the Iranians further off stride.