Free Pandora's Grave by Stephen England Page A

deployed operationally before. Perhaps that accounted for his nervousness.
    Or maybe not.
    Truth? Another writer had said it was the first casualty of war. Harry was more inclined to the second opinion. But they were past the point of no return. They were going in…
     
    Fifteen minutes later, a C-130 Hercules transport aircraft rose from a small military airfield north of Tel Aviv, heading west, across Syrian airspace, across northern Iraq, flying low to avoid detection by the American military radars. Destination: Iran…

Chapter Four
     
     
    1:32 A.M. Tehran Time, September 24th
    The base camp
    Iran
     
     
    Major Farshid Hossein glanced at his watch, shading its luminous dial with his hand. It was time. They would come—now, when a man’s bodily functions were at their lowest ebb. They would be warriors of the night, the elite of their nation, highly-trained and motivated.
    Their training would do them no good. They would be dead before they could even reach the ground. He and his men would kill any that survived.
    The night air chilled him and he wrapped his uniform jacket tight around his body. All around him, mountains towered toward Paradise, some of them already capped with snow. Beyond them, to the northeast, the shores of the Caspian.
    The pack of Marlboros was tucked securely in his shirt pocket. He wanted one, but didn’t dare. He knew from experience how far away the glowing ember of a cigarette could be seen, how it robbed a man of his night vision. He would need all of his faculties in the next few hours. He walked back to the TOR-M1. Its crew members were silhouetted in the pale glow of the late September moon.
    “Anything?” he asked.
    “ Nah ,” the technician shook his head. Nothing.
    Hossein clapped the man on the shoulder, moving on. “Keep watching.”
     
    1:37 A.M.
    The Huey
    Iran
     
    “You have the bird, Jeff.”
    “Roger that, colonel. Taking over.” The co-pilot smiled, taking the controls into his hands.
    Tancretti removed the night-vision goggles and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Using the goggles was like looking down a pair of toilet-paper tubes covered with green foil. It shot his depth-perception to blazes, something not to be underestimated at the altitudes at which the Huey was flying. One wrong twitch of the control levers, and they would hit the ground. And yes, he had volunteered for this assignment.
    “How far away is the LZ?” a voice behind them asked. Tancretti looked up to see the CIA team leader—Henderson, Nichols, whatever his name really was, standing over them.
    “Forty klicks,” Luke replied, his words clipped and curt. “Your target is eight beyond that.”
    The CIA man nodded quietly. “Thanks.”
     
    4:43 P.M. Eastern Time, September 23rd
    CIA Headquarters
    Langley, Virginia
     
    Bernard Kranemeyer had just checked his watch when the phone in his shirt pocket rang, its shrill buzz disturbing his thoughts. The strike team should be well on their way. The mission had been launched.
    “Kranemeyer speaking.”
    “Director, this is Daniel Lasker.” The twenty-eight-year-old Lasker was head of ClandOps tactical communications. “Sir, we’re getting the first real-time imaging from the NRO down here in the op-center.”
    His habit of referring to Kranemeyer as “sir” was a perpetual source of annoyance. The DCS, who was proud of his five-year career as a Delta Force sergeant major, associated “sir” with the officer class. He’d worked for a living, thank you very much.
    “It’s about time Sorenson got on that,” he snorted in disgust. “What’s it showing?”
    “That’s why I called, sir. We have a problem.”
    “Why?” Kranemeyer demanded, irritation showing in his tones. “What’s going on?”
    “The Iranians have moved a SA-15 Gauntlet on-site,” Lasker replied. “Our team’s flying straight into a trap. I need your permission to break radio silence.”
    “Do it ASAP,” was Kranemeyer’s curt order. “I’m