Pandora's grave

“Yes, Mr. President,” came Cahill’s acerbic reply, not a trace of humor in his voice. “You can’t resist bedding anything that wears a skirt and a deuce of a lot that doesn’t. You’re a sneaky, underhanded knave who thinks ‘honesty’ is a dirty word. And in a town where alliances change faster than hotel linens, you can never bring yourself to forget an injury.”

A smile tugged at the President’s lips. “Are you quite done, Ian? How did things go with Ellison?”

“Trevor’s playing ball,” Cahill responded, referring to the managing editor of The Washington Post, Trevor Ellison. “He’s going to give us two weeks on the Iran story.”

“Dare I ask what we had to give him in return?”

“An exclusive on campaign announcements from here on in. He breaks them first.”

It was better than the alternative. Apparently one of the American archaeologists had a niece who worked at the Post. And she’d been making inquiries. A Secret Service agent entered the room before Hancock could respond, phone in hand. “David Lay on the phone for you, sir.”

It was about time. “Hancock here.”

“Mr. President, we’re at final go-mission. TALON launches in seven hours.”

“I’ve issued the finding, director,” Hancock replied, shooting a glance across the room at Cahill. “See that it’s done.”

The chief of staff looked at him as he hung up. “What was that all about?”

The President smiled. “Ian, you can rest easy. I think I’ve just won the election…”

11:03 P.M. Baghdad Time

Q-West Airfield

Northern Iraq

Harry slipped on his jacket as he left their sleeping quarters, shivering slightly as the cold night air of the desert washed over his body. The rest of the team was sleeping soundly, which was exactly what he should be doing. But he couldn’t. He never could before a mission. It was just a nervous habit he had acquired over the years. A bad habit.

There were just too many things to consider, too many contingencies to prepare for. And he had the weight of this mission resting on his shoulders. Everything was up to him.

He moved down the runway, his hands in his pockets, looking up into the September night sky. What moon they had was largely obscured by clouds, which was exactly the way he wanted it. Flying nap-of-the-earth should keep them out of the Iranian radar network, but it did nothing to protect them from the oldest detection system ever used by man: eyesight. The darkness should help.

A young sentry in a U.S. Army uniform loomed out of the night ahead of him, an M-4 clutched in his bare hands. “Who goes there?” he demanded, nervousness in his voice as it rang out a challenge as old as time itself.

“Colonel Henderson,” Harry replied. The soldier stepped closer, shining a flashlight full in his face.

“ID?” Harry handed it to him. He was little more than a kid, eighteen or nineteen at most. The year before he’d probably been in high school, his principal worry whom he was going to escort to the prom. Now he had a gun his hands.

“Very good, sir. I’m sorry I bothered you,” the kid replied, giving it back.

“No trouble, soldier. You’re just doing your job. Carry on.”

Harry smiled to himself as he moved past him, toward the hangars at one end of the airstrip. The soldier had been careless. If he had really been an intruder, he could have taken out the sentry with no trouble. He had been given plenty of opportunity.

A sudden noise arrested Harry’s progress. Something, more like a squeak than anything else. From one of the hangars. Like metal rubbing against metal. It came again, over the night breeze.

Someone was in one of the hangars.

Harry’s hand flashed to his hip, unclasping his holster. He moved carefully toward the hangar entrance, the Colt clutched in his outstretched hands. Another noise.

The big door of the hangar was open, as they all were. Apparently the Q-West commandant thought his perimeter security was good enough. Right.

A couple more steps to the door. Another noise, the flash of something, maybe a penlight. Harry rounded the corner, his eyes probing the darkness in front of him.

A shape was huddled at the front of a helicopter-at the front of the Huey, Harry noticed with a sudden jolt of alarm. The man had a penlight and was bent over, working on something.

Harry took another step forward. There was no sense in announcing himself. Not yet. Just a few more feet.

All at once, his foot caught a metal can and sent it rattling loudly across the concrete floor. That did it.

A muffled curse broke from the intruder’s lips and he jumped up, startled.

“Get your hands up!” Harry screamed, his voice echoing like thunder in the narrow confines of the hangar. “ Now!”

The figure hesitated for a moment, then he turned and darted towards the back of the hangar, toward the door there.

Harry darted forward, ducking around the Huey, afraid to fire for fear of damaging the helicopter. He couldn’t get a clear shot.