The Enemy Within

Others took up the cry. In moments the entire audience was on its feet, chanting his praises. Taleh tried to remain calm, but his exhilaration would not let him.

Nothing could stop Iran now.

DECEMBER 9

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

The sound of automatic-weapons fire rattled through the Delta House of Horrors, rising in volume as more and more troopers opened up on suspected targets. Sharp thuds punctuated the noise as smoke grenades went off to cover movement down staircases and into enemy-held rooms. White smoke drifted lazily out through the building’s open windows.

Peter Thorn and Sergeant Major Roberto “TOW” Diaz stood near the front steps, observing the rehearsal closely. The short, dark-haired noncom held a stopwatch in his hand.

They were watching the lead elements of each handpicked assault team show off their paces. Where possible, sections of the House of Horrors had been altered to mimic portions of Taleh’s operations headquarters. Using the existing building for training was a stopgap expedient at best, but it would have to do for now. The construction crews feverishly erecting mock-ups of the buildings around Tehran’s Khorasan Square were still at least two days away from finishing their work.

Thorn nodded in satisfaction as the first Delta Force troopers fell back out through open doors and windows. They had a strange, wild look about them. Like him, anyone with lighter colored hair had dyed it black. And all of the men assigned to the NEMESIS force were letting their beards and mustaches grow. Roughly half of them wore Iranian uniforms. The rest were still waiting for the seamstresses to finish sewing.

“Jesus, what a motley crew,” Diaz muttered with a grin. “I keep expecting someone to raise the Jolly Roger.”

“Sorry you signed on for this little jaunt, Tow?” Thorn asked.

“Hell, no, Pete!” Diaz shook his head. “Believe me, it sure beats waiting by the phone for Jimmy to call. All the kid does is piss and moan about how rough it is being a plebe! I’m looking forward to a little peace and quiet when we hit Tehran.”

“Sure,” Thorn said, not believing a word of it. West Point Cadet James Diaz was his father’s pride and joy. Still, he was very glad to have the sergeant major aboard. TOW Diaz was the best rough-and-tumble soldier in the Delta Force, and he had a hunch they were going to need every edge they could get when they shot their way into Amir Taleh’s den.

FBI Surveillance Team Six near Milwaukee, Wisconsin

FBI Special Agent James Orr stared through a set of almost closed blinds at the house just across the way. He could see the terrorists moving around inside again.

After a full day of close surveillance, he was beginning to put the faces and habits of these men together. There were four of them, all told. One, a short, brown-haired Caucasian, was a dedicated smoker. He was puffing away now while watching television with the sallow-faced Middle Easterner who seemed to be used mostly as a driver by the terrorist cell. The other two were out of sight somewhere in the back of the house they were renting.

Orr grimaced. This was crazy. He had these guys. He had them and now he was being told to back off. He spoke sharply into the handheld secure phone. “Jesus Christ, Mike, I’m telling you we can take these guys without breaking a sweat. Hell, my snipers could drop two of them this second!”

Mike Flynn’s voice came over the line loud and clear. “Negative, Jim. I’m telling you just what I’ve told every other team around the country. You wait for the word. You watch those people closely, but you do not make a move on them without my direct authorisation. Is that understood?” he demanded.

Orr bit back another oath. “Understood, Mike. Out.”

Still shaking his head in disbelief, he clicked the phone off and went back to watching the enemies he was not allowed to touch.

CHAPTER 24 MOVEMENT TO THE OBJECTIVE

DECEMBER 11

Kilo class submarine laugh, off Bandar-e Abbas, near the Strait of Hormuz.

(D MINUS 4)

Iran’s submarine force sortied out of Bandar-e Abbas well after dusk on a moonless, cloudy night. Three black, seventy-meter-long shapes slid quietly past the blinking buoys that marked the main channel. One after the other, as soon as they cleared the harbor area, the diesel boats submerged and went to periscope depth.

Followed by her consorts, the lead submarine, Taregh, crept almost due south through the shallow Gulf waters. She was an ultra-quiet, Kilo-class boat, originally designed and built by the Soviets, and purchased for hard currency from the shrinking, cash-poor Russian fleet. Her forty-five-man crew was the best in the Iranian Navy.

Once he was satisfied that they were safely enroute and free of any shadowers, Taregh’s captain picked up the annunciator microphone.

“Attention to orders.”

He ignored the significant looks and whispers among his control room crew. “We have been assigned an extended exercise one which may last several weeks.