Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) (19 page)

18

Iran

W
ALKING D
OWN FROM THE BARN INTO THE ABANDONED
grove, Turk checked his watch, then took out the sat phone. He was a few seconds early, but there was no reason to wait.

“This is Breanna.”

“I’m checking in.”

“Good. What’s your status?”

“Same as it was forty-five minutes ago.”

“We have approval to push the operation off until tomorrow night,” said Breanna. “Twenty-four hours. And then it’s on.”

“Thank you.”

“Turk, we’ve been speaking with WARCOM. The SEAL command landed the recovery team from the Caspian. They’re not going to be able to reach you before the attack. We’re sending as much support as we can, but—”

“I know, I know. It’s all right. We’re good. Don’t worry about me.”

Turk felt a little annoyed—first at Breanna, then at himself for sounding like a teenager fending off an overanxious mom.

“We have a plan,” he added. “We’ll execute it.”

He heard the sound of another aircraft in the distance. It was flying quickly, moving in their direction.

One engine. Loud. The plane must be low.

“Listen, I have to go,” he said to her. “I’ll check back at the top of the next hour.”

He clicked off the satcom, then took a few steps toward the barn before realizing that he would never make it before the plane was overhead. The closest thing to cover nearby was an empty irrigation ditch; he jumped into it. Grease, his constant shadow, followed. They crawled a few yards to a spot where the sides were nearly horizontal and the shadow was thick.

It was another light civilian aircraft, a Beechcraft Bonanza, a later model with a conventional tail instead of the trademark V. Turk saw it flying from the northeast, paralleling the other side of the highway. It looked to be at about eight hundred feet.

He ducked his head, as if believing that if he didn’t see it, it wouldn’t see him.

The plane made another pass, this time to the north. Turk remained prone until the sound sunk into a faint and distant drone.

“I don’t think he saw us.” Turk stood and stretched the muscles in his back, then his legs. He leaned against the soft dirt of the ditch and kicked his toes into the other side. “He would have circled a few times.”

“Maybe,” said Grease, noncommittal.

“When do you think Granderson will be back?” Turk asked. He and the Israeli had taken the pickup into town, hoping to find another vehicle to either buy or steal.

“Soon.”

“I was wondering—maybe it would be better if just you and I went and finished this. Let them take care of their wounded.”

“They’re never going to leave you, Turk. To the last man. They’ll crawl along and bleed out before they let that happen. Every one of them.”

“That wouldn’t make much sense.”

“It’s their mission. It’s their job and duty. Their honor.”

“Together, we attract more attention than if we were on our own. Way more.”

Grease shook his head.

“We could take Gorud,” said Turk. “Because he speaks the language. But we don’t need escorts. I don’t really even need you. No offense.”

“Not happening.”

Turk started to laugh, but Grease’s grim expression warned him off.

“Let’s get inside,” he said instead.

G
RANDERSON AND THE
I
SRAELI RETU
RNED NOT FIF
teen minutes later, the latter driving an open farm truck. The truck had been parked in the town center, in front of a small building. They’d driven up in the pickup, spotted it, jumped out and walked over. The keys were in the ignition.

“Pretty quiet town,” the captain told Turk as they checked it over. “If anybody saw us, they didn’t say anything.”

“You sure you weren’t followed?” asked Grease.

“If we were, they’d be here by now, right?”

Gorud thought they should leave the school bus in the barn, but Turk suggested that it might work better as a decoy—if the planes they’d seen and heard earlier were part of a search party, making the bus easier to find would give them something to do. By the time they spotted it and then checked it out, it would be nearly nightfall, maybe later. He volunteered to drive it himself down along the highway.

“I’ll get rid of it while you’re organizing to go,” Turk said. “I’ll point it south on the highway.”

“You’re not going,” said Grease.

“You sound like my mother. It’s better than waiting around.”

“I’ll follow you in the pickup,” said Grease.

