Shock Warning

CHAPTER FIFTY

On Iranian state television, the Grand Ayatollah Ali Ahmed Hussein Mustafa Mohammed Fadlallah al-Sadiq was addressing the faithful:

“O Muslims,” he said, holding up his right hand so that all might see the mark upon it, that they might know that he was the Seyed Khorasani of sacred prophecy, “today I bring you great tiding. A mighty miracle shall you witness, born today in the holy city of Qom.”

The cameras cut to the holy city, and the mosque at Jamkaran, outside which an expectant crowd had gathered, then back to the Ayatollah in Tehran, to which he had returned for the great national moment. He was flanked by various mullahs and civilian members of the government, including the fractious president.

“O Muslims,” he continued, “rejoice, for today marks the day of the Coming. A great awakening shall spread across the lands of Islam and even unto the dar al-Harb, the land of conflict and war wherein the final battle shall be fought. For has not Evil come into the land, everywhere assailing the forces of Good? In the words of the sacred sura 50: 41–45, ‘And listen for the Day when the Caller will call out from a place quite near. The Day when they will hear a mighty Blast in Truth: that will be the Day of Resurrection.’ So it is written and today, so shall it be done.”

The screen split now, half the imam and half the sacred mosque. The Faithful knelt in prayer.

“O Muslims, hear the words of the Prophet, and believe.”

Off-camera, the Grand Ayatollah looked at the president of the Islamic Republic, who nodded confidently. The missiles were about to fly. The death of the Little Satan would quickly follow, and the great cataclysm to come would surely call forth the Imam Mahdi. He could therefore speak with confidence when he said—

A cry went up from the crowd in Qom. The Grand Ayatollah looked at the monitor. Something was happening. Had it begun?

“We can’t leave him there,” said Amanda, lying cradled in Maryam’s arms as the Black Hawk ascended. “They’ll kill him.”

“He knows the risks,” shouted Danny, “and I follow orders.”

Amanda had been hit by small-arms fire, but was still conscious, although bleeding profusely from a wound in her side.

“I have to get you medical attention,” said Danny. “If I don’t, you’re not going to make it.” There it was: blunt. But this was no time to be coy.

Maryam was working on her with the first aid kit, trying to stanch the flow of blood. It was a losing effort.

“Go back!” shouted Amanda. “Don’t leave him there.” The exertion was too much for her. She sank back and whispered to Maryam, “Don’t let them kill him. We need him. You need him. Make him go back.”

Maryam looked down, but she was rapidly losing sight of the battlefield. The toppling missiles had kicked up a minisandstorm; even if they’d wanted to go back for him, there would be no way a responsible pilot would make the attempt.

“He knew the rules, Amanda,” said Maryam.

Amanda gathered all her strength and struggled to a halfsitting position. Her eyes alighted on the pilot’s area, and on a photograph prominently displayed there. It was a picture of Hope, Rory, and a girl she didn’t recognize and one whom she very much did: Emma. Her Emma, the daughter she’d had for such a brief time in London. It was wrong what they had, she knew that now. She could think clearly now, more clearly than at any time in her life. She knew what to do, what to say.

“To hell with the rules,” she said. “Save the man you love.”

Maryam rose. From the day they had met, “Frank Ross” and she had been each other’s guardian angels. He would go back for her, she knew he would. He had crossed half the earth for her. Her obligation was clear — it was the mission, certainly. But he was the mission.

“Go back,” she said to Danny.

“No way, sister,” he shouted. “The zone is too hot.”

She put the Colt 1911 to his head. “Go back.”

“We go back, we all die.”

“No, we won’t.”

Danny turned his head. The safety was off and he knew there was a round in the chamber.

Would she shoot him? A sane woman would not. Shooting him meant they would all die. But who said she was a sane woman?

The gun nuzzled his ear. “Now,” she said, “before it’s too late.”

She certainly had a way with words.

Danny banked the chopper and looked down. The place he had last seen “Bert Harris” was in a choking cloud of dust and debris. And there was one other complication — the Super Hornets would be there any minute. Even now, they were streaking across the Iranian sky. He’d been through some shit in his time, but this would be right up there.

What the hell. He was in the shit business, wasn’t he? What was a little more shit among friends?

He swung hard and headed down. “You got it, sister,” he said. “Now take care of Amanda — and get ready to fight when I say fight.”

He felt the gun move away from the side of his head, then felt her face next to his. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and then she was gone.

Behind the mosque, a huge cloud of dust was rising. Surely, this was a sign. The crowd before the mosque began to chant: “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”

In the studio in Tehran, a phone rang in the distance, but the Grand Ayatollah was only dimly aware of it. His attention was riveted on what was going on in Qom. At any moment now, the Shahabs should be leaping into the air, on their way to their appointment with destiny in Israel. The order had been given, and it was just a matter of time now….

“What? What?” He could hear shouting. But the cameras would be back on him very soon, so he could not react.

There! There was that damned red light again. This demon of Western technology would wait for nothing.

“O Muslims,” he began again, and then stopped. Something was moving in the sky about the holy city.

