Most men crouched as they exited a helicopter, knowing that contact with the rotor spinning above their heads would be instantly fatal. Colonel Arzaman walked tall as he emerged from the Huey.
“Captain Jafari!” he bellowed. “Where is Captain Jafari?”
The captain waited at attention just outside the radius of the dust cloud. He knew Arzaman’s little game from experience. The colonel, with the helicopter’s dust cloud at his back, would summon others to him, forcing them to cover their eyes and mouths so they would appear weak and defensive as they approached him.
“Right here, sir.”
“What’s happening with the search, Captain?” he shouted over the noise of the helo.
Captain Jafari of the Revolutionary Guards Special Forces held the map with both hands while the helicopter rotor wound down. He gestured awkwardly to a notation on the map.
“The two soldiers were found there, along the road. The dogs followed the target’s scent east from Bar Aftab but lost it up in the mountains. Yesterday we searched a twenty-kilometer radius around the site. We found nothing. Today we’re tearing up every town and village inside this red perimeter . . .” He pointed at the map.
Arzaman scowled. “He may have a support network in-country. He could have preplanned rendezvous points around the area to coordinate his escape. We moved him out of Sirjan for just this reason, but with every hour that passes, it becomes more likely that he will figure out where he is and make contact with his network. Why are you not checking the countryside?”
“No Westerner could survive out there on his own. He’ll need to steal food and water. My men are interviewing the locals to see if anything has gone missing. We’ll have the whole area cordoned off soon, then we’ll tighten the perimeter as we get closer to his last known position. He couldn’t have moved far.”
“Search the countryside and the outlying areas. I will get you another helicopter from Shiraz,” Arzaman said. He stared at the map. “What do we think happened to the two soldiers?”
“They were both found dead at their vehicle; looks as if they were ambushed.”
“I heard shell casings were found on the east side of the road, along the valley wall.”
“I heard the same thing, Colonel. There was probably a firefight beforehand, but we don’t know for sure. They never radioed in.”
“Be careful you do not underestimate this man, Captain. I would like him captured alive, for there is still much questioning to do, but if there is any chance of him escaping again, your men are to shoot to kill. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
A senior sergeant interrupted them. “Five of the eight squads are in position, sir. The others should be ready to go within the hour.”
Arzaman looked expectantly at the captain.
“I’ll keep you posted, Colonel. Where will I be able to find you?”
“I am heading to Bandar Abbas to supervise the search there. Find this American, Captain, or you will find yourself in the grave meant for him.”
TWENTY-TWO
THE IRG SPECIAL Forces soldiers lamented the bum mission they’d been assigned as their small convoy rolled through the valley. The area around the Khabr National Park was vast and rugged terrain, and they’d been driving for almost seven hours, scrambling their insides as their two heavy vehicles bounced over the rough desert floor. It was almost impossible for an experienced native to survive alone in this land, much less a foreigner. It was even crazier to think that they could find a single man among the never-ending wilderness.
But orders were orders. One soldier on each side of the trucks had been tasked with binoculars, but the rough ride rendered them useless. Amid the dust, discomfort, and the boredom, the conversation devolved into one about cars, weapons, and women. But the country was officially the Islamic Republic of Iran, and the IRG was ostensibly the guardian of the faith, so the conversation was slightly less animated than it would have been in any other army.
The first sergeant rode shotgun in the lead vehicle. Unlike the mostly conscripted regular army, the men in the special operations teams were volunteers, highly trained and heavily dependent upon one another. With interdependence came trust and familiarity, and so rank failed to protect the sergeant from good-natured ribbing from his men about why their unit had been selected for such a long and tedious patrol. The laughter helped pass the time as the scenery blended together and the men’s senses dulled. The sun was at their two o’clock as they wound their way south through the valley. In another hour it would drop below the mountaintops, but for now it was low in the sky, casting long shadows on the hillsides.
* * *
• • •
ZAC LAY FACEDOWN on the ground, close to death. The sun’s relentless rays had split his lips and burned his skin. Now the hot, dry air scorched his throat with every feeble breath. He wanted to give in, to simply close his eyes and die.
He thought of his aunt and how she must have felt like giving in when she was sick, wishing that the cancer would simply take her and end the agonizing struggle. His aching head lay on the hard ground as he looked out over the rocky, mountainous land in front of him. Shimmering waves of heat rose from the earth.
Zac knew that he wasn’t thinking clearly, but in a lucid moment he decided that he wasn’t ready to die. He’d accepted the mission and the responsibility that came with it. He had to fight the urge to sleep. If he closed his eyes now, they might never open again. He stood, slowly and unsteadily. Though battered and bruised, he had to find water or he might not last through the day. He trudged toward the top of a ridge to get a better view of his surroundings. Maybe he could find a village, or even a house. He had to try.
