The Enemy Within

He mentally crossed his fingers. Dealing with local talent on a covert op was always chancy. You never knew how far you could trust them.

The oldest of those waiting for him, a scarred, thinbearded man with a hooked nose, stepped forward and smiled. He bobbed his head and spoke in understandable, though heavily accented, English. “Peace be upon you, my friends. My name is Hamir Pahesh. The code name given to me by your CIA is Stone.”

Thorn introduced himself and looked at the other man’s fidgeting companions. Most still seemed stunned at the sight of so many troops pouring out of his grounded aircraft. One, taller than the rest by half a head, looked blackly furious.

Diaz caught his nod in that direction and slipped off to the side.

Thorn turned back to Pahesh. “These men are the drivers we asked for?”

The Afghan nodded. “Yes.” He rattled off their names in quick succession and then asked shyly, “You have the money I have promised them?”

Thorn touched the backpack he had slung over one shoulder. “I have it, Mr. Pahesh. Twenty thousand American dollars apiece. Five thousand now. Fifteen thousand more after we reach Tehran safely.”

The big man, the one called Mohammed, reared back. “You are a crazy man, Pahesh!” he sputtered in rough, broken English. “I do not put my head on the chopping block to carry spies into the city Not for thousand of dollars. Not for million of dollars!”

Mohammed fumbled for the weapon stuck in his trousers and then froze suddenly, his eyes wide, as Diaz ground the muzzle of an M16 rifle into his ear.

“Slowly, pal. Very slowly,” the sergeant major said softly. “I’d sure hate to mess up my nice new uniform with your tiny little brains.”

Diaz held his weapon on target until another Delta trooper stepped in and relieved the big trucker of his pistol. Without pausing, a third member of the command team bound Mohammed’s wrists behind his back and marched him away to-ward the parked C-17s.

Thorn turned back to the dumbfounded Afghans. His eyes sought out those of Pahesh. “It seems~hat Mr. Mohammed will not be joining us this evening after all. Do any of your other associates feel a burning desire to go on strike?”

The older man shrugged, amusement plain in his own expression. “I will ask them, Colonel Thorn. But I suspect they will see reason and profit in doing as you ask.”

A hasty, whispered conference in Pushtu confirmed Pahesh’s assessment. None of the other Afghans looked very happy at this unexpected turn of events, but none of them seemed unhappy enough to prove treacherous.

Nonetheless, Thorn planned to take out a little insurance of his own. He glanced at Diaz. “Tow, please tell Major win I want one of our Farsi speakers riding shotgun in each truck cab. And have these gentlemen taken back to their vehicles.”

“Sure thing, Pete.” Still holding his M16 at the ready, the sergeant major trotted off into the darkness. Escorted by other Delta Force soldiers, the three remaining truck drivers followed him at a discreet distance.

Thorn turned back to the older Afghan. “Now, Mr. Pahesh, if you’ll come with me, I’ll tell you where we need to go and what we plan to do.” He led the way back down the ridge, pleased by all the activity he could see around the parked aircraft.

Nobody was wasting any time. The sixty men he was taking into Tehran were carting their weapons and equipment toward the waiting trucks. A fourth twenty-man troop would remain behind to provide security here. They were busy deploying machine guns, antitank guided missiles, Stinger SAM teams, and sniper teams to cover all avenues of approach to the improvised landing strip. Aided by some of the C-17 crewmen, Scott Finney’s helicopter crews were already beginning to assemble their birds four lJH-1N Hueys and a tiny AH-6 gunship.

Now that they all were safely on the ground inside Iran, NEMESIS was starting to take its final shape.

DECEMBER 14

Near the Khorasan Square headquarters

(D MINUS 1)

Three hours after leaving the isolated desert landing strip, the five canvas-sided trucks pulled off to the side of a quiet Tehran street and parked. Their long trip northward had been uneventful. The forged travel orders supplied by Pahesh got them through the checkpoints without much trouble. After all the military hubbub of the past several days, trucks full of Iranian soldiers no longer drew much attention. Even the most curious citizens and police had been sated by the sight of so many weapons and olive-drab vehicles moving through their streets. In any case, it was past midnight and few lights were on anywhere in the sprawling, sleeping city.

Thorn dropped out of the back of the lead truck and went forward to speak to Hamir Pahesh. The Afghan slid out from behind the wheel and joined him on the pavement.

The older man pointed down the road. “The headquarters is three blocks further up this avenue, Colonel. You know the building?”