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

by Dale Brown

  “The army is not to be involved,” snapped Khorasani. “Our forces only. Keep me informed.”

  The colonel’s shoulders drooped as he walked back to his command car. There was very little he would be able to do to shield the Guard from some blame, at least.

  They had to neutralize the enemy force, kill all its members. That was the first priority. After that he would construct the story of what had happened.

  No matter how creative he got, there would be serious repercussions. The Pasdaran could well end up decimated.

  As for his own career, that clearly was ruined. Whether he could save his life or not remained to be seen.

  14

  Iran

  STONER LISTENED TO TURK DESCRIBE HIS PLAN TO GET to the airport and take a truck, the words triggering a cascade of images in his mind. Half were specifically related to the mission—he recalled the map of the area, the airport layout, and the general disposition of the forces, all of which had been briefed.

  Half of the rest had nothing to do with the mission, and were neither benign nor comforting. He saw explosions, cars and buildings, a head bursting as a bullet hit, a vehicle veering straight into a bridge abutment.

  He had no idea where they came from. There was no caption material, no explicit connection or explanation, no context, just seemingly random images interfering with the matter at hand.

  The pilot’s plan made some sense—they would go to a lightly held base and steal a vehicle. The base was some eleven miles away.

  Two hours. Less if he ran flat out, which he would.

  Stoner looked back at the village. He couldn’t see everything that was going on, but he heard more vehicles arriving, and guessed that the Iranians were reorganizing. They would try to surround the area next. They would concentrate on the north, since it was easiest to travel in that direction. Going east meant crossing the desert hills. It was also the direction of the air base, which the Iranians would assume was an unlikely destination for the men they pursued, since it was their own stronghold.

  Turk’s plan was their best bet, definitely.

  “Let’s do it,” said Stoner, starting to run.

  STONER’S QUICK ACQUIESCENCE TOOK TURK BY SURPRISE. He hesitated a moment, then started to run after him. By the time he was halfway down the hill, Stoner was some ten yards ahead. The distance between them increased rapidly, until finally Turk had to yell to the other man to stop.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “I can’t keep up. Hey!”

  Stoner turned and stopped, waiting for him. Exhausted from the sprint, Turk slowed to a trot; by the time he reached Stoner he was walking.

  “You have to move faster,” Stoner told him. His voice and affect were so flat that under other circumstance, they might have been comical.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Here. Give me your gun.”

  Turk hesitated. “But—”

  “Give me your gun and get on my back.”

  “On your back?”

  “I will carry you. Let’s move. Come on.”

  “I’m keeping my gun,” said Turk, still unsure this was going to work. But he decided it was silly to resist, and so when Stoner turned around, he climbed on, piggyback style. Stoner began running, slowly at first but quickly gathering speed. Turk guessed he was going as fast as he had been before, maybe even faster.

  They ran like that for nearly forty minutes, Stoner keeping the same pace over the rocks as he did over level paths. Turk knew of Stoner’s rescue by Danny and the others; he’d heard a small amount of his history. But he hadn’t spent any time with him, and he’d thought, quite frankly, that some of the tales of his prowess and strength were exaggerations. Clearly they weren’t. He was amazed at the man’s strength and endurance, which not only was superior to his own but far exceeded even that of the Special Forces soldiers he’d been with.

  They stopped to rest and scout their position on the eastern side of a hillock, in a bend in a trail. The base was four and a half miles away; Turk could make out the concrete expanse of the runways in the distance.

  He’d told Stoner they would steal a truck at the base, not a plane. He was afraid Stoner would think taking a plane was too wild, too crazy. To a person who didn’t fly, it probably was. But the more Turk considered it, the better the odds seemed.

  “They don’t man the perimeter,” said Stoner, gazing in the direction of the base.

  “They didn’t the other night, but there are posts and—”

  “No one is in them.”

  “You can see that far?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you, Superman?”

