Go, Turk told himself. Get the plane started and go.
HOW HAD ANGER BECOME A PHYSICAL THING? HOW had it become so overwhelming?
Stoner saw himself grabbing the nearest man by the back of his mechanic’s coveralls and dashing him to the ground. He saw the blood bursting from his skull, the front of the man’s leg turning ninety degrees forward. Stoner floated above his body and saw himself grab the second man, throwing him to the ground and then kicking him, pounding him to unconsciousness with two blows from his foot.
The hatred was irrational. The hatred felt incredibly good. It felt familiar. He had felt it many times before.
That was the man they had made him, the angry man. That was the purpose of the experiments and additions to his body, the manipulation. Create the perfect assassin. Create the angry man.
That was not who he was now. Zen and Danny had rescued him. He was no longer the angry man. Drugs or not, he was Mark Stoner.
He stopped kicking the Iranian and turned to go back to the planes.
When he was about two hundred yards away, something told him to stop and turn. He spun and saw an Iranian Hummer moving out from the terminal building. Dropping to a knee, he took aim at the windshield of the vehicle. He fired a three-shot burst into the driver’s head. The vehicle slowed to a stop.
More men were coming, these on foot, running from a building on the left. Fighting back the rising anger, Stoner calmly flicked the gun’s shooting selector and began picking them off as they ran, firing center mass on each Revolutionary Guard, taking down four of the five.
The last man, seeing his friends go down, threw himself on his face. Stoner got to his feet and fired a single bullet, striking the cowering man on the top of his skull.
It didn’t make him feel better to have killed the man.
Progress, he thought.
As he turned toward the Phantoms, Stoner saw the jet fuel leaking from the truck. He headed straight for the truck, splashing the last few yards to the cab. The vehicle’s engine was still running; he put it into gear and drove to the edge of the ramp connecting it with the rest of the airport’s ramp network. He hopped out of the truck and ran to the stream of jet fuel spitting out of the side.
Reaching to the lower pocket on the leg of his pants, he took out a plastic bag with a lighter and kindling. He lit the bag and tossed it toward the stream of fuel. Before he could back away, the stream exploded into a fireball that consumed the tanker.
WORRIED THAT THE LEAKING FUEL TRUCK WOULD catch fire, Turk had taken the plane up the apron before bothering to start the Phantom’s second engine. When he was a safe distance away, he stopped and glanced back for Stoner.
A wall of fire erupted on his left, blocking off the plane from the rest of the airport. It was so hot that he felt a sudden rush of heat.
He was going to die.
“Stoner!” he yelled. “Stoner!”
Turk pushed up in the seat, leaning over the side to look for the other man.
Leave