by Dale Brown
As they wound their way down on a road that led west, they passed a high orchard whose fruit trees were fed from a shallow but wide creek along the road. Two men were inspecting the trees. Turk slid down in the seat and watched them stare as they passed.
A few minutes later they found the road blocked by a dozen goats ambling passively down the hill. The goatherd was in no hurry to move, even when the Israeli, impatient in the driver’s seat, began to use the horn. The goatherd cast an evil eye at the car and the truck behind it, slowly guiding his charges off the road.
“You think he knows we’re foreigners?” Turk asked Grease when they finally cleared the obstruction.
“I think he doesn’t like the government or the army,” said Grease. “Common out here.”
A few minutes later, as they approached the heart of the valley, Gorud spotted a pair of Iranian soldiers near the side of the road. They were about a half mile outside of a small hamlet that marked the intersection of their trail and a wider road that led to a local highway north.
“There’ll be a roadblock,” said Gorud over the team radio to Granderson and the others in the truck. “You’re escorting us away from the earthquake zone. We’re under orders from the oil ministry to report to Kerman by noon.”
Kerman was an administrative center, sufficiently big and far enough away that it should impress whoever stopped them.
Sure enough, a checkpoint appeared two bends later. Two soldiers ambled from the side of the road as they approached. The men, both privates and neither old enough to grow more than a loose stubble on their chins, raised their arms to stop the car.
“I talk,” said Gorud. “You can mumble in Russian, but it’s best if you don’t say anything.”
He rolled down the window as Dread eased on the brakes. Rather than getting out, Gorud climbed up so that he was sitting on the ledge of the door, talking over the roof to the two soldiers. He waved papers at them, speaking in rapid Farsi.
An officer walked out from behind the small clump of trees. His body language said he had a long day in front of him and didn’t want it to start badly.
Gorud took full advantage, and began yelling at the man before he even reached the road. He slipped out from the window, papers in hand, and began walking toward him, still yelling. The officer finally put up his hands apologetically, then waved at the driver to continue. The two privates stepped back and Gorud got in the car.
“Go, go, go, go,” he said softly. “Let’s get out of here.”
Turk relaxed and leaned his head to the right, looking past Gorud to see what lay ahead.
The sharp crack of rifle made him start to turn his head. There was another shot a second later, then automatic rifle fire and a light machine gun, but by then Grease had grabbed him and pushed him down toward the floor to protect him.
10
CIA campus, Virginia
RAY RUBEO TOUCHED HIS EAR BEFORE REPLYING TO Breanna’s question—a bad sign, she realized.
“You might have enough vehicles to strike both plants,” he told her.
“From what you’ve seen of the three-dimensional map,” said Danny, “do you think it’s possible?”
“Possible, Colonel, is one thing. Just about anything is possible. But will it happen? That is another question.”
“Your best guess, Ray. Will it work?”
Rubeo frowned, and crossed his arms. The body at the front of the conference room appeared almost real—if Breanna squinted, she would have sworn that Rubeo was actually standing there. But in fact he was speaking from his home out West; his image was a hologram.
“I think it’s the sort of gamble we can only decide to take when we have all the target data,” said Rubeo.
“What if we don’t get any more?” asked Breanna.
“Then it becomes a computing problem. A difficult one.”
“All right, thank you,” she said. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
The holographic projection disappeared.
“He’s in a particularly upbeat mood,” said Danny.
“What do you think?”
“Unless the Agency develops more information in the next few hours, I think you have to split the forces,” said Danny. “You only have a few hours left.”
“I’m not even confident they can get the best route figured out by then,” confessed Breanna. “There’s so little data on the sites.”
She swung in the chair and picked up the phone to call Jonathon Reid, who was over in the CIA main building.
“We’re still working on it,” said Reid when they connected. “By eight A.M. our time, I hope to have a definitive word on which of the two sites it is. New images from the 57 would be helpful.”
“If we send the aircraft now, it won’t be ready to support the assault,” said Breanna. The problem was not the plane but the gear—it had to be carefully reprogrammed and calibrated before the mission.
“Understood.”
“If we can’t get more data, we’ll find a way to strike both sites,” she said. “It’s our only option to make the President’s deadline.”
11
Iran
TURK STRUGGLED TO GET UP FROM THE FLOOR OF THE car, but it was impossible with Grease holding him down. The car whipped up the road, fishtailing and taking several turns before straightening out.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked when Grease finally let him up.
“I’m keeping you alive,” said Grease roughly.
“I mean with the gunfire.”
“They just started shooting.”
They drove another five minutes before pulling over. Gorud hopped out. Turk reached for the door but Grease stopped him.
“No chances.” Grease shook his head. “Stay in the car.”
“Come on, damn it. I’m not a fuckin’ kid.”
“It’s safer in here, and it won’t be a minute. Two guys got shot up pretty bad,” added Grease.
“So you want me to just sit here while the CIA and Mossad figure out what to do?” asked Turk, reaching for the door handle to his left. “No thank you.”
