Recall (14 page)

R
ed's cloak rocked and jolted inside the B-2. Instead of finding clear air, they were at low altitude, taking paths to avoid radar and hiding in the shadows of ground features. That was one of the ways the pilots hid the bomber. Even with its radar-absorbing skin and angular shapes, sophisticated equipment could still find it under the right circumstances.

Only the faintest whine from the engines came through the cloak shell. His crewman had said on the ground it only sounded like a distant airliner, even if flying a hundred feet off the deck. The low hum of something, maybe a hydraulic motor, was outside near his right thigh. From that same direction a high-pitched whine cut in with every move of the aircraft. Probably some sort of avionics controller.

“Won't they be able to see us, even with all your radar-absorbing crap?” Crawler had asked the pilot who'd been walking around the wing, doing his preflight.

“Nah,” he'd said, expression masked by sunglasses.

“Don't they have mobile shit? I mean, someone told me you never know where their radar is gonna be.”

“We'll see it. All of it. Where it goes. We'll stay low, in the shadows.”

“What you mean you'll
see it
?”

A smile was his only explanation as the pilot had run his hand along the aileron, then turned his back and continued under the body.

Reacting to turbulence, the high-pitched whine of the controller was constant for a minute. Red had to adjust also. For the next few hours he had no control. It was strangely comforting, like being on a long bus ride, trusting the driver to get him there. The jostling of the cloak and whine from outside became rhythmical, then soothing. Like the rumba class he'd taken Lori to three anniversaries ago. He'd finally gotten it when he relaxed.

* * *

“Wakey-wakey
,
” Jim barked through the comm. “Fifteen minutes to drop.”

Red opened his eyes and looked down his nose. The face of his watch glowed 2043. When did he fall asleep? A nap was a good thing.

He tried to rub his eyes with his free hand, but hit his diving mask again. He pressed his comm button and said, “Red's a go.” The rest of the team echoed in sequence, even Marksman.

“The navigator said we're on schedule for a drop at 2100Z, maybe a minute early. Rendezvous at 2115, kick in the doors at 2145, last train leaves the station at 2215.”

Red had been reciting the time line in his sleep. He ran through the op plan again to ensure he was fully awake. “Two opening shocks,” his crewman had said. “One when the drag chute opens and another when you hit water.”

Jim cut in while Red was mentally kicking in the doors again. “The pilot just gave me our two-minute warning. Last call for alcohol. See you in the water. Comm out.” Jim tried, but his humor always fell flat.

The next minute and a half stretched. A green LED he hadn't seen before glowed near Red's forehead. He grabbed the mouthpiece to a miniature scuba air supply and wrapped his lips around it. To maximize stealth they'd be released immediately once he heard the bay doors open—radar could reflect off all kinds of things inside the bomb bay. A small jolt, a couple of hydraulic pulsations, and the bay doors opened. Air pounded the outside of the cloak. A cool breeze came from a small vent above his head and chilled him down his spine. Several rapid clicks signaled the others being dropped.

Then he was weightless, released, following them down into blackness.

A loud
clack
sounded above his head as the drag chute released. The airfoils unfolded with the whine of electric servos directing him to his coordinates. No opening shock.

Shit! The drag chute should have deployed. Maybe a streamer? But that never happens to drag chutes. The green light changed to red, warning him he was about to hit water. He hoped it was sensory overload. Maybe he'd missed the opening shock.

He racked his chin into his chest, straightened his back, and braced for impact. He managed to cross himself, hitting his diving mask yet again. His crewman had said the cloak was designed to take it, even without a drag chute, but how deep was the sinkhole in the Pardis River?

Not very.

* * *

Red opened his eyes. Cold water splashing on the back of his neck snapped him conscious. His head hung and water was up to his belly. The dim light still glowed and his mouthpiece was dangling. Water was shooting in through the air vent above his head. That was normal, except his crewman had told him there'd only be a gallon or two in the cloak by the time it opened. He'd also said the cloak would be horizontal on the trip up, but now he was hanging in the harness at a steep downward angle.

His adrenaline came online as he remembered no opening shock. He checked his watch. 2105. They'd dropped a little early, so he'd been unconscious for six minutes. He put in his mouthpiece, trying to breathe slowly from the tiny air supply that was only supposed to be sufficient for a few breaths before surfacing. No opening shock meant he had hit at full speed. The high-velocity stream coming through the vent meant he was deep, lots of pressure, maybe stuck on the bottom. If it was soft, he could be completely buried. It didn't matter if he didn't get out soon—he'd drown or the cloak's self-destruction would bring everything to a merciful end.

