Force Lines. Don Pendleton

      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 to come straight out of a roiling cloud of fire, with numerous black dots all over the faces, which he supposed passed for eyes.

      Amarshar looked at Black Dog who, adjusting his shades, simply said, “They would be the Four Living Creatures you’re gaping at.”

      “From the Christian Bible,” Amarshar said as he felt several pairs of eyes look his way, puzzled. “The Book of Revelation, I believe.”

      Black Dog smiled. “Give the man a gold star. Supposedly they surround the throne of God. The Four Living Creatures, the strongest, wisest, swiftest and most noble.”

      “And which would be you and your men?”

      “I didn’t say that. You did.”

      “And they represent, as I recall, the coming of the Day of Judgment?”

      “I believe your Koran holds some similar version regarding the Day of Reckoning.”

      “Indeed. Where the unbelievers will be separated from the faithful and cast into a lake of fire for all eternity.”

      “Something like that, if, that is, you choose to believe.”

      “I take it you believe in something else.”

      “I believe in what I can see and touch in the here and now. Like money—for starters.”

      “Ah, but, of course. You wish to be like your Donald Trump perhaps.”

      “Not hardly. I’m all man, all warrior. I don’t need to hide behind money or flaunt it because I have nothing else going for me.”

      “I see. Still…this insignia of the Four Living Creatures…”

      “Hey, I couldn’t tell you exactly who did the artwork, but mine is not to question my own higher and invisible authority.”

      Amarshar wanted to push the matter, certain the infidels were trying to warn him about personal doom, but sensed the sudden elevation in tension before one of his men, staring at the keypad, demanded to know the access code. As one of Black Dog’s operatives began to rattle off numbers and one of his lieutenants punched the sequence into a personal digital assistant, barking at him to slow down, Amarshar watched two of his men zip open the other nylon bags. Long slender tubes of gunmetal gray displayed, Amarshar stared at the eyeless face of Black Dog. In the corner of his eye, noting the bubbled helmets and spacesuits being hauled out and unfolded, he said, “I hope you’ll understand if I contact my men first and confirm what you have told me.”

      Black