The Fourth War (20 page)

“So we'll hit the target, then fly south for the Gulf and, once off the coast of Iran, head to Qatar. We'll do what we can to avoid hostile airspace and get to the Gulf as quickly as we can. That way, if we end up ditching the aircraft, at least it will be over international waters, not Iran. I want to go down somewhere where there will be U.S. or British naval assets who could assist in the rescue.”

Tia didn't answer. She couldn't get it out of her mind! They were planning on landing with only a twelve minute reserve! It was almost ridiculous. Her chest tightened up. “I'll say this,” she finally said, “cutting it that close will make it a lot more exciting.”

“That it will. That it will. But it's the best option we have.”

“You know, we'll be famous if we drop this three-billion-dollar aircraft in the ocean.”

“I don't want to be famous.”

“Neither do I.”

They were silent, each lost in thought until Bradley finally punched his radio switch and broadcast, “Boxcar.”

“Kill, this is Boxcar. Go ahead.”

“Boxcar, we need you to take note and relay our intentions to command post. Kill 31 is mission capable and intends to continue. We will strike the target. However, with only the partial offload of fuel and no ability to refuel, we can not complete the mission as planned. Our intentions are to divert into Manama. Divert route will be direct Al Khasab, direct Doha, direct Manama.”

“Understand. Complete mission. Divert to Manama, via Al Khasab and Doha.”

“That's affirm. We anticipate being NORDO until mission complete. Estimate our time to divert field at 0325 local. Have them stand ready. You copy?”

“Roger, Kill. Your intention is to continue. Expect NORDO. Estimating Manama at 0325 local.”

“That's affirm.”

The tanker pilot waited, then said. “Kill, are you certain? You're cutting it pretty close!”

“Roger, Box, we'll be fine.”

Another long pause, then, “Alright, Kill. Anything else?”

“Negative. You escort Number Two.”

“Wilco, Kill. And once again, we are sorry.”

“Roger, understand. Nothing you could do.”

“Fly safe, Kill 31. Good hunting, sir.”

Bradley watched as the two tankers started lifting away in a climbing, left-hand turn on their way back to Italy. He saw the shadow of the second B-2 fall in a mile behind the tankers. The aircraft climbed together and accelerated away.

Tia pushed up the power and pulled up the nose of her aircraft. “Guess that's it then,” she said.

“Yeah,” Bradley answered.

“We'll keep our eyes on the gas. We hit the target, then head south. Worst case, we run out of gas somewhere off the coast of Iran and we take a swim in the Arabian Sea. Rescue won't be long in coming.”

“Of course, without our radios no one will know where we are. And they won't know if we go down. So we might be in the water for a while.”

“But they have our route and ETA. Worst case, we get sunburned while we wait in our rafts. Best case, we have breakfast at the Manama Naval Officers Club.”

“You get me there, baby, and I'm buying the beer.”

“For breakfast?”

“It would be dinner time back in the States.”

“It's a deal then. Beer and breakfast at Manama. It's not a bad plan.”

Bradley smiled bitterly. “You know, of all the times, of all the things, I can't believe this happened—not on
this
mission.”

Tia sucked on her lip. “It's a little ironic,” she laughed miserably.

Bradley only stared.

“It's not impossible,” she said as she turned to him.

Bradley nodded in answer. But inside he knew better and his gut tightened up.

Kill 31
Over the Mediterranean Sea

The Stealth climbed, leveling at sixty-two thousand feet. Bradley took the controls, wanting to feel the jet. It was stable and smooth. So far as he could tell, there was no damage done. Tia turned to the avionics and weapons systems, running them through their self-checks. It was growing dark quickly as evening came on. Cyprus passed under the aircraft, a nondescript piece of landmass more than ten miles below, then the coastline of Syria began to come into view under the light of the stars, the shoreline shimmering in the dim moonlight. Tia shot an update with the radar to update the Internal Navigational System, taking a fix off a road intersection along the coastline.

“How do the weapons systems look?” Bradley asked.

“They check perfectly. The most difficult part of this mission is going to be identifying the target among all those caves, and we can still do that.”

“If we have damage to our RAM, we might get lit up by radar.”

“I don't think it will matter. The damage is along the top side, where it can only be detected by a fighter, not a ground-based missile. And neither Pakistan nor Afghanistan has any fighters that could hurt us this high. The only time we'll be vulnerable is during the bomb run, when we have to descend to fighter altitude.”

“All right then. Let's go to war.”

Tia flipped the master cockpit control mode switch to the “Go to War” mode. The rudder/brakes, which were normally open five degrees to provide better control response, immediately closed, thus eliminating their radar reflection. Differential engine thrust, a highly classified element of the B-2, would now provide directional control.

The crewmembers continued their combat checklist. Twenty miles from the coast, they were ready to go. By then it was dark. The B-2 crossed Syria and Iraq without being detected. Their route then took them almost directly over Tehran. The city lights shined unnaturally bright, seemingly close enough to touch them, even from sixty-two thousand feet. It was surreal to be flying over a hostile country's capital without any fear. The Caspian Sea shimmered off to their left. The mountains in the east loomed nearer, deep shadows against the darkening night. Bradley watched them, then noticed the brown moon on the horizon.