No. He couldn't let Lori down. He couldn't leave the kids. He wasn't going to be the weak link.

He spat out the mouthpiece. The air in the cloak was low on oxygen, but he had to save the reserve. He inhaled staleness, grabbed his KA-BAR, and jabbed at what looked to be the opening catch above his head, close to where the crewman had pushed the handle to open the cloak. No one had mentioned a manual release. He'd be sure to put it in the suggestion box.

He pried, stabbed, and mauled the catch. It rewarded him with a loud
pop
as it released. He pressed against the door and the upper portion flexed away, shooting in more water. He let go and it resealed.

The rush of liquid brought it up to his shoulders and, with it, hope. The water was clear, meaning he may not have been completely buried in muck. There was either another catch holding the lower part of the door or he was stuck deep enough to prevent it from opening. He closed his eyes and reran the image of the interior from when the crewman first opened the cloak. There were two other catches, one in the middle around his waist and one below his feet.

He grabbed his sidearm from his vest and strained without success to contort himself to get his other hand up to where he could grab it. There wasn't enough room. One arm was up and the other down, just as the crewman had loaded him. The clearance in front of his belly was narrow, but should be enough to drop the weapon and catch it with the other hand. He snagged the rear sight on one of the cloak's interior ribs and pushed up, charging the weapon, then dropped it toward his other hand below. He must have missed completely, but then felt it brush his leg. He pinned it against the cloak with his knee and reached down, feeling the end of the silencer pointed at his gut. He turned it around and grasped the butt.

The water was up to his neck.

He took a breath and plunged his head under, searching for the second catch. His eyes adjusted and he saw it. Time to find out how good Gunny was. Would his sidearm work underwater? The barrels of some weapons exploded if fired while submerged, unable to force out the extra weight of the water. His might not since it was loaded with subsonic tacs, which were low power to keep their slugs slow and quiet. He aimed and squeezed. It fired and after the bubbles cleared the mangled catch was retracted like the first.

He tipped his head up, lips barely above water, and shoved in his mouthpiece. Fresh air filled his lungs. His body ached for more, but he held it and plunged his head underwater again. He strained to see around his feet but it was no use. The dim light didn't make it that far. He scraped the sight of the sidearm against the cloak's skin, trying to find another rib that could recharge it manually. Firing underwater meant it probably didn't cycle. After some frantic scraping, he moved his feet out of the way, pointed where he remembered seeing the lower catch, and squeezed the trigger. A pressure wave washed over him as the weapon fired again. He owed Gunny big-time.

The shot illuminated the catch like a camera flash, long enough to let him see he'd missed. He waited for bubbles to clear and squeezed again. His third round pierced his target. He didn't know if the shot retracted the catch but he didn't have time for a fourth.

The water was pressing hard, his ears almost imploding. With all the air bubbling out of the cloak, the water pressure inside was becoming the same as the pressure outside. He inhaled again to equalize, but it was only a half-breath. That was all that was left. The deeper you go, the faster your air is used up. He blew a snort though his nose and air squeezed into his ears, equalizing them.

He pressed hard against the door. The bottom held fast, but the top flexed out several inches—not enough. He used the extra clearance to maneuver his lower arm free and took aim at the upper hinge. Two shots shattered it. The dim light still glowed above him. Thank God for milspec lights. He emptied the rest of the clip across the midsection of the door, perforating it. He pushed again and it snapped in two, folding down against the bottom of the river, which was halfway up the length of the cloak.

He fought the haze in his mind and unclipped the harness. His body wanted to inhale anything, even water. Rushing to the surface would explode his lungs, even if they were only half full. He'd been trained on this, but had no depth gauge and no air. His body rose quickly because of the buoyancy vest. He exhaled, wrapped his lips around the vest's dump valve, and sucked a breath, welcoming the vinyl-tasting gas. He wanted more but held it, then blew through his nose. Gauging from the bubbles, he was still ascending too quickly. He stuck out his arms and legs and tried to tread water in reverse while extending his neck and exhaling what little air he had left to prevent an embolism.

He saw the light of the surface high above him, reminding him of the flickering orange glow of his parents' fireplace. Lori was holding Nathan on her lap in front of it. He was unwrapping that glow-in-the-dark sword, his favorite birthday present last year. Red had to spank him when he whacked Penny's shins with it. He looked over Lori's shoulder to the picture on the glossy walnut mantel of his grandfather and the B-17.
Am I going to make it?
“You've got no choice,” came his father's voice.

