Dick Stivers - Rain of Doom

With those Americans, Zhgenti could only expect the unexpected. Therefore, he had accepted the suggestion from Desmarais that he anticipate the illogical and establish a watch at the Iranian embassy.

Actually, when Zhgenti considered it, a certain logic suggested that the Americans would attack the embassy. They had tracked Iranians from Beirut to Mexico, then exterminated them. Now they attacked an Iranian base in the Bekaa.

So why not attack the Iranian embassy, the source of funding and guidance for the fanatics?

When the Americans came, Zhgenti would be there, waiting.

As his limousine ascended the ramp to street level, Colonel Dastgerdi saw the man known to his associates in UNESCO as Jean Pierre Giraud stride from the darkness. Dastgerdi pushed the button of his intercom. "Driver, stop! That man comes with me."

"Yes, Colonel."

Throwing open the door, Dastgerdi greeted the man in French. But when the elegantly dressed United Nations functionary joined him in the Mercedes, Dastgerdi abandoned French and spoke in their native language, Russian.

"This is our night of victory, Comrade Suvorov," Dastgerdi announced, using the man's true name. "Another victory for the Special Forces of the Red Army!"

Suvorov feigned ignorance of Russian. He glanced to the bulletproof glass dividing their seats from the driver and continued in French. Dastgerdi laughed at his associate's concern.

"He cannot hear. The glass stops bullets and words. I am absolutely positive. Speak — it is a time for celebration." The Colonel opened the built-in bar, removed a bottle of vodka and filled two glasses. "After years, we can speak. We have overcome the technological limitations of our nation's weapons, overcome the ignorance of the Syrians and the stupidity of the Iranians. The American President will receive the reward of our struggles. To the inauguration!"

They gulped down the Russian alcohol. The limousine passed through the concentric rings of fencing protecting the rocket-development base. Dastgerdi looked out at the landscape of rock and snow. He laughed. "Never again will I see this miserable place. Now I can become an officer again! Forget your French, Suvorov! Speak our language."

"Is difficult to abandon caution," Suvorov admitted. "Speaking French and English, but never our tongue. Never allowing ourselves even to dream in our language, but... but for victory, it is nothing."

As the Mercedes powered through the snow and ruts of the road to the highway, Dastgerdi poured two more shots of vodka. "To the defeat of the old men — in Moscow and Washington. After the war, the Soviet army will rule all the world."

The other Soviet laughed. "But Syria and Iran and Iraq are not the world. We will gain the oil fields and the ports, three more socialist republics."

"And it will be a victory for the army. Not the old men, not the KGB, not the diplomats. We will gain power over the Central Committee and then nothing can stop us. Nothing!"

"I do not believe we will push that far. The oil fields and the ports of the Gulf and Mediterranean, that is enough..."

"No! The world! Nothing less than the world!" Dastgerdi splashed another shot into his glass. "Victory for the Red Army! Victory for the special forces of the Soviet army intelligence service!"

As they neared the highway, the driver spoke through the intercom. "Colonel Dastgerdi, a checkpoint. A group of our soldiers is blocking the road."

"Drive past them!" Dastgerdi told him. "They have no authority to stop me."

"Colonel, they have heavy weapons."

The two Soviets looked out to see a heavy troop transport. Soldiers aimed a tripod-mounted 12.7mm machine gun at the Mercedes. Another soldier stood with a ready RPG launcher and rocket.

"I advise we stop," the driver concluded.

"Present our documents!" Dastgerdi ordered. "But I will not tolerate a delay."

Slowing to a stop, the driver rolled down his window. A Syrian soldier demanded their papers. Another tapped at the back window. The driver spoke through the intercom.

"They demand to search the car, Colonel."

"No! I will not allow it!" Throwing open the door, Dastgerdi attempted to step out. The muzzles of Kalashnikov rifles stopped him. Soldiers looked into the back.

"Your papers!" one of the Syrians ordered.

"Where is your officer?" Dastgerdi shouted.

"My officer is dead, killed by traitors in the uniforms of officers. Perhaps you are another traitor. Show us your papers. If you fight, we execute you."

With a rifle at his head, the driver walked to the trunk and unlocked it. Then the soldier pushed him back into the front seat.

Colonel Dastgerdi waited in the Mercedes limousine, raging at the stupidity of common soldiers.

Standing behind the truck, his pockets full of tools, Gadgets watched the driver open the trunk of the limousine. A Shia in a Syrian army uniform escorted the driver back to the front of the Mercedes. When the driver's door closed, Gadgets crossed the road to the open trunk.

The raised trunk lid blocked the view of the two men in the back seat. The trunk light illuminating his search, Gadgets opened the top suitcase. Clothes. Slipping his hands into the folded shirts and pants, he found nothing unusual. He put the suitcase aside and opened another.

Ten black plastic units, each the size of an AM transistor radio, lay cushioned on precut blocks of foam. He had no time to study or test them. He knew the purpose and the function of the units. Now he had to modify one.

Using the point of a watchmaker's screwdriver, he snapped open one of the black plastic cases. He saw circuit boards, components, hundreds of expertly soldered connections. Studying the components, he thumbed the power switch. A tiny red diode light on the side of the case glowed. The homing-impulse transmitter gave no other indication of operation.

Gadgets poked the screwdriver into the fine wires and separated the two leads to the switch. With micro-cutters, he snipped the wires from the switch, stripped off a few millimeters of insulation, then twisted the wires together. With a bit of black electrical tape he had stuck to his left thumbnail, he covered the twist in the wires.

Next, he found the two tiny wires leading to the red diode. He snipped the wires to kill the light. A second bit of tape secured the cut wires to the plastic case.

Closing the plastic case, Gadgets glanced to the nearest Shia, who maintained his impassive expression as his eyes flicked to Gadgets. Gadgets took a few more seconds and slipped a minimicrophone-transmitter into the suitcase of directional transmitters, jamming it deep between the foam padding and the suitcase shell.

He closed the case of electronics, returned it exactly where he found it, then replaced the suitcase on top. Signaling the Shia, Gadgets walked away without looking back. The Shia slammed the trunk lid closed.

Spinning its tires on the ice, exhaust clouding in the darkness, the limousine continued away. The taillights swayed as the vehicle bumped over the road, then the red points went over a rise and disappeared.

"All right!" Gadgets jumped into the air and slapped his hands together. "Did it, dudes! I did it. Fifteen thousand points on the pinball machine of foreign policy for the unknown Mr. Wizard!"

"Convoy coming!" Powell shouted. "Troop truck first in the line."

"Wizard!" Lyons ran to Gadgets. "Quit the cheerleader routine. We got the guns in this truck. Come on." Lyons climbed into the back of the troop transport. He reached down to help his partner up. "What did you see in there?"

"I deserve some cheers! You don't know what I just-did, you don't know the perfect justice of it. Remember what I said in Nicaragua about keeping your technology straight? Well, that Dasto just got his twisted."