Screaming Eagles Read online

  Screaming Eagles

  (a novel)

  Michael Lawrence Kahn

  My book is a dedication to the strength and tenacity of the heroes who protect our great country, the United States of America. They live in the shadows and keep us from evil.

  They fight those who hate us and want to eviscerate what it stands for.

  Many of these brave men and women die in the shadows, and no one knows that they are no longer alive,

  for their success was to be invisible.

  Terror has no walls, boundaries, controls,

  or borders, nor has revenge.

  When the night is dark and a lone wolf howls,

  a thousand sheep shiver,

  sensing evil is nearing. Soon there will be many deaths.

  Chicago, 4:30 a.m.

  Headlights bouncing, it approaches, growing ever larger. The bus engine groans as gears are shifted down and the bus finally shudders to a stop in front of the man. Rapid-speed wipers slide evenly across the front windows, pushing away small slithers of rain into the darkness. Concertina doors hiss loudly, opening with a thud, allowing the man to climb the narrow steps two at a time. He stops briefly to show the driver a weekly pass and watches as the lever activates to close the door.

  Water drips water from his hat and coat as he walks unsteadily with legs slightly apart to keep his balance when the bus begins moving. He makes his way toward to the back of the bus and sits down in the last row. He counts eight passengers plus the driver. Two are sitting together, the others spread out with each sitting next to moisture-fogged windows. All wear heavy coats and scarves. Relaxing in the warmth for a few seconds, the man smells the pungent scent of rain as it steams up in waves from his coat. The black SUV following a short distance behind the bus is obscured by the rain.

  Over the past few weeks, the man has traveled this route many times and he knows within seconds that the bus driver will brake, nearly stopping, then cautiously maneuver a sharp turn onto Wacker Drive. Inhaling deeply, the man gets up and braces his legs as he feels the brakes being applied. Shifting his weight easily and bending his knees, he feels the bus making its turn while he places pamphlets on the cracked leather seat beside him. He pauses to make sure the papers are stacked in small, neat piles so the police will find them easily.

  When he finishes he unbuttons his coat. Carefully, the man pulls out the gun hidden in the inner lining of the coat. Resting the Uzi lightly on his hip, he starts firing, moving the gun just a fraction from right to left and then right again. Bodies slam forward, the force of the bullets ferociously propelling each person into the back of the seat in front of them. No shouts,

  no screams.

  Braking sharply, the driver looks up at the mirror, panic and terror in her dark brown eyes. For a long moment, they watch each other in the mirror as the man walks slowly toward her. Unsure what to do next, she grips the steering wheel tightly, her eyes brimming with tears as she begs the mirror desperately for her life. The man shoots her three times, presses the lever to open the door, then walks down the stairs carefully and climbs off the bus.

  At precisely the same time, in the same manner, executions in buses are happening in New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta, and Miami. The day of the Screaming Eagles had begun.

  Prologue

  Teheran, Iran 1976

  The iron bars between the two cells have rusted badly, creating a spine of sharp jagged metal. That metal cuts into the man’s cheeks and clusters of flies buzz furiously, trying to suck up their share of blood as it seeps down, falling in droplets from his chin onto his knees. The man continues to press his face against the bars hoarsely whispering the story he had started more than an hour ago.

  In the next cell, a younger man sits with his back against the wall, eyes closed as he listens. Occasionally, he raises his hand slightly. The man who is talking knows to stop even if he is in mid-sentence. He waits, breathing hard, blinking sweat out of his eyes, and answers the younger man’s question.

  “It was Sadegh Muzahedi, the great SAVAK general himself, head of the Secret Service, who came to my house. I thought he was coming to arrest me but instead, Sadegh, praised be he, said that if I cooperated with him we would both become rich. He knew all about my business, how we smuggled drugs over the border, the methods we used, the frequency, and where we delivered. He, the great one, is very well informed. I was terrified to be in this great man’s presence. He told me that he was a secret CIA agent, and if I became one too, not only would he protect my business, but if ever I wanted to immigrate to America, he would arrange it.”

