Cain did have a backup plan. It was his last resort. During the final weeks of the operation, he’d used his considerable resources to contact a local insurgent commander in Haditha. Scott had led the effort, and it was only after multiple attempts that the insurgent leader had allowed one of his deputies to travel to Baghdad to meet with Scott.
The offer had been simple: “Provide us with a way out of Haditha on the day of our choosing. It has to be undetectable by the US military. They’ll be looking for us. Do this one thing, and we’ll fund you with all the weapons and equipment you can handle.”
The insurgent deputy commander had been so dumbfounded by the offer that he’d been speechless.
“It’s a real offer. Don’t ask why. But here’s the catch. We’re not going back to Baghdad. We need to get into Syria.” The insurgent had raised his eyebrows.
“So, we’ll help an American willing to help kill his own people and who needs to get smuggled into Syria, correct? Inshallah,” the insurgent had said.
It sounded preposterous to Scott when the man had stated it so bluntly, but it was the truth. Their goal was larger than a diminishing insurgency or any American lives that might be lost because of their actions. They were about to make a statement that would transform history.
The agreement had eventually been reached, and in a remote building just one hundred meters west of an old soccer stadium more than a mile away from the SURC’s current position, four men waited to honor their end of the bargain.
As Cain watched the helicopter sink into the Euphrates, he turned his attention to the riverbank. The driver aimed the craft toward a gradual slope forty yards away.
Within seconds the patrol boat reached the shore, and Cain felt the bottom scrape the bank below.
Cain looked back at the helicopter one more time. He thought he saw a flash of movement near the remnants of the hulking machine above the surface. He couldn’t be sure, but he certainly didn’t have time to wait and see.
Scott and the driver both jumped out of the boat, boots crunching on the gravel surface. Scott carried the nuclear suitcase.
“Let’s go, sir. We’ve got a bit of ground to cover before we’re in the clear.”
“Nice shot with that RPG, Scott. I knew I paid you well for your skills,” Cain said.
“Honestly, I’d have done that one for free. I can’t stand that smug West bastard or his fucking sidekick.” Scott wasn’t smiling.
Cain nodded. He shared the same sentiments. “If nothing else, it should buy us some time. Let’s go.”
He turned his attention to the driver, Tom Denton, as he walked up the short slope to the streets above. “Tom, nice job. I knew I could count on you.”
“Sir, I’m in this till the end. I lost a cousin to an IED attack in Sadr City, and I know those assholes were funded by the Iranians. So if we can hit them back, I’ll do whatever needs to be done,” Tom said.
Cain nodded. “Scott, hand him the suitcase. You and I are on point.”
Scott turned over the nuclear weapon to Tom, who, though surprised by the move, didn’t appear to be afraid of the bomb.
Good, Cain thought. Maybe I really can count on him.
It was down to just the three of them, and it was all or nothing. If they reached Syria, the rest of the operation was already in place. He’d paid heavily for an Iranian visa, and after a substantial weapons shipment to Damascus, the Syrian government had guaranteed him a private flight to Tehran. All the Syrians knew was that he wanted to meet with the Iranian government.
It had taken over a year and a half of clandestine meetings and worldwide conversations to secure a two-hour meeting with a representative of the Iranian regime. The meeting was scheduled for two days from now in a hotel in downtown Tehran. The hotel itself was unremarkable; however, its proximity to the Iranian Parliament building near Baharestan Square was crucial. In two days, the supreme leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran would speak to Parliament about the future of Iran’s nuclear program. That is, unless I have something to say about it.
Cain didn’t know if the Americans had found his map of the Quds Force headquarters at Fajr Base. He hoped they had. It was intended as a decoy to throw them off his scent once he dropped off the grid in Iraq.
His real targets were the supreme leader of Iran and the entire Iranian Parliament. He was going to kill them all.
Once his meeting with the regime was concluded, he planned to set the nuclear device to detonate during the speech. He’d flee south of the city to escape the explosion.
He’d established a network in southern Iran, one that wouldn’t ask too many questions, even in the wake of the country’s political collapse. This network controlled the final piece of the puzzle—smuggling him into South America to a nonextradition country of his choosing. Iran had been involved for years in shady deals with various South American dictators. Guaranteeing his sanctuary had been the easiest aspect of the whole operation.
“All right, then. Let’s go before any survivors from the crash or their reinforcements show up. We’ll stick to the alleys and side streets.”
The three men climbed the slope and disappeared, their new objective more than a mile away.