CHAPTER 17 — "SHADOWS UNDER THE DESERT"
"Diplomacy builds bridges. But sometimes it's the dirty work in the shadows that keeps the enemy from crossing."
— Dylan Travers, classified report, August 2014
Langley, Virginia — August 7, 2014 | 5:16 AM | CIA Headquarters – Special Operations Building
The sky was still dark over Langley when Dylan Travers quietly entered meeting room 4-C, one of the most secluded spaces in the basement of the operations building. The only light came from a working projector. On the screen, an aerial image of an underground structure, surrounded by mountainous deserts, with communication towers and three access points.
Below the image, a name in bold:
FORDOW INSTALLATION – QOM, IRAN
CLASSIFICATION: HIGH STRATEGIC VALUE
OBJECTIVE: SABOTAGE OF ENRICHMENT CAPACITY
At the table, Kaitlyn Meade stood with a closed expression, and the Deputy Director of Operations, Byron, sat with his hands crossed over a black briefcase.
Dylan stopped before them, silent. The sound of his footsteps seemed absorbed by the gravity of the situation.
Byron was the first to speak:
— "Do you know where this is?"
Dylan stared at the screen.
— "Fordow. Mountains south of Qom. Underground nuclear installation. Layers of reinforced concrete, electronic shields, and energy redundancy. Theoretically inviolable."
— "Theoretically," said Kaitlyn. "That's why you're here."
Byron interlaced his fingers.
"Iran hasn't given up on its nuclear ambitions. Behind the scenes, they've doubled centrifuge production and increased uranium enrichment. Satellites have picked up new, uncatalogued logistics trucks entering and leaving the base. Local agents have confirmed: there's military-grade material stored there."
Dylan nodded, absorbing the information.
"And we're not going to do this alone, are we?"
Kaitlyn exchanged a look with Byron before replying:
"You'll be operating with a Kidon unit."
Silence.
Dylan crossed his arms.
"Mossad?"
"Direct action unit. Top secret. Agents who do what needs to be done. Israel is as committed as we are to preventing Iran from achieving the capability to launch a nuclear warhead."
Byron opened the folder and pulled out a laminated sheet with three profiles:
Yosef "Yossi" Levi – Tactical operator, ex-Sayeret Matkal. Cell leader.
Tamar Ben-Sion – Explosives and disguise specialist. Polyglot.
Eitan Rahm – Reverse engineering, electronics, industrial sabotage.
Kaitlyn approached the table and pointed to the map.
"You'll be entering as a technical consultant on an inspection mission. The pretext is an academic study in partnership with the University of Tehran. Yossi is already in Iran with a false identity as a Canadian engineer. Tamar and Eitan arrive tomorrow via Dubai. You enter via Istanbul, with a Romanian identity. Documents are ready."
Dylan leafed through the passports.
"And the objective?"
Byron replied coldly:
— "Plant a sabotage device capable of causing an internal failure in three floors of the centrifuges. Nothing that would kill civilians. But enough to delay the program for two, maybe three years."
— "What's the margin of error?" Dylan asked.
— "Zero margin," Kaitlyn said. "If they're caught, the American government will negotiate with Iran—not with you."
Dylan sighed. He picked up the documents, the encrypted radio, and the folder.
— "Mission approved by whom?"
Byron stared at him.
— "Straight from the National Security Council. You have the green light. But in the dark."
Dylan nodded, already standing.
— "Then let's turn off the lights."
Istanbul, Turkey — August 9, 2014 | 3:42 AM | Four Seasons Hotel – Room 412
Dylan entered the room with measured steps. On the bed lay a blue folder with an Israeli stamp. He opened it and found clear instructions:
Meeting Tamar at 6:00 AM, Sultanahmet Square.
Identification code: "Do you know the difference between energy and power?"
Expected answer: "Energy is what transforms. Power is what remains."
Dylan memorized it in seconds.