  He shifted his grip on the bars. Continuing, he said, “Each year, I was cursed as more of my enemies tried to take over my prized suppliers of the best-grade Afghan hashish. Not only did I have to fight them off, but also the corrupt dogs, the border police, who continuously demand more payments. Trying to keep my supply lines open was a constant fight. To have Sadegh, praised be he, and the CIA, as my protectors was the power I needed to rid myself of the parasites who tried to destroy me. I said many prayers of thanks to Allah, for my dreams were finally answered. Allah had sent me a protector.”

  His voice rising, gripping the bars more tightly, the older man said, “For more than three years, every month, faithfully, I sent Sadegh the answers and information he asked me to obtain from all the people who bought my hashish. As he instructed, I refused to sell hashish unless the buyer answered those questions. All the rooms, even the toilets and bathhouses of the sixteen houses of pleasure I own, are equipped with tape recorders that Sadegh sent me. Only my two sons knew about the recorders and only they changed the tapes once a week. All tape recordings were carefully dated and sent; I never kept any hidden from him. May Allah strike my family dead if I have lied, for never, ever, not once did I keep, or listen to a tape of his. Those are the great general’s specific instructions, and as his trusted loyal partner, I obeyed him totally.

  “Five days ago, I was arrested and brought to this cell. I do not know if my sons have been killed, or if they will also be brought to this place. I beg the jailers to take me to Sadegh,

  for he is my friend, my partner, and my protector, but they ignore me.”

  Tears well up in the man’s eyes, “Help me, please. I must get out of here. There must be some mistake.” The younger man in the next cell is silent. For a long time he does not speak. His eyes are still closed.

  Then the thin voice rose. “We suspected for a long time that Sadegh is a CIA agent, but we are certain he is also a double agent. Something in one of the tapes you sent him must have implicated him or confirmed that. Because of the danger to Sadegh that you or your sons might have heard something that could incriminate him, he has decided to bring you here. You are too great a risk for him to let you live.”

  The older man’s voice rose again, this time in anger. “Never once, never did I or my sons listen to the tapes. Never.”

  “Sadegh cannot be sure. And if you know, others might also know. Anyone who he thinks you might have told, he will surely kill. This is how he will eliminate the danger you have exposed him to. Your wives, your children are probably already dead or will be soon. I cannot help you, nor can anyone else. Sadegh dare not take a chance and allow your family to live. From a distance, you can be sure he will be watching you tomorrow. I, too, will search for him, for we have been enemies for many years. Knowing him, he will be well protected and well hidden. But he cannot hide from my voice. He will hear me, and he will fear me, for he knows I am not afraid of him.”

  The younger man opens his eyes and looks at the man in the next cell, “I can do nothing for you. Insha Allah. It is the will of our God. All I can promise you is that I will tell your story in detail to my son when he come
s and says goodbye to me tonight. Soon they will unlock your prison door, and take you out of your cell, so you will get your wish and leave here, but you will only walk a short way. The gallows are waiting for you and me. Make your peace with Allah. You are a

  lready dead.”

  The man moves away from the rusty bars. Uncertain, the flies sucking blood from the cuts on the man’s face hover above him as he beats his forehead with his knuckles. Moaning, tremors of hopelessness heave through the man. He curls up on the filthy floor, trembling and crying softly to himself.

  Book One

  Sadegh

  CHAPTER ONE

  At dawn, the condemned men have been measured and weighed. Their height and weight will determine how high the noose should be placed above the trapdoor. Each noose hangs at a different height so as to break the neck quickly. To feed men who are about to die would have been a waste of money. The three prisoners have not been fed for more than twenty-four hours. From their cells behind the gallows, they watch the crowd of people grow ever larger. Soon Ferdowsi Square is filled to capacity. Spectators anxiously search for the right spot that would give them the best view.

