Hunt the Falcon

Chapter Twenty-One

His team was waiting at the airport, but Crocker couldn’t leave without explaining to Holly what he was about to do, even though his orders forbade him from discussing his missions with anyone. He’d never broken that pledge in almost ten years of working with ST-6 and Black Cell. But tonight he was making an exception.

She was asleep when he got home. He woke her, sat facing her, and holding both her hands said, “I want you to know that I’m leaving tonight on a mission to go after Farhed Alizadeh in Iran. And I couldn’t be more excited.”

She looked at him and trembled, and in that moment seemed to fully understand the gravity of what he was telling her. “I can’t say I’m not pleased,” she said, “but I’m also scared. Thank you for telling me. And please, please, come back.”

“Don’t tell Jenny about the mission, but I want both of you to know that if something happens, I’m still the luckiest man alive. I’ve been blessed with a beautiful, intelligent daughter that I don’t deserve, and the most wonderful wife I could have ever imagined.”

“Tom, I love you so much…”

He kissed her, pulled away, and took one last glance at the room, Holly on the bed and on the wall their framed wedding picture in which a look of absolute joy showed on her face. He wanted to take those images with him, even to the other side of death.

Starting down the stairs, he realized there was one other thing he wanted to take with him. Stepping lightly and carefully, he entered Jenny’s room and planted a kiss on her sleeping head, taking a moment to record her delicate profile, which always gave him joy and reminded him of his first wife.

With both images stored deep inside, he descended the stairs to the office, where he grabbed one of the prepacked bags for undercover summer ops, with a couple of black T-shirts and pants, toothbrush, hunting knife, and black Nikes. He stopped in the kitchen, pulled two energy bars and a bottle of water out of the cabinet, then patted Brando’s head and told him to look after the girls until he got back before exiting into the night.

Time now passed as if in a dream, and every moment seemed significant. Half an hour later he boarded the Gulfstream, where he was greeted with a thumbs-up from John Smith, who was talking on his BlackBerry. The long gray wig had been replaced by a black skullcap that covered his bald head.

Akil, Ritchie, and Mancini arrived silently and threw their gear into the baggage compartment under the wing. The Gulfstream took off. Approximately seven hours later, they landed at Naval Air Station Sigonella in Sicily to refuel and stretch their legs. Around six hours later they arrived at Al Taqaddum Air Base outside Baghdad.

Except for the sounds of the wind buffeting metal hangars and the whine of engines, the night was silent. Stars sparkled brilliantly with light from a distant time. Crocker stood near the jet waiting for the thud of distant explosions but heard none.

Two CIA officials in T-shirts and mirrored sunglasses greeted them and led them to a canteen, where they washed up, then ate scrambled eggs, hash browns, and fresh fruit, and drank coffee. Then they boarded an unmarked Blackhawk helicopter for the trip to Basrah International Airport.

Everyone they encountered-pilots, officials-seemed to understand the gravity of the mission. Crocker and his men felt it, too; there was none of their usual banter. Each man was occupied with his own thoughts. Each of them knew there was a good probability he might not come back. Nevertheless, Crocker didn’t waste time worrying about that or the difficulties they might encounter. He focused on how privileged he felt about finally getting the chance to take the fight directly to the Falcon on his turf.

In Basrah they waited on the tarmac while John Smith communicated with Ramin Kian via satellite phone. Smith returned an hour later and barked, “You’re good to go.”

“When?” Crocker asked.

“Ninety minutes. The helicopter is going to drop you by a scrap metal yard southwest of the city near the steel plant and the Imam Khomeini Freeway. Ramin will meet you there with two of his people. He’ll signal with a green laser marker.”

“Good,” Crocker said, gazing up at the three-quarters moon and canopy of stars. He was reminded of a camping trip with Holly deep inside Yosemite park and a night they’d spent in their sleeping bag holding each other and naming constellations. He cut off the memory and forced himself to focus.

