Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) (18 page)

16

Iran

T
HE BUS’S BODY WAS BAT
TERED, BUT ITS DRIVE TRAIN
was in top condition; Turk had trouble keeping up as they drove back to the site where the rest of the team was holed up. The troopers accepted the appearance of the bus without comment, as if they’d been expecting one all along. Turk told Granderson all that had happened as they carried Green into the back of bus. It started in disconnected bits, punctuated by gasps of air. Even to Turk it sounded unreal.

“Was it just a cock-up?” asked Granderson. “Or were they looking for us?”

“It might have been—I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter now.”

They got the wounded inside the bus, then took off, Granderson in the lead at the wheel of the school bus, followed by the Israeli alone in the pickup, and Gorud, Grease, and Turk together in the car. They let the bus get a little ahead, figuring it would be what the Iranian authorities would be looking for; the others would close the gap if there were trouble.

Gorud had plotted a route east of the city over mining and desert roads that would keep them away from most towns. But the roads were nearly as treacherous as driving through the town would have been. Soon after they started, they hit a long stretch of hard-packed pavement completely covered with sand. Even though the bus and truck passed over it without a problem, Gorud lost traction for about twenty yards until the front wheels found the hard surface again.

“Maybe one of us should drive,” suggested Turk, noticing that Gorud’s injured arm had given him problems.

“Yeah,” said Grease.

“Let me,” added Turk. “You can watch with the gun.”

“I’m OK to drive,” protested the CIA officer.

“It’s better this way,” said Turk, tapping him on the shoulder. “Come on.”

They changed places. Turk, too, had trouble with the loose sand. Once on the highway, the car steadied and he settled down a bit. He didn’t relax—his heart still pounded like a racehorse nearing the finish line. But his view expanded, the cloud of fear lifting slightly. It was as if the horizon had pushed back—he could see farther out and plan before reacting.

Then, almost imperceptibly, either seeking relief from the present or simply lulled into a relaxed moment, his mind began to wander. He thought of Li and their last moments in the hotel room. He ached to see her. He felt her weight against his shoulder. He wanted to brush his fingers across her breasts.

Grease’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You getting tired of driving?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Careful where you are on the road.”

Turk steered back to the lane gently, trying to stay in control. He glanced over his shoulder; Gorud was dozing in the back. He was tempted to ask Grease if he thought they’d get out of this, but the question seemed too defeatist, as if it implied he’d already decided they wouldn’t.

“They’re looking for a place to change the bus,” Grease said after talking to the others by radio. “I don’t know if we’re going to reach your target area by tonight.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that myself.”

“You have to talk to them, don’t you? You haven’t checked in.”

“Oh, God.”

“Keep driving. They’ll wait.”

Turk hunched forward, leaning toward the wheel as if that would help him focus. He needed to use his pilot’s head—he needed to be clear and precise, not dreamy, not distracted. Being on the ground unhinged his concentration.

No more thinking of Li. No more thinking, period. Except for the job.

“Road,” said Grease.

This time Turk jerked back. His fingers gripped the wheel so tightly they started to cramp.

“I’m thinking maybe we just abort,” said Grease, his voice almost a whisper. “Go straight north while we still can.”

Shocked, Turk jerked his head. “No fuckin’ way.”

Grease stared at him for half a moment, face blank. Then, though the rest of his face hinted at sadness, the ends of his lips peaked upward ever so slightly. “You’ve been hanging around with us too long.”

T
HE FIRST PLANE P
ASSED NEARBY ABOUT A
N HOUR LATER
.

They were south of Sar-e-Kavir, a small town in the shadow of the desert hill where Highway 81 connected with the east-west highway they needed to take. Turk couldn’t see the aircraft, but from the sound he knew it was propeller-driven, something small, very likely similar to the aircraft they had crashed the night before. It didn’t linger, but that was small consolation; for safety’s sake they had to conclude they had been spotted.

Not that they had many options.

Granderson turned up a mountain path about two miles from the town. The steep and rocky path turned out to be a driveway to a pair of small farms dug into the rock outcroppings. Both had been abandoned some years before, though when they first drove up they didn’t know that, and they spent ten minutes checking and clearing the dilapidated far buildings on the larger of the two properties. Sure they were secure, they took the bus into the barn, where there was just barely enough room amid the clutter of old crates and a dilapidated trailer to hide it.

They parked the pickup under a lean-to roof shed at the side; the rear poked out a little, but it would be hard to see even directly overhead. Turk drove the car fifty yards down the hill to what had once been a grove of pomegranate trees but was now mostly a collection of dried stumps. Here and there green shoots and a leaf struggled from the twisted gray trunks, nature refusing to give up even though the underground spring that once supplied the crisscross of irrigation ditches had dried to bone.

He got out of the car and walked a short distance away before using the satellite radio to check in.

