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Authors: Michael Walsh

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Now he could see the whore who was firing at him. She was slamming another magazine into her rifle.
He would have her in his sights in just moments....
“
Boro gomsho pedear soukteh, jakesh!”
she was screaming at him. Even over the noise of the chopper, he could hear her, and he could not believe what he was hearing. That such filth should come out of the mouth of—
Three bullets hit him in the chest, in a perfect shot group. He might have appreciated the marksmanship were he not already dead when he toppled from the Jeep.
“
Goh bokhor!”
she shouted, and spat at him.
“ 'Zat mean let's get the hell out of here?” yelled Danny.
“You're damn right it does,” Maryam yelled back. There—
A man, running into the low hills. Him.
“There he is!”
But Danny was already swinging the bird around, flying low, gunning the sucker and hoping like hell they could snatch “Bert” before the whole place blew....
In front of the mosque, the large crowd looked on in wonder as the events in the distance unfolded. No one was quite sure what was going on. Some said it was the Coming. Others said it was the forces of the Great Satan, attacking the holy lands of Islam. The Grand Ayatollah's image had disappeared from the screens.
And then they heard a terrible screaming, like the voices of a million birds in their death agonies. This was a screaming such as they had never heard before, and it grew louder and louder until it was almost unbearable.
Surely, this was the sign they had been waiting for, said one imam.
All eyes turned to the mosque. But the Hidden Imam sallied forth not from the sacred well.
“Have we been deceived?” shouted one man. “We were told that the Coming was upon us? What manner of blasphemy is this?”
The noise grew louder. Now they could no longer hear themselves. Women and children pressed their hands tight against their ears, so as not to hear the voice of the devil, who the people were now sure was coming for them.
And then, in the sky, a vision. A terrible vision . . .
 
 
The Hornets, coming in low, firing as they went. In an instant, all opposition on the ground ceased. And then the F-18s really went to work.
The Hornets came in waves, each one prepping the battlefield for the next. Mavericks and SLAM-ERs punched holes into the mountainside. These were followed by the JD
AM
s, the Joint Direct Attack Munitions, the smart bombs that would shoot down the rabbit hole and blow the living shit out of anything down there. The enrichment facility might not be completely destroyed, but it would be buried under tons of mountain rubble for a very long time. And then all the other sites would follow.
But Danny wasn't concerned about that now. Those boys could do their job without him. The fire was raging fiercely now, and it was just a matter of time before—
The first explosion rocked the Black Hawk, sending it spinning just as Maryam was dropping the rope ladder. Danny fought hard for control of the chopper, but the force of the blast knocked him off course. He was going to have to come around again.
Another blast, then another. The field was an inferno.
The Hornets made their last run. Half the mountainside crumbled. The remains of the Shahabs were burning fiercely and the heat was nearly unbearable. Only one last chance . . .
He looked back into the interior. Her eyes wide with fear, Mlle. Derrida was clutching Amanda tightly. Maryam had fastened herself down and was able to lean out as far as possible as the chopper dropped down. Showtime . . .
 
 
On the ground, Devlin had dived behind a rock as the explosions began. He was out of ammunition, but still ready to sell his life dearly when he saw the Black Hawk buffeted by the exploding Shahabs.
There—the rope ladder . . .
Once chance.
He sprinted for it. Another explosion, this one the biggest of them all, nearly knocked him off his feet. But Danny had been ready for it, and rode the shock wave like a bucking bronco.
The ladder was just within reach.
So reach . . .
Jump . . .
He looked up, and there she was.
He reached and jumped . . . caught the edge of the ladder.
No time to wait. Danny gunned the Black Hawk, up high and hard, picking up speed to get away from the final explosion he knew was coming.
Devlin fought to hang on . . . not just to hang on but to
climb
. He had to get inside the chopper, fast, before—
A rumbling from the depths of the mountain.
Up the steps, hand over hand, feet grabbing a purchase now, a kick—
Higher now, she was reaching out to him—
Swinging wildly through the air . . . almost losing his grip . . .
Another kick. He was taking the steps two at a time.
