Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland)

by Dale Brown

  “Yes, General.”

  “Off with you now. I will send maintainers to you shortly.”

  4

  Iran

  STONER’S FIRST INCLINATION WAS TO SIMPLY STAY ON course. The tracers were exploding below him, and while there was a slight chance of being hit by the shrapnel, he thought it was worth the risk to get as close as possible to Turk Mako and complete his assignment. But when a flourish of shells exploded a half mile ahead, he realized they were exactly at his altitude. With the gunfire spreading before him, Stoner ducked left, just barely avoiding the fusillade that followed.

  The sharp maneuver allowed him to change course, but it presented a problem with his stability. He began dropping at an extreme rate, accelerating as he pushed his arms and legs out full. Within seconds his body began to rotate, and he realized he was heading toward a dangerous flat spin, impossible to recover from.

  With the cue in his helmet indicating his body was oriented in a level position parallel to the ground, Stoner pulled in his arms, then tucked his head toward his chin, closed his legs and threw them back, trying to pitch into a downhill posture. Once he achieved that, he gradually reopened his arms and legs, remaking himself into a stable airfoil moving in a direction he could control.

  Wind raged at his body, upset that it would be used to defy gravity and the natural order of things. Men didn’t fly, and they shouldn’t attempt it. Buffeted up and down, Stoner strained to hold his limbs in position. When he hit 5,000 feet, he banked, this time gently, turning back north.

  The gunfire was well off to his right and slightly behind him. According to the GPS, he was forty miles from his target, with little hope of getting there before reaching the ground.

  Stoner steered himself farther east, deciding that since he would never reach the target, he would be better off landing in the soft desert plains. He cleared his mind. His forward speed had slowed to about seventy-five knots: still far too fast for a landing, but at least slow enough that he could set up for one.

  He continued to coast, heading over a set of rocky crags. The edge of the desert came into view as he skimmed below 2,000 feet. Tucking his chin down, he did a flare to slow himself to landing speed. He quickly lost forward momentum. He flared wider, then tipped his upper body forward. As he did, he released the small chute at the back of his neck. Far too small to hold him, the chute provided enough extra resistance to get him to walking speed as he came through three hundred feet.

  There was a rock outcrop directly ahead. Stoner struggled to keep his momentum up. He was a little awkward, not having had enough practice with the rig, and with a good hundred feet between him and the ground he started to fall. He pushed forward, then swung his legs out and did an awkward tumble into a barley field. He managed to curl his body at the last moment, tucking into a roll as he hit.

  The blow knocked him semiconscious. He rolled onto his back, disoriented.

  What am I doing here? What is my mission?

  He knew there must be an answer, but his mind refused to give it. All he could do was stare into the never-ending blackness that enveloped the earth around him.

  5

  Iran

  COLONEL KHORASANI TOOK ANOTHER WALK AROUND the wreckage of the command truck. He needed space to think this through, space and time, but there was little of either.

  There was no doubt that the vehicle destroyed on the highway had belonged to the Pasdaran unit, stolen out from under their noses while they twiddled their thumbs aimlessly around the vehicle they found on the hillside. They had proven themselves idiots of the highest degree—typical, Khorasani thought bitterly, of the bumpkins assigned to the Guard in this region. That fact did little to help him.

  The company commander had been killed when his vehicle exploded. The battalion commander came to investigate; he was in something close to a catatonic trance by the time Khorasani arrived.

  Under other circumstances the commander would have made a useful scapegoat, but he was related to a high-ranking member of the clergy. Khorasani therefore had to worry about saving the battalion commander’s hide as well as his own.

  But there were more immediate problems. He needed to find the person who had fired the projectile that blew up the truck. Presumably, they were the same people who had stolen both vehicles.

  Were they responsible for the “incidents” at the bunkers? Khorasani doubted it, and yet, what other explanation was there? Would a wild smuggler bound for Iran have been nearly so bold, or effective? It had to be the Mossad. It simply had to be.

  But ground troops would never have been able to enter the labs. So what had happened there? Unrelated accidents? Raids by as yet unidentified bombers? In either case, how would the Israelis be explained?

  Colonel Khorasani kicked at a clod of dirt. He needed to construct a coherent explanation of what had happened that passed blame away from the Guards—and away from himself. But he also had to figure what really happened. For without knowing that, he might say or do something that would unravel whatever official story he constructed.

  The infidel bastards were at the heart of this, certainly. He had to tamp down his hatred—it would make him irrational, and he needed a clear head now more than ever.

  “Colonel,” said Sergeant Karim, approaching cautiously, “one of the teams has found something at the edge of the soil mine.”

  Khorasani caught the grim look on Sergeant Karim’s face. Karim didn’t speak of it, but scenes of death turned his stomach. His face always blanched a shade or two when they spoke of it, and the colonel thought he must be struggling mightily to suppress the bile now.

  “Where?” he asked Karim.

  “Follow me, sir. It’s best on foot.”

  They walked through the field and up a small incline. The sun was just warming the day, but it was already seventy degrees. It would be over ninety by noon.