  Stoner stepped back, glaring at him.

  “I didn’t mean that as an insult,” said Turk. “I’m just amazed you can see that far. And hell, you’re—strong.”

  “There were operations. There are downsides and costs.”

  “Yeah?”

  Turk waited, but Stoner didn’t explain.

  “I don’t think they’re following us,” Turk said finally.

  “They will.” Stoner turned back in the direction of the base. He pointed. “If we go north and then follow the pipeline, they won’t see us, even if they do man the closest lookout. There is more cover farther east, along the main line. We can move behind it, then around into the facility from the north. It is in our interest to move as quickly as possible,” he added. “Get on my back.”

  AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER TURK AND STONER crawled on their hands and knees behind the scar of the pipeline, moving to an access road on the north side of the base. The nearest observation post was five hundred yards to the west, and it would be difficult for anyone to see them as long as they stayed low to the ground.

  Even crawling, Stoner was fast. Turk followed as quickly as he could but still fell behind. The piles of dirt were of different heights, jagged both at the top and the sides, and Turk found himself wending around them like a caterpillar. Losing sight of Stoner, he resisted the temptation to stand, continuing in the dirt until his stolen pants were worn through at the knees. Finally he twisted around a fat mound of sand and found Stoner studying the fence and the facility beyond.

  They were near the point where he and Grease had gone in before. A truck was parked about twenty yards up the road, facing the eastern end of the base and away from them.

  “Sorry it took me so long,” said Turk, scrambling up behind Stoner.

  “Mmmm.”

  Stoner stared at the truck. It seemed to Turk that he was gauging whether to take it. Turk turned his gaze toward the rest of the base, scanning the runways. He’d been right about the aircraft he’d seen earlier; they had landed here.

  A chime sounded—a wristwatch alarm on Stoner’s arm. The Whiplash operative reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small cardboard container about the size and shape of the matchboxes that bars and restaurants once gave away. He slipped it open and dumped the contents into his mouth.

  “What are you doing?” asked Turk.

  “Meds.”

  “What kind?”

  “All kinds.”

  “Is that alarm to remind you?” Turk pointed at the watch.

  “Every day. Sometimes more.”

  “What’s in them?”

  “Different things.” Stoner shrugged. “It’s how I live.” He pointed at the truck he’d been watching. “We can get it from the back. We’ll break through the fence there and keep going.”

  He started to rise.

  “Wait,” Turk told him, grabbing his arm. “You see over there? The planes? They’re F-4 Phantoms. They’re being fueled on the apron, at the end of the north field.”

  “Yes?”

  “They’re two-seaters. We could take one. It’s farther than the truck, but if we go straight across the field here, we can get there before anyone sees us.”
/>   “There is someone with binoculars on the building,” said Stoner. “They’ll see us.”

  “We’ll be at the planes by the time they send someone to get us,” said Turk. “Look, they’re being refueled. We can fly out. We’ll take one right to Kuwait. It’s what? Forty minutes, max. We’ll be home free.”

  “You can fly it?”

  “I can fly anything.”

  “What about those?” Stoner pointed to a pair of MiGs parked on a second apron closer to the buildings.

  “They’re better planes, but they’re one-seaters,” Turk said. “So unless you can fly, too, we want one of the Phantoms.”

  “We will have to run across open land,” said Stoner. “It will take time.”

  “Me, yes. Not you.”

  “Go!” was Stoner’s answer, jumping up and dashing toward the planes.

  THE FIRST OF THE PILLS WAS JUST STARTING TO TAKE effect as Stoner began to run. He could feel the stitch in his side melt. The dark blanket that had begun to descend on his head evaporated. The pills counteracted some of the remaining poisons in his body, but also replaced the hormones he could no longer manufacture. Most important, the drugs supplied part of the boost his organs had been trained to need.

  No one had ever asked what was in them before. Stoner himself didn’t know.

