The squad leader’s radio crackled. “All clear, all clear. All Tangos are dead except for two. Send in the retrieval team and the medics.”
“That’s us, gentlemen,” the squad leader said. “On me.” He jumped to his feet and double-timed it to the doors. As they approached, the interior lights came on, flooding the opening with light. The ground, the walls, and the gray steel doors were riddled with heavy-caliber holes the size of golf balls. Beyond a fifty-foot radius of destruction around the door, the ground was untouched.
The inside of the cavern was massive, with high arching ceilings and an orderly cluster of small buildings and straight-line roads stretching back into the depths of the space. Three TELs, one empty, two still carrying missiles, were parked inside the entrance, riddled with bullet holes.
The squad leader let out a low whistle. “Look at this place. Man, these guys were serious.”
The assault force commander was waiting for them by the TELs. “McHugh,” he said. “I need you to verify that these are the launchers you tagged.”
Brendan nodded and climbed on top of the first TEL. He showed the petty officer where to cut into the composite material. The sound of the hand tool whirred until he had opened a large enough hole to let Brendan look inside.
The space was empty.
The petty officer jumped to the ground, and clambered up the second TEL. The cavity between the cab and the launcher was empty on this vehicle, too. Brendan’s knee was on the verge of locking up, and he could feel Coyote’s eyes on him as he climbed the final TEL. By the time he made it to the top, the petty officer had cut a square into the truck body.
“After you, sir,” he said, punching the material free.
Brendan peered into the hole. The sensor he had placed there three years ago winked up at him. He flashed a thumbs-up sign to the raid commander. “We got something. Verifying now.”
He pulled a small container of solvent from a pocket of his cargo pants and squirted it on the adhesive that held the sensor in place. After a few minutes of working the device back and forth, he managed to pull it off. He checked the lower right corner where he knew Martinez had scratched his initials. There it was: MM. To be sure, he punched in the unique verification code Baxter had given him. The green light on the device shifted to blinking yellow.
He looked down at the raid commander. “We’re verified. This is the launcher.”
“Roger that, McHugh. Thanks.” He stepped away and spoke into his radio. “We have positive confirmation on the launcher. The retrieval teams are starting work now.”
From his perch atop the TEL, Brendan had a good view of the whole cavern. It went back at least another few hundred yards, with structural steel in place to shore up areas where they had cleared out overhanging stone. He knew the plan was to use the daylight hours to ransack the cave for useful intel, then transport everything off site under cover of darkness tonight. Everything that remained would be destroyed.
A team hustled two stretchers toward the cave entrance. One of the patients was a younger man with a head full of heavy dark curls, the other an older man with a thin face and—
Brendan froze. He knew that face.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Stop those corpsmen!” He half slid, half fell off the TEL, landing on his bad knee. A bolt of pain lanced up his leg. He gripped the side of the truck and pulled himself to his feet, hobbling after the stretchers. “Wait!”
Outside, a thin line of orange defined the eastern horizon, and the air was cool and dry. A MH-47 Chinook, dual rotors idling, waited with its ramp down.
The medics were moving at a quick pace; their job was to get any injured off site before dawn, and they were running out of time.
“Wait!” Brendan screamed at their backs. He broke into a run.
Coyote streaked past him, catching the corpsmen on the ramp of the waiting helo. They were arguing when Brendan puffed up. He knelt next to the stretcher.
It was him. The Iranian diplomat, the man he had seen at the Iraqi Ministry of Justice, the man from Don’s file. His dark eyes were open, and as Brendan’s face came into view, they focused on him. A light of recognition dawned.
“You,” he rasped. “Lieutenant McHugh. I know you.”
Brendan nodded.
The man grimaced, a horrible show of tobacco-stained teeth and blood. He whispered something, but it was lost in the noise of the rotors.
“Sir, we need to get him out of here before first light,” the corpsman shouted over the noise of the rotors, a note of irritation in his voice.
Brendan held up a hand. He leaned closer to the injured man until he could feel his hot breath against his ear. Even then, his voice was growing weaker.
“You think you’ve won… with your technology and your…” He coughed, a deep gurgle. The corpsman tried to push past Brendan, but Coyote held him back.
“We have won,” Brendan replied, staring into the man’s dark eyes.
The Iranian shook his head, his eyes swimming with the effort of staying conscious. A bluish pallor crept over his features. “No,” he whispered in a strangled voice. “Dozdi shomal.”
His labored breathing stopped suddenly. The corpsman swore and shouldered Brendan out of the way.
Brendan let himself be pushed back. It didn’t matter what the medic did — the Iranian was dead.
CHAPTER 44
The long-awaited press conference from Tel Aviv was a carefully orchestrated event. They had negotiated all the previous day, through the night, and into the next day. The people on the stage looked like it.
Prime Minister Netanyahu led off the press conference, his voice raspy with exhaustion, but with what might pass for a smile on his square features. He yielded the podium to the Iranian President, who took a moment to gather his notes before he looked into the cameras. The paper shuffle was an old trick of his, Reza knew, to project a sense of slight disorganization and build a tinge of empathy with his audience. When he looked up and smiled, he was wearing his best stern grandfather face.
“Today we have made an historic movement toward peace and stability in our region. If Israel and Iran — two supposedly mortal enemies — can agree on terms to make this region a safer place, then together we can achieve anything. My country has never desired nuclear weapons, and has never had nuclear weapons. Our nuclear aspirations have always been for peaceful purposes. This accord, which will be signed by all parties in Helsinki on Monday, September fifth, of this year, will prove to the world that Iran is a peaceful nation dedicated to the prosperity of our people.”
The US Secretary of State represented the P5+1 nations. Of the three speakers, he looked the freshest, his long face split by a genuine smile. A smile of relief that his deception of the Israelis has not come to light, Reza thought. The Americans had taken a massive gamble that had paid off — so far. With the US elections only a few months away, the outgoing President needed a win, a big win, for his party. In one fell swoop, he could bring stability to the Middle East and set his Republican opposition back on their heels. With Israel on his side, the Congress would not dare cross him. It was a bulletproof plan — as long as Reza did his part.
Aban had given him little to work with. There was another weapon, he was sure of that much, and it had gone to Hezbollah, to a half brother that Aban had never met. All he had was a name: Rafiq Roshed. A quick search of the Iranian Hezbollah files yielded nothing. If Rafiq even existed, he was off the grid.