The Arrows of Islam - An Espionage Thriller - Book 1 in the Ari Cohen Series: The Ari Cohen Series, #1

The Arrows

of

Islam

Book 1 in the Ari Cohen Series

An Espionage Thriller

by

Spencer Hawke

Copyright © 2014 Spencer Hawke

All Rights Reserved.

Spencer Hawke, www.spencerhawke.com

The Arrows of Islam

As Spencer Hawke:

The Journey of the Bell – The Ari Cohen series, The Beginning

The Swiss Conspiracy, Book 2 of the Ari Cohen Series —

The Forgotten – Book 3 In the Ari Cohen Series

The Violinist – Coming Soon. Book 4 in the Ari Cohen Series

Mystery of the Dead Sea Scrolls-Revealed — Book 1 in my Mystery Series

To see my other Books Click

http://spencerhawkeauthor.com

If you enjoy The Arrows of Islam – Book 1 in the Ari Cohen Series, Book 2 The Swiss Conspiracy – An Espionage Thriller is available at

http://www.spencerhawkeauthor.com

FIND A SOLUTION

Athena Campus, Bethesda, Maryland

March 27, 1999

It was a quiet evening at the Athena Ops Center. Major Tom Burke was enjoying a cup of coffee in his office, his long legs stretched out with his feet on the desk in front of him. The rich aroma of the Columbian blend was tantalizing, and he closed his eyes, pushing his head back to luxuriate in the quiet, basking in a rare minute of solitude and peace in what was normally a hectic world.

Out of the blue, his office door catapulted open, slamming noisily into the wall behind. It was impossible to jump up, drop his feet to the floor and spin around without spilling his coffee. Burke looked around angrily, feeling the heat of his coffee spreading down his leg, to see a junior analyst standing in the doorway, panting as if he had been running.

Sir! the young man shouted, I just saw a Reuters report in the break room; a U.S. Stealth F-117 Bomber has been shot down over Bosnia.

Burke ignored the coffee running from the pool atop his desk full of drenched reports to the floor. He immediately did two things. First, following protocol, he placed a call to his direct superior; the Athena Board Member from Massachusetts who was on call that night. That completed, he switched on the television to see if the 10 p.m. NBC Nightly News had any more information. He was just in time to hear a newsflash.

"This is Tom Brokaw reporting from New York. NBC News can now confirm that a U.S. Air Force B-117 Stealth Bomber was shot down over Bosnia today. The unthinkable has happened.

An ‘undetectable’ Stealth Bomber has somehow been discovered during operations in enemy territory over Bosnia and Serbia.

The exact location is being withheld by the military for reasons of national security.

It is believed that the pilot ejected safely behind enemy lines. We can only assume now that the question is, will the enemy find him first or can American rescue teams get there in time? As the pre-dawn darkness clears in Eastern Europe, the race is on.

Burke switched off the set. All he could think was, Why does this have to happen on my first day in charge of the OPs center?

He was an old hand around Athena, having been part of the organization for more than a decade. He was an agent before becoming a handler and was now moving into leadership of the whole OPs center at Bethesda. He was seasoned, and not much got to him, but having a major international incident go down within the first four hours of your first day in charge was just a little unnerving.

To make matters worse, his direct superior had not returned his call. Burke was analyzing all the possibilities, planning what he would do if the Member from Massachusetts did not get back with him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the main telephone ringing. Thinking it may be the Member from Massachusetts returning his call, he grabbed the phone quickly and practically shouted into the receiver, Sir, thank you for calling me back; we might have an ‘issue’ here.

Burke was startled to hear a voice very different from the one he was expecting. This is George Tenet calling.

Through his surprise, Burke managed a response.

This is a secure line, Mister. You must have a wrong number. I’d appreciate you not calling this number again.

The caller was also surprised at hearing someone in the intelligence community not recognizing his name. He raised his voice an octave, I think if anyone in this country can call a secure line it would be me, sonny boy.

Burke, still in a state of confusion, was determined to follow protocol to the letter. What did you say your name was, Sir?

George Tenet... the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Realization suddenly slammed into Burke like a flaming meteorite. He was so surprised that he leaped from his seat in an involuntary urge to salute the well-respected leader of the premier spy agency in America.

Stating the obvious, he stammered, I wasn’t expecting you to call, Sir. I didn’t think you were aware of our existence.

Burke, we don’t have time for small talk. Your boss is in the situation room at the White House with the President. You’ve heard the news, haven’t you?

Yes, Sir.

We have to move quick, son. We already have an elite team on its way to Yugoslavia to rescue the pilot. But these Navy SEAL paratroopers are going to stand out like chocolate chips in vanilla ice cream without some assistance on the ground. I need someone there to meet them or they’ll be minced meat, Tenet added.

I need someone there who knows the country, speaks the language, and knows the people. Once they hit the ground, they will need someone to help them fulfill their mission and get back to a safety zone for extraction.

That makes sense, Sir. Burke said no more, expecting Tenet to continue with the reason for his call.

I don’t think you do get it, sonny boy. I want you to solve my problem.

Burke was still not following Tenet’s line of thought.

Your problem Sir?

