“You’ve arranged it already?”
“I knew you’d be coming.”
“Because of my parents?” The word felt strange on his tongue, like trying to pick up a quarter while wearing gloves. “They’re in Shiraz, not Tehran.”
“Because of Manifold,” CJ replied. “The best place to fly in to get close to the Kavir is Tehran, unless you want to pretend you’re making a holy pilgrimage to Qom. You’re not a Shi’a Muslim, though.”
“I’m not Muslim at all.”
“Exactly, which is why I knew you’d pick Tehran. And Imam Khomeini is the biggest airport in the city for international flights, so I figured you’d come there if you were flying commercial.”
“What if I’d flown military?”
“Then I’d still be waiting, wouldn’t I?”
Bishop shrugged. CJ had guessed commercial and knew to check Imam Khomeini over the other airports in Tehran. That was probably how the other men had found him, too. They were probably part of the same terrorist group that had taken over the Manifold site. Most likely, they had placed agents at all four of Tehran’s major airports to watch for him. That would explain why the men were there waiting. But one question bothered him more than how well they predicted his arrival: how did they know he’d be coming?
The question hung in his mind as CJ exited Freeway 7 and turned onto a small access road headed east. In the distance, Bishop saw the mountains that bordered the Kavir Desert, or Dasht-e Kavir, as it was known in Iran. In the US, people usually pictured large, ever changing sand dunes when they imagined a desert, but that wasn’t always the case. People often forgot that the entire continent of Antarctica is actually classified as a desert.
Named after the many salt marshes, or kavir, that could be found within it, the Kavir Desert stretched from the Alborz mountain range in the northwest to the Dasht-e Lut, or Lut Desert, in the southeast and took up a land area of about 30,000 square miles. At its heart lay the Great Kavir, a salt marsh over 150 miles long.
“The Manifold site isn’t in the middle of the Rig-e Jenn, is it?” Bishop asked, referring to the large area of the Kavir Desert that did consist of the sand dunes and desolation most people associated with a desert climate. Very few people ventured into the area. The old caravan travelers believed it to be a place where evil spirits waited, and even today, many of the people who lived in the nearby areas of the Kavir avoided it for the same reason.
CJ scoffed. “If it was, we’d never get there. No one has ever successfully explored the place. The closest anyone has come was when that Austrian geographer crossed the southern tail of it in the 1930’s. Gabriel, I think his name was. No, the Manifold site is just over a day’s walk from Hassi, a village just south of the Alborz Mountains. The land is hot and dry, but no sand dunes.”
Bishop smiled. He, of course, knew all along that the Manifold site wasn’t in the Rig-e Jenn. His briefing from Deep Blue had told him exactly where the site was located. He even had the exact latitude and longitude. He was just wondering how much CJ knew. Apparently, the man knew plenty. Was his team investigating the Manifold site, as well?
Since Bishop’s team had gone from Delta to Black Ops, it was certainly possible. For all intents and purposes, Chess Team didn’t exist anymore, so if anyone in power were to investigate Manifold, they would have to use another Special Forces team—one sanctioned by the US government. Domenick Boucher at CIA and General Keasling were supposed to redirect any intel on Manifold to Deep Blue, but there was always the possibility that another Delta team or even a division of the CIA could stumble across something, and act on it, before the higher-ups were informed. Is that what was happening here?
Maybe. But he knew he would never get that information out of CJ. He made a mental note to ask Deep Blue the next time he spoke with him.
“Here we are,” CJ said, turning onto a small dirt road.
At the end of the road, Bishop saw a large metal building with wide doors. From the road, the building was hidden by a large copse of trees, but as they drew closer, it came fully into view. Bishop recognized it as a small hangar. The doors stood open to reveal a tan Cessna 172. The closer they got to the hangar, the more of the plane he could see, and the sight wasn’t as encouraging as he’d first hoped.
