Kasem and the IRGC sergeant had driven a few hours down to this little point of land that jutted into Iraq. They were in a three-axle flatbed truck with a mounted fifty-cal. Until now they’d been waiting over on the border road, prepared to make a run for Dale at the first sign of trouble. For a while they’d just waited and listened to the radio calls. It’d seemed like a bust.
Far from it.
The captain back at the school had been an enormous help. He’d stayed there, monitoring the net, keeping the line of communication open with the Quds lieutenant colonel. The IRGC captain had a good relationship with the NAJA force that had been conducting the search of the roads. The captain had relayed the news of one dead Iranian youth south of Saqqez. Another kid was in critical condition, saved by a hastily tied tourniquet over the bullet hole in his leg. The tire marks showed that the perpetrator had headed south.
That was when Kasem knew he was right. If nothing else, the dressing to the kid’s wound was a dead giveaway. Kasem was living proof of that. The CIA man who’d saved Kasem’s own life in Iraq was now on his way. If Kasem could arrest him and Rahimi together, the CIA man would redeem the Quds officer’s life all over again.
But it was still a porous border. Kasem couldn’t know exactly where he and the sergeant should position themselves. They’d set up on a high bluff, using their night-vision goggles, looking and listening, waiting.
Then the captain had called on the HF radio net. A villager had phoned the police with reports of gunfire, not four kilometers from where Kasem was parked. Kasem had ordered the sergeant to get moving. They’d get more details on the way.
The villager had said it sounded like it was up at the last farm against the hill. That made sense to Kasem from a tactical point of view.
There were no obvious roads connecting to the farm from this side. They left the border road and began overlanding it in a rush, picking their way through the wadis, smashing through low vegetation like a charging bear. It was a rough, wild ride, but Kasem kept urging the sergeant on. Only the seat belts kept them from flying out as the big truck lunged forward. It had been a lucky odyssey to get this far. Kasem wasn’t about to blow it now.
Oleg grabbed Rahimi by the arm and dragged him to the ground. He too noticed the distant truck trundling up the hill, headlights bouncing. He told the Iranian to get his head down. They couldn’t be seen.
Oleg had spoken in English. Rahimi had called him Reza, thanking him, saying some other things that didn’t make a lot of sense to Oleg.
The Russian would sort it later. It didn’t matter. What mattered right now was getting out of the open, getting to cover.
He pulled and prodded Rahimi to race across the corral, to get to the other side and dive down an embankment. It was a longer run in the open, but it went away from the truck coming up the hill. Once he got some concealment, he’d deal with the vehicle.
The pilots had piped communications with the ops center directly through to Meredith’s headset in the helo, which was speeding low and fast over the desert toward the Iranian border. They were taking orders from her now. The blond guy from the Agency who had been in charge had basically delegated everything to her, they’d said.
Meredith and the DEVGRU SEAL team were supposed to see drone video that bounced off satellite relays to the ruggedized tablet strapped to a bundle of equipment in the center of the helo. But frustratingly, all Meredith saw were blinking vertical lines as the Air Force worked out the kinks. She asked the ops center for a sitrep (situation report).
They said over the sat radio that the man identified as their officer was up again, moving forward. He had the IR reflector, so they had a confirmed PID on him now.
The IR reflector was especially important, some colonel added, because as the helicopter arrived on-site with its nose-mounted forward-looking infrared (FLIR), the gunners would be able to tell who was who.
Meredith nodded at that, looking at the SEALs bunched around her, who were also listening in. She prodded the arm of the ranking senior chief riding across from her to make sure he really understood. The last thing she wanted was friendly fire, a blue-on-blue engagement, a shot at John by mistake.
In the flickering dark of the cabin, his face greased with black paint under his helmet, the team leader made an acknowledging motion with his head.
That wasn’t anywhere near good enough for Meredith.
“Hey!” she shouted into her boom mic, grabbing him by the front of his combat vest just above the hand grenades.
The startled frogman reacted with an uncertain jerk, steadying himself against a nylon strap.
