“So I’m not being critical, Briggs, but maybe you got tagged because you believed you’d get tagged. You thought it was perfectly logical and understandable and proper that if we come across a Zeus-23 that’s not supposed to be there, you’d get hit by a ricochet. I, on the other hand, believe that only lily-livered pussy-whipped, pudd-pounding, tired-ass, numb-nut legs—or any officer—are weak enough to be put down by something as low-tech as a Zeus-23.”
“What about Barnes and Halmar?”
“They got it because they were sitting next to you.”
“Gimme a break, Gunny.”
“The point is, Briggs, I did not allow myself to die. I’d allow myself to die rescuing our shipmates, die with one or two fellow buddies on my shoulders, but not die by a lousy piece-of-shit Iranian ack-ack gun. And if it doesn’t kill me, it makes me stronger.” Wohl paused, shrugged, then added with a faint smile, “Or it could’ve been the non-stop praying I’d been doing, and the extra thin-line Kevlar jacket I was wearing that night.
“Now, stop screwing around and go get Monroe out here so we can get this show on the road. You want to help, go monitor the situation display in the command center. Just don’t let the flight doc see you.”
Monroe wasn’t too far away—he’d told Briggs that it would never work, so he’d been standing by, ready to go—and soon he was aboard the CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor and the rescue mission was under way. Again, Briggs was left behind.
Dammit, he thought, it wasn’t fair! Just because he didn’t snarl and growl like a bitch in heat like all these other borrowed Marines, he had to sit on his ass and get his room searched by the flight surgeon without his knowledge!
After returning his prized Uzi and its spare magazines to the armory, Briggs checked in with the command center. Nothing would be happening for at least twenty-five minutes until the CV-22 went feet-dry. Last mission, they hadn’t made it that far—an antiaircraft artillery site on Tumb as Sughrd, or Lesser Tumb Island, had opened fire on them as they passed nearby, and they’d been hit by a half-second burst. The CV-22 had sustained minor damage; three crewmen had been wounded by flying shrapnel, including Briggs.
This time, with a little luck, Madcap Magician was going all the way into the claws of the beast: Bandar Abbas, the largest military complex in Iran and one of the largest in the Middle East. Intelligence had suggested that the survivors of the Valley Mistress might have been taken to Suru prison. They were going to check out the prison’s security and try to find any weaknesses, in case they decided they had to break in; then they would check the safe areas.
Like all areas of every country in which they operated, Madcap Magician had a series of safe areas and escape-and-evasion plans formulated that every crewman was required to memorize before each mission. During the infiltration, every crew member was kept apprised of the team’s present position, their heading, and speed, so in case the aircraft was forced down, every man knew where he was and which way to proceed to the nearest safe area. At specific times for each area, a survivor would make his way as carefully as he could to a contact point, where—with a little luck—a rescuer would be there to find him.
But every day that went by lessened the chance of a successful rescue. The Iranian army, the Revolutionary Guards, reserves, and Basic militias were everywhere, near every city, town, highway, road, railroad, bridge, and river, looking for infiltrators. A guy on the run couldn’t hold up for very long even if his health was perfect—if he was injured, as a result of an escape or fight, he’d be in bad shape.
He’d lost Colonel Paul White and ten of his best men, and he hadn’t even gotten a chance to lead them yet.
LAFAYETTE SQUARE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THAT SAME TIME The gentleman being escorted by the tuxedo-dressed bellman through the cherry-paneled corridors of the luxurious Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington already had his jolly, glad-handed face on when he entered the small, secluded dining room. His contact and another man, probably an assistant or aide, were already waiting for him.
The double doors were closed behind him; the warm room enveloped him like a calfskin glove. Nothing like this in Tehran these days, he thought. “Ah, my friend Robert, it is good to be here with …” But his politically practiced visage changed abruptly when the man in the room turned to him.
“Mr. Sabin, please come in,” Philip Freeman, the President’s National Security Advisor, said. It was obvious that his presence was a complete shock to Sabin. He extended a hand in greeting, but Philip Freeman did not accept it. Then Sabin looked for a chair and did not find one. It was obvious this was not going to be a civil sociable meeting.
Businessman and professor Tahir Sabin was one of a rare and unusual breed, vital to governments all over the world—a well—spoken, well-traveled, educated man welcomed and employed by all sides of a dispute. A son of a wealthy landowner in eastern Turkey, Sahin’s Muslim family had escorted and guarded the Ayatollah Khomeini during his exile to Iraq via Turkey in 1963. A young Tabir Sahin had then accompanied Khomeini to the holy Shiite city of Najaf in Iraq and spent several years with him, acting as interpreter and bodyguard.
Sahin had seen firsthand the transformation of Khomeini and his vision of a worldwide Islamic revolution, and in time Sabin had become infused with much of the same burning passion as Khomeini.
When Khomeini had been deported from Iraq and moved ed to his native land and become instrumental in spreading the word about Khomeini’s impending revolution to Turkey and everywhere else he traveled in his business. When Khomeini had made his triumphant return to Iran and established his Islamic republic, Sahin had been an honored guest many times. With his Turkish passport and Iranian identity papers, signed by Khomeini himself, Sabin could travel anywhere in the world with complete safety and security.
It was after the closing of all diplomatic relations between the United States and Iran following the U.S. embassy siege in 1979 that Tahir Sahin’s real worth had stood out. Sabin had been part of the secret “arms for hostages” deals with the United States to the benefit of the Iranians, but had also helped secure the release of British, French, Italian, and American hostages held captive by pro-Iranian radicals in Lebanon. Although not credentialed with the U.S. State Department or recognized professionally by any country, Sahin had been acting as an unofficial messenger between the two governments, keeping the lines of communication open between two countries who did not have embassies in each other’s country.
The downside to having a pro-Iranian, pro-Islamic fundamentalist man like Sahin roaming freely around Washington was that he was reportedly a deputy director of an organization called the Niru-ye Entezami-e Johuriye, or Institute of Strategic Security Studies.
The ISSS was known as an Iranian defense “think tank,” which advised rich Middle East countries on emerging defense technology and strategies; but it was also widely believed to be an international intelligence front operation, designed to feed information through diplomatic channels back to Iran. If Sahin hadn’t been funneling messages back and forth between Washington and Tehran, he’d have been kicked out of the United States years ago as a suspected spy.
It was painful for Freeman to be meeting a likely Iranian spy like this, but there was no better way to impress upon Iran the seriousness of the situation that was before them now.
Tahir Sahin put his glad-happy face back on and nodded enthusiastically at his hosts. “It is indeed an unexpected honor to be here with you, General.”
“I have a simple message for President Nateq-Nouri and General Buzhazi,” Freeman interrupted. “The President of the United States views the attack on the civilian salvage vessel Valley Mistress by the Khomeini carrier battle group and the capture of its crew as an act of aggression against the United States. The President is demanding their return immediately.”