Breanna Stockard herself answered. “Turk, are you OK? Where have you been? Why haven’t you checked in?”

“We had a setback in Jandagh,” he told her. “The police—there was an incident in town. A lot of our guys are hurt. We escaped with a bus.”

“The mission tonight, can you—”

“We won’t make it in time.”

Breanna went silent.

“I’ll be in place tomorrow,” said Turk. “Tonight’s going to be too tough. We’re still pretty far away. And we’re pretty banged up.”

“All right. All right. Listen, I know where you are. We have intercepts from the Iranian police and the interior ministry about a stolen bus in one of the towns where you spent time. Is that you?”

“Must be.”

“All right. Stand by.”

Turk heard another aircraft in the distance. This was another propeller plane, but larger; two engines, he thought.

“The report concerning the bus stolen in Jandagh talks about terrorists,” said Breanna. “They’re looking for Russians.”

“That fits with our cover. Do they mention the other vehicles?”

“Negative. The descriptions are vague: three Russian males. Some of these communiqués claim it’s a robbery.” Breanna paused, obviously skimming through screens of data. “They haven’t made a connection with the attack.”

“OK.”

“Turk, what kind of condition are you in?”

“I’m fine. Not a scratch.”

“Your team?”

“Very shot up,” he said. “Only Grease, me, and Granderson are really at full strength. We have two guys—no, three now—who are just immobile. Coming in and out of consciousness. Everybody else is hurt to some degree, though they can still fight.”

“Have you considered aborting?”

“No.”

“You’ve already completed the mission you were sent on.”

“We . . .” Part of him wanted to say yes, they were through; it was time to go home, time to bail.

But the larger part wanted desperately to complete the mission—the next phase. Because the object was to stop the Iranian weapons program. If there was another site, they had to hit it.

So much of a sacrifice, though. For all of them. Was it worth it? Couldn’t they just send in bombers and be done with it?

There was no guarantee they’d make it out alive in that case either. Better to go ahead. Better to do his duty.

At such a cost.

“I can do this, Bree,” Turk insisted. “We just have to get to the other side of the desert. And if they don’t really know what we’re up to—”

“I can’t guarantee that they won’t,” Breanna told him. “The reaction force can’t reach you that far deep in Iran.”

“It’s all right. I’ve done harder things.”

In the air, perhaps, but not on the ground. Definitely not on the ground. But Breanna didn’t call him on it.

“I want you to contact me at the top of the next hour,” she told him. “Do you understand?”

“I will if I can. Sometimes—”

“No. You are to check in every hour. I need to know you’re still alive.”

“I will call you if I can,” he said, hitting the end call button before she could respond.

17

CIA campus, Virginia

B
REANNA TUR
NED TO
R
EID AS SOON
AS THE TRANSMISSION
from Turk ended. “They’ve taken heavy casualties. I think we should pull them out.”

“It’s not our decision, Breanna.”

“They’re all shot up.”

“He’s not.”

“Let the bombers go in. If they stay, it’s suicide.”

“It already is suicide.” Reid picked up the phone and told the computerized operator to get him the President.

T
WENT
Y MINUTES LATER
B
REANNA AND
R
EID WERE ON
Lee Highway, speeding toward the White House. As a security precaution, the driver had always to follow a different route; at four in the morning traffic was not a particular concern, and for once they were going on a relatively direct route.

Reid stared out the darkened window at the cars passing in the distance. The lights in the parking lots of the buildings and on the signs and streets melted together in a blur.

He would tell the President that they should continue. It would inevitably mean the death of his officer, Gorud, of the Whiplash pilot, and whoever remained from the rest of the team. The Israeli operative, a deep, valuable plant with an impeccable cover. And a family.

But Reid knew absolutely that this was the right thing to do. The nano-UAVs had done a perfect job on the first strike; they would succeed here as well. The result would be far more desirable than a missile strike. No matter what the Iranians did, the scientists who rebuilt the program would never be sure whether there had been an attack or a critical flaw.

Delaying the strike twenty-four hours would increase the odds of success. Even if the analysts didn’t identify which of the two sites was the one with the bomb—or if they decided both had enough material to be a threat—the delay would give Rubeo and his people more time to work on the programming for the mission.

The scientist had demurred when asked for a prediction about the outcome of a split attack. The first strike had been heavily modeled. This one was still being calculated.

“Lovely night,” said Breanna. It was first time she’d spoken since they got in the car.

“It is.” Reid forced a smile. He had grown to like the younger woman, though he felt at times she was too easily influenced by her Pentagon superiors. “Though it’s almost morning now.”

“Technically, it is morning.”

“How’s the senator?”

“Still stubborn as ever,” said Breanna. “And still swooning over the Nationals. Their losing streak has him in the dumps.”

“I hear there’s talk he might run for President.”

“God help us.”

