By the time he got back to the ground, Grease had the hood open on one of the vehicles.
“Get the other one,” he hissed. “Open the hood. Pull the wires. Every wire you see.”
Turk went to the second truck. It was a Kaviran; up close it looked to him like a cartoon version of a Land Rover, its metal squared and thin. He hunted for the release to the hood.
The other truck revved. Turk pulled the hood on his up, then reached in and began pulling wires. When he had pulled everything he could find, he let go of the hood, expecting it to slam, but it was held up by hydraulic arms at the back. He reached up and slammed it down, louder than he should have, then grabbed his pack and gun and walked to the other truck.
“Fucker’s a standard,” said Grease.
“Can you drive?”
“I got it.”
Grease got it moving but had to hunt for second gear, revving the engine too soon as the gears ground and then nearly stalling it. They drove out around the back of the barracks and headed left, turning and driving toward the perimeter fence. Turk stayed quiet, his heart pounding in his chest. They passed a small guard building, its exterior dark, and headed toward the front gate.
“Slide down a little bit in the seat,” Grease told Turk. “You look too white.”
Turk did as he was told. His fingers curled around the body of the gun as they turned toward the front gate. He tried to slow his breathing, knowing he was gulping air.
“Here we go,” said Grease, the truck gathering speed.
As they breezed out the open gate, the Delta sergeant raised his arm in a half salute to obscure his face.
“They left only a skeleton crew,” he said as he turned onto the main road. “If that. I bet they’re out looking for us. Those assholes we saw up near the cave came right out of this barracks. Funny, huh?”
“Oh yeah. I’m just about dying of laughter.”
“We should have gone inside and stolen new uniforms,” said Grease. He glanced at Turk. “You got crap all over your face.”
“I thought you said I look too white.”
“Where there isn’t any dirt, sure.”
Turk rolled down the window. The breeze felt nice, cooling the sweat at the side of his face and the back of his neck. His shirt was soaked with perspiration.
“All downhill from here, Turk.” Grease seemed happier than Turk remembered ever seeing him. “They think we’re outside. We’re inside. The one place they won’t look. All downhill from here.”
17
Iran
THE NEWS THAT ONE OF THE PASDARAN TEAMS HAD found a pickup truck in a cave filled Colonel Khorasani with pride touching on smugness; his hunches had led to the breakthrough. But that quickly dissipated as the next report indicated only one man had been found, and he was dead, shot in the head, undoubtedly by a compatriot.
The man’s body was still warm. He looked Iranian, and had papers identifying him as such. That, of course, meant nothing—a smuggler or an Israeli spy could easily have obtained forgeries or hired a local with the promise of enough gold. But Colonel Khorasani felt confident; he was going to solve this mystery. He ordered the units in the region to deploy around the cave, racing men up from the south, where they had been concentrated. And he called the air force to ask for search planes.
As usual, they were uncooperative. The heathens should be shot with the infidels. The local squadron commander refused to take his call; Khorasani finally called General Shirazi himself, invoking the ayatollah’s name in a gambit to get what he wanted.
“I need patrols in the area north of Qom,” he told the head of the air force. “We believe we may have found saboteurs.”
“You are still chasing ghosts? I heard you had a farm vehicle shot up and killed members of the Guard.”
“The occupants were spies,” insisted Khorasani. The wreckage had been so decimated by the attack that it was impossible to say who the men were, but admitting this wouldn’t help him in the least. “I am tracking their accomplices. We have found a truck. I need air surveillance.”
“We don’t have the capacity for night searches.”
“Your planes can’t see vehicles?” Khorasani paused. “What good are they?”
“We do our best with what the government allots us,” snarled the general.
“I hear aircraft above. What about them?”
“We are patrolling in case the Americans attack. They won’t come by ground.”
“Can I tell that to the ayatollah?”
The general didn’t answer. Khorasani decided to take a different tack—the general had political ambitions beyond the air force; perhaps those would work in his favor.
“We are all Iranians,” said Khorasani, softening his tone. “And cooperation will help us all, no matter the outcome. Evidence that you worked violently against commandos—this would surely be positive in the ayatollah’s eyes, and in everyone’s.”
It took only a moment for General Shirazi to respond. “You will have more patrols. They will be up in two hours.”
“I want good men.”
“I don’t have any who aren’t,” snapped Shirazi.
“The pilots who shot up the truck. They were skilled.” More importantly, they had proven they could follow his orders. But Khorasani didn’t mention that. “Get them.”
“If they are available, they will fly,” agreed the general. “But I expect full cooperation in all things. Now and in the future.”
“Certainly,” said Khorasani, deciding an alliance with an ambitious general might not be a bad thing.
18
Iran
“ANOTHER TRUCK,” SAID GREASE AS THE HEADLIGHTS swept along the highway, moving up the pavement toward them.
Turk slid down in the passenger seat and tried not to stare at the lights as they came close. He saw the vehicle from the corner of his eye as it passed; it was another Kaviran, filled with soldiers.
“Check the GPS,” said Grease. “We should be real close to that turn.”
“Another mile,” said Turk. “It’ll be on the left.”
Grease found the dried up streambed without any problem. The truck’s springs groaned as they left road and navigated past a tumble of rocks, but they found solid, easy ground to drive on before they’d gone more than thirty yards. The ground had been worn down to bare rock; it was slippery in spots, but they were able to move quickly.
“Look for a good place to stash the truck,” said Grease.
Turk scanned the silvery landscape. It seemed something like a scene in a movie, lit for impending horror. Grease turned off the headlamps, but the reflected light from the moon filled the air with phosphorescence.
“What’s behind those rocks?” he asked, pointing ahead.
Turk stuck himself halfway out the window to see. “Just dirt.”
“Too much of a slope,” said Grease as they got close.
“It’s hilly everyplace.”
“Yeah.”
The ground became pebbly and loose; the wheels started to slip. Grease put the truck in its lowest gear.
“Those bushes,” he said, angling toward a low clump of gnarled shrubs about thirty yards away. “If we can make it.”
He stopped just below them, cranked the wheel, then attempted to back up the Kaviran so its nose would point down the hill. Even with the lowest gear and all wheels engaged, they couldn’t quite pull the truck entirely behind the brush, but it didn’t make much difference—the bushes barely came to the top of wheel well and would not completely hide the truck.
Grease stopped the engine by stalling it, his foot hard on the brake while the clutch was still engaged. He pulled the emergency brake so hard Turk thought he would snap the handle.
“Maybe we get to use it again, maybe not,” he said.