Not climbing, flying . . .
Her hand, reaching for him—
And
in
.
Maryam pulled up the rope ladder. In the distance the Super Hornets were disappearing into the blue, on their way to the next targets. If the Iranians were smart, they wouldn't interfere with them.
“We have to go back!” he shouted at Danny. Skorzeny was still down there. Nothing human could have survived the holocaust below, but Skorzeny could.
He was still alive. Devlin knew:
He was still alive.
“No chance,” Danny shouted back, indicating Amanda.
He looked at Amanda. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. Mlle. Derrida was doing her best with the first aid kit, but the bandage on her side was rich with red blood.
She was dying.
He had a choice. He was the commander of the mission. He could order Danny to go back, to search for Skorzeny, to operate on a hunch. Or . . . he could repay the woman who had done so much for all of them.
It was no choice at all. “Let's get her some medical attention,
now
,” he ordered.
“Way ahead of you, partner,” shouted Danny, who was already heading to the northeast, and the rendezvous point—the old Desert One site where so many of America's misfortunes had begun. The other choppers would be there, with medics, and they could attend to Amanda, stabilize her, and get her the hell out of there, to the hospital on board the
Eisenhower
. The nightmare was almost over. He reached for Maryam.
“Who are you?” she said, clutching him tightly as the Black Hawk gathered speed.
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
“You know who I am,” she said. “I'm your guardian angel.”
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-ONE
Qom
After Dresden, the fires held no terrors for him. He was the Erlking now, not the boy; the chaser, the pursuer. This whelp, this bastard had bested him, and he could not, would not, rest until he put him in the ground.
As they drove out to the launch site, Skorzeny had seen the Shahed 285s and knew now that scrambling on board one of them was the only way out. And when he saw the Black Hawk, he knew where he must go.
The bastard had
her
, and he must follow.
The explosions were just starting as he reached the first helicopter. A terrified pilot was already firing it up and making ready to escape.
“You are under my command now,” he intoned. Good. The man recognized him. “You will fly where I tell you. Is that understood?”
Skorzeny spoke with authority. He was a friend of the Islamic Republic. He was a man of parts and property. He also had a gun.
He pointed at the Black Hawk, now soaring away toward the east. “Do you want to be a hero?” he asked the pilot in both French and English. Any educated Iranian spoke one of those Western languages.
The man nodded. “Yes,” he said in English, with a look of understanding in his eyes. Skorzeny might have expected greater resistance, perhaps even greater fear, but this man was docile and cooperative. They were going to get along just fine.
“Get on the radio. I want a fleet. We must chase the Americans and kill them for the insult they have dealt to a holy place. But you must hurry—we must follow.”
The man spoke rapidly into a transmitter as the Shahed rose into the air. It would be no match for the Black Hawk, that he knew, but in numbers there might be strength.
The pilot gave him a thumbs-up and then they were in the air and following the Black Hawk. Skorzeny turned around to see half a dozen more Shaheds following them. As he was now following Devlin. He would follow him to the gates of Hell and beyond if necessary.
Below, fireballs were erupting. And then he saw the Super Hornets, bombing and strafing everything, burying the plant inside the earth forever.
 
 
“We've got a tail,” said Danny. “Multiple bogies.” He'd picked them up on the radar.
“How long to Desert One?” asked Devlin. He was sitting beside his friend. “We don't have much time.” Behind them, Maryam and Mlle. Derrida were doing their best to make Amanda Harrington comfortable, but it was a losing battle.
“Half an hour. She's probably not going to make it,” said Danny.
“We'll see about that. What about the bogies?”
“Let them tail us. They can't outrun us. I've radioed ahead and alerted the strike force. If these boys want to mix it up, they're going to be several kinds of sorry.”
Devlin extracted his Android and checked it. The thing had taken a tremendous beating down on the ground, but the son of a bitch still worked. One message:
LASER RETARGETING COMPLETE
BRING IT ON
YOU'RE SURE? ON YOUR POSITION?
LAST PLACE THEY'LL LOOK. AND THEY'RE ON OUR ASS
NOW
STILL WANT THE FULL SHOW?