Tenet was sighing, exasperated. Yes, Burke. Get me someone on the ground.

Yes, Sir. I’ll have to make arrangements ... I’m not sure how close our nearest agent would be...

Tenet sighed again. Think outside the box, boy. Mossad has been running OPs in that area for months now. The President, your Boss and I want you to call your friend Ben Rosenberg in Tel Aviv and get him to put his best man with Bosnia and Serbia experience on a plane to the crash site in the next 30 minutes.

He paused to let Burke grasp his orders. It is vital that the pilot not fall into enemy hands. We’re clear on that, right, Burke? He has information on the functioning aspects of that technology that we don’t need anyone else getting hold of, correct?

Of course, Sir.

"Well, Burke, that team will need to do more than rescue the pilot, if possible. From what we can tell, the self-destruct mechanism in the Stealth malfunctioned.

"That means all that super-secret technology is just laying out there in a field there behind enemy lines just ripe for the taking. We need our boys try to destroy that plane if necessary.

And it won’t be a walk in the park, either, Tenet added. "In case your special little geeks there haven’t alerted you yet, satellite imagery is showing us what we believe to be a large concentration of Yugoslav troops mobilizing in an area less than an hour from the crash site. We’ve got to believe they’re after our pilot and our plane.

Yes, Sir. Burke sounded as if he were still working through the issue in his head.

So find someone fast, Burke, and find someone good. I mean, really good. He needs to not only keep up with my Navy SEALS, he needs to add to everything they’re bringing to the table. When he’s airborne, we will synchronize his arrival with our special team. Got it?

Burke was dialing the phone almost as quickly as he hung up the receiver. It was going to be a long first day...

Yugoslavia

Ari Cohen hit the ground hard, rolling forward in a standard maneuver designed to reduce impact from a fast landing. He came to a halt and crouched down on one knee while he pulled in his straps.

He breathed in deeply, enjoying the familiar scent of evergreen from the nearby forest. He checked out his perimeter, the smell bringing back childhood memories of boar hunting trips he used to make with his uncle.

In those days, all he had to worry about was disturbing an angry wild pig, disrupted as he was foraging through fields and forests in search of his favorite food – the morel mushroom.

Ari reminisced as he waited for his senses to adjust to his new environment away from the noise of the military transport plane that released him less than three minutes ago.

His uncle used to love hunting pigs, watching them roast over a large spit in the family room of the local inn. His uncle’s ulterior motive was that the pigs used to eat the morels he wanted to buy, so culling the local population made economic sense. Uncle Bruno made a good profit taking the mushrooms back to Italy to sell in his grocery store.

But those carefree days were long gone. Today Ari had to concern himself with a country gone mad fighting a civil war that pit sons against fathers and brothers against brothers, all started by power-hungry oligarchs trying to spread their wealth and influence.

The chief agitator was Russia, now trying to spread her influence through Bosnia-Herzegovina.

Ari was within 5 miles of the Stealth crash site. He knew he would not be the only one searching for the downed pilot. He had been warned by his boss and recruiter, Ben Rosenberg, in Tel Aviv before he left.

The Stealth bomber is a very advanced technology but the homing beacon used by the U.S. Air Force is so old that the Russians, the Yugoslavs and the Iranians will also be able to track it. In fact, it’s so antiquated, even the Romans could home in on it, Ben had said with sarcasm. Be careful; they might even be broadcasting a false signal to lead you into a trap.

Ari checked his watch; twenty minutes to the main drop. He pulled out his GPS device; he was within 1 1/2 miles of the drop zone.

He whispered a silent prayer, adding just under his breath, I hope it’s secure. He knew if the enemy could track a stealth bomber, it stood to reason that they would be able to track the transport plane the SEAL paratroopers were going to use.

Shortly after midnight, Ari was in position, his Uzi cocked and on semi-automatic, his knives – his preferred weapon – ready for instant retrieval. He checked his watch again; two minutes to drop. He thought he heard the distant throb of airplane engines. He was ready. He checked the locater beacon; the pilot was three miles away.

A scowl formed on his dark features. Wait a minute. That can’t be right, he whispered into the darkness. There was another, fainter signal coming from close by.

That doesn’t make sense. Ari pulled out his night-vision binoculars, searching the edge of the landing zone; all clear.

Suddenly, he picked up movement, an animal? He zoomed in closer, trying to keep his hand steady despite the flies swarming irritatingly around his exposed neck. He ignored them. He was right, somebody was there, dressed in black, an ammunition belt swung nonchalantly around his torso like a Mexican bandito.

It was his posture that worried Ari. He had his head cocked slightly to one side; he was listening for something. That could mean only one thing; the enemy knew the paratroopers were coming.

How? he gasped through gritted teeth. A question for later; now was the time to act and act fast.

Ari had been told to maintain absolute radio silence. Ignoring those orders, he switched on his microphone. Abort! Abort! he spoke as loudly into the mic as he dared without being heard by the intruder across the way.

No response; Ari knew he was too late. They were going to jump into an ambush.

He pulled his silenced FN into position and centered the scope to the edge of the forest with the cross-hairs closing in on the soldier. Ari could see him swatting at flies around his face.

