Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) (22 page)

8

CIA campus, Virginia

R
AY
R
UBEO CLOSED
HIS EYES AND LOWERED HIS HEAD,
resting his brows on the tips of his fingers. Numbers and equations spun through his brain, percentages, statistics, possibilities.

In sum:
chance—
the great enemy of necessity.

“Both sites must be attacked,” he announced. “Both sites. There simply is no other solution.”

He opened his eyes and looked up. The others—Breanna, Reid, Smith, Armaz, the two Air Force analysts, Reid’s nuclear expert, three planners detailed from the Air Force chief of staff’s office—all stared at him.

“Consider this. Even if we worked the numbers so that the probability is 99.9 percent in favor of Site Two rather than One,” Rubeo explained, “the penalty for being wrong is too catastrophic. And we can’t get the probability even close to that.”

The analysts began making arguments about how good a job they’d done assessing the various indicators, which pointed to Site Two with an eighty-three percent confidence level.

“If you were that good,” said Rubeo finally, his tone acid. “You wouldn’t have missed the sites in the first place.”

Rubeo did not share the others’ optimism about the B-2 strikes. His people had conducted a preliminary analysis of the first attack, and concluded that the “flaw” that caused the bunker’s upper stages to collapse was not a flaw at all, but rather a fail-safe intended to preserve the material far below. Had it worked, the Iranians would have had to spend six months to a year digging out—but their material, and the bomb they had built, would have survived.

There were additional political concerns, which he didn’t give a whit for, though others did. Clearly, the Hydra strike was by far the best alternative, and to guarantee success, they must hit both sites.

Reid put up his hand as the discussion continued.

“I think Dr. Rubeo’s analysis is on point,” he said. “Even if we do destroy one of those two facilities, we still won’t know precisely what is going on in the other. We’ll never be given access to determine whether some material remains or not. The second site would have to be hit at some point in any event.”

“But you’re reducing the probability of success to thirty-seven percent at each site,” said Armaz, “which gives us well under fifty percent chance of taking out both. The odds almost guarantee failure.”

“I believe that we can use the delay to increase the probability of success to a minimum of eighty-five percent,” said Rubeo, “which is essentially where we are now. And possibly more, assuming we still have a human pilot in the loop to make one critical call during the attack.”

“S
TONER’S READY,”
D
ANNY TOLD
B
REANNA.
“
H
E’LL
be at Vandenberg within the hour. They can launch as soon as you give final approval.”

“Very good.”

“There’s one other thing.”

“Colonel?”

“I want to move the Whiplash unit into Iraq so we can support them if necessary.”

Breanna studied Danny’s face. He knew, as she knew, that Stoner’s mission was almost surely one-way—the odds of getting Turk out alive were infinitesimally low, and Stoner’s briefing documents made that clear.

“Your team is still on leave,” said Breanna. “You’re not in position and this has been a Delta show from the beginning.”

“It’s not Delta anymore,” said Danny. He ducked his head, looking down at his uniform shoes. “I should have been there.”

“No, Danny, we discussed this. The mission was not and has not been a Whiplash mission. You’ve done exactly as you should have.”

“You think?” He looked back at her. She knew exactly what he was thinking: He should have been there.

“Put the team into Iraq,” she said. “But—”

“I know,” said Danny. “We’ll get there, just in case.”

U
NDER
R
UBEO’S  PLAN,  HUMAN  “INTERVENTION”  WAS
important at several points. The swarm would make a staggered, piecemeal attack against each site, progressing past each critical part of the installation with just enough units to clear the way. Once the path was open, the final attack would be launched. The controller—Turk—would have to supply some last minute guidance on each attack.

Not only that, but Rubeo’s team would have to modify the memory system used by the units, removing some of the basic embedded programs that weren’t needed to add mission data. He calculated that they had just enough time to do that. No one openly questioned the scientist’s assessment, but Breanna noticed that Sara Rheingold’s eyebrows rose significantly when he mentioned what he had in mind.

