Pandora's grave

The surface-to-air-missile system was the flower of Russian technology. A further development of the competent SA-15 “Gauntlet”, as code-named by NATO, the TOR-M1 9M330 had been supplied to Iran in December of 2005. It was a system capable of detecting and tracking forty-eight targets, and engaging two targets simultaneously with over a 92 % kill probability, making any sort of low-level attack a virtual suicide mission. The twenty-nine transport launcher vehicles, or TLVs, which Tehran had purchased had cost them the equivalent of over a billion dollars in U.S. currency.

One of them now sat on top of the rock outcropping Major Hossein had designated. He rubbed his hands together as he looked up at it, smiling to himself.

There was a part of him that was like a child with a new toy. He really couldn’t wait to try it out.

One of the technicians came around the back of the vehicle. “Everything is ready, commandant.”

“Good.” Hossein smiled. “What is the chance of an aircraft getting through your screen?”

“What type of aircraft?”

The major thought for a moment. “A transport aircraft. Or a helicopter. I’m not sure which.”

A smile crossed the technician’s face. “None, major. None at all…”

4:09 P.M. Local Time

Mossad Headquarters

Somewhere north of Tel Aviv

“What do you think of our chances for success, lieutenant?”

The young man looked up slowly, his eyes locking with the Mossad chief’s. “My father was a rabbi, sir,” Gideon said finally. “He taught me never to gamble.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across his features. “But with these odds-I’m not even tempted.”

“I knew your father, Gideon,” General Shoham replied. “He was the chaplain of my unit in the Golan.”

“He’s spoken of you too, sir.” Lieutenant Laner turned back to the matter at hand. “You’re wanting to launch this mission tonight?”

The Mossad chief glanced at his wristwatch. “That’s correct, lieutenant. Nine hours. Before daybreak tomorrow, I want your team on the ground. In Iran.” His eyes narrowed. “Can you do it?”

“I think so, sir. You’re cutting us close. Not much prep time.”

“I know that, lieutenant. There’s no help for it. A C-130 Hercules transport will deploy you forty kilometers from the target. You will use the two fast attack vehicles to get in position. The plan is relatively simple: make a surgical strike, rescue Dr. Tal, eliminate the Iranian communications facilities and proceed to the extraction zone.”

“What about the other archaeologists?”

“You won’t have room in the extraction helicopter,” the general replied, watching Laner closely. “Your mission is to get our man out. That is all.”

Gideon never even blinked. “Understood, sir. I’ll go assemble my team.”

5:27 P.M. Baghdad Time

Q-West Airfield

Northern Iraq

“Right, director. I understand. Good-bye.” Harry replaced the TACtical SATellite phone in his shirt pocket and walked back to the barracks, Kranemeyer’s last words ringing in his ears.

Good luck.

They were going to need a lot more than luck if they were going to survive the next few hours. He pushed open the door. Tex was lying back on one of the bunks, apparently asleep.

A moment passed, then he opened one eye, gazing carefully at Harry.

“Where’s the rest of the team?” Harry asked, looking over at his friend.

“Over at the hangar. Reloading the equipment in the Huey. What’s going on?”

Harry walked over to his locker, pulling out the equipment he would take with him. “I just talked with Kranemeyer,” he said finally. “We have go-mission.”

Tex uncurled himself from the bunk, standing to his feet. He stood almost an inch taller than Harry.

Back in his Marine years, Force Recon had nearly rejected him. Said he made too large of a target. After Afghanistan, no one had questioned the big man. They just left him alone.

“You stickin’ to the plan?”

Harry nodded slowly, turning to look him in the eye. “What do you think of Davood?”

“I had him in my demolitions class,” Tex replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

“I understand.”

“He’s a good man with explosives,” the Texan said after a moment of silence. “One of my best pupils.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Good at the Farm and good in the field are two different things. He’s never been in the field.”

Harry stared keenly at his old friend. “I know. Do me a favor and keep him close…”

4:59 P.M. Local Time

Sayeret Matkal Headquarters

Israel

The two fast attack vehicles, or FAVs, as they were commonly called, were little more than heavily modified dune buggies. Heavily modified, because no commercially-produced dune buggy had ever come equipped with a fifty-caliber machine gun for the passenger. Each FAV could hold three people at maximum and was equipped with three machine guns and two small anti-tank rocket launchers