She set her mug on his desk and got to her feet. "Well, I can't just sit here doing nothing. I'm gonna get my men ready and have the pilot standing by. As soon as there's the least break in the storm, we're heading out."

  Ben smiled. "Good. I'll alert the meteorologists to keep us informed and to let us know when and if the storm slackens."

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  The pilot of the C-130 air transport plane carrying the SUSA troops touched a switch on his console, and the drop light in the cargo bay turned from red to yellow, indicating they were approaching the drop zone.

  Buddy Raines got to his feet and signaled his men to do the same thing.

  The large rear hatch in the tail of the C-130 began to open, providing a ramp down which the troops would run and dive off when it came time for them to jump.

  The troops fixed their oxygen masks to their faces. Since they would be bailing out at almost twenty thousand feet, they would need oxygen supplementation until they fell to below ten thousand feet.

  After what seemed an eternity, the yellow light changed to green and Buddy pumped his fist in the air. It was time for the Scouts to jump.

  They would hopefully be landing just on the outskirts of Tehran itself.

  Buddy and his men would jump a few minutes, later and would land among the oil fields where the bombs were located.

  Major Jackson Bean nodded his head at Buddy in farewell as he sprinted down the ramp and dove into the blackness, followed by his Scouts.

  Once the Scouts were gone, the light in the cargo bay 158

  returned to yellow. The next time it changed to green, it would be time for Buddy and his team to jump.

  The light changed, and Buddy led his team and their accompanying Scout troops down the ramp and out into the night air.

  Once he was stabilized and falling at terminal velocity of miles an hour, Buddy took his D-ring to his chute in his right hand and held his altimeter in his left up close where he could read his altitude. When it showed a thousand feet, a hesitation of only a couple of seconds would cause him to fall too low for the chute to deploy and slow him down enough to survive the drop. On average, HALO drop casualties were upward of ten percent, but Buddy's men and women were not average. They'd trained unto exhaustion in this maneuver, and rarely had any injuries.

  Abdul Muttmain, unlike his counterpart in Riyadh, Al Hazmi, was a hands-on leader. Instead of sitting in his headquarters building in Tehran, he preferred to remain in the field with his troops and to supervise personally the guarding of the booby-trapped wells. He left his second in command, Baltazar Garzon, in charge of the city command post to answer any radio messages from El Farrar, with instructions to send a messenger if any important transmissions were received.

  Not trusting Garzon with the important task of deciding when or if the bombs should be exploded, he kept the remote control to the detonators in his possession at all times. Muttmain knew that in the unlikely event he had to trigger the bombs, it would mean his own death, but he was fully prepared to die to prevent the infidels from taking control of the wells from his men.

  Muttmain had a tent set up in the center of the group 159

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  of wells that were equipped with bombs, thinking that in the event of an attack, he would have plenty of advance warning and would have time to detonate the bombs if necessary.

  The tent contained a table with a shortwave radio on it along with a Kalashmkov assault rifle and a supply of ammunition. In the corner of the tent was an espresso machine to keep him well supplied with strong, bitter coffee to help ward off the chill of the desert air. A small Honda generator that he kept running continuously powered all the devices.

  At eight P.M., Muttmain filled a small thermos with coffee and told his aide de camp, Khan Baz, he was going to make the rounds of the sentries to make sure they were all awake and alert.

  "That is wise, sir," Baz said, "These shepherd boys who were assigned to us are not true jihadis as we are." Jihadis was a term meaning dedicated holy warriors, which Muttmain and his officers all considered themselves to be.

  Muttmain gave the man a rare smile. "You are correct, Khan, and if I find one of them sleeping while on guard duty, I will bring you his head back as a souvenir."

  Muttmain put the detonator on the table and picked up his Kalashnikov, unable to carry the thermos and rifle and detonator all at the same time. "I will return shortly," he said, dipping his head as he left through the flap in the tent wall.

  As he made his way among the sentries, Muttmain was delighted, and somewhat surprised, to find all of the men awake and keeping watch as they had been told. Perhaps these boys will become soldiers to be trusted after all, he thought to himself.

