The Gamma Option (37 page)

A red-faced man struggling for breath spotted Yakov and approached. Evira recognized his features as Israeli as well.

“The guardsmen are taking control at the embassy area,” he reported grimly.

“Already? How?”

“They responded quicker and better than we anticipated.”

“Perhaps they knew, were warned.”

“They didn’t hesitate. They fired their guns into the crowds without a single warning. It was awful. The people fled in all directions, stampeding over the bodies left behind. I’m just ahead of them.”

“The word will spread, then,” Iranian student leader Rashid said. “Others will scatter and run when their own deaths confront them.”

“All right,” Yakov conceded. “Give Hassani round one. What do you hear of Shah Reza Boulevard?”

“The barricade is forty feet high at the head of the square. The people are chanting and are ready to burn buildings as soon as the guardsmen show themselves.”

“We’ll make our stand there, then. A different start for the revolution, maybe even an improvement.”

They were changing direction now, fighting to make their way through the frenzied masses blocking the route to Shah Reza Boulevard. Evira grabbed Kourosh by the arm and held him tight, his eyes still gleaming at the sights around him.

“Come,” Yakov beckoned her. “We can get to the boulevard quicker this way. It’s only a few blocks from Talegahani Street.”

And the Revolutionary Guard,
Evira thought.

In McCracken’s mind the Apache was without question the finest attack helicopter ever built, the latest generation AH-64A model’s maneuverability matched only by its power. In appearance it was a species all to itself, sleek and narrow down the body with no bit of wasted space. It had a top speed of over one-hundred-eighty miles per hour and could maintain a five-hundred-mile flying range with the new fuel it was burning. The Apache’s armaments included dual sets of four Hellfire missiles and nineteen aerial rockets suspended beneath each wing and a 30-millimeter chain gun mounted on the underside.

Blaine figured the chain gun would be the most crucial weapon at the start, followed by the Folding-Fin Aerial Rockets once Revolutionary Guard strongholds were effectively pinned down. Commands to fire both these and the superpowerful Hellfire missiles were channeled directly by the copilot-gunner through a TADS (Target Acquisition and Designation Sight) directly into the fire-control computer. The margin of error was almost nonexistent as a result. From a defensive standpoint, the Apache’s armored shell could tolerate rocket hits that would fell any other helicopter gunship and was virtually undetectable to incoming infrared missiles.

The only real problem facing them was fuel consumption. To circumvent part of this, the plan was to use the aircraft carrier
Kennedy,
on its patrol in the Persian Gulf, as the operation’s staging ground. And even then one midair refueling would be required to reach Tehran and a second needed to return to the carrier upon the mission’s completion. The jet carrying Blaine and Johnny Wareagle landed first on the
Kennedy
’s deck, which had been cleared of everything but the Apaches.

“This way, gentlemen,” a barrel-chested soldier with an unlit cigar stuck in his mouth said after they had climbed down. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the idling jet engine. “I’m Gunnery Sergeant Tom Beeks. Got the equipment you requested all ready.”

He led them through a hatch and then down a short corridor into a conference room deserted except for the materials laid out on the table.

“To begin with,” the sergeant started, reaching down for a thick black bodysuit with the bulk of a catcher’s chest protector and the look of long underwear, “this is a Kevlar bodysuit. Armors you from chest to ankles with added reinforcement in vital areas. It can stop ordinary and hollow point bullets of virtually any caliber. But the drawback is it’s very hot and uncomfortable and the most you can wear it is a half hour before you literally bake alive.”

“An eternity,” Wareagle noted to McCracken.

Blaine accepted one of the suits from Beeks and ran his hands through it. “What about the firepower I asked for, Gunny? To take the palace we’re gonna need something special.”

“That was a tough one. Had to use my mind a little, but fortunately these babies just came in.” He pulled back a dark plastic cover to reveal a pair of long weapons dominated by a thick cylinder with slots for six separate barrels on its end.

Blaine’s eyes bulged. “Vulcan 20-millimeter miniguns. What’d you do, pull these off your antiaircraft stations? Not exactly light issue, Gunny.”

“Lighter than you think, sir. These were designed to cut response time and fire differential. Teflon coated with extra-thin titanium construction. They’re not really made to be hand-held, but when you described what you might be facing, I figured we’d better improvise.” He pointed to the cylinder’s multi-barreled front. “Fires 1,000 rounds per minute, but if you try that you’ll end up with a melted casing. Short, controlled bursts are your safest bet, no more than five seconds in duration with a half second in between.”

