Pandora's grave

The Iranian nuclear program had floundered for years. The cyber-sabotage of the Israeli-American STUXNET and STARS viruses had only been the beginning. Scientists had gone missing, parts had malfunctioned-at one point a reactor had nearly red-lined and been stopped only moments away from turning southern Iran into the wasteland of a second Chernobyl. All that work. And now at his very feet, all around him, lay something far more insidiously powerful, discovered by a Jew, of all things!

And he would be a part of this, if he lived. A shudder ran down his spine, as he remembered Malik. They had buried him just the day before.

Farshid closed his eyes, willing the image of his friend’s agony to go away, willing it to vanish. There would be more, that he knew, hundreds, perhaps thousands. Upon reflection, it might almost seem a pity. Such was the cost of war…

6:21 P.M. Baghdad Time

Q-West Airfield

Northern Iraq

“So, Colonel, this is the route you plan to take?” Harry asked, scoring a line on the map with the tip of his combat knife.

Luke Tancretti nodded. “It’s about as short as we could manage, nap-of-the-earth all the way, dodging in and out of the mountains.”

“Who’s our pilot, may I ask?”

Tancretti glanced up. “I am.”

“I didn’t realize they sent bird colonels on combat missions anymore,” Harry observed, glancing around at his team.

“They do,” Luke replied, working hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. His visitors were no longer wearing their Air force uniforms, the uniforms that had never belonged to them, the uniforms that were nothing more than masks for who they truly were. He had earned the right to wear his uniform, earned the eagles on his shoulders. And he didn’t like being challenged. The tall man’s questions kept coming like rifle bullets, unexpected and piercing.

“Who’s in your crew?”

“The Pave Low requires a crew of six,” Tancretti began, referring to the large Sikorsky-made HH-53 helicopter. Packed with avionics and sensor equipment, it was often used for night missions. “That’s Lieutenant Cooper, Sergeant Gonzales-”

“Scratch that,” Harry interrupted him, “we’re not using the Pave Low.”

“What?” Luke demanded, unable to believe his ears. “There’s no way to pull off this mission without it!”

“You’ll find a way,” Harry replied, his cold blue eyes unwavering. “And if you can’t find one, you’ll make one. The Pave Low is undeniably American. If something goes south and it is shot down, our mission will be blown. They’ll know exactly who’s coming for them. That is unacceptable.”

“Then what do you propose using?” the Air Force colonel asked, forcing himself to accept this new reality.

Harry smiled grimly. “I think officially you call it the UH-1H Iroquois. I’ve always just known it as the Huey.”

Tancretti had no reply. He just stood there, shaking his head in disbelief, willing this madness to go away. “The Huey?”

A brief nod. “Pick out a good co-pilot and be ready by zero one hundred. I want to be inserted before dawn.”

Harry turned and left the Quonset hut, the rest of his team following behind him.

Thomas stopped him outside. “Do you think we can really pull this off?”

Harry glanced speculatively up at the fading sunlight. “We’ll be cutting it close. But I believe we can do it.” He looked at each of his team members. “Do you all have what you need?”

Everyone nodded, the time for words past. Harry looked down, checking his Doxa dive watch. “We leave in seven hours. Let’s move.”

10:30 A.M. Eastern Time

Boston, Massachusetts

“Remember, just stay on message. I’ve spent the morning working through the press pool to weed out any thorny issues, but we may still have a few reporters that want to play hardball at the press conference. Just don’t let them get you distracted. Play it cool.”

President Roger Hancock stopped tying his tie to shoot an aggravated look at his Chief of Staff. “Stop worrying, Ian. This isn’t my first seance, for heaven’s sake.”

Ian Cahill ran fingers through his greying hair and shook his head. The sixty-two-year-old Irishman had spent well-nigh thirty years of his life navigating the murky waters of Chicago politics before becoming Hancock’s campaign manager in the Wisconsin native’s senate run a decade ago. In the cutthroat world of the Beltway, no one had ever crossed Cahill-twice.

He was known as a ruthless operator with only one inviolable principle: win.

“Mr. President, I know that. I’ve been with you almost since your beginnings in Wisconsin. Which also means I know your weaknesses better than anyone else.”

“Weaknesses?” Hancock asked sarcastically, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. “As in plural?”