THE DULL BLACK SPECIAL ops helicopter sliced high above the border between Iran and Iraq in the cold early morning hours at 175 miles per hour, and wind howled through the open cabin. Three heavily clad men stood attached to safety harnesses behind the 7.62 miniguns mounted at the side door and the port side escape hatch and a.50 caliber machine gun on the lowered rear deck. The U.S. Air Force pilots had engaged the stealth capabilities of the big MH-53J Pave Low III Enhanced helicopter, such as the infrared engine exhaust suppressors, and the sensor package in the craft’s bulbous nose sniffed for danger signals.
The Pave Low had gone across the border at a high altitude but then swooped down like a hawk through the night, the pilots trusting the terrain-following radar as they hurtled the machine forward only a hundred feet off the deck. The biggest helicopter the Air Force had, the versatile Pave Low, a direct descendant of the Vietnam-era Super Jolly Green Giant, was the platform of choice for covert insertions and extractions deep in enemy territory. Two large General Electric engines fed the huge single rotor that allowed extra armor plating, and it could fly in any sort of weather. The eight Marines aboard were an extremely light cargo for the helicopter, for thirty more could have fit into the cavernous cargo space. That absence of weight allowed the Pave Low to perform even more niftily than usual.
Kyle Swanson hunched against the icy blast, protected somewhat by the extra insulation and activated charcoal lining in his bulky hazmat suit. The Mission Oriented Protective Posture (MOPP) outfits were to protect them against chemical, biological, and aerosol agents, but the heavy rubber gloves, masks, and booties made Kyle feel as if he were wading through syrup. On top of the suits, they carried full combat loads, including double water, ammo, and chow for three days.
Swanson breathed steadily, easily. The goal was reconnaissance only, so they would not be going into a hot LZ. It was to be hide-and-seek and not a combat engagement. In fact, Kyle would regard it as a failure if the lightly armed Marine team made any contact at all with Iranian armed forces.
The crew chief’s voice cut through the communications link into Swanson’s black flight helmet, telling them to get ready. Kyle signaled: two minutes out.
The Marines wobbled to their feet and grabbed handholds as the chopper flared into a hover and lowered. Double-Oh was at the head of one stick of Marines, and Captain Newman led the other, and through the open hatch they could begin making out some details of the land below. Kyle was in the rear to make sure everybody got off. At a motion from the crewman, they all scrambled down the rear ramp and had to hop only about a foot to hit the dirt. Swanson watched them all go, gave a signal to the crew chief, and leaped from the lip of the ramp himself as the Pave Low tilted nose down and soared into a two-thousand-feet-per-minute climbing turn for the return to Camp Doha.
The team sprinted into a perimeter position and hit the dirt with weapons covering all 360 degrees. It was dark out there and also very quiet, an almost tangible feeling of solitude after the racket of the helicopter insertion. Swanson unpacked the chemical and biological detection devices and scanned the area. To give themselves plenty of distance from the suspect site and minimize contamination danger, they had landed four kilometers away. There was nothing dangerous on the breeze. He peeled off his hood and the rebreathing mask and motioned for the others to do the same. They had to do a fast march to find an observation point, and the Marines quickly shed the MOPP suits, which prevented anyone from doing anything quickly.
Newman did a map check with Double-Oh through the red lens of a flashlight and a GPS locator and determined they were just where they were supposed to be. Had they come in by parachute, they would have been scattered all over the terrain, but instead they had landed and could move as a cohesive unit. “Rawls,” whispered the captain. “Lead out.” Newman pointed in a specific direction, and Darren Rawls stepped away, flipping down his night vision goggles and going over a rise. One by one, the others followed him, weapons at the ready and moving deeper into hostile Iran with every step.
The quietness was eerie and unsettling. Even in the middle of the night, something should be moving about, but there were no birds, no small predators, no night-foraging animals at all. A few empty shacks. There were some sickly-looking trees, and the fields over which they walked were just dirt, with no growing crops, nor evidence of a harvested one. Nothing. An agricultural dead zone near a major waterway.
