Shock Warning

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

It was more than a little creepy to see the memorial models of the World Trade Center and the Pentagon outside the fire department. At least, thought Devlin, we had some friends in the Arab world. Especially here, in the Emirates and near the other Gulf states. They all had their problems with the United States, but they had an even bigger problem with their Shiite minorities, who were growing more restive by the day, whipped up and egged on by the Iranians and their proxies in the Levant. Thank Allah for the ancient principle that the enemy of my enemy is my friend, or we wouldn’t have any friends in the Middle East at all.

They were inside a secure transmission area. The base, a stone’s throw from Abu Dhabi and not far from Dubai, was used by the UAE air force, but also by the French and, most important for their purposes, the 380th Air Expeditionary Wing of the U.S. Air Force. Its mission was mostly recon and air refueling, but it could do some damage when it wanted to and its presence there, in the heart of Sunni Arabia, was a powerful reminder that the Great Satan still had some punch left in him.

Both Danny and Devlin knew that every word they said would be recorded and that every keystroke on a computer terminal would be logged. Friendship only went so far, especially among natural enemies. So they were using a double Playfair cipher to disguise the real purpose of their communications with Washington. They had worked out the key phrase and grid on the flight over, and for two experienced pros, it was a fairly simple matter to send back a stream of official-sounding but innocuous reports to the DoD, which would in turn be decoded on the spot and relayed from the SecDef to the Building in Fort Meade.

“You know they’re playing us, don’t you?” said Devlin when they were back outside. The temperature was over one hundred degrees, and even the waters of the Gulf looked like the beach in hell. “We think we have a mission, but Tyler is as cunning as a snake. He’ll piggyback some damn thing or another on top of what we’re doing. That way, if things go south and we have to abort, or get captured, he can leave us ‘rogues’ hanging out to dry and walk away.”

“Does it make any difference?”

“Not to me. My official job is track down Emanuel Skorzeny and terminate him. My personal job is to find Maryam and get her out, and muss the Iranians’ hair. Your job is to fly me in and fly us out from the rendezvous point — Maryam, me, and whoever tags along. The Hornets will take out the missiles. And our job is to stay in touch with Byrne at the NYPD and try to terminate the bomb at its source.”

“I have one other job.”

“What’s that?

“To come home.”

“Which is why you’ve got the job you do. Look, no one can fly a chopper like you and I know your men are your equal in skill.”

“Better. Younger.”

“So you’re going to succeed where those poor bastards of Operation Eagle Claw failed. They failed because shit happened and the command lost its nerve and Carter pulled the plug. They failed because we weren’t ready for desert warfare back then. We didn’t know we’d be fighting these same damn people for the next thirty years and more. Which is why, this time—”

“This time, we’re going to get it right.”

“Damn right we are. Jesus, it’s hot.”

“Not as hot as it’s going to be.”

They got out of the sun and headed for the base canteen. A cold beer would taste great right about now, and the nice thing about the Emirates and the other playpens nearby was that you could actually get one. A wise man once said that living in the old Soviet Union was like living with your parents for the rest of your life, but the U.S.S.R. was like a vacation at a topless beach in St. Tropez compared to the Arab world, where sin was resolutely hidden and more often to be found in Paris or London than Doha or, God knew, Riyadh.

Devlin bought the beers. The base was pretty quiet. Whatever Tyler was planning wasn’t going to come from this direction. Danny drank, wiped his mouth, pointed east.

“That’s where SOAR got its start. Even Carter could figure out that to the mobile belonged the future, and that if we ever again were going in to a place like Tabas, we’d damn sure better be prepared.”

“And we are.”

“Think we’ll come back?”

“You will, as long as you dodge the haboob.” That would be the fine desert sand mist that had brought down Carter’s choppers.

There was no further need to go over the plan. Timing was everything. As soon as Maryam was able to get a signal out, they would move. It was all in her hands now.

“Code names?” asked Danny.

“Pick yours. I’ve got mine.”

“Black Hawk will do just fine. You?”

“Malak al-Maut.”

“Malak al-Maut?” repeated Danny. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You ought to know. You’ve heard me say it enough times.”

A big grin spread across Danny’s face. “The Angel of Death.”

They shook hands. “It’s a dirty job,” said Devlin, “but somebody’s got to do it.”

It was good to finally meet a friend.

“What about the name of the op?” asked Danny.

“Only name it can have: Operation Honey Badger.”

“The one that never got off the ground. The second rescue operation.”

“Terminated on account of a presidential election. The minute Reagan took the oath of office, the hostages were released.”

“End of story.”

“But not end of problem.”

He felt his Android buzz. There was no bother about taking the message — it had been coded and rerouted so many times that it would be indecipherable to all but him. He looked at the display:

Devlin looked at Danny: “Let’s roll.”