Cody's Army: Sword of the Prophet

by Jim Case

Genres: Action & Adventure; Literary Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

They've got Iran on the run! Book 7 of Cody's Army by Jim Case.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 173

Sample

ONE

Lieutenant Walt Green raised the rubber-coated Nikon binoculars to his eyes. He peered out at the misty blue water beyond.
The Persian Gulf was quite beautiful if one only looked at the sea and sky. The great vessels that roamed the gulf were also
majestic and possessed a different kind of beauty, depending on the eye of the beholder.


Green was a career officer in the United States Navy and felt a sailor’s love for ships and sailing the ocean. He still had
romantic notions of traveling to exotic new lands and seeing new sights. The lieutenant also admired the technology of modern
battleships and aircraft carriers. He liked the efficiency and power of these vessels.


Yet Green was well aware of the reasons he and thousands of other American servicemen were patrolling the Gulf. Iran and Iraq
were engaged in a war, and the neutral nation of Kuwait was caught in the middle. Since Kuwait has a reputation as being sort
of “the Switzerland of the Middle East,” the United States and other Western democracies have long enjoyed favorable relationships
with this prosperous oil-producing country. Oil was the reason the U.S. was involved in the Persian Gulf shipping trade.


The United States and other countries needed Kuwait’s petroleum. The economy of Kuwait also needed to ship the oil. Kuwait
and Uncle Sam had a long tradition of scratching each other’s backs. Kuwait had invested more than fifty billion dollars in
American stocks and real estate, and Uncle Sam did not want to lose a friend like that—especially in the Middle East.


Kuwait’s oil tankers were having a hard time getting through the Gulf because of the Iran-Iraq war. The battling nations had
taken the war to the Gulf. One or both sides had decided to place mines in the water. Kuwaiti supertankers were in danger
of being victims in a war in which the Kuwaitis did not want to get involved.


The United States was not too thrilled to get involved in it, either, but Uncle Sam had interests in the Persian Gulf, and
Kuwaiti oil was high on the list of the most important reasons to keep the Gulf open to trade. So American naval forces were
increased in the Gulf. The war between Iran and Iraq continued. U.S. vessels soon learned they were not immune to the furies
of the two warring nations.


The U.S.S. Stark had been hit by Iraqi fighters, killing American sailors in the process. American destroyers escorted Kuwaiti supertankers
through the Gulf. The Bridgeton, a Kuwaiti-based tanker flying the American flag, had hit a mine while being escorted by U.S. military vessels. The situation
was tense and would probably get worse before the conflict between Iran and Iraq was over.


Lieutenant Green was an officer aboard the U.S.S. Farrel, a destroyer assigned to escort two Kuwaiti supertankers in the Gulf. The Farrel was also accompanied by another destroyer, a frigate, and a cruiser armed with guided missiles. Sailors searched the water
for mines as the vessels traveled the gauntlet across the water.


Several navy helicopters hovered overhead, another part of the escort. The heat was sweltering, close to a hundred degrees.
The scent of salt water was mixed with the sweat of the sailors’ bodies. Tension rode in the air, as thick as the humidity.


The Iranians had Chinese Silkworm missile sites set up to the north. Intelligence reports claimed these were mostly located
near the Iran-Iraq border. Others may have been undetected along the coast. Iraqi warships of Soviet design patroled the waters.
These stayed clear of the Iranian Exclusion Zone, the coastal waters near Iran. This was no-man’s-land unless one happened
to belong to the Iranian navy.


A few fishing vessels also mingled with the Iranian military ships. Fishing was important to Iran, and the waters of the Gulf
offered the most abundant supply of fish available to the Iranians. Green scarcely noticed the smaller, nonmilitary craft.
They seemed to be the only thing in the area he did not have to worry about.


Green’s mind wandered a bit. He thought of his wife and newborn baby back in San Diego. It was tough for a Navy wife. The
family had to move from station to station, and the husband often spent long months at sea while the wife had to pinch pennies
on her dependent income and try to make a home at a housing project. She’d probably make friends with other Navy wives, but
these friendships seldom lasted more than a year or two before one of the families left the area after a husband gots reassigned.


A lot of the women got jobs to supplement their incomes. Some got lonely for male companionship. Green had seen Navy wives
hanging around bars, uncertain if they wanted to be picked up or not. He did not think his wife would go that route. Not with
the baby to consider. God, he wanted to get home.…


An Iraqi warship moved closer to the stern of the Farrel. Green tensed. The vessel was close, but not close enough to present a problem. It did not appear hostile. Just another craft
trying to get by in the Gulf waters, which seemed to get steadily more crowded every day.