Smith said, “The op will take place tomorrow night. Ramin’s got the details all worked out. We’re planning to extract you from the same site near the scrap yard at midnight. So be there.”

“We plan to.” The desert air had already dried out his nostrils and mouth.

Smith said, “If you encounter a problem, call me on the sat phone. I’ll be waiting across the border in the town of Nahairat. I can get to you quickly if there’s an emergency. But I have strict orders not to enter Iran.”

“Fine.” Crocker thought of asking why but decided not to. Washington always came up with strange restrictions, even at critical times like these. They couldn’t resist the urge to try to micromanage dangerous ops from halfway around the world, despite the fact that at this point there wasn’t a whole lot they could control. Nor could Crocker, for that matter-which he was well aware of. He’d never met Ramin, had no idea how competent he was, and had no details about the other people they’d be working with.

John Smith led them to an empty hangar, where they changed into black T-shirts and pants, and donned night-vision goggles. They did a final check on their black backpacks and weapons. Each man carried one Russian- or Chinese-made submachine gun and automatic pistol, extra ammo, two grenades, and an SOP knife. Crocker’s submachine gun was a Russian AEK-919K Kashtan with suppressor and folded buttstock, which resembled an Uzi and weighed less than five pounds. His choice of handgun was a Chinese-made TU-90 semiautomatic, which looked a lot like a U.S. M1911.

He also packed the emergency medical kit; Akil was responsible for the sat phone and radio; Ritchie carried explosives, detonators, and wire; Mancini toted extra ammo and other supplies.

As they walked back to the Blackhawk, Smith said, “The pilot is going to swing over the Persian Gulf and approach from the south. He’ll have to fly low, because the Iranians have pretty robust border security and a strong military presence in Ahvaz.”

Now you tell me, Crocker thought. He asked, “Is there a particular reason why? Didn’t the Iranians recently shoot down one of our drones near there?”

Smith had to shout over the helicopter engines, which were starting up. “The heightened security has to do with the unrest in 2006.”

“What unrest?” Crocker asked.

“Arab separatists blew up some banks, government buildings, a shopping center. Thirty or so people died.”

“Sounds serious.”

“There were some demonstrations and stone throwing, until the Iranians moved in and quashed it brutally. Naturally, they blamed us. Claimed the terrorists had been trained and armed by the CIA.”

“Were they?” Crocker asked.

Smith shrugged, which Crocker interpreted as an admission. That explained a couple of things, including why Smith wasn’t cleared to go into Iran. He was probably a marked man because of his participation in earlier operations.

He had one last question before he boarded the helicopter. “By any chance did this Ramin guy work with the Arabs who set off the bombs in 2006?”

“No,” Smith said. “Don’t worry. He’s a hundred percent Persian through and through.”

Persians are difficult people, Crocker said to himself as he strapped in and the bird lifted off. He’d worked with Iranians before, with mixed results. The ones he had dealt with were prideful in the extreme, suspicious of foreigners, and arrogant.

Their pilot was a Hispanic guy from San Antonio with a big smile and a bum right leg injured during a crash landing in southern Afghanistan. He warned them to expect turbulence due to warm wind blowing in from the east.

“Throw it at us,” Ritchie said. “We’re used to bumps.”

The copter skimmed in low over the desert. Outside all Crocker saw were hills of sand and rock. Banking slightly left, they passed over a patch of green and a small house with camels tied up to a post.

“Five minutes!” the pilot shouted over his shoulder.

They flew over more shacks, then a four-lane highway with a few headlights. Crocker felt adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream. He grabbed his pack and his Kashtan, held up two fingers, then slid the helicopter door open. Across from him Mancini and Akil nodded to signal their understanding.

Through the doorway he saw two tall smokestacks ahead. Below was a field of shipping containers, parked trucks, and piles of metal. The helicopter banked sharply right.

“Where the hell are you going?” Crocker shouted at the pilot.

“I’m trying to locate the green laser.”

The helo circled once, but they saw no green laser. The pilot shouted, “I’m going to circle one more time, then I’ve got to pull out.”

