Under Siege (8 page)

Twenty seconds later the call went through.

“Commander Masciareli, this is Murdock with the CNO. Admiral Hagerson just asked me to call you and alert Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, for deployment in six hours. They’ll fly from North Island as usual. Tell Lieutenant DeWitt to bring all of my gear out of my locker. Go in jungle cammies, all weapons and ammo. Be ready for a long flight.”

“Where to, Commander?”

“Miami is the first stop. That’s all the CNO said I could tell you. This is on the direct orders of the president. Tell the men I’ll meet them in Miami International at the transient aircraft section.”

“That’s it?”

“All we can say right now. I’ve got to get moving. Thanks, Commander. Take care.” Murdock hung up grinning. Masciareli would be eaten up with curiosity. A moment later Don Stroh called.

“We’re off again, old buddy. We fly out of Andrews, so I’ll meet you at the flight line. We’ve got an hour and thirty minutes to get onboard. So rattle your bustle.”

“Left it at home. See you then.”

They made it just on time and settled into the first-class luxury of a Navy UC-11, a Gulfstream III executive business jet reconfigured for the military. It was top of the line for fast movement of important people. Now, Stroh and Murdock and a Navy vice admiral who needed to get to Miami fast were the only passengers. At just over five hundred miles an hour, it would be a quick flight to Miami. Murdock didn’t even want to figure how long it would take. Instead, he had a nap, interrupted by a hot lunch served on china and with real silverware and linen napkins.

At Miami they waited for the SEALs to arrive in their Gulfstream II. It was slightly smaller than the jet Murdock came down in, and a little less plush, but it carried seats for five more passengers than the larger jet. Murdock and Stroh climbed onboard as the plane idled its jets. They buttoned it up immediately and it taxied out and was given top priority to take off.

“Some damn hurry we’re in,” Jaybird cracked.

“One big hell of a rush,” Murdock said. “We’re heading for the southwest coast of Africa, to the new little country of New Namibia.”

“Why the hell we going down there?” DeWitt asked.

“To rescue a damsel in distress,” Stroh said. “Seems the president’s wife, the First Lady herself, has gone and got herself kidnapped, and we’ve been elected to go in and bring her out.”

“Jesus H. Kereist, Stroh,” Senior Chief Elmer Neal said. “When the hell are you going to get us an easy one? Just snatch back the First Lady! Sounds like a fucking walk in the park.”

“That’s what you get for being the best damn platoon in the whole U.S. military establishment,” Stroh said. “Now listen up and I’ll tell you everything that the CIA and the president himself knows about this situation.”

Over the muffled purring of the two big Rolls-Royce RB163-25 Spey Mark 511 turbofan engines, Stroh laid out the problem, the situation, and that there would be a platoon of Delta Force soldiers on site to try to contain the bad guys and clear the way for the SEALs to go in and rescue the First Lady.

“We heading over the Atlantic?” Hospital Corpsman First Class Jack Mahanani asked.

“How else can you get to Africa?” Radioman Second Class Derek Prescott jibed. “Of course we’re going across. My question is can this aluminum bucket make it in one jump?”

Half the men looked at Jaybird. “Hell yes, and with barrels of petrol to spare. This bird will do over forty-two hundred miles before it needs a drink.”

“We’re scheduled to make a quick stop in Senegal, then go south across the Gulf of Guinea to land in Natabi, the capital of New Namibia,” Stroh said, looking at some papers. “The Delta platoon came in from Qatar and should be on site ten hours before we get there. The Delta guys will bring a plane-load of ammo for us and them. Everything except our special fused twenty millimeter rounds. Any questions?”

“Yeah, Stroh,” a voice called out. “When do we eat?”

“You ate an hour out of Miami. So I’d guess in another three hours or so you might expect a snack.”

Murdock sat beside Ed DeWitt. “Hey old buddy, how are you doing? But more important, how is Milly?”

“She’s good. We’re not sure, but there may be something to announce soon, family-wise.”

“Fantastic. Don’t forget the cigars. And give my best to Milly and my condolences for having to put up with you. Now, are you getting your boys slapped into shape?”

“You left them in shape. Lots of new faces. You do get your troops in harm’s way from time to time.”

