FIFTY-FIVE

In Tehran, the crowds spilled onto the streets. The news had spread that Bushehr had been decimated in some kind of nuclear explosion, but the government had promptly cut all of the Internet service for its citizens to try to contain the news of its embarrassing defeat. Rumors spread wildly. Iranians were hearing some theories that Bushehr had been incinerated during a nuclear mishap caused by the Iranian scientists. Was it another Chernobyl? They didn’t know. Most of the rioters in the streets didn’t care. They were now even doubting the reports of a supposed Israeli attack against Natanz. They had missed their opportunity to topple their own tyrant during the Middle East upheavals of 2011 when the citizens of other nations in the region were overthrowing dictators. This was finally their chance. They had grown weary listening to the eccentric lies of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad for more than two decades while the people starved or were arrested by the secret police or worse.

They had had enough.

The crowds in the streets numbered nearly thirty thousand. The Iranian army was ordered to quell the protest, but half of the enlisted men refused to respond to the order. They quietly decided that they would no longer serve in a military headed up by a lunatic.

In the middle of the protest were ninety members of the CDCI, the Committee for Democratic Change in Iran. Yoseff Abbas was striding next to his friend whose apartment had been serving as his safe house.

“Over there,” Yoseff announced and pointed to a forlorn-looking two-story warehouse. “That is where they are keeping the political prisoners.”

His friend touched something under his belt, covered by his shirt, making sure his revolver was still there. He turned to Yoseff. “You are sure this is the special prison?”

Yoseff nodded. His contact in the Israeli Mossad had told him they had irrefutable intelligence about the prison. Yoseff had been promised safe passage to Israel. He didn’t want that. All he cared about was the release of his brother and sister, and to get that done, he would have to do this one last thing: encourage the CDCI to stage a raid on the prison that housed political dissidents. It also happened to house the real target of the rescue: Joshua Jordan. None of the Iranians realized that this was the same strategy used by Colonel “Bull” Simmons back in 1979 when he rescued Ross Perot’s EDS employees from a Tehran jail. It was Rocky Bridger who had borrowed that page from Simmons’s playbook when he laid out the rescue plan for the Israelis.

In the street, Yoseff’s friend signaled to his group leaders. Then he said to Yoseff, “You realize the Iranian MOIS will now put you on the list … because you are part of the CDCI … no turning back.”

There was a funny look on Yoseff’s face as he nodded. His friend could not possibly have known that Yoseff was already an enemy of the state, beyond anything the CDCI could imagine.

Over sixty of the CDCI were armed as they stormed the warehouse prison. They broke down the front door and fired shots in the air. There was no resistance — at least, at first. Some of the dozen jailers for the ten prisoners had already left their posts and escaped. Most of those who had remained walked down the hallways with their hands held over their heads. They quickly filed out of the facility and slipped into the night, leaving the keys to the cells behind in their offices.

Three of the jailers, however, were bent on toughing it out. One of them, the head of the torture crew, knew that there would be no escape for him. The citizens of Tehran would track him down when the news spread, and what they would do to him would be worse than death.

As the CDCI rebels climbed up the stairway, they were met by a hail of automatic gunfire. Fourteen protestors dropped to the ground in a bloody heap.

That is when the four bearded American special-ops veterans shouted out their presence in the middle of CDCI mob. Cannon announced, “We’re Americans — we’ve come here to help your cause. Pull back. Go back down the stairs, and we’ll get you back upstairs again to save all of your friends in the jail …”

Jack and Cannon pushed their way through the retreating crowd until they were on the street level. Cannon pulled out two projectile guns with two anchor hooks attached to zip lines. He fired two up to the second-story windows. The hooks held. Cannon, the ex-Ranger, tied the end of the zip lines around a street pole. Then he turned to Jack, his SEAL buddy. “I know you Navy guys like flopping around in the water, but you think you can handle a rope climb on land?”

Jack grabbed one rope while Cannon wrapped his hands around the other. Jack gave a challenge. “On three, big guy. First one up to the window gets a free steak dinner — courtesy of the loser.”

Cannon nodded and smiled. One of their team members gave the count. One. Two. Three. The two warriors scampered up the ropes like monkeys. But Cannon got there first. They swung through the busted windows on the floor that housed the jail cells. They had landed in an empty file room. They quietly slipped to the doorway with their weapons ready. They could see the three armed jailers peeking over the railing at the top of the stairs, ready to shoot the next intruder.

Jack gave the signal. Cannon would take the guy to the right. Jack would fire on the two on the left. Jack held up a finger on his left hand. Then two fingers. Then a third.

They both fired a furious volley through the doorway and into the three jailers. One fell over the railing and down the stairwell. The other two crumpled where they stood.

“All clear!” Cannon shouted out. “Come on up.” Then he searched the desks until he found the keys for all of the cells.

On the first floor, as they ascended, the rebels saw the torture rooms splattered in blood. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and found Cannon and Jack waiting with the keys in their hands. Cannon handed them over to the CDIC rebels with a grin. They began to open the cells one by one. When they got to the second-to-last cell, they released Dr. Hermoz Abdu, who cried out, then hugged them and pronounced a blessing over them. Then they yanked open Joshua Jordan’s cell. Joshua struggled to his feet.

Just then someone spoke in a voice that Joshua recognized as American. “Sir, I’m a former Navy SEAL, and I’ve got a message for you,” Jack said, helping Joshua out of his cell. “General Rocky Bridger says hello and to tell you that it turns out your wife is an even better leader of the group than you ever were.”

Joshua belly laughed and kept on laughing, despite the pain walking.

Then another American stepped forward and said, “Colonel Jordan, I’m Tom Cannonberry, but they call me Cannon. Former Army Ranger. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Joshua turned and gestured toward Dr. Hermoz Abdu. “Men, this is Dr. Abdu, my friend. He’s a marked man here in Iran. We need to take him with us.”

But Dr. Abdu waved his hands and said, “No, Joshua, you are very kind, but I am staying here. The people of Iran need to hear about the love of Christ … how can I leave such a great mission as that?”

Then Dr. Abdu turned and put his arm around another prisoner standing next to him, who was grinning through missing teeth. The man said in halting English, “I follow Jesus now.”

Joshua recognized the voice. He was the man who had said the same prayer as Joshua. Joshua smiled and gave him a nod. Then Joshua grabbed Dr. Abdu by the shoulders. There was so much he wanted to say but couldn’t. Not now. No time. He could only blurt out, “God bless you, my friend …”

Dr. Hermoz Abdu returned the benediction, “And may God bless you mightily, my brother …”

Then the four American special-forces veterans surrounded Joshua like a group of linemen protecting a running back, and they started down the stairs. As they did, Cannon turned to Jack, with a sly grin on his face. “I take my steak medium rare …”