Pandora's grave

Nothing this night had gone as planned. This had been meant as a political coup, decisive military action against a regime feared by the Jewish lobby and hated by the warmongers on the right. Both groups would have applauded a daring, Entebbe-style hostage rescue. And now the quicksand had opened beneath him.

He swore under his breath, eyeing the phone on the Resolute desk. Cahill hadn’t been cleared for TALON, and he wasn’t about to read him in now. This time he was going to have to run his own damage control.

5:18 P.M.

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

Director Lay left the elevator the very moment the doors opened onto the seventh floor, striding hurriedly toward his office. His secretary, Margaret Caudell, was bent over her desk, organizing paperwork in preparation to leave. A common sight.

She had already stayed twenty minutes over her time, which was also all too common. If she had learned nothing else in the seven years that the two of them had worked together, it was that there was no such thing as a fixed schedule.

“Good evening,” she smiled, glancing up at his entrance.

It wasn’t. “Get the secure line to the White House ready, Margaret. I need to talk to the President.”

2:20 A.M. Tehran Time

The crash site

His shoulder hurt like the devil, pain shooting through his body. He moved his fingers up the length of his right arm, gently massaging the flesh. It wasn’t broken, or at least he didn’t think so.

But it was dislocated, that was sure enough. And it was his gun arm. He was out of it.

He hadn’t heard from the team.

Tex raised himself from the hard ground where he had fallen, wincing at the pain. His head throbbed and when he reached up to check himself, his hand came away sticky with blood.

How long he had been unconscious, he had no idea. He moved his good arm down to his waist, checking for his radio. It was still intact. He adjusted the lip mike and went on the air…

Harry’s headset crackled suddenly. “GUNHAND to all team members. Come in, come in.”

“GUNHAND, this is EAGLE SIX. What happened to you?”

The voice that answered him was uncertain, almost groggy. Something had gone wrong. “Knocked myself out on landing, sir.”

“Status report?”

“I’m approx sixty meters north-northeast from the crash site. Feels like I dislocated my shoulder.”

“Are you combat ready, GUNHAND?”

“Negative, EAGLE SIX. I can defend myself. That’s max. It’s my right arm.”

“Copy that. Will move team to support you. EAGLE SIX to LONGBOW, stay put. Provide covering fire. Acknowledge.”

“Roger, EAGLE SIX,” Thomas replied. “I have covering position.”

“EAGLE SIX to SWITCHBLADE, status report? I repeat, SWITCHBLADE, have you reached BIRDMASTER?” Harry demanded, repeating Colonel Tancretti’s code name. There was no answer. Only the sound of his own voice. “Come in, SWITCHBLADE.”

No response.

“EAGLE SIX to all team members. I have lost contact with SWITCHBLADE. Do any of you have visual on the crash site?”

“That’s a negative, boss.”

5:22 P.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“I warned you, director. This operation was meant to reduce our exposure, not blow it wide open.”

There was a dangerous calm in the President’s voice. A part of Lay’s brain registered that fact as he stared across his office, fighting down the angry words that rose in his throat.

The selfishness of it all! “I trust it has occurred to you, Mr. President, that we have soldiers in harm’s way.”

“Soldiers?” Hancock asked, irony rich in his voice. “I prefer to reserve that term for those who proudly wear the uniform of this country.”

There could be no response equal to the bigotry of the comment, nothing that could be said without igniting a pointless debate. Lay held his tongue, staring bitterly at the wall as the President went on, apparently not expecting a response.

“The last thing this country needs is a hostage crisis, Lay. That’s why we launched this ‘op’ in the first place.”

The last thing your administration needs, the CIA director reflected. That was why the operation had been launched, and he had gone along with it, in hopes of proving the efficacy of the Clandestine Service to a man who had tried to eliminate their funding time and again. And now people were dead.

Dead. That’s the way it was out there on the edge. Out where mistakes meant lives ended, not political careers…

2:24 A.M. Tehran Time

The crash site

Davood shoved his combat knife back into its ankle sheath and reached through the window, wrapping both arms around Tancretti’s upper body. “Easy, colonel,” he whispered. “I’m going to get you out of there.”