A fishing vessel moved toward the Iraqi ship. The trawler had wandered outside the Iranian Zone. This happened from time to
time. The fishermen did not seem to pay much attention to the recent boundaries established since the war. After all, the
Gulf was the same body of water their grandfathers had fished, and their great-grandfathers before them.


Suddenly the fishing vessel bolted forward. It cut across the water with surprising speed. Green noticed that part of the
trawler’s stern had broken off to make the smaller boat even lighter. The boat streaked straight for the Iraqi warship.


“Sweet Jesus!” Green exclaimed as he realized what was about to happen.

The fishing boat crashed broadside into the Iraqi ship. The craft exploded with a tremendous roar. Tons of water rose with
the flying wreckage of the Iraqi vessel and the smaller fishing boat. Burning chunks of metal pelted the side of the Farrel.


Lieutenant Green started to duck, and a fist-size piece of shrapnel struck him in the side of the head. Skull bone caved in,
and Green knew he was dying. Blood streaked down his face to his neck. He fell to the deck, barely hearing the muffled voices
in the background. They sounded far away, like echoes in the distance. Whatever anyone was saying, it did not seem very important
to Green. Nothing matters much to a man who has less than a second to live. Green thought once more about his wife and child.
He wondered how they would get along without him. These were his last thoughts before he died.


Colonel Hassan Khamoon lowered his binoculars. He stood at the summit of an observation tower on the Farsi Island off the
coast of Iran. Khamoon lowered his head solemnly and closed his eyes.


“What a gallant act, Colonel,” Captain Rajid Natanz remarked. He stood next to Khamoon and watched the burning wreckage strewn
across the waters. “It appears that our brave comrades not only struck a blow against the enemy forces in Iraq but also delivered
an abrupt warning to the American infidels not to meddle in our holy war.”


“A moment of silent prayer for the souls of our brothers, and thanks to Allah for the success of today’s action,” Khamoon
replied, a trace of criticism in his voice. His head was still bowed as he spoke. “Our victories are not of our doing, Captain.
We are only instruments of the will of Allah.”


“Of course, Colonel,” Natanz said quietly. “I was excited by the sight of the victory, and spoke in those terms.”

“We must never forget that our duty is to Allah and to the great Emir, the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini,” Colonel Khamoon insisted.
“This is a sacred duty and must always be regarded as such.”


Khamoon was a very serious man. Tall and gaunt, he was an impressive figure with a trim black beard and piercing eyes divided
by a hawkish nose. He wore a uniform of the Iran Revolutionary Guards and a turban and keffiyeh face scarf. A button-flap holster was attached to the belt at his right hip, and a scimitar was housed in a scabbard in a
cross-draw position.


“The Sword of the Prophet has dealt its first blow against the corrupt and the misguided,” Khamoon stated. He raised the binoculars
to examine the scene of the explosion once more. “It is as the vision foretold in the dream. The enemies of the true faith
shall perish, and the followers of the Ayatollah will rule the world.”


The Iraqi vessel had been destroyed. The burning hull began to sink in the Gulf waters. Damage to the American destroyer was
slight. The Iraqi warship had not been close enough to cause much harm to such a large and well-armed vessel. The fishing
boat had not carried enough explosives to deal a deadly blow to the destroyer, even if it had been a deliberate target.


Yet the American warship had not escaped unscathed. Shrapnel from the Iraqi vessel had showered down on the stern of the Farrel. Khamoon saw the commotion on board the decks of the destroyer. Men ran in all directions. Many held weapons. Corpsmen rushed
to the bodies of four sailors who lay bleeding on the stern deck. The lieutenant and three seamen had been struck down by
the shrapnel.


A helicopter swooped low over the destroyer. Khamoon guessed what thoughts raced through the minds of the American servicemen
aboard the Farrel. Fear, confusion, and anger clashed within the minds of the sailors. They suspected that a missile had attacked the destroyer,
or that a torpedo had struck the stern. When they saw the wreckage of the Iraqi vessel, they would assume the ship had struck
a mine or been attacked in the Gulf.


The Americans noticed several Iraqi sailors drifting in the water near the wrecked vessel. Lifeboats were lowered to the survivors,
and frogmen climbed overboard to assist the wounded. Khamoon frowned. He had hoped none of the enemy would survive the attack.
None would if those damned Americans had not been in the area.


