Recall Read online

  Weren’t we already at ground level? Must be a basement or bunker or—

  She splashed into a puddle and prepared to step down once more, but it was all flat. She felt ahead with her toes, but the hand shoved her from behind. “Move!” The German.

  She ran into a doorjamb twice, hard enough to bruise her shoulder. The German yanked the bag off. He shoved her backwards and she tripped, falling to sit in a metal folding chair. He pulled a large black knife from its scabbard on his hip and held it in front of her chest. Looking down, he smiled and swept his oily black hair behind his ear, then wrinkled his nose again. He slipped the blade between her wrists and cut the rope, then walked out and locked a blue steel door behind him.

  A single lightbulb hung from two wires in the middle of the empty, windowless room. Yet, this didn’t look like it was meant to be a prison. Some muffled voices spoke outside the door. She cupped her hands around her ear and pressed against it.

  “Transport was more,” said the German. “Your British friend demanded fifty thousand euro. My fee didn’t include additional bribes.”

  “I know,” came a reply. “I told you who to use and I’d pay you whatever he required. We’ve done business before. He’s like you. Invisible . . . till next time.”

  The heavy sound of booted feet walking upstairs. Then, silence.

  She slunk back into the chair. Cold metal chilled through the damp flannel PJs. Her head bent low as she rubbed her legs. Tony always said flannel PJs were why they only had three kids. She grinned and swore to herself she’d get an entire wardrobe of silk when she got back and . . . Who was she fooling? Chances were she’d never make it. Bait. Tony’d get caught in it, too. The kids would grow up and eventually forget her. She put her head between her knees, closed her eyes, and concentrated on breathing slowly. Then she fell forward and retched, but the only thing that wet the floor was her tears.

  * * *

  Red clamped a hand onto his knee, keeping his leg from bouncing as he sat waiting for the rest of the team. The cramped briefing room next to berthing was concrete block with empty walls and contained only folding metal chairs, a laptop, an overhead projector, a blackened document incinerator the size of a small woodstove, and a skinny geek with Ben Franklin glasses.

  “What’s taking so long?” he asked.

  The geek rubbed his hands as the team filed in. Sergeant Crawler hissed as he squeezed his ass against the side bars of one chair, unable to scooch back completely into the seat. Its legs creaked in protest.

  Jim stood at the front of the room like a schoolteacher, facing them. His eyes sagged, the whites displaying more of a pink tone, but he stood erect. He was always at his best before an op. Tired, but in charge. A one-sided smile as he lifted an eight-by-ten in the air. “This is a seize-and-extract operation. We believe Lori Harmon is being held in Iran, in Saidabad, east of Tehran. In this warehouse.”

  The geek walked down the line, handing everyone manila folders. Red tore into his. It contained several photos, including the one Jim was holding. Jim had always liked print better than digital. The incinerator meant no paper left the room.

  The first was a satellite image of an old brick warehouse with a weathered steel roof. Judging by a truck parked close by, it was about a hundred feet wide and two hundred long. The other photos displayed the same warehouse from several ground-level angles. All clear, high-quality shots.

  Red waved one of the pictures at Jim. “How do we know she’s here?”

  “Humint. Analysis of the video with the blotched-out face didn’t turn up anything. We put word out to our co-ops about what we were looking for. Mossad and CIA came back aiming at VEVAK.” Jim pointed to the geek. “Gerry, help me out.”

  Gerry pushed his glasses further up a long nose and patted a folder against his chest. The white flesh of his neck was cinched in a blue Polo buttoned all the way up. His voice sounded as if his nose was a resonance chamber. “VEVAK’s a perverted Iranian CIA. Intelligence and secret service and Mafia all in one.”

  “Not too much different, then,” Crawler said, winking at Marksman.

  Gerry stared blankly, then said, “Our first source was humint inside Iran, through Mossad. They won’t divulge source details, but they’re usually precise. Just like the colonel said, the second one was CIA. Intercept from a cell in the U.S. Placed to a VEVAK coordinator. It was thirty minutes after Lori’s kidnap.” He shrugged. “The intercept was scrambled, but they confirmed it went to VEVAK.”