The ride back to the highway was longer than Turk remembered, and bumpier; he didn’t reach it for a good fifteen minutes. When he did, an SUV approached from the direction of Sar-e-Kavir; Turk sank behind the wheel, hoping whoever was in the vehicle wouldn’t get a good glimpse of his face. The SUV continued south, moving at a good pace; Turk drove out cautiously, starting to follow. His speed gradually picked up, the bus accelerating slowly but steadily. After about five minutes Grease sped up in the pickup and began flashing his headlights. Turk slowed, then pulled off.

“I kept it running,” he told Grease when he reached him in the truck. “If they find it with the motor on, it’ll be a mystery. Maybe it will buy us more time.”

“Wishful thinking,” said Grease.

“It’s all we got,” replied Turk as they headed north to join the rest of the team.

19

Iran

B
ACK
IN THE FLIGHT ROTAT
ION,
C
APTAIN
V
AHID FOUND
himself assigned to a late afternoon patrol, flying what was in fact a combat air patrol mission over the area of the atomic lab, though officially the mission was written up as a “routine observation flight.” Given the air force’s fuel woes, the fact that it was being conducted at all meant it was hardly routine, but that was the least of the official lies involved.

Vahid was not allowed to overfly the epicenter of what was officially termed the earthquake area; he had to maintain a five mile buffer between the ostensible fault point at all times. He tried avoiding the temptation to glance at the area, though he couldn’t help but notice the roads in the vicinity were empty. Checkpoints had been established; rescue teams were supposedly heading in to help relieve victims, but there was no surge of aid. Clearly, the state and national authorities were still confused about what to do.

Vahid accepted that what General Shirazi had told him was correct; it made the most sense and fit with what he himself had observed. He wondered if the facts about what had happened would ever come out. It would be much easier to blame the Americans or the Israelis than to admit that the project had suffered a catastrophic setback. On the other hand, blaming the Americans or the Israelis would be tantamount to admitting that the Iranian nuclear program was not aimed at producing a peaceful source of energy rather than a weapon.

Everyone knew, of course, that it
was
aimed at making a bomb. But admitting that it was a lie before the bomb was completed would be a great loss of face. Only when the weapon was completed could it be revealed. Then the lie would not be a lie, but rather a triumph against Iran’s enemies.

Vahid knew this the way he knew that one plus one equaled two, as every Iranian did. “Truth” was a subjective concept, something directly related to power; one accepted it as one accepted the fact that the sun rose and set.

With General Shirazi as his backer, he knew his future was bright. Squadron commander was in his sights. Wing commander would not be an unattainable goal. There were already signs of his improved standing: he had been assigned the squadron’s reserve jet and given the most sensitive area to patrol.

Vahid ran his eyes around the gauges, confirming that the aircraft was operating at spec, then checked his six, glancing briefly in the direction of his wingman, Lieutenant Nima Kayvan, who was flying off his right wing and about a half mile behind. Their box north of the Zagros Mountains was clear of clouds, as well as enemies. The flight had been completely uneventful—another sign to Vahid that the Americans had not struck the lab, since they would surely be conducting reconnaissance and perhaps a follow-up raid.

The ground controller’s adrenaline-amped voice caught him by surprise.

“Shahin One, stand by for tasking.”

“Shahin One acknowledges.” Vahid listened as the controller told him there had been a terror attack in Jandagh; he and his wingman were to head west and join the search for a school bus.

“So now we go after auto thieves,” said Kayvan on the squadron frequency as they changed course. “What would the Jews want with a bus?”

Kayvan certainly had a point, but Vahid chose not to answer. The wingman was an excellent flier, but his mouth would one day land him into much trouble.

Jandagh was some three hundred kilometers away, across a series of high desert mountains and a mostly bare landscape. Vahid immediately snapped to the new course, tuning to the contact frequency he’d been given for the Revolutionary Guard unit assigned to coordinate the reaction. He tried for several minutes but couldn’t get a response to his hails.