This time Grease didn’t stop him. Turk slammed his door and stalked back to the truck. Gorud stood talking to the Israeli at the passenger side of the cab. Captain Granderson, grim-faced and blood splattered, came out from the back.
“What the hell is going on?” demanded Turk.
Both men ignored him. Turk grabbed Gorud by the shoulder and turned him around with such ferocity that he surprised even himself. Taken off guard, the CIA officer stumbled back against the side of the truck, dropping the paper map he had folded in his hand.
“I said, what the hell is going on?” demanded Turk.
“We’re trying to figure out how to get north as quickly as possible, without too much risk,” said Gorud. He straightened, trying to recover his composure.
“You were talking about the Caspian,” said Captain Granderson.
“He was,” said Gorud, gesturing at the Israeli. “Not me.”
“My mission here is complete,” said the Israeli. “You can do what you want. I am leaving.”
“Then start walking,” snapped Turk.
The Israeli looked as if he’d been slapped across the face. He turned to Gorud and said something in Farsi. Gorud didn’t respond.
Turk looked at Granderson. “What happened back there? Why did they shoot?”
“I don’t know. They just started firing as we drove up. They must have seen something about the truck. We killed them all. I don’t think they had time to radio, but we won’t have too much of a head start once someone checks with them and they don’t answer.”
Turk reached down and picked up the map. They were at the edge of high desert, land that on the map seemed empty, but he knew from the satellite images that it would be studded with small settlements.
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br /> “This spot here—this is where the fuel rendezvous was to be with the helicopter, correct?” He pointed out the mark to Gorud.
“That’s right.”
“Let’s take the road that leads to it, sweep north, and then back west.”
“It will add hours of travel time,” said Gorud. “Better to go directly. Our gas is limited.”
“There’s a town here,” said Granderson, pointing to Khur. “We can get gas there.”
“We may be questioned,” answered Gorud.
“We’ll be questioned everywhere. Let’s go—we need to move.”
“I agree,” said Turk. “Let’s do it.”
He turned and found Grease standing so close to him that he nearly collided with him.
The Israeli started to object. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s what we’re doing,” said Turk. “Like I told you, you can always walk.”
THE SIXTY MILES BY AIR TO THE REFUEL SITE WERE easily doubled by the switchbacks and curving roads that took them there. In several places the road was only theoretical, a fictional notion on the map describing a path that had been brushed away by a surge of wind-driven dirt and sand.
At least they weren’t being followed. Turk kept expecting aircraft to appear overhead, but the only ones he heard were well to the south.
It was nearly noon by the time they reached the abandoned strip mine where the fuel for the helicopter had been hidden. Waiting about a half mile south for a two-man scouting team to make sure the area was clear, Turk considered what he would do if it turned out to be an ambush. He checked and rechecked the AK-47 and pistol.
I’ll save the last bullet for myself.
A fine, romantic thought. But almost impossible to carry out, he suspected. In the heat of battle, who was going to count bullets?
He would gladly exchange the pistol or rifle, for that matter, for an airplane. On the ground he was nothing. Put him in the air and he could take on anyone.
“It’s clear,” said Gorud, touching his earphone as the radio transmission came in. “Drive in slowly. We don’t want too much dust.”
The hiding place was a man-made horseshoe canyon, with the two arms squeezed together at the southwest, away from the road. They went in slowly, but still kicked up so much sand that Turk couldn’t see when he got out of the car.
The supplies had been tucked into a crevice at the side of the right arm, where the site had been quarried and workers created or enlarged a small cave. Besides the fuel drums, there were emergency supplies including water and packaged food.
Green, the Delta top sergeant, opened up one of the food packages and passed out the contents. Turk ate with abandon. The Delta troopers took theirs and then fanned out into protective positions outside the perimeter. Grease stayed with Turk; Granderson and Green huddled near the barrels, whispering together. Gorud and the Israeli, meanwhile, sat together in the car, silent.
Ironically, the two Delta men who’d been wounded were the designated medics. Tiny was by far the worse. Semiconscious, he’d lost a great deal of blood from two bullet holes in his thigh, and a third at the top of his hip looked nearly as bad. The other man who’d been hurt was Dread; his shoulder was shot up and he had a graze wound to his cheek.
“Chick magnet,” he told Turk, pointing to the bandage. “Scar’ll get me laid for the rest of my life.”
Doc was less cheery about Tiny’s wounds. “Medevacking him out would be a good idea.”
“Yeah,” was all Turk could say. They both knew it was impossible.
Granderson had dropped off two of his men a few miles south to make sure they weren’t being followed. They checked in every few minutes, reporting that the road remained deserted. But they could see a good amount of activity at a town just two miles to the east, a patch of green in the chalky hills.
Set in the shadow of a Z-shaped hill, the town was crisscrossed by green fields divided into small rectangles flanking the shallow valley. There were maybe two hundred houses on the outskirts of the fields.
What looked like army barracks were located directly across from a group of large barns. They appeared to be empty, save for a single pickup truck baking in the middle of the courtyard.