  Dr. Ali leaned forward in his chair. “So we’re basing this op on an unknown Israeli asset in Iran, confirmed only by a scrambled phone intercept placed to a VEVAK coordinator?”

  “What the hell else you want?” Red snapped, half-rising from his chair.

  Jim held up a hand. “If VEVAK was behind the kidnap, they wouldn’t keep her in the U.S. Plus, their arms don’t reach here. It had to be hired out. If so, they’d require the mercs to bring the hostages back home, no delays.

  “Based on the timeframe, four aircraft that left the East Coast early Monday morning were possibilities. We narrowed it down to two—one from Philadelphia and one from Newport News. Our co-op at CIA suggested they’d be cargo, not passenger. The one from Newport News was owned by Aero Global.”

  Gerry pinched his index fingers, as if counting. “Aero Global is a front. They’ve been on everyone’s watch list for years. Their board’s controlled by members who aren’t Iranian, but they’ve got oil interests and are generous to Shi’a organizations.”

  Crawler shrugged. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Jim snorted. “Terrorists, Crawler. They’re financing terrorists.”

  Crawler pointed his cigar at Gerry. “Why din’t he say so?”

  “He did. Just not in Neanderthal.”

  Gerry rocked from his toes to heels. “Our co-ops at U.S. Customs have nothing.” He pointed at Carter and smiled. “He shook the trees at Homeland Security. In ten minutes, we had the manifest in our hands. The plane was headed to London with some billionaire’s dressage horse and a couple other exotic animals. At the last minute the crew accepted an order to deliver ten coffins. Destination, UK. We’re thinking that’s how Lori was smuggled out.”

  Red winced. “In a coffin?” His face grew hot.

  “Yep,” Jim said. “The plane went Newport News to London, to Jinnah in Pakistan, then to Tehran. By the time we had the lead on Global Aero, they’d already taken off for Tehran. All we could do was ask Mossad for a favor. Space Command couldn’t task a satellite, the cloud cover was too damn heavy or some other bullshit. Mossad photoed the cargo being moved to a warehouse close to the airport. Except one crate. It went to a known VEVAK location, the safe house in these.” Jim tapped his manila envelope. “Not certain this is where she is, but it’s a damn good guess. We’ve submitted the op plan to higher. We’ve got the green light, pending confirmation from Mossad. Then it’s wheels up as early as 0600.”

  Red stood and paced to the back of the room. “Let’s go now. Get approval en route. Iran’s twelve hours away. They might move her.”

  “Mossad’s intel has been heavy on the op plan. They’re also helping on the exfil. They’re using Iranian assets and don’t want to pull the trigger till they can confirm. That’s the way it is.”

  Red clenched his fists. “Wouldn’t hurt to be on the way. We’d be that much closer.”

  “Too much at stake if we’re wrong.”

  “Damn it! We’ve got—”

  “Break. Be back in five,” Jim snapped, pursing his lips. “Not you.” He pointed a finger at Red.

  The team filed out. Gerry stayed behind, shuffling papers on a table. “See you back in five,” Jim said, almost a shout. The intel geek looked up, as if finally getting the cue.

  The debrief room’s door clicked shut behind Gerry. “This is going to be a one-sided conversation,” Jim said.

  Shit. Red squared his feet and braced.

  “You’ve made it clear you want to get the hell on the road. I
understand. But what good would it do to be over the Atlantic and find out VEVAK set up Mossad with bad intel? We’d all be halfway around the world, ready to squash the wrong bug. Lori could still be here. We can’t outrun our intel.”

  Red could feel the blood pulsing in his head. Was Lori still alive?

  Jim placed hands on hips and turned away. “The team doesn’t trust you. A couple asked this morning if you should even be involved. Pressing to move before we’ve got good intel doesn’t help. Hell, Red, skills are perishable. Even you said you had doubts. Glad you’re eager to go, but quit acting like you’ve got a hard-on.”

