He watched as the canopy exploded off the top of the jet and both the pilot and his weapons officer ejected. Two parachutes deployed almost instantly, moments before the F-15 smashed to the ground in a fireball that would have been dazzling if it had not been so terrifying. David’s gratitude that the pilots had ejected in time quickly evaporated as he realized what would be done to the men if they were caught by the Iranians. Without taking the time to think it through, he took the next exit ramp off Highway 7 and hightailed it to a spot in the desert just outside the Shokohie Industrial Zone, where he suspected both men would soon be landing.
David made a wide berth around the factories, warehouses, and restaurants, lest he run into any local law enforcement. He sped along a series of side streets and then went off-road. To his left, he could both see and smell the burning fuselage of the Strike Eagle, and after a few more miles, he came upon the first parachute and got off the motorcycle. He called out in English, assuring the downed Israeli that he was an American, not an Iranian, but he got no response. He called out again several times, but there was still no reply. Was this guy badly wounded from the ejection or the landing? Or was he lying low, planning an ambush when David got close?
David thought about drawing his pistol but decided against it. Instead, he raised both arms above his head and kept calling out in English. He spotted a leg sticking out from under the chute. Cautiously he approached, still shouting in English that he was an American coming in peace. By the time he finally got to the Israeli’s side and pulled the chute off his face, however, it was clear that he was dead. Indeed, the body was badly burned, the face nearly unrecognizable. The pungent stench of the charred body was revolting, but David forced himself to check the man for identification or papers of any kind. He found nothing. Anything the man might have carried had been burned away.
David ran back to the bike and continued driving — more slowly this time — in search of the other parachute. It took several minutes, but he finally found it. He parked the bike near several large boulders, turned off the engine, removed the piece of wire, and put it in his pocket; then he walked carefully toward the chute, once again repeatedly calling out in English. But when he got to the chute, there was no one to be found. He looked behind several rock outcroppings but still found no one.
The satphone in David’s pocket began vibrating again. This time he pulled out the phone and took the call.
“What in the world are you doing?” asked the voice at the other end.
It was a voice David knew all too well — that of Jack Zalinsky, his Agency handler.
“Trying to save the life of an Israeli fighter pilot,” David replied. “You got a problem with that?”
“That’s not your mission,” Zalinsky said.
“You want the Iranians to capture him?” David asked. “You know what they’ll do to him?”
“What do you think they’ll do to you if they catch you?” Zalinsky pushed back. “What do you think the Mahdi will do when the Revolutionary Guards bring him the battered, beaten, broken, half-dead body of the CIA’s most valuable undercover operative? There’s already an Iranian special forces unit approaching from the south. And a helicopter just lifted off from the IRGC air base south of Qom, filled with heavily armed commandos. Now get on that bike and get out of there before you get yourself captured. That’s an order.”
David was about to argue, but he knew Zalinsky was right. He hung up the phone and ran back to the motorcycle and was about to hot-wire it again when he was coldcocked by someone who jumped him from behind.
His vision blurred, and he abruptly found himself on his back, staring up at a hazy figure standing over him and pointing a 9mm pistol at David’s head.
“Who are you?” the man asked in perfect Farsi.
“What happened?” David asked, his vision still blurry but coming back.
“Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off,” the man said.
As his head began to clear, David could see that the man was, in fact, the Strike Eagle pilot for whom he’d been looking.
“I’m not Iranian,” he replied in English. “I’m an American. I’m here to get you out of harm’s way.”
The Israeli was clearly startled by hearing English, but he wasn’t buying any of it.
“You’re driving a police motorcycle.”
“I stole it,” David said. “Do I look like a cop?”
“You were carrying a police radio and a pistol specially made for the Iranian police,” the Israeli retorted. “And why are you carrying a satphone?”
“Because I’m an American,” David said again. “Look, we don’t have much time. There’s a special forces unit approaching from the south, and there’s a helicopter coming up from Qom packed with Revolutionary Guards. I can get you out of here, get you to a safe house and out of the country. But we’ve got to move now.”
“I don’t believe you,” said the Israeli.
“I don’t care,” David said. “It’s true. And if we don’t move now, we’re both going to die a very painful, very gruesome death.”
David’s heart was racing. It was clear the Israeli still didn’t believe him. And why should he? But they really were out of time.
“Fine,” said the pilot. “Have it your way.”
He pulled back the pistol’s hammer and was about to fire when he instead collapsed to the ground as a gunshot rang out from somewhere to David’s left. The pilot had been shot in the head, no doubt by a sniper hidden in the rocks several hundred yards to the west. That, David figured, was where he would be if the situation were reversed. He grabbed the pistol that had fallen from the Israeli’s hands and ducked behind a boulder as two more shots rang out.
David heard the roar of a helicopter coming up over the ridge. As he tried to squeeze himself farther behind the boulder, he saw the chopper rise into view. His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. He looked everywhere, but there was nowhere to hide.
The chopper stopped climbing and went into a stabilizing hover. He watched as the side door opened and one of the commandos on board fed .50-caliber rounds into the side-mounted rotary cannon. David raised his pistol and fired every shot in the magazine. None of them hit its mark. The chopper was just far enough away. Now the commando aimed the Gatling-style gun at David’s head and smiled.
But then David heard a high-pitched whistle coming from the west, and as he watched, the chopper exploded and fell from the sky. David, waiting to meet his Maker, couldn’t believe his eyes. What had just happened?
His question was answered when an Israeli Strike Eagle roared past and climbed for the stratosphere. He had avenged his wingman, and now he was gone. David watched the glow of the F-15E’s afterburners, then forced himself back to the moment. He had no idea where the sniper team was, but he prayed they were as distracted by the missile strike and the retreating fighter jet as he was.
This was his only chance. He wasn’t getting another. David scrambled to the motorcycle, hot-wired it again, then jumped on and hit the gas. The whole thing took less than ten seconds, and he was gone.
He hadn’t staved off the war. He hadn’t saved either Israeli airman. But miraculously, he hadn’t been captured or killed either, and for right now, that was more than enough.