  He would need to make a full report to the ayatollah by then.

  “Maybe they were deserters,” he said aloud. “Panicking and desperate to leave because they caused the accident. Renegade scientists. Traitors. Or fools. Fools are better. Easier to explain.”

  “Excuse me?” asked Sergeant Karim.

  “Nothing,” said Khorasani.

  Karim led him in silence to a cluster of brush. There was a body in the weeds. A man had crawled here, curled up like a baby and died.

  “It’s not a member of the Guard unit,” said Sergeant Karim. “I had one of the sergeants look at him.” He gestured to a man smoking a cigarette a short distance away.

  “Turn him over so I can see his face,” said Khorasani.

  When Karim hesitated, Khorasani did it himself. Looking at the dead didn’t bother him.

  Dressed in what looked like Pasdaran fatigues, the man was large and in good shape. He looked more Arabic than Iranian, but he could be an Israeli or an American.

  That’s the sort they would choose, wasn’t it? Someone who looked the part.

  Khorasani let his mind wander as he looked at the man, thinking of how such an operation would run. You might try infiltrating the bunkers with the help of a few traitors; in that case, what would this man and whoever was with him be doing? Maybe he’d brought material for the attack and was on his way out, or to another target.

  Or maybe he was supporting an air attack, directing it with a laser device.

  Or maybe he was recording what happened. Their satellites were limited. The Americans were always delivering boasts about their technology that proved to be empty.

  The colonel searched the body. The man had no weapon aside from a combat knife, and no ammunition. He had no papers either.

  But what was this, taped to his chest?

  Money, and quite a lot of it—10 million rial checks, along with 100,000 rial notes.

  There were euro notes as well—fifty-three of them, each a hundred euro note.r />
  Khorasani rose. The money would be considerable anywhere, but especially in Iran. It could get him to exile, if he wished.

  He handed it to his sergeant.

  “Count this,” he told him. “Make sure there is a record.”

  Sergeant Karim took it quickly. Apparently, money made it easy to overcome his aversion to death.

  How many others had been with this man? Khorasani walked a few meters, examining the area. The ground had been disturbed by the units that responded after the attack, so there was little hope of getting a read on how many there were.

  A small handful. Was there another truck?

  Which way would they go?

  Either they would attack another lab or they would seek to escape.

  They would have to wait until nightfall in any event. Traveling during the day was too dangerous—as Khorasani had just proven.

  Where to hide? The barren lands nearby were less than ideal, since they could be scouted by air—and would be.

  Kaveh Industrial City was twenty-one miles away, due west. There were many buildings there, including several dozen that were abandoned. It would be an ideal place to hide.

  Could they reach it on foot?

  Too far.

  “What’s the town in the distance?” Khorasani asked one of the soldiers standing nearby.

  “Istgah-E Kuh Pang.”

  “Is it big?”

  “No, Colonel. A few buildings. The train runs through.”

  “Find your sergeant and tell him I want an immediate report. I will be at my car.” Khorasani walked down the hill to his vehicle, where Sergeant Karim had just finished counting the money. “Find me a map of this place Istgah-E Kuh,” he said. “See what units are in the area. Have them secure it and wait for our arrival.”

  “Yes, Colonel. Air General Shirazi wanted to speak to you. He said it was urgent.”

  “Urgent.” The word seemed like a spoon of bitter medicine in his throat. Khorasani considered blowing him off, but decided it would be more useful to know exactly what the general was thinking.

  “Get him,” he told the aide.

  Khorasani braced himself for an argument when the general came on the line, but Shirazi surprised him by apologizing.

  “It was wrong of me to hang up on you,” said the general. “We both have the same goal. The pressure, of course, is on both of us.”

  “The air force especially,” said Khorasani sharply.

  “I have spoken to all of my squadron commanders personally. We have seen no aircraft. The radar data backs this up, as do our allies.”

  Allies meant Russia, which had loaned Iran radar technicians some months before. The technicians were low-level people, and not necessarily the most savory characters, Khorasani knew, but they did lend some credence to Shirazi’s contention.

  Khorasani, however, was not ready to back down.

  “The American planes are stealthy and launch from great distances,” he said. “They could easily have launched this attack.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve already seen the damage at Fordow 12. There is no bomb crater—the attack was done from the inside.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “You’ve already completed your investigation? Of an attack that is less than a few hours old?” said Shirazi.

  Khorasani rubbed his cheek. “What is your point, General? Why did you call?”

  “My point is that you should be looking for infiltrators and spies,” said Shirazi. “As the air force is.”

  “I am doing everything I am supposed to do.”

  “You are in pursuit?”

  “We are not sure what happened,” said Khorasani, unsure what the general wanted. “We are leaving nothing to chance.”

  “I understand several vehicles were stolen from Guard units.”

  “And?”

  “I have reconnaissance aircraft that could assist in a search. The planes that we have in the area now are needed for defense, in case the Americans do launch an attack. I am proposing that we work together to discover what happened.”