  He turned back, jabbing a finger into Red’s chest, “Higher specified you for the team. They never tell me who to use. Don’t know whose fingers are in the pot, but I’ve bucked orders in the past and they looked the other way because I get results. Now I’m telling you, as your commander, pull it together or I’ll yank you. But as your friend, I’m saying that if you want to save Lori, then think about it like any other op. Separate yourself. Understood?”

  Red muttered through stiff lips. “Permission to speak?”

  “Denied.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Good. You’re back on the team. Don’t worry, the time line is under control. After confirmation we’ll be on station in seven hours.” Jim called the team back in.

  Captain Richards raised a hand, as if he was addressing his geometry teacher. “How’d Mossad get ground-level shots of the safe house so fast?” Marksman grunted and shifted in his chair.

  “It’s a known safe house,” Gerry said. “Israel keeps current photos of all locations considered high importance.”

  “So, we don’t know what’s inside?”

  Gerry walked to the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back. His narrow chest was thrust out, as if he’d finally found some confidence. “We know a little, just not the layout. The outside is a shell. Somewhere inside is a bunker, probably several stories underground. Political prisoners have been brought there for torture. All that makes it a logical holding area for a high-value hostage.”

  Red looked up from his photos. “For Lori.”

  Gerry’s chest sunk again. “Sorry, right. For Lori. Other than that, it’s storage for small arms.”

  Crawler lifted a photo and waved. “Am I the only one thinks it’s odd there’s arms storage in a nonmilitary area? Look. It’s industrial.”

  Gerry smiled. “VEVAK doesn’t trust the military, and it’s their equipment. Our source info is thin because their main defense is secrecy. I don’t anticipate much security on-site. At least not from what we’ve seen in the past.”

  Jim stepped in front of him. “That’s what we’re hoping, but still prep for the worst. The warehouse is next to the Pardis River.” He pointed to another satellite photo. “Not more than a hundred feet across, less at spots. However, one mile north, upstream, it widens, like a small lake. It’s a sinkhole. Deep enough for a cloaked drop.”

  Crawler slammed his fists on his knees. “Shit! I hate cloaked drops!”

  “Stick a rag in it, Sergeant.”

  Red squinted. “Sir, what’s a cloaked drop?”

  Crawler growled, “Oh, you’re gonna love what you’ve been missing. They cram you into a big pipe and—”

  Jim pointed to his satellite photo. “Get Red up to speed on cloaked drops later. We’re dropping at twenty-foot intervals. Rendezvous at this point here. We’ll swim downstream one mile to the warehouse dock.”

  He switched photos to a satellite image of the warehouse and surrounding yard. Marksman would set up on the corner of a flat roof of a different building fifty yards to the northeast, covering two sides of the warehouse. Crawler would be on the ground as Marksman’s bodyguard. Two extraction teams would enter the building simultaneously, from the west and the south. The idea was to drive anyone trying to escape toward Marksman and Crawler. Lanyard would cut the electricity to the building and set up a CSS.

  Red raised a finger. “What’s ‘CSS’?”

  Jim hesitated a fraction of a second, frowning. “Communication Suppression System. Almost undetectable. It counters any radio transmission within a quarter mile. Doesn’t scramble, just muffles. Like a gag.”

  “Do our comms work with it?”

  “Of course.”

  Jim and Carter were command and control on top of a pile of boulders on the northwest corner of the lot. No comms were to be used until after the extraction teams entered the warehouse, and only on the lowest setting.

  “Your primary ammo is four clips of subsonic tacs,” Jim said.

  He wasn’t screwing around. So the four clips weren’t regular subsonic ammo. Some doctor had weaponized the venom of the Inland Taipan snake over a decade ago. It was carried by a pressurized slug, like a flying syringe. Against Geneva conventions. Even a flesh wound would drop you in two seconds, kill you in six. Red smiled.

  “You’ll have eight clips of Det ammo,” Jim said, “but do not use unless you have to. Our exfil depends upon a silent op.”

  He explained the exit plan and time line. Then everyone broke to review the photos and commit them to memory. Red and Lanyard went over the basics—hand signals, clearing orders, and protocols—for his own confidence as much as Lanyard’s. Didn’t seem to be anything new there. Then Jim broke the brief. Gerry tossed all the photos in the incinerator. With a whooomp they were ash.