Half a mile away, a trail of dust snaked up from the valley floor. Exhaustion and heat addled his thoughts, but he knew something was moving. He stumbled behind a sagebrush and knelt down. Two military trucks were headed his way, but the steep terrain would keep them down on the valley floor. They would pass below and well to the side of him. He watched them bounce over the rough earth, their knobby tires spewing wakes of dust into the air. Zac lowered himself to the ground behind the sagebrush. The sound of the trucks’ engines echoed through the mountains.
The rifle and pistol would do little against a dozen soldiers except hasten his death. If he were to turn and run, they might see him and give chase, or simply shoot him. There was also a chance that he could remain motionless and blend into the background. With the first two choices guaranteeing a speedy death, it was an unappetizing menu. He decided to sit tight and hope for the best.
* * *
• • •
“POSSIBLE CONTACT, RIGHT side,” said a soldier in the lead vehicle.
The driver began to slow the truck.
“Keep driving,” snapped the first sergeant. “There’s no reason to warn him. I don’t see anything. Hadi, don’t point, but tell me where you are looking.”
“Two o’clock, about a hundred meters up the hill, on that ridge. You can’t see anyone directly, but look at the ground. All the shadows from the brush are soft and blurry, except one; it’s dark and long, and I’m sure it just moved.”
It was quiet for a few moments as they all strained to see.
“I see it now, Hadi. You have the eyes of a falcon. Can you see him with the binoculars?”
“Not with the truck bouncing around like this, but I’m sure it’s a man.”
Everyone was silent for a few more seconds as the trucks continued along the valley floor.
“I agree. Raise the rest of the team on the radio. Here’s the plan . . .”
* * *
• • •
ZAC COULD BARELY breathe. Twice he had to shift his body to stay hidden behind the sagebrush while the trucks wound their way through the valley. Eventually they drove around a bend and out of sight, but he remained frozen behind the shrub. Hi
s heart was pounding. The sun was dropping quickly toward the mountain peaks and it would soon be dark. Like never before, he craved the cover of the night. He rose unsteadily to his feet. He was certain that the men in the trucks were hunting him. He retraced his steps along the ridge to make sure they were gone for good, but the trucks were not gone. They were stopped on the valley floor.
* * *
• • •
THE SOLDIERS CLIMBED out of their vehicles and gathered around the sergeant.
“We’re going up the side of this hill. You four take the second truck and circle around to cut off his escape. The captain said to take him alive if we can, dead if we have to. He’s already killed six of our men, so use your best judgment . . .” The sergeant racked the charging handle on his rifle for emphasis. “Who are we to stop him if he wants to be martyred for his cause?” A few chuckles broke out. “Be safe and stay on the radios. Let’s go.”
The second team sped to their insertion point while the first team made ready. One of the soldiers unloaded a sniper rifle. Another opened the rear doors of their truck. A huge German shepherd jumped down and started barking as he strained against his long, black leash.
* * *
• • •
ZAC LOWERED HIMSELF onto his stomach and crawled out of view. The area they were in was so remote, so far from anything man-made, that the trucks couldn’t have stopped there by coincidence. They’d spotted him for sure. He moved far enough to stand without being seen and ran like hell.
He stopped when he saw the second truck moving to encircle him. Zac had a head start, but that was all it would be. The soldiers would have to hike up from the valley floor, but they were rested and well trained. They would close the gap in thirty or forty minutes. He couldn’t outdistance them, so he would have to hide, but the rough landscape left few options. Once again, his only choice was up.
He started climbing, his body fighting every step. His throat burned from thirst and his head ached as if it were in a vise, but he pressed on. He crested a ridge and cursed when he found several scree-lined chutes dominating the face of the mountain. The sharp, loose stones were the remnants of prior rock slides, physical testaments to the dangerous ground underfoot. In an instant he could twist an ankle, break a leg, or be crushed in a rockslide; but the soldiers had cut off the other escape routes. Every moment he hesitated brought his pursuers closer to him, and him closer to death.
Zac walked tentatively onto the scree, shifting his weight carefully, but the loose footing gave way and he slid several feet down the steep mountain face. He tried again, and the footing held. Carrying only the rifle and the pistol, Zac was light enough to endure the small rock slides without causing an avalanche, but the soldiers would be laden with rucksacks, ammunition, and maybe even body armor. They would be too heavy to cross the field without triggering a major rock slide. If Zac could get high enough on the scree to reach the next ridge, the soldiers would be unable to follow.
He scrambled slowly up the chute, using his hands and feet to distribute his weight. Several times he put too much pressure on a single hand or foot and the rock gave way, sending him sliding down the mountain. Each step was different, every handhold a new risk. The pace was agonizingly slow as the soldiers closed in.
Zac climbed for twenty minutes before he reached the top of the chute and stepped onto solid ground. His head pounded and his muscles burned, but he’d reached the mountain summit where the soldiers and their dog would be unable to find him. He stumbled along the peak, dizzy and exhausted, stopping just short of a cliff. With a five-hundred-foot drop-off on one side, and the scree fields on the other, there was nowhere to go. Zac’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the sound of the soldiers below him talking among themselves.
