Under Siege (7 page)

“Hey, guys. You see that military truck driving down this way?” John tried this time.

“Yeah, you betcha,” one of the men said. “She turned herself off on that side road over there and went like a bat out of hell.”

“Thanks,” John said and they drove toward the turnoff. Then John shook his head. “No way. The rest of those guys looked at this one guy, the spokesman, like they didn’t know him. Must be a plant. We go straight ahead, not on that side road.”

Badri got the bad news that the ruse didn’t work, and he put out one more pickup with orders to shoot out the tires on the Jeep if it didn’t go the way suggested. Fifteen minutes later the radio came on in Badri’s rig. This time the trackers in the airport Jeep took the bait and went down the wrong road. It would dead end twenty miles deeper into the countryside.

Badri pulled his little convoy to a stop and talked to the men in the rig behind him. He had brought only his ten Iranian special troops with him from the airport. The forty others at the plane had been ordered back to their regular barracks. They were part of the Namibia army he was
reforming and would do whatever he told them to do. His job in Namibia was to work up a plan for their small army. But that’s only what the officials here thought he was doing. The soldiers from the airport would return to the barracks with orders to tell no one where they had been or what they did.

Now with eight of the ten non-coms he had brought with him from Iran, he rolled forward. Within an hour he came to the big gate across the road and got out of the armored carrier. A guard came out of a concealed shack and spoke with Badri for a moment, then nodded and opened the gate.

“Welcome to the plantation of Alexi Gastrod Edwards,” Badri said to the First Lady. “He’s a rich and important farmer down here, and he runs half the country. Way back in his lineage he had a British father, thus the name Edwards. He’s neither black nor white. We call him a half-and-half man. He’s rich and powerful, but my men with their submachine guns are much more powerful.”

Washington, DC

The Situation Room

“So what more can you tell us?” President Hardesty asked his chief of staff.

“Mr. President, we have tapes of the broadcasts from the plane. The first one was interrupted when the operator was shot and killed. Our timeline on that is fifteen-oh-three, or approximately seven minutes ago. We had a second transmission from a Secret Service man at fifteen-oh-seven reporting the kidnapping. Our fourth man with the Secret Service came back on after the kidnapping. He called it a precise, quick, military strike. They were inside the plane no more than three minutes.”

“What assets do we have in the area?” the president asked.

“Almost nothing,” the Secretary of Defense said. “I don’t see how this could have happened.”

“It’s a small, new country with almost no army,” the Secretary of State said. “A single man with ten or twelve dedicated terrorists could have done it.”

“So what assets do we have in that area?” President Hardesty asked again.

“Our embassy there has only twelve marines,” the man from State said.

“There is no Navy presence anywhere near the south west coast of Africa,” the secretary of the Navy said. “Nothing below Portugal. Ships can’t travel that far that fast. Our planes would have to find land bases partway down for refueling.”

“Our closest land-based aircraft is at Riyadh in Saudi Arabia,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said. “That’s about four thousand miles across to Africa’s southwest coast. We could fly in a company of marines there within twelve hours.”

The president looked at his chief of staff, then at the other military men around the situation room table. Most nodded.

“All right. Alert them now and get that company moving. State, get approval from the New Namibia government for our landing troops there. Are our Delta Forces in Qatar on standby alert?”

“Yes, Mr. President. We always have one company on a two-hour alert.” The president turned to Don Stroh next.

“Good. Don, in what condition is the Third Platoon?”

“Mr. President, they have had two months since their last mission. They are healed and rested. Their former platoon leader, Commander Murdock, is now with the CNO’s office, though.”

“Who has the Third?”

“Lieutenant Ed DeWitt. He worked with Murdock for three years.”

“All right. I want you to send the Third Platoon to New Namibia as quickly as possible. I want Murdock detached
from the CNO and leading the group. The Delta platoon should establish a base camp in the capital of New Namibia and protect the aircraft and U.S. citizens. Have them contain the kidnappers, but not try to negotiate with them or attack. The SEALs will do that on arrival.”