The words were so emphatic that Reid didn’t know how to respond. He remained silent the rest of the way to the White House.

P
RESIDENT
T
ODD HAD
MANAGED BARELY AN HOUR OF
sleep, but she felt a surge of energy as Breanna completed briefing the current situation, ending with a PowerPoint slide showing the general vicinity of the two possible targets.

Charles Lovel, the Defense Secretary, opened his mouth to speak. Todd cut him off.

“The question comes down to this,” said the President. “If we wait twenty-four hours, do we guarantee success?”

“There are no guarantees for anything, ever,” said Blitz, the national security director.

“The odds will be greatly improved,” said Reid, sitting next to Breanna. “Getting our pilot in place helps if there is a problem with the units. True, they were impeccable in the first strike, and compensated well. But I think, as Ms. Stockard said, the human factor increases the chances of success. Plus, we may be able to narrow down the possible targets. At a minimum, we’ll have a better plan for dealing with both facilities.”

“I don’t know that we can afford to guess which of the sites is the real target,” said Blitz. “Not at this point.”

“On the other hand, the odds of the ground team being discovered will also be higher,” said Reid. “And if they’re discovered, we lose them.”

“We may lose them anyway,” said Lovel.

“The Iranians may close the sites,” said the Secretary of State, Alistair Newhaven.

“Twenty-four hours is not enough time to do that,” said Reid.

“If the attack fails—”

“If it fails, we go ahead and we eliminate both sites with B-2 attacks,” said the President, cutting in. “That’s an easy decision.”

“I would vote to launch a B-2 attack now,” said Lovel. “Why wait?”

“Nothing has happened at that site—at either of the possible sites,” said Reid.

“We were
rushing
to strike tonight,” said Lovel, “because we needed to hit quickly. Now we’re going to delay another twenty-four hours. The sooner we get this over with, the better. For everyone.”

“Not for our people,” said Breanna. “If we strike, if the bombers go in, we’re writing them off. Because they’ll know that the first attack was launched by us, and they’ll be on the alert.”

“I agree it increases their risk,” said General Maximillian Fresco, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Fresco had only been on the job for a month, and was still feeling his way—a disappointment to Todd, who had selected him because he seemed determined and, like her, prone to err on the side of hawkishness rather than caution. But maybe he would come around.

“They are already at considerable risk,” said Reid dryly. “No matter what.”

“I think we should pull them out,” said Breanna, her voice quivering. “Then send the bombers in.”

Todd was surprised. She looked at Reid. His expression showed he clearly disagreed. Ordinarily, they were in lockstep; she couldn’t remember a time when they had offered even slightly different opinions.

“Our best chance, overall, is to use the nano-UAVs,” said Reid. “We know they work. We haven’t seen the bunker busters yet. This is our best chance.”

Fresco started to object, but Reid cut him off.

“The Hydras work. They leave no trace of our involvement; they raise no moral or ethical questions if there is a mistake. They limit the casualties strictly to those involved in the program.” Reid sounded like a college professor, summing up a semester’s worth of instruction. “The benefits are obvious. At worst, we have the bombers in reserve.”

Todd agreed. She saw from the corner of her eye that the Secretary of State was going to say something—probably, she thought, questioning Reid’s statement about moral questions: they were, after all, setting off a nuclear explosion, even if it was the Iranian’s own bomb.

There was no need for that debate now.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” she said quickly, raising her hand. “We will delay for twenty-four hours. After that, the bombers will be authorized to attack.”

I
N THE CAR ON THE
WAY BACK TO THE
CIA
CAMPUS,
Breanna fiddled with her personal phone, thumbing through text messages from the past several days, even though she’d read them already. She longed to talk to Zen about the operation but couldn’t.

Her only acceptable alternative was Reid, and she didn’t want to talk to him about anything.

“Why did you change your mind?” asked Reid.

Breanna looked up. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re opposed to the operation now. You weren’t earlier.”

“I’m not opposed.”

“You sounded like you are. Your tone was negative. Even in the presentation.”

“No. I was trying to be neutral. My concern—I just want to get our people out. I feel responsible for them.”

Reid looked at her, his old-man eyes peering into her soul. He was beyond retirement age, and at times like this—deep into an operation, under heavy stress—he looked even older.

He reminded her of her father, once commander of Dreamland, now a virtual recluse.

“Your guilt is misguided,” said Reid.

“I don’t feel guilty.” The words spit out quickly, beyond her control. They weren’t true. “Why would I be guilty?”

“You’re not. That’s my point.”

“I’m responsible for my people. It’s my job to think of them.”

“We are,” said Reid softly. He turned his head toward the driver in the front seat, separated by a thick, clear plastic barrier that made it impossible for him to hear. “But our first responsibility is to the mission. The nano-UAVs are clearly the best choice.”

“Yes,” said Breanna reluctantly. “I can’t disagree.”