Jack Coughlin - Dead Shot

The Pave Low moved fast and close to the undulating terrain to reach its designated landing zone, the bald knob of a hilltop about three kilometers each way between the suspected biochemical site and the village of Kamveh. It flared to a halt and dropped down only long enough to let the three Marines and Delara Tabrizi jump out, two from each side, and then it spun out of the area and let the satellite mapping system carry it safely out of harm’s way, dashing back across the border with Iraq, where a refueling plane was loitering to top it off for a slower trip back to Baharia. The special operations crew breathed easier.

Everybody on the ground hunched over and stayed put for a minute to assess whether any threats were in the immediate area, and then Travis Hughes led the way north, into the treeline. Kyle Swanson followed, followed by Delara, with Joe Tipp trailing. Once they were deep into the trees, they stopped to get their bearings, and Swanson opened a plastic-shielded map. He pulled a red-lens flashlight from his web gear, only to feel a light touch on his arm. “I remember this place,” Delara said softly. “There is a shallow stream over to the left and a meadow to the right. We can stay hidden in the trees all the way around the field, but then there is a road to cross.”

Too easy, Swanson thought, but he pointed for Hughes to check out the landmarks, and he was back in five minutes, moving unheard through the foliage. He nodded and took them to the edge of the calm and moonlit meadow. Judging by the height of the grass, it was a grazing area, and although all of the animals had been herded back to the village for the night, the smell of wet wool and sheep dung still permeated the air. Maybe this girl was the real deal with her directions.

Going downhill gave them a vantage point on what was below, and they came to the crest of the little road and paused again. Travis went one way and Tipp the other, slithering through a rocky ditch that ran alongside the dirt passageway. Again the two scouts with night vision goggles returned without seeing or hearing anything, and they all moved on. “We can follow the road for about half a kilometer north, then we have to cross it and continue down to the valley floor,” said Delara. Her voice was excited, but quiet, as she guided them with certainty through the rugged area she had roamed as a girl. Passing decades did not bring much change to such places, and she was sure-footed and steady as she pointed them onward, recognizing ourcroppings of rock and sharp curves in a narrow path as familiar landmarks.

Kyle kept them all at a steady pace, not allowing Delara’s unerring directions to hurry them into making a mistake. Security was as important as speed, but she had come up with a route that bypassed all activity except for the noise of an occasional night animal. They reached the valley floor without incident, caught their breath, drank some water, and started up the next mountain.

Going up was harder than coming down, but Travis Hughes set a brutal pace, aware that the darkness had changed with the passing of time. He looked behind him and saw that the others were thirty meters back, unable to keep up with his rate of climb because Delara was a civilian, a schoolteacher, not a trained warrior in peak physical condition. The other three could go only as fast as the slowest member. Hughes held up his right hand in a fist, and everyone stopped as he scrambled back to the group.

“What do you want me to do, Shake?” he asked.

“Get going, and be quick about it. Get up to the ridgeline and be able to give us cover if we need it, and look around for a hide.”

Small and energetic, Hughes turned back and went into what would be considered an uphill sprint, his powerful legs pumping like pistons as he attacked the mountain, moving silently through the foliage.

Kyle, Delara, and Joe Tipp kept their distance, working through heavy underbrush beside a gulley, searching for firm footing with their boots and grabbing roots, pawing at rocks, and huffing for breath. Delara Tabrizi never asked for a rest, although her lungs were aching and her muscles burned with the strain. Once she stopped, and the big hand of Joe Tipp pushed hard on her behind as he whispered, “Go, dammit!” She went.

Ten minutes after Hughes had reached a position just below the summit, the three others crawled up beside him, gulping deep breaths. “This is the right place,” he said and then pointed toward a group of boulders about fifty meters away that bumped out from the run of thick trees and undergrowth. They went toward it on their bellies, anxious to clear a place in which the four of them could hide during the coming daylight hours as the morning sun began turning the sky into a definite gray. Delara rolled onto her back, sucking in deep breaths, fighting exhaustion.

Swanson pulled out his binos and crawled to the crest, looked down, and said, “Oh, damn.”

Below was the site, where frightened groups of people were being herded into small, barbed-wire cages.

J UBA DROVE A R USSIAN - MADEUAZ-469 jeep directly up to a military roadblock in a mountain pass, stopping slowly at a safe distance from the Rakhsh armored personnel carrier that blocked the road, with its 12.77 mm machine gun pointing toward the visitors. Another jeep halted right behind him, and all four of the men in the vehicles dismounted with their hands held high.

“We are expected,” Juba told the young sergeant who approached, then handed over his identification papers. The soldier took the ID back to a guard shack and radioed the site, two miles away. When he received clearance, he ordered the big Rakhsh off the road and returned the papers to Juba with a crisp salute. The other guards snapped to attention, and the UAZ-469s were soon on their way.

“Are we going to have trouble with those boys on the way out?” asked the big man who was riding in the passenger seat beside Juba.

Juba laughed and shook his head. “No. The Iranians are in on it but have the erroneous idea that they control the situation. They have been excellent hosts and sponsors, but the time has come to say good-bye. We can fly out using a little helicopter that is kept at the site.” The helicopter could not be used to bring them in because the jeeps were loaded with special equipment that might have been questioned by the crew or by people at the site.

All three of the men with Juba were mercenaries, tough guns from the old Soviet Union. Even so, this was dangerous. “The MOIS is going to be very upset if they are screwed,” said the man. The Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security was so notorious and ruthless that its handpicked agents had to prove they could kill and torture before being admitted to the ranks. International boundaries meant nothing to the secret police, and the well-paid mercenaries understood that the MOIS would try to track them down.

“That already has been arranged. We bribed the minister.” Juba saw the building when he came around a final curve. He drove past a series of tall cages, each holding a cluster of three people, men and women, with haunted looks on their faces. The small administration office structure was the only other thing aboveground, and a man in a white coat was walking out to meet the jeeps.

“Leave the weapons and the gear in the vehicles for the time being. I will tell you when.” He got out and went to shake the hand of the site director.

J OE T IPP AND T RAVISHughes lay side by side, sketching the site below and building a range card. Tipp would focus an MLR-40 handheld laser rangefinder on a specific point and describe it, and Hughes would note the digital readout and write it onto their map. The rangefinder was a product of OIP Sensor Systems in Belgium and was used by military forces around the world. Swanson considered it to be a dinosaur in comparison to the rangefinding computer built into his favorite sniper rifle, but he had left Excalibur behind on this mission.