GODDAMN RIGHT. THEY WANTED A MIRACLE, THEY'RE
GETTING A MIRACLE
ROGER THAT
ALERT EISENHOWER THAT WE HAVE A SEVERELY
WOUNDED HIGH-PRIORITY PATIENT COMING IN
DONE
WHAT ABOUT THE MISSILE PROGRAM?
TERMINATED. WILL TAKE THEM YEARS TO RESTART,
EVEN WITH HELP FROM THE PAKS AND THE NORKS
AND?
REPORTS OF MASSIVE CIVIL UNREST IN TEHRAN AND
OTHER MAJOR CITIES. YOUNG PEOPLE IN THE STREETS.
MULLAHS SEEM FLUSTERED
THAT WAS THE WHOLE IDEA
ONE OTHER THING—THE AYATOLLAH FADLALLAH JUST
ISSUED A FATWA ON YOUR PLAYMATE. HE'S FUCKED
Devlin thought about his answer for moment, then typed:
THEN I GUESS I'D BETTER HURRY. OVER AND OUT
“Keep them within sight,” he said to Danny. “I don't want to lose them.”
“You know we're leading them right to Desert One.”
“That's the whole idea. First time farce, second time tragedy, as Marx said.”
“Marx didn't say that.”
“He would now.”
 
 
They were on the Black Hawk's tail, Skorzeny and his fleet of Shaheds. The pilot was growing increasingly agitated, as reports came in over his radio. Skorzeny had no idea what those reports were, but something was clearly amiss. From time to time the pilot cast a look in his direction, as if they were talking about him, but he saw nothing sinister in the glance. On the other hand, these people did tend to smile just before they cut your throat.
But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was getting her back, and killing him. And if they all died making the attempt, well, it would be a glorious death. A glorious death was something that had never occupied his thoughts much before.
The Black Hawk began to drop down, back into the desert. Skorzeny could tell this was no random location. He was heading somewhere.
The pilot started to jabber in Persian. He seemed very excited about something. He pointed down.
“What is it, man?” shouted Skorzeny.
“Desert One!” he exclaimed. “Desert One!”
So that was it. That would be just like the boy. Symbolism was something Islamic cultures understood; locations and anniversaries were very important to them. Here, at the site of one of America's most humiliating failures, they were going to make a stand.
“Attack,” shouted Skorzeny. “Attack!” At the first shooting, they would release the passengers and send them scattering into the desert. She could not get far. And he would die.
The pilot squawked away. The other Shaheds, five or six of them, came up and assumed attack formation.
The Black Hawk was on the ground now, a sitting duck.
“Fire,” commanded Skorzeny.
The Shaheds swooped—and then, from out of nowhere, they were riddled with gunfire.
Behind them, five Black Hawks had suddenly appeared. The Shaheds were no match for the Hawks. One went down in flames immediately. Another turned tail and tried to escape, but the Black Hawks cut it off and blew it out of the sky. Another Shahed crashed when its pilot panicked and flew it straight into the ground. Two more were forced down, choosing disgrace over death. Only the chopper with Skorzeny aboard was left in the air.
Two of the Black Hawks flanked Skorzeny's helicopter and motioned for it to land as well. “Do as they say,” he told the pilot.
“I must not,” said the man. “I have orders never to surrender my helicopter.”
“You don't have any choice,” Skorzeny informed him. “If you don't take us down, they will annihilate us.”
“Ah, but I do, infidel,” said the man, who suddenly holding a pistol on him. “The Grand Ayatollah himself has pronounced fatwa on you, and it is my sacred duty to kill you.”
“Don't be silly,” said Skorzeny with a tone of contempt.
The man fired.
By some holy miracle, he missed. Even though Skorzeny was sitting right beside him, he missed. The shifting wind currents no doubt were to blame, the buffeting the Shahed was receiving from the two Black Hawks near it.
Emanuel Skorzeny had not lived this long without knowing how to take care of himself. Before the man could fire a second shot, he grabbed the gun and wrested it from his hand. He trained the gun on the pilot. “Down,” he said.