  Hot chow was waiting back in berthing. Red had something, but he couldn’t say what. He only ate because he needed the energy. He sat on a bunk and rechecked weapons. Crawler waddled up, still chewing and looked down at him.

  “Some of us has a wager goin’, sir. Remember that drinking game we’s had?”

  An image of a shit-faced, shirtless Crawler sitting next to a dunk tank trying to reassemble his M4 shot through his mind. “Yeah. Guys, heavy drinking, weapons. Always a good combo.”

  “The drinks’ll have to come after the op. The time to beat is fifty seconds. I’ve got money riding on you, major.”

  “Who bet against me?”

  Crawler swallowed. “Ain’t sayin’. Not yet.”

  This could go either way. If Red could break down and reassemble his main weapon in time, it’d be a boost of confidence to the team, and himself. Such a basic test wouldn’t prove all his skills were up to par, but if he remembered how to do this, chances were better he’d remember the rest of them. But if he messed it up . . .

  He sat on the floor, Indian–style. The concrete chilled his balls through the fabric of his trousers. He lifted his M4, fumbled for the clip release, and pulled back on the charging handle. He released the bolt, dry fired, and placed it in front of him. His hands shook, so he rubbed his palms on his thighs, as if trying to warm them. Crawler pulled an oily green square of parachute cloth from his pocket, twirled it into a tube, then tied it around Red’s eyes. “On t’ree. One—”

  “Hold up!” Dr. Ali said. “I’m timing him, too.”

  Red turned his head toward the voice. “Et tu, Brute?”

  Everyone chuckled except for Crawler. “What the hell does ‘et two, brutae’ mean?”

  “Go back to high school,” Marksman grunted.

  Crawler sneered, then finished the countdown.

  Red snatched the rifle and pushed on the main retaining pins, breaking the weapon into two. Relief came as muscle memory seemed to take over. He removed the buffer assembly and spring, then went to work on the upper assembly. The bolt carrier and charging handle were on the floor in order, then the retaining pin, firing pin, cam pin, and bolt. He slapped his knees, reassembled everything in reverse order, replaced the retaining pins, charged the weapon and dry fired. He charged it again and tested the safety and bolt lock, then placed it back on the floor in front of him. Like tying his shoes. He rubbed his legs again, but his hands were steady now.

  “Forty-four seconds!” Crawler said. “Doc’s buying when we get back. And none of that piss water.”

  Red pushed up the blindfold in ti
me to see Marksman’s eyes roll. Crawler’s idea of a premium brew had been Bud Light, and apparently the years hadn’t refined him. He wasn’t wearing any insignia—probably still failing his master sergeant exams. But he’d bet for Red and not against. The man couldn’t be a complete idiot.

  Jim stepped into the room. “Lights out.”

  Marksman took a step and swung into a top bunk. Crawler grunted as he eased himself beneath, the bedsprings twanging under his weight. Lanyard was silent. Unconvinced. Like the rest of the team. Everyone sacked out in uniform.

  * * *

  Sleep still wasn’t an option for Red. Jim had said Ali couldn’t give anyone pills to help them sleep in case Intel pulled the trigger early. So Red closed his eyes and tried to ignore Crawler’s snoring, the wheezing broken only by an occasional gas leak.

  He couldn’t turn off his mind. Hell, he’d been under sedation for a day and a half. That would have to hold him. The round, white-faced clock ticked through the hours, like Gerry at the brief.

  About 0200, he swung his legs down, stood, and walked out. The steroid-pumping squid barred his exit, but let him pass. “If you stay where I can see you.”

  Red glanced inside the Sikorskys twice as he paced around the hangar. Their familiarity reassured him. On his third round, he slid a palm over the starboard belly of the Pave Low. He smiled when he found them: two neatly patched 35 mm holes just forward of the gun mount. This was the same helo that had extracted them after the op in Brazil. She was ancient and quivered in flight, but he was grateful to the old bird. She’d flown a few feet above the trees through the thickest cloud cover he’d ever seen. He’d sensed it then, too: She was happy. She’d brought all her boys home.