Hunt the Falcon (22 page)

“In his opinion.”

“We're relying on the intel he provides, so his opinion counts a ton, especially in the minds of Donaldson and other decision makers,” Smith said.

Crocker nodded. “I get it.”

Smith's eyes followed a female golfer who was passing by the window. “Ramin had another suggestion,” he said.

The waitress arrived with Crocker's food. As he bit into the sandwich, Smith asked, “You ever hear of Futsal?”

“Futsal. No.”

“It's a variation of soccer that's played indoors on a hard surface. Two teams of five players each, one of whom is the goalkeeper.”

“Yeah?”

“Apparently it's a big sport in Iran, with professional leagues. It happens to be very popular in Ahvaz. Ramin has a close friend who owns a team and an arena. He says Farhed Alizadeh and General Suleimani are big fans of a team called Farsh Sari, in division two of the super league. They regularly attend games at this guy's arena and sit together in specially reserved seats.”

Crocker stopped chewing and said, “Sounds promising.”

“I think so, too. Ramin thinks he can enlist his friend's help, and maybe your team can ambush them as they're arriving at or leaving a game.”

“What's the name of Ramin's friend?” Crocker asked.

“Adab Mashhad.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not much. I've confirmed that he's the owner of the Shohada Gaz Arena in Ahvaz. He also holds a prominent position in the national drilling company. Ramin says the two of them studied engineering together.”

“When is this Farsh Sari team playing next?” Crocker asked.

“Ramin's looking into that now. I'm speaking to him again tonight.”

By ten that night Crocker had sketched out a plan and selected Akil, Mancini, and Ritchie to go with him. He had spoken to each man and told them they were going to be dropped inside Iran with orders to attack several high-priority targets. The likelihood of them being either captured or killed was high. All three volunteered.

If and when the op was approved by the president, the four men would travel with John Smith via CIA jet to Al Taqaddum Air Base outside Baghdad. From there they'd be ferried south by helicopter to Basrah, which was roughly a two-hour drive or twenty-minute helicopter ride to Ahvaz, just over the border in Iran. The details of their insertion were still being worked out by the CIA.

Crocker sat in Sutter's office with Mancini and Sutter's second in command, going over the PLO—patrol leader's order—that was standard practice in all ST-6 missions. They discussed insertion, extraction, infiltration, actions at the objective, movement, emergency medical evacuation, communications, loss-of-comms plan, hand signals, concealment, covers, weather, clothing, supplies, specialized equipment, weapons, medical supplies, first-, second-, and third-line gear, and contingencies.

A few minutes before midnight, Sutter's phone rang. It was Donaldson with the news that the president had okayed the mission. Crocker's team was going in deep black, which meant they couldn't carry anything that identified them in any way—no IDs, photos, dog tags, U.S. military weapons.

“What's the timing?” Sutter asked into the speakerphone.

“The team Farsh Sari is playing in Ahvaz the night after tomorrow, so they have to launch now,” Donaldson answered.

“That's the twenty-fifth, correct?”

“Affirmative.”

Sutter looked at Crocker, who nodded, barely able to contain his excitement. “You can tell the president they're ready to go.”

H
is team
was waiting at the airport, but Crocker couldn't leave without explaining to Holly what he was about to do, even though his orders forbade him from discussing his missions with anyone. He'd never broken that pledge in almost ten years of working with ST-6 and Black Cell. But tonight he was making an exception.

She was asleep when he got home. He woke her, sat facing her, and holding both her hands said, “I want you to know that I'm leaving tonight on a mission to go after Farhed Alizadeh in Iran. And I couldn't be more excited.”

She looked at him and trembled, and in that moment seemed to fully understand the gravity of what he was telling her. “I can't say I'm not pleased,” she said, “but I'm also scared. Thank you for telling me. And please, please, come back.”

“Don't tell Jenny about the mission, but I want both of you to know that if something happens, I'm still the luckiest man alive. I've been blessed with a beautiful, intelligent daughter that I don't deserve, and the most wonderful wife I could have ever imagined.”

“Tom, I love you so much . . .”

He kissed her, pulled away, and took one last glance at the room, Holly on the bed and on the wall their framed wedding picture in which a look of absolute joy showed on her face. He wanted to take those images with him, even to the other side of death.

Starting down the stairs, he realized there was one other thing he wanted to take with him. Stepping lightly and carefully, he entered Jenny's room and planted a kiss on her sleeping head, taking a moment to record her delicate profile, which always gave him joy and reminded him of his first wife.

With both images stored deep inside, he descended the stairs to the office, where he grabbed one of the prepacked bags for undercover summer ops, with a couple of black T-shirts and pants, toothbrush, hunting knife, and black Nikes. He stopped in the kitchen, pulled two energy bars and a bottle of water out of the cabinet, then patted Brando's head and told him to look after the girls until he got back before exiting into the night.

Time now passed as if in a dream, and every moment seemed significant. Half an hour later he boarded the Gulfstream, where he was greeted with a thumbs-up from John Smith, who was talking on his BlackBerry. The long gray wig had been replaced by a black skullcap that covered his bald head.