  When he finished his rounds, he began to walk back 160

  toward his tent. A freshening breeze whipped his robes around his legs and he glanced skyward, looking for signs of an impending storm.

  His mouth fell open and he gasped at the sight of several dark shapes drifting downward, blotting out stars behind them as they settled to the ground.

  He dropped his thermos to the ground, his coffee forgotten as he jerked the Kalashnikov off his shoulder and pulled the loading lever back to put a shell in the firing chamber.

  "Invaders!" he screamed in Arabic. "We are under attack!" he added, pulling the trigger and sending a dozen rounds into the air at one of the dark shapes drifting toward him.

  Suddenly, the night was alive with flashes of orange and red as the invading troops returned his fire. Muttmain thought it strange he heard no gunfire save his own, not realizing the invaders' guns were fitted with silencers.

  Coop, who'd been coming down almost directly over Muttmain, heard the bullets whiz by his head like a swarm of angry bees, and then his chute, ripped to shreds by the shells, collapsed around him. He plummeted twenty feet and hit the ground hard. He tried to roll, but he felt his ankle give way and he fell flat on his face, dropping his H&K MP-10

  machine gun.

  Muttmain crouched, replacing his magazine with a full one, and then he approached the black parachute billowing on the ground in front of him.

  He grabbed an edge and jerked it back, wanting to see just who was invading his oil field.

  The stunned man in black fatigues rolled over onto his back, an expression of pain on his blackened face as he stretched out his hand for his machine gun, lying just out of his reach to the side.

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  Muttmain grinned and aimed his rifle at the man. "You are American?" he asked as his finger touched the trigger.

  Coop stared up at the man standing over him with a gun. He grinned, shrugged through his pain, and said, "Fuckin'A, raghead!"

  Muttmain's smile disappeared and he took aim at Coop's face.

  Suddenly, a voice from behind him called, "Hey, Omar."

  Muttmain whirled around to see a female, also dressed all in black and with black greasepaint on her face, standing ten feet away. She was cradling a terrible-looking shotgun in her arms, and her teeth were gleaming in the starlight as she grinned at him.

  As Muttmain tried to bring his rifle around, she said, "Say good-bye, shithead!" and pulled the trigger.

  The Franchi-FAS assault shotgun exploded, sending twelve-gauge flechettes across ten feet to shred Muttmain into hamburger meat. His body was flung backward to land spread-eagled on his back, gasping and gurgling as his blood spurted from hundreds of wounds.

  Jersey glanced around to make sure there were no more terrorists nearby, and then she sauntered over to stand next to Coop. She squatted, the Franchi lying across her knees. "You okay, Coop?" she asked softly. "Are you hit?"

  Coop shook his head. "Nope, but he shot hell out of my chute." He tried to get up and his face went white and pale, and he almost fainted from the pain in his ankle.

  Jersey looked around again, making certain they were alone, and then she pushed him back down on his back and took his left leg in her hand. She quickly unlaced his combat boot and slipped it off. His ankle ballooned up around his sock to almost three times its normal size.

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  "Jesus, Coop," she said, grimacing. "It may be broken."

  "Bullshit!" Coop said, sitting up. "It's just a sprain."

  Jersey shook her head. "Nevertheless, you can't walk on that."

  "Hand me that creep's rifle," Coop said, pulling his assault knife from its scabbard.

  Jersey grabbed Muttmain's Kalashnikov and handed it to Coop, who used his K-Bar knife to cut the rifle's wooden butt and canvas sling off.

  He handed them to Jersey. "Use the wood for a brace and tie it to my leg with the sling, then help me up."

  Jersey shook her head. "You're crazy, Coop."

  "Just do it, Jersey .. . please," Coop said. "I know I'll never hear the end of it from you if I spend this campaign flat on my back."

  As Jersey worked to fasten the sling and brace to Coop's leg, they could hear sporadic shooting from the terrorists, along with screams and moans of wounded men as the battle raged all around them.