“I can handle that. How do the rounds get fed?”

“Through the pack worn on your back.”

“Weight?”

“The ammo about sixty pounds and the gun assembly about seventy, down from over twice that.”

Blaine didn’t look convinced. “Which makes the Vulcans fine for firing straight ahead, but as soon as we try to maneuver them sideways the force of the cylinder rotation will kick either up or down.”

“I considered that too, sir,” the gunnery sergeant said as he lifted a leather strap with hooks on either end from the table. “One end of this fastens into a belt you’ll be wearing. The other attaches to the Vulcan to take up all the slack. Gun might want to kick, but it won’t be going anywhere.” Beeks noted Blaine’s approving stare. “Ever fire a minigun before?”

“Only from choppers.”

“It’s pretty simple,” Beeks said, and moved closer. “Just lock the main cylinder home and turn it until you hear a click.” The sergeant did just that and showed Blaine how to position his hands to repeat the motion. “Safety’s here. Click it off and you’re ready to go. Rotation of chambers assures no pause in ammo expulsion. Perfect for urban encounters with unfriendly masses.”

“I should say so.”

“Only thing that ain’t perfect is what a 20-millimeter shell does to man at this velocity. Gonna make a hell of a mess by the time you’re finished.”

“Gotta make one to clean another up, Gunny,” Blaine returned. The ready horn sounded on the
Kennedy’s
deck. “Come on, Indian, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

“The Apaches took off from the
Kennedy
ten minutes ago,” Isser reported to the prime minister.

“You didn’t come here just to tell me that,” the old man said knowingly.

Isser didn’t hesitate. “If McCracken’s hunch is right, we stand to lose even if he succeeds in Tehran. Never mind the problems Rasin can cause us if McCracken brings him back. The fact is we cooperated with him. In the end we sanctioned his madness, and that reality can destroy us as surely as Gamma.”

“And McCracken?”

“McCracken knows. McCracken knows
everything
.” The Mossad chief took a deep breath. “We cannot allow him to leave Tehran alive.”

Chapter 30

THE CROWD WAS CHEERING
loudly when the small party led by Yakov finally reached Shah Reza Boulevard. It wasn’t hard for Evira to pin down what the cheering was all about: at every corner, the street signs originally put up by Khomeini’s Revolutionary Council were being replaced by crudely painted signs that returned the boulevard to its former name during the time of the Shah.

Those on the street not watching the small ceremonies taking place had their attention fixed on the completion of the massive barricade at the head of the boulevard. Nothing had been spared. It measured over three stories high and was sixty feet deep, stretching from the south side of the boulevard to the north, running from building to building to totally seal that end of the street. The construction was hardly thought out, the piled elements mundane, but the structure was awe-inspiring. The people rallied and packed toward it like bees to their hive, renewing and recharging their enthusiasm at its mere sight. The piles of wood and steel were stacked upon lower layers of cars both new and old. Where any holes appeared down low, cinderblocks were being jammed into place. The higher it grew, the lighter the debris composing it became, heap piled atop heap until the sky seemed a reach away. It looked invincible, but Evira knew this to be a fantasy that the first bomb would shatter.

A pair of Iranian jets streaked through the air above, causing only a temporary lightening in the enthusiastic, fervid cheers.

“Just a show of force,” Yakov said.

“They would never bomb Tehran,” Rashid agreed.

“Pride?” Evira wondered.

“No,” the Iranian student leader told her. “Practicality. They have no bombs for their jets. They’ll keep buzzing us, though, try to scare the people off.”

They continued to make their way toward the huge barricade. The going got tougher the closer they got, the true fanatics of the uprising unwilling to yield their cherished spots. Rashid and Kaveh had taken the lead now, ordering the crowds aside in Iranian, knowing just the proper phrasing to use. The two other Iranian students in their party brought up the rear, effectively boxing Yakov, Evira, and Kourosh amidst them to keep them safe from the crowd.

“We’re not natives,” Yakov told her. “That could cause problems if we’re spotted.”

“I am a native!” Kourosh claimed staunchly, as if hurt.

“You don’t look it, boy. Too western. Today, appearances are everything.”

“I’d join them if I had a gun!”

“If we’re successful here today, you’ll never have to hold a gun. Not ever,” Yakov assured him, which drew an angry stare from Evira, who knew his feelings for the Iranian people extended only as far as the need of Israel to make use of them.

