Pandora's grave

From the doorway, the Ayatollah Isfahani smiled once more at the audacity of the man. There were not many in Iran, even in these days, who would refuse to recognize the entrance of the Supreme Ayatollah. That this major did so was at once testament to both his irreverence and his bravery. Isfahani whispered a quiet prayer that Allah would overlook the one while blessing the other. Everything depended upon his success.

He took two steps out onto the balcony and Hossein turned to meet him, his face stoic.

“Are you ready, major?”

Hossein’s only reply was a brief nod, but Isfahani could see the doubt in his eyes. “You understand why this has to be done, I trust?”

“Yes.”

1:09 P.M.

The mountains of the Alborz

Mobility was the chief asset of any modern army, but the men below them hadn’t been utilizing it to their advantage. Thomas shaded the binoculars with his hands before passing them back to Sirvan, endeavoring to keep sun from glinting off the lens.

They were looking down into the bivouac of a platoon of Iranian soldiers. Two trucks were parked at the edge of camp, clearly the group’s transportation. Not using them to leave the mountains ASAP was going to be their last mistake.

It had taken the Kurdish fighters just under twenty-four hours to catch up with the men who had butchered their fellow villagers. Or at least soldiers like them. No one among the rebels seemed to care, least of all Thomas.

Sirvan placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “You were a sniper?” he asked, recalling their conversation of the previous day.

The American replied with a nod.

“Then remain here and spot for Estere,” Sirvan ordered, handing him the binoculars.

“Don’t I get a weapon?” Thomas asked, a glimmer of hope appearing ever so briefly.

White teeth showed in the Kurd’s swarthy countenance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Patterson. Hawre will remain to provide security.”

And then he was gone, moving silently through the scrub to rally his fighters and organize them for the attack.

Estere was prone in the grass, her eye already on the scope of the rifle as she aimed down the bluff into the enemy camp. Her dark hair was pulled sharply back from her face to keep it out of her eyes.

Thomas crawled to her side, adjusting the binoculars once more to his eyes. The fighter named Hawre knelt less than five feet away and behind them, an AK-47 in his hands.

The mountain had grown silent, the whisper of the wind the only sound of nature remaining. It was the calm before the storm.

It was almost as though Thomas could feel the Kurds moving into position. Though their movements were shielded from his eyes, he had been on enough ops through the years to be able to predict where they would be taking up positions.

He counted a total of forty soldiers in view below them, and there was no way to know whether that was all of them. They might even have a patrol or two out. Thomas stole a glance at the pistol on Estere’s hip, wishing it was in his hand.

There were two soldiers on guard duty by each of the transport trucks. He had just turned the binoculars carefully to examine them when a shot was fired.

It was a signal. At that instant, Thomas heard the well-nigh simultaneous whoosh of two RPGs leaving their tubes, one from each side of the valley. One for each truck.

The trucks exploded a moment later, the fireball nearly blinding Thomas as the bodies of the unfortunate guards were vaporized.

The rifle beside him spat fire as Estere got off her first shot. “Target?”

“An officer,” Thomas stammered out, still trying to recover his vision. “To your right.”

“Range?” she demanded, swiveling the rifle on its bipod to acquire the new target. “I need the range.”

“Hundred and eighty meters,” replied Thomas. Rifle fire filled the air as Sirvan and Badir’s forces descended the slope, as the panicked soldiers tried to rally.

He felt the sniper rifle recoil beside him, watched the officer crumple into the dirt, a clean headshot. Soldiers were falling all around, caught in the ambush.

“Target?”

Something felt suddenly wrong, the hairs on the back of Thomas’s neck prickling even before gunfire exploded behind them.

He turned just in time to see Hawre fall, his body nearly cut in two by bullets. Thomas screamed out a warning, throwing himself toward the fallen Kurd.

Bullets fanned the air near his head as Thomas reached him, grabbing a fragmentation grenade from the dead man’s belt.

Things seemed to slow down, crystallize, as he grasped the situation. Their assailants were sweeping down from the ridge above, acting stupidly, he realized even as he pulled the pin on the grenade. They were bunched up.

He heard the crack of a pistol shot as though through a dream, saw one of the five men stagger. The frag landed among them and Thomas grabbed Hawre’s AK.

Their attackers dove for the ground, seeking whatever cover they could find against the grenade. One man tried to run. The blast caught him square in the middle of the back and he collapsed, screaming pitifully.