  When she pulled Coop to his feet, he groaned and his face screwed up in obvious pain. He looked up, sweat pouring from his face even though the night air was frigid. "You're right, Jerse, I can't walk."

  "Told you so, stubborn ass," she replied.

  He pointed to a nearby well. "Help me over to that well. You can stand me up against one of the struts, and I'll guard the bomb and keep anyone from setting it off."

  Jersey wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, put her right arm around his waist, and began to help him hobble over to the nearby well.

  As they struggled through the sand toward the well, Coop's left hand happened to fall on her breast. Jersey

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  glanced down at it just in time to see him cup it around her breast and give it a little squeeze.

  She gave a short laugh. "Coop, you're such a fuckin' lecher," she said.

  "What? Oh, excuse me, Jerse," he said, removing his hand. "Just an accident."

  She looked up at him. "An accidental squeeze?" she asked skeptically.

  "Must've been a spasm caused by the pain," he answered, a sly smile on his face.

  "Just so you enjoyed it," Jersey said, continuing to walk him toward the well.

  "Urnmm, it was okay, I guess," Coop said.

  "Okay?" she asked archly.

  "All right, all right," he answered. "It was great!"

  She took his arm from around her shoulder and leaned him back against the well strut. "For that, you get to keep your hand ... so long as it doesn't happen again."

  "But. . ." Coop started to say.

  "Next time, try your moves on Jackie Malone," Jersey said, her eyes flashing. "Maybe she'll even let you succeed."

  Coop grinned. "Now you're sounding like a jealous woman," he said.

  "Hah!" Jersey replied. "Not jealous, and not easy either," she said, moving off toward the sounds of fighting.

  "You can say that again," Coop muttered, jerking the slide back on his MP-10 to cock it.

  When he heard the sounds of gunfire in the distance, Khan Baz hurriedly got on the radio and tried to raise the headquarters building, hoping to warn them of the

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  attack. He got no answer to his repeated calls. Finally, he put the microphone down and sat staring at the detonator. He ran a tongue over dry lips and tried to decide if he should set the bombs off.

  "Allah, give me strength," he whispered as he reached for the remote control.

  The flap in the tent wall snapped open and Buddy Raines ducked inside, his Beretta M93R in his hand.

  Baz grabbed the control and held it up, his lips moving in a final prayer to Allah as his finger searched for the button.

  Buddy shot from the hip, firing three rounds into Baz's face, blowing him backward over his chair and spraying the walls of the tent with brains and blood.

  The remote detonator slipped from the dead man's hand and fell to the sand floor of the tent.

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  Buddy bent and picked up the detonator, handling it very carefully so as not to inadvertently set off the bombs. He slipped the plastic back off the device and took the two AA batteries out, rendering it useless.

  He didn't smash it because he wanted their experts to be able to examine it and perhaps determine if there was some way to block the signal, just in case similar detonators were in use by the terrorists in other oil fields.

  Corrie entered the tent behind Buddy, turning slightly sideways so the SOHFRAD radio she was wearing like a backpack would fit through the doorway.

  Buddy indicated the table containing the terrorists' radio. "Put the SOHFRAD there, Corrie. It's time to check in with the troops."

  Harley Reno and Hammer Hammerick were pinned down, lying on their faces in the gravelly sand of the Iranian desert behind some old pump machinery as almost a dozen terrorist troops fired at them. The Kalash-nikov slugs ricocheted and whined as they peppered the wrought iron of the pump housing they were behind.

  Harley turned his head to look at Hammer. "I'm getting a little tired of this bullshit!" he growled.

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  "Yeah, but we don't dare spray the area with our machine guns," Hammer replied. "We might set the bomb on the well off."

  "Time for a little precision shooting then," Harley replied. He put his H&K MP-10 down and pulled his .50-caliber Desert Eagle from its holster.

  Peering around the edge of the pump, he saw one of the terrorists hiding behind a fifty-five-gallon drum, with only the top of a ragged turban showing in the starlight.