“I want a gun,” the urchin persisted, the demand too insistent to carry even a hint of cuteness with it.

“If things go poorly, we’ll need every hand we can get,” Rashid said, turning back toward them. “Let’s all pray they don’t.”

They reached the barricade moments later. Rashid signaled those on watch and a car forming a moveable gate was driven aside to let them enter. The impetus of the swelling throng forced more in after them, and these were not so politely turned back and the car was driven back into place to seal the barricade once more.

Evira gazed around her and marvelled at what she saw. The confines of the barricade made for a stark contrast with the chaotic rabble they had just left on the far side. Weapons and ammunition were laid out neatly on planks laid over crates and cinderblocks. Posts had been set up for both food and the attending of wounded. There was a communications center in the form of a table lined with radios and walkie-talkies, linking the Israeli-led rebel leaders with every major sphere of the revolution as it progressed through the city.

The barricade had been built with its back to the very head of the boulevard where it jutted off into narrow, easily blocked-off side streets. The effect was that of enclosing those within on all sides. Evira felt claustrophobic from it all and only slightly reassured by the numerous gunmen posted atop the barricades facing every direction. Still, she had to admit they were formidably armed, what with the grenade launchers, RPGs, bazookas, heavy machine guns, and even several hand-held surface-to-air missiles to use against possible attacks from aircraft. Yes, the Israelis had thought of everything, but without the prompt arrival of the Apaches to lend air support it might not be enough.

“It goes well, Rashid!” another student leader she had not met said to the one who had escorted them here. The two young men embraced.

“The word was bad from the embassy,” Rashid returned. “Have you heard anything since?”

“Who has had time to talk? There was the barricade to finish.”

Yakov was already making his way over to the communications station. He looked nervous. The Apaches would be overdue in a scant fifteen minutes, and as of yet there had been no word from them. Evira followed him, close enough when she stopped to hear his side of the conversation into one of the radios he picked up.

“What do you mean?” he demanded into the receiver. “How did they get through? …
That
many? Oh God … No, it’s too late.… Yes, we can still do it. Just stay where you are and keep me updated.” He lowered the receiver to the table.

“Bad news?” Evira asked lamely.

Yakov’s eyes were glassy. “Hassani’s forces responded in far greater numbers than we expected, quicker as well. There are between five and ten thousand in the streets already and more coming. Talegahani Street is totally theirs. They’re heading this way.”

“You must have a plan, a contingency,” she said, watching Kourosh helping to put the finishing touches on the barricade that would be under siege in a matter of minutes.

“Yes. The Apaches, damn it! The Apaches!”

“No word from them?”

“None at all.”

Evira and Yakov looked at one another, both afraid to speak the obvious, that the Apaches weren’t coming and they had been abandoned.

“We’ve got to do
something
!” Evira insisted.

“Yes,” Yakov acknowledged, and raised a walkie-talkie that connected him to the members of his team scattered among the Iranian masses down Shah Reza Boulevard. “This is Yakov. Commence the burning.”

The Apaches looked like huge june bugs floating lazily beneath the sun, all black and steel. Over ninety minutes before, the Persian Gulf had given way to Iranian landfall, but McCracken was resting no easier. He gazed nervously at his watch.

“We haven’t made up enough time,” he said to Johnny Wareagle. “I figure an hour late minimum, Indian, maybe closer to an hour and a half.”

“The battle will still be there when we arrive, Blainey.”

“You sound pretty certain.”

“Isn’t it always?”

The fires spread quickly down Shah Reza Boulevard, chaos growing out of chaos as the frenzied masses grabbed flaming objects and flung them through plate-glass store windows. Smoke rose in a shroud over the center of Tehran as if to cordon it off from the rest of the city and the world. The flames had the pronounced effect of further fueling the mass’s rage. Whereas before many had been running without purpose, chanting with hands in the air, now no set of hands was without some sort of weapon. Yakov and his Operation Firestorm team had given out approximately 2,000 firearms beyond the barricades, but it was impossible to tell how many of those possessing them were concentrated here. Reports from other areas of the city indicated heavy exchanges of fire with Hassani’s Revolutionary Guard, the latter emerging victorious at every turn. Their casualties were high, but for now the guards seemed not to care, fighting with a passion and heart Yakov and the students had never expected. When Firestorm had been conceived, some had gone as far as to suggest that the guards would actually join the side of the masses. Now nothing could have been further from the truth.