The Enemy Within

Then Iran’s Islamic Revolution shattered all normal ties between their two countries. Caught in the turmoil surrounding the rise of the radical mullahs, Taleh vanished seemingly without a trace. Only in recent years had Thorn begun seeing references to his old friend in foreign military journals and intelligence reports. From then on, he had followed the Iranian’s rapid rise through the ranks, greatly relieved to note that Taleh had avoided involvement in the terrorist schemes fomented by his nation’s fundamentalist government.

He shook his head. After the Shah fell, the Iran he had loved so much as a boy had changed almost beyond recognition. Ironically, most of his professional life had been spent training to foil or avenge terror attacks sponsored by the Islamic Republic. Now it somehow seemed wrong to come back to this country unarmed and in daylight, flying in on a neutral airline.

Iran had been the site for Delta Force’s first mission and its greatest failure. When the aborted Iranian hostage-rescue mission came to its fiery end at Desert One, Peter Thorn had been just another second lieutenant, fresh out of West Point, green as grass, and fighting hard to survive Ranger School without being recycled. But even then he’d known he wanted more than any regular Army command could offer him more challenge, more action, and more responsibility. Several years spent shepherding conventional troops through the dull grind of drill and paperwork only confirmed that. He’d jumped at the chance for a Delta Force slot like a drowning man grabbing for a rope. He’d never looked back.

Buoyed by the self-confidence and selfdiscipline instilled by his Green Beret father, he’d made it through a rigorous physical and psychological selection process designed to weed out all but the best. Those tests had been followed by six months of around-the-clock instruction in commando tactics and covert operations. Since then he’d climbed steadily from a captain commanding a twenty-man troop to a lieutenant colonel leading one of Delta’s three assault squadrons.

Thorn rubbed his nose absentmindedly, feeling the thin, almost invisible scar that ran across its bridge and down under his right eye. The scar and a couple of metal pins in his right cheekbone were the only real reminders of a long ago helicopter crash that could have been a lot worse.

He grinned suddenly. It was ironic. He’d been shot at in Panama, hunted through the Iraqi desert, and ambushed during a brief, nightmarish tour in Somalia all without getting so much as a scratch. His only serious injury in sixteen years of active-duty service had come from an accident during a routine, peacetime training exercise. Not surprising, really.

Delta Force operated under a single constant admonition: Train hard, fight easy.

“Seat backs and tray tables up, please. We will be landing soon.” The flight attendant’s pleasant, German-accented voice brought Thorn back to the present. The slender, goodlooking brunette leaned across the empty seat next to him and deftly snagged the plastic cup of mineral water he’d been nursing for the last thousand air miles or so.

“Danke schon. He brought his seat back upright. The flight attendant smiled at him and moved off to check on the rest of the main cabin, swaying in time with the increased turbulence. She glanced back once to see if he was still watching and smiled again.

Down, boy, Thorn told himself. Duty before pleasure. Uncle Sam wasn’t paying the airfare for this jaunt so he could make a pass at a Swiss stewardess. Besides, she was probably more curious about him than seriously interested.

Even wearing a fashionable grey suit, button-down shirt, and conservative tie, he didn’t look much like his fellow passengers. Most of them were older and heavier solid-looking Swiss, German, and Iranian businessmen who were either still bent over paperwork or sacked out under airline issue blankets. There were more than he’d expected. America’s cruise missile strikes and the political upheaval they’d sparked had been bad for business. But now, as the first rumors of changed Iranian government attitudes began filtering out, commercial travelers were starting to return.

The DC-10 thundered low over the airport’s inner beacon line and dropped heavily onto the runway, braking hard after one jarring bounce that rattled teeth and shook a few overhead compartments open.

Thorn kept his eyes locked on the landscape sliding past the decelerating jetliner. Mehrabad International was busy crowded with jets and turboprops in the colors of Iran’s two national airlines and those of the major European carriers. Fuel trucks and baggage carts rumbled across the tarmac, crisscrossing between taxiing planes.