“Take a look on the radar,” he instructed Tia. “It looks like there might be dust storms building along the Garagum Desert.”

Sandstorms over the desert kicked up frequently, generated by the powerful winds sweeping down from the mountains. These storms carried tons of sand and debris in a billowing wall that sometimes reached up to seventy thousand feet. And the air force had learned from experience during the first attacks on Afghanistan that the dust would play havoc on the delicate skin of the fragile B-2. Bradley studied the brown clouds against the moonlit horizon. “We can't afford to divert around any sandstorms,” he said. “We don't have the time, and we don't have the gas.”

Tia worked the radar, selecting weather mode. Her heart skipped a beat. The weather scope cluttered with a solid green mass. She tuned the radar down, searching for the tops of the storms, then took a deep breath. “It doesn't look great, but I think we can make it. The storms are topping out at about fifty-five thousand feet. We should be able to get over the top, even if we stay on this course.”

“How far out are the storms now?”

“Looks like two hundred—check that, one hundred eighty miles.”

Bradley didn't reply. Tia continued to work her radar display. Something had caught her eye on the other side of the dust clouds; multiple hits on her radar, some high and some low. She looked carefully, switching to air-to-air mode. “Look at this!” she said, overlaying her radar data onto Colonel Bradley's center CRT.

He looked down and frowned. “No way!” he exclaimed.

“It's right. I've checked the signal. That's a Flash Dance radar. Definitely Su-27 fighters. Two of them. And they're loitering over the target, I mean right over it, sir. And look at
this.
Puma helicopters! Low. Near the target.”

“Russians?” he asked her in a disbelieving tone.

“No way, boss. Wrong radar wavelength. The Russian 27s have the newer radar that operates on a slightly higher frequency.”

“Syrians? Iranians?”

Tia didn't answer.

“Who else flies the Su-27!” Bradley demanded.

Tia shook her head.

“It doesn't make any sense,” the colonel muttered angrily.

“I'm telling you, sir, those are Pumas down there. And Su-27 radars. Look at the wavelength. How can you argue with that! And they're directly over Tirich Mir!”

Bradley thought for a moment, then swore bitterly. Tia looked at him, her face growing pale in the dim cockpit light. Lot's of countries flew Su-27s, and none of them were friends. “Someone knows we're coming,” she whispered. “And they're waiting for us.”

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

Washington fumed at his desk, his temples throbbing.

Less than fifteen hours into the mission, and things had turned upside down! Fifteen hours into the mission, and he had a rock in his gut.

Dropping the boom onto the B-2! Some genius was going to pay for that one. Someone, he didn't care who, but someone was going to stand up to the firing line and take a bullet for that, nearly sinking the mission before it even left friendly airspace. Now they were down to one bomber. And they had no communications with it! They had a three-billion-dollar aircraft strolling around central Asia with a bay full of nuclear weapons,
and they didn't have an ability to talk with the crew!

Washington shook his head in disgust.

He glanced at his desk and the initial flash report of the Predator going down, then thought of the call from Peter Zembeic telling him how the air force had lost the signal from the Predator somewhere over the target. It wasn't clear what had happened, but Washington had an idea, and the fact that there were Pumas in the area only made his suspicions worse.

So he had sent Peter to investigate—to have a word with the old man. So far, he'd heard nothing, and that gnawed at him inside. Like a knife scraping an old wound, he waited for the bad news that he was certain was going to make him bleed.

Worse, and a more immediate problem, was the fact that it would be two hours before they could get another Predator over the target.
Two friggin' hours!
Washington almost moaned. Two hours was a lifetime! The Predators were too slow!

A thick darkness gathered around him, a sixth sense he had developed over the thirty years with the agency, a sense he had cultivated as a kid in the ghetto trying to grow up without being taken down. After a lifetime of fighting, he trusted his gut, and his gut told him now that things were falling apart.

Donner. Captured. Probably dead. The enemy tightening their search, scrambling around the mountains of Tirich Mir. No communications with his bomber. The Predator down.

His dread deepened. Something was happening, something he couldn't touch, see, or feel. Something was working against them. He had never believed in coincidence and he didn't believe in it now.

Islamabad, Pakistan

The taxi was a beat-up and rusted-out '89 Buick with a broken window on the passenger's side that had been taped over with plastic that was now dry and cracked from exposure to the sun. The rear seats were torn and smelled of mice, and the floor was covered with newspapers and crushed cigarettes. The sedan spewed oily exhaust and the entire engine rattled from the missing spark plug in the third cylinder, but no one noticed the spewing exhaust. Automobile parts were only one of the thousands of everyday items that were impossible to get in Pakistan.