Allah be praised, it was a miracle….

Since the disaster at Desert One, helicopters had come a long way in desert warfare. A decade and more of fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan had taught the manufacturers exactly what sort of conditions their products would be used under, and they had built in all sorts of protective devices. The new generation of special-ops MH-60Ks were all-weather capable and boasted terrain-hugging radar that let the pilot fly practically blind. In any case, a KG-10 real-time map display told the pilot where he was at all times and on-board radar would alert him immediately to any laser targeting. With the two external extended-range fuel tanks, he could still make the rendezvous point and get out of Dodge when the time came.

This was about as good a horse as a cowboy was going to get. Danny took a deep breath and dove.

On the ground, it was an inferno and about to get worse, Rocket fuel was flowing from the damaged Shahabs and the whole place would go up any minute. Using the cloud as cover, Devlin was moving away from the field as fast as he could, heading for the small shelter of some hills to the east.

Through the dust, Devlin could see the troops streaming across the desert, firing. He wasn’t afraid. A lucky bullet might catch him, but then a lucky bullet might catch anybody. He had his 1911 and a couple of magazines.

This was the way he’d always wanted to go. Last stands were not for cowards.

He began firing as soon as they came in range. They might not be able to see him, but he could certainly see them. He went for the drivers first, and got two of them immediately. The Jeeps spun out, collided, rolled over, and crashed into the rocket debris.

His fire attracted the attention of the others, and they turned, heading for him. He was fast but he couldn’t outrun them, and it was still another fifty meters or so before he made the hillocks.

He ran, firing as he went.

Bullets kicked up all around him.

He dropped to the ground as a .50-caliber opened up on him, rolled, then popped back up to his feet and shot the gunner. Then he turned and ran again.

Almost to the hills now… almost…

The .50-caliber opened back up. Someone must have jumped into the dead man’s shoes. No time for tricks. He had to make safety. He cast a glance backward….

The man had a bead on him. He wasn’t going to make it.

The man opened fire. Bullets tattooed the desert floor, heading right at him.

No time, no time…

And then a miracle happened—

It was a miracle, just not the kind of miracle the Grand Ayatollah was half expecting.

It was a helicopter. An American Black Hawk, painted to look like part of the Iranian Army. But the Grand Ayatollah knew that the army had no such Black Hawks like this one. In a blatant violation of international law, the Americans were attacking Iran!

He could sense the consternation behind him. He could hear shouts — something was destroying all the Islamic Republic’s missiles right on their launchpads, all across the country.

This was no miracle. This was treachery. And he knew just whom to blame:

Emanuel Skorzeny.

This was the second time the man had betrayed them. He had lied to them about the event in New York, and that had cost the mullahs one of their best go-betweens in Arash Kohanloo. The only real miracle there was that Tyler hadn’t come after them with everything he had. But such was the beauty of asymmetrical warfare: that without a smoking gun to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law, the great powers could no longer act. They were not led by men, but by lawyers, many of them women.

And now this. He had partnered with them, told them that the bomb they had purchased at great expense from a rogue Russian agent would explode in the Jews’ hospital, the one they named after the place where their prophet Moses was said to have received the Ten Commandments. Instead, the only thing exploding were the Islamic Republic’s missiles.

Right there, on the spot, on national television, the Grand Ayatollah issued a fatwa against Emanuel Skorzeny.

The Black Hawk appeared out of the smoke and dust, guns blazing. The soldiers had never seen anything like the concentrated firepower of a special-ops Black Hawk, and many of them fled its terrible wrath. But not Col. Zarin.

He leaped atop one of the disabled Jeeps with a functioning machine gun and began to train his fire on the Black Hawk. These infernal machines were not supernatural; primitive Somalis in Mogadishu had taken one down and made a terrible example of its crew to all the Unbelievers. Could he do any less?

“Incoming,” shouted Danny, flying low, still firing. One of the Iranian officers was peppering them with .50-caliber fire.

Maryam grabbed the AK-47. “I’ve got him.” She leaned out the side and began firing down.

The side of the Black Hawk was getting pockmarked. “Lower,” she shouted. “I need him a little closer.”

Danny dropped the chopper down, knowing the risk. They had to take out the gunner, and fast, or they’d never find “Bert Harris.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a fire starting. In moments it would hit the rocket fuel, and then… “Hang on!” he shouted.

Mlle. Derrida grabbed Amanda, who was lying on the floor. Maryam wrapped herself into a halter, braced, and aimed—

He dropped the Black Hawk in a straight vertical fall, then pulled out at the last instant.

The Black Hawk came within fifty feet of Col. Zarin, who was astonished to see the big bird maneuver like that. “Why can’t our pilots fly like this?” he was wondering to himself as he brought the gun around.

Now he could see the whore who was firing at him. She was slamming another magazine into her rifle.

He would have her in his sights in just moments….