  It is a family day. Below the gallows, relaxed parents sit on blankets picnicking and lazily talking while their children play. Modest young girls, properly chaperoned, watch the older boys play soccer, sizing them up as potential husbands. Both sexes are keenly aware of each other, the boys, flamboyant in their aggressiveness, the girls demure and attractive in brightly colored dresses.

  Lottery ticket sellers shout out numbers, promising buyers that today is undoubtedly the lucky day. I buy a ticket, then make my way toward an official notice board where Sadegh suggested that we meet. Most sightseers have satisfied their curiosity hours ago, reading the names of each of the men who are to be executed. A few latecomers, like me, crowd around the wooden board. Three official government notices on yellow paper are tacked there. Each names the person to be executed, what crimes they’ve committed, and where they come from. The paper bears signatures of the Minister of Justice, as well as the Commander of SAVAK, Sadegh Muzahedi Southern Sector, Teheran.

  I recognize Sadegh’s signature.

  Two major drug dealers have been convicted. One of them was also found guilty of committing sodomy and rape. The third is a Communist subversive nicknamed “The Hawk.”

  Execution is set for 4 o’clock p.m., long enough after prayers to allow the faithful to eat a leisurely lunch, have a brief nap, then hasten to the railway station. Trains do not run between 4 and 6 o’clock in the afternoon. All services at the station cease during “the time of cleansing,” the hanging hours. Sadegh is SAVAK’s general, in charge of the notorious slums that make up the southern part of the city. SAVAK is the name of the Iranian Secret Police, whose main function is to protect the country from internal and external terrorists.

  I was introduced to Sadegh a few months ago and was hired as a real estate consultant to check various properties Sadegh was interested in purchasing in the USA. Together, we flew to the States. When we concluded our business after two days of difficult negotiations, Sadegh had proved himself to be an astute buyer, well educated and highly intelligent, as well as a generous host. Last week, I had been in Chicago assisting him to decide which property to buy. Now a week later, I am at a hanging.

  Without Sadegh, I wouldn’t have been at either place.

  My business is international marketing, specializing in selling United States properties to foreign investors. Unlike most brokers who are paid by the seller, my consultant fees come from the buyer. This makes me a tough negotiator on behalf of my clients. My thoroughness discovered inconsistencies, including double dipping in the financials and cash flow projections, saving Sadegh more than $200,000 on two of the properties he’d previously optioned in Chicago.

  That night, we celebrated.

  Sadegh’s favorite restaurants are always Japanese. He loves sushi. Expertly using chopsticks, he soaked raw fish strips on a wedge of tightly wrapped white rice in soy, wasabi, and a variety of other sauces. For the first time since we’d met, Sadegh told me of his profession was and the type of work he did.

  “One of my duties is to oversee the execution of criminals who are terrorists, convicted of treason, and drug smugglers”. He graphically described what happened behind the scenes of a hanging.

  I have killed in combat many times. In my wars, the equation is simple. If you are the good guy, you kill the bad guys. Prisoners are never an option; eliminating the enemy is the only solution. War dead have been faceless, unknowns, never dwelled upon. I want my country to be free of fear, and safe, so I had no misgivings if I was given orders. For me, people who want to kill Americans have always been enemies at arm’s length. That is now a past life, a chapter that closed years ago when I left special ops.

  I am fascinated that Sadegh shows no emotion whatsoever as he chewed silently on his food and took small sips of sake. It is as if he was giving a clinical seminar as he described in minute detail each action that would take place on the following Friday, the Final Sabbath, the holiest day of the month in Iran.

  “The gallows were built ten years ago with a famous British hangman acting as a consultant. He earned his fees many times over, for he taught us the correct methods of building a gallows that severed a neck between the first and second vertebrae. Before the execution, the hangman takes a measuring tape and scales into each cell. He checks the weight, height, and the muscular thickness of the prisoner’s neck. These are all factors that determine how to position a rope on the gallows and eventually around the neck. The British hangman turned our botched executions into works of art.”