Kyle kept a close read on the dials of his instruments, but they remained steady and in the neutral zone. “Some wicked shit,” he said to Double-Oh. Whatever had killed everything was no longer around, but its evil sign was everywhere. He spoke to Captain Newman. “Palace of Death should be only a half mile now. Let’s set up a security position here and then patrol out to find an observation point.”
They were exposed on a plain, and daylight was not far away, but they could not hide in a gulley or a low wadi. Chemicals and biologicals were heavier than air and tended to settle into the lowest points around, and the dirt in a hole might still grip some of the deadly material. The team would have to make a home on high ground, but there was little of that available. While everyone else took a break and filled up with water, Joe Tipp and Travis Hughes ventured closer to the designated area and came back within thirty minutes, puzzled.
“There’s nothing much out there,” Hughes reported. “Didn’t see anything but a small bunker complex inside a fenced area. Apparently deserted.”
“No palace?” asked Swanson.
“None,” Hughes said. “I thought we would find something like Cinderella’s castle. This thing looks like a small parking garage on the bad side of Detroit.”
“Huh,” Kyle grunted.
“And get this: The fence is about ten feet high and topped with razor wire, but the gate is hanging unlocked and open.”
Joe Tipp said they had found a decent overwatch site to the south about four hundred meters away, along the single road leading into the site from the nearest population center, Khorramshahr.
“Okay, then, Captain Newman. That’s our OP,” Kyle said.
“Roger that. You, Double-Oh, and Tipp set up there, and the rest of us will establish a good support position here. Let’s go,” Newman said. Tipp took point, and Swanson fell in behind him, reading the dials, while Double-Oh walked at the tail end. The rest of the MARSOC team began building hide sites and gathering bushes for camouflage.
The OP was in an area where a washboard of ridges began and expanded higher and higher into the distance, so it did not stand out like a pimple on the flatlands. Once at the crest, the three Marines had a clear view of both the road and the target site, so they made themselves a hide among low, decaying trees and thin weeds. In a few minutes, a powerful spotter scope, a pair of binos, and the scope of the sniper rifle were examining the structure, inch by inch, parsing it in every way possible. The clouds had parted, and illumination was good. Not so much as a dog barked.
“Ain’t nobody home down there, Shake,” said Double-Oh after watching for a half hour. “Place is run-down and empty.” Wind had covered up most vehicle tracks, which indicated nothing had been driving around recently, and they could see no footprints.
“Yeah,” said Kyle. “I don’t think we’re going to need to watch this for three days. It feels empty.”
“Spooky,” said Tipp. “So we stay here all day and go in tonight? Why not go in right now and be done with it?”
Swanson shook his head. “We only have a good hour left before daybreak. We need to take our time in there. Remember, slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”
“Too risky right now,” added Double-Oh. “I don’t think anyone is down there, but there may be some activity in the area. We’ll watch it all day, then go in as a four-man team tonight. The other four guys will set up a firing position here while we make a thorough snoop.” He found the keypad on his digital communications terminal and typed a message that flashed up on Captain Newman’s DCT. Send Rawls.
Darren Rawls, carrying a heavy machine gun, appeared at the OP in a few minutes as the other three wiggled around to make room for him. He smoothly set up the weapon, which gave the OP more firepower. Then they began a rotation of two men on watch while the other two slept for a few hours. It was going to be a long day in Iran.
With the sun up, they had a clearer view of the surrounding area. A main highway led out of the city, heading northeast, and the road the Marines were watching seemed to be an isolated track that led only to the site. It was about ten miles long. Two guard posts, one a mile from the site and the other near the wire, were abandoned. Not a vehicle came up the road all day.
Rick Newman crawled to the OP as the sun started to set and found all four of the men there already wearing their heavy MOPP suits, except for the hoods and masks. He agreed to accelerate the mission by a day and went back to bring forward his other Marines and do a communications update. The helicopter was scheduled for 0400.