“Fuck that!” Crocker shouted back. “Let us out.”

“Here?”

“Here is fine. Hover so we can drop a rope.”

“But my orders say-”

“Fuck the orders. We’re getting out. You can blame it on me.”

Crocker threw out the rope. Ritchie slid down first, followed by Mancini, Akil, and himself. As he touched the ground he went into a crouch, his weapon cocked and ready. Seeing a large shipping container twenty feet away, he signaled to his men to seek cover behind it.

By the time he reached it, the helicopter had become a fading dark blot in the sky. He wiped the dust off his face, cleared his nostrils of sand.

“What now?” Ritchie asked.

“We wait for this Ramin guy.”

They hadn’t even started, and already things were wrong. Twenty minutes passed. Then Akil saw a pair of headlights flash twice in a parking lot near the back of the big steel plant.

“What’s that mean?” Ritchie asked.

“Don’t know,” Crocker answered. “You and Manny wait here. Akil, come with me.”

They ran in a wide circle around the edge of the yard to the side of the plant, then hugged the dirty brick wall to the back of an old BMW.

“The motor’s running,” Akil whispered. “I see three people inside. The driver’s-side window is open.”

“Stay here and cover me,” Crocker whispered back. With the Kashtan in his right hand, he ran to the dark garagelike building in front of them, went into a crouch, and scurried to the driver’s window.

Crocker heard Middle Eastern music and someone singing along to the bouncy melody. He took a quick breath, came up, and pressed the barrel of the Kashtan against the side of the driver’s head.

The man lurched forward so hard his chest hit the steering wheel.

Crocker said, “Shut your mouths and put your hands over your heads!”

The man in front and the man and woman in the backseat complied immediately. He saw what he thought was a high-powered military pointer pen on the brown leather passenger seat.

“Is one of you named Ramin Kian?” he asked.

“That’s me,” the driver said. His hair was short and gray. He had a square, bony face and looked older than Crocker had expected.

“I’m Mansfield,” Crocker said. “Behind me is my colleague Jerid. What happened to the green laser?”

“It worked yesterday when I tested it, but not tonight.”

“Kill the engine and get out. I want all of you to follow me.”

“Where?” the young woman who had been smoking a clove cigarette in the backseat asked.

“Put out the cigarette and do as I say.”

She frowned but complied. Crocker got his first good look at her and the third passenger as they exited the vehicle. She was an attractive young woman, about five nine, with dark, almond-shaped eyes, wearing tight jeans, her shoulder-length black hair covered with a black scarf. The male was very thin and young looking, with amber-colored eyes.

Ramin, last one out, had pissed his pants. Crocker watched him reach under the front seat and pull out a dark sweatshirt, which he tied around his waist.

They walked quickly and in silence. The Iranians looked scared when they saw the two other armed SEALs waiting behind the shipping container.

“I’m sorry if we frightened you, but it couldn’t be helped,” Crocker said.

“Okay. Y-y-yes,” Ramin stammered. “We’re glad you’re here, but this is very dangerous for us.”

Crocker: “Your English is good.”

“I studied two years at the University of Maryland.”

“College Park?” Ritchie asked.

“Yes. The Terrapins.”

Ritchie: “I used to live on Adelphi Road, not far from the campus.”

“Adelphi Road. Of course.”

“Are you a football fan?” Mancini asked.

“No, basketball. Steve Blake, Chris Wilcox, Juan Dixon.”

“Awesome team.”

“We won the national championship in 2002 under coach Gary Williams,” Ramin said proudly.

Ritchie: “I remember.”

Ramin seemed like a personable guy, even if he wasn’t a trained soldier. He pulled Crocker aside. “John told me he was going to get me and my family out of the country and find me a job in the U.S. Did he say anything to you about that?”

“No, he didn’t. But if he told you he was working on it, I’m sure he is. I’ll talk to him next time I see him.”

Ramin looked confused. “My mother is very sick.”

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him that. John told me you have a plan.”