Ari fired and watched through the telescopic sight. It was as if in slow motion; his target stopped suddenly, the hand that had been chasing away flies, ceased in mid-swing – almost as if he had seen the muzzle flash.

The target’s head turned toward Ari like he could see him. His eyes seemingly grew larger, like he could focus on the leaden projectile barreling toward him. Then the target’s head suddenly dropped forward, then backward, as his body jerked back into a tree. Ari could almost hear the collision, the thunk of dead meat hitting wood. Momentarily, the corpse was suspended against the trunk, then the legs spasmed and he slid to the ground.

Ari reached into his pocket to wipe the sweat off his hand and felt a piece of paper. Puzzled, he pulled it out and in the rising moonlight he could see it was his ticket to watch the Vienna Philharmonic playing with the Santa Cecilia Orchestra in Rome, Italy, where he

had planned to be that night.

Perhaps the man I killed, in another time, would have enjoyed the same rendition of Mendelssohn’s Symphony Number 4, he thought. Ari had left his radio comm on, hoping he could raise an alarm. The pulsating engines of the plane above jerked him out of his compassionate thoughts; men were running out of the forest, firing at will.

The first paratrooper of the 10-man unit appeared out of the dark sky; they didn’t stand a chance. Seven soldiers ran toward him firing mechanically. The majestic gentle swaying movement of his parachute was interrupted by machine gun fire and the jerking human moving spasmodically in the last throws of life – a puppet controlled by a puppeteer gone mad. The destroyed parachute crumpled to the ground on top of the dead paratrooper.

Ari – focusing on his target through his scope – could just make out the emblem of the Iranian Republican Guards on his sleeve. He continued to fire, but they seemed to pour out of the forest in an endless stream.

In quick succession, eight more paratroopers drifted down through the darkness, sitting ducks for the Republican Guards who ran fearlessly to each successive SEAL. Ari reloaded his FN, firing as many shots as he could, killing with a ruthless efficiency. As the last paratrooper glided into view, Ari shot the final standing enemy soldier.

He was overcome with sadness, running out to the only survivor in order to provide covering fire. Ari zigzagged, just in case he was being watched, to make himself as difficult a target as possible. As he reached the trooper, he jumped on top of him to protect him.

The stunned trooper initially resisted, but Ari shouted to him, Stay still! All was quiet, eerily so.

Ari and the paratrooper were very close to the edge of the forest where he had landed.

Hearing no more pursuit, Ari got up, followed by the paratrooper. Instantly, Ari regretted his impulsiveness; from the forest, he heard a noise – the sound of a broken tree branch. He looked around quickly, saw the officer of the slaughtered enemy approaching, walking with a mechanical certainty, with his pistol at arm’s length aimed toward both men.

Ari was paralyzed by surprise; the guy had him dead to rights. He looked at his opponent; the man was scruffy – hadn’t shaved for day – smoking a cigarette cockily. The Iranian officer was fuming, his face contorted in anger.

In an educated English accent, he shouted out angrily, You imperialist pig! You spoiled my surprise! You have killed my men!

Ari would never forget that face. The Iranian pulled the trigger, but it fell on an empty chamber. As if in slow motion, the Iranian stood still, not understanding, then looked down toward the gun and turned it so that he could examine the chamber, clearly not believing what his mind was telling him. Ari, against every bit of training he had sweat through, had stood still in shock, but at least he recovered first.

His body, not understanding why he was not shot, finally moved; he reached for his pistol and turned back toward the Iranian, only to see the back of the man rushing into the obscurity of the forest.

Ari was still in shock, adrenalin surging through his veins and overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of the enemy officer. A little more wary this time, he turned to check out his perimeter. He remained uneasy as he continued his visual inspection until he had checked out the entire area. Ari saw nothing; he sensed that they were alone, that the battle was over.

He turned to look at the lone SEAL survivor, visually inspecting him as if uncertain. Why did God choose this one? he couldn’t help but think. Why let this one live, when so many had died?

Finally, he broke the mental spell his shock had him under, and held out his hand to the man before him. I’m Ari Cohen. He whispered.

Still stunned, the paratrooper offered his hand eagerly. I’m David, David Gray.

Let’s move it, Ari responded. I want to get that lunatic. He turned around to grab his gear and radio. It was still switched on, and as he lifted it up he heard a report. The pilot is safe; we have the pilot.

Gray looked over at Ari. What just happened?

Ari squinted his eyes, frowning thoughtfully. They knew you were coming; they were waiting for you. He still had that creepy feeling that all was not over yet. Let’s get outta here.

He turned to move back away from the forest edge. As Gray made to follow, he stumbled but recovered, still on his feet.

Ari looked him over. You’ve been shot; let me look at that.

Gray got down to the ground, wincing in pain as he extended his leg, where a bloodied area was spreading on his thigh.

Give me your med pack. Ari proceeded to clean up Gray’s wound. When finished, he told the trooper, That wound is too serious, we are going to have to evac you.

No way. I’m going after that monster, that heathen who killed my team, he growled out angrily.

Not with that leg. Ari looked up to see the determination on Gray’s face. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.

Ari shouted loudly into the radio.