Swanson, Double-Oh, Joe Tipp, and Rawls hurried through the open gate and stacked beside the gaping entrance to the building, then plunged through as a group. They did a hasty search and clear of the small layout, and Kyle read the dials: nothing dangerous. Their flashlights, however, scanned the walls in four bright circles, and the evidence of a recent fire was clearly visible. Kyle reached out a finger and swiped a path through a deep layer of soot.
A freight elevator was in one corner at the edge of an exterior loading dock, and a broad staircase led down into darkness. The Marines descended in pairs on each side, and Double-Oh kicked the door at the bottom. It burst open to reveal another empty room, which must have been an office before it was destroyed by fire. Through another door at the rear, and down another staircase, they found the tangled debris of what once had been a laboratory.
While the others stood in protective positions, Kyle waved his wands and sensors throughout the room. Whatever the monster that caused so much destruction was, this was where it was born and probably also was where it died. There was no sign of an accident, so the fire was likely deliberate. Apparently the occupants had thrown in some thermite-style grenades after soaking the place in flammable liquids. Fire is the best way to destroy chemical and biological agents, which vanish in the flash of intense heat. The blackness of the soot was even thicker in the ruined laboratory, and the MOPP booties were almost ankle deep in the stuff. The dials remained steady and harmless.
One more door, one more staircase.
They were far underground now, and since fire burns up, not down, the damage was not as great as on the lower level. Kyle found a bilingual sign at the top of the staircase with Arabic script and Korean lettering. Just as in Syria, the underground bunker complex had been built by North Korean engineers.
A central square room was the hub of six separate corridors, and a pair of Marines went down each of them.
“Jesus Christ!” muttered Double-Oh as he and Kyle came to a stop outside a barred cell door. The walls were also scorched back here, but the fire had cooked hotter above, and it would have required some time to reach back along the concrete fingers, where there was a minimum of oxygen. The scorched bones of a human being lay beside the door inside the cell, as if he had been trying to pull the bars apart in his last minutes during the process of suffocation and incineration. Apparently the flammable liquid also had been splashed inside the cages prior to the fire. The poor inmates had been doomed to burn alive.
Every cell held the same gory story. A dead person in each. Swanson scanned them, and there was some light ticking on one of the meters. He backed away.
“Okay, guys. Rawls, you take a position at the top of the stairs by the entranceway while the rest of us break out our cameras and document all of this for the intelligence people to figure out.” He wanted to take the contaminated body out with them, but there was no way to secure it to prevent whatever infection it carried from spreading. He would have to settle for cutting a few samples from the corpses, sealing them in double plastic ziplock bags, and wrapping those tightly with duct tape.
The three Marines removed their hoods and masks, then put them back on because it was so hard to breathe deep inside the bunker complex. It was like standing inside a giant fireplace. They worked as fast as possible, wanting to clear out of this building, go home, and take a shower. “Palace of Death is right,” said Joe Tipp. “Not much to look at, but the name is sure accurate down here.”
Captain Newman’s voice sounded suddenly in their earpieces. “Get out now! Somebody’s coming fast!”
They were on the bottom floor, documenting the tiny cells and their inhabitants, when the call came in. Racing up three floors on slippery stairs while wearing MOPP booties was pointless. There was no way to make it in time, and when they cleared the final doorway into the upstairs office area, Rawls was motioning for them to take cover. Two vehicles raced through the open gates and braked to hard halts with the headlights shining on the building.
One was an old Range Rover, and in it were a young man who was driving and a woman as a passenger. The second was a military truck with a squad of armed men wearing Iranian Revolutionary Guard uniforms, chasing the people in the Range Rover and not hunting for U.S. Marines.
“Hold fire,” Captain Newman said over the intercom. The Marines on the overwatch and inside the building observed what was happening with their fingers on their triggers. Swanson had left the sniper rifle behind for the building search. He brought his small M-4 carbine to bear on the group and focused the scope.
