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Iran. Hot already.

Wheels. He jumped off the bed and pulled on the loose-fitting Iranian clothing they had provided, stepped into his black Iranian shoes, and hurried down the stairs to the ground floor. He heard a motor kicking over in the interior of the quadrangle.

A minute later he saw it, a French-built Citroen sedan, at least ten years old. It had been repainted brown, but the driver's side front door was from another car, and still held the blue paint job. The motor sounded good.

Franklin pulled his head out from under the hood, and waved.

"Damn thing looks like it's been taken good care of. Should run a ton of miles unless somebody opens up on it with an Uzi or an MP-5. Look what we have in back already."

Franklin opened the rear door on the four-door model. There were heavy plastic bottles, each holding five gallons of water. There were a dozen boxes filled with food, most of it freeze-dried or dry, two loaves of bread, baskets of fruit, four rough brown blankets, an assortment of picks and shovels, and other prospecting gear to make them look legitimate.

They spent another hour going over the car and its contents. Murrah and her helpers brought more items they might need, such as a small butane bottle for cooking and a large piece of brown camouflage-painted canvas they could use to hide the car. The tank was filled with gasoline, and there were two 10-gallon tanks built into the back that were also filled.

"When's the best time to leave?" Douglas asked Murrah.

"As soon as it gets dark. Seven hours from now, maybe more." She frowned. "We need to have a private talk before then."

Douglas smiled. "Just how private?"

"The most private — in your room."

She left then, and the two SEALs looked at the captured weapons. Both were short, compact, with an extension stock. With the stock folded, they were less than a foot long.

"It's an MGP-15, what it says on the side," Franklin said.

Douglas grunted. "Yeah, heard about it. Made in Peru. Rate of fire only seven hundred rounds a minute, but you can shoot the sucker with one hand with the stock folded. Kicks out a lot of firepower with one hand."

"Magazines look like they should hold thirty rounds, nine mike, mike," Franklin said.

"No three-round bursts, but can go fully auto or single."

Franklin nodded."Yeah, I think I'll keep this one until I can rob, plunder, or steal something better."

At high noon, Douglas set up the SATCOM in the courtyard and aimed the round antenna at the satellite.

When it was aligned, a light popped on, and he switch set to receive.

A minute later a voice came loud and clear from the small speaker after the set processed the encrypted message through the code breaker.

"Douglas. Uncle Don here. We've found some interesting tracks in your wilderness. Widest highway goes forty-five miles almost due north, then splits. Best road heads east toward Pakistan. Estimate fifteen miles, then comes south another five, and vanishes into what looks like a fairly tall mountain.

"Gives you a place to start. Third Platoon reports ready to go when you are. Careful on that prospecting run. Stroh out."

Murrah brought out a local map, and they traced the roads. The one going north wasn't on the map. She plotted it in with a ballpoint pen, then at the forty-five-mile point, she turned it hard to the right for fifteen, then back south for five miles.

"How the hell do we get in there?" Douglas asked. "Are there any small trails or little-used roads, maybe old mines up in there?"

Murrah shrugged. "I don't know this area. Let me get Tabib, he can tell you."

She came back a moment later with the teacher, who was Iranian despite his Turkish name. He had a map of the area that did show some dirt roads and trails.

"Most of these are little more than trails, and often they run into a mountain and stop. One or two go through. I'll mark those. But those will be the ones that the military guards will be watching."

They bent over the map. He sketched in where the satellite photos had shown where the end of one wide roadway could be.

Tabib nodded. "Yes, there could be something there. That's an exceedingly tall peak for this range. Some of them are at the ten-thousand-foot level."

"So we should keep to the left as we head north," Douglas said. "If we can get within ten miles of that place on the map, we can hike in and take a look."

"If you leave the car, camouflage it carefully," Tabib said. "They do have several helicopters in this area. We never know where they stay, but it isn't at our small dirt-strip airport."

"Choppers," Franklin said. "That would make it hard to hide the Citroen in a wadi somewhere, but we'll try."

"Enough," Murrah said. "Time for you both to get some sleep if you're going to be driving most of the night. There will be a full moon tonight, so that will help. Get some rest, now, both of you."

The two SEALs laughed, and went up the stairs to their rooms.

"This going to work?" Franklin asked.

"Damn well better. George didn't get the job done, so it's up to us. No location, no drop-in by the platoon."

Douglas smacked his fist into his palm. "Damn, wish we had a small chopper. We could tie down that location in a few hours, and have the platoon on their way loaded for nukes."

"Yeah, now you think of it," Douglas said. He turned into his room and closed the door.

He figured five minutes. It was no more than three minutes before his door opened gently, and someone slipped in.

"What took you so long?" Douglas asked.

"You Americans always make the jokes," Murrah said as she lay down on the bed beside him.

They left the house a little after 1930. Darkness was gathering quickly, and Tabib rode with them to the far edge of town. He headed them out a track of a road he said would parallel the main truck road for twenty miles or more. Then they would need to move carefully, working through a maze of roads, to try to get another dirt road that might or might not lead closer to their suspected target.

At the edge of town Tabib shook hands with them.

"We hope you destroy the bombs, my friends. The world does not need a wild-eyed Iranian General calling the shots in this section of the world with nuclear blackmail." He stepped back from the car, and waved as they moved into the countryside with their lights off, and only the pale moon to help them see the way.

Douglas drove. Every few miles, Franklin turned on a small flashlight and checked the creaking odometer.

"That's fifteen miles, we're getting there."

Douglas hoped he was right. Now and then they had seen a series of headlights moving along the road to their left. It seemed like most of the traffic was heading into the mountains. Why would that be? Maybe vital supplies were still needed to finish the fabrication of the weapons.

Two hours into the drive, the engine sputtered, stopped, came to life again, then died.

Franklin crawled out of the rig and lifted the hood.

"Try the starter."

Douglas ground it over.

"Oh, damn!" Franklin yelped. "Okay, we've got lots of hot spark on the plugs. Now we check for fuel. Did this old rig have a fuel filter on it?"

Douglas had no idea, and didn't answer. Franklin hummed a little tune as he checked the engine with the small light held in his mouth.

"Yeah, here it is. Let me get it apart." It was a twist-and-pull type cylinder half an inch in diameter and two inches long. He pulled it off and checked it with the light.

"Sucker is plugged up solid. Must be great gasoline they sell in this shit hole."

He poured a cup of water into one of the small cooking pots they had in their gear and began shaking and washing the filter and thumping it on his hand.

At last he had it clean, then blew on it until it dried out. He wiped it off with a cloth and put it back in place.

"Give it a whirl."