Down they went. The Black Hawks saw they were obeying orders and peeled off.
Devlin was waiting for them as they landed. He was alone. Near a piece of charred, rusted, twisted metal, perhaps a piece of the Sea Stallion chopper that had collided with the Hercules transport plane—a memento mori of the debacle. A fine sand mist, kicked up by the helicopters, was starting to fill the air.
Skorzeny didn't wait. As soon as he hit the ground he raised his weapon and fired at Devlin as the sand enveloped him. He fired again and again, shooting at the ghost he knew must be there.
A blow to the head felled him. The gun flew from his grasp. He felt himself being dragged across the desert, then lashed to something.
“She's dying,” came the voice. “You've killed her. I'm doing my best to save her, but thanks to you it's probably too late. Live with that, for as long as you live.”
As quickly as it had come up, the sand mist cleared. There was the face he had loathed for so long, mocking him.
“Show me. I must see her.”
“No.”
“I must see her.” He was, he realized, bound to the wreckage and immobilized.
“No,” repeated Devlin.
“Yes,” came a voice behind him.
Held up by Maryam, Emanuelle Derrida, and Danny, Amanda Harrington was making her way toward them. “Look,” she said, pointing up at the sky.
Two images, the Virgin and the Prophet, rapidly descending as night fell.
“You recognize them, don't you?” said Devlin. “You wanted to change the world with them, to set Muslim against Christian, to set nation against nation. And for what? How much money do you need?”
“It was not for money,” gasped Skorzeny. “Never for money.”
“Then what was it for?” asked Amanda. They lay her down next to Skorzeny, and Emanuelle kissed her gently as she released her.
“It was to end it all,” whispered Skorzeny. “To finally quiet the ghosts.”
“I hear them too,” said Devlin. “Every day. Every night. But I've learned that you can never silence them. They go on with us, 'til the end of the time. Until the Last Days.”
“These are the Last Days,” said Skorzeny.
“And I,” said Devlin, “am Malak al-Maut.”
Mary and Mohammed were drawing closer, losing their material shape and turning into pillars of light in the desert, merging, combining into a single beam—
“No!” screamed Skorzeny, understanding. “You can't.”
“It is finished,” said Devlin. “Amanda, you don't have to do this. Come with us. You'll make it.”
“No,” she said, “I won't. I can't. Besides, my place is here with him. In expiation for all my sins. And for his.”
They could feel the heat of the approaching lasers—now under American control—dissipating the chill of the desert. Amanda gestured to Danny, who ran over to her. She drew him close:
“Kiss them all for me. Kiss her for me. Tell them I'm sorry. Tell them . . . tell them I'll pray for them.”
Danny handed her the picture. “Take this with you,” he said.
Devlin lookd at Skorzeny and Amanda. The man was a liar to the end. He was not dying to end it all. In his own twisted way, he was dying for love. He was just too consumed with bitterness to realize it.
“Let's go,” said Devlin.
The Black Hawks rose and circled as the lasers met, fused. The Shaheds on the ground exploded as the lasers grazed them. Even at this altitude, Devlin could feel the heat rising. In a vision of heaven, he had unleashed hell.
Maryam clung to Devlin as they watched the awful, inevitable progression....
On the ground, Amanda gazed for the last time at the picture, which was gradually curling in her hands. It burst into flames. But she did not feel the heat. Pain could not harm her anymore. Her last vision was not of hellfire, but of redemption. By the time her skin started to char, she was already dead.
Skorzeny screamed as his clothes caught on fire. His hair burned off and then his skin melted away in the terrible heat. And still he screamed, howling curses at the heavens, unrepentant to the last. The only thing left of him was rage.
He was still screaming when Devlin fired a single round from the Viper into his head. “I am the Angel of Death,” he whispered as he pulled the trigger.
“O Mother,” he shouted, “O Father. You are avenged.”
The Black Hawk wafted upward, as if borne aloft on heavenly hands. Then it turned toward the southeast, the
Eisenhower
, and home, and disappeared into the night.

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