Tom Clancy Support and Defend

49

Mobasheri found himself facedown with his forehead buried in snow and his body lying on a broken Plexiglas windscreen. He pushed himself up, rising slowly to his knees, and he shook his head to fight the daze from the crash. Looking himself over he saw that his coat was torn the length of the right arm, and he felt a gash above his elbow.

Somehow he had managed to end up outside the torn fuselage of the helo. The wind blew into his face, snow melted in his hair.

At first he thought it was nighttime, the light was poor, but a quick look around showed him the helicopter had come down in a heavy forest on the hillside. High trees blocked off much of the light above.

There was no fire, which surprised Mohammed, but he remembered learning in his brief military training long ago that helicopters’ gas tanks are designed to resist puncture and rarely explode like they do in the movies.

His mind recycled back to his mission, and he felt inside his coat for Ross’s microdrive. It was there, right in the zipped pocket where he left it, so he looked to the left and right searching for Ethan Ross. He found him still strapped into his seat and suspended sideways in the twisting wreckage. Blood dripped off the American’s forehead, but his eyes were open and he looked around in confusion, and a wash of relief muted Mobasheri’s pain.

The Iranian crawled over to Ross, pushing his way back into the wreckage to get to him. While he moved closer he saw that some of his men were moving, either unbuckling themselves from their seats or already out of the twisted EC145, crawling through the snow.

Others lay limp, arms and legs askew.

Mohammed unfastened the American’s harness and Ross slid down a few feet, crumpling slowly into a mass of twisted metal and wires.

“Get up!”

Ross’s unfixed eyes and pasty white skin gave Mohammed the impression that mild shock had set in, but he did as he was told. As soon as he put weight on his legs to stand, however, he cried out and dropped back to the ground.

Mohammed looked down and saw plainly that Ross’s right leg was broken four inches above the ankle.

The Iranian screamed in frustration. “Madhar jendeh!” Motherfucker!

He began calling out to the men around him, he didn’t know who was alive and who was dead, and he didn’t ask who had been injured or incapacitated. He just ordered his people to drag the American from the wreckage.

When he finally separated himself from the chaos of the interior of the shredded helicopter, he was able to take stock of his situation. He’d lost one of his Quds Force operatives, it was Kashan and he was hanging upside down in a nearby tree with a branch impaling his lower torso. And one of the Lyon men was caught in the wreckage and near death, unconscious and breathing shallowly.

But three Quds and three Hezbollah remained, including Ajiz, who had also been thrown out the door of the helicopter into the trees but was not badly hurt and had been the first man on his feet.

Mohammed joined Shiraz and Ajiz on the hillside a few feet from the wreckage, and together the three of them surveyed the crash site. The location looked impossibly remote. They were on a steep, forested incline, with no sign of a road or of any man-made structure in any direction, although they could not see very far. They were surrounded by pines, all of which save for the ones involved in the crash site had over a foot of snow on their branches.

As there was no fire, only steam from the hot engines’ contact with the snow threatened to reveal their position, and since the storm continued and the isolated hillside was completely enshrouded in clouds, Mohammed thought it likely the wreckage would stay hidden until the sky cleared.

Mohammed trudged and climbed to get around to the front of the helicopter, where he looked through the windscreen. The pilot was alive but bloodied and badly wounded, half buried under snow and earth and the front of the helo.

It was no matter, Mohammed didn’t need him anymore.

Ross was the big problem. He ordered two of his men to heave the American out of the snow and move him, he told them — in Farsi, of course — that he didn’t care if the man was in agony, he just needed to get out of the area.

Three minutes after impact, Mohammed had his men and his prisoner were moving away from the crash site, albeit painfully slowly. Before he himself left the scene, Mobasheri walked back over toward the pilot, drawing his pistol as he did so.

The Frenchman knew about Genoa, so he had to die.

Dominic raced his bike to the southwest for almost ten minutes, making the transition to smaller and smaller roads as he progressed up into the rugged foothills of the Italian Alps. He passed through the town of Pondel, but it was virtually deserted, and other than a smell of wood smoke and a few cars in front of a local market he detected no signs of life. He spent a minute skidding and sliding on snow-covered streets as he tried to pick his way through the village toward the location of the impact, but soon he was progressing again into the forest.

He was doing little more than guessing where he was going, but it was an educated guess. He based the location of the crash on the direction in which the helo was traveling when it flew over him, as well as the general location of the sounds of the crash.

The road ended at a sheer hiking trail, and Dom revved the engine on the big street bike and launched up the trail, but after no more than twenty yards or so he realized this had not been one of his better ideas. He spun out on the first turn, lost his balance and fell ungracefully off the bike and into the low brush by the trail.

He decided to leave the bike behind, so he ripped his helmet off his head and began running upward, the M4 rifle still hanging off his back.

He followed the winding trail, sucked the thin, cold air, fighting the desire to slow or to rest, even for a moment. The trail led him to the south, but he felt like he was veering away from where he had heard the crash. Just as he stopped to consider changing directions, he heard the distinctive report of a pistol firing a single round.