“We’ll go down to three thousand feet,” he told Kayvan. “Look for anything moving.”

“Goats and sandstorms included?”

They saw neither. The ground appeared as empty as the sky. Kayvan did see something moving near a road about two miles west of their course north, and they made a quick pass, only to discover a pair of dump trucks and an excavator working a gravel or sand pit. Swinging back toward their original vector, the commander of a local militia unit contacted Vahid on the radio and asked him to help check a vehicle a civilian had spotted south of Sar-e-Kavir.

“We have another unit to rendezvous with,” Vahid told him.

“I am making this request at the order of the special commander,” explained the officer, saying that the colonel who originally requested the air support had now delegated him to use it. The radio garbled the name of the commander—it sounded like Colonel Khorasani—but as the officer continued, Vahid realized the special commander was a member of the Pasdaran—the Revolutionary Guards—assigned to investigate the “earthquake.” The fact that there would be an investigator had been mentioned by the intel officer at the preflight briefing: alienating the Pasdaran was a greater danger than American F-22s.

“That’s over a hundred kilometers away,” said Kayvan, once again using the short-range squadron radio so his disrespect wouldn’t be overheard. “They don’t have other planes?”

“You’d rather sit on the ground?” snapped Vahid.

“I would rather see the girl who will be my bride. And we do not have much fuel.”

The wingman was right. Vahid did a quick calculation, and figured that once they reached Sar-e-Kavir they would have about ten minutes of linger time before having to head back to their base.

“We’ll make the most of it,” he said. “Stay on my wing.”

“I do not plan to disappear.”

Vahid found Highway 81. The road climbed over the desert ridges, paralleling a route once used by silk traders; well before that, it had overlooked the edge of a vast lake. Now the area was largely desolate. Barriers lined long sections of the road to cut down on the sand drifts.

Passing over a pair of white four-door pickup trucks heading north on the road, Vahid angled his jet toward a collection of ruins ahead on his left. He descended quickly, thinking he might catch a glimpse of anyone hiding amid the old clay brick walls and foundations. But he was by them too quickly to see anything other than shadows and broken earth.

As he nudged back toward the road, he spotted the bus about two kilometers ahead. Slowing to just above stall speed, he leaned toward the canopy, getting a good view of the road and the vehicle. It was facing south, off the road on the shoulder. The old highway was to the right.

“I have found a bus,” Vahid told the local ground commander. “Stand by for the position.”

The commander took the information with great enthusiasm. Vahid’s description seemed to match the bus that had been stolen. The only problem was it was facing in the wrong direction—toward the town where it had been taken. But that didn’t seem to bother the ground commander, who asked Vahid to take a low pass and see if there were enemies nearby.

“Vehicle looks abandoned,” Vahid radioed the ground unit. “The area around it is empty.”

“Acknowledged, Shahin One,” said a new, more authoritative voice. It belonged to Colonel Khorasani, the Guard officer who had been assigned to investigate the situation. He was handling his communications personally. “I have ground units en route. They should arrive in zero-five minutes.”

“Acknowledged. We’re going to spin around the area and see if we can find anyone.”

“Police units are coming down from the north,” added the local ground commander. “They will arrive quickly.”

“Acknowledged.”

Vahid and his wingman began a slow, spiraling rise above the area.

“Farm building to the north on the side of the hill,” said Kayvan. “Maybe they are there.”

“Make a run,” Vahid told him. “I’ll follow you.”

Vahid climbed out and changed positions with his wingman, so that Shahin One was now trailing Shahin Two. The buildings were on a small, nearly flat tongue of land. Just below, he saw an abandoned orchard, its trees parched stubs.

A crooked road ran from the highway to the farm, then petered out. Neither Vahid nor the wingman could see any other vehicles, let alone people.

“Shahin One, what’s your status?” asked the Pasdaran colonel.

