Pandora's grave

“Yes. I sent them the first sets that came in. From that position they should be able to pick out almost anything that moves. Even in the darkness. And, major…”

Hossein turned to look the young man in the eye. “Yes?”

“I am in command here. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

8:24 P.M.

LZ Oscar

“FULLBACK to EAGLE SIX. Looks like they’re settlin’ in.” Hamid’s voice over the radio.

“Concur,” Harry retorted. “We’ve got an hour and a half before the Pave Low arrives. Do you have clear LOS on the group?”

“Roger that. About ten meters to my front.”

“If they don’t move, we’re going to have to take ‘em out, hard and fast. JSOC won’t send the chopper into another hot LZ.”

“Copy.”

A low moan at his feet and Harry turned, bending down to clasp a hand over Rachel Eliot’s mouth as she awakened. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Quiet,” Harry whispered. “Just keep quiet.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, still bewildered. It seemed to take a few moments for her to remember where she was.

“Awaiting extraction,” Harry replied, his voice patient. “You’re safe. Just keep your voice down.”

“Why?”

“The Iranians are close, very close. Just stay quiet and we’ll be okay.”

Harry rose from her side and peered over the lip of the hide, down the ridge to where the Iranian soldiers were patrolling.

“EAGLE SIX to GUNHAND. It looks like our friends have NVGs. Do you copy?”

A moment’s pause, then the Texan’s voice came on in a burst of static. “Affirmative, boss.”

“Hold your position for the moment. When we strike I will need you to alert Davood on your way in. The loss of his radio has made coordination problematic.”

“Roger.”

7:51 P.M. Baghdad Time

Q-West Airfield

Northern Iraq

The MH-53J Pave Low lifted off from the helipad at Q-West as dusk fell, its twin General Electric T64 turboshafts whining as they propelled the twenty-one-ton helicopter skyward.

The dull-black sides of the helo were innocent of any identifying markings. Its six-man crew were clad in equally nondescript grey flight suits, making the red scarf wrapped around the neck of their pilot shocking by contrast.

Major Dominic Padilla’s fingers caressed the flight controls gently, correcting the helicopter’s pitch as it shot suddenly forward.

“This is Cowboy three-niner to tower. Go-mission clearance?”

“Copy that, Cowboy three-niner. You have go-mission. Bring the boys home, Dom.”

“You got it,” was the major’s reply as he reached upward to toggle the comm switch, turning it to intercom.

“Let’s rock and roll.”

12:20 P.M. Eastern Time

NCS Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“Kranemeyer speaking.”

“Please hold for the DCIA.”

Lay’s voice came over the line a moment later, its tone decidedly chilly. “Kranemeyer, a memo just crossed my desk.”

“Sir?”

“You apparently cut a deal with Azad Badir. The safe extraction of Agent Parker in return for a shipment of Stinger SAMs. Am I to assume that I have this information correct?”

“That is correct, sir,” the DCS replied, taking a deep breath. “The deal had my authorization.”

“Are you out of your mind, Mr. Kranemeyer?”

“Not that I am aware of, director.”

“In case you’ve not been here long enough to find out-people have long memories in this town! And a lot of people in high places remember the last time we supplied dissident forces with shoulder-launched SAMs. Do you?”

“Afghanistan, sir. 1989.”

“And twelve years later, we were fighting the selfsame people we had given weapons to. American servicemen died because of those weapons’ deployment. And PJAK is a Communist rebel group. Now, I’m going to ask again, what were you thinking about when you gave this deal your authorization?”

“The face of an American operative on the front page of the Tehran Times. A trial and execution broadcast to the world. This was the only quid pro quo I could get Badir to agree to. Heaven knows the Revolutionary Guard would reward him generously to hand over Parker. And all due respect, David, but we no longer have the luxury of living in a world where Marxist guerillas are this agency’s top priority. The red star was eclipsed by a crescent moon a long time ago.”

A long moment passed, and then, on the other end of the line, Director Lay cleared his throat. “I will have to kick this upstairs to the DNI. Probably need Hancock’s signature on the project. My apologies, Barney.”

“None necessary, sir.”

“Any further word on Nichols and the rest of the tactical team?”

“I just received go-mission confirmation from General Benet. His Pave Low is in the air and should rendevous with the team in approximately forty minutes.”

“Any further word from the ground?”

“Negative. Nichols’ last message was to the effect that he was going dark to avoid the chance of the Iranians picking up his transmissions.”

“Get back to me when you have something,” Lay said finally.