Khamoon was surprised by the American sailors. They could not be certain the attack was over, yet they risked remaining near
the damaged ship and putting their own lives in jeopardy to rescue the Iraqi survivors. This suggested courage and compassion,
virtues Khamoon had not believed such infidels possessed.


Politics, Khamoon decided, nodding. He found comfort in this justification, which allowed him to retain his contempt for Americans
without allowing the evidence of his eyes to alter his beliefs. They saved the Iraqis to earn the favor of Baghdad. They hoped
to show the world that they were more than the jackals Khamoon knew them to be. Nothing could shake the hatred he felt for
the infidels of the West. Nothing could change his convictions that Americans were cowards and unprincipled scum.


Killing such creatures could not be a sin, Khamoon reasoned. Americans had supported the accursed Shah, and they had insulted
the Ayatollah, whom Khamoon—and millions of other Shiite Muslims—believed to be a holy Emir and a direct descendant of the
prophet Ali, son-in-law of Mohammed.


The Americans clearly realized they were not the target of the Sword of the Prophet boat-bomb attack. Khamoon decided this
was the reason the infidels dared to stay and risk saving the Iraqi sailors. The Americans were not the target that day, but
Khamoon did not intend to spare the great devils of the West. Soon the Sword would strike them as well.


TWO

The truck exploded without warning. There had been no whistle of incoming mortar shells or the streaming white jet tail of
a rocket. The old U.S. Army surplus deuce-and-a-half vehicle had simply blown up as if struck by invisible lightning or spontaneous
combustion. One second the truck had been whole, and the next it it had burst apart in a miniature nova of yellow flame and
violent dissection.


“Don’t you just love explosions on a dark, starless night?” Richard Caine remarked with an exaggerated sigh. “Prettiest fireworks
you’ll ever see.”


John Cody did not bother to reply to Caine’s remark. The Brit was a top-notch demolitions expert who felt far more fondness
for explosions than most. Of course, Caine had a special reason to be pleased about the exploding truck. It was his handiwork.
Caine had placed a bomb under the hood, next to a fuel line. The timing device had detonated the charge right on the button—at
0100 hours according to the synchronized wristwatches of Cody’s Army and the three Iranians temporarily attached to the group.


Shouts of alarm and bellowed orders in rapid Turkish echoed among the border troops. Soldiers rushed toward the burning wreckage
of the devastated truck. No one had been inside the truck when it exploded. Cody’s group did not want to kill any of the Turkish
border guards. They simply needed a convincing distraction before they broke cover and rushed to the pathway leading to Iran.


The Turks had recently increased their number of troops along the east border due to the political powder keg ready to explode
in Iran. This did not make Cody’s mission any easier. Not that anything about the mission promised to be easy, but his first task was to get across the border into Iran.


Cody had made a personal vow to give Pete Lund a swift kick in the ass when he returned to the States. If he returned to the States. Damn it, this part of the mission should have been handled better at Lund’s end. The Fed had enough
connections to insure Cody’s people had some reasonable assistance getting across the border. Except for getting weapons and
other supplies from covert sources at the American embassy in Istanbul, Cody’s Army had been pretty much on their own since
arriving in Turkey.


Apparently they would have to play it by ear all the way. This included coming up with their own emergency scheme to get past
the Turkish border patrols. The exploding deuce-and-a-half gave them the needed distraction to get the attention of the soldiers
when they dashed through the shadows to the border. Another advantage was the fact that the Turks were not very worried about
anyone trying to get across their border into Iran. The patrols were there to serve as a first line of defense if the opposite
occurred.


The Turks were still busy with the burning truck and searching the immediate area for the individuals responsible for the
bombing. Not surprisingly, they were concentrating this search along the border itself, half expecting to see Iranian gunmen
popping out from behind the boulders and rock formations that lined both sides of the border.


Cody and his team were more than two miles away from the explosion. None of the Turks noticed the seven crouched shapes jog
to an unattended section. The team ran along a narrow path that extended between the rocky walls of two jagged mountains.
Cody’s Army had crossed the border.


“Y’all know there’s somethin’ really crazy about goin’ to this much trouble to get inside Iran,” Hawkeye Hawkins commented with a deep Texas drawl.


“That’s probably why they got us for the mission,” Cody replied with a shrug. “Quvam, take the point.”

Ali Quvam curled his upper lip at Cody. A small, wiry Iranian with a ratlike face marred by white scar tissue on his right
cheek, Quvam did not like taking orders from Cody or the other veteran members of the American’s team. He turned to Mehmet
Kashaf.


