There was a muffled gunshot. Grease closed the pickup door.
“Get your stuff,” he told Turk. “We gotta walk.”
13
Iran
COLONEL KHORASANI STUDIED THE MAP. HE HAD made the mistake of reporting the vehicle to General Arfa, the political commander who in ordinary times was his boss. Arfa had immediately seized on the theory that it belonged to saboteurs—defectors, rather than commandos or smugglers—and demanded that Khorasani find them. Khorasani knew he had only himself to blame.
“It is getting rather dark,” said Sergeant Karim.
“I’m quite aware of the time, Sergeant,” said Khorasani.
“Every house and farm within five kilometers has been searched. The roads are being patrolled. But some of the troops—”
“What about this block here?” asked Khorasani. “These mines. Were they checked?”
“The search area didn’t go down that low. And, the map says—”
“I know what it says.” The legend declared the hills a special reserve area—in other words, a place owned by the nuclear research projects, though as far as Khorasani knew, there were no labs there.
Mines would be a good place to hide.
“Get Captain Jalol back on the radio. Tell him to have his men begin searching the hills north of the Exclusion Zone, in this area here. There are old mines—check each one. Look for caves in the hills. Each one to be checked. No excuses! And I want a house-by-house search in Saveh. And it’s to start now, no waiting for morning. If there are questions, have them speak to me.”
“There’ll be no questions, Colonel,” said the aide, gesturing to the communications man.
14
Iran
MOVING THE ROCKS THAT BLOCKED THE BACK ENTRANCE of the cave was easier than Turk expected, and within minutes they were outside, walking along a narrow ridge and trying not to fall off the side or start a small avalanche of dirt.
Turk was tense and tired, his nerves raw. He felt as if his colon had twisted itself into a rat’s tail of knots on both sides of his abdomen. The fresh air, though, was a relief, a blast of oxygen blowing away a hangover.
They were on the far side of the hills, away from the patrol. As the path widened the walking got easy. Turk felt as if they had escaped into a different country, free of the men who would kill them on sight. But he soon heard more troop trucks.
They’d made the right decision, even though he hated it with all his soul.
The gentle slope they walked out to had been farmed many years before, and in the twilight provided by the sliver of moon and the twinkling stars, he could see not only the outlines of a dirt road but a network of drainage ditches long since filled in by blowing dirt and neglect. The land here must surely be among the most difficult in the country to cultivate, excepting the absolute desert, and yet people had tried, apparently with quite an effort.
“Don’t lag,” said Grease.
“I’m moving.”
“We have two hours to go eight miles,” said Grease. “Come on.”
Past the ridge, they were about three-quarters of a mile from the paved road they needed to take south. They angled westward as they walked, gradually getting closer. Turk saw the lights of one of the checkpoints: headlights from a truck, and a barrel filled with burning wood or other material. Shadows flickered in front. Turk counted two men; Grease said there were three.
Rather than taking the road, they walked along a very shallow ravine that paralleled it. Roughly a quarter mile from the road, the ravine had been formed ages ago by downpours during the rainy months. It was wide and easy to walk along, and at first Turk felt his pace quicken. But gradually the weight of the control pack seemed to grow, and he slowed against his will. Grease at first adjusted his pace, then fell into a pattern of walking ahead and waiting. He was carrying his own ruck, filled with ammunition and medical gear, water, and some odds and ends they might need. They’d changed back into fatigues similar to those the Iranian Guard used, and decided not to take spare clothes. Even so, Grease’s pack was heavier than Turk’s, and though he offered to take the control unit, Turk refused.
“Pick up the pace, then,” muttered Grease. He repeated that every few minutes, and it became a mantra; before long Turk was saying it himself, almost humming it as he trudged. His knees ached and his left calf muscle began to cramp. He pushed on.
After they had walked for about an hour, Turk heard the sound of an aircraft in the distance.
“Jet,” he said, without bothering to look.
“Will they see us?” Grease asked.
“Nah. They don’t have the gear.”
Turk listened as they trudged onward. The plane was low—no more than 2,500 feet above the ground.
“You sure he couldn’t see us?” asked Grease after it passed.
“Nah,” insisted Turk, though he was no longer sure. How good were Iranian infrared sensors? He didn’t remember—had he ever even known?
After about fifteen minutes Grease spotted some buildings that hadn’t been on the map. Making sure of their position with the GPS unit, they walked into the open field to the east of the settlement. The area looked to Turk as if it had been soil-mined; mounds of dirt sat on a long, gradual slope southward. They reached the western end and climbed up an uncut hill, then walked along the edge and continued south for about a half mile.
Something glowed in the distance: lights at the shuttered airfield and military base they were aiming for.
“Down,” hissed Grease suddenly, punctuating the command with a tug on Turk’s shoulder that nearly threw him to the ground.
A set of headlights swept up on the left. They were closer to the highway than they’d thought.
After the vehicle passed, Grease took out his GPS. “That’s the base.”
“That’s good.”
“We’re behind schedule. It’s almost 2100 hours. We’ll have to hustle to make the rendezvous point by 2200. If there’s no vehicle here, we won’t.”
“We’ll try.”
Grease propped himself up on his elbows and looked in the direction of the glow with his binoculars. He studied it for so long that Turk decided he’d given up on that plan and was trying to think of an alternative. Finally, Grease handed the glasses to him.
“There’s a dark spot on the far side there,” he said, pointing. “We can get past the gate there, get across the runway and then get the vehicle.”
“All right.”
“It’s going to take a while. You better check in.”
15
Office of Special Technology, Pentagon
“ANSWER,” SAID BREANNA CRISPLY, ORDERING THE computerized assistant to put the call through. It was from the duty officer at the Whiplash situation room, reporting on Turk. The call had been routed through the Whiplash system to her Pentagon phone. The background noise on the phone changed ever so slightly—from the vague but steady hint of static to one vaguer and intermittent—and Breanna knew the connection had gone through. “This is Bree. What’s going on?”
“Turk just checked in,” said Sandra Mullen, one of the duty officers borrowed from the CIA to help monitor the operation.
Breanna glanced at her watch, though she knew the time. “He’s a half hour early. What’s wrong?”
“They’re heading toward a patch where they have to go silent com,” Sandy told her. “He wanted to check in.”
Breanna slid her chair closer to her desk. She’d come to the Pentagon to brief the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; she was due in his office in ten minutes. “You’re sure he was OK?”
“Safe words and everything,” said Sandy, indicating she’d quizzed Turk herself to make sure. “Gorud’s dead.”