Pandora's grave

“In the base camp. Dr. Tal is not here. Repeat, is not in the area. We have one prisoner and he’s saying a Western-style assault team stormed the camp under half an hour ago and took Dr. Tal but left three of the archaeologists. Do we have sat coverage?”

“Yes, Harry. We do.”

“Then what’s going on?”

The DCS didn’t respond directly. His next words came in the form of an order. “Get the archaeologists packed up and moving. Make for the alternate extraction zone, LZ Oscar. Orders from the seventh floor.”

“Copy that. LZ Oscar. Be advised, boss, we have lost contact with Parker.”

“What?”

“He was cut off trying to provide covering fire on our egress from the Iranian ambush. It’s a long story, but he’s out there somewhere.”

“If he’s still alive.”

“Yes, sir, if he’s still alive. I’m going to try to contact him before we leave the base camp.”

“Forget it, Harry. We need those archaeologists back here, on the double. Parker will have to conduct E amp;E on his own.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t leave my people behind. I can’t do that.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Nichols,” Kranemeyer replied, his voice flat, unequivocal. “You can. And you will. Pack them up and move ‘em out.”

Harry took a deep breath, recognizing against the flood tide of his emotions the rationale behind the director’s words. The mission came first. Now, as always. Before family, before friendship, before anything else. It was the harsh truth of his life. And he knew an order when he heard one. When he spoke again, it was in tones as emotionless as the desert wind. “Alpha Team is moving out.”

Chapter Six

6:48 P.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

Ron Carter exchanged a glance with the DCS as he disengaged the uplink. “Think he’ll do it?”

Bernard Kranemeyer nodded. “He’s a good man.”

A snort. “They’re all good men. Pull the files on Thomas Parker’s next of kin. They’ll need to be notified.”

Carter turned to his computer, tapping quickly through the database of CIA personnel. He shook his head. “His father’s dead, his mother lives out in California with her husband. Last reported contact between them was four years ago at his step-sister’s wedding.”

Kranemeyer let out a weary sigh. “Their relationship doesn’t matter. Make sure she’s notified.”

3:50 A.M. Tehran Time

The Alborz Mountains

“EAGLE SIX to GUNHAND. Take SWITCHBLADE and destroy the fuel tankers parked behind the trailers. Use up our det cord if you have to. But make sure they go up in flames.”

“Roger that, EAGLE SIX.”

Hossein snarled an angry curse into the empty night, listening to it echo among the rocks, mocking his impotence. How the radio had survived the crash, he had no idea, but it remained in his shirt pocket, informing him of events moment by moment, things he could do nothing about, had no power to stop. The gunfire had moved away, as his men chased their attacker across the rugged mountainside. But none of that mattered, not now. In a few moments, the Americans would have destroyed his transportation, his means of pursuing them.

A footstep crunched into the rocky ground beside his ear and he glanced up, into the eyes of an Iranian soldier. “Help me!” he hissed angrily.

The soldier started up, looking again as if to see if his major was still alive, then he lifted up his voice. “Come! Come and help me with this cursed truck!”

3:55 A.M.

The base camp

Tex moved quickly toward the back of the base camp, stepping over the corpses strewn across the desert sand. Davood’s form appeared at his side and the Texan dug into his backpack, dividing his supply of detonation cord.

“Take the two tankers to the right,” he ordered, his words terse and quick. “I’ll take the two this side of the main road.”

The Iranian agent nodded. “Timed detonation or command?”

“Command. Separate charges. That’ll get us well clear.”

“Understood.”

They separated there, and Tex hurried to his tankers. The fuel trucks had been moved in within the last few days, according to the satellite imagery they had been shown before loading onto the Huey. Apparently the Iranians had planned on settling in.

The Texan bent down on one knee by the rear of the first tanker, unwinding the det cord from his backpack. The thin rope was impregnated with plastic explosives, and was usually intended to connect a charge to its detonator. But it made a fine explosive in and of itself.

He still remembered an ambush in the mountains of Afghanistan. He and his Force Recon squad had been assigned to take out a Taliban strongman. They had laid in wait for him along a mountain trail. When their trap was sprung, the terrorist and his surviving bodyguards dove for the rocks to one side of the trail, intending to take cover there. In their hurry, they never noticed the rope laced into the rocks. And at that moment, Tex had pressed the detonator…