Force Lines. Don Pendleton

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      PROLOGUE

      “They’re here.”

      Hamal Amarshar acknowledged his lieutenant’s grim pronouncement with a flip of the half-eaten oblong date, plunging it into the fire barrel before taking up his AK-74. The sudden current of tension through the cave told him his fighters were braced for the worst, whereas he had to maintain, at the very least, the appearance that he anticipated the best of all possible news. Had there been a significant boost in numbers of Americans or a noticeable upgrade in their hardware, he would have been forewarned, his scouts in the hills keeping the vast wasteland at the eastern edge of the Dasht-e-Kavir under constant surveillance for those on the other side foolish enough to stray outside the arrangement.

      He briefly pondered the words of the man who called himself Black Dog, spoken at their first meeting.

      “Hey, if I wasn’t here to deal straight with you, my friend, if I wanted your scalps in a bag as trophies—and collect enough bounty on your hides in the process that would set me up for my golden years—it would be no large feat for me to bring down a Tomahawk or a bunker buster or two on your heads.”

      That much may well be true enough, he supposed, having already done the math in terms of geography, as best he could, without, that was, the advantage of the enemy’s high-tech wonder toys. Their hideout was a dozen or so meters up, weathered out by time and the cruelty of the desert in the side of a low-chain of rock that had aeons ago broken off from the Payeh Mountains. Between U.S. Navy warships stationed in the Gulf of Oman, roughly seven hundred kilometers due south—with Kabul about eight hundred kilometers east as the eagle flew in what was a major surrounding area of occupation by the enemy—there would be enough cruise missiles and fighter jets on hand and within striking distance to blow him to Paradise—or seal him up in the side of the mountain.

      Amarshar considered both the moment—hopefully the gift his guests would come bearing, as promised—and the future. The Iranian listened to the rumble of engines, the squeal of timeworn brakes, saw the thinning spool of dust that rose from the floor of the wadi, as doors opened and closed and shadows began to filter up through the gritty sheen of harsh sunlight. It was a bizarre affair, to understate the matter, this striking a bargain with the devil, but an alliance that placed him at the crossroads of destiny. Just what the future promised—both immediate and long term—remained to be seen.

      He struck a pose of calm defiance, legs splayed, assault rifle cradled across his chest as they filed in. He restrained the smile when two of them stepped forward, holding the large black box by thick straps before they carefully set it down in front of him. At the risk of appearing too eager, Amarshar took his time, scouring the faces, hidden behind dark sunglasses and partly swathed in keffiyahs that matched their buff-colored fatigues. It was either a testament to their courage, he thought, or their own greed and ambition that Black Dog and his armed canines even dare stray across the border. They were U.S. special operatives, was about all he could say, and that came from two former SAVAK agents who had originally come to him with the proposal to do business with the Devil.

      Amarshar watched as Black Dog, the M-16/M-203 combo pointed at the ground, waved over his shoulder. Three operatives stepped forward and deposited black nylon bags on the ground, then fell back, hard, sun-burnished faces wandering over the Iranians hugging both sides of the cave.

      “The CD was left with your SAVAK buddies back near the border,” Black Dog said in near-perfect Farsi that drew a few eyes of admiration mixed with suspicion from the newer warriors.

      Amarshar felt the scowl harden his features at what he considered no less than a breach of contract, a grotesque inconvenience at best. He gestured for his men to open the merchandise all around. “Without the operating instructions, then what you brought me is useless,” he said.

      “Just a precaution, you understand, until we’re safely back in Afghanistan.”

      “A precaution? Or…”

      “There’s no ‘or.’ If you don’t like it, you have a radio, call one of them, if you’re worried. The operating procedures are so basic, your people could walk you through it in under two minutes.”

      True enough, perhaps, and he wanted to openly question that, but he was turning his stare toward the merchandise as two of his warriors knelt beside the black box. Amarshar blinked twice at the strange insignia painted on the lid.

      As he took a step forward, bending at the neck, he thought at first it was some kind of joke. Then he began to slowly discern what it was he thought he saw. Those were four faces of what appeared a lion, a human, a calf and an eagle, staring him back. Only half of each face was connected to the next creature, so that they were four distinct faces but appeared as one. Surrounding them were what, at first glance, appeared to be six wings above and beneath each face—twenty-four in all, he counted upon further scrutiny—and circling them, with the faces appearing СКАЧАТЬ