Vahid knew this the way he knew that one plus one equaled two, as every Iranian did. “Truth” was a subjective concept, something directly related to power; one accepted it as one accepted the fact that the sun rose and set.
With General Shirazi as his backer, he knew his future was bright. Squadron commander was in his sights. Wing commander would not be an unattainable goal. There were already signs of his improved standing: he had been assigned the squadron’s reserve jet and given the most sensitive area to patrol.
Vahid ran his eyes around the gauges, confirming that the aircraft was operating at spec, then checked his six, glancing briefly in the direction of his wingman, Lieutenant Nima Kayvan, who was flying off his right wing and about a half mile behind. Their box north of the Zagros Mountains was clear of clouds, as well as enemies. The flight had been completely uneventful—another sign to Vahid that the Americans had not struck the lab, since they would surely be conducting reconnaissance and perhaps a follow-up raid.
The ground controller’s adrenaline-amped voice caught him by surprise.
“Shahin One, stand by for tasking.”
“Shahin One acknowledges.” Vahid listened as the controller told him there had been a terror attack in Jandagh; he and his wingman were to head west and join the search for a school bus.
“So now we go after auto thieves,” said Kayvan on the squadron frequency as they changed course. “What would the Jews want with a bus?”
Kayvan certainly had a point, but Vahid chose not to answer. The wingman was an excellent flier, but his mouth would one day land him into much trouble.
Jandagh was some three hundred kilometers away, across a series of high desert mountains and a mostly bare landscape. Vahid immediately snapped to the new course, tuning to the contact frequency he’d been given for the Revolutionary Guard unit assigned to coordinate the reaction. He tried for several minutes but couldn’t get a response to his hails.
“We’ll go down to three thousand feet,” he told Kayvan. “Look for anything moving.”
“Goats and sandstorms included?”
They saw neither. The ground appeared as empty as the sky. Kayvan did see something moving near a road about two miles west of their course north, and they made a quick pass, only to discover a pair of dump trucks and an excavator working a gravel or sand pit. Swinging back toward their original vector, the commander of a local militia unit contacted Vahid on the radio and asked him to help check a vehicle a civilian had spotted south of Sar-e-Kavir.
“We have another unit to rendezvous with,” Vahid told him.
“I am making this request at the order of the special commander,” explained the officer, saying that the colonel who originally requested the air support had now delegated him to use it. The radio garbled the name of the commander—it sounded like Colonel Khorasani—but as the officer continued, Vahid realized the special commander was a member of the Pasdaran—the Revolutionary Guards—assigned to investigate the “earthquake.” The fact that there would be an investigator had been mentioned by the intel officer at the preflight briefing: alienating the Pasdaran was a greater danger than American F-22s.
“That’s over a hundred kilometers away,” said Kayvan, once again using the short-range squadron radio so his disrespect wouldn’t be overheard. “They don’t have other planes?”
“You’d rather sit on the ground?” snapped Vahid.
“I would rather see the girl who will be my bride. And we do not have much fuel.”
The wingman was right. Vahid did a quick calculation, and figured that once they reached Sar-e-Kavir they would have about ten minutes of linger time before having to head back to their base.
“We’ll make the most of it,” he said. “Stay on my wing.”
“I do not plan to disappear.”
Vahid found Highway 81. The road climbed over the desert ridges, paralleling a route once used by silk traders; well before that, it had overlooked the edge of a vast lake. Now the area was largely desolate. Barriers lined long sections of the road to cut down on the sand drifts.
Passing over a pair of white four-door pickup trucks heading north on the road, Vahid angled his jet toward a collection of ruins ahead on his left. He descended quickly, thinking he might catch a glimpse of anyone hiding amid the old clay brick walls and foundations. But he was by them too quickly to see anything other than shadows and broken earth.
As he nudged back toward the road, he spotted the bus about two kilometers ahead. Slowing to just above stall speed, he leaned toward the canopy, getting a good view of the road and the vehicle. It was facing south, off the road on the shoulder. The old highway was to the right.
“I have found a bus,” Vahid told the local ground commander. “Stand by for the position.”
The commander took the information with great enthusiasm. Vahid’s description seemed to match the bus that had been stolen. The only problem was it was facing in the wrong direction—toward the town where it had been taken. But that didn’t seem to bother the ground commander, who asked Vahid to take a low pass and see if there were enemies nearby.
“Vehicle looks abandoned,” Vahid radioed the ground unit. “The area around it is empty.”
“Acknowledged, Shahin One,” said a new, more authoritative voice. It belonged to Colonel Khorasani, the Guard officer who had been assigned to investigate the situation. He was handling his communications personally. “I have ground units en route. They should arrive in zero-five minutes.”
“Acknowledged. We’re going to spin around the area and see if we can find anyone.”
“Police units are coming down from the north,” added the local ground commander. “They will arrive quickly.”
“Acknowledged.”
Vahid and his wingman began a slow, spiraling rise above the area.
“Farm building to the north on the side of the hill,” said Kayvan. “Maybe they are there.”
“Make a run,” Vahid told him. “I’ll follow you.”
Vahid climbed out and changed positions with his wingman, so that Shahin One was now trailing Shahin Two. The buildings were on a small, nearly flat tongue of land. Just below, he saw an abandoned orchard, its trees parched stubs.
A crooked road ran from the highway to the farm, then petered out. Neither Vahid nor the wingman could see any other vehicles, let alone people.
“Shahin One, what’s your status?” asked the Pasdaran colonel.
“We’re waiting for ground units to arrive. We have no contacts.”
“We have a report of a vehicle stolen from Sar-e-Kavir. A farm vehicle. We believe there may be a connection.”
“Do you have a description?”
“Stand by.”
20
Iran
THEY TOOK A SHORTCUT ACROSS THE RIDGE, DRIVING on a hard-pack road that got them out in front of Granderson and the others. Grease had been studying the maps and gotten advice from Granderson; there was an Iranian army barracks about twenty-five miles ahead on the highway. Once past that, they should have an easy time north; they could cut south of the cities of Semna¯n and Sorkheh, then follow the highway west for another two hours or so before veering once more onto narrower roads in the mountain foothills. At this point they would pick up one of the trails the Delta team had scouted as an alternate route to the target area, aiming for a hiding place originally planned as part of the escape route. Ironically, it was within a half-hour drive of their new target area. They would stay there through the next day, achieve their objective, and leave.
It was easy when you laid it out step by step that way. Simple and direct.
Turk leaned into the back, grabbing one of their last two bottles of water. He took two sips, then put it back.
“Rationing yourself?” Grease asked.
“Yeah.”
“There should be more water at the place where we stop. A team went in and set it up two weeks ago.”