In the mirror, he adjusted the collar of his beige shirt and checked the features on the fake passport: Andrei Popescu, systems engineer from Romania. Brushed teeth, trimmed beard. Every detail counted. At the bottom of the folder, a disassembled Glock 26, for smuggling into Iran without raising suspicion.
He carefully stored everything. His heart was still calm. No hesitation.
Tehran, Iran — August 10 | 5:25 PM | Yazdani Café
The city was a silent chaos: slow traffic, vigilant faces, eyes that saw more than they said. Dylan walked through the central streets wearing sunglasses, a white button-down shirt, and carrying a leather briefcase. Everything in keeping with his cover.
In the café, a woman with dark hair tied back under a light scarf was reading a newspaper. Tamar. Ordinary face. Low voice. But in her eyes, a contained fire.
He sat down at the table. She didn't look at him.
"Do you know the difference between energy and power?" she asked in English without an accent.
Dylan replied:
"Energy is what transforms."
She turned the page.
"Welcome to the point of no return."
Tehran, August 11 | 1:17 AM | Kidon Secure Location – Basement
The underground room was dark, ventilated only by a portable system. Maps of the Fordow facility were pasted on the wall. Eitan and Yossi stood before a panel with replicas of the centrifuge room.
Dylan listened, standing with his arms crossed.
Yossi spoke:
"The entrance is in the east wing. We'll infiltrate with the technicians from the University of Tehran. The sabotage material is embedded in an analysis cart. When we pass the third layer, Tamar and I will plant the core in the control panel. Dylan, you, and Eitan will secure the perimeter and divert the guard assigned to the substation circuit."
Eitan added:
"The timer will start at 11 hours after the activator is turned on." "A small overload on the power line will affect the central fans. Without cooling, the centrifuges will self-destabilize."
Tamar looked at Dylan.
"Do you think it's feasible?"
Dylan replied:
"Yes. But the evacuation needs to be precise. The location is isolated. Do you have a route?"
Yossi nodded.
"Two ATVs 2km from the base. Then we walk to a village in Qom, where one of our contacts provides transport."
Dylan took a deep breath.
"Then let's go. Before someone remembers to check on the foreign technicians."
Fordow, Iran — August 12 | 10:43 AM | Underground Facility
The dry mountain heat contrasted with the air conditioning inside. The Iranian security guard examined the fake badges with disinterest. Dylan maintained his posture. Beside him, Tamar smiled discreetly. Yossi conversed in fluent Persian with the wing supervisor.
The group walked through the underground structure. Dylan felt the weight of the concrete above his head and the risk all around.
In sector three, Yossi gave the signal with a double tap on his pocket.
Dylan and Eitan separated.
The substation guard was leaning against a wall, distracted by his phone.
Dylan approached.
— "Excuse me... Where is the reactor pressure data panel?"
The guard turned, confused.
"No English," he replied impatiently.
Eitan appeared from behind, delivering a clean blow to the base of the neck. The body fell silently. They hid it under the side stairs.
Tamar and Yossi were positioning the device. Dylan looked at his watch. Timer started.
11 o'clock.
They left the facility ten minutes later, with clean documents and without any further searches.
In the desert, the sound of the wind seemed to say that nothing had happened.
August 14 | 4:00 AM | On safe ground – border with Iraq
Dylan breathed deeply inside the car that was taking them to the exfiltration point. Tamar sat beside him, eyes closed. Eitan dozed. Yossi watched the road.
"You did more than we expected," said Yossi, without looking.
Dylan replied:
"I don't do it for you. I do it because nobody else can."
Silence for a few seconds.
— "You've done this before, haven't you?"
— "Yes. And I still hate it."
— "Why?"
Dylan looked out.
— "Because nobody will know what we avoided today."
Langley, Virginia — August 16 | 10:12 AM | Kaitlyn Meade's Office
Kaitlyn looked at Dylan, sitting across from her with the same expression as always — tired, but firm.
— "It worked," she said. "Satellites picked up evacuation movements in Fordow. The Iranian government declared a power outage. They're lying. They lost two years."