“I’d like to take that truck,” said Granderson, relating to Turk what the men had seen. “If we did, maybe at some point we could get rid of this one. The hole in the windshield is a pretty obvious giveaway.”
“You think you can grab it in the middle of the day?” asked Turk.
“Why not? If it’s just sitting there.”
“Be a good idea to use their gas as well,” said Grease. “Give us more of a reserve.”
“True.”
Green had quietly listened to the discussion. Now he stepped forward. “If they have med supplies, that would be even better. If we can get some plasma for Tiny, it might make the difference. Might.”
“Unlikely they have plasma,” said Grease.
“Worth a try,” said Granderson.
“If we’re going there, then it makes sense to look,” said Green. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“What’s Gorud say?” asked Turk.
“I wanted to get it straight with you first,” said Granderson.
The captain was trying to get his votes together, as it were, before confronting Gorud and the Israeli with what he assumed they would think was a risky venture. Turk guessed the Israeli would be opposed, but he wasn’t sure what Gorud would do.
“Do you think you could pull it off?” Turk asked.
“Yeah,” said Granderson without hesitation. “We could.”
Turk looked at Green. The soldier nodded, then at Grease. His stone-faced expression gave nothing away.
“I’ll back you,” Turk said to Granderson. “Let’s talk to Gorud.”
They walked over to the CIA officer and the Israeli. Turk spoke first.
“The Delta boys think they can get a truck in town,” he said. “They can get medicine for Tiny, too.”
“Plasma,” said Granderson.
“There’s a set of army barracks that are deserted,” continued Turk. “It’s a little out of town, isolated—we could get in and out.”
“At the barracks?” asked Gorud.
“Place looks empty,” said Granderson. “Or I wouldn’t suggest it.”
“Risky.” Gorud looked at Turk. “Your mission is our primary concern. We’re not even sure where we’re going yet.”
“Understood.” Turk noted that Gorud’s attitude toward him had subtly changed. He wasn’t deferential, exactly, but he was at least treating him with more respect. “And I know it’s a gamble, but it might help us get there easier. And we might be able to save our guy.”
Gorud frowned. He took the paper map from his pocket and examined it, as if the answer were written in the topographic lines that waved across the landscape, or the symbols at the bottom of the page.
“If we can get in and out of the compound without trouble,” he said finally, “it would definitely be worth it.”
THEY SET UP A PERIMETER, MEN WATCHING THE BACK and sides of the compound as well as the road, and then they went with a plan both simple and audacious—they drove directly to the buildings. Granderson leapt from the truck, followed by Dome and Meyer; they ran and began clearing what they assumed was the barracks. Gorud and the Israeli took the second building.
Meanwhile, Grease and Turk went to the pickup. Grease pulled it open, intending to jimmy out the ignition wiring with his combat knife. But the key was in the ignition. He hopped in and started it up while Turk watched anxiously with the rifle.
“Full tank,” said Grease. “Your luck is holding.”
A burst of automatic weapons fire sent Grease scrambling from the cab as Turk ducked behind the rear tire. Two more long bursts followed. Turk felt a twinge of self-dou
bt—he’d argued that coming inside with the others was as safe or safer than staying outside. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Grease put his hand to the radio headset. “It’s just them,” he said. “They’re good. Come on. Get in.”
Turk jumped into the back of the truck bed as Grease got behind the wheel. He drove the pickup to the door of the building, backing around so they could load it easier. Meanwhile, the troop truck was driven across the way to the fuel pump at the end of the compound. One of the troopers hopped out and began filling it with fuel.
“We can get fresh uniforms,” said Gorud, appearing. “Help.”
Turk shouldered the AK-47 as he ran into the building, Grease close behind. The structure looked at least a hundred years old. The clay bricks leaned toward the interior and the ceiling hung low. Turk ducked through the door and entered a long hallway that ran along the front of the building. It had been modernized during the seventies or eighties; ceramic tile lined the floor, and the walls had faded to a dirty gray.
Meyer waved to Turk from the far end of the hall. Turk passed two empty barracks rooms on the left; a body lay on the floor of the second in a pool of blood. Two more lay at the intersection at the far end, just to the left of Meyer.
“Medical room at the back.” Meyer thumbed down the other hall. “They’re getting supplies. There’s a computer in that office,” he added, pointing to the first doorway down the side corridor. “We’ll take that, too. Grab any clothes you can find.”
Turk stepped over the bodies. One had a pistol in his hand; another gun, an older rifle with a wooden stock, lay on the floor. As he stepped into the office, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and spun right; he jerked around, ready to fire, only to discover it was a small oscillating fan, moving left and right.
Shaking his head, he went to the computer. It was an American-made Dell with an Internet Explorer browser open to an odd porn site: it featured a virtual game where the characters were in the process of disrobing each other.
There were several other tabs open. One was for what looked like a news site in Tehran; the lettering was Persian, and he had no idea what it said. Turk clicked on the video player at the middle of the page and footage of a desert began to play—it appeared to be a report on the “earthquake” that had struck Natanz.