Akil, Ritchie, and Mancini arrived silently and threw their gear into the baggage compartment under the wing. The Gulfstream took off. Approximately seven hours later, they landed at Naval Air Station Sigonella in Sicily to refuel and stretch their legs. Around six hours later they arrived at Al Taqaddum Air Base outside Baghdad.

Except for the sounds of the wind buffeting metal hangars and the whine of engines, the night was silent. Stars sparkled brilliantly with light from a distant time. Crocker stood near the jet waiting for the thud of distant explosions but heard none.

Two CIA officials in T-shirts and mirrored sunglasses greeted them and led them to a canteen, where they washed up, then ate scrambled eggs, hash browns, and fresh fruit, and drank coffee. Then they boarded an unmarked Blackhawk helicopter for the trip to Basrah International Airport.

Everyone they encountered—pilots, officials—seemed to understand the gravity of the mission. Crocker and his men felt it, too; there was none of their usual banter. Each man was occupied with his own thoughts. Each of them knew there was a good probability he might not come back. Nevertheless, Crocker didn't waste time worrying about that or the difficulties they might encounter. He focused on how privileged he felt about finally getting the chance to take the fight directly to the Falcon on his turf.

In Basrah they waited on the tarmac while John Smith communicated with Ramin Kian via satellite phone. Smith returned an hour later and barked, “You're good to go.”

“When?” Crocker asked.

“Ninety minutes. The helicopter is going to drop you by a scrap metal yard southwest of the city near the steel plant and the Imam Khomeini Freeway. Ramin will meet you there with two of his people. He'll signal with a green laser marker.”

“Good,” Crocker said, gazing up at the three-quarters moon and canopy of stars. He was reminded of a camping trip with Holly deep inside Yosemite park and a night they'd spent in their sleeping bag holding each other and naming constellations. He cut off the memory and forced himself to focus.

Smith said, “The op will take place tomorrow night. Ramin's got the details all worked out. We're planning to extract you from the same site near the scrap yard at midnight. So be there.”

“We plan to.” The desert air had already dried out his nostrils and mouth.

Smith said, “If you encounter a problem, call me on the sat phone. I'll be waiting across the border in the town of Nahairat. I can get to you quickly if there's an emergency. But I have strict orders not to enter Iran.”

“Fine.” Crocker thought of asking why but decided not to. Washington always came up with strange restrictions, even at critical times like these. They couldn't resist the urge to try to micromanage dangerous ops from halfway around the world, despite the fact that at this point there wasn't a whole lot they could control. Nor could Crocker, for that matter—which he was well aware of. He'd never met Ramin, had no idea how competent he was, and had no details about the other people they'd be working with.

John Smith led them to an empty hangar, where they changed into black T-shirts and pants, and donned night-vision goggles. They did a final check on their black backpacks and weapons. Each man carried one Russian- or Chinese-made submachine gun and automatic pistol, extra ammo, two grenades, and an SOP knife. Crocker's submachine gun was a Russian AEK-919K Kashtan with suppressor and folded buttstock, which resembled an Uzi and weighed less than five pounds. His choice of handgun was a Chinese-made TU-90 semiautomatic, which looked a lot like a U.S. M1911.

He also packed the emergency medical kit; Akil was responsible for the sat phone and radio; Ritchie carried explosives, detonators, and wire; Mancini toted extra ammo and other supplies.

As they walked back to the Blackhawk, Smith said, “The pilot is going to swing over the Persian Gulf and approach from the south. He'll have to fly low, because the Iranians have pretty robust border security and a strong military presence in Ahvaz.”

Now you tell me,
Crocker thought. He asked, “Is there a particular reason why? Didn't the Iranians recently shoot down one of our drones near there?”

Smith had to shout over the helicopter engines, which were starting up. “The heightened security has to do with the unrest in 2006.”

“What unrest?” Crocker asked.

“Arab separatists blew up some banks, government buildings, a shopping center. Thirty or so people died.”

“Sounds serious.”

“There were some demonstrations and stone throwing, ­­until the Iranians moved in and quashed it brutally. Naturally, they blamed us. Claimed the terrorists had been trained and armed by the CIA.”

“Were they?” Crocker asked.

Smith shrugged, which Crocker interpreted as an admission. That explained a couple of things, including why Smith wasn't cleared to go into Iran. He was probably a marked man because of his participation in earlier operations.

He had one last question before he boarded the helicopter. “By any chance did this Ramin guy work with the Arabs who set off the bombs in 2006?”

“No,” Smith said. “Don't worry. He's a hundred percent Persian through and through.”

Persians are difficult people,
Crocker said to himself as he strapped in and the bird lifted off. He'd worked with Iranians before, with mixed results. The ones he had dealt with were prideful in the extreme, suspicious of foreigners, and arrogant.

Their pilot was a Hispanic guy from San Antonio with a big smile and a bum right leg injured during a crash landing in southern Afghanistan. He warned them to expect turbulence due to warm wind blowing in from the east.