  Four men were near the planes. One was overseeing a fuel hose by the wing of the lead plane. Another was back by the fuel truck. The last two were loading something beneath the plane—a bomb, Stoner assumed.

  There were other men and vehicles back near the hangars, half a mile away, working on the MiGs.

  If something went wrong, he would blow up the tanker truck, then go and get the security vehicle sitting back by the terminal. Most likely they would come to him, responding as soon as they saw the attack.

  Stoner felt his energy increasing with every step. He ran as fast as he had ever run, the wind whipping past his helmet.

  The man near the tanker truck spotted him and raised his hand to warn the others. Stoner brought his gun up, zeroed on the cue in the visor and fired. As the man fell, Stoner turned the barrel toward the man under the wing with the fuel hose and shot him from two hundred yards; the man dropped the hose and took a step back. Then he staggered forward, falling facedown onto the cement.

  Fuel squirted out for a moment, then stopped, shut off by the safety device at the nozzle.

  The two men who’d been working on the bomb took off on a dead run in the direction of the MiGs. Stoner changed direction to follow. He could feel his legs get stronger, the muscles thickening with each step. Hate filled his head. He wanted to kill these men, crush them like ants, pound each skull against the tarmac. Hatred and anger built exponentially. He felt his head warming, his heart racing.

  Why was he so angry?

  Anger was an excess emotion, something that clouded his vision and his judgment. He could not be angry.

  And yet he was, beyond all measure.

  TURK’S LUNGS FELT LIKE THEY WOULD COLLAPSE BY the time he reached the first runway; by the second, his legs were cramping. He willed himself forward in a delirium of broken energy but desperate and wild hope.

  Do it! Go!

  Stoner was far ahead, running after the two men who had retreated from the Phantom. Turk started to follow but realized Stoner would catch them long before he caught up to Stoner; he was better off going to the planes.

  The scent of jet fuel nearly overwhelmed him as he ran onto the apron. When he got to the first Phantom, he saw why—some of the bullets that had killed the man closest to the tanker had punctuated the tank as well. Two narrow streams of fuel spurted from the truck, crisscrossing as they dropped toward the pavement. The fuel ran in a large puddle toward the second plane. He turned to the first, which was the one being prepped when they attacked.

  Go, Turk told himself. Get the plane started and go.

  HOW HAD ANGER BECOME A PHYSICAL THING? HOW had it become so overwhelming?

  Stoner saw himself grabbing the nearest man by the back of his mechanic’s coveralls and dashing him to the ground. He saw the blood bursting from his skull, the front of the man’s leg turning ninety degrees forward. Stoner floated above his body and saw himself grab the second man, throwing him to the ground and then kicking him, pounding him to unconsciousness with two blows from his foot.

  The hatred was irrational. The hatred felt incredibly good. It felt familiar. He had felt it many times before.

  That was the man they had made him, the angry man. That was the purpose of the experiments and additions to his body, the manipulation. Create the perfect assassin. Create the angry man.

  That was not who he was now. Zen and Danny had rescued him. He was no longer the angry man. Drugs or not, he was Mark Stoner.

  He stopped kicking the Iranian and turned to go back to the planes.

  When he was about two hundred yards away, something told him to stop and turn. He spun and saw an Iranian Hummer moving out from the terminal building. Dropping to a knee, he took aim at the windshield of the vehicle. He fired a three-shot burst into the driver’s head. The vehicle slowed to a stop.

  More men were coming, these on foot, running from a building on the left. Fighting back the rising anger, Stoner calmly flicked the gun’s shooting selector and began picking them off as they ran, firing center mass on each Revolutionary Guard, taking down four of the five.

  The last man, seeing his friends go down, threw himself on his face. Stoner got to his feet and fired a single bullet, striking the cowering man on the top of his skull.

  It didn’t make him feel better to have killed the man.

  Progress, he thought.

