They’d obviously searched the vehicle—the two AK-47s they’d left under the seats as a precaution were on the hood.
“I’ll handle it,” whispered the Israeli. “Stay back a bit. They just want bribes. Speak Russian only.”
The Israeli stormed toward them, yelling in Russian that they were thieves and waving papers in their faces. The Iranians wilted under the pressure of his complaints, backing toward the car and gesturing with open palms.
Grease casually positioned his hand at the back of his right hip, ready to grab the pistol hidden in the small of his back. Turk’s pistol was at his belt, under the baggy shirt—harder to grab. He stood with his arms crossed, trying to rehearse grabbing it in his mind. All he could think about was an infamous case a few years before back in the States, where a football star accidentally shot his leg while grabbing a Glock from his waistband.
The Israeli modulated his tone, and it was clear they were now negotiating the price of a “fine.” Turk started to relax, until he saw Grease’s mouth tighten. He followed Grease’s stare out to the highway, where another police car was just turning toward them.
“Getting expensive,” said Turk.
“Let’s hope that’s all it is.”
Grease took a small step toward their car, then another. Turk realized what he was doing—he wanted to be as close as possible to the rifles if there was trouble. Turk decided to take a more direct route; he walked over to the Israeli as if listening in. The Israeli swatted the air, waving him off; Turk slid back against the fender of the car. Grease joined him.
The policeman the Israeli had been negotiating with suddenly stopped talking, noticing the other police car for the first time. He yelled something at the Israeli and pushed him back, his fist suddenly in the Israeli’s chest.
The other officer went for his gun.
Grease got his first, firing two shots into the man’s chest. Turk grabbed both AKs and ducked behind their car as Grease fired at the policeman they’d been negotiating with. The police car that had come off the highway, meanwhile, sped toward Grease and the Israeli. Turk rose and began firing, riddling the passenger compartment with gunfire as the car careened across the lot toward Grease. The sergeant leapt out of the way at the last moment, but the Israeli was caught by the back end of the police car as it fishtailed. He fell back, just barely missing being pinned as one vehicle smashed against the other.
Turk had backed away from both vehicles, but the impact drove the police car against the front of their car and pushed it all the way to where he was standing, knocking him onto his back.
“Turk, Turk!” yelled Grease.
“I’m good, I’m good.”
He struggled to his feet, the rifle still in his hands. Grease made sure the policemen were all dead, then went to the Israeli, who was bent over the hood of the second car.
“I’m all right,” said the Israeli. “We have to get out of here.”
Turk looked into the police car. His bullets had shattered the heads of both men inside; the interior was full of blood. He pulled open the door, then pushed the driver toward his companion.
“What are you doing?” Grease asked as he got in.
“I’ll back it up.”
The car had stalled. Turk turned the key but nothing happened. The smell of blood and torn body parts started to turn his stomach. As calmly as he could, he put the car in park, put his foot on the brake, and tried the ignition again. The car started; he backed up.
Grease helped the Israeli limp back to the vehicle. Though in obvious pain, he remained silent, moving stoically. Turk backed the police car out of the way, then got out and ran to the others.
“We better get the bus now,” Turk told Grease.
“They’ll look for it.”
“You don’t think they’ll look for this?”
They drove over to the lot. The man who ran the garage must have seen or at least heard the gunfire, but he was nowhere to be seen. Turk pulled near the school bus and got out. Unsure how to work the exterior lock—it was a handle that turned on the front part of the cab—he forced the door open with his rifle, then dashed up the steps.
The key wasn’t in the ignition. He dashed back down, running toward the small building where the office was. The door was locked. Turk put his shoulder against it twice but failed to budge it, so he took the rifle, put it point-blank against the lock and fired. The gun jerked practically out of his hands, but the burst did enough damage that the door swung open. He pushed in, expecting to see the owner cowering inside, but the place was empty.
A large board with keys stood by the door. Turk tossed the ones that were obviously car keys, but that still left him with half a dozen to try.
Outside, Grease had lifted the Israeli into the bus, then gone to work jumping the ignition wires. He had the bus running by the time Turk appeared with the keys.
“Take the car and follow,” he yelled. “Let’s go. Back to the others.”
15
Omidiyeh, Iran
CAPTAIN VAHID SPENT THE MORNING AFTER THE ATTACK in an administrative “freeze.” While the rest of his squadron conducted a patrol around the scientific research area, the pilot was told to prepare a personal brief for the area air commander. That meeting was scheduled for 8:00 A.M.; it was postponed twice, then indefinitely “delayed.” He sat the entire time in a vacant room next to the squadron commander’s office, waiting with nothing to read or do. The only furniture were two chairs, both wooden; one was sturdy but uncomfortable, the other so rickety that he didn’t dare to use it even as a foot rest.
A pair of plainclothes guards from the interior ministry stood at the door. He wasn’t under arrest, but he wasn’t allowed to leave either. He wasn’t given anything to eat.
Vahid had reviewed his mission tapes, and knew that what he had shot down was some sort of light plane, not a drone and certainly not a B-2. It seemed impossible that the plane had made any sort of attack itself, or been involved in one. He had a host of theories, but they boiled down to this: either there had been a genuine earthquake, or the nuclear program had a major accident.
He favored the latter.
Vahid sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair until his butt was sore, got up and paced around until he tired of that, then sat back down. He repeated the ritual until after two in the afternoon, when one of the squadron commander’s aides appeared in the doorway to tell him that the general was finally on his way.
Vahid straightened his uniform. In the days of the Shah—long before he was even born—the Iranian air force was a prominent organization, equipped with the finest fighters in the world—F-14s and F-4 Phantoms. They trained with the Americans, and while the larger Israeli air force might claim it was better, many rated the Iranians just as good. The branch was an elite part of the Iran military and its society.
The overthrow of the Shah hurt the air force tremendously. An order for F-16s was canceled. Needed parts became almost impossible to get. Worse, though, were the questions, innuendo, and accusations leveled at the pilots and the service in general. The air force had supported the Shah to the bitter end, and in the Revolution’s wake, many of the officers were shunned, purged, and worse.
The service regained a measure of respect with the blood of its members during the Iran-Iraq war, where its aces shot down a number of Iraqis and carried out many successful bombing missions. But some thirty years later, the air force continued to be viewed with suspicion by many, especially the government and the Revolutionary Guard, which was jealous of any entity that might have a claim to power and influence.