The president stood. Every man in the room stood at once.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” the ranking man in the group, the chief of staff, said, and the president walked out.

Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Alonzo Hagerson turned to Stroh. “You heard the man. Get the SEALs moving. It’s duty hours there so give them a four-hour alert to be on North Island Air Station and ready to take off in the Gulfstream by fifteen-thirty Pacific Coast time. We want the most direct route to southwest Africa. I’ll alert Murdock to get on his horse and meet the platoon in Florida.”

“It’s still going to take twenty-four hours to get the SEALs there. I hope the kidnapper can be stalled for a while.”

The CNO scowled. “I hope so, too.”

Natabi, North Namibia

By the time Badri and his two vehicles had rolled up the half-mile-long lane leading to the plantation’s mansion, the owner and his six bodyguards were standing on a terrace in front of the big house waiting for them. The bodyguards all held Uzi submachine guns and waited for the visitors. Alexi Edwards had learned from years of experience that governments come and go, but the land and wealth endure—as long as you had the guns to protect your property. He waved as the armored personnel carrier came to a stop thirty feet from him in the parking lot. The engine shut down but no doors opened. The bodyguards lifted their weapons and aimed at the vehicle. Before they could get off a shot, submachine guns opened up from the back of the truck. All five of the bodyguards went down. One moved and was drilled with six more rounds.

The doors opened and Badri came out, his own weapon still hot in his hands. Alexi watched him a moment then shrugged. “If you shoot me, I’m dead. So I don’t try to ran. Why have you killed my men? They were not going to hurt you.”

“Anybody who waves a gun at me better be ready to use it,” Badri said. “Old Iranian saying. I bring you a guest, the wife of the president of the United States, Mrs. Eleanor Hardesty.”

Two of the soldiers pushed her out of the vehicle. She glared at them, then turned toward the civilian.

“This is your home, I understand. I hope you have some decency left. These animals are not to be considered as humans. Right now I’m in serious need of a bathroom. Would you show me the way, please?”

Alexi nodded, held out his hand, and led the First Lady up a gravel path past an extensive formal English garden and toward the house. Badri ran ahead of them, opened the front door, and looked inside.

“I know you have only the five bodyguards, but some of your staff might try to be heroic. Warn them to go about their duties as usual, or I will shoot them.”

Alexi ignored the order. “The bath is the third door on the left down the hall, Mr. Hardesty.”

“So kind of you. Be careful with him.” She went down the hall and into the room.

Badri prodded Alexi with the muzzle of his weapon. “Yes, be careful. I could have killed you as well. You may be useful to me. What do you know about the diamond mines to the north?”

“So, you are here for the stones. The mine itself is not yet proved, and it is not yet in full production. They are making test runs to see where the best overburden is that might be the most productive. That’s all I know about them. I’m not a mining engineer.”

“Too bad,” Badri said. “I am.” He looked around the
expensively furnished main room. It was thirty feet long with a ten-foot ceiling and the walls glowed with original oil paintings and tapestries. Badri was impressed. “Hey, old man. I could sell all this junk in here and raise enough money to start my own army.”

“Looks like you have. You’re the Iranian officer in town to organize our nation’s army with your non-com officers, aren’t you? How did you get sidetracked into kidnapping?”

“None of your business.” He hurried down the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. It opened and Mrs. Hardesty came out. Her hair was combed and her face washed. She frowned at him.

“Now that we’re here, don’t you make some ransom demands or some threats? You brought the SATCOM radio with you, so you can talk directly with my husband.”

“Let him stew and fret for a while. I’m in no rush.”

“Good. Over dinner you’ll have to tell me about yourself. I’m always interested in violent transcultural personalities. I try to figure out why they do what they do.”

“Transcultural? What a good word. But the word and the idea are meaningless. Why should I tell you anything about myself?”

“An even trade. I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me.”

