Pandora's grave

“ 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.

A shrill, discordant cry arrested his movements. He turned, trying to place the sound. And then he saw him. Tancretti. Pinned against the instrument panel.

He looked around. There was no time to get help. He dropped the Kalishnikov and ran toward the wreck, pulling his combat knife from its ankle sheath.

Perhaps he could cut him free…

“Sitrep, LONGBOW?”

“Overwatch position achieved, EAGLE SIX. No hostiles in sight. Acknowledge.”

“Roger that, LONGBOW. Copy no hostiles.”

Major Hossein smiled in the darkness. They were still unobserved. The radio chatter from the American team confirmed that. He glanced up around him at the hills. The overwatch mentioned could still be most anywhere. They wouldn’t know where until the bullets started flying.

The heat seared Davood’s face as he moved forward, smoke filling his lungs. The door of the Huey was jammed shut, its metal crumpled like paper from the force of the impact. Tancretti’s survival was a providence of Allah, nothing less. But time was running out.

He reached in through the broken window with his knife hand, extending it toward the pilot. No good.

“One moment,” Davood whispered, more to himself than to Tancretti, sweat streaming down his face as he wedged the combat knife in between the pilot’s chest and the seatbelt.

One moment…

5:17 P.M. Eastern Time

The White House

Washington, D.C.

“Very good, Director. Keep me posted on any further developments. Thank you.” President Hancock replaced the phone on his desk and stood, turning to gaze out the window of the Oval Office. The sun was sinking low in the western sky. In Iran, it would be pitch-black. A team of his countrymen would be fighting for their very lives.