Pandora's grave

Daylight was coming on fast, the faint glow of an unwelcome sun already appearing far to the east. For they have loved darkness, rather than light. It was a sentiment he concurred with.

“Spread out, establish a security perimeter,” he ordered crisply. “Hamid, you guard the hostages. Tex and Davood, establish defensive positions. I’m contacting Langley.”

He pulled the TACSAT from its holster, kneeling there against the mountain earth as he hit speed-dial. Harry’s eyes flickered north to the mountains overshadowing them. He didn’t like it. They weren’t in possession of the high ground. But that wouldn’t matter if they could extract before daylight.

9:01 P.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

Kranemeyer glanced at the brightly lit screen of the phone he held in his hand. It was Nichols. It had been two hours since last contact. The call he had been secretly dreading.

“Kranemeyer here.”

“Director, this is Nichols. We’ve arrived at the alternate extraction zone with the rescued archaeologists. Where’s the Pave Low?” The voice on the other end was clipped, abrupt. As though the instincts that had kept the officer alive through fifteen years of field operations were now warning him of impending trouble.

The DCS took a deep breath, looking at the last sat coverage of the field team’s position. They were vulnerable. And he could do nothing about it.

“I’m sorry, Nichols. JSOC can’t get a helo in and out before daylight. You’ll have to take up defensive positions, hold out until nightfall.”

Dead silence filled the line for the space of forty seconds. “We’re sitting ducks here, boss. LZ OSCAR is not the high ground.”

“I know it. The general refuses to move his assets into place. Sit tight until nightfall and we’ll get you out.”

“Roger,” came the grudging reply. “Any contact with Parker?”

“No, we’ve not heard a thing. You?”

“Negative, sir.” Harry paused, then added, “Have the Pave Low bring out some body bags. We’ll need them by nightfall. Nichols out.”

Kranemeyer started to respond, but the phone was dead in his hand. He shook his head wearily, leaning back in his chair. He had been there once himself, back in his Delta Force days, a small team running cross-border interdiction in the Hindu Kush. The chopper that had never come.

He swore bitterly and stood, wincing as he did so. Pain was flickering through his right leg, phantom pain from a leg that was no longer there. Placing a hand on the desk for support, he reached down to rub his knee, biting his tongue as fingers slid over the flesh of the knee to the prosthesis below it. An IED had put a permanent end to his spec-ops career. Oh, yes, he’d been there. Done that…

Harry replaced the phone in its holster and strode back to the small group, his Kalishnikov held loosely in one hand. Hamid was keeping an eye on the rescued hostages and looked up at his approach.

“Let’s pack it up and move it out,” Harry ordered, his tones clipped, his face a mask. The Iraqi looked at him, his eyes shadowed by worry.

“What’s the matter, boss?”

“We’re too exposed here,” Harry stated flatly, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. “We need to get atop that ridge,” he continued, his index finger indicating an elevation perhaps another ninety feet higher than where they were standing and a quarter-mile off. “It’s better for defense. Tex, how’s your shoulder?”

“It went back in place,” the big man replied, massaging the muscle with his free hand. “I can use it.”

Harry acknowledged him with a nod. “Good. I want you to take up overlook on the southern bluff. Take binoculars and your rifle. Dig a hide and keep me advised of anything that happens. Hamid, Davood, you and the archaeologists are coming with me to the ridge. We’ll dig another hide there, wait this out.”

“The chopper’s not coming.” This from Tex, his usual economy of words showing itself in the statement.

Harry nodded. “Not ‘til evening. Let’s move them out.”

5:03 A.M. Local Time

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

“Did he say why?” General Shoham asked, a cool wind fluttering at the corners of his jacket as he stood atop the roof of the headquarters building. The rain had stopped and now a raw breeze blew in off the Mediterranean, raising the hair on the back of the old veteran’s neck.

His bodyguard replied with a shake of the head, his tall form burrowed into the folds of a poncho. “ETA is three minutes. We should know soon.”

Shoham nodded, pulling the jacket closer to him. Dawn was still a good hour away. The night was cold, made colder still by the news he had just received.

In heaven’s name, what was wrong with Dr. Tal? The general’s mind flickered back to the early days of their relationship. He had recruited Tal personally, their joint interest in archaeology drawing them together, their joint patriotism keeping them there.