Allies meant Russia, which had loaned Iran radar technicians some months before. The technicians were low-level people, and not necessarily the most savory characters, Khorasani knew, but they did lend some credence to Shirazi’s contention.
Khorasani, however, was not ready to back down.
“The American planes are stealthy and launch from great distances,” he said. “They could easily have launched this attack.”
“Nonsense. I’ve already seen the damage at Fordow 12. There is no bomb crater—the attack was done from the inside.”
“Doubtful.”
“You’ve already completed your investigation? Of an attack that is less than a few hours old?” said Shirazi.
Khorasani rubbed his cheek. “What is your point, General? Why did you call?”
“My point is that you should be looking for infiltrators and spies,” said Shirazi. “As the air force is.”
“I am doing everything I am supposed to do.”
“You are in pursuit?”
“We are not sure what happened,” said Khorasani, unsure what the general wanted. “We are leaving nothing to chance.”
“I understand several vehicles were stolen from Guard units.”
“And?”
“I have reconnaissance aircraft that could assist in a search. The planes that we have in the area now are needed for defense, in case the Americans do launch an attack. I am proposing that we work together to discover what happened.”
The general explained that he had a squadron of F-4 Phantoms, which were used for reconnaissance. He could transfer them to the area to aid with the search. He didn’t need Khorasani’s help or permission, he added, but if they were working together, they should coordinate their efforts.
Still wary, Khorasani let the general ramble until he came to what seemed to be the point: he wanted to base the reconnaissance planes at Manzariyeh and establish a support unit there.
“The planes could help you search for guerrillas,” said Shirazi.
“The base is under Pasdaran control.”
“And so it would remain. We need only a small place for those planes. And their escorts.”
“Escorts?”
“The planes that assisted you. They were short of fuel.”
“Yes . . . I would appreciate your help,” continued Khorasani, choosing his words carefully. “The search efforts need to be . . . discreet.”
“Understandable. And this is my point. If the planes are based at a regular air base, there will be rumors,” continued the general. “If, however, they were at a base near the attacks, such as Manzariyeh, things would be easier to coordinate. We find the true cause of these incidents.”
Shirazi was angling to reopen the air base, obviously, and who knew what else.
But cooperation might be useful, Khorasani thought. For one thing, he could use more air patrols to survey the area.
“I see the logic,” he told the general. “How soon can you arrange the flights?”
“Within a few hours,” Shirazi told him. “I’m sure you will find the pilots cooperative and our alliance fruitful.”
6
CIA campus, Virginia
“FIRST SATELLITE IMAGES ARE JUST COMING IN NOW, Ray,” Breanna told Rubeo. “A big crater—it looks like a meteor strike. Much deeper than the first site.”
Rubeo tapped the display area of the table, then toggled down to the incoming intelligence report. The preliminary analysis indicated that the designs were not particularly efficient. But how efficient did a nuclear weapon have to be to be considered a success?
The Hydra attack, on the other hand, had been a complete success. They had saved hundreds of thousands of lives.
And yet, the scientist felt uneasy. If the Iranians had come this close, undoubtedly they would try again. They would learn from their mistakes, making their bunkers even more formidable.
The conflict would never be over.
Science could do so much good, and yet be put to so much evil.
“Ray?”
Rubeo glanced up and saw Breanna staring at him, a quizzical look on her face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear,” he said.
“Turk’s satellite phone hasn’t been on since shortly after the attack,” said Breanna, repeating what she had said. “There was an error code that might indicate it malfunctioned or was damaged.”
“Thomas can help you,” he told her. “He’s the expert on the system.”
“Thank you. He’s still alive,” Breanna added hopefully. “He’s moving. Very slowly.”
Rubeo nodded. They had already determined that the sergeant with him, who also had an implant, was dead.
“Do you want to go home and take a nap?” asked Breanna.
“There’s much work to be done, analyzing this and checking our performance,” he said, tapping the display area to close it. “I need to get started on it without delay.”
7
Iran
TURK RESTED AGAINST THE POWER LINE POLE, TRYING to fight off the fatigue that was pushing down his eyelids. The pole rose from a ditch, sheltering him on two sides; he sat in the shadow against a jumble of rocks, willing himself invisible.
The worst thing was the urge to sleep. He knew if he fell asleep, he’d wake up either under arrest or dead, assuming one could be said to wake up in the afterlife.
A small Iranian village sat to his left behind a low hill, barely discernible in the rising haze of heat. In front of him, perhaps twenty feet away, were train tracks. When Turk first spotted them, having walked along the power lines for a short distance, he thought he might hop aboard a passing freight train and escape. It was something he had done often as a teenager, running alongside a boxcar and leaping up the ladder at just the right moment. But after watching awhile, he realized it was hardly a plan at all. He had no idea where the train would go, nor could he expect to remain unseen on it.
And besides, no train seemed to be coming.
He needed a plan, something more than the vague notion that he would escape.
Guns sounded in the distance, firing at random intervals. It was antiaircraft fire, undoubtedly the product of overanxious, nervous minds. The Iranians didn’t realize yet it was too late for all that.
Turk regretted having left Grease for dead. It seemed weak and foolish, a surrender that he shouldn’t have had to make. Logically, he knew he had no choice. Grease would have been too heavy to carry very far, and there was no way he could even have gotten here, let alone go on. But it still felt, it still was, terribly wrong.
Whiplash would be tracking him. They might send someone to rescue him—the SEAL response team or maybe even another Whiplash unit.
But if they had assigned Grease to kill him, would they bother?
Maybe Grease meant he’d been assigned to kill him if they were going to be captured.
Surely that’s what he meant. Turk could understand that. He knew too much about the program, about a lot of things. And the Iranians would torture him to death anyway. Being shot by Grease would have been merciful.
Shoot me, Grease. I deserve it for leaving you behind.
He had the sat phone but dared not use it, afraid that the Iranians would monitor transmissions in the area.
He needed clothes. The ones he was wearing were torn, dirty, and covered with blood. He’d steal clothes, then find a place to hide. Rest. At night he would start walking to the Caspian, or at least in that direction.
Turk had taken Grease’s ruck with him, knowing he’d need some of the gear. It didn’t have much in it besides ammo and first aid equipment. That made sense, but he knew he couldn’t take much with him. He needed to stay as light as possible. As precious as the ammo would be in a fight, it would slow him down too much. Besides, he could never really count on fighting his way out; he wasn’t Grease.