“We’re waiting for ground units to arrive. We have no contacts.”

“We have a report of a vehicle stolen from Sar-e-Kavir. A farm vehicle. We believe there may be a connection.”

“Do you have a description?”

“Stand by.”

20

Iran

T
HEY TOOK A SHORT
CUT ACROSS THE RIDGE, DRIVING
on a hard-pack road that got them out in front of Granderson and the others. Grease had been studying the maps and gotten advice from Granderson; there was an Iranian army barracks about twenty-five miles ahead on the highway. Once past that, they should have an easy time north; they could cut south of the cities of Semna¯n and Sorkheh, then follow the highway west for another two hours or so before veering once more onto narrower roads in the mountain foothills. At this point they would pick up one of the trails the Delta team had scouted as an alternate route to the target area, aiming for a hiding place originally planned as part of the escape route. Ironically, it was within a half-hour drive of their new target area. They would stay there through the next day, achieve their objective, and leave.

It was easy when you laid it out step by step that way. Simple and direct.

Turk leaned into the back, grabbing one of their last two bottles of water. He took two sips, then put it back.

“Rationing yourself?” Grease asked.

“Yeah.”

“There should be more water at the place where we stop. A team went in and set it up two weeks ago.”

“What if it’s been found?”

“Nobody’ll find it.”

Turk folded his arms. “I hope you’re right.”

“Granderson and the truck are two miles ahead,” said Grease. “Pickup’s about a half mile ahead of that. Gorud’s driving. The Israeli swapped with him in the troop truck.”

“Why?”

“His leg’s pretty screwed up. Didn’t you notice?”

“I thought he was all right.”

Grease shook his head. Badly battered when they encountered the police, the Israeli’s knee had locked; most likely there were torn ligaments and cartilage damage as well.

“You think Green and the others are going to make it?” Turk asked.

Grease thought for a moment before answering. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Probably or maybe?”

Another pause as he weighed his estimate. “Probably,” he announced at last.

“That’s what everybody has to say, right?” asked Turk, suddenly oppressed by the weight of what they had to do. His energy had completely drained, taking his optimism with it.

“You know what will help?” asked Grease. “Focus your mind on the next checkpoint, the next step along the way. If you try to keep the whole mission in your head, it may wig you out. But if you go from A to B to C, it’ll be much easier. It’s a fact.”

Turk’s ears perked up—he heard a jet nearby, low.

Two of them.

“Somebody’s looking for us,” he told Grease, thumbing above.

F
IVE HUNDRED MET
ERS ABOVE THE GROUND,
V
AHID
rode Shahin One up over the ridge, banking easily to the west. There was a car ahead, white and fairly new—probably a government official, Vahid thought, maybe even someone from the interior ministry. As he nudged a little lower, he saw a glint in the distance—another vehicle three or four kilometers farther along the highway.

In normal times this would hardly have been unusual, but today there was so little traffic it couldn’t help but pique his interest. Vahid steadied himself at three hundred meters and waited for the vehicle to appear.

It was a pickup truck. Just as Vahid was about to turn off, he saw the top of another vehicle just descending a low hill. This one was larger, another truck.

“Shahin Two, do you see the vehicle beyond the pickup?”

“Confirmed.”

“Looks like it could be a farm truck. I’m going to get a closer look.”

“On your six.”

Vahid pushed even lower, dropping through three hundred meters. The truck matched the description—a green farm vehicle with slat sides—but it had a canvas top, which hadn’t been described.

“Two, radio the Pasdaran colonel and see if you can get a definitive description,” said Vahid. “I’m going to take another pass.”

T
URK FELT THE MUSC
LES IN HIS STOMACH T
IGHTEN AS
the MiGs turned ahead. They were definitely interested in something on the highway, and since there was no other traffic nearby, that meant them. He bent forward to the dashboard, trying to get a glimpse as the planes flew by.

