PLEDGE OF HONOR: A Mark Cole Thriller (31 page)

10

Cole piloted the chopper south away from the headquarters building, and was soon well out of range from the small arms fire coming from the rooftop.

He didn’t really know the best course of action, in terms of where he should go. The fastest way out of the metropolitan area would be north, and just a little further north still would put Cole over the Caspian Sea, where it would be west to Azerbaijan or east to Turkmenistan.

But Cole knew that all of Tehran’s air defences would be located on the outskirts of the city, and he would risk flying right over them. Even if he got past the city defenses, there would definitely be further defenses at the border which the little chopper would surely be unable to avoid. Added to which, the bird only had a range of a couple of hundred miles, and he wasn’t entirely sure that would be enough to get him to safety anyway – and he certainly didn’t want to crash land in the coastal mountains.

East and west were equally problematic, putting him over the city border air defenses, and with hundreds of miles to fly across in either direction, an easy target for the air force.

That left south, back toward the city itself, where air defenses would be less likely to be used due to the threat of a damaged aircraft destroying buildings or killing civilians.

The Force One rescue team was already en route, and all he really had to do was get the chopper somewhere relatively quiet, abandon it, and hole up until the team was ready to get him. The daylight was fading already, only remnants visible on the far horizon, and so at least they would be coming in under cover of darkness.

He kept the chopper low, flying across the rooftops of office blocks and apartments, houses and schools, mosques and civic buildings, the majority of the city a built-up urban sprawl with a maze of tightly-packed buildings and very few open spaces.

Except . . .Except . . .

He saw a long, narrow strip within the city out of his left-hand window, to the southeast, and angled the helicopter immediately toward it.

A place to land . . .

He stopped short.

A place to land?

Realization hit him, and he wondered, aghast, at how he could have been so stupid.

A long, narrow strip surely indicated only one thing, and Cole was surprised he had not remembered sooner.

It was a runway; and not just any runway, either.

It was the runway for the Islamic Republic of Iran Air Force Main Headquarters.

Cole cursed as he steered away, hoping that he had not been seen.

But it was a forlorn wish, and only moments later he saw two ominous shapes arising from the long strip between the built-up housing.

Cole recognized the shapes from a distance as Bell AH-1 SuperCobras, the twin-engine attack helicopter that had been used for years by the US Marine Corps; but then he realized that this was the Iranian version, the IAIO Toufan. Used by the Islamic Republic of Iran Army, they must have been stationed at the Air Force base, and Cole cursed his bad luck.

But it made no real difference which country manufactured them – they still had enough firepower to blow Cole out of the sky a hundred times over.

Its wing pylons could hold Sidewinder missiles, Hydra rocket pods, or Hellfire missiles, but its 20mm cannon alone was more than sufficient to destroy the lightweight Shahed.

The aircraft moved toward him, above the rooftops of the city, and Cole banked right away from the airfield, accelerating quickly to the chopper’s top speed of 130 knots, all too aware that the Toufans could do 150 knots, up to 190 at a push.

He knew he was going to lose the encounter; all he could try and control was how badly, and so he started scanning the ground below him, frantically searching for somewhere to land the bird, to crash land it if he had to.

In the waning light of dusk, Cole saw the lights of the aircraft come on, ultra-bright searchlights which blanked even the outlines of the attack choppers from his view but which he knew must have lit him up like a Christmas tree.

He immediately started a series of evasive maneuvers, slipping right and left, up and down, in a frantic bid to throw off the aim of the aircrew in the Toufans.

But it was too little, too late, and Cole could hear the terrifying sound of the Toufans’ 20mm cannons ripping across the sky, could hear it even above the sound of his rotors; could feel it too as the huge rounds sliced straight through his tail rotor assembly, sending him into a flat spin toward the rooftops below him.

Cole knew that the tail rotor controlled direction, and that without it, the entire helicopter would rotate in the opposite direction to the main rotor. The only answer was autorotation, to throttle back the engine and lower the collective pitch to try and glide the aircraft down, and Cole tried that now, but there wasn’t enough time, the city was coming toward him too fast and all he could see was rooftop upon rooftop, spinning wildly, sickeningly, beneath him and – knowing that he would die if he stayed inside – instead of trying to control the chopper’s descent he decided to do the only thing he could.

