Stephen England - Pandora's grave

“How did he get in?”

“We don’t know,” Harry replied, glancing around him. “Colonel Tancretti says he can repair the helicopter if we give him another twelve hours. I propose to postpone TALON until tomorrow night, oh-one hundred hours.”

“You won’t have the weather in your favor if you wait,” Kranemeyer observed grimly.

“I know. But I don’t have another choice.” Harry walked away from the group, pushed open the hangar door, stepped into the darkness. “I’ve got a problem, boss.”

“What is it?”

“Someone on this base is taking it both ways. Whether it’s one of the Air Force guys or one of the strike team, I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“The saboteur came all the way into the center of the base to strike the oldest airframe there. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“Yeah. It does. You think someone knew that you were planning to use the Huey.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

“I do.”

“You can forget about the strike team,” Kranemeyer stated firmly. “They’ve all been thoroughly vetted. We know everything there is to know about each and every one of them-and that includes you. And you know your team as well as anyone.”

“I’m not worried about them,” Harry retorted, steel in his tones, his meaning clear as crystal.

“You’re wondering about your Iranian, eh?”

The inference was there. Loud and clear. And it irritated him.“It wouldn’t matter to me if he was a card-carrying WASP ! I’ve never worked with him before. So of course I’m wondering.”

“He’s clean, Harry. Forget it.”

“What about his parents? What do we know about them?”

“His parents escaped the Revolution in ‘79. They live in Dayton. We had the Bureau put them under surveillance for six months prior to accepting his application. His uncle is the local imam, but none of them have ever been linked with anything remotely troubling.” The DCS paused. “I’d start looking among Tancretti’s flyboys if I were you.”

“I will.”

“Twenty-four hours, Harry. If anything further happens, let me know.”

Kranemeyer punched a button on his phone, waiting briefly for the line to clear. Something was going wrong. That much was clear. And he didn’t like it.

“Nicole,” he said, “put me through to the DDST.”

“Right away, sir.” A moment later, the Deputy Director of the CIA’s Science amp; Technology branch came on the line.

“Good afternoon, Scott,” Kranemeyer said calmly, his voice betraying none of the tension welling up inside of him.

“It’s good to hear from you, Barney,” Scott Hadley replied, clearly surprised at the call. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you to coordinate twenty-four hour satellite coverage with Sorenson over at the NRO. I want an area covered in real-time, live streaming feed right to the NCS op-center.”

“Just give me the coordinates, sir, and I’ll get that fast-tracked.”

“Here they are…”

8:32 A.M. Local Time, September 23rd

The offices of the Prime Minister

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

“General Shoham to see you, sir.” Prime Minister Eli Shamir looked up and nodded at his secretary.

“Show him in.” The Mossad chief’s arrival was hardly a surprise. Indeed, the only thing remotely unexpected was the timing. Shamir had expected the general to come beating down his door at the crack of dawn.

“Good morning, general,” the prime minister greeted warmly as Shoham entered, closing the door firmly behind him.

“I wish,” the general replied, his voice sharp. Almost brittle. A moment later, a slightly sheepish look came over his leathered face. “I’m sorry, sir. I should not speak so abruptly.”

“Don’t mention it, Avi. Have a seat. You look tired.” And he did , the prime minister thought, regarding the man in front of him with a grim smile.

Avi ben Shoham, hero of the Golan in the ‘73 war, the tanker who had racked up a total of eighteen destroyed Syrian tanks over the first week of the war before pulling two of his crew members from the wreckage of their burning Centurion. Avi ben Shoham, the man whose second cousin had been one of the athletes killed at Munich. Avi ben Shoham, the commander of Mossad for the last five years. Yes, he had earned the right to speak abruptly, if any man had. But that was hardly to the point.

“When we talked yesterday, you said you were in the process of the developing contingency plans, general. What do you have?”

Avi rose and walked over to the prime minister’s desk, handing him a thick folder. “Project RAHAB, sir.”

Shamir took the folder in silence and began leafing carefully through it.

Twenty minutes later, when he had finished, he glanced back up at the general. “What do you need me to do, Avi?”

“I need your authorization to detach a special unit from Sayeret Matkal, to be placed under my command for the duration of RAHAB.”

“It’s yours. Keep me updated.”

“Thank you, sir,” General Shoham said, rising from his chair and heading for the door. The prime minister’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Don’t thank me, Avi,” he admonished, his face unusually grim. “Just get it done. And be careful.”

“I will.”

9:31 A.M.

A safe house

The Gaza Strip

“It is clear, commander.”

Ibrahim Quasim rose from his chair and walked over to the window, lifting the venetian blinds to carefully peer out into the street. Nothing was stirring. But it was time to leave. He glanced at his two bodyguards. “We must move quickly.”

“I will have Muhammad bring the car around,” the taller one declared, pulling a small radio from his pocket. He switched it on and spoke quickly in Arabic. “He’s on his way.”

“Good,” Quasim replied, watching as a small black sedan came rolling down the street. It was a dirty, nondescript car. Nothing that would attract the attention of the Israeli Defense Force or the dreaded Mossad, attention the Hamas lieutenant could hardly afford.

The car pulled quickly to a stop right in front of the door, and he turned to his bodyguards. “It’s time.”

“We have subject exiting building N-32. He’s flanked by two bodyguards. Fourth man in the car, black sedan. Subject entering car, back seat, right side. I have VISDENT on Ibrahim Quasim.” The young man paused, thumbing the safety off his 9mm Beretta.

“Execute! Execute! Execute !”

The AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter rose from four streets over, lifting above the buildings, skimming over their tops with an ear-shattering thwap-thwap-thwap of rotors.

Quasim saw the helicopter a second before his bodyguards. He knew what it meant. It was coming for him . His hand went out, grasping at the door latch, forcing it open. There wasn’t much time…

The next moment, 2.75-inch rockets flashed from the side-mounted pylons of the Cobra. They hit the car dead on, blowing it over on its side, setting it aflame.

The explosion lifted Quasim bodily into the air, throwing him away from the car. He screamed, feeling the metal rip into his legs like shrapnel, the flames licking at his pants.

Part of the wreckage fell on top of him, pain flooding through his veins as he lay there, pressed to the pavement. He raised himself on his elbows, trying to pull himself away, trying to ignore the searing pain, the blood trickling freely from his body. He had to move. Get away.

A shadow fell over him, blocking out the sun. Quasim raised his eyes. A man in the clothing of a street Arab stood over him. A friend. “ Please ,” he whispered, forcing the words out past bleeding lips. “Help me, brother…”