“Only air-to-air missiles,” he said as the lead plane thundered past. The wingman was higher and offset to the south; hard to see, but Turk guessed he would be equipped the same.

“What’s that mean?” asked Grease.

“Means he won’t be able to bomb us. But he’ll have a cannon he can use if he decides to shoot.”

Turk opened the car window and leaned out, trying to see where the planes were. He wished them away far to the east. Instead, he saw them turning in the distance behind them.

“Coming back for another look,” he told Grease.

“Captain, you seeing those airplanes?” Grease asked over the team radio as Turk slid back down. The sun was just setting; the red glow on the horizon might make it tough for the pilot to see.

Not tough enough, though.

V
AHID ASK
ED THE COMMANDER TO
REPEAT WHAT HE SAID
.

“You are ordered to stop the farm truck,” said Colonel Khorasani. “Destroy it.”

“Colonel, it appears to be a civilian vehicle.”

“It is a vehicle filled with Israeli commandos.”

The colonel’s voice was completely rational, and soft rather than loud—which chilled Vahid even more. “It is a little different than you described when you radioed me earlier.”

The colonel was silent for a moment. “Should I call your commander?”

“Of course not,” said Vahid. “I want to make sure I understand your requirements. My fuel tanks are close to empty.”

He was, in fact, about sixty seconds from bingo, the calculated point where he would have only enough fuel to get home. He considered using that as an excuse not to shoot up the truck, but what was the point? Already two other members of his squadron were flying northward; they would destroy the truck if he didn’t.

And going against the Pasdaran colonel was not a wise move, even if General Shirazi was his patron.

But to kill civilians?

Surely they were thieves. As unlikely—as
impossible
—as it must be that they were Israeli commandos, they still had no right to steal a truck. So it was Allah’s punishment that he was meting out.

“Shahin Two, you’re on my wing,” he told Lieutenant Kayvan, glancing at the armament panel to make sure his gun was ready.

“We’re going to shoot up the truck?”

“We’re going to stop it, yes.”

T
URK HEARD THE RUMBLE OF THE JET ENGINES AS THE
MiGs came up the road behind him. Once more the muscles in his stomach clenched. He pushed back in the seat, waiting as the car began to shake.

“Shit,” he muttered as the plane shot overhead, then rose into a quick turn.

“Tell them to get out of the truck!” Turk yelled. “Tell them he’s coming in to fire! He’s firing!”

A
S
V
AHID PUSHED TH
E
M
I
G
’S NOSE DOWN, T
HE FARM
truck seemed to fly into the pipper. He gave the trigger a gentle squeeze before breaking off. The rounds missed, flying into the pavement well ahead of the vehicle.

Which was what he intended. In his mind, an innocent civilian would see the bullets and realize something was wrong. He would pull off the road and run from the truck.

“Shahin Two, did he stop?” Vahid asked.

“Still moving.”

“Stay clear.”

“No fun for me?”

Vahid ignored his juvenile wingman, moving into position to destroy the truck. He rode the MiG through five hundred meters before tucking his left wing toward the highway. He leveled the wings and found the vehicle speeding ahead.

It started to weave left and right. He pressed the trigger.

A
GRAY GEYS
ER OF SMOKE ERUPTED
AHEAD.

“Shit, shit, shit!” yelled Turk. He pounded the dashboard as the gray turned black. A funnel of red appeared from within, like a volcano.

They rushed toward it as the cloud shifted downward, folding itself across the road. Turk had shot up trucks himself a few months before, pouncing on them from the air. Now he was seeing things from the other side, from underneath and inside out.

The truck was on the right, off the road, completely destroyed, smoldering.

Two bodies, black, lay between it and the road.

“You’re not stopping!” Turk yelled at Grease.

“I know that.”

“You gotta stop!”

“We can’t.”

“Grease! Grease!”

Turk grabbed for the door handle. Grease reached over and grabbed him with his hand, holding him in place even as he accelerated away from the wreckage.