“Yeah, it happens. We don’t know who we have to deal with down there in Africa. One renegade with some troops, or somebody else. The place has about a fifty-man army and not much more firepower. We could be in for a lot of trouble.”

“From fifty troops?”

“Not really.”

“How can he hope to hold out against even the fifty local troops? And they must have more than that.”

“Yeah, about twelve hundred soldiers, but they’re friendly. Delta might have found the culprits before we get there.”

New Namibia Countryside

Back in the plantation mansion, Badri found a pair of rooms where the First Lady could stay. She would have her own bath and he could lock both doors from the outside. Alexi Edwards fussed around so much it made Badri angry.

“Old man, settle down or go outside and dig your own grave. Take your choice. I’m sick of your harping and jumping and being in awe of the woman. She’s just another woman. She’ll be here until I decide to move. Now get some food ready for us. Tell your staff to go about its usual duties, or they too might join the corpses in the front parking lot.”

Edwards scooted out of the room looking over his shoulder at the invader of his house. His face showed anger, but it held fear as well. Badri nodded. He would be no trouble. The bodyguards were dead, he was free and clear until the people from the airport figured out which way he went and where he might be. He had plans where he would move, but not yet. He sat in a big chair and looked out across a five-mile swath of green trees, fields, and a few buildings. He had uncovered a box filled with good cigars
and worked on one as he considered his situation. A radio. He needed a standard band radio to watch the world situation. It couldn’t be long now. The whole plan was based on what the president’s woman did. Now they knew in Tehran. Maybe it would come tomorrow morning. He dreamed of being there, of getting back to his tank company and leading it. But he was a soldier, and for the past five years a top Iranian Secret Service agent. He followed orders. Right now the First Lady of the United States was his project. A vital one. The trigger that would detonate the whole attack.

He found a radio in the next room near a large television set. He tuned the radio until he found a station with news in English. He was glad he had studied languages in his military training. The news was mostly local, coming from the capital of Natabi. Then a news story came on about Iran. He listened closely.

“Iraqi officials said they have proof that Iran is massing men and material along their common border. Iran has reported it is nothing more than a military exercise, to determine the mobility of the Iranian armed forces. They say they reserve the right to move their own troops and materiel around in their own nation whenever and wherever they wish to.”

Badri grinned as he heard the news story. Good, they were getting ready. It couldn’t be long now. They had the First Lady the stage was set. He’d bet by tomorrow morning the tanks would be rolling. How he wished he could be with them.

Just after an early dinner, Mrs. Hardesty walked up to Badri and stared at him.

“You are an intelligent man, Mr. Badri. Why are you doing this? Surely you know that your eight or ten men can’t hold out long against even the small army that New Namibia must have. When the Marines land, or the special forces, you won’t stand a ghost of a chance in a haunted house.”

“Very good. Mrs. Hardesty, excellent. You grasp the situation precisely. If I can’t hold out, then what will I and you do?”

“You’ll run, of course. This is not a spur of the moment action. I didn’t even know I was coming to New Namibia until a week ago. Your intelligence service must have been working overtime. You’re not a New Namibian. What’s your home country?”

“Not important. The vital element is that I have you. I control you, and the president will jump through hoops to get you back. It’s all quite simple. How could a lowly soldier like me get twenty million dollars any easier than this?”

“Twenty million? Is that all I’m worth on the open market? I’m embarrassed. I figured it would be at least a billion and a half or some such figure. Only twenty million?”

“Actually, since your country won’t negotiate for hostages, I probably will never get the money.”

“Then why don’t you radio the president that it’s all over and you’re leaving me here and fading into the woods and jungle and we won’t chase you? You know that’s a much better option than having the special forces chase you and fill you full of holes. Then how will you spend any of that money? You need to think through your options again, Mr. Badri. You haven’t considered them all, and I’m sure that when you do, you’ll realize that you’re in a no-win situation.”

“Unless there is some other reason for your abduction that you don’t know about.”

“Another reason? Money seems to be your reason.”

“Good try, Mrs. Hardesty, but no prize. I have a mission to accomplish for my country, and it doesn’t include letting you go free.” He hesitated then motioned. “Come out here on the patio with me. I’m going to call your husband and tell him my ransom demands for you. You might find it interesting.”