“Boro gomsho pedear soukteh, jakesh!” she was screaming at him. Even over the noise of the chopper, he could hear her, and he could not believe what he was hearing. That such filth should come out of the mouth of—

Three bullets hit him in the chest, in a perfect shot group. He might have appreciated the marksmanship were he not already dead when he toppled from the Jeep.

“Goh bokhor!” she shouted, and spat at him.

“ ’Zat mean let’s get the hell out of here?” yelled Danny.

“You’re damn right it does,” Maryam yelled back. There—

A man, running into the low hills. Him.

“There he is!”

But Danny was already swinging the bird around, flying low, gunning the sucker and hoping like hell they could snatch “Bert” before the whole place blew….

In front of the mosque, the large crowd looked on in wonder as the events in the distance unfolded. No one was quite sure what was going on. Some said it was the Coming. Others said it was the forces of the Great Satan, attacking the holy lands of Islam. The Grand Ayatollah’s image had disappeared from the screens.

And then they heard a terrible screaming, like the voices of a million birds in their death agonies. This was a screaming such as they had never heard before, and it grew louder and louder until it was almost unbearable.

Surely, this was the sign they had been waiting for, said one imam.

All eyes turned to the mosque. But the Hidden Imam sallied forth not from the sacred well.

“Have we been deceived?” shouted one man. “We were told that the Coming was upon us? What manner of blasphemy is this?”

The noise grew louder. Now they could no longer hear themselves. Women and children pressed their hands tight against their ears, so as not to hear the voice of the devil, who the people were now sure was coming for them.

And then, in the sky, a vision. A terrible vision…

The Hornets, coming in low, firing as they went. In an instant, all opposition on the ground ceased. And then the F-18s really went to work.

The Hornets came in waves, each one prepping the battlefield for the next. Mavericks and SLAM-ERs punched holes into the mountainside. These were followed by the JDAMs, the Joint Direct Attack Munitions, the smart bombs that would shoot down the rabbit hole and blow the living shit out of anything down there. The enrichment facility might not be completely destroyed, but it would be buried under tons of mountain rubble for a very long time. And then all the other sites would follow.

But Danny wasn’t concerned about that now. Those boys could do their job without him. The fire was raging fiercely now, and it was just a matter of time before—

The first explosion rocked the Black Hawk, sending it spinning just as Maryam was dropping the rope ladder. Danny fought hard for control of the chopper, but the force of the blast knocked him off course. He was going to have to come around again.

Another blast, then another. The field was an inferno.

The Hornets made their last run. Half the mountainside crumbled. The remains of the Shahabs were burning fiercely and the heat was nearly unbearable. Only one last chance…

He looked back into the interior. Her eyes wide with fear, Mlle. Derrida was clutching Amanda tightly. Maryam had fastened herself down and was able to lean out as far as possible as the chopper dropped down. Showtime…

On the ground, Devlin had dived behind a rock as the explosions began. He was out of ammunition, but still ready to sell his life dearly when he saw the Black Hawk buffeted by the exploding Shahabs.

There — the rope ladder…

Once chance.

He sprinted for it. Another explosion, this one the biggest of them all, nearly knocked him off his feet. But Danny had been ready for it, and rode the shock wave like a bucking bronco.

The ladder was just within reach.

So reach…

Jump…

He looked up, and there she was.

He reached and jumped… caught the edge of the ladder.

No time to wait. Danny gunned the Black Hawk, up high and hard, picking up speed to get away from the final explosion he knew was coming.

Devlin fought to hang on… not just to hang on but to climb. He had to get inside the chopper, fast, before—

A rumbling from the depths of the mountain.

Up the steps, hand over hand, feet grabbing a purchase now, a kick—

Higher now, she was reaching out to him—

Swinging wildly through the air… almost losing his grip…

Another kick. He was taking the steps two at a time.

Not climbing, flying…

Her hand, reaching for him—

And in.

Maryam pulled up the rope ladder. In the distance the Super Hornets were disappearing into the blue, on their way to the next targets. If the Iranians were smart, they wouldn’t interfere with them.

“We have to go back!” he shouted at Danny. Skorzeny was still down there. Nothing human could have survived the holocaust below, but Skorzeny could.

He was still alive. Devlin knew: He was still alive.

“No chance,” Danny shouted back, indicating Amanda.

He looked at Amanda. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. Mlle. Derrida was doing her best with the first aid kit, but the bandage on her side was rich with red blood.

She was dying.

He had a choice. He was the commander of the mission. He could order Danny to go back, to search for Skorzeny, to operate on a hunch. Or… he could repay the woman who had done so much for all of them.

It was no choice at all. “Let’s get her some medical attention, now,” he ordered.

“Way ahead of you, partner,” shouted Danny, who was already heading to the northeast, and the rendezvous point — the old Desert One site where so many of America’s misfortunes had begun. The other choppers would be there, with medics, and they could attend to Amanda, stabilize her, and get her the hell out of there, to the hospital on board the Eisenhower. The nightmare was almost over. He reached for Maryam.

“Who are you?” she said, clutching him tightly as the Black Hawk gathered speed.

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

“You know who I am,” she said. “I’m your guardian angel.”