Dom left the trail and began climbing through the trees, following the direction of the gunfire.

Mobasheri and his entourage traveled through the woods for several minutes, first uphill, but once they made it through a tiny forested draw they saw a narrow valley in front of him, it was below the low-hanging clouds and they could look out a few hundred yards before everything faded to white. In the near distance, maybe two hundred yards from where they stood in the draw, one of Mohammed’s men noticed a cluster of slate rooftops, barely visible in the vapor and snow. They set out for them immediately, Mohammed leading the way.

Behind them, far away on the other side of the valley, sirens blared as emergency vehicles roamed the roads looking for a downed helicopter that had been reported by locals.

Once they were down the hill and in the bottom of the valley, thick pine trees obscured their view for some time, and Mohammed could only guess if he was going in the right direction. But the slow-moving procession came out of the trees onto a one-lane paved road, then followed it as it wound around.

Finally, Mohammed saw a chalet through a quick break in the snowfall and he thought it was a gift from Allah. It looked like the winter cabin for a wealthy family, but there were no signs that anyone was home at present.

He said, “There! We go there!”

Shiraz kicked in a ground-floor window, crawled through, and then opened a side door for the others. It was a small house, but the open-concept floor plan meant the entire downstairs was one large room.

The home was very modern for a mountain chalet, with electric lighting, new appliances, and a desk in the corner with a large-screen Mac computer.

Mohammed posted two of the Hezbollah men outside as security, and he ordered his three Quds officers to help the hobbled and dazed Ethan Ross to a chair in front of the fireplace. Once he was in the chair, Mohammed took Ajiz to the far side of the room.

“The American is slowing us down. I don’t need him, I need the password in his head. As soon as I get it, we are leaving.”

“There were some other buildings up the road. I can go look for a vehicle.”

“Do that.”

After Ajiz left the chalet, Mohammed pulled his own chair up in front of Ross. The American was in agony, his broken leg was swollen and throbbing, and it was sickening for Mohammed to look at.

Mohammed took the microdrive out of his coat and handed it to Shiraz. He put it in an SD adapter and plugged it into the port of the computer on the desk. He brought up the passwordprotection screen of the crawler database, and then he looked to his commander from the Revolutionary Guards.

Mohammed, in turn, looked at Ethan. “Let’s not waste time. You know what I need. Provide me with the password to the encrypted files, and we will leave you right here. You will be safe.”

Ross wiped tears from his face with the cuff of his coat. He shook his head weakly.

Mohammed put his foot above Ross’s broken leg, and he held it there. “I can’t take you with me. Even if we find a car we won’t make it out of the country carrying a wounded American with us. I am out of options. I either get the password right now, or…” Mohammed put his shoe on Ross’s foot. “Actually, there is no other choice.” He pressed down, and Ross began to scream and thrash on the chair.

Mohammed called two of his men over. Ormand and Isfahan stepped behind Ross and they held him in place, twisting his arms behind his back to do so.

Ethan screamed in agony, but Mohammed shouted over him. “Give me the password and it stops!”

“I can’t do it!” he shouted, hysterical from the pain.

Mohammed took his foot off the broken bones, and sat back in the chair for a moment. “You are stronger than I anticipated.” With a shrug, he said something in Farsi. Shiraz rushed into the kitchen. He found a bottle of red wine and, after conferring with Mohammed or a moment, he shattered the end of the bottle against the stove. Wine poured onto the floor, and the broken, jagged-edged bottle emptied. He brought it over to the living area and handed it to Mohammed, before returning to the computer at the desk.

Ross’s eyes rounded in fear and tears dripped to the floor as he shook his head back and forth. His voice was just a whimper. “Please, no. God, please, no.”

Mohammed just sat in front of him with the broken bottle. He spoke in English, but to his men behind the American.

“I know something about pain, Mr. Ross. The broken leg hurts, but the shin is not a major nerve center, and the swollen tissue provides a very slight numbing effect on the area that works against my interests.

“Unfortunately for you, I have seen torture firsthand. My father was something of an expert. He was trained by the state, but he was not above practicing on his children.” When Mohammed smiled, he looked insane to Ethan, especially in light of what he’d just said. “I know that which is most effective.”

He addressed the men behind Ross. “Stand him up, and lower his pants.”

“No!” Ethan screamed.

The men did as instructed. Ross could put weight only on his left leg, but he thrashed, desperate to pull free of the two men behind him. But his struggle was in vain. After a halfminute he stood there with his pants and underwear down at his ankles, and Mohammed in front of him with the crude torture device in his hand.

“Physically and psychologically, what I will do to you now is the worst that can be done to a man. My father never did this to me.” He smiled, but his eyes were narrow as he thought of his past. “But he threatened it more than once. Only the suggestion was necessary. I did what was asked of me. And now you can do the same. You can avoid this very easily. Just take a moment and think about how unfortunate it would be for you if I shred your genitals, and then you reveal the password. That would be an unnecessary waste, would it not?”

Ethan began sobbing, and Mohammed sighed in exhausted frustration.