“Throw it at us,” Ritchie said. “We're used to bumps.”

The copter skimmed in low over the desert. Outside all Crocker saw were hills of sand and rock. Banking slightly left, they passed over a patch of green and a small house with camels tied up to a post.

“Five minutes!” the pilot shouted over his shoulder.

They flew over more shacks, then a four-lane highway with a few headlights. Crocker felt adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream. He grabbed his pack and his Kashtan, held up two fingers, then slid the helicopter door open. Across from him Mancini and Akil nodded to signal their understanding.

Through the doorway he saw two tall smokestacks ahead. Below was a field of shipping containers, parked trucks, and piles of metal. The helicopter banked sharply right.

“Where the hell are you going?” Crocker shouted at the pilot.

“I'm trying to locate the green laser.”

The helo circled once, but they saw no green laser. The pilot shouted, “I'm going to circle one more time, then I've got to pull out.”

“Fuck that!” Crocker shouted back. “Let us out.”

“Here?”

“Here is fine. Hover so we can drop a rope.”

“But my orders say—”

“Fuck the orders. We're getting out. You can blame it on me.”

Crocker threw out the rope. Ritchie slid down first, followed by Mancini, Akil, and himself. As he touched the ground he went into a crouch, his weapon cocked and ready. Seeing a large shipping container twenty feet away, he signaled to his men to seek cover behind it.

By the time he reached it, the helicopter had become a fading dark blot in the sky. He wiped the dust off his face, cleared his nostrils of sand.

“What now?” Ritchie asked.

“We wait for this Ramin guy.”

They hadn't even started, and already things were wrong. Twenty minutes passed. Then Akil saw a pair of headlights flash twice in a parking lot near the back of the big steel plant.

“What's that mean?” Ritchie asked.

“Don't know,” Crocker answered. “You and Manny wait here. Akil, come with me.”

They ran in a wide circle around the edge of the yard to the side of the plant, then hugged the dirty brick wall to the back of an old BMW.

“The motor's running,” Akil whispered. “I see three people inside. The driver's-side window is open.”

“Stay here and cover me,” Crocker whispered back. With the Kashtan in his right hand, he ran to the dark garagelike building in front of them, went into a crouch, and scurried to the driver's window.

Crocker heard Middle Eastern music and someone singing along to the bouncy melody. He took a quick breath, came up, and pressed the barrel of the Kashtan against the side of the driver's head.

The man lurched forward so hard his chest hit the steering wheel.

Crocker said, “Shut your mouths and put your hands over your heads!”

The man in front and the man and woman in the backseat complied immediately. He saw what he thought was a high-powered military pointer pen on the brown leather passenger seat.

“Is one of you named Ramin Kian?” he asked.

“That's me,” the driver said. His hair was short and gray. He had a square, bony face and looked older than Crocker had expected.

“I'm Mansfield,” Crocker said. “Behind me is my colleague Jerid. What happened to the green laser?”

“It worked yesterday when I tested it, but not tonight.”

“Kill the engine and get out. I want all of you to follow me.”

“Where?” the young woman who had been smoking a clove cigarette in the backseat asked.

“Put out the cigarette and do as I say.”

She frowned but complied. Crocker got his first good look at her and the third passenger as they exited the vehicle. She was an attractive young woman, about five nine, with dark, almond-shaped eyes, wearing tight jeans, her shoulder-length black hair covered with a black scarf. The male was very thin and young looking, with amber-colored eyes.

Ramin, last one out, had pissed his pants. Crocker watched him reach under the front seat and pull out a dark sweatshirt, which he tied around his waist.

They walked quickly and in silence. The Iranians looked scared when they saw the two other armed SEALs waiting behind the shipping container.

“I'm sorry if we frightened you, but it couldn't be helped,” Crocker said.

“Okay. Y-y-yes,” Ramin stammered. “We're glad you're here, but this is very dangerous for us.”

Crocker: “Your English is good.”

“I studied two years at the University of Maryland.”

“College Park?” Ritchie asked.

“Yes. The Terrapins.”

Ritchie: “I used to live on Adelphi Road, not far from the campus.”

“Adelphi Road. Of course.”

“Are you a football fan?” Mancini asked.

“No, basketball. Steve Blake, Chris Wilcox, Juan Dixon.”

“Awesome team.”

“We won the national championship in 2002 under coach Gary Williams,” Ramin said proudly.

Ritchie: “I remember.”

Ramin seemed like a personable guy, even if he wasn't a trained soldier. He pulled Crocker aside. “John told me he was going to get me and my family out of the country and find me a job in the U.S. Did he say anything to you about that?”

“No, he didn't. But if he told you he was working on it, I'm sure he is. I'll talk to him next time I see him.”

Ramin looked confused. “My mother is very sick.”

“I'll talk to him. I'll tell him that. John told me you have a plan.”

“I do.” The wind picked up, throwing sand in their faces. Ramin walked over to his shorter colleague and placed a hand on his shoulder. “This is my friend Danush,” he said. “He's going to pick you up from here tomorrow at 6 p.m. and take you to the arena.”