“I do.” The wind picked up, throwing sand in their faces. Ramin walked over to his shorter colleague and placed a hand on his shoulder. “This is my friend Danush,” he said. “He’s going to pick you up from here tomorrow at 6 p.m. and take you to the arena.”

“My name is Anahita,” the girl said in British-accented English, looking annoyed that Ramin hadn’t introduced her.

Crocker took her hand. “Nice to meet you, Anahita.”

She lowered her eyes to the ground. “I’ll be with Danush.”

“Tomorrow night?” Crocker asked.

“Yes.”

“We’ll all fit in the car?”

She nodded.

“The arena is near here?” Crocker asked.

“Thirty kilometers,” Danush said.

“So it’s relatively close.”

“Yes, about a twenty-minute drive. Twenty-five at most,” Ramin said. “Danush’s brother will meet you there. He manages the sports arena.”

Crocker turned to Danush. “Your brother,” he repeated. “What’s his name?”

“Shah.”

He saw the smirk on Ritchie’s face and knew what he was thinking.

“Shah what?” Crocker asked.

“Just Shah.”

He looked at Danush and nodded. “Okay. You take us to the arena, then what happens?”

“You’ll meet with his brother and he’ll show you where to hide.”

“John Smith told me you had a plan. What’s the plan?”

“We do have a plan,” Ramin answered defensively.

“That’s it? We meet Danush’s brother and he shows us where to hide?”

Ramin looked at his watch. “You want me to show you everything now?”

“Yes, please do.”

Ramin said something to Anahita, who turned, reached under her blouse, and removed a piece of white paper. She unfolded it and handed it to Ramin. On it was a bird’s-eye-view sketch of the arena, entrances, and parking lot. It matched the satellite photo Crocker had in his backpack.

Pointing to a spot on the paper, Ramin said, “This is the sports arena. The customers enter in the front, but special dignitaries arrive in the back. Here. That is where Alizadeh and Suleimani always enter. They come together in one car with a bodyguard and driver. Another vehicle with more bodyguards will follow them.”

Crocker pointed to the curb in the drawing. “This is where the vehicles stop and the two men get out?” he asked.

“Correct. The bodyguards always get out first. They look around to make sure they haven’t been followed, then one of them opens the back door.”

“I see,” Crocker said. “Do the bodyguards wear body armor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will Suleimani and Alizadeh be armed?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“We’ll assume they will be.” Pointing at the sketch, Crocker asked, “Are there usually other vehicles parked back here?”

“Yes.”

“And people?”

“Sometimes people, too, yes.”

Danush said something to Ramin in Farsi, then turned to Crocker and said, “You don’t need to worry about other people. My brother will clear them. He’ll show you where to hide.”

Crocker had dozens more questions, having to do with disguises, uniforms, other guards and policemen at the arena, and their escape. Ramin and Danush answered some of them. When it was time for them to leave, they led the SEALs a hundred yards past a chain-link fence to an old shipping container. This one had a lock on it, which Ramin opened with a key.

It stunk inside, and old mattresses covered the metal floor. “You can sleep here tonight,” Ramin said.

“I give this place half a star,” Ritchie cracked.

Akil: “Don’t you have something with a view of the swimming pool?”

Ramin frowned.

“What happens next?” Crocker asked.

“We lock you in for the night,” Ramin answered. “Then we come back tomorrow morning and bring some food and beverages.”

“We brought food and water with us.”

“Then Danush will return about 6 p.m. to drive you to the arena. The game doesn’t start until seven.”

Akil turned to Crocker and raised an eyebrow.

“Two things,” Crocker said. “Number one, you’re not going to lock us in this shipping container, so forget about that. Number two: What’s likely to happen at the steel plant tomorrow? Are we going to wake up and find this area overrun with people?”

“Mr. Mansfield,” Ramin answered, “I must say I find some of your questions insulting. We’re intelligent people who are risking our lives to help you. We’ve thought about all of these matters. The plant is closed for the rest of the week as people get ready to celebrate the birthday of the Prophet.”