— "Good," said Dylan. "Gaining two years is sometimes what prevents a war."
She leaned in.
— "And you?"
— "Still in one piece. And with the fatigue of three continents."
She smiled.
— "Take the week off. Mandy's waiting for you." Dylan stood up.
"This time... I think I'll accept."
CHAPTER 18 — "THE OLD SOLDIERS"
"There are men who don't need to shout to be heard. Who don't run to show speed. They walk with purpose, because they've seen death up close — and it respects them."
— Dylan Travers, field entry, August 2014
Langley, Virginia — August 22, 2014 | 5:42 AM | CIA Headquarters — Basement L4, Tactical Operations Room
The clock hadn't yet struck six in the morning, but the underground corridors of the operations building were already teeming with disciplined silence. Inside the tactical operations room, the lighting was cold and direct, and the monitors projected live satellite images. On the table, a digital map of Al Jawf province in northern Yemen.
Dylan Travers stood with his arms crossed, listening silently.
Kaitlyn Meade, his direct superior, coordinated the briefing. To his left, an older man, with almost completely gray hair and deep-set eyes, smiled slightly, as if he already knew the mission's outcome before it even began.
Cody "Bear" Wallace.
To Cody's right, a slightly younger operator, neatly trimmed beard, lean build, broad shoulders, and sharp, glass-like blue eyes.
Tracer Morgan.
Both wore tactical pants, technical t-shirts, and simple vests. Neither of them posed. Neither needed to.
Cody looked at Dylan with a mischievous smile.
"Damn, Travers… you still have the same look you had when you were a brand new shoe in DEVGRU and bumped into us in Florida. Remember the joint training in Eglin?"
Dylan narrowed his eyes, feigning fatigue.
"I remember. You made me run ten kilometers with a pack of ammunition on my back, saying it was 'part of the baptism.' Then you made me disassemble an M4 blindfolded." "And you even managed to be faster than half my squad. That's why I remember you."
Kaitlyn interjected, seriously:
"Gentlemen… nostalgia can wait. Let's get to work."
She pressed a command on the tablet. The map image zoomed in, marking in red a rectangular facility near a rudimentary airstrip.
"Location: a remote farm, disguised as a fertilizer distribution center. What we know: it's a front for an emerging Al-Qaeda cell in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP). Informants indicate that a former chemical weapons expert—codename Imad al-Khatir—is operating there. He disappeared from the radar 3 years ago. Now, he's back in action."
Cody leaned in slightly, attentive.
"And he knows how to make ugly things?"
"He not only knows," Tracer replied, "but he taught the guy who dropped sarin gas on the outskirts of Aleppo in 2012."
Dylan absorbed it.
"What's the objective?"
Kaitlyn was direct:
"Sabotage of the facility. Acquisition of research material, and, if possible, live extraction from al-Khatir. If that's not possible… you know what to do."
Cody smiled.
"Turn off the lights and burn the papers."
Kaitlyn continued:
"The infiltration will be by helicopter to Al Hazm, then ground insertion with tribal support via 4x4 vehicles. Secondary route, no air cover—you'll be out of immediate evacuation range. The local CIA contact will provide physical maps, radio channel, and cover."
Tracer turned to Dylan:
"You lead. We just came to make sure no one has to count corpses later."
Dylan nodded. — "Good. Because if we're going to count corpses, they'll be enemy corpses."
Cody laughed.
— "That's why I like you two. The boys who endured growing old. Old soldiers don't die. We just learn to walk with more ammunition and less ego."
Yemen — August 26, 2014 | 3:47 AM | Al Hazm — CIA Forward Base
The night heat was stifling, even at that hour. The air smelled of dust, diesel fuel, and aged human sweat. The base was a collection of fortified containers, with makeshift antennas and discreet observation towers. CIA operatives and contracted ex-military personnel mingled in controlled silence.
