Bennett was fascinated. The clues about Gog and Magog were far more widespread than he’d thought. Still, none of this solved the problem at hand.
“So how do you propose I get into Russia?” he asked.
It was Claude’s turn to speak. “The only way is through Iran.”
Bennett’s eyes widened. “What?”
“There are only two Russian borders open right now,” Claude continued. “One is north of the Caucasus, directly across from Turkey. But that is too dangerous. The Black Sea is completely clogged with naval ships coming south, bringing Russian military forces toward Israel.
“The other open border is along the Caspian Sea, directly across from Iran. Almost all the shipping traffic is coming from the north, and it is mostly Russian naval vessels bringing troops, tanks, and other equipment to Iran to be loaded onto trains and shipped to Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan. But for the moment at least, it is not nearly as congested as the Black Sea, which makes it our best shot. Besides, it is unlikely anyone will suspect that you, of all people, are trying to get into Russia at all, much less through Iran.”
“No, I guess not. But how do you propose we do this?”
“We will fly you to northwestern Turkey, where you and I will do a HALO jump,” Claude answered. “Once we hit the ground, I will pass you off to a man named Hamid Mehrvash. Hamid is Persian. Grew up in Iran. Fluent in Farsi and Turkish. Used to be a Muslim. Used to smuggle hashish, cocaine, vodka, caviar — you name it — into Iran. A few years ago he found Jesus. Today he is the pastor of some underground church near Tabriz. Dr. Mordechai has known him for years.”
Bennett was starting to get cold feet. No wonder Mordechai had called it a suicide mission.
But Claude didn’t miss a beat. “If the two of you can cross the border into Iran without getting caught — and that’s a big if—you will drive through the Iranian mountains until you get to the Caspian Sea. There, you will board a ship Hamid’s old smuggler friends still use on runs to Astrakhan on the Volga River. If you make it through all that — another big if—we have a vehicle there you can use to drive to Moscow.”
“In the meantime,” Mordechai added, “I will be doing everything I can to get a lead on Erin’s whereabouts. In addition to false documents, sidearms, and enough Russian currency to buy your way out of trouble, I will give you a secure satellite phone. If I find out something on Erin…”
“Another big if,” Bennett added.
“Either way, I will call you and give you the best I have. Any questions?”
Bennett had dozens, but he started with one.
“What exactly is a HALO jump?”
50
“Two minutes.”
Wearing his helmet and oxygen system, Bennett could barely hear Mordechai over the roar of the specially modified twin-engine Super King Air.
But the hand signal was clear. He was about to free-fall from thirty thousand feet into northern Turkey. Just under three minutes later, if all went well, he’d hit the earth traveling at well over twenty miles per hour, hoping to God he didn’t break every bone in his body. And that was the best-case scenario. If something went wrong, he’d smash into the ground at roughly 120 miles per hour.
For the past hour an oxygen console had been pumping 100 percent pure oxygen into the cabin. Claude now did a final check of Bennett’s heart rate (it was racing but acceptable). He also checked Bennett’s blood-oxygen level, as well as his own.
It was critical that all of the nitrogen be flushed out of their systems. That would minimize — though not eliminate — the chance of experiencing violent decompression sickness, similar to ascending to the surface too quickly from a scuba dive. Without the prebreathing, nitrogen bubbles would explode into Bennett’s bloodstream and trigger any number of reactions ranging from vomiting to paralysis to death.
Bennett checked his watch.
It was 3:37 a.m. local time.
When Bennett got the thumbs-up, he opened the valve on his portable air bottle, adjusted his regulator, and disconnected himself from the onboard oxygen console.
Next, he pulled down and tightened his goggles, then triple-checked his clothing to make sure that none of his skin was exposed.
At thirty thousand feet, the air temperature outside was thirty-five degrees below zero. Any skin exposure at all would lead to instant and irreparable frostbite.
And it wasn’t unheard of for damaged or improperly adjusted goggles to freeze and shatter, causing eyeballs to freeze instantly and inducing a usually fatal heart attack.
Bennett was already soaked in sweat, in part from anxiety, in part from all the clothing he had on, layered though it was. Under a black, military-grade jumpsuit, he wore a long-sleeved turtleneck, a black T-shirt, thermal underwear, and blue jeans. On his head he wore a black balaclava that was also now soaked with sweat. On his hands he wore thermal inserts under Nomex flight gloves. It was all “Made in the USA,” untraceable to the Mossad. As it had to be.
What unnerved Bennett was that for all his equipment, there was one thing he wasn’t wearing: a parachute.
Claude held up four fingers.
He proceeded to clip Bennett to himself in four different places. They would jump, free-fall, deploy a single parachute, and land as one package — a tandem jump, it was called — unheard of in the world of the special forces but increasingly popular with civilian sport jumpers.
Bennett still hated the plan, but he had no choice.
In another day or two, Turkish airspace would be completely closed to civilian aircraft. The last door into Russia was closing. He would put his life in the hands of men whose real names he’d never know and try not to die in the process.
Mordechai climbed out of the copilot’s seat and opened the cabin door.
He and Carlos both wore full jumpsuits and chutes, just in case, but their plan was to land at the airport northwest of Dogubayazit, retrieve Claude, and hightail it back to France before they were spotted by Turkish intelligence or overrun by Russian and Iranian forces now massing by the thousands.
A blast of frigid air rushed into the cabin and chilled Bennett to his core.
Mordechai pointed Bennett and Claude to a white X on the carpet.
Ten seconds.
Bennett could feel his heart racing. He checked the rucksack strapped to the front of him for the umpteenth time. It would be his life for the next few weeks.
Inside were an Iranian passport and a Russian one, the satellite phone Mordechai had promised, two Berettas — one for him and one for McCoy — ammo, power bars, bottles of water, a first-aid kit, several changes of clothes, and a beat-up old backpack to carry everything in once he ditched his jumpsuit and gear.
Five seconds.
The two inched their way to the door. Bennett moved his toes to the edge and fought the urge to look down in the icy blackness.
Three, two, one…
Mordechai gave the go sign.
Claude tapped Bennett on the shoulder, gave him a bear hug, and lunged forward.
They were airborne.
Bennett felt his stomach rise to his mouth.
He was in danger of hyperventilating. He tried to breathe deeply. He tried to remember the Scripture Mordechai had given him on a slip of paper just before they’d taken off, but his mind went blank.