Turk calculated his odds with the AK-47.
He had only one magazine. One three-round burst per man—he’d have to be incredibly good—and lucky.
The shadows of the men danced wildly. They ran to the vehicle.
They’ve missed me, thought Turk.
Then he saw the truck back up and turn in his direction.
Turk turned around and looked at Grease. The Delta sergeant was in no shape to move.
“I’m not going to abandon you,” said Turk, patting Grease’s shoulder. “I just need a better vantage point to fight from.”
Six against one? Even Grease would have trouble with those odds.
Turk started to go back to the side of the hill, thinking he would ambush the men when they got out of the truck. Then he had a better idea.
He pulled over the control unit and took command of the UAV.
“Target vehicle,” he said. “Destroy.”
Turk looked up from the screen. The UAV was 3,000 feet above, banking around in a turn. He strained to see it, but the bright sky wouldn’t give it up.
He raised his rifle, steadying his aim on the truck. Suddenly, an ear-piercing whistle broke the silence. As the shriek grew unbearable, it was overrun by a sharp crack. The UAV exploded point-blank in the cab of the truck rushing toward him.
Turk grabbed the rifle and ran forward, gun hard against his side, legs churning. The truck was on fire. Someone stumbled out of the passenger side. Turk raised the nose of his gun and fired.
The man fell.
Running to his right, Turk circled the truck, finger ready against the trigger.
There was no one to shoot. There’d been six in the vehicle; five died in the explosion and fire. The lone survivor lay gut-shot on the ground nearby, dead by Turk’s burst.
Something popped. Turk dropped to his haunches, spinning toward the road.
Ammo cooking off.
There’d be more. He looked for another weapon but saw none.
Best to go, he told himself, best to get the hell out of there before their friends come.
He ran back to Grease.
THE SERGEANT HAD PROPPED HIMSELF UP ON ONE elbow by the time Turk returned. Only his left eye was open.
“Grease,” said Turk, lowering himself next to him. “Hey.”
“I screwed up,” said Grease.
“No. We got them. We got them. Their labs are destroyed.”
“You did that. That was your mission.”
“No. We both did it.”
Grease coughed. “I . . .” His arm slipped and his head collapsed to the ground. He was having trouble breathing. “I . . .”
“It’s all right,” Turk told him. “Save your strength.”
“I didn’t complete mine.” Grease’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“We’ll get out. Don’t give up.”
“I . . .”
“We’re going to make it, Grease. I’ll get us to that next safe house or whatever you mentioned. Then tomorrow night we’ll go to the coast. We’ll make it.”
“I was supposed to kill you,” muttered Grease. “I just . . . supposed to . . . can’t, but . . . I just . . . I . . . failed . . . I failed. I’m too weak . . .”
Turk jerked back, a shudder running through him. By the time he recovered, Grease was dead.
REFUGEE
1
The White House
IT WAS, IN MANY WAYS, A PHILOSOPHICAL QUESTION.
Was it better to leave some portion of doubt in your enemy’s mind, or did you enhance your position by taking full credit for their turmoil?
Christine Mary Todd had never been a devotee of Sun Tzu, the Chinese philosopher on warfare, who would have counseled doubt. She did, however, know her Machiavelli. The early fifteenth century Italian writer counseled judicious use of both brute force and deception, a philosophy with which she agreed.
Barely an hour had passed since the second lab and its weapons had been destroyed, but already there had been two reports about earthquakes in the region. It would soon be well known that the seismographic signal indicated these were not earthquakes; from there, even the dimmest reporter would connect it to the still unexplained incident a few days ago and declare that something was going on with the Iranian nuclear program.
The only question was what.
Todd feared that the Iranians, realizing their program had been destroyed, might attempt to claim they had tested a bomb, and make some geopolitical hay out of that, perhaps bargaining for a full lift of sanctions in return for “dismantling” the now destroyed program. The calculated yield would indicate that if it was a test, the bomb had not lived up to its potential, but an atom bomb was still an atom bomb.
“My feeling is that we must declare that we did it,” Todd told the others gathered around the conference table in the White House basement. “The question is how many details to give.”
“Tell them,” said the Secretary of State, Alistair Newhaven. “Demonstrate the aircraft. If you don’t go into enough detail, it’s very likely the Iranians will claim that we used nuclear weapons on them.”
“The scientific data will show that the explosions were too small to be our nukes,” answered Blitz, the national security advisor.
“Not the second one,” countered the Secretary of State. “And they might claim that the explosions came from our warheads. Frankly, I’m amazed that the Iranians haven’t said anything yet. We’ve been lucky.”
“They’re too confused. As I predicted,” retorted Blitz. “I’m still against making any statement. It’s an invitation to be attacked. And even the most generic remarks may give away secrets. Why give the enemy information when there’s no need? I say, no announcement at all.”
“We went over this weeks ago,” said Newhaven, frustration creeping into his voice. “They will simply assume it was us in any event. If you were worried about retaliation—a valid fear, I might add—then you should have been against the attack in the first place.”
“Enough,” said Todd. “We will say that we conducted a series of covert operations using technology that was designed to minimize casualties. I believe that’s bland enough to get the job done without going into details. And there will be no details.”
She looked at the Secretary of Defense, whose staff she was certain was just dying to go off the record to polish their boss’s image. He was sure to be one of the candidates to succeed her.
He was as vain as he was indecisive. He would make a particularly lousy President. She had to keep him from that.
“Is that understood?” Todd said pointedly.
“I have an informational question,” said the Secretary of State. “Are our people safe?”
Todd realized that Newhaven was actually asking whether the Iranians might capture the team and use them for their own propaganda purposes.
“I’m told that all efforts to recover them are proceeding,” said Todd, keeping to herself for now the fact that only two were still alive. “Are you arguing that we wait until they are recovered?”
“No, it makes no sense to wait,” said Newhaven. “Not in the scheme of things. I’m just . . . concerned.”
It was amazing how many platitudes and clichés could be rolled out, Todd thought, when you were trying to justify sacrificing your people.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER PRESIDENT TODD ENTERED the Oval Office. A pool camera had been manned after the news and cable networks were alerted that an important announcement was coming from the President. Reporters were waiting in the hallway to witness her statement. They’d been told it would be very brief and she would take no questions afterward.