He unbuckled, opened the door, and jumped.

Barrington felt her stomach threatening to empty its contents over her as the chopper lurched violently this way and that over the Iranian landscape, and she regretted eating back in Ashgabat.

But she hadn’t known when they’d be going into action, and she hadn’t wanted to go hours without food and then be weakened when it mattered the most. If there was anything she’d learned over the years, it was to eat and rest whenever the opportunity presented itself.

This Night Stalker pilot, however, was quickly making her change her mind about that; but he knew what he was doing – keeping them safe – and that was all she could really ask for.

Word had come down that Cole was mobile, his location being tracked via cell phone. It was a hard situation to deal with, as it meant the Force One team wouldn’t know where they would be landing, or what they would be up against when they got there.

But the good news was that if Cole was on the move, it meant that he’d escaped; and if he’d escaped, then at least they wouldn’t have to fight their way through the headquarters of MOIS.

But the uncertainty troubled her, even with a live feed coming through of the cell phone’s location, which Barrington was able to cross reference with online satellite maps.

Cole had been moving fast across the city for a few minutes, and it looked like he must have been in an aircraft of some sort; but then he went static, and that was how he’d remained ever since.

His lack of movement might mean anything, but Barrington hoped the man wasn’t injured or – even worse – already dead.

But as the Black Hawk raced toward Tehran at insane speed, she knew it wouldn’t be long before she found out.

11

Cole’s head ached, and his body ached even worse.

He could hear shouting around him, and as consciousness returned, he could also see light over to his right, the sensation of warmth on his skin.

He wondered if the light meant that it was already dawn, had he been out of it for so long? He remembered the fall from the helicopter as it was hit with the cannon, hitting the ground, the sound of the chopper crashing, exploding; and then he had passed out, and remembered nothing else.

He started to panic, knowing that if dawn was coming, then the rescue team must have missed him, gone back to their base in Ashgabat; and they wouldn’t try again until darkness had fallen once again, by which time it would be too late – Younesi’s secondary attack, in whatever form it took, would have already happened.

But then he realized that the light wasn’t the rising sun, but something different altogether.

Flames.

It was the light of flames, flickering across the dark sky, and he suddenly understood that it must be the helicopter, on fire from when it crashed, and he was filled with hope as he realized that maybe he
wasn’t
too late after all.

But the flames were coming from a lower point than where Cole lay, and he propped himself up onto an elbow to look around.

He was on a rooftop, he saw immediately, which meant that he’d bailed out, the chopper must have continued on to the streets below before crashing and exploding.

He tested his joints and muscles one by one, satisfied that he was just bruised and battered but hadn’t actually broken anything. Possible concussion, but it was just one more to add to the list.

He pulled Younesi’s cell phone from his pocket, glad to see that it still seemed to be working, despite the fall. The clock on it said it was nearly seven o’clock in the evening, and Cole knew that the Force One team would surely almost be in Tehran by now.

He would make contact and guide them in, but not before he’d checked the area, to advise them of what – if any – enemy forces they might face.

He pulled himself across the rooftop to the edge, careful to keep himself low, and peered over the parapet toward the location of the flames.

He immediately saw the wreckage of the Shahed 278, although it was no longer recognizable, burnt down to a hollowed-out shell. It was stuck in a narrow alleyway, crammed between two buildings which had also caught on fire from the explosion, and the street had fire engines stationed at either end, lights flashing as the officers struggling to contain the blaze with their hoses.

There was no sign of the Toufans, and Cole assumed they’d returned to base; but in the light of the flames, Cole saw an army truck parked further down the alley, at the junction with the next street along. At the other end, meanwhile, he could just about make out three police cruisers, and knew that the entire area must be crawling with armed men, all looking for him.

He pulled out the cell phone and dialed Michiko’s number.

‘Michiko,’ he said when she answered, ‘where are they?’

