The British intelligence service, MI6, had purchased the condominium during an advance sale even before the building was completed because it provided not only a safe haven but also put eyes on the airport, just as there were similar observation posts near the port and the oil transfer stations. The place was leased to a traveling business executive who did not exist, all bills were automatically paid through a local bank, and the pantry and refrigerator were kept stocked. Kyle rapped three times on the door and heard someone come, then pause to check the TV security camera screen. The heavy steel door swung open easily on oiled hinges. “Come in. Quickly,” said Omar. “Something has happened.”
Large windows in the apartment faced the airport, and Tianha Bialy was at the tripod of a long telescope that was focused on the inferno burning beside the runway. Plumes of fire-retardant foam and water were being sprayed onto the wreckage. “A plane has crashed,” she said.
“I see that,” responded Kyle. “What else is happening?” He dropped the bag and went into the kitchen to get a bottle of cold water.
Omar was watching the scene through a pair of binos. “Some of the troops on the ground responded out there along with the usual emergency vehicles. The others are still moving into formations. There is no real sign of panic.”
Kyle joined them at the windows. “Have any other troop carriers landed since the crash?”
“No. The next one in the landing pattern climbed back to altitude and I guess will lead the rest of them in an orbit to await orders. It does not look like the runway has been permanently impaired, so they might have enough fuel to stay up there until things are cleared away. Are you hurt?”
Tianha looked up for the first time and saw that Swanson was filthy dirty, with dark streaks of dried blood painting his tunic. “My God, Kyle, you look awful!” She looked back at the fire, then at him again. “Did you have something to do with that?”
“No, of course not. I was just doing some recon and ran into a couple of guys and we had a disagreement. Anyway, I didn’t have an antiaircraft gun on me. That looks like an accident. Did you report to London?” Deflect. Answer a question with one of your own.
“Yes. They were to pass everything on to Washington. I’m to stay put and continue to feed information.”
“Sounds about right,” Swanson said, chugging the last water from the bottle. He took the sat phone from his pack and headed for the bedroom. “So I had better check in, too. Time for E.T. to call home.”
Well, now. Someone was not playing by the rules, and Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi of Iran’s Army of the Guardians had an idea who the troublemakers might be.
Major Mansoor Shakuri, his chief of staff, had telephoned from Sharm in a panic to report what appeared to be a deliberate attack that had brought down one of the incoming Iranian transports, with the loss of about two hundred soldiers. Tension and worry laced his voice.
Distance between the action in Sharm and the colonel’s desk in Cairo had the merit of allowing him to stay on the big picture of the overall invasion, while the major was swept up by emotion. The attack on the hotels had been carried out without any real difficulty, and the force from the beach was right on schedule. The number of troops at the airport was gradually increasing and the major said the runway would soon be open again to accept the remaining aircraft. Security was being increased to prevent further attacks.
The deaths of some two hundred soldiers was not a true disaster, for the colonel had estimated that even more might have been lost before the foothold was secured. It was the way they died that grabbed his attention. According to the major, a fuel truck parked by the runway detonated just as the plane was landing beside it, and the disaster resulted. That was no accident. Fuel tanks don’t just conveniently blow up when a military airliner passes over.
Naqdi spent a while settling down the excited major and encouraging him to continue his good work, promising that he would not be held responsible for what had happened. Their daring attempt to bring down the Egyptian government, close the Suez Canal, control the oil flow, and pose a direct threat to Israel was fraught with risk.
All the while, the colonel’s disciplined mind had been thinking about other things, particularly some soft messages that had been vibrating along the Egyptian underground intelligence web; the man known as the Pharaoh should come out of hiding and make his presence known. The contact whom the powers in London and Washington and Cairo wanted the Pharaoh to meet was an agent of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, and the accompanying schedule showed that the fellow actually was in Sharm. That was expanded with later information that an MI6 agent wanted the meeting. CIA and MI6 agents on the loose in Sharm, and a killed airplane; too much to be a coincidence.
The colonel instructed Major Shakuri to launch a manhunt for an American named Kyle Swanson and a British woman by the name of Tianha Baily but did not tell him why.
“Are you staying in trouble, I hope?” The deep voice of Major General Bradley Middleton rumbled firm and decisive over the satellite phone, although he was thousands of miles away in the Pentagon office where he commanded Trident.
“Yes, sir. I think you might say that.”
“Good. Well, Gunny Swanson, I have you on the speaker here, and the rest of the team with me. Give us a sitrep.”
Kyle had been putting his thoughts in order ever since he saw the first boats hit the beach. “A large force of Iranian troops has invaded Egypt and seized control of Sharm el-Sheikh. They did not bring any heavy weapons that I could see, but some small artillery pieces might be arriving by boat or plane. Another force attacked the tourist hotels hard, with unknown casualties. They were dressed like Egyptian army but neither looked nor acted that way. I think they were plants. We now have eyes on the airport, where one of about fifteen troop-carrying planes crashed on approach. The runway was partially blocked. That’s about all I know at this point.”
There was a momentary silence on the other end; then the general spoke again. “You are certain that the soldiers are Iranian.”
“Without a doubt, sir. I met a couple of them up close and personal. Their ID cards said they were with the Revolutionary Guard.”
“How many?”
“I estimate they have about three to four thousand men on the ground right now from both the sea and air. Can you brief me what’s going on elsewhere? I only know what I can see.”
“Hey, Kyle.” A higher-pitched voice — Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers. “Mixed reports are coming in, mostly through the media, and we got an earlier info dump from your partner. The hotel massacre also looks like a stage show to us. The attack was pretty savage, but brief, and Iranian troops chased away the bad guys. The Egyptian military is being blamed, while the Iranians are being hailed as liberators by the Muslim Brotherhood on Al Jazeera. The Brotherhood is cranking up the crowds in Cairo to embrace these actions, so the legitimate government is stumbling for answers, and their denials sound weak. Our allies are extremely nervous, trying to figure out a response. It’s just too early in the game for us to know much more than you.”
The general’s voice resumed. “Gunny, no doubt that an organized plan will be pulled together here soon, but it will take hours to implement anything. The one item that you can consider to be true is that Iran will not be allowed to take a foothold in Egypt, particularly by force. Letting them keep Sharm would be a disaster.”
“So what do you want me to do? Just overwatch and report in every once in a while?” Kyle put an edge of sarcasm into the questions.