“Come on,” said Turk. He hooked his arm under Grease, pulling him up and out. He started back in the direction that he had come, circling back to the spot where he first emerged from the smoke.
It didn’t occur to Turk that Grease might be dead until he put him down. He couldn’t hear anything, and despite the full sunlight could barely see. His ears had been blown out by the bang of the explosion, his eyes unfocused by all that had happened.
“God,” moaned Grease.
The word restored Turk’s hearing. But it worked too well. Now he heard everything: the drone of planes in the distance, the rumble of trucks far away, the sizzling hiss of the fire continuing to burn.
He needed a gun. And the control unit. And Grease’s ruck. But where were they?
“Stay here,” Turk told Grease, letting him down as gently as he could manage, then ran back to the destroyed truck. The AK-47 and the control pack sat in the dirt a few yards from the front of the cab.
Looping the backpack strap around his right shoulder, Turk picked up the gun. He could hear a truck engine whining in the distance.
Grease curled himself into a little ball, moans and grunts coming from the recesses of his abdomen. He started to cough, and didn’t stop until Turk lifted him to a sitting position. “We have to get to cover,” Turk told him. “Can you walk?”
Grease groaned something in response. Turk twisted himself around to lever Grease upward, trying to be gentle as he propped the wounded man onto his back.
“We’re going, let’s move,” said Turk, commanding his feet and the rest of his body to cooperate. He decided he couldn’t get the gun or the control ruck without losing his balance; he’d have to come back for them.
Turk began walking away from the road, his first goal simply to get as far away as possible. Blood and adrenaline rushed to his muscles. He felt strong.
“We’re getting the hell out of here,” he told Grease.
Grease, draped over his side and back, didn’t answer. He moved, as if trying to walk.
“I got it,” Turk told him. “Let me do it.”
A clump of gray and green loomed before him. At first glance it looked like a large body, laid out on the ground. Turk pushed that image away, stubbornly insisting to his brain that it couldn’t possibly be a body. He was right; within a few yards the shadow had broken itself into several small trees and a cluster of rocks. He walked steadily toward it, Grease’s weight pushing him closer and closer to the earth.
The rocks were the far side of an open pit that had been bulldozed sometime before, then abandoned. Turk walked to the rocks and put Grease down as gently as possible. Taking off his own shirt, he fashioned it into a narrow pillow and placed it under Grease’s head.
“I’ll be right back,” he told his friend. “I have to get our stuff.”
Grease said nothing. Turk took a step away, then remembering that he wasn’t armed, reached down and took the sergeant’s handgun. He held it in his hand as he ran back in the direction of the road.
6
Iran
“TRUCK DESTROYED,” CAPTAIN VAHID TOLD THE ground commander as he headed for the airfield.
“Are there survivors?”
“I don’t think so,” said Vahid. “I took a pass but the smoke was so thick I couldn’t see anything. The vehicle split into several pieces.”
“Acknowledged, Shahin One.”
“I’m rather low on fuel,” said Vahid. “I’ve already sent my wingman to make an emergency landing.”
“We’ll proceed to the site. Thank you for your help.”
“I can do one last run if you want.”
“Negative, Captain. Thank you for your help. God is great!”
“You’re welcome. God is great!” he repeated, with more enthusiasm than he had mustered in some time.
7
CIA campus, Virginia
“THEY DON’T SEEM TO BE MOVING ANYMORE,” SAID Breanna, staring at the screen where Turk’s position was marked. “They’re only a few miles south of Qom—are the Guard units responding there?”
“The Iranians are still trying to figure out what’s going on,” said Jonathon Reid, who’d gone over to the console where a digest of NSA intercepts were being displayed in near-real time. “They’re very confused.”
The intercepts, compiled from a variety of sources, were translated by machine and color-coded for source. A program in the network applied various filters, showing Whiplash only the information that corresponded to a set of keywords and geographic locations. The sheer volume of the intercepts as well as the Iranians’ own confusion made it doubly difficult to figure out what was going on.
“What about that Pasdaran colonel who was assigned to handle the investigation into the first attack?” asked Breanna. “Where is he?”
“I’m not sure at the moment,” said Reid. “We’re working on it.”
“There’s one nano-UAV remaining,” said Teddy Armaz. “It was the unit with the malfunctioning sensor. It has about five minutes of flight time left.”
“Can we self-destruct it?”
“No. The X-37B is well out of range.” Armaz looked over Bob Stevenson’s shoulder at the status panel. “It should destroy itself on its own in about five minutes, since it hasn’t had a command.”
Breanna nodded. The self-destruct protocol was one of several safeguards that had been instituted throughout the military’s UAV fleet following an accident in 2012 that allowed a Stealth drone to descend into Iran practically without damage. Ironically, the capture of the drone and the subsequent sale of its technology to China had spurred the development of several more advanced American UAV projects, including the Hydras. Iran would have been better off simply letting the Stealth UAV alone.
“I don’t like the fact that Turk’s not moving,” Breanna told Reid.
Reid was concentrating on the screen. “The WB-57 pilot has been recovered. Well that’s one of ours back, at least.”
“What about Turk?”
“He’s moving in the area,” answered Reid, zooming his screen. “He’s still alive. For how long is anyone’s guess.”
8
Iran
TURK HEARD THE VEHICLE COMING AS SOON AS HE reached the rifle. He grabbed it and the ruck with the control unit and ran back to Grease.
The sergeant was lying exactly as Turk had left him. His eyes were closed. If it weren’t for his groans, Turk would have thought he was dead.
The truck was just reaching the wreckage. Rather than stopping, though, it kept going. Turk felt a slight bit of relief, then remembered the airplane was still above somewhere.
He had one more nano-UAV, didn’t he? Where was it?
Pulling the control unit from the backpack, he unfolded it and turned it on. The Hydra was circling above, descending in a gradually tightening spiral. Because it hadn’t been contacted in a half hour, it had begun its self-destruct sequence. In twenty-eight seconds it would blow itself up.
“Computer, establish direct control,” said Turk. “UAV 1.”
“Control established.”
The destruct panel cleared. Turk checked the aircraft’s status. It was in perfect order, except for the defective gauge, which still indicated it was overheating.
The aircraft had an infrared sensor. Turk scanned the feed, looking for the Iranian aircraft. But the sky near the Hydra was clear; the MiG had moved on.
The sound of the truck interrupted him. He crawled to the side of the small mound of dirt, squinting into the distance as the vehicle stopped near the wreckage. Men appeared from the truck, casting long shadows as they stepped in front of the low sun. There were six. They split up and moved around the wreckage methodically.