  The general explained that he had a squadron of F-4 Phantoms, which were used for reconnaissance. He could transfer them to the area to aid with the search. He didn’t need Khorasani’s help or permission, he added, but if they were working together, they should coordinate their efforts.

  Still wary, Khorasani let the general ramble until he came to what seemed to be the point: he wanted to base the reconnaissance planes at Manzariyeh and establish a support unit there.

  “The planes could help you search for guerrillas,” said Shirazi.

  “The base is under Pasdaran control.”

  “And so it would remain. We need only a small place for those planes. And their escorts.”

  “Escorts?”

  “The planes that assisted you. They were short of fuel.”

  “Yes . . . I would appreciate your help,” continued Khorasani, choosing his words carefully. “The search efforts need to be . . . discreet.”

  “Understandable. And this is my point. If the planes are based at a regular air base, there will be rumors,” continued the general. “If, however, they were at a base near the attacks, such as Manzariyeh, things would be easier to coordinate. We find the true cause of these incidents.”

  Shirazi was angling to reopen the air base, obviously, and who knew what else.

  But cooperation might be useful, Khorasani thought. For one thing, he could use more air patrols to survey the area.

  “I see the logic,” he told the general. “How soon can you arrange the flights?”

  “Within a few hours,” Shirazi told him. “I’m sure you will find the pilots cooperative and our alliance fruitful.”

  6

  CIA campus, Virginia

  “FIRST SATELLITE IMAGES ARE JUST COMING IN NOW, Ray,” Breanna told Rubeo. “A big crater—it looks like a meteor strike. Much deeper than the first site.”

  Rubeo tapped the display area of the table, then toggled down to the incoming intelligence report. The preliminary analysis indicated that the designs were not particularly efficient. But how efficient did a nuclear weapon have to be to be considered a success?

  The Hydra attack, on the other hand, had been a complete success. They had saved hundreds of thousands of lives.

  And yet, the scientist felt uneasy. If the Iranians had come this close, undoubtedly they would try again. They would learn from their mistakes, making their bunkers even more formidable.

  The conflict would never be over.

  Science could do so much good, and yet be put to so much evil.

  “Ray?”

  Rubeo glanced up and saw Breanna staring at him, a quizzical look on her face.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear,” he said.

  “Turk’s satellite phone hasn’t been on since shortly after the attack,” said Breanna, repeating what she had said. “There was an error code that might indicate it malfunctioned or was damaged.”

  “Thomas can help you,” he told her. “He’s the expert on the system.”

  “Thank you. He’s still alive,” Breanna added hopefully. “He’s moving. Very slowly.”

  Rubeo nodded. They had already determined that the sergeant with him, who also had an implant, was dead.

  “Do you want to go home and take a nap?” asked Breanna.

  “There’s much work to be done, analyzing this and checking our performance,” he said, tapping the display area to close it. “I need to get started on it without delay.”

  7

  Iran

  TURK RESTED AGAINST THE POWER LINE POLE, TRYING to fight off the fatigue that was pushing down his eyelids. The pole rose from a ditch, sheltering him on two sides; he sat in the shadow against a jumble of rocks, willing himself invisible.

  The worst thi
ng was the urge to sleep. He knew if he fell asleep, he’d wake up either under arrest or dead, assuming one could be said to wake up in the afterlife.

  A small Iranian village sat to his left behind a low hill, barely discernible in the rising haze of heat. In front of him, perhaps twenty feet away, were train tracks. When Turk first spotted them, having walked along the power lines for a short distance, he thought he might hop aboard a passing freight train and escape. It was something he had done often as a teenager, running alongside a boxcar and leaping up the ladder at just the right moment. But after watching awhile, he realized it was hardly a plan at all. He had no idea where the train would go, nor could he expect to remain unseen on it.

  And besides, no train seemed to be coming.

  He needed a plan, something more than the vague notion that he would escape.

  Guns sounded in the distance, firing at random intervals. It was antiaircraft fire, undoubtedly the product of overanxious, nervous minds. The Iranians didn’t realize yet it was too late for all that.

  Turk regretted having left Grease for dead. It seemed weak and foolish, a surrender that he shouldn’t have had to make. Logically, he knew he had no choice. Grease would have been too heavy to carry very far, and there was no way he could even have gotten here, let alone go on. But it still felt, it still was, terribly wrong.

  Whiplash would be tracking him. They might send someone to rescue him—the SEAL response team or maybe even another Whiplash unit.

  But if they had assigned Grease to kill him, would they bother?

  Maybe Grease meant he’d been assigned to kill him if they were going to be captured.

  Surely that’s what he meant. Turk could understand that. He knew too much about the program, about a lot of things. And the Iranians would torture him to death anyway. Being shot by Grease would have been merciful.

  Shoot me, Grease. I deserve it for leaving you behind.

  He had the sat phone but dared not use it, afraid that the Iranians would monitor transmissions in the area.

  He needed clothes. The ones he was wearing were torn, dirty, and covered with blood. He’d steal clothes, then find a place to hide. Rest. At night he would start walking to the Caspian, or at least in that direction.