Suddenly David heard gunfire behind him. Ducking down, he scrambled for cover behind the ambulance. This was not the plan. This was not the operational concept that he and Torres had sketched out or that Zalinsky had approved. That plan had been much more subtle. They would jackknife the semi at the intersection, creating a roadblock. But the rest of the team would take up positions that would enable them to ambush the convoy when it arrived. Fox was supposed to have parked along Highway 4 in such a way that when the convoy arrived and was blocked by the semi, he could pull in behind them and cut off their exit route. At that point, they were going to open fire with machine guns, sniper rifles, and even an RPG. The objective was to kill or wound every Revolutionary Guard with the convoy, get to the warhead, and dismantle it, rendering it completely inoperative, no matter what it took. David had been clear with his men: destroying the warhead was the objective. Nothing else mattered. Nothing could distract. No matter who on the team was wounded or who was killed, the survivors — or survivor — had to keep to the objective. Whoever got to the warhead first, it was his responsibility. A million souls depended on their commitment to achieving their objective at all costs.
Now that plan was shot. The scene was absolutely chaotic. The semi was nearly completely consumed by flames. The lead police car was a molten shell. Torres was dead. David had no idea of the whereabouts or condition of Fox or Crenshaw. He desperately scanned in every direction, looking for them and for hostiles. At the moment, he saw no one he knew and no one threatening.
Just then there was an enormous explosion to his right. The van Fox had been driving was flying through the air amid a gigantic spray of flames and smoke. Had Fox escaped? Was he okay? Where was he? David was flooded with questions, but more shooting erupted. It was coming from the other side of the semi. His thoughts turned to Crenshaw. Was his teammate in trouble?
David agonized. He knew his orders. He knew what Zalinsky expected, and he knew everyone in the Global Ops Center and the White House Situation Room was watching. But as much as he needed to get into the ambulance, identify the warhead, and begin dismantling it, he couldn’t help himself. He had to make sure Crenshaw was okay. The gunfire on the other side of the semi was rapidly intensifying. Was it a diversion? Was it a trap? David knew he shouldn’t go. He had a job to do. He had a mission to accomplish, and he wasn’t supposed to be diverted. The future of Israel hung in the balance. But at that moment, he could only think of saving the life of Nick Crenshaw.
David gripped the MP5 tightly. He could hear sirens coming from every direction and suddenly had the strongest sensation of déjà vu. He had a flashback of his escape from Tehran with Najjar Malik, but now the stakes were so much higher. He wasn’t after a nuclear scientist. He was after a nuclear bomb. Indeed, he’d found it. It was right beside him. Why then was he moving away from it?
46
Esfahani’s phone rang.
“Hello?”
“This is Commander Asgari. I need to speak to General Jazini.”
“He is meeting with Imam al-Mahdi just now,” Esfahani replied. “But I can have him call you back.”
“No, I must talk to him immediately,” Asgari demanded. “His son is dead. I believe an Israeli or American hit team is coming to assassinate the Mahdi at this very hour. And I believe they know about the warheads in Damascus.”
David moved steadily to his right, aiming for the front of the semi but continually glancing from side to side and behind him lest he get caught off guard. For a moment, he brushed up against the truck’s engine. It was blazing hot.
He looked up and saw dark black smoke pouring from the shattered window of the cab. Then he noticed a red streak on the cab, coming from the window. He looked down and saw blood on the ground, mixed with a thousand bits of glass. Crenshaw was alive. Or at least he had been when he jumped out of the truck. Was he still? Did he have a weapon with him?
A machine gun fired, and David heard pings of metal as bullets ricocheted off the truck next to him. Instinctively he dropped to a crouch and wheeled around, only to find a Revolutionary Guard officer racing toward him with an AK-47. David aimed his MP5 and pulled the trigger, cutting the officer down but emptying his magazine in the process. Scanning for other hostiles, he ejected one magazine and popped in another. Then he began moving toward the gravely wounded officer, who was squirming in his own blood.
The man was not dead. Indeed, a first glance suggested he could still live, but there was nothing David could do for him now. He had to find Crenshaw and Fox. So David took the officer’s pistol, shoved it into his own belt, then slung the man’s machine gun over his shoulder and moved quickly back to the front of the cab.
David reached for his satphone. He needed to call Zalinsky. He needed help. But he couldn’t find it. He checked both front pockets and both back pockets. But the phone was gone. It must have fallen out somewhere between the SUV and here, David concluded. His stomach tightened as the sobering thought dawned on him that he had no way to contact either Langley or his men. He had no air support, and he had precious little time to disable the warhead.
Zalinsky was screaming at the video monitors, shouting at David to get back to the ambulance and unable to fathom why his key operative on the ground was letting himself be drawn away from the warhead.
But now he saw new threats rapidly materializing. Two armored personnel carriers were coming up Highway 4 from the air base, no doubt filled with Syrian special forces. That wasn’t all, however. Murray noted that a tactical unit from the local police department, the Syrian equivalent of a SWAT team, was approaching from the other direction. Zalinsky’s heart sank. There was no way David, much less Fox or Crenshaw — if those two were still alive — were going to make it out of this in one piece, much less have time to disable that warhead, unless they got help from above and quickly.
Zalinsky knew the answer, and he knew it was going to be no. He knew because that was his answer when he’d had Eva Fischer arrested for doing the exact same thing. What’s more, he knew just the act of asking was going to hammer the last nail in his coffin after this disastrous operation. Yet he did it anyway. He’d recruited David Shirazi for this mission. He’d trained him. He’d deployed him. And he’d been David’s handler through it all. Zalinsky couldn’t abandon his man now.
Turning to Roger Allen, he blurted out, “Sir, requesting permission to use all means necessary to defend my men on the ground.”
You could hear a pin drop in the Global Operations Center. Most of the personnel present had been there the day Eva had used a Predator to save Zephyr’s life. They had seen Zalinsky go ballistic, and they could only imagine how the CIA director was about to react. But Allen didn’t hesitate.
“Permission granted,” he said, his eyes glued to the screens.
Zalinsky was stunned. He wasn’t the only one. All eyes were on Zalinsky as he just stood there for a moment, unable to react.
“Well?” said the director, growing impatient.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What about the president?” Zalinsky asked.
“That’s my problem,” Allen responded. “Not yours. Now get moving before it’s too late.”
“Yes, sir,” Zalinsky said, and he turned and began barking out orders to the Predator operators.