Pandora's grave

“And those you’ve got aren’t doing their job well enough!” Harry snapped. “One of those kids let me get within five feet of him tonight before he issued a challenge. I could have put a knife between his shoulderblades and he would have been dead before he knew the difference.”

“They’re learning. But we’ve had saboteurs slip inside before. It’s part of the country, Colonel.”

Harry took another step toward him, his face dark as the night. “I couldn’t care less what is a part of this country, Tancretti. What I want to know is why one of these ordinary run-of-the-mill, routine saboteurs would choose the oldest aircraft on base to sabotage it! It doesn’t make sense. You’ve got millions of dollars of hardware on this airfield and this man penetrates all the way to the middle to disable the one aircraft that is of no use to anyone-except us. This mission. The mission that was supposed to go down one hour from now.”

He glanced around, searching the faces of his fellow team members, of the Air Force personnel clustered behind Tancretti. “Someone knew…”

4:08 P.M. Eastern Time

NCS Operations Center

Langley, Virginia

One hour. Actually, less than an hour. Fifty-one minutes, twenty-five seconds to be precise, Bernard Kranemeyer thought as he carefully synchronized his watch to Baghdad Time. And then Operation TALON would begin.

A computer had randomly picked the code name for the operation, but the selection had brought a grin to the faces of both Kranemeyer and the DCIA. Eagle Claw had been the codename of the last US hostage rescue mission into Iran. And an eagle’s claw was a talon.

For a moment, both men had thought about changing it, to avoid someone else noticing the comparison. But in the end, they had left it in place. Perhaps it was an omen.

A light on his phone flashed bright red. An incoming call. He picked up the receiver, waiting in silence for the encryption sequence to engage.

“Kranemeyer.”

“Boss, this is Nichols. TALON has been scrubbed.”

The statement nearly brought the DCS out of his seat. “ What?”

“We had an infiltrator thirty minutes ago. He disabled the helo we were using for TALON.”

“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…”

Chapter Three