Dylan, Cody, and Tracer wore civilian clothes over inner vests and light weaponry.
In the central tent, on the folding table, were topographical maps, photos of the installation, and a box containing equipment: encrypted radios, proximity detonators, and weapons mounted for urban tactical use.
Tracer studied the installation's layout.
"This west side is vulnerable. They'll think we'll attack from the front, but here... there's a low fence, and this vegetation could cover our approach."
Cody calmly assembled his MK18 Mod 1, with the holographic sight set to 200 meters.
"We'll enter with the lightness of a bishop at a funeral, boys. But leave... with the weight of thunder. It all depends on the time between the sabotage and the reaction."
Dylan checked his HK416 with silencer and compact scope, his vest adjusted, and the Glock 19 holster strapped to his thigh.
— "The mission is to infiltrate, collect, and neutralize. Tracer provides rear cover. Cody with me, inside the lab. We go in at 2:30 AM. No drones. No satellites. Just the three of us. Old soldiers and good lungs."
Cody smiled.
"Then let's show why we're still here when most have become instructors at recruit bases."
Al Jawf, Yemen — August 27 | 2:28 AM | Approaching the facility
The three men advanced like shadows among the stones. The hot wind blew in gusts that carried the smell of earth and rusted iron. Ahead, the silhouette of the facility appeared under the pale moonlight: a low rectangle, with towers at the corners and a small water tower at the back.
Tracer, lying on a rise, whispered into the radio:
"Visual confirmed. Two armed guards in the central tower. Movement in the courtyard. Probably an internal patrol. Truck parked to the left."
Dylan replied:
"You cover the tower. Cody and I enter from the side. At the signal, take down the two guards with alternating shots."
Psst. Psst.
Two silhouettes collapsed onto the tower.
Dylan and Cody advanced with precision. They crawled to the side of the building. Cody used a magnetic hook to pull the lock on the gate. Dylan disabled the lock with a micro-thermal detection tool.
The door opened.
Inside, the smell of a chemical lab and mold. Shelves with documents, incubators, gas cylinders.
Dylan whispered:
— "Data tracing. If you find the server… copy everything. I'll get the chemist."
Cody nodded and separated.
Dylan walked down a corridor. He opened a door.
There, in a small room, was Imad al-Khatir—thin, sunken eyes, face covered in sweat. A guard slept in the chair beside him.
Pfft.
Silencer. Clean shot to the temple. The body fell silently.
Dylan pointed his gun at al-Khatir.
"Get up. Slowly."
The man raised his hands. He stammered in Arabic.
Dylan grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away.
On the radio, Tracer warned:
"Movement. Three hostiles approaching the northern perimeter. I see them. Awaiting orders."
Dylan replied:
"Negative. Let them pass. We're leaving with the package."
Cody appeared in the background with an external hard drive and a bundle of documents.
"I got everything. Chemical blueprints." Shipping codes. Even Persian notes with names on them."
— "Good. Retreat now."
03:47h | Withdrawal
As they left, a gunshot broke the silence.
Crack!
Tracer yelled into the radio:
— "I've been spotted. Hostiles firing from the east tower!"
Dylan pushed al-Khatir to the ground and pulled out his HK416.
Prrft. Prrft. Two shots at the turret sniper.
Cody covered the flank with short, precise bursts.
— "Come on, come on! The evacuation window is closing!"
Tracer ran to the group. A cut on his arm, but still operating.
— "Nothing serious," he said. "Worse was the coffee they served me at the base."
Dylan grunted.
— "Run, old man."
They disappeared into the shadows.
Al Hazm — 6:11 AM | Forward Base
The helicopter was taking off when Kaitlyn appeared on the secure radio channel, in an encrypted call.
— "Report?"
Dylan answered, still breathless.
— "Al-Khatir captured. Data collected. One slightly wounded. No casualties."
She smiled.
— "Old soldiers, huh?"
Cody picked up the radio and replied with a smile:
— "We're not old, Kaitlyn. We're tested."
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