“What if it’s been found?”
“Nobody’ll find it.”
Turk folded his arms. “I hope you’re right.”
“Granderson and the truck are two miles ahead,” said Grease. “Pickup’s about a half mile ahead of that. Gorud’s driving. The Israeli swapped with him in the troop truck.”
“Why?”
“His leg’s pretty screwed up. Didn’t you notice?”
“I thought he was all right.”
Grease shook his head. Badly battered when they encountered the police, the Israeli’s knee had locked; most likely there were torn ligaments and cartilage damage as well.
“You think Green and the others are going to make it?” Turk asked.
Grease thought for a moment before answering. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Probably or maybe?”
Another pause as he weighed his estimate. “Probably,” he announced at last.
“That’s what everybody has to say, right?” asked Turk, suddenly oppressed by the weight of what they had to do. His energy had completely drained, taking his optimism with it.
“You know what will help?” asked Grease. “Focus your mind on the next checkpoint, the next step along the way. If you try to keep the whole mission in your head, it may wig you out. But if you go from A to B to C, it’ll be much easier. It’s a fact.”
Turk’s ears perked up—he heard a jet nearby, low.
Two of them.
“Somebody’s looking for us,” he told Grease, thumbing above.
FIVE HUNDRED METERS ABOVE THE GROUND, VAHID rode Shahin One up over the ridge, banking easily to the west. There was a car ahead, white and fairly new—probably a government official, Vahid thought, maybe even someone from the interior ministry. As he nudged a little lower, he saw a glint in the distance—another vehicle three or four kilometers farther along the highway.
In normal times this would hardly have been unusual, but today there was so little traffic it couldn’t help but pique his interest. Vahid steadied himself at three hundred meters and waited for the vehicle to appear.
It was a pickup truck. Just as Vahid was about to turn off, he saw the top of another vehicle just descending a low hill. This one was larger, another truck.
“Shahin Two, do you see the vehicle beyond the pickup?”
“Confirmed.”
“Looks like it could be a farm truck. I’m going to get a closer look.”
“On your six.”
Vahid pushed even lower, dropping through three hundred meters. The truck matched the description—a green farm vehicle with slat sides—but it had a canvas top, which hadn’t been described.
“Two, radio the Pasdaran colonel and see if you can get a definitive description,” said Vahid. “I’m going to take another pass.”
TURK FELT THE MUSCLES IN HIS STOMACH TIGHTEN AS the MiGs turned ahead. They were definitely interested in something on the highway, and since there was no other traffic nearby, that meant them. He bent forward to the dashboard, trying to get a glimpse as the planes flew by.
“Only air-to-air missiles,” he said as the lead plane thundered past. The wingman was higher and offset to the south; hard to see, but Turk guessed he would be equipped the same.
“What’s that mean?” asked Grease.
“Means he won’t be able to bomb us. But he’ll have a cannon he can use if he decides to shoot.”
Turk opened the car window and leaned out, trying to see where the planes were. He wished them away far to the east. Instead, he saw them turning in the distance behind them.
“Coming back for another look,” he told Grease.
“Captain, you seeing those airplanes?” Grease asked over the team radio as Turk slid back down. The sun was just setting; the red glow on the horizon might make it tough for the pilot to see.
Not tough enough, though.
VAHID ASKED THE COMMANDER TO REPEAT WHAT HE SAID.
“You are ordered to stop the farm truck,” said Colonel Khorasani. “Destroy it.”
“Colonel, it appears to be a civilian vehicle.”
“It is a vehicle filled with Israeli commandos.”
The colonel’s voice was completely rational, and soft rather than loud—which chilled Vahid even more. “It is a little different than you described when you radioed me earlier.”
The colonel was silent for a moment. “Should I call your commander?”
“Of course not,” said Vahid. “I want to make sure I understand your requirements. My fuel tanks are close to empty.”
He was, in fact, about sixty seconds from bingo, the calculated point where he would have only enough fuel to get home. He considered using that as an excuse not to shoot up the truck, but what was the point? Already two other members of his squadron were flying northward; they would destroy the truck if he didn’t.
And going against the Pasdaran colonel was not a wise move, even if General Shirazi was his patron.
But to kill civilians?
Surely they were thieves. As unlikely—as impossible—as it must be that they were Israeli commandos, they still had no right to steal a truck. So it was Allah’s punishment that he was meting out.
“Shahin Two, you’re on my wing,” he told Lieutenant Kayvan, glancing at the armament panel to make sure his gun was ready.
“We’re going to shoot up the truck?”
“We’re going to stop it, yes.”
TURK HEARD THE RUMBLE OF THE JET ENGINES AS THE MiGs came up the road behind him. Once more the muscles in his stomach clenched. He pushed back in the seat, waiting as the car began to shake.
“Shit,” he muttered as the plane shot overhead, then rose into a quick turn.
“Tell them to get out of the truck!” Turk yelled. “Tell them he’s coming in to fire! He’s firing!”
AS VAHID PUSHED THE MIG’S NOSE DOWN, THE FARM truck seemed to fly into the pipper. He gave the trigger a gentle squeeze before breaking off. The rounds missed, flying into the pavement well ahead of the vehicle.
Which was what he intended. In his mind, an innocent civilian would see the bullets and realize something was wrong. He would pull off the road and run from the truck.
“Shahin Two, did he stop?” Vahid asked.
“Still moving.”
“Stay clear.”
“No fun for me?”
Vahid ignored his juvenile wingman, moving into position to destroy the truck. He rode the MiG through five hundred meters before tucking his left wing toward the highway. He leveled the wings and found the vehicle speeding ahead.
It started to weave left and right. He pressed the trigger.
A GRAY GEYSER OF SMOKE ERUPTED AHEAD.
“Shit, shit, shit!” yelled Turk. He pounded the dashboard as the gray turned black. A funnel of red appeared from within, like a volcano.
They rushed toward it as the cloud shifted downward, folding itself across the road. Turk had shot up trucks himself a few months before, pouncing on them from the air. Now he was seeing things from the other side, from underneath and inside out.
The truck was on the right, off the road, completely destroyed, smoldering.
Two bodies, black, lay between it and the road.
“You’re not stopping!” Turk yelled at Grease.
“I know that.”
“You gotta stop!”
“We can’t.”
“Grease! Grease!”
Turk grabbed for the door handle. Grease reached over and grabbed him with his hand, holding him in place even as he accelerated away from the wreckage.
SUPERMAN
1
Iran
CAPTAIN VAHID FLEW OVER THE WRECKAGE OF THE farm truck one last time, making sure nothing was moving. The vehicle had been split into five different pieces by the MiG’s cannon. Only one, a segment that included part of the cab, was still on fire.