  He paused to lean forward and engage my eyes. “Imagine, Jay, in olden times victims dropped with such force, sometimes heads were totally severed from their bodies. Others took as long as an hour to die, slowly strangling. In some instances, the ropes broke. It even happened that people were hanged two or three times. Every now and then, the main supporting beam broke, falling with its victims. If positioning is wrong as they drop, noses are ripped off.”

  Sadegh added a spoonful of wasabi to his soy sauce. “Be sure to visit the train station next Friday. You will view one of Teheran’s great spectacles, an extravaganza that has existed for thousands of years. The Shah, Blessed be He, bowing to international pressure, has announced that this coming Friday will be the last time that the public can attend. It will be a sad day for our people, but the Shah, Blessed be He, has decreed it.”

  I hesitated, filled with hollow confusion. I was sure the criminals deserved to die, but to witness the ceremony of a public hanging was a sickening thought.

  Cautiously, so as not to offend Sadegh, I said, “Your explanation is fascinating. The details you shared with me are enlightening and thought provoking. I admire you tremendously for doing your duty unselfishly; someone has to. I commend you for trying to make the execution as humane as possible; few countries bother. However, to see people suffer is extremely difficult for me, so if you won’t mind, I think I’ll pass.”

  Eyes narrowing, his face tilted upwards, he breathed unevenly and his voice hissed, “I did not expect this from you, Jay. I extended the hand of friendship and you cut it off. This is an ancient Iranian tradition. By refusing to take part in it, you devalue our culture and my friendship. You earn your money from doing business with Iranians and you live in our country. Our customs, not just our money, should be of interest to you. You earn your living in our country, eat our food, bed our women, talk our language. So how is it that all of those activities are acceptable to you, yet how justice is dispensed to criminals who are pieces of filth, who should never walk on this earth again, is of no value to you?

  Sadegh took a sip of sake and continued, “Persians are a proud people and we have been the enlightened leaders of the world since biblical times. Without us getting rid of criminal elements that try to disrupt our lives and take over our government, this country would deteriorate into a Third W
orld gangsterland. You and all the other foreigners who make money from us, and live the high life that you do, who would protect you, and the foreign community? Think about it, Jay, think about it carefully.” Sadegh’s face darkened angrily and I could see he was incensed.

  I knew I had crossed a threshold. Switching from English to Farsi, I said. “Sadegh, Sadegh we are friends. I value our friendship and am honored by it. I did not mean in any way whatsoever to offend you. I apologize a thousand times. I do not have to think for one more minute, one more second. Of course I will come; I am honored you have invited me. I was just tired. We had a long day today, and accomplished a lot. Unfortunately, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Forgive my stupidity and insensitivity, please.

  Sadegh said nothing. He held the small bowl of sake in both hands, turning it slowly.

  Realizing the bastard was letting me sweat, I said. “Please, Sadegh.”

  His cheeks locked inward, he took a sip of sake, twirling it in his mouth slowly. Finally, he swallowed it. “We kill vermin who deserve death. May their souls burn in hell. I will meet you at the notice board at 3:45 sharp, next Friday. I will bring all the completed deeds of sales and documents. I will make sure that each has been notarized. It will save you a long trip downtown.”

  I sensed an edge of giddy madness circling my heart. He was still my client all was not lost. “Thank you, Sadegh, you are very kind. Thank you.”

  Sadegh smiled, patting me on the arm. “Nonsense, my friend, you do not have to thank me. I am delighted I can save you a drive to my office. Our traffic delays can be very trying on occasions. That’s what friends are for. We are friends, are we not?”

  “Absolutely.” The lie sat uneasily in my throat.

  For the rest of the trip, our relationship was relaxed. Sadegh’s knowledge of foreign affairs, especially those of the United States, was unusual for a foreigner. Admiringly, I complimented him one evening while we were having drinks at the airport, waiting to board a plane for Teheran.