“Do it,” Kashaf said gruffly.

Quvam nodded in agreement and moved forward to the head of the group. He intended to take orders only from Kashaf. Cody shook
his head grimly. From the beginning he hadn’t liked the notion of taking the three Iranians with his team, and it looked like
his concern about discipline had been well-founded.


Cody caught the eye of Kashaf and glared at the top-ranking member of the Iranian trio. Kashaf met his gaze. He saw the disapproval
in Cody’s expression, which told Kashaf that “this isn’t going to cut it.” Kashaf’s dark, intelligent eyes reflected his understanding.
The Iranian’s angular, bearded face remained grim as he nodded at Cody.


This was probably Kashaf’s way of assuring John Cody that he would make certain the other Iranians followed orders. Cody wished
he could be sure of that. Quvam seemed to resent having anything to do with Cody’s Army. The third Iranian, Karim Bujnurd,
was not much better. A six-foot-three brute with lots of muscle and a Peter Lorre grin that seemed permanently plastered across
his broad face, Bujnurd was an adult version of a schoolyard bully, a big, nasty bastard who enjoyed hurting people.


The three Iranians had formerly belonged to SAVAK, the notorious secret police under the rule of Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlevi.
SAVAK had acquired a reputation similar to that of the Ton Ton Macout in Haiti. SAVAK was regarded as one of the most ruthless
and brutal secret-police organizations since the Gestapo had been put out of business at the end of World War II. In fact,
the abuses to the Iranian people conducted by SAVAK had been a major reason for the opposition to the Shah, which led to national
uprisings and forced the Shah to flee Iran in 1979.


Cody did not want to work with SAVAK. He did not want to have anything to do with them, but the three ex-secret police agents
of the Shah were the best Pete Lund could come up with on such short notice. Cody’s Army could not go into Iran on their own.
They did not know the country, did not speak Farsi, and could not pass as native Iranians even if they kept their mouths shut.
Four guys disguised as deaf mutes wandering around Iran with their heads and faces covered would have been absurd. Cody needed
someone familar with Iran, someone who knew the languages, customs, and behavior of the people.


The three former SAVAK members qualified to fill this void. They were very familar with most of Iran, especially the Teheran
area. Between them, Kashaf, Quvam, and Bujnurd spoke Kurdish, Turkic, and Arabic, as well as English and Farsi. Another reason
Lund had chosen the SAVAK trio to assist Cody was the training and experience the three Iranians had acquired in the past.


All three men had received training from the Central Intelligence Agency. Kashaf had even gone to Langley for AIT. A lot of
the Shah’s SAVAK had been at least partly educated by the CIA, and SAVAK had adopted tactics the Company never would have
advocated, if only because these were too heavy-handed. SAVAK would arrest suspects without bothering to find out if the evidence
even supported the possibility that they might be guilty. The Shah’s storm troopers frequently used torture and murder as
part of “local policies.”


Pretty disgusting background, but Cody’s Army was not heading for a church social in Iran. They did not have to like the three
SAVAK veterans, and as long as the Iranians did their job and more or less behaved, Cody could ignore what they had done in
the past—maybe.


He had ordered Quvam to take point because the ratty little bastard was supposed to be more familiar with the Azerbaijan Mountains
than the others. Quvam was the obvious choice to guide the group through the area. With a little luck they might even be able
to avoid the Iranian border patrols in the region. According to recon intelligence, the Iranian border guards along the Turkish
border were supposed to be fairly small, since the Iranians had dedicated most of their military forces to the war efforts
against Iraq. The nation also felt more reason to fear the Soviets than Turkey, so the patrols along the borders to the U.S.S.R.
and Soviet-occupied Afghanistan were considerably larger and better armed.


Cody glanced at his teammates. The light was dim as the moon and stars barely managed to cast their night beams into the mountain
pass. Yet Cody easily recognized Richard Caine’s face beneath a dark brown turban. The Brit did not look much like an Iranian.
Hawkeye Hawkins was even less convincing. Maybe this was because Cody knew the Texan so well and immediately associated Hawkeye
with the Lone Star State. Maybe they would both look more convincing with the keffiyehs drawn across the lower halves of their faces.


Rufe Murphy was another problem. Blacks are rare in Iran, and Murphy could not pretend to be anything else. Six-foot-two and
built like a professional lineman, Murphy did not exactly blend into the crowd unless he wa. . .