The breeze threw sand in Crocker’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you,” he said. “But I need to know what to expect.”

“You can expect peace and quiet here. Nobody visits the plant when it’s closed.”

“Okay.”

“Any more questions?” Ramin asked.

Crocker shook his head. “Is there any way for us to reach you?”

“No. It’s too dangerous, and I don’t have a secure phone. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow morning then.”

“Until tomorrow.”

Ramin turned and walked away with his two associates, leaving Crocker with a bad taste in his mouth.

“There goes the mighty Scimitar,” Ritchie said as he watched them climb into the BMW and drive off.

Akil turned to Crocker. “What do you think?”

“If they do what they say they’re gonna do, we’ll be fine.”

“What do you think are the odds that’s going to happen?” Akil asked.

“Fifty-fifty.”

“I don’t know if they can be trusted,” Ritchie said, picking sand out of his teeth.

“We’ll find out.”

The men chose to sleep on the flat roof of the container, where they could breathe fresh air and keep an eye on their immediate surroundings. To pass the time, Mancini, who had recently seen the movie Lincoln, talked about the strange coincidences between the sixteenth president and the thirty-fifth, John F. Kennedy. Both were shot by a bullet to the head on a Friday. Lincoln was elected to Congress in 1846, Kennedy in 1946. Lincoln’s successor (named Johnson) was born in 1808. Kennedy’s successor, also named Johnson, was born in 1908. Lincoln’s assassin had three names and was born in 1838. Kennedy’s assassin also went by three names and was born in 1939.

“So?” Ritchie asked. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s interesting, that’s all. Did you know that a week before his death, Lincoln dreamt that he heard crying in a room in the White House? He found the room and saw a coffin and someone crying. When he asked who was in the coffin, the person responded, ‘It’s the president.’ Then he looked in the coffin and saw himself.”

“Was that in the movie?” Akil asked.

“No. They left out a whole lot of interesting stuff.”

“Do us a favor,” Ritchie said. “Don’t tell us what you dream tonight.”

“Why? You don’t want to know what’s coming?”

“I’d rather be surprised.”

Crocker tried to push away the doubts he had about Ramin and Scimitar, and focus on the positive-they were in Iran and within striking distance of Alizadeh and Suleimani. If they did manage to get as close as Ramin said they could, they’d kill the Quds Force leaders. The more difficult task, and one they hadn’t discussed with Ramin, was exiting the arena unharmed, then escaping across the border.

One thing at a time, he told himself, acknowledging that they were operating in the gray area of guts, instincts, and faith.

In an attempt to give his restless mind a break, he looked up and tried to find the constellation Orion. Through the hazy, cloud-swept sky, he located its brightest stars, blue-white Rigel, and reddish Betelgeuse, then traced the rest. In Greek mythology Orion was a hunter and usually depicted holding a club in one hand and a lion’s head in the other.

He considered it a good omen.

In the morning the SEALs ate MREs and took turns washing in water from a spigot at the rear of the plant. Then they huddled and went over responsibilities. What they wanted to do was position themselves at the back of the arena and fire at the officials and their bodyguards from two directions, thus reducing any chance of escape.

Crocker and Akil would fire from Position 1, along the back wall of the arena. Mancini and Ritchie would situate themselves at a forty-five-degree angle from them somewhere in the rear parking lot (Position 2). One shooter from each position-Crocker at 1, Ritchie at 2-would focus on taking out the bodyguards and disabling the vehicles. The other two shooters, Akil and Mancini, would aim at the targets-Alizadeh and Suleimani.

Ramin didn’t return in the morning like he said he would, so the SEALs spent the day cleaning and checking their weapons, reviewing positions, fire vectors, and signals, and going over various contingencies. By five everything was locked and loaded. The men were ready.

“Where the hell is he?” Ritchie asked.

“Fuck Ramin,” Akil said. “All we need is the kid to drive us to the arena.”