“I need to hear you’ve got good copy on that, Senior Chief,” she said over the intercom. “Our man is up and moving. When the helo’s FLIR lights him up, he’s the good guy. You fucking read me?” She kept holding on to him.
His eyes widened. “Yeah. Check. Copy all,” the team leader said, recovering, pushing her arm off his chest.
Chuckling, one of the other SEALs said over the intercom, “Hey, Senior, you sure you got all that?”
More chuckles.
“All right, all right,” the senior chief replied, waving the other men off with a gloved hand as the helo banked.
The tablet screen came to life with drone video. Finally. They all leaned over it. Meredith saw the white dot of the IR reflector: John. She pointed it out to the others.
The team leader asked the flight crew for an ETA. In five mikes they’d have a FLIR scan of the target area from the helo’s onboard ball turret mounted up on the nose. Landing two mikes after that.
The team leader studied the screen’s drone video and relayed instructions about what they’d do on touchdown, pointing out terrain features. He reiterated where Meredith was supposed to go, that she was supposed to stay close to Tex at all times. That was nonnegotiable.
Tex, Meredith’s seatmate, grinned as he listened, white teeth on black face paint. Meredith couldn’t understand the grin, didn’t like it one bit. She looked at the SEAL, tugged on the M-4 barrel resting on his knees to get his attention. Once she had it, she pointed at the tablet, at the small white dot that was the IR reflector, their man, John.
“We’re getting that guy,” she said to Tex, tapping the screen, the white dot. “You copy?”
Tex nodded, still smiling. Meredith was about to yank his combat vest too, get his head in the game, wipe that stupid smirk off his face.
But before she could, Tex did something unexpected. He gave Meredith’s forearm a little squeeze. He said, “Glad to hear he’s okay, ma’am. Don’t worry. We’ll get him.”
Dale heard the low grinding vibration of a vehicle struggling across the landscape. It was still some distance out, but it sounded heavy. Heavy meant military, troops. Not good.
He’d regained the function of his legs now, but his ribs still hurt like hell. Every breath felt like a naked crawl across barbed wire. But with that truck growling away, he couldn’t afford to pay attention to the pain.
He’d made it back to the edge of the corral, approaching it as low as he could. Though his wound hurt, the last thing he was going to do was present himself as a target again.
He skulked forward with the Glock in his right hand. He wasn’t sure what the hell he was going to find up there, let alone what was happening with that truck. But he got to a position that worked. He dug in at the end of the field, waiting, watching.
Then, looking up, he saw something amazing. The man he’d previously identified as Rahimi was running right toward him. He was held by the arm by another guy, who had an AK-12 in his hand.
Who the hell is that?
Didn’t matter.
Lying prone, Dale took aim at the guy with the AK. But it was a distant shot and they were running. Worse, the stab of pain in Dale’s rib as he extended his arm for the shot made him unsteady. He fired a three-round burst.
All missed.
The guy with the AK dove into a copse of weeds, dragging Rahimi down, both of them disappearing in the brush. The sound of Dale’s gunshots echoed helplessly against the hills. After they’d faded, Dale heard the truck again.
He swore under his breath. He’d lost the initiative. Trapped between the truck behind him and the assaulter in the field across from him, he was now a sitting duck. The only thing he had going for him was the darkness, but under the half-moon, even that was thin.
Fuck! he thought impotently, hearing the crackle of distant branches as the truck rambled on. After all he’d been through, the IRGC had still managed to set a trap for him.
Pangs of fear welled up from their demonic depths. Evin Prison, torture, death. He fought each one of them off, concentrated on an inventory of the tactical assets he had at his disposal. Six rounds left in the mag, another in his pocket.
Compartmentalization of thought was everything now. He traded the half-empty mag for the full one, slamming it in place with the heel of his hand. Even that move hurt his ribs, but he was learning to ignore that.
He rolled twice to the side, each revolution inflicting a searing jolt. He stopped at the bottom of a low, stumpy tree, nowhere near wide enough for cover, but maybe offering a shred of concealment. It would have to do. He swept for a target. Nothing. His ribs throbbed.
Fuck!
He touched the IR reflector on his shoulder, ensuring it was still there, wondering who, if anyone, was up there watching him.