He inhaled another quick breath from the vest, exhaling back into it. With each one the stale air was lower on oxygen. He stretched his neck again. The light of the surface seemed only an arm's reach now. The air escaping his windpipe was familiar from training, though his lungs burned like never before. He broke the surface and gulped. The deep blue of the starlit river rushed into view—he'd been seeing in black-and-white. After a couple more breaths, he dry-heaved till his stomach cramped.

He laid his head back against his buoyancy vest and blinked hard. Orion's club was directly overhead. One more breath, then his watch. 2112. He turned toward the rendezvous point. With his first stroke he realized he was still holding his sidearm. His knife must be with the cloak. He holstered the pistol, feeling his belly and finding the M4 was still clipped in.

That disdainful sergeant kicking his ribs was the same one that had his class practice underwater escapes and emergency surfacing until they were literally blue in the face. Maybe the bastard hadn't been trying to wash him out after all.

Even with the drag chute malfunction, Red had hit on target. The rendezvous point was five hundred yards south. He needed to hump to make it in time. As he caught up, he glimpsed the rest of the team in the water near the base of large boulders against the bank. It was 2118Z, three minutes after they should have left. He swam next to Jim in the shallow water and wheezed. Ripples from his approach slapped the slimy rocks. Waving algae hair grew at water level, a blue-green mane in the moonlight.

Jim leaned to his ear, cupping his hand around it. “You okay?”

“Ran into some trouble,” he gasped, trying to whisper. “But I'm a go.”

“Carter saw you surface. We've got to make up the time. Strap it up. We're headed out.”

Jim raised a hand and motioned as if pumping a shotgun. The team charged their weapons. Red reloaded his empty sidearm with a fresh clip of subsonic tacs. The operators followed at twenty-foot intervals. The current ran with them slowly but Jim set a fast pace.

The Pardis was scarcely wide enough for a large boat. Sandy banks rose twenty feet high on either side. Boulders perched on the river bends like sentries cast sharp moonlight shadows on the glassy surface. A few shacks silhouetted against the night sky interrupted the otherwise bare banks. No evidence of fishing boats in sight. Not even rotting carcasses of old vessels on the shoreline. Around a bend, barges heaped with sand angled against the dunes. The water smelled musty and stung his nose like sulfur. He pushed the distraction from his mind.

Only now did the cold press into his consciousness, robbing the heat from his chest and legs as he pushed to keep pace. Carter was ahead, behind Jim, but had started to lag. Soon the detective was abreast and breathing heavily. Red grabbed his hand and put it on his own load-bearing vest, then pressed ahead with powerful strokes, Carter in tow. Within a minute Sergeant Lanyard came from behind and the two shared the load. A few days ago Carter had been a detective working for the sheriff's office. Today he'd been dropped from a B-2 into a cold river under a cloud-spotted night sky, outside Tehran. He hadn't had time to condition. Roles had changed for all of them.

* * *

Jim checked his watch, then gave one last stroke, reaching to steady himself against a pole at the bottom of the warehouse pier. The water was up to his neck, but he kept his weapon high to protect it from stirred-up grit. He smelled the mucky bottom, rotting leaves, the scent kicked up by one of the team upstream. Mud molded around his feet as he turned and faced them coming in. The cold water energized him now, but he'd be shivering within a few minutes of taking up position, lying prone atop a pile of boulders.

Crawler drew in, looking winded but mean as ever. Marksman had his arms crossed over his buoyancy vest with his precious M14 resting atop. His grin was tight, hiding his teeth. He was the only other person beside the doctor who habitually smiled during an op. Everyone gave a thumbs-up.

Jim patted Carter's shoulder, and each pair helped the other stow water gear on their backs. No traces could be left. Dry goggles were fitted, then comm gear and night vision. It didn't matter if they got a little wet at this point.

The pier hovered above like a thunderhead. Jim scaled an algae-slick ladder to its deck, careful not to slip on the green slime. He peered over the edge, then waited, giving time for anyone who might be expecting them. Sometimes it was movement. Sometimes it was a careless cough. Moonlight peered through spotty clouds, enough not to need night vision, so he switched to thermal. After several minutes he mounted the pier and sprinted to the shore. He inched his head above the bank and waited again.
Still nothing.
He signaled to Carter, who climbed onto the pier and joined him. Carter provided cover while Jim moved to point Victor, the rock pile. He climbed the sharp edges of the boulders, his fingers gripping the half cylinder drill holes that remained after they'd been dynamited from the quarry.

