The pickup truck and then the white car he’d seen had passed by quickly. The pilot wondered at that: he could understand the pickup, but why the car, which he assumed belonged to a government or perhaps a Guard official. Wouldn’t they have been curious?
They must have been afraid. People seemed to have an unnatural ability to shut everything else out when they felt themselves in danger.
Did they think they were next?
And really, why wouldn’t they? As far as they knew, he had just destroyed a civilian truck, a poor man’s vehicle at that.
Vahid banked, aiming for another pass over the highway.
“One, I am at bingo fuel,” said Lieutenant Kayvan.
“Acknowledged, Two. Set course for base.”
As Vahid clicked off his mike, another transmission came, this one from Colonel Khorasani, asking what their status was.
“The truck has been destroyed.”
“Are there confederates? Are there other vehicles?”
“It doesn’t appear so.”
Vahid slowed, edging toward stall speed, so he could get another look at the truck. While he’d splashed some targets in training, he had never blown up a “real” truck before, certainly not one that was moving.
At the moment he fired he felt joy—that was the word for it, joy—but already his feelings were complex. There was great satisfaction at having achieved his objective, but there was something empty about it as well.
He flew past the lingering black curl of smoke, accelerating before climbing out. Vahid felt a flush of anger—he should hit the car. The men were cowards to go by without stopping to help.
How would he explain?
Easily—Khorasani had just given him an excuse. The men were compatriots. They’d been close to the truck when he blew it up.
Kayvan radioed to ask if they were leaving.
“Go ahead, Two. Return to base.”
“I’m staying with you, Lead,” said the wingman.
Strike the government vehicle? But they would find out eventually that it wasn’t connected. And there would be repercussions.
It was not his job to punish cowards.
Vahid radioed the Pasdaran commander. “The truck is a complete wreck. No survivors. We are low on fuel. We need to return to base.”
“Go. One of my units will be at the site in a few minutes.”
He thought of giving the colonel a sarcastic answer to the effect that he was welcome for the assistance—the colonel hadn’t so much as thanked him. But he thought better of it. With the Pasdaran, it was always better to keep your mouth shut.
2
CIA campus, Virginia
BREANNA SAT STOICALLY AS TURK RECOUNTED THEIR situation. Gorud’s arm had been injured but he was all right to drive. Grease was fine, as was Turk.
The rest of the team, including the Israeli spy, had been killed. Turk and the others were traveling toward Hoz-e-Soltan Lake and the vast, empty salt desert north of Qom and east of their target. He estimated they would be at the hiding place in two more hours.
Breanna had read the translated Iranian communications relating to the strike soon after the truck was destroyed. Captured by a U.S. elint satellite and forwarded by the NSA after translation, the script was succinct and depressing: the Iranian air force officer, though clearly concerned he was firing on civilians, nonetheless followed orders and killed them.
Breanna knew from the locator data that Turk was still moving. But she suspected from the description that the truck was theirs. And even if it hadn’t been, the savagery of the decision was chilling.
She glanced to the end of the table where Reid was sitting. His face was pale, as if the long night had bled the blood from his body. There were times when he looked ancient, and other times beyond age. This was one of the former. Reid’s eyes darted from the map screen to the blank transmission screen—there was only audio, no visual. The rest of his body remained stone still, as if he were a projection.
Breanna leaned forward in her chair. “Turk, I want to ask you a question. I need a candid answer. Do you feel you can carry out the mission?”
“Yes.” He said it quickly, without hesitation.
“You’re going to have difficulty getting out of the country.”
“It’ll be no harder then than now.”
“We’re confident you will succeed,” Reid told him.
“Yes,” said Breanna, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice. “Check in when you reach the cave.”
“Yup.”
He signed off. Breanna rose. Reid remained sitting, staring at the map, his thoughts obviously far off.
“Coffee?” Breanna asked him.
“The SEAL element that was coming down from the Caspian,” Reid said. “They’ve run into resistance. They are going to have to withdraw.”
Reid continued to stare at the map. One of the suspected sites was five miles northeast of Fordow, the other a few miles west. The area was near a Guard base established at a former Iranian air force installation. It would be heavily patrolled, especially now.
“It makes no sense to get them out,” said Reid finally. “Even to try will be suicidal, and possibly expose the operation.”
“Of course it makes sense.” Breanna felt her face flushing. “Gorud is there, too—what are you saying?”
Reid didn’t answer.
“I’m not ordering Sergeant Ransom to kill him after the attack,” said Breanna.
“He’s already under orders, Breanna.”
“We need a backup if the SEAL team has to withdraw. We need Kronos.”
“It’s too late to revive Kronos,” said Reid. “And it was vetoed for a reason.”
“I understand that. But—”
“Kronos calls for assassination.”
“Escape or assassination. And I think he can get them out. I’ve always thought that.”
“We may end up losing him as well.”
Now it was Breanna’s turn to be silent.
“Very well,” conceded Reid. “We had best attempt to move it forward. Do you want to talk to Colonel Freah, or should I?”
3
Iran
THE SMELL OF DEATH STUNG COLONEL KHORASANI’S nose as he got out of the Kaviran. It was metallic, with the slightest hint of salt.
He disliked it. He disliked death completely. How ironic, then, that it had become so intimately entwined with his profession.
“We count six bodies, Colonel.” Sergeant Karim made a sweeping gesture toward the truck. “An entire team of Mossad.”
Khorasani said nothing, continuing across the soft ground to the burned out farm truck. The charred remains of automatic weapons had been discovered in the back, but that hardly meant that the occupants were Mossad, or even foreign agents. Khorasani in fact worried that they were Pasdaran—some of the local units had not yet reported to their commanders, and this could easily be a group of men who’d been on the way to their barracks.
He could deal with that, if it turned out to be the case. It would be far easier to explain than letting saboteurs get away.
The colonel continued his circuit around the vehicle. He’d been on his way to the destroyed lab when the report of the stolen school bus was relayed to him. Khorasani had decided to follow a hunch, joining the investigation personally. It was risky on many counts. But it did allow him to say he was pursuing his leads with vigor.
And vigor was the word he would have to use for the pilot: he had followed his orders well. The vehicle had been utterly demolished.
Good, perhaps, if there were questions.
“A phone,” said Private Navid, pulling at a brick of melted plastic and metal that had melted to one of the bodies. “Or a radio.”
It was tangled with other material—cloth and hair, skin and a bone that snapped as easily as if it had been a brittle twig. Navid handed it to him.