The Cessna had clearly seen better days. The paint was faded in more places than not, and the once black stripe along the side was now gray. Several of the panels on the fuselage and wings were a different color than the rest of the plane, indicating they’d been replaced but never repainted, and here and there, he spotted the rough welds of hasty patch jobs. The windows looked dirty, and the whole plane needed a wash. The airframe seemed sound from the car, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he got a closer look. Even then, Bishop was no airplane mechanic. He knew how to fly them and how to jump out of them, and that’s where his knowledge ended.
“Looks old,” he said.
“It is,” CJ replied. “Older than you. It’s one of the first models from back in 1956. Over twenty five thousand hours logged on the airframe. It’s got a new engine, though, and updated electronics. It’ll get us there.”
“You know the pilot?” Bishop asked, still looking at the plane.
“Oh, yeah. I know him real well,” CJ replied. “He’s me.”
Bishop grinned. He might have known.
They came to a stop beside the barn and both men stepped out of the car. Bishop stood looking at the plane, marveling at how something that looked so old and patched could still fly. It sure wasn’t the Crescent.
“How long will it take to get to Hassi?” Bishop asked.
“Not long,” CJ replied. “An hour. Maybe an hour and a half if the wind is against us. The plane looks like a warm turd, but it can move.”
Bishop nodded. “When do we leave?”
“How about right now?”
Nothing like getting right down to business. “All right,” Bishop said. “Let’s move.” He reached up and grabbed the door handle on the Cessna’s fuselage, then pulled it open. It seemed much smaller inside than he’d anticipated. But then again, it had been a very long time since he’d flown in a single-engine prop plane. The Crescent had room for row upon row of computers and equipment, and commercial airliners were huge, if cramped. CJ’s Cessna had enough room for four passengers, as long as they were built like Miley Cyrus. He worked his way around the tiny rear passenger seats until he reached the front of the plane, then he sat in the co-pilot’s spot. CJ came up behind him and closed the cabin door. Then he took his place in the pilot’s seat.
CJ started the plane. The engine came to life right away, and to Bishop’s surprise, it was smooth and quiet. He’d been expecting backfires and heavy vibration, but the plane eased out of the hangar without a single hiccup.
CJ must have noticed the expression on his face, because he turned to Bishop and nodded toward the engine. “Told you. I installed a brand new engine last year. Less than a hundred hours on this one. And it’s an upgrade over the stock setup. 210 hp instead of the normal 180, although the original engine only had 145. This thing is updated where it counts, B. It’ll get us where we need to go.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Bishop replied. “A plane’s a plane.”
“You were thinking it,” CJ said.
CJ steered the plane onto a grass runway and gave it some gas. The plane bumped along the runway but soon lifted into the air. “What’d I tell you? Smooth as silk.”
Bishop nodded. “Good.” He looked through the window at the ground below, watching as it fell away. Whenever he flew in the Crescent, he was always in the back where there were no windows, so this was something new. As the ground got farther and farther away, he thought about his former regenerative abilities. A gift from Richard Ridley, he’d been able to march into just about anything without fear of being hurt. Those days were gone, now. Ridley had taken the ability away as easily as he’d given it. He would have to learn to be careful again.
“You all ri
ght, B?” CJ asked. “You’re awful quiet.”
“I’m always quiet,” Bishop replied. His thoughts turned to the Manifold facility. He knew from experience that anything could be waiting for them—living, dead, reanimated or mechanical. He looked at CJ and wondered if the man had any idea what kind of shit might be waiting for them.
***
The desk clerk at the Evin was reluctant to talk until Massai offered him a few thousand rial. After that he told them everything they wanted to know. Not that the man had much information to offer. Yes, a man named Erik Somers had a reservation at the Evin. No, he hadn’t checked in or called to cancel. No, he hadn’t sent any luggage ahead. Yes, the room was still reserved for him.
That was all they could get. Even after a quick search of the room, they had nothing.
“What do we do now?” Ahmad asked.
Massai was just about to answer when his phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket, cast a worried look at Ahmad, and unfolded it.