  He took careful aim and fired one of his steel-jacketed rounds at the center of the oil drum, the explosion of the big pistol much louder than that of the Kalashnikovs the terrorists were using.

  The large-caliber slug penetrated both sides of the drum and hit the terrorist square in the center of his chest. The man screamed and stood up, both hands clasping a hole in his chest you could put a fist in.

  As he fell backward, one of his cohorts peeked out from behind the well strut he was hiding behind, and Harley fired again, his slug hitting the man just at the bridge of his nose and blowing the back of his head off.

  He dropped back out of sight like a sack of potatoes.

  While Harley was picking the two men off, Hammer pulled a flash-bang concussion grenade from the webbing on his chest and lobbed it in the direction of the well. The concussion grenade, which contained white phosphorus and no shrapnel to speak of, was safe to use in the vicinity of the bomb affixed to the well.

  Hammer and Harley both ducked and closed their eyes against the brilliant white flash and loud noise of the flash-bang.

  When it went off, it lit up the surrounding desert like a miniature sun and sounded like a large mortar round going off.

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  Several of the terrorists, blinded and deafened by the concussion, dropped their weapons and staggered from cover, their hands over their eyes and ears.

  Harley stood up and, holding his Desert Eagle in the classic two-handed grip, proceeded to shoot them as fast as he could pull the trigger.

  Hammer also got to his feet and with the MP-10 on single fire, began to fire repeatedly as he walked calmly toward the rest of the terrorists.

  Those brave or stupid enough to try to return his fire were soon lying on their backs in the sand bleeding profusely.

  Three of the terrorists, deciding enough was enough, threw their weapons down and stepped out from cover with their hands held over their heads.

  Hammer didn't hesitate. He thumbed the MP-10's lever to full auto and gave the men a quick burst, killing them where they stood. "Sorry boys,"

  he said in a harsh voice. "You invade a country and try to take over the world, you got to pay the price."

  When they were sure the area was secure, Harley and Hammer dismantled the bomb mechanism attached to the well and separated the plutonium container from the package of C-4 inside the bomb itself. Hammer disconnected the wiring from the C-4, making it safe from explosion, and then put the plastique in his pocket along with the fuse he'd taken out of it. He grinned at Harley. "Never know when some of this will come in handy," he said.

  "Roger that!" Harley agreed.

  Once the well was safe from explosion, they dragged the bodies of the terrorists into a pile and removed all of

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  their weapons and ammunition, placing it in a separate area.

  Sporadic and intermittent gunfire could be heard all around the area as the remainder of the Scouts assigned to Buddy's team did much the same thing to the wells nearby. In less than three hours, the entire oil field was deemed to be secure. Over twenty bombs had been removed from the wells and deactivated by the troops.

  Many of the terrorists, when they saw they were defeated, ran off into the desert rather than die at their posts. The Scouts didn't chase them, as their primary responsibility was to make the wells safe.

  Major Jackson Bean and his Scouts were having a little trouble locating the terrorist headquarters in Tehran. The largest city in the country, with over five million inhabitants, Tehran stretched over many square miles.

  Bean, figuring the terrorists would want to be in close proximity to the airport, centered his search for their headquarters there.

  He spread his men out, dividing them into squads with Willie Running Bear, Samuel Clements, and Sue Waters as squad leaders. Each was told to search a different quadrant around the airport area and to check back by radio if they hit pay dirt.

  It took almost two hours before Sue Waters and her squad came upon a three-story building near the northern section of the airport. Unlike surrounding buildings in the area, whose windows were dark, this building was lit up like a Christmas tree. Additionally, Sue could see several large jeeplike vehicles parked next to the structure that were painted with desert camouflage. "That's got to be the place," she whispered to her radioman, Mike

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  Nugent. "Give Major Bean a buzz and tell him we think we've found the nest."

  While she was waiting for Bean and the other squads to arrive, Sue watched the building through her night-vision scope. Sure enough, she began to see armed sentries moving around on the roof, as well as men patrolling the adjacent areas on foot.

 

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