At the top, Jim waited again. He scanned down a neighboring service road as far as he could. Twenty miles outside Tehran, nothing was moving this time of night. Orange gravel paved the lot outside the warehouse. It stretched for thirty clear and open yards. It was there his team would be most exposed. The wind was cold and shadows from high clouds flew across the land, flashing ambient light from darkness to dusk every few seconds.

All was as expected. Even the wooden pallets were in the same positions from the satellite photos, now a day old. The mucky fumes of the river wafted upwards, bringing an eerie warmth to his face. Still nothing. He gave Carter the all clear, which started the next chain of events, each step further outside his control. He clenched his jaw and looked back to the yard. The Pardis was calm, but from here on the op would be like navigating white water. Jim's control was slight. All he could do was react to the river. It set the tempo. Whether they capsized or not, they weren't getting off till the mission was complete.

Carter ran to the rock pile and clawed his way up. He topped it, but his breathing was too loud. Red sprinted across the lot to the warehouse's north side. At the corner of the warehouse he looked back. Jim scanned west one last time, then gave the all clear. Red moved around the corner and held, joined by Sergeant Lanyard.

Marksman made it to the warehouse then slid away to the far opposite corner. He peered around it, held up his hand, and made a sign like
hang ten
.
Obstruction.
A cloud blew in and cast a shadow, so Jim yanked down night-vision goggles from the mount on his helmet, positioning them over his eyes. Marksman glowed green, head low, peering around the corner. He turned toward Crawler and waved in a
come
, then sprinted to the neighboring building. Crawler galloped after him, running like a noseguard, slow and clunky, weighed down by gear. But his most valuable asset was his bodyguard's attitude. Crawler stood behind a row of wooden crates, leaned an elbow on top of one and aimed his weapon at the warehouse. Marksman scaled a service ladder and swung himself onto the flat roof without a sound. He unfolded his weapon's bipod and rested it atop a low wall.

Captain Richards and Dr. Ali were near Red on the opposite side of the building. All was a go. Jim pushed up his night vision. The clouds had passed. A bat fluttered across the yard and darted under a light pole, then out of its glow, into the darkness on the south side of the building. The one side no one had eyes on yet.

* * *

Red squatted in the dirty orange gravel. He shifted his weight and dust stirred over his boots. Water ran out the drain holes above the soles. He checked his watch. Seven minutes till showtime.

He stalked to the corner and peered around to the south side. An unpaved service road ran a hundred feet from it. It was smooth, well dressed, made from the same orange gravel. Dust stung his nose and he stifled a sneeze.
Better than the sulfur odor of the Pardis
. He squinted, looking down the road in each direction. Two ghostly images of the Israelis' white cargo vans—their exfil plan—were on the opposite side of the road, well outside the glow of the light pole that Lanyard was about to darken. He flipped down his night-vision optics and rescanned, then flipped the switch to thermal and did it again. All clear.

The road was silent. He squatted and leaned against the warehouse. He sensed Lori. Like a salmon scenting its stream, or a carrier pigeon homing in on its path, he was being drawn inside.
Yeah, she was there, somewhere.

He glanced at Jim. The colonel held up a fist and pumped down. Move out.

Red pointed Lanyard to the light pole. He ran to its base, slung his weapon and reached down to his boots. He pulled what looked like a bootstrap and two slender spikes popped out from under the toes. Using the spikes and a wide belt, he shot up the pole like a lumberjack.

Lanyard had shown Red the Communications Suppression System (CSS) back on the Tupolev. Just a small black box with a six-foot wire dangling as an antenna, it weighed at least eight pounds, mostly from the lithium batteries. He'd said everything inside melted down when the batteries ran out in case they had to leave it behind.

Lanyard kept the transformer at a safe distance, reached behind him, and grabbed the CSS off his belt. He strapped it to a bracket and hung the antenna close to the pole, then signaled
OK
. The little green light was on. He leaned away from the high-voltage wire going into the transformer and placed wire cutters on the lower-voltage line running to the building. At 2144Z Red held up two fingers and snipped them together like scissors. Lanyard cut the power and was at the bottom of the pole in seconds.

Nothing happened. No backup generators came on and no noises sounded from inside. They'd been told power outages here were common. Maybe no one cared.

Red did a last check of the south side. He signaled
all clear
and Jim returned another fist pump.
Showtime
.

Red turned the corner and sprinted to the first door, a hundred feet away. Running was euphoric; he felt like a racehorse whose gate had finally flown open. He glanced back at Lanyard.
Kid better keep up.

