Stephen England - Pandora's grave

“All right, all right ,” Lay interrupted, turning on Daniel Lasker. “Have you tried contacting him?”

“Yes, director. We have.”

“ And ?”

“He’s not answering.”

Kranemeyer swore softly. “It’s what I was afraid of. From the moment I heard about the SA-15 being deployed at the campsite. The team’s gone.”

“Sir, all due respect, but perhaps Nichols is just too busy to take calls at the moment.” Lasker managed a smile. “He’s been known to ignore us in the past.”

Lay turned, heading for the door of the Communications Center. “Keep trying, Barney. And keep me posted. I need to get word up to the President.”

“Right.”

2:06 A.M. Tehran Time

The crash site

They were gone. It had been too much to ask that they would all survive the crash. Tex. Hamid.

Harry stared out into the darkness, his eyes hooded with sadness. They were both old friends. To count them among the missing.

The memories. He could remember his first meeting with the Iraqi agent- in Iraq, Tikrit to be exact. Hamid Zakiri had still been an Army Ranger back then, a tough, decisive NCO.

He’d been the one that had talked Hamid into joining the Agency when his hitch was up. And now he was gone…

“LONGBOW, SWITCHBLADE, what is the chopper’s status? Repeat, what is the situation at the crash site?”

“EAGLE SIX, LONGBOW. I can see the crash site from my current position. The missiles did not-repeat, did not hit the chopper. They slammed into the mountainside when Tancretti took evasive action.”

“Then what happened?”

“The Huey struck the edge of the canyon and went down. It’s at the bottom.”

“Status?”

“In flames, boss. I see no movement. Copy that?”

“I copy, LONGBOW,” Harry acknowledged slowly, reluctantly. “SWITCHBLADE, make your way down to the crash site and check for survivors. See if there’s any equipment you can salvage, but move it along. That sucker’s gonna blow any minute.”

“You see any way down the cliff?” Davood asked.

Harry scanned the ground ahead of him, the dark rocks appearing a strange fluorescent green through the filter of the night-vision goggles he wore.

“Approx eight meters in front of you. Get on it.”

Fire. Blood and fire. Searing pain. Tancretti’s eyes flickered open as he returned to consciousness, flames crackling in the background. He was still strapped in the seat of the Huey, pinned against the instrument panel. It took him a moment to realize where he was, to remember what had happened.

The pungent smell of gasoline filled his nostrils and suddenly everything came flooding back. The warning, the crash. The explosion. Fear gripped him suddenly and he struggled to get free, pushing his body against the instrument panel in an effort to wriggle out.

“Jeff!” he screamed, the heat of the flames searing his throat. “ Jeff! ”

He turned his head, looking over to where his co-pilot had been seated only a few short moments before. The corpse still sat there, its head hanging at an obscene angle, a deep bloody gash in the neck. One of the rotor blades had sliced through the roof.

Tancretti closed his eyes, trying to shut out the vision, focusing on his own situation. He didn’t have much time left…

Thomas leaned forward against the rock, his hand cradling the barrel of the SV-98, squinting one eye as he swept the terrain with the scope of the sniper rifle. It had survived his jump intact, which was a miracle in and of itself.

A grimace crossed his face. The impact had jarred the scope. A target or two would be needed to sight it in. He chuckled wryly.

They would be forthcoming.

The Huey had nearly broken in half on impact, Davood realized as he hurried down into the canyon. He still hadn’t found his rifle. No time to worry about that.

Not now.

Flames were licking feverishly at the metal skin of the Huey, eating away at the helicopter. It couldn’t be long before the gasoline tank went up. He needed to hurry.

2:10 A.M.

There was something — ahead of them in the darkness. Major Hossein held up his hand for a stop, bringing the Kalishnikov up against his shoulder.

A figure advanced out of the night, dressed in camouflage. His hands were raised in the air, his only visible weapon a pistol strapped to his waist.

“ Salaam alaikum .”

“Who are you?” Hossein demanded, ignoring the salutation.

“They call me BEHDIN,” the figure responded quietly, switching from Arabic into perfect Farsi. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“ Baleh ,” Hossein nodded. Yes. Behdin , a man of good religion. Of pure heart. More importantly, the code-name of the operative who had supplied their intelligence. The sleeper.

Oh, yes, it meant much to him.

“What do you bring me?”

“You’ll never find them unless you can track them.” The man gestured to his belt. “May I?”

“Of course,” the major replied. The man’s hands moved to his waist, unclipping a small camouflage case. A wire ran from the case to his ear. He handed both to Hossein.

“Take this radio,” he instructed. “The frequencies are set to the band used by the American team. The access code is Alpha-One-Tango-Niner. You can listen in.”

“And what will you tell them?”

The sleeper smiled briefly. “That it broke, and I lost it in the darkness.”

“Good.”

A glance over his shoulder. “I must go.”

“Allah go with you, BEHDIN.”

“He will. And if I should be forced to shoot any of your men, they will be ushered into Paradise.”

“ Khayli mamnoon ,” Hossein replied, irony in his tones. Thank you very much . He adjusted the radio to his own ear as the sleeper vanished into the night, as his patrol moved forward.

So, there had been survivors. No matter. They would not live long. Thanks to one of the chosen…

2:13 A.M.

The Israeli C-130

“We are four kilometers from the drop zone, sir. Get your men ready to jump.”

Gideon nodded, his dark black eyes betraying no emotion. This was his job. This is what he had trained for. He bent low, leaving the plane’s cockpit. His team was already up and standing, ready for the moment when the green light would flash, the cargo door of the C-130 Hercules open wide.

The two patrol vehicles were positioned right by the door of the transport. Their parachutes would be activated by an onboard altimeter.

He walked down the line of men one last time, inspecting their gear, making sure they were prepared. Chaim Berkowitz would be the first to jump. His M24 sniper rifle was broken down and disassembled in his backpack. If they encountered hostiles upon landing, he would use the Uzi submachine gun slung across his chest. His eyes locked with Gideon’s for a moment and the lieutenant saw uncertainty there. This was new for all of them.

Yossi Eiland was enjoying a final cigarette before the jump. As Laner approached, Eiland crushed it out between thumb and forefinger, smiling at the momentary flash of pain.

“Ready?”

“Of course,” was the quick reply. Gideon smiled and slapped his second-in-command on the back before turning away. The man was a veteran.

The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “One minute to jump. We’re coming up on the DZ.”

“Roger. One minute to jump.”

A light flickered in the corner of Gideon’s eye. Green.

“GO, GO, GO!”

2:15 A.M.

The crash site

Davood ran quickly toward the wreck, around the front. He could see the co-pilot’s body hanging limply, nearly beheaded by the rotor. It seemed strange. He had never learned the man’s name. Now he never would.