The soldiers had surrounded the front vehicle and were yelling for those inside to get out. The doors opened, and the driver exited and was immediately pummeled to the ground and dragged a short distance away, still in the pool of bright light. The woman got out slowly, but she, too, was smashed to the ground and hauled over beside the prone driver. She struggled to her knees, pleading; “I am just looking for my brother!”
A soldier in a beret, possibly an officer, shouted at her. “You are a traitor and a spy! You were told to stay away from this place. Your infidel brother has run away.”
“No,” said the woman. “He would not do that. He is only a student and loyal to our country.”
“Another traitor.” The soldier pulled out his pistol and kicked the driver in the ribs. The man groaned. “And I know who you are, too, only too well. The president of the university student council. A man who speaks loudly against our government. You did not come out here just to find her brother.”
The driver said nothing, and the soldier gave a signal for several of his men to move in and begin savagely beating the young man, who curled into a fetal position. The woman screamed and was grabbed when she tried to protect him.
“Call in the helicopter, Captain,” Kyle said on his radio. “We’re going to stop this.”
“Negative, Swanson. Our mission does not include contact. As long as they stay outside, we sit tight. Just in case, I’ll put the bird on standby.”
There was laughter as the beating and kicking continued until the driver stopped moaning in pain and went silent, unconscious.
“Traitor,” said the officer. He walked over to the still figure on the dirt, raised his pistol, and fired two shots into the head. He turned to the woman. “You were warned several times. You disobeyed our instructions. A worthless woman troublemaker.” He balled up his fist and hit her in the head, and she fell over.
The soldiers put aside their weapons and moved closer, keeping her in the full light of the vehicles. One reached out and tore away her headcover, revealing the terrified face of a beautiful young woman with long black hair. They began to grab at her clothing, laughing and calling insults.
Kyle said to Double-Oh, “I think we need to take her back for interrogation.”
“Good idea,” Dawkins replied.
“Are you sure of that?” came the voice of Captain Newman.
Kyle replied, “My mission, my call.” They were all under his command, there only to support him.
“Roger that. Pave Low inbound.”
Swanson said, “All members listen up. I’ll take the first shot, and my target is the officer with the pistol. Double-Oh, take the target to his immediate left. Rawls, you have the target to his right, and Tipp takes the guy next to the vehicle.” He paused while he scanned the area again. “Captain Newman, your four men take the two targets behind the vehicle. Ambush commences on my shot.”
The officer was only twenty-five meters away. Kyle pulled the crosshairs of his scope on the man’s head, steadied his own breathing, and pressed the trigger. There was a single crisp retort of gunfire, and the officer’s body stood still for a moment, then fell backward with half of the skull and all of its contents missing.
The other Marines opened on their targets, and the IRGs were caught in a cross-fire from the observation point and from inside the building. It was almost impossible to miss, and the Iranians had stacked their weapons prior to assaulting the woman.
“Cease fire, we’re coming out!” yelled Double-Oh, and the four Marines charged from the building into the remaining IRG troops, moving forward in a line and with their weapons tight on their shoulders. In ten seconds, the entire Iranian squad had been wiped out, and the shooting stopped.
“Let’s go,” Kyle said as he plucked a grenade from his web gear to throw into the army truck. Tipp popped one free for the Range Rover.
Double-Oh slung his weapon, leaned over, and easily scooped up the terrified woman in his huge arms. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. We won’t let anything happen to you.” He began trotting back to the observation post. Then there was a burst of automatic weapons fire. The big master gunnery sergeant grunted in surprise, paused for a moment, and then resumed his run, staggering the last few feet until he collapsed facedown among the Marines.
“Goddamn! Blow that fucking truck away!” Kyle yelled as he lobbed the grenade. Some soldiers had stayed behind with the truck and remained unseen in the firefight. A hurricane of bullets now shredded the vehicle, which lurched hard under the impact until the grenade exploded and the truck detonated in a ball of flame.
Kyle scrambled up the incline and dropped to his knees beside Double-Oh, looking at the bullet hole. “Oh, fuck,” he said.