The access road took them to the front of the civilian passenger terminal, dark and seemingly forgotten. They turned left and drove around the building, directly onto the apron where the aircraft gates were located.
“Nothing here,” said Silver as they turned. “No plane.”
“I see.” Gorud looked left and right.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Keep going.”
“Onto the runway?”
“No. Onto the construction road at the far end. We’ll take it back around.”
“If it’s sand we may get stuck.”
“Chance it. We don’t want to look like we took a wrong turn if we’re being watched. We’re examining the airport—we would fly equipment in through here. We’re all Russian. Remember that.”
“Problem?” asked Grease.
“The Israeli and the helicopter should have been at the terminal,” said Gorud. “I don’t see it.”
“What Israeli?” said Turk. “Is that who is bringing the helicopter?”
Gorud said nothing. He didn’t have to; the expression on his face shouted disdain. Belatedly, Turk realized that “the Israeli” could only be their contact. He also guessed that the man was likely a Mossad agent or officer; the Israeli spy unit would have numerous agents studded around the country, and they would surely cooperate with the U.S. on a mission like this.
But it was also quite possible the man wasn’t Mossad at all. Everything was subterfuge—they were Russian, they were Iranian, they didn’t even exist.
“Place looks abandoned,” said Grease.
“It is,” replied Gorud. “More or less. Most airports outside Tehran look like this with the sanctions. Even if they have an air force unit, which this one doesn’t.”
“There was an aircraft on the left across from the terminal as we came in,” Turk said. “I didn’t get much of a look. Maybe that was it.”
“Was it an Mi-8?”
“I don’t think so. It looked a little small for an Mi-8.”
“We’ll go back.”
“Can you call your contact?” Grease asked.
Gorud shook his head. Turk guessed that he was afraid the missed connection meant that the man on the other end had been apprehended. Calling would only make things worse—for them.
“We can do it by ground if we have to,” Turk said. “If we have to.”
Silver took them across the dirt roads at the side of the terminal. A half-dozen excavations dotted the surrounding fields; all were overrun with dirt and sand that had drifted in. There were construction trucks on the other side of the entrance area, parked neatly in rows. As they drove closer, Turk saw that they were covered with a thick layer of grit. They’d been parked in the unfinished lot for months; work had stalled for a variety of reasons, most likely chief among them the Western economic boycott.
They had just turned back toward the administrative buildings when Turk spotted a light in the sky beyond the main runway.
“Something coming in,” he said.
“Take the right ahead, bring us back to the edge of the terminal apron,” Gorud told Silver.
Turk craned his head to see out the window as they turned and the aircraft approached.
“It’s not a helicopter,” he told them. “Light plane—looks like a Cessna or something similar. No lights.”
“What should I do?” asked Silver.
“Keep going, as I said,” snapped Gorud.
They parked at the edge of the terminal road, across from the gates and close enough to see the runway. The plane was a high-winged civilian aircraft, a Cessna 182 or something similar. The aircraft taxied to the end of the runway, then turned around quickly and came over to the terminal apron.
“Wait here,” said Gorud, getting out.
“Something is fucked up,” muttered Silver as the CIA officer trotted toward the plane.
Turk continued sketching an alternative plan in his head. In some ways it would be easier to work from the ground, he thought. His part would be easier: there’d be no possibility of losing a connection, and he wouldn’t have to worry about the distraction of working in a small aircraft. It’d be harder to escape, of course, but that was what he had the others for.
The key would be getting there. It was a long way off.
Gorud ran back to the car.
“It’s our plane,” he said. “Only two of us will fit. Come on, Captain.”
Grease put his hand on Turk’s shoulder. “I go where he goes.”
“You won’t fit in the aircraft,” said Gorud.
“Then you stay on the ground,” said Grease.
Turk pushed out of the car, leaving Gorud and Grease to sort out the situation themselves. The man in the right front seat of the aircraft—the copilot’s seat—got out to help him. He pushed his seat up and nudged Turk into the plane.
“What happened to the helicopter?” Turk asked as he got in.
The pilot shook his head.
“You speak English?” Turk asked.
Another head shake. The cockpit smelled like a locker room after an intense basketball game: sweat, and a lot of it. Perspiration ran thick on the back of the pilot’s neck. His shirt was drenched.
Grease slipped in next to him.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said the Delta sergeant. “Come on.”
The man who’d gotten out of the plane climbed back in. Turk assumed he was the Israeli.
“What happened to the helicopter?” asked Turk again.
“Contingency,” said the man. “This will have to do. Gorud is not coming?”
“Not unless he sits on your lap,” said Grease.
“Too much weight anyway,” the man said as he slammed and secured the plane door. The plane moved fitfully back toward the runway.
“I’m Turk,” said Turk, reaching toward the front.
“No names,” said the Israeli.
Turk slipped back and looked at Grease. “At least I know now I’m on the right plane,” he muttered.
The faintest of smiles appeared on Grease’s lips.
6
CIA campus, Virginia
“SPACECRAFT TWO IS SIXTY SECONDS TO TARGET area,” said Colonel Schaffer, the Air Force liaison tracking the X-37B. “They need a final go to launch.”
Breanna glanced at Jonathon Reid, then back at the screen showing where Turk was. The pilot was wearing a small ring that allowed the Whiplash network to locate him at all times.
“Has Gorud sent the signal?” she asked Reid.
“Still waiting,” he replied, his voice so soft she could barely hear it over the whisper of the air conditioner. It was a habit of his—the more tense he felt, the quieter he made his voice. Undoubtedly it had served the old CIA hand very well when he was in the field.
Gorud was supposed to signal that the operation was proceeding by calling a prearranged number in Egypt that they were monitoring. The number belonged to an Iranian who spied on the West, a nice little piece of misdirection cooked up by Gorud himself. They expected the call when they boarded the helicopter, but though Turk was clearly aboard and moving, there had been no signal.
Breanna stared at the screen, watching as Turk moved away from the airport. They didn’t have real-time visual of the operation, having decided that even a stealthy UAV might give them away if something went wrong. Iran, using Russian technology, had already demonstrated the ability to track American drones.
There was something wrong about the way the aircraft was moving—it didn’t seem like a helicopter.
“Is the X-37 close enough to Birjand to pick up that aircraft?” Breanna asked Schaffer.
“Negative. Not even close. Is there a problem?”
“Turk’s supposed to be in a helicopter.”
“What’s wrong, Breanna?” asked Reid.
“I’m pretty sure Turk’s in a plane, not a helicopter as planned.”
“Maybe they had to change their arrangement,” said Reid. “Will he be able to control the UAVs?”
“He should. The question is whether they can stay in the area, and do so without attracting too much attention.”