He had the SATCOM radio set up on a table with the fold-out antenna already in place. He picked up the handset, turned on a switch, and began.

“Mr. President. This is Ahmed Badri calling.”

The response was immediate. “Yes, Mr. Badri. This is the president’s chief of staff. Are you aware of what time it is?”

“I will talk to no one but the president.”

“He’s not here at the moment.”

“Tell him he has five minutes to get on your SATCOM set or I’ll cut off one of the First Lady’s ears and send it to him by Air Express. You have five minutes.”

“He’ll be here. Wait. Don’t do anything rash. Wait just a moment.”

Mrs. Hardesty shook her head. “Mr. Badri, you know my husband will never negotiate with you.”

“Of course not. I will make demands and he’ll meet them. No negotiations involved. It’s amazing how cooperative people can be when you make a proposition that they can’t refuse. Absolutely remarkable.”

The SATCOM speaker sounded.

“Mr. Badri. This is President Hardesty.”

“How was your lunch?”

“Nothing to write home about. How is Eleanor?”

“Actually she’s in quite good spirits. Trying to argue with me and talk international politics. Amazing woman. You can have her back by meeting a few requirements.”

“We don’t negotiate.”

“No, this isn’t that. I simply tell you what to do, and you do it. No negotiations required. Understood?”

“What are your conditions?”

“First, send by wire twenty million dollars to my Swiss bank account. Do this within an hour after our talk. The number is SA-46297-BA. That’s all that’s needed for a deposit. Second, you have seven standby cargo ships in ports around the world. Each ship holds military supplies, food, ammunition, hardware, vehicles, clothing, even a post
office, and a complete field hospital. There is enough goods and material there in each ship to supply a fighting regiment of seventy-five hundred men for a month. Those ships are to weigh anchor within two hours and move toward Iran. Once there in the gulf, they are to tie up three ships at the Iranian port of Bandar-e-Bushehr, and the other four at Bandar-e-Abbas.

“The ships and their cargo become the property of Iran, to do with as the government pleases. The United States will also send by ship to those same two ports a hundred million tons of food for the Iranian people. Those are my only conditions for the release of Mrs. Hardesty.

“I am not making these demands for Iran alone, but for all Muslins all over the world who the United States has swindled, cheated, threatened, and made war against during the past fifty years. The United States will not threaten or harm New Namibia. Their officials have no knowledge or any part in the detention of the American First Lady. If the U.S. does not start shipment of these items within a week, the First Lady will remain as the guest of Allah’s Dagger until the goods and ships arrive. Each week the ships don’t arrive, I will cut off one finger of the First Lady and send it to you. I will contact you again after twelve hours. At that time I expect to have total acceptance of my demands.”

He snapped off the set before the president could reply.

“Now, Mrs. First Lady, we will see how much the president of the United States cares for you—or find out if you are just another political toy that he manipulates.”

Bakhtaran, Iran

General Tariz Majid eased into a soft chair in his temporary headquarters and watched a television set. It was rimed to Abu Dhabi, the Arabic-language network.

“Our reporters continue to monitor the massive buildup of forces along the Iraq/Iran border. Sources say more than fifty thousand troops and at least three hundred tanks and armored personnel carriers are in the immediate area. Iran says that they are in the middle of an extended military exercise to test mobility and that it has the inherent right to move its troops and equipment anywhere in its own country that it wishes.”

He snapped off the set. It had been a long struggle, mostly political, but now the hour was at hand. He had been a loyal soldier for almost thirty years. Now was the time for him to make his statement. He moved his right hand and winced. Was it physical or still mostly mental? He had no idea. The pain was real enough. It had started the night he had been wounded in the Iran/Iraq war twenty years ago.

Those nights and days of terror and death still haunted him as nothing else could. The glory of the drive into Iraq, then the blistering, drenching, inhuman attacks with poison gas on his men—he watched his brigade wither and die in front of his eyes. No more than two hundred out of twelve thousand remained alive after it was over. At least
that’s the way he remembered it. He rubbed his face with his left hand and closed his eyes. Those visions would never leave his mind. He could see the men now gasping and dying. His own driver died and the car ran off the road. He had to drive himself the last fifty miles, fleeing as fast as he could to get back across the border into Iran.