  As he turned toward the Phantoms, Stoner saw the jet fuel leaking from the truck. He headed straight for the truck, splashing the last few yards to the cab. The vehicle’s engine was still running; he put it into gear and drove to the edge of the ramp connecting it with the rest of the airport’s ramp network. He hopped out of the truck and ran to the stream of jet fuel spitting out of the side.

  Reaching to the lower pocket on the leg of his pants, he took out a plastic bag with a lighter and kindling. He lit the bag and tossed it toward the stream of fuel. Before he could back away, the stream exploded into a fireball that consumed the tanker.

  WORRIED THAT THE LEAKING FUEL TRUCK WOULD catch fire, Turk had taken the plane up the apron before bothering to start the Phantom’s second engine. When he was a safe distance away, he stopped and glanced back for Stoner.

  A wall of fire erupted on his left, blocking off the plane from the rest of the airport. It was so hot that he felt a sudden rush of heat.

  He was going to die.

  “Stoner!” he yelled. “Stoner!”

  Turk pushed up in the seat, leaning over the side to look for the other man.

  Leave! he told himself. Go! Go!

  He was sent to kill you. He’ll kill you still—that’s what he’s doing. Go!

  Turk looked at the terminal building. There was a truck there, but no movement. He craned his head, looking at the burning fuel truck.

  Where was Stoner?

  “Stoner!” he yelled again.

  “Here,” shouted the other man, clambering up the wing on the right side of the plane, away from the fire. “Let’s go.”

  “Yeah. OK.” Turk blinked; Stoner really was Superman.

  “Strap yourself in,” Turk yelled. “We don’t have oxygen. Just hang on and we’ll be home.”

  Without oxygen hookups or pressurized suits Turk would have to keep the plane low, or risk decompression sickness.

  “OK,” said Stoner, dropping into the seat.

  Turk engaged the other engine, starting it and then ramping to full power. The Iranian F-4 was a lot like Old Girl, but it wasn’t exactly the same; he had to stop and think about what he was doing. First and for
emost, the instrument panel was very different—Old Girl had been modernized several times, and now featured a full glass cockpit close to state-of-the-art. This Iranian plane was all dials and knobs. The stick and throttle looked a little different as well, though in function they were fully equivalent.

  Turk let off his brakes and eased the Phantom into a turn up the ramp, picking up speed gently as he lined up to start the takeoff.

  Damned if the runway didn’t look short.

  Very, very short.

  Too late to worry about that now. Too late to worry about a lot of things.

  Turk jammed his hand on the throttle, making sure the engines were pushed to the max. They rumbled behind him, coughing for a half second on some impurity in the fuel, then shaking it off. They whined with a high-pitched, distinctive scream as the Phantom raced down the long bumpy stretch of concrete.

  The plane wanted to fly. Her wings flexed with the wind, sinews stretching. The base and desert swept by in a blur.

  And then they were airborne, the Phantom rising like a bird, a thundering, anxious bird, but a strong one nonetheless, knifing into an onrush of wind.

  15

  Pasdaran Base 408

  Kushke Nosrat, Iran (Manzariyeh)

  AS SOON AS VAHID HEARD THE GUNFIRE, HE RAN FROM the lounge of the terminal where he’d been drinking tea, passing through the long hallway to the outside parking area. His first thought was that the Pasdaran Guards had had enough of his wingman and decided to shoot him.

  Then he saw the fire.

  “What the hell is going on?” yelled Vahid as two men came at him on a dead run. One was bleeding from the head. Vahid reached to stop him but the man charged past, blood streaming from his temple to his neck and from there to his shirt. He’d been hit by a fragment of some kind; if he would stop to stanch the bleeding, he would be all right, but in his panic he was going to bleed to death.

  One of the Phantoms rose off the runway.

  How? He’d left the F-4 pilots inside, waiting for a fresh pot to boil.

  Vahid started for his own plane. If they were under attack, he had to get in the air.