They walked into the main room and this time Mrs. Hardesty looked around. “Mr. Edwards, what a magnificent room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hardesty. I would have fixed it up more if I’d had any notice about a state visit.”

“Oh, this is unofficial. No protocol. Mr. Badri took care of that.”

One of the Iranian soldiers walked into the room with his submachine gun at the ready. Badri turned to Edwards and Mrs. Hardesty.

“You two stay here. I need to talk to the president about this package of his I have. It won’t take long.”

Badri left the house and went to the personnel carrier. He took out the SATCOM, turned it on, and dialed in the same frequency that was on the radio in the aircraft. Then he folded out the antenna and set it so it would pick up a satellite. A moment later the set beeped. It had locked on to the satellite.

“I’m calling the president of the United States. I have your wife as my house guest. Let’s talk.”

There was an immediate response. “This is Wally Covington, director of the CIA. What do you want?”

“It’s not what I want, Director, it’s what you want, which is the return of Mrs. Hardesty. How shall we handle that?”

“The long-standing policy of the United States is that we do not negotiate with terrorists.”

“Of course, and I respect that. But we are not negotiating, we’re talking about some way we can reach a mutual agreement. That’s much different than negotiating. Why don’t you put together a package of mutual benefits and call me tomorrow about this time. Don’t worry. We’re in a safe place with plenty of luxury items and are looking forward to a marvelous dinner. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Before there could be a reply, Badri switched off the SATCOM. Remarkable piece of equipment. He knew about it, but had never seen one. Encrypted messages were shot out in a hundredth of a second so nobody could triangulate the signal unless they were tremendously lucky at three different positions at once. He headed back for the house. He stopped and looked around. This was a beautiful country. So green, so moist. Not at all like most of Iran. He laughed softly. The little nation could keep its green, he’d rather take their diamonds. As a sideline, of course. He and his ten top non-coms from the Iranian army had arrived two months ago awaiting the right time to attack. They had come in peace to restructure and energize the New Namibian Army. It would be a big job.

As they worked at it slowly, they waited for the signal from Tehran that the time was getting close. Then the long-delayed announcement was made that the American First Lady would be visiting New Namibia, giving the date and time and arrival runway. Made to order.

This morning he had taken forty of the Namibian army men out on a field exercise. He said they would be protecting the airport from an invading force. None of the New Namibian soldiers had any rounds in their rifles, and all of the Iranian soldiers had live rounds and spare magazines for their submachine guns. They had shot out the tires on the big plane, then the fifty troopers surrounded it, and then the Iranians had blasted open the plane’s main entrance door.

Yes, it had all gone as scheduled. Now, the entire forces of the United States would be concentrating on one project—recovering the First Lady, unharmed, unsullied, in good spirits, and happy. Badri would do everything in his power to keep her for as long as possible, thereby fulfilling his official mission. He thought of the colonel’s silver oak leaves he had on his uniform. When he returned to Iran he would be promoted at once to bird colonel, and perhaps get his own brigade to lead in the war.

Yes, the war. War was still man’s grandest and most outrageous game. A murderer who killed for sport and the challenge of the chase was playing a game. But for small stakes, his own life. On the other hand a general, a president, a dictator, played with hundreds of thousands of men’s lives, sometimes of millions of civilian lives, and to win was the only satisfactory outcome. In this war, he was sure that Iran would win.

While he was here, he would visit the diamond mines and do what he could to steal as many of the uncut diamonds they had produced as he and his men could carry. He wasn’t greedy. If he could scoop up twenty million dollars’ worth, he would be happy. Yes, this whole operation
was moving on track and on schedule. He hurried into the house where he would find the best standard band radio that the old man owned. There should be some war news soon from Iran. Maybe it would happen first thing in the morning.

Washington, DC

The Pentagon

Murdock put down the phone at his desk in the chief of Naval Operations office, his smile lighting up the room. He called his assistant.

“Get Commander Masciareli on the phone. He’s in Coronado at NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE.”

“Yes, sir.”