The cab belched to a stop on the side of the street, pulling over just far enough so that the other traffic could pass, but few cars were out, not many souls had dared venture onto the streets just yet. The sidewalk was dirty and brown, with graffiti and old Hollywood movie posters posted everywhere and dry weeds and grass pushing through the cracks in the cement. To the right was a depressing bar and brothel that catered to the UN soldiers and contractors from Europe and Malaysia. Though illegal, the local police had been instructed to let the brothel be; the prostitutes were not Muslim, but girls from Cambodia, the Philippines, and (best of all) India and the establishment provided a steady stream of payoffs for the local party boss, but this afternoon the bar was empty, with all of the shutters closed. Further down, near the corner, was a small grocer and open air market that was just opening up. Lines of inpatient and fearful women waited, pressing forward, moving toward the grocer's door at the sound of the turning keys, fretful to get a share of the frozen fish and fresh meat they hoped had been delivered inside. On a normal day, goat, lamb, dog, and horse could have been bought in the store, but today there was only
braug,
a local mixture of cow gut, herbs, and oatmeal, and even not enough of that. It would take less than fifteen minutes for the small store to sell everything and again close its doors.

The southern end of the block had been taken up by an old tool shop which rebuilt electric generators for use in the Southern Caspian oil fields. The main door to the electrical shop was a thick slab of oak that opened directly onto the street, and the windows had recently been covered with thick steel bars, then painted from the inside with heavy black paint.

The taxi didn't come to a stop, but rolled slowly by the shop, the driver hesitating, the engine coughing blue smoke while the wheels crunched the gravel and broken asphalt under its tires. The driver's eyes darted left and right underneath his dark glasses. He waited ten seconds, then, checking his rearview mirror, pressed the accelerator and moved away from the curb.

Peter Zembeic emerged from the shop and quickened his step, slapping the trunk of the cab as it started pulling away. The cab stopped and he jumped in the back seat before the cab accelerated to merge with the thin traffic.

“Nice place you guys got there,” the driver said scornfully, referring to the electrical shop, which was a CIA front.

Peter didn't answer, adjusting himself in the seat. The driver moved his head slightly as he checked his mirror, and Peter watched him carefully, wishing he could see his eyes. He sighed wearily. His head pounded like a hammer. He needed a good fourteen hours sleep. He was tired and worried, his fears gnawed inside. The forty-minute car ride across Islamabad had left him in a very foul mood, seeing the soldiers and radicals roaming the streets, packs of wild dogs, snarling and ready to strike. It had been a dangerous drive, which required full military escort through the outskirts of the city, then a half-mile walk alone through the industrial part of town. The capital of Pakistan was momentarily calm, but anything but secure, and Peter knew it could boil over in an instant into urban war.

But Thomas Washington had insisted that he meet face-to-face with Petate's section chief in Pakistan. So he had made his way across the city instead of heading up to the mountain as he had originally planned.

“Where's Kalid?” Peter asked quickly, referring to the Israeli agent he usually worked through.

“You said you wanted to talk to the boss,” the driver replied.

“Is that you?” Peter demanded.

“As boss as you're going to get.”

“You can speak for Petate then?”

The driver hesitated, then answered, “I can.”

Peter was sitting on the passenger side and watched the driver's profile as he looked left, then honked and pulled into the traffic on a much busier street. The smells and sounds of the downtown district wafted through the plastic covering the broken window and Peter breathed deeply, then leaned forward, feeling the broken springs giving under his weight. “We want to know what happened to our Predator,” he said in a dry voice.

The driver's face remained stoic. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Come on, my friend, give me a little respect. I've driven through half a dozen check points to get here, okay? I paid more bribes in the past hour than I've paid in a month just to work my way across town. Now don't waste my time. I'm just not in the mood. We've only got ten minutes before I have to head back to my camp. Are you going to help me, or am I wasting my time?”

The Israeli smiled faintly. “The general instructed me to be helpful,” he said in a too-simple tone.

“Then tell me about the Pumas.”

“They aren't our machines.”

“Something brought down our Predator.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Zembeic, but I can't help you there.”

“You can't or you won't?”

“Isn't it the same thing?”

Peter wiped quickly with his hand, brushing the light sweat from his brow. “Listen to me,” he answered slowly, “as personal representative of Doctor Washington, as a representative of our government, I'm here to ask you directly: Have you got an operation going? Are those your Pumas hiding at the base of Tirich Mir?”

The Israeli hesitated before he answered. “You promised us your government would take care of this mess.”

“I don't believe your organization has ever trusted my government to take care of anything.”

“You are right, Mr. Zembeic. We never have. We never will.”

“Then tell me about the Pumas. Tell me what happened to our drone?”

The driver jerked the car suddenly, pulling it to the side of the street. Removing his dark glasses, he shifted in his seat. “It wasn't us,” he said simply, looking Peter straight in the eye. “I have nothing to tell you. You are wasting your time.”

Peter stared at the Shin Bet officer, reading the look in his face. “You're lying,” he murmured in a weary voice.

The driver didn't answer for a very long time. The car grew hot from the sun as the two men stared at each other in uncomfortable silence, then the Shin Bet officer leaned toward Peter and stared into his dark eyes. “Life can be uncertain,” he whispered, “there is no doubt about that. Now get back to Camp Horse. It might be a long night.”