* * *

Lanyard heard gravel slip under the major's boots. He turned, but only a low cloud of dust floated where Major Harmon had been kneeling.
Shit
. He strained to catch up but Harmon was already at a full sprint, around the corner, thirty feet ahead. It was all he could do to keep the distance from widening.

The major stopped at their door, halfway down the long side of the warehouse. He raised his foot to it as if to breach the opening, but then dropped it and gripped the handle. It twisted. He stood to the far side, pushed the door open, and paused. Nothing.

Lanyard made it to the near side and pulled down his night vision over an eye. The major signaled a
follow me
, then stooped low and stepped inside, staying to the far edge of the opening. Nothing moved outside and no sounds came from within. Lanyard spun and followed the major inside, closing the door to preserve their night vision. The ceiling had six huge skylights, so he switched to thermal.

Two loud pops echoed. He pointed his weapon toward them. A third brought an infusion of light reflected off the ceiling. It lasted a few seconds and then swept away. The other door must have been locked.

The major nodded and both thumbed their comms. “E1's in. All clear
.
” E2 confirmed the same along with Marksman and the colonel. The major explained the layout to the rest of the team. “It's split down the middle. West side is open storage. Crates and high shelving obscure most of the view. Stuff is everywhere, crates open, in the aisles. Lots of small arms. Ammo. Two troop transports in the middle. East side is walled off. Probably offices. It's got an open mezzanine above. Can't see anything up there. Requesting E1 and E2 clear west side of warehouse, then proceed through the offices.”

“Affirmative
,
” came the colonel's reply. “E1 and E2 clear west. Check in before entering east.”

Marksman's voice was steady, but held an edge. “East yard is obscured by crates and all kinds of crap. Suggest any hostiles be herded out the north. I've got a clear line of fire there.”

The major stooped and moved up the main corridor that divided the building. Lanyard followed, sweeping the aim of his weapon down the aisles as they passed and keeping an eye on the mezzanine. The high ground. Across from it were aisles of disorganized storage, spilling into the walkway. There were rocket boxes, mortars, and entire crates of ammo. Spare axles, tires, and brake sets took up an entire aisle.

Eyes up,
the major signaled.

No shit. There were no skylights over the mezzanine, but thermal showed nothing.

All appeared a typical warehouse for a low-class military outfit. He'd seen worse in Afghanistan. Rockets, grenades, and anything else that could go
bang
should be in a special fire-protected portion of the building. Even better, a separate structure altogether, with blast walls to direct an explosion upward. Though disorganized, it was well funded, and certainly shouldn't have been unlocked. Too big of a mistake to be overlooked.

They did a quick sweep, only glancing down the aisles. The major hadn't said anything about clearing the mezzanine before going into the offices. Probably good because their footsteps above might give away their presence. All was quiet. Too quiet.

Lanyard walked backwards, keeping a watch on their six, but had to glance behind to ensure the major was still there. The only thing that gave him away was the water pumping out of his wet boots. Lanyard couldn't even hear him breathe, like a ghost. Harmon was a nutcase, but had skills. A soft mover. When they'd done their gear check, he had pieces of felt sewn in his vest between the ammo clips so they wouldn't rub. It was a brand-new vest, so he must've done it last night while everyone else had been asleep. At dinner, he'd wrapped his rifle sling clips with black tape to keep them from rattling.

Three minutes of careful moving and they reached the middle of the warehouse. Lanyard peered down the aisle. At the end was the rusted metal door where E2 had entered, two bullet holes above the handle looking like eyes on a smiley face. “South half clear
,
” the major whispered into his comm.

“North half clear
,
” came the captain's reply.

A shrill cry rang from the mezzanine, the sound echoing from the metal walls. Lanyard scanned it frantically. An AK-47 opened fire from the far side, pointed down at the other team. Muzzle blasts from a second shooter boomed, coming from above the doors they'd entered. Lanyard squeezed a three-shot burst in that direction when a strafing run blew across his belly. The projectiles hit the SAPI plates with a loud
tunk tunk
. Did they make it through? Lanyard tried to inhale but nothing would come, like the time that Army scum had kneed him in the balls at Fort Bragg. An old instructor's warning,
Shock can deceive you
, shot through his mind, but he forced it out. Duty first. He was going to bring the shooter down, even if it was with his last breath. He knelt behind a crate, took aim at the muzzle flashes pulsating in his thermal scope, and squeezed several more bursts. The fire kept coming.