‘Thank Heavens you’re alive,’ she replied quickly, before regaining control and answering his question, recognizing that now wasn’t the time for emotion. ‘They’re ten minutes out,’ she said. ‘I’ll patch you through.’

Julie Barrington took the call on her personal radio, relieved to hear Mark Cole’s voice on the other end of the line. Despite the silenced rotors and engines of the MH-60 stealth helicopter as it passed over the deactivated air defenses of Tehran and into the city itself, it was still hard to hear her commander, but she strained against the noise and did her best.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘what is the situation there?’

‘I’m on a rooftop, location as per this cell phone,’ came the reply. ‘You’ll ID it from the flames nearby. Be warned though, there will be major law enforcement and military presence here.’

‘Copy that,’ Barrington said, ‘we’re coming in with no lights, nearly no sound. Just make sure you’re ready to go, we’ll pluck you right off that rooftop, sir.’

‘You got it,’ Cole replied, and then Barrington heard shouting in the background, then gunshots.

‘Shit,’ Cole’s voice said over the radio, ‘they’ve found me. Change of plan, just keep monitoring this cell!’

And with that, he was gone; and as Barrington exchanged looks with her team, they all instinctively started to re-check their weapons, ready for the fight ahead.

If the choppers had been just a minute out, he might have been able to wait; but with ten minutes, that simply wasn’t an option.

There were four armed soldiers, and from the uniforms which they wore, lit up bright by the flickering flames from the street, Cole could see that they were from the elite Revolutionary Guard Corps.

They’d spotted him already, and had opened fire with their H&K G3 battle rifles; but mercifully, the play of light from the alleyway beyond them was messing up their aim and all the rounds missed their target.

But Cole was already on the move, ignoring the pain in his body as he raced toward the edge of the roof, on the far side from the crash site, and leapt across the narrow alleyway.

He rolled as he hit the opposite rooftop, and came back up into a run, accelerating off. He could hear shouts behind him, and knew that the Guards would be informing their colleagues of his location via radio.

He continued to follow the rooftops away from the blaze, jumping from one to another, legs exhausted but still propelling him strongly as he went. The shots that followed him were becoming gradually less, and Cole knew that the soldiers would have less of a target, the further they got from the light of the flames.

But he could hear them continuing the chase behind him, the grunts as they jumped, the impacts as they hit the next rooftop and carried on, their shouts of mutual support to one another.

Cole had increased his lead, and was looking to jump again, when he realized that the next alleyway was really a street, and much wider, the next set of roofs simply too far away to have a chance of making it.

The area below him was a hive of bustling activity, and Cole noted that hundreds of people were streaming in and out of one of the large buildings opposite.

Cole recognized it as Tehran’s Grand Bazaar, a covered market famous round the word for its six miles of enclosed avenues, selling everything from traditional carpets to modern cell phones.

It was the perfect place to get lost.

The only trouble was, how was he going to get down there?

He looked over the edge, saw that outside the bazaar were more market stalls, dozens of people milling around and looking at the wares on offer.

He turned to the soldiers chasing after him, saw them clearing the last building toward this rooftop, and knew he had no time to make any better plans.

Turning back to the street that led to the bazaar, Cole crouched down on the edge of the roof and jumped, aiming for the top of one of the market stalls, hoping that the big canvas awning would be sufficient to break his fall.

It was only a thirty foot drop, but his mind played tricks on him as he sailed down through the cool evening air, telling him he was going to miss the awning, or someone would notice him and quickly pull it out of his way, and he’d up with broken legs, writhing on the ground in agony.

But then he was hitting the canvas, and although it bowed with his weight, it held him just fine, and he got his breath back a moment later and rolled off the awning to the ground below just as the soldiers opened fire from above.

Cole raced for the bazaar as the people in the street screamed and sought cover from the gunfire that came from the rooftop, and Cole used the confusion as he pushed through the gathered masses, pushing hard ahead until he reached the large ceremonial archway that led inside.

And then finally he was there, just part of a crowd of hundreds pushing to get inside, away from the gunshots, completely covered from view.