“Massai, here… You have? Where is… Are you sure? Of course, I… Yes. Yes, we will do so right away.” Massai closed the phone and stuck it back in his pocket.
“What was that about?” Ahmad asked.
“That was Shahid,” he replied. “They found Somers. A traffic camera caught an image of him leaving Tehran on Freeway 7.”
“Qom?”
“Unlikely. The camera also caught an image of the driver.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“He is with them,” Massai interrupted, emphasizing the last word. “The one called Joker was driving.”
Ahmad winced. “Already? How did they know he was coming?”
“The same way we knew, I presume.” Massai shook his head. His job had just gotten a lot more difficult. Still, there was one bright side to the latest news. “At least we know where they are going,” he said.
Ahmad nodded. “We should hurry.”
“Soon enough,” Massai said. “But first we should go to the warehouse.”
Ahmad nodded again.
The warehouse was where Massai’s people stored their weapons. To get into the airport, it had been necessary to go in without a gun or even a knife. But if Somers was truly with Joker and his people, Massai and Ahmad would need to arm themselves before going after them.
Secretly, Massai was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Joker again. Nothing would make his day better than to put a bullet in that man’s head.
6.
Hassi turned out to be more a gathering of houses than an actual village, at least that’s what it looked like from the air. When CJ pointed to the speck on the horizon, Bishop at first thought he was pointing to a single building. As they grew closer, he spotted the individual structures that made up the village, including a rickety water tower and a squat, unadorned mosque. A few buildings he recognized as small businesses, but most of them looked like single-family houses, and many of those were spaced far apart. If there were more than five hundred people living in Hassi, he would be very surprised.
“What do these people do for work?” he asked.
“Most of them worked in the fields to the north,” CJ replied. He pointed.
Bishop saw a huge swath of scorched earth sandwiched between the village and the foothills of the Alborz Mountains. Here and there, a few crops poked their way out of the soil, but most of the area looked burned and desolate.
“The jihadists,” CJ said. “They came through and put just about everything to the torch.”
Now Bishop saw the blackened squares of concrete between the houses. He hadn’t noticed them before because the inhabitants had done a fair job of cleaning up, but now he recognized them as home foundations. The dark slabs of concrete were all that remained of houses that had been demolished.
“How many did they kill?”
“I’m not sure. Hassi had a population of about a thousand people a few months ago. Now, no more than a few hundred are left. Certainly there are no more than four hundred residents still living here.”
“They killed six hundred people?”
“No, a lot of people fled when the jihadists came to town, but the bastards still managed to kill a couple hundred. Most of the people were simple farmers who tended the fields you saw.” CJ shook his head; for once his ever-present smile was nowhere to be seen. “There won’t be many crops to harvest this season. But even if there were, there’s no one left to do it.”
They landed the plane on a small road just to the east of Hassi. A battered green Saipa Z24 sat at the edge of the runway. A single occupant sat on the hood. The man looked to be in his sixties, or perhaps his seventies, with large, bushy white eyebrows and a few tufts of gray hair poking out from under his stained Red Sox cap. He waved to the plane and CJ brought it around.
“That’s Ilias,” CJ said. “An old friend of mine. He’ll get us to the Manifold site.”
“He has a truck,” Bishop noted, pointing at the Saipa.
“It doesn’t run. That thing’s been sitting in that same spot for years.”
Bishop looked again and noticed the flat, dry rotted tires, the large patches of rust and the smashed headlights. So much for a nice, easy drive to the site.
When the plane came to a stop, Bishop and CJ stepped out into the sunlight. The first thing Bishop noticed was the heat. Waves of it rolled upward from the sun-baked ground, making the image of the Saipa shimmer. Almost immediately, sweat began to pool in his underarms and on his forehead. Tehran had been warm, but the edge of the Kavir was hot.
CJ noticed his discomfort. “You were born here, weren’t you? You’d think your body would be better prepared for this.” He winked.
“I didn’t complain,” Bishop said.