An hour passed and no one arrived. By 1815 hours Crocker started to worry. Ramin had said the game would start at 1900, and the arena was approximately twenty miles away.

Security around the city of Ahvaz was tight, and the Iranians were known to use electronic surveillance. With no way to communicate with Ramin, they waited.

At 1830, as the sun started to set, Crocker considered calling John Smith on the sat phone and telling him to pull them out. Ten minutes later a vehicle entered the back lot of the steel plant and flashed its headlights twice.

He and Akil approached through a mist of yellow-orange dust. The vehicle wasn’t a BMW, but a white Toyota sedan. Danush sat behind the wheel with Anahita in the seat beside him.

“What happened?” Crocker asked through the driver’s-side window, trying not to lose his cool. “Ramin said he’d be back this morning. He never came.”

Anahita leaned over and said, “There’s been a problem.”

“What does that mean?”

“The problem is that the arena is closed and the game was canceled.”

“Why?” Crocker asked, checking their eyes for signs of betrayal, and alert to the sound of approaching people or vehicles.

“A pipe broke,” she answered.

“A sewer pipe,” Danush added.

“A sewer pipe broke inside the arena?” Crocker asked. “When is it likely to be fixed?”

Danush shrugged and looked at Anahita for help. “We don’t know,” she answered. “It’s a big mess, as you can imagine.”

“Where’s Ramin?” Crocker asked, still superalert to the emotions that played on their faces and in their eyes.

“He asked us to come. He thinks he’s being followed.”

“Is he?”

The two Iranians looked at each other. Danush shrugged and answered, “We don’t know. He gets nervous when things go wrong.”

Crocker leaned his hand on the roof of the car. Everything they had told him sounded reasonable so far. Anahita got out, lit a cigarette, and gazed at him intently with her dark eyes. She looked disappointed.

She blew smoke over her shoulder. A small plane passed overhead.

He took note of it, then turned to her and asked, “Do you have another idea?”

She leaned her head back, exhaled smoke into the sky, then shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Then you and Danush should go.”

She looked at her colleague still sitting in the car and said, “We’re both very angry about this, because you’re here. It’s a big opportunity.”

“Maybe we will never have another chance,” Danush added.

“I feel the same,” Crocker said. “Do you know where Alizadeh and Suleimani live?”

“We do,” Anahita answered, “but the streets are heavily guarded.”

“What about their office?”

“The headquarters?” Danush asked. “No, that’s impossible.”

“Lots of things were impossible before someone did them,” Crocker said, gazing up at the sky, very aware that the window of time in which they had to launch an op was closing.

As she smoked her cigarette Anahita explained that John Smith had asked the same question about attacking Quds Force headquarters a week ago, and as a result, Ramin had done a study of the security of the building and its accessibility from adjoining structures. There was a bank to the right of it if you looked at the building from the front, and a movie theater on the left. The walls between them had been bombproofed with steel plates. The prospect of drilling or blasting through the walls in Quds Force HQ undetected were almost zero.

She explained that they had developed a source inside the movie theater, and the person had confirmed this.

“What about the roof?” Crocker asked.

“What roof?”

“The roof of Quds Force headquarters.”

Danush: “You would need a helicopter to get there, and the guards would see and hear it.”

“There’s a guard station up there, too,” Anahita added. “It’s manned day and night. But there’s an old passageway between the buildings that was blocked up when the theater was renovated three years ago.”

“What kind of passageway?” Crocker asked.

“A doorway, I think. Some kind of emergency exit on the third floor that’s blocked.”

“Blocked, in what way?”

Danush shrugged. “With steel plates, I think.”

Crocker was in no mood to accept defeat. “You said you knew someone who worked in the movie theater. Can he get us inside?”

“When?” Anahita asked.

“Tonight.”

She grinned, covered her mouth with her hand, then conferred with Danush in Farsi.

Akil, who stood behind Crocker, followed their discussion.

“What do you think?” Crocker asked.

“We have to arrange some things first,” Anahita said, “but we can try.”