TWENTY-THREE
ZAC OPENED HIS eyes but saw nothing. He was either dreaming or dead. Soon he tasted the dust and felt the pain that proved that he was still somewhat alive. Night had fallen and there was no sign of the soldiers, but something had roused him from a very deep sleep.
A loud noise filled the air. He looked over the cliff and across the moonlit valley for the source of the strange sound. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The noise was deep and steady, but the pitch and volume varied with the wind. It was something man-made, and it was big. Reverberation in the valley obscured its precise nature, but it was definitely mechanical. Perhaps there were railroad tracks nearby. The sound suddenly became much louder, and Zac opened his eyes.
A fast-moving attack helicopter climbed swiftly out of the valley and thundered past one hundred feet overhead. The Iranian Cobra gunship had been ascending the side of the cliff, the muted “whump-whump” of its rotor echoing off the rock walls. Zac dove onto his stomach. The helo was flying so fast that there was a chance the pilots hadn’t seen him.
The chopper began a tight turn back toward his position. He looked up at the Cobra with its 20mm cannon jutting out from under its nose. In a few more seconds the pilots would be headed directly toward him, and they wouldn’t miss him a second time. His options were the scree field or the cliff. Jumping off the cliff meant certain death, the scree field only likely death.
Zac put his feet together and jumped into the scree. He slid down, his heels driving through the loose stones. With the rifle slung across his back, he used his arms for balance. Zac stared at the attack helicopter as it leveled out and flew toward him. He didn’t see the boulder underfoot until it was too late. His feet jammed into the big rock, buckling his knees and sending a shock wave through his body. He fell headfirst, stones hammering his body as he tumbled down the steep incline. He glimpsed the rifle cartwheeling through the air, the broken sling streaming behind it.
The mechanical roar of the attack helicopter was deafening as it drew closer. If the noise or the rotor wash triggered a rock slide while he was still in the chute, he would be pulverized. He grabbed at the stones. The sharp rocks sliced open the skin on his palms, but he was able to spin his feet downhill. He dug in his heels and stopped the slide.
The Cobra was almost overhead, its three-barreled cannon probing the air like the tongue of its namesake. Zac lay still and watched the helo close in. A half-moon and clear skies made for a brightly lit night, but the steep sides of the chute sheathed him in darkness. Zac prayed that the pilots were not wearing night-vision goggles.
The helicopter flew on, oblivious to its quarry. Zac crawled down the loose rocks to the bottom of the chute and collapsed onto a sagebrush. Bruised, bleeding, and nearly unconscious, he was barely clinging to life.
TWENTY-FOUR
ZAC AWOKE IN the middle of the night, his body damaged and stiff. He’d been badly hurt escaping from the attack helicopter, but he knew that death’s imminent touch would come from dehydration, not his injuries. There would be no tomorrow without water today. He stumbled along for hours before he found a small stream, really no more than a trickle of water, where he was able to drink, rinse his face, and refill his canteen. He lay down between two bushes to conceal himself and in less than a minute he was fast asleep.
By late afternoon he had rested for close to twelve hours. His body began to function again. He was not healthy enough to venture far, but it was more dangerous for him to stay too long in one place. The soldiers may have given up their search last night, but they would be back. He moved slowly at first, his body protesting every step.
Eventually he reached the rim of a wide valley. He sat down and took out the knife he’d found in the truck. He drew it from its scabbard and inspected its seven-inch blade, catching his reflection in the polished steel. His face was deeply tanned, his features obscured by several days’ growth of facial hair. With the clothes he was wearing, he barely recognized himself. To anyone else, he would look like just another goat herder.
Zac put the knife away and surveyed the expanse below. He’d stuck to higher elevations since
escaping from the warehouse, but avoiding the valley would mean an enormous detour, and an expenditure of energy he simply didn’t have. More than once he’d taken such detours only to find his path blocked by a cliff or an impassable crevasse. Now he needed the path of least resistance.
He found a well-worn game trail and began to wind his way down into the valley. The gentle grade and easy hiking were a blessing for his weary body and allowed him to relax after his escape from the attack helicopter. When he saw something move on the trail up ahead, it took a few seconds for his mind to register that it might be a source of danger. He looked more carefully. Someone was lurking in the shadows.
Zac took the pistol from his pocket and moved closer. He squinted to see if it was a soldier, or maybe another herder, but the light played tricks on his eyes. He raised the pistol with both hands and approached. Zac closed the distance until he realized that it was only a boy of seven or eight years of age. Clad in sneakers and sun-bleached clothes, he sat alone on the ground, clutching his ankle. Zac put the pistol in his pocket and walked over. The boy looked up, his eyes wet with tears, and said something. Zac didn’t understand the words, but he recognized the fear in the boy’s eyes; the fear of utter, abject loneliness. Zac himself had felt it as a child. The boy pulled up the leg of his pants to reveal a swollen and badly bruised joint.
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