FIFTY-TWO

The four bearded men were lying on the floor of an Israeli Apache helicopter. According to plan, the next stop would be Iran and their attempt to rescue Joshua Jordan. The drop-off point was approaching.

Phase one of the operation had already been successful — the rendezvous between the four members of the rescue team and the IDF helicopter at a U.S. base in Baghdad. The two former Army Rangers and two retired Navy SEALs had arrived in Baghdad on a private jet that Rocky Bridger had booked for them. The Israeli Apache chopper had arrived a short time later; the arrival times were staggered to make them look coincidental.

The IDF had asked permission of the U.S. military transition team in Baghdad to land their helicopter. The stopover allowed the new longrange Apache to get refueled. The pilots said they were running a recon mission over Turkish airspace and had encountered mechanical difficulties. Turkey, they said, had refused to allow them to land. The U.S. peacekeeping command met the whole thing with skepticism. The U.S. troops had been ordered to refrain from engaging in military operations, essentially prohibited from returning fire without specific orders. They were to avoid anything that looked like choosing sides or picking fights. It was also part of something bigger. The unofficial word in the American command posts in that part of the world was that United States foreign policy toward the Middle East was changing. America would edge away from its traditional support of Israel and toward more friendly partnerships with Arab nations. Conventional wisdom was that if all-out war broke out between Israel and the Arab League, the United States would ditch its longtime ally Israel.

When the two IDF helicopter pilots had lifted off from the U.S. air base in Baghdad they kept eyeballing the radio receiver, waiting for something to go wrong, like someone back in Iraq or from the U.S. command center ordering them to return to base.

But the order never came. That’s when one of the pilots gave the thumbs up to the four special-ops contract warriors who then climbed up to their seats and buckled in for the long flight.

Now the chopper was approaching phase two, the drop-off point for the rescue team just off the Iranian coast. The pilots, on cue, radioed back to Israeli headquarters to report their status. That is when they received a message from Tel Aviv — in Hebrew and encrypted.

After deciphering the communiqué, the pilot turned to the special-ops guys in the back. The tightened muscles in his face gave a hint that something was up. “HQ’s just informed us that Iran may be planning an imminent launch of several longrange missiles. Iran’s official explanation is that they’re only testing their defensive capability in light of Israel’s strike against Iran’s nuclear facility at Natanz.”

The pilot then gave a gesture of disgust with his lips, as if he were ready to spit. “We know better.”

In the back, Jack, the SEAL leader, turned to the guy sitting next to him, the lead Ranger, named Tom Cannonberry, though everyone called him “Cannon.” Jack said, “Sounds like the Israelis may be hunkering down for war. We all know what that means.”

“Yeah,” Cannon spit back. “We may have just bought ourselves a one-way ticket to Iran.”

A third rescue warrior piped up with a cynical half grin. “Looks like I’ll have time to do some shopping in Tehran, get my girlfriend a nice Persian rug …”

The men fell quiet as the helicopter cut across the Caspian Sea that bordered northern Iran.

When the chopper was over Iranian waters, another message came in from Israeli command. But this one the pilots did not — could not — share with the men they were transporting. “Intelligence sources indicate troop movements within southern Russia, several of the Republics, and also within Turkey and as far away as Sudan and Libya. Major mobilization. Some naval deployment as well. Please observe and report any of the same during your mission.”

The helicopter was hovering over the sea, three miles off the coast of Iran. The drop-off point was confirmed by Israeli satellite imaging to have no radar installations and only a few patrol boats. They ran on a predictable schedule. It was 10:15 at night now, and they had a forty-five-minute window before the next Iranian patrol boat would be in the vicinity.

Cannon gave the last-minute reminder to his crew. “Remember, all of us have to swim to the raft. I don’t want any bodies floating out there on the waves. We motor till we’re a quarter mile from the coast, and then we paddle. Our friends in the Mossad have one of their contacts in-country who is supposed to have a car fueled and waiting for us on an industrial access road about a mile and a half off the beach. Let’s hope they left the keys in the car.”

Looking out of the open door of the Apache, Jack tossed the large inflatable raft, with its small electric motor, out into the darkness. They saw its blinking light get smaller until it finally hit the water and started bobbing.

As he strapped on his life vest, Jack, the former Navy SEAL, turned to Cannon in the open door. Looking down at the sea below and then back at Cannon the land-loving ex-Ranger, Jack said with a smile, “Welcome to the swim club …” Then he jumped into the night.

No one knew how it started. That was usually the case with protest marches like this one. At first, five hundred prodemocracy Iranians flooded the streets of Tehran. Then it grew to fifteen hundred. Many of the shops were still open. Their neon lights were glowing in the night, but their shelves were only half stocked with merchandise.

The protestors were chanting, “Food, not war; food, not war.”

The march was five blocks from the warehouse-turned-prison where Joshua Jordan and Dr. Abdu were being held.

Inside, Dr. Abdu had just asked Joshua how he was feeling.

Joshua did not stand up and put his head out the window of the cell as he had done before. He was too weak. Instead he leaned against the open bars as he talked.

“Head hurts. Dizzy. Like someone used my brain for an electric outlet.”

“Anything else?”

“Helpless …”

“Hmm …”

“I came to help Israel, and I end up here. No escape. My wife and son are back at home … with this horrible crisis … I dumped in their lap …”

Sitting on the dirty concrete floor, Joshua was stunned by how quickly things were ceasing to make sense. He’d always had a forceful personality, able to make things happen, work out problems, find the right avionics to keep things in the air and avoid a crash. But not now. Was it just the pain? He didn’t think so. Part of it maybe. But it was also something else.

“My daughter is stranded in Israel. And Iran is planning an attack … nuclear … I worry that I may have signed her death sentence by bringing her with me to Israel. Helpless … helpless … desperate … that’s how I feel …”

“Things don’t happen by accident …”

“So you tell me …” Then Joshua remembered something. “Hey, I thought you said you were going to share some secret about my getting out of here.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t play games, Hermoz …”

“No, I’m not. I said I had a secret for getting you out of your prison — ”

“Exactly …”

“But this place isn’t your prison.”

Even in his pain and disorientation, Joshua was starting to get the picture.

“You are imprisoned in yourself, Joshua. Till you get out of that, you’ll never be free. That’s why you need the key.”

“And I suppose you have it hanging on your belt?”

“No … in my heart.” Then Dr. Abdu added, “But if I give it to you, I warn you, Joshua … while it will cost you nothing … it will ask everything of you …”

Then, somewhere outside in the night, they could hear something … chanting … crowds. Joshua had heard that before. “Another protest? In the streets?” he asked.

Dr. Abdu said yes and translated the chants for Joshua.

After some silence, Joshua asked, “How can it cost me nothing but ask me for everything?”

“Oh, well,” Dr. Abdu answered, “a desperate man may have nothing in his pocket … or in his soul. Both are empty. Hollow. So he is willing to accept what is freely offered to him. But even a desperate man like you, Joshua, beaten, bloody, imprisoned — even a desperate man has something he has yet to give.”