The railroad tracks were about fifty yards away on the right, just on the other side of a hard-packed dirt road. The ground sloped gently from their position to the tracks, then fell away a little steeper. The cover was sparse, large clumps of stiff grass and clusters of low bushes.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Turk, hoarse.
“Ssssh,” said Grease, this time sternly.
The Israeli started ahead, then suddenly flattened himself.
“Come on,” hissed Grease, moving on his haunches to a nearby bush.
Turk lost his balance as he got up. He managed to push and fall forward, half diving and half crawling into position behind Grease. Under other circumstances it might have been hilarious, but Turk was not in the mood to laugh at himself, and Grease seemed congenitally averse to humor of any kind. Neither said anything.
A hum grew in the air, vibrating stronger and stronger. Turk didn’t realize it was a train until it burst in front of him. There were no lights on either of the two diesel engines in the front, nor were there any on the two passenger cars and a half-dozen freight cars that followed, or the flatcars with trucks and tanks. The train melted into a brownish blur, leaving a film of dust floating in the air in its wake. The scent of half-burned diesel fuel was so strong Turk thought he would gag.
“They’re sending troops to cordon the area off and find out what happened,” said Grease. “There’ll be patrols.”
“Yeah.”
Turk remembered the image of the ground as it imploded. He wasn’t sure what the radioactive effects would be. Would the entire area be poisoned for years?
Was five miles far enough way to avoid the effects? A slight twinge of paranoia struck him—maybe his fatigue was due to radioactive poisoning.
Unlikely. He was just exhausted, plain and simple.
They both rose, Turk unsteadily, Grease as solid and smooth as ever. The Israeli trotted toward them.
“There’s a truck at the other side of the intersection,” he said when he reached them. “I think it is your people.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER TURK WAS SITTING IN THE BACK of the truck, wedged between Gorud and Grease. The other members of the team were spread out along the floorboards, sitting or leaning toward the back, watchful. The Israeli had gone up front with the driver.
Gorud had been emotionless when Turk reported that the mission was a success. Turk wondered at his own peculiar lack of elation as well—they’d just struck a tremendous blow against Iran, probably prevented a war or at least a wider conflict, and yet he didn’t feel particularly elated. He didn’t feel anything, except the aches and pains of his bruises, and the heavy weight of his eyelids.
“We’ll be there soon,” said Gorud, checking his watch. “Granderson and one of the men are already there. It should be safe until morning, or beyond.”
“Why are we waiting there?” asked Grease.
“They didn’t explain,” said Gorud as the truck bounced along the dirt road. “They just want us to stand by for further instructions.”
“We should be getting as far away as possible,” said Grease.
Turk completely agreed. There were still a few hours before dawn. They ought to use every one of them to get closer to safety.
Several plans had been drawn up for their “exfiltration.” The preferred one had been by airplane from the airport where they were supposed to meet the helicopter. But that option had apparently gone by the boards when they were shot down.
“I don’t disagree,” said Gorud. “But this is what they said. Maybe they know something we don’t.”
“Right,” sneered Grease.
A few minutes later the truck slowed to a stop. One by one they got out. Dread helped Turk down, easing him onto the ground as if he were an old man. Turk was mildly amused—until his legs went rubbery on him after a step or two. He stood stock-still for several seconds, regaining his composure.
They saw what looked like a large construction area, with bulldozed sections and piles of dirt, sand, and gravel. Captain Granderson, waiting here with one of the troopers in the car they’d “borrowed” earlier in the evening, said the area had been used by the Iranian army for maneuvers some years before. There were buildings across the road to the east. They were abandoned, but Granderson had decided to avoid them.
“We’ve been monitoring the radio,” he told Turk. “There’s been an announcement of an earthquake. But the military has been put on alert. They have aircraft all over the place.”
“Probably looking for us. We were shot down.”
“You were shot down?”
“Yeah. I managed to get it in, more out of luck than anything else. The pilot was killed.”
“Damn.”
“Did you hear anything about a MiG?” Turk asked. “I went after it with the nano-UAVs. I don’t know if I got it down.”
“I haven’t heard anything. It’s not always easy to understand what they’re saying, though.”
“What are they talking about, you think?” Grease asked, nodding toward Gorud and the Israeli. The two appeared to be arguing.
“Don’t know. Gorud doesn’t like him, though.”
“He said that?”
“You could just tell.” Granderson stared at the two men as if he could read their lips in the twilight.
“Does he trust him?” asked Grease.
“I don’t think like and trust are related,” said Granderson.
“If he didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t have let us go with him, right?” said Turk.
“He’s Mossad?” asked Grease.
“I don’t know. I think he’s actually a Russian who’s paid by Mossad,” said Granderson. “Based on what he was cursing about.”
“How do we get out of here?” Grease asked.
“At this point, go north through the mountains to the Caspian,” said Granderson, understanding the question to mean the country, not the pit where they were hiding. “We have two stash points along the way, and there should be two guys near the water waiting for us. There’s also a SEAL unit that’s a quick reaction force, more or less, that can help us once we’re farther north.” Granderson seemed almost matter of fact, but he was proposing they travel through rough mountains. “But we can’t do anything until I get the OK from the States.”
“You think we can sit here all day without being sighted?”
“If we have to.”
7
Washington, D.C.
“THE WHITE HOUSE POSITION THAT IT’S AN EARTHQUAKE is untenable,” said Shapiro, the Senate committee aide who was an expert on, among other things, the Iranian nuclear program. “Even if they are just referring everyone to the Iranian government. Every scientist looking at the data will know it’s false. They’re not going to be quiet about it. Already someone from MIT was quoted in a Web report saying it must have been related to their nuke program.”
Zen leaned his head back, gazing at the ceiling in the closed conference room. He could think of exactly one reason why the White House wouldn’t want to confirm that it had been a nuclear accident: the explosion was the result of a U.S. operation which was still under way.
Senator Brown, the chairman of the committee, gave him a sideways glance as Shapiro finished. He seemed to have come to the same conclusion.
Not that this necessarily made the President’s silence right.
“So am I correct that the members are not comfortable with the lack of information coming from the White House?” said the chairman mildly. He of course knew he was, and waited for only the briefest moment before proceeding. “What we want is an up-to-date, no-holds-barred, closed-door briefing. Do I have that correct? I’ll set about getting one.”
Brown tapped his gavel lightly before anyone could answer. Zen rolled backward from the table, trying to make a quick escape.
He didn’t make it.
“Jeff—Zen—if you could hold on a second,” said Brown. “I just need a word.”