“Maybe Gorud thought the plane would be less noticeable,” said Reid.
At one of the original briefing sessions on the planning, someone had mentioned that there were often helicopter flights in the area; she remembered quite clearly because she’d asked a question about it.
“I’m not trying to second-guess their operation,” she told Reid. “I am concerned because we haven’t confirmed that it is our aircraft. Gorud hasn’t checked in.”
“Understood.”
“Ma’am.” Schaffer cleared his throat. “If you want a launch, you need to authorize. The window on this pass is only forty-five seconds.”
If she authorized the launch and Turk wasn’t in a position to “catch” the UAVs, the mission would be aborted and the aircraft lost. The operation would have to wait another twenty-four hours, and the margin of error would be cut in half.
Breanna looked again at the screen plotting Turk’s location. He might be heading for the target. Or he might be going to Tehran—the logical place to bring a prisoner.
Something her father had told her years before popped into her head: There are always reasons to put off a mission, Bree. A lot of them, and they’re always good ones. Going ahead is always the lonelier way. But it’s almost always the better choice.
“Launch,” she told Schaffer.
7
Iran
TURK BRACED HIMSELF AS THE CESSNA BANKED sharply. It turned nearly 270 degrees in what felt like a half second, dropping at the same time. His stomach felt as if it had hopped up to his eyeballs.
“What the hell are we doing?” he demanded as the pilot leveled off.
“We have to avoid being detected,” said the man in the right front seat. While Turk labeled him the Israeli because of what Gorud had said earlier, his accent sounded Eastern European. But then those two things were not necessarily a contradiction.
“You haven’t told me what happened to the helicopter.”
“This will have to do,” said the Israeli.
“What happened?” snapped Turk.
“It’s immaterial,” said the Israeli. “This is what we have. Do the job.”
“Listen—”
Grease patted him twice on his leg, silently trying to calm him. The pilot started speaking quickly in Farsi.
“Let’s all relax,” said Grease, first in English, then Farsi. He turned to Turk. “You OK?”
“He’s going to have to stay very close to the site,” Turk said. The plane dipped sharply. “And he’s going to have to fly a hell of a lot better than he’s flying.”
“He’s a good pilot,” said the Israeli.
“And I’m a good truck driver.”
They leveled off, the plane steadying. They were flying fast and low, and it was possible that the pilot was just jittery because he was a little nervous—the Israeli didn’t exactly put people at ease. Even a light plane, if unfamiliar, could be a handful. Turk tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, leaning back in his seat and recalculating the mission in his head, rearranging what he would have to do.
As long as they stayed in the general area, they’d be OK. He’d have the Cessna fly a long, continuous circuit as close to the target as the pilot dared. Once he acquired the UAVs, things would happen pretty fast.
Turk checked his watch. They were four hours from the rendezvous time. The mission plan had called for the helicopter to take about two hours getting to the refuel site; the target area was another hour and a half away.
“Are we stopping to refuel?” Turk asked.
“Nonstop,” said the Israeli. “Straight line.”
Turk leaned forward, checking the gauges. The pilot had the throttle at max; they were pushing 140 knots.
“Set your speed to 110 knots,” Turk said, calculating their flight time. “One hundred and ten knots.”
The pilot made no move to comply.
“Tell him to drop his speed to 110 knots,” Turk told the Israeli. “Or I’ll strangle him.”
Grease glanced at Turk, then took out his pistol.
The Israeli said something to the pilot. The pilot disagreed, and they started to argue.
“Look, we don’t want to get there too soon,” said Turk. “If 110 knots is too slow for the aircraft, then we’ll have to change course and fly around a bit. But he’s heading straight for the target area. I don’t know what you’ve told him, or what you think we’re doing, but we don’t want to get there too soon. Do you understand? This isn’t a race. We have to be there in a precise window of time.”
“He says we have to maintain speed,” said the Israeli harshly.
“The pilot does exactly what the captain says,” Grease announced, raising the Iranian-made Sig and nudging it against the edge of the pilot’s neck, “or he dies.”
The pilot glanced back nervously. The plane edged with him, reacting to his hand on the yoke.
“Don’t be a fool,” hissed the Israeli. “You’ll kill us all.”
“He’s going too fast,” said Turk. “Tell him to relax. Tell him I’m a pilot, too. I know what I’m talking about.”
“He knows where he has to go and when to get there,” said the Israeli, only slightly less antagonistic. “He wants a cushion.”
“We can’t afford a cushion. This isn’t a transport. Tell him there’s a penalty for getting there too soon.”
The Israeli frowned.
“Does he know what we’re doing?” Turk asked. “Do you?”
“He knows the very minimum he needs to know. As do I.”
The pilot said something. His voice was high-pitched, jittery. A thick ribbon of sweat poured down the side of his face. Turk thought of finding a place for them to land and taking over flying the plane. But he couldn’t do that and guide the UAVs.
“Tell him I know that he’s nervous, but I trust that he can fly the plane,” said Turk. “Tell him I’m a test pilot. And I like his skills. Tell him to relax, just relax and fly. He’s a good pilot. A very good pilot.”
The last bit was a lie—a rather large one—but Turk’s goal was to get the man to trust him, and accurately evaluating how he was flying would not do that.
The pilot nodded, though there was no sign that he relaxed.
“Tell him that we’ll be flying a low figure eight when we get to the area,” said Turk. “Even if we get there when planned, we’ll have to do that for more than a half hour. That’s a long time. We don’t want to be detected. The longer we’re there, the more chance of that—that’s why we want to slow down. And it’ll conserve fuel.”
“I want him to know the minimum necessary,” answered the Israeli. “Telling him he has to orbit for a half hour isn’t going to calm him down.”
“Tell him whatever the hell you want,” said Grease, “but make him do what Turk says.”
“I think we should all calm down,” said the Israeli. “There’s no need for excitement.”
“Then let’s follow the captain’s game plan. To the letter,” said Grease.
8
CIA campus, Virginia
“THE CALL HAS BEEN MADE,” SAID REID, RISING. “That’s their plane.”
Relieved, Breanna looked at the large area map of Iran projected on the front wall. They had hours to go; she knew from experience the time would alternately drag and race, as if her perceptions were split in two.
“Breanna, could we speak?” said Reid, touching her elbow.
“Sure.”
Breanna got up and led Reid down the hall to her office. The lights flipped on as she entered. She saw the small clock on the credenza at the back, thought of her daughter, and wondered what subject she would be studying now.
Just starting English. They always did that before lunch at eleven.
Breanna stopped in front of her desk, standing at the side of the room. She’d been sitting too long; she felt like standing.