Breanna studied the large projection of the area around the sites. Turk would have to go very close to a Pasdaran stronghold to get into position to strike both plants. And he’d have to wait there—the ideal orbit for Rubeo’s plan wouldn’t bring the X45 into position until just past 5:00
A
.M.
The attack wouldn’t be over until six-thirty—a half hour past sunrise.

“It is a problem,” conceded Reid. “But overall, this is the best plan. There will be a lot of confusion on the ground, and hopefully Turk can take advantage of it. He has proven quite resourceful to this point.”

“I think it’s more than a small problem,” said Breanna.

“Can you think of an alternative?”

She looked around at the others. With the exception of Rubeo, they were pretending to focus on something else.

Rubeo stared directly at her. As usual, his expression was void of any emotion.

“I can’t think of an alternative,” Breanna admitted. “I agree, it is our best course.”

9

Iran

T
HEY HEARD THE
FIRST AIRCRAFT AROUN
D NOON.
I
T
was low enough and close enough that it woke Turk. He sat up, hugging the blanket to his chest. The plane rumbled above, passing within a hundred yards of the cave. It passed again, this time a little farther away.

“They must be looking for us,” said Grease.

“No. They can’t have traced us,” replied Gorud.

“Why not?”

“It is a general search. Nothing more.”

Turk got up and went to the mouth of the cave. He could see the plane in the distance, circling to the north.

“You’re too close to the mouth of the cave,” said Gorud, grabbing his arm and pulling him away.

“He’s definitely looking at something,” said Turk.

“How do you know?” asked Gorud.

“It’s obvious. He’s circling.”

“Is he looking at us?” asked Grease.

“I don’t think so. It could be that village to the west. Or maybe the car.”

Turk and Gorud studied the map, but it was impossible to say for certain what the plane was focusing on. It made a dozen more circular sweeps, then moved on.

No one slept after that. They kept their shift watches—Grease was up next—but that was just a formality. All three men stayed close to the bend in the cave, back far enough from the entrance to avoid being seen, but close enough to catch a glimpse of anyone coming from the road.

A little after noon Grease went to the supply cache and got lunch. One by one he inserted rations in a flameless ration heater and added water. The heater was actually a bag that contained iron, magnesium, and sodium. A chemical reaction started by the water heated the food.

“Cheese tortellini,” said Grease as he handed out the food.

Turk’s tongue felt numb. He seemed to have lost the sense of taste, though the aroma of the food that wafted up from the bag was strong enough to provoke memories of his middle school cafeteria. He ate quickly and scraped the side of the bag when he was finished.

“More?” asked Grease.

“Nah.”

“Good, huh?” His tone was mocking.

“It was fine.”

“You Air Force guys aren’t used to eating out of bags, huh?”

“No,” admitted Turk.

“How about you?” Grease asked Gorud.

The CIA officer turned to them. “I’ve eaten out of a lot of things,” he said solemnly. “Including a human skull.”

N
O ONE S
POKE FOR QUITE A WHI
LE AFTER THAT.

Eventually Turk’s legs grew stiff from sitting. He got up and walked around the cave. Grease had given him a small LED flashlight from the gear stash, but Turk left it off; the darkness somehow felt more comforting.

Creeping to the edge of the interior lake, he sat and listened to the nearly silent but resonant hush that filled the space. Every so often something would drop from the ceiling. The plunks echoed throughout the cave.

He thought about how he would escape, and worried about having to swim in the Caspian. He wasn’t a bad swimmer, but in his vision now he saw the waves surrounding him. Suddenly, he felt claustrophobic in the dark. Hand shaking, he reached into his pocket for the LED flashlight and lit it. Then, heart pounding, he backed away from the edge of the water.

He collided with Grease and fell. A shudder of fear ran through him, dissipating only after the trooper hauled him to his feet.

“Shit,” Turk muttered. “I thought you were on watch.”

“Gorud’s there. I was making sure you didn’t try swimming.”