Safe, he hoped, for the next few minutes at least.

The side door of the Black Hawk was open now, and Barrington leaned out to check their progress across the rooftops, still struggling with her motion-induced sickness but overriding it with sheer force of will.

The cell phone tracker indicated that Cole was within a building on Arg Square, coming up on them just five minutes away, and Barrington noted that it was the city’s Grand Bazaar.

Cole wasn’t answering, but the cell had been moving after the gunshots, and she assumed he was still alive.

The question was, would he be able to get into a position for the Black Hawk to get him?

Inside the bazaar was a veritable maze of corridors, all jammed full of merchants and customers, vibrant colors all around him as he pushed through the crowds, deeper into the huge, covered market.

He saw stalls selling copper and other precious metals, others which specialized in fruits and spices, watches and jewelry, fabrics and carpets.

The people were a wide mix also – men, women and children, some dressed in traditional garb while others wore more western clothing. But almost everyone was Iranian, with very few Caucasians, and Cole stood out like a sore thumb, especially as he continued to push and shove his way through the crowds.

But he forced himself to slow down, to draw less attention; instead of pushing and shoving, to let the flow of the crowds carry him into the heart of the bazaar.

For a time it worked, and he was transported from one corridor to the next, the sights and sounds like something out of a fairytale; but then the magic was broken as half a dozen armed soldiers emerged from side halls, shouting angrily and waving their weapons at the crowds.

The people, recognizing the stranger among them, immediately started to distance themselves from him, and as the space opened up around him, the soldiers began to fire.

The rounds missed, but the chaos that erupted as a result of the shots – hordes of screaming, running, crying citizens – threw off the men’s aim, covered their arcs of fire, and Cole took the opportunity and ran down a narrow covered alleyway off to the side, racing past the small market stalls of men dealing in copper plates and ceramic vases.

He could hear the soldiers coming after him, and focused on the corridor ahead, which went up to a narrow junction at the end.

But then something caught his eye, and he stopped momentarily, grabbing an ornately designed scabbarded scimitar from the wall of what looked to be an antique weapons stall, ignoring the protests of the owner as he continued off down the alleyway, ripping the sword out of its scabbard and dropping the cover to the floor behind him.

He stepped right at the end of the alley, turned back to face the way he had come, and waited there, drenched with sweat.

And then he saw the shadows bouncing across the ancient stonework and whipped the scimitar back into the alleyway he had recently left, in a vicious horizontal swing that cut clean across the body of the first oncoming soldier.

Leaving the sword embedded in the man’s stomach as he fell to his knees, Cole grabbed his rifle and started firing, before the other men even knew what was happening, blasting away at them at close range, the 7.62mm rounds taking out all five of them in the blink of an eye.

Cole quickly stripped the combat webbing from the nearest man and put it on, ejecting the magazine from the G3 and slipping in a new one as he began to once again race down the now-empty corridors.

He saw the stonework erupt around him, heard the sound of gunshots from behind, and turned into a crouched position, keeping himself low as he shouldered the G3 and returned fire.

There were four men at the other end of the corridor, and Cole fired aimed shots toward them, taking them all out in as many seconds before returning to his feet and carrying on in the opposite direction, knowing that more would be there soon.

The trouble was that the Iranians knew this market, and he did not. They would be able to anticipate his movements, get people into the right places to cut him off, ambush him.

All he could do was react.

But, he decided, if that was all he could do, then it would just have to be enough.

The Little Bird was closing in on the bazaar now, high in the sky to avoid detection, providing cover for the Black Hawk.

Barrington could see that Cole was still inside.

But where?

Would they have to land the chopper and fight their way inside to him, help him extract?

Or would he just pop up somewhere at the last moment?

She sighed, understanding that it was all part of the game.

She would just have to react to the situation as it unfolded.

Cole pushed through a tiny alleyway, closed off for repairs, and emerged at the other side into a larger area, a double height hall with a mezzanine level that was still crowded with people.

It appeared to be a carpet warehouse, the huge hallway covered from one end to another, and from floor to ceiling, with carpets of every hue and color, every style and size imaginable.