“What?”
“He’d been wounded—they had to leave his body to get out without being caught.”
“Oh, God. Does Jonathon know?”
“Yes. There’s a possibility they won’t make the control point in time for the download.”
“They won’t make it in time, or not at all?”
“They’ll get there, but they may be late. They had to walk out of the cave. They’re still pretty far away.”
Breanna had already worked out an alternative with Rubeo that would allow them to send the information just before the strike. But that assumed, of course, they did eventually make it.
“What about Kronos?” said Breanna, asking about the plan to send Mark Stoner to Iran.
“The aircraft is in the air and about fifteen minutes from release. Danny Freah is still gathering his team. They’ll be in Iran in forty-eight hours.”
“Very good.”
Sandy continued, filling in little details.
Breanna had an alternative plan for getting the data downloaded, but to utilize it, she’d have to commit to launching the UAVs no later than 2300. If Turk wasn’t in position by then, she would have to scratch the mission.
“I know I’m not supposed to second-guess them,” said Sandy, her words breaking into Breanna’s wandering train of thought. “But—it may be a stretch for them. They’re stealing a vehicle from a Revolutionary Guard camp. And even if they get it, to drive that far—it’s going to be tight.”
Breanna leaned her forehead down toward her desk, cradling her head in her hand. But she managed to keep her doubts to herself.
“It’s all right, Sandra,” she said. “Let’s let them make the moves they think they have to make. Just keep me informed of his progress.”
She sat like that for a while, face in her hand, wanting to collapse on the desk and sleep. Not give up; just sleep. She knew she couldn’t.
There are always moments of doubt in command. The trick is not to let them stop you. Push on.
That was her father’s advice. She played it over in her head, knowing it was good, it was solid, it was what she had to do.
Keep moving forward.
Breanna glanced at the wall, where she had hung a photo of her dad receiving the Medal of Honor from the President. He had a smile on his face, but it was an uncomfortable smile. He didn’t appreciate the fuss, and he didn’t think he deserved the medal.
He surely did, that one and many more. But in many ways Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian was a man out of his time, a throwback to the generation that did heroic things and called them their duty.
The phone on the desk buzzed. Her secretary was reminding her that she was due for the private briefing with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Breanna grabbed the thumb drive from her computer, fixed her lipstick, and set off.
16
Iran
THE FIRST FENCE WAS EASY.
Either some of the men stationed there or black marketeers doing business with them had bent a portion of the bottom away from the ground almost exactly at the spot Grease was aiming. Turk pushed the ruck ahead of him and crawled into the no-man’s-land between the two fences. The ground was dry but its scent was salty. His nose itched and he felt as if he were going to sneeze.
Grease crawled through behind him. “Let’s go,” he said, jumping up and starting to run. “Move.”
Turk did his best to keep up. The sergeant led him to the left, crossing from the spot of inky darkness into the outer edge of a dim semicircle of gray shadow. Grease had spotted another bent-up fence here and trusted that the locals knew the safest route.
Turk squeezed the ruck through once again. His shirt snagged as he went under and he had to back up to get loose. He moved forward and snagged again, the edge of the fence digging into his skin. Suppressing a curse, he twisted sideways, then fought his way free.
A truck or a jeep was headed their way. He looked over at Grease, just coming through behind him.
“Yeah, I see it,” said the Delta sergeant. “Come on, come on.”
They ran for an area of low scrub about fifty yards away. Turk’s heart pounded in his chest, and by the time he threw himself down next to Grease, his thighs had cramped. He slipped off his pack and pushed low into the dirt, trying in vain to ignore the pain in his legs.
Headlights appeared to their right, swinging around from the direction of the runway.
“All right. Come on,” hissed Grease, rising to a crouch.
He started running straight ahead. Turk grabbed the ruck and followed, thinking they were going to stop behind a second clump of bushes about ten yards away. But Grease continued past it.
In seconds Turk lost sight of him in the darkness.
“Grease?” he hissed.
Not hearing an answer, he dropped on his belly. The jeep was near the perimeter of the fence, to his right. He crawled forward, moving in the direction Grease had taken.
“Here!” hissed Grease a few seconds later.
He was ahead, sitting in a defensive position—a foxhole, dug into the inner ring of defenses. He was pointing his rifle toward the jeep.
“Do they see us?” asked Turk.
“Back to us. I doubt it.”
It was a tight fit in the foxhole. Turk shifted himself around, then reached for his pack.
“What are you doing?” asked Grease.
“I’m getting my gun.” It was packed into the ruck next to the control unit, the stock folded up.
“Just relax, huh?”
Oh yeah, really, thought Turk, taking it out. Relax.
Two men got out of the jeep and walked in front of the headlights. Turk stared at the haze around them, not sure if he should hope they came toward them—kill them and the truck would be easy to take.
Grease must have read his mind. “We let them go for now. If we shoot them, someone will hear. If there’s one vehicle here, there’s bound to be two.”
Turk hunkered lower to the ground. The shadows of the men grew more distinct. They walked back to the vehicle, got in, and continued around the interior circuit of the base.
Grease started to move almost as soon as they put it in gear.
“Let’s go,” he said, reaching down to help him up.
They ran toward the hangar buildings just south of the end of the runway. Turk ran as fast as he could, legs growing rubbery; by the time he reached the back of the building where Grease was crouched, he felt barely able to stand.
“Just a little more,” said Grease. “Catch your breath.”
“OK.”
Turk slumped against the wall, trying to will his heart rate back to something close to normal. Grease crawled out from the corner of the building, observing the barracks and administrative areas about fifty yards away.
“It’s gonna be easier than I thought,” said Grease when he returned. “Two trucks, parked near the fence. We get up over it and take one, disable the other.”
“We’re going to stop and disable it? How?”
“You’re going to get under the hood and pull the wires off. I’ll get the other truck going. Pull off anything you can,” said Grease. “Ready?”
“Which way and which one?”
Grease made a little diagram with his finger as if they were running a football play. There was a fence; he’d have to climb it as quickly as he could.
“What about the other jeep we saw?”
“We shoot them if we have to. I don’t think we’ll need to. They went up near the big building. They’re probably the night guard or something along those lines. Come on.”
Turk managed to keep up all the way to the fence, threw himself against it and began to climb. He couldn’t get his boots into the links well. He pulled himself up but his fingers slipped.
He told himself it was the obstacle course where he’d first started training with the Delta boys. He pushed harder, remembering the snarls of his trainers. After what seemed an eternity he managed to get to the top and slid his foot over.