“You get used to it, B. Just make sure you have enough water.”
Bishop didn’t need to be told. He’d spent plenty of time in arid regions on one mission or another. He knew how to get by. No Special Forces team ever went into service in the Middle East without some form of desert survival training; it was a prerequisite to deployment. As a Delta operative himself, CJ was undoubtedly aware of that.
He’s probably just baiting me again, Bishop thought. He liked CJ, the man was easy with a smile and seemed perpetually cheerful. During his previous correspondence with the man, Bishop had never quite grasped the level of the man’s geniality. Amazing how much of someone’s character could get lost sending short, clipped messages through cyberspace. That said, he could do with a little less conversation and a little more action. “Let’s get to it.”
Ilias stood as they approached, his dry, cracked lips spreading into a wide gap-toothed grin.
“Welcome back, Hani,” he said in Persian, embracing CJ. “It is good to see you.”
“Hani?” Bishop asked.
CJ looked at him and for once managed to look a bit embarrassed. “It’s a nickname. It means—”
“Happy,” Bishop finished for him. “I know.” The name fit CJ’s personality.
CJ nodded. “Ilias is one of my oldest friends. He gave me the nickname as a child.”
“I’ll have to remember that one,” Bishop said.
Ilias turned to Bishop and held out his hand, which Bishop took. “A pleasure to meet you,” Ilias said in stilted English.
“Likewise,” Bishop replied, then switched to Persian. “Where’s our ride?”
“In a hurry?” Ilias asked.
“He’s all business,” CJ said. “I—”
“Actually,” Bishop said. “We are in a hurry.” They really didn’t have time to share pleasantries. If this man really was a friend of CJ’s, then he would get over the curt greeting.
“Of course,” Ilias said with a nod, and motioned toward a copse of trees. “Apologies. Our transport is over there.”
Bishop looked, and there, underneath the trees, were two small motorcycles with wide, fat tires, and a four-wheeler. The four-wheeler had a faded orange gas can and a blue cooler strapped to the rear rack. An old single shot
rifle was secured to the front rack. Bishop recognized the bikes as Yamaha Big Wheels, which were popular back in the late eighties, along with big hair and parachute pants. But the wide, knobby tires would be perfect for riding through the desert.
Seeing the rifle strapped to the four-wheeler reminded him that he hadn’t secured a weapon yet. He turned to CJ. “Have something with a trigger and bullets for me?”
“Of course,” CJ said. He turned back to the plane and stuck his head into the cabin. After a few minutes rooting around behind the passenger seats, he produced a large black suitcase and a pair of green, military-style backpacks. “One of the benefits of flying an ugly, beat up plane,” he said. “No one ever bothers to search it.” He set the suitcase and the packs on the ground and opened the case, showing Bishop the contents.
Inside were four pistols. A Desert Eagle .357, two Sig Sauer P220, and a matte, black Beretta .380 Cheetah with an improvised laser sight. Beside each gun was a pair of extra clips, all loaded. CJ reached in and grabbed the Beretta, then tucked it into the rear waistband of his pants.
“This one’s mine,” he said. He grabbed the two clips and put them in his front pocket.
Bishop looked at the suitcase. He grabbed one of the Sigs, checked the safety, and tucked it into his waistband. Then he grabbed the two extra clips, along with the two clips from the second Sig, and shoved all four into his pockets.
“Think you’ll need that much ammunition?” CJ asked.
“You’re aware of the kind of weapon I normally carry?” Bishop said.
CJ laughed and closed the suitcase. Bishop was well known for carrying large, chain-fed machine guns that could level an army. The Sigs were pellet guns in comparison. “Fair enough,” CJ said, then put the suitcase back on the plane. He handed one of the backpacks to Bishop and slung the second over his shoulder.
“Pretty standard stuff in there,” CJ said. “Canteen, matches, MREs, that sort of thing. Plenty of room for more if you need any samples.”
Bishop nodded, then put his arms through the straps.
Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella) Page 4