“I feel claustrophobic,” he told him, without explaining why. To his surprise, Grease told him that he did, too.

“I don’t know what it is,” added Grease. “Adrenaline builds and then it runs away. It leaves you empty, and you start focusing on stupid things, things that might kill you, but won’t in a million years. It’s related to tension I guess.”

“Yeah,” said Turk.

“You feel that when you’re flying?”

“Not too much.”

“But sometimes.”

“A few times,” admitted Turk. “Mostly, you’re too busy to think about it.”

“I know what you mean.”

A
ROUND 3:00 P.M.
THEY HEARD HEAVY TRUCKS IN THE
distance. Turk crawled to the entrance where Grease was keeping watch and peered out at the highway a half mile to the west. The road was empty, but a cloud of dust rose another mile beyond it, near the outskirts of the small village.

“Be nice to have a UAV over us,” said Turk.

“It would show them where to look,” answered Grease.

“There is that.”

Grease handed over the binoculars. There were three military trucks driving on a desert road near the hamlet, coming up from the south. Two troop trucks and a command vehicle—a patrol of some sort.

“You think they’re looking for us?” Turk asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You got any evidence that they are?”

“No.”

“That’s your answer.”

“I’d love to hear something more reassuring.”

“Me, too.”

10

Iran

C
OLONEL
K
HORASANI
GOT OUT OF HIS COMMA
ND VEHICLE
slowly. The old building reminded him of his mother’s parents’ house in Gezir.

Lovely days. Parties every evening with the neighbors and relatives. Iran was a different place. Some of the neighbors were Sunni, and there would occasionally be long arguments about religion, but with no one thinking of taking some sort of revenge or turning the others in.

“The truck is in the back, Colonel,” said Sergeant Karim.

“The place is abandoned?” asked Khorasani as he walked with his sergeant.

“For years now. We are checking the local records.”

The four-door Toyota had been tucked close to the house, invisible from the road and much of the surrounding area, though not from the air. The pilot who had spotted it had been over the area the morning after the “earthquake,” and swore he had not seen the vehicle.

A very similar pickup was seen on the road near the farm truck that had been destroyed; it was clear in the video from the aircraft. That truck had a dent in the top rail; this one had an identical mark. The first character in the registration plate—all that could be seen—was identical.

But this was entirely the wrong place for the pickup truck to be located. It was closer to the lab, not farther away.

Maybe they were tasked with seeing what had happened. The colonel turned south, gazing in the direction of Fordow, which had a high security plant. There were dozens of others scattered between there and Qom farther south. The precincts were off limits to all but the workers and scientists involved in the bomb’s development. Khorasani himself didn’t even know the location of all of them.

But perhaps the most obvious explanation for the truck was that it wasn’t related at all. Smugglers would use a house such as this to stash their wares. It was empty, but perhaps the airplane had driven them off.

The structure had been abandoned years ago. Part of the wall was missing. Khorasani stepped through, entering what was once a bedroom. All of the furniture was long gone, but there were old photographs tacked to the wall: a family picnic lost now to memory.

The colonel walked through the rooms. Dust was thick everywhere.

Khorasani stood in the middle of what had been the kitchen and stared at the weathered pipes in the wall. He had no other leads. The more work he and his investigators did, the more he came to believe that the “incident,” as he called it, was actually an accidental blast caused by the scientists themselves.

That was unlikely to be admitted.

The truck must be linked somehow. Parking here—maybe they were smugglers, but what if they were spies? What if there were more commandos, eyeing another attack?

Khorasani strode outside. Sergeant Karim was waiting.

“Colonel, it is the captain coordinating the Twelfth Guard unit,” said the sergeant, holding the satellite phone out. “He wishes to take his men off alert. They’re worried about their families.”

“They can worry later,” Khorasani snapped. “Tell him the entire area is to stay on alert. Tell him—tell him we are looking for commandos who stole this truck.”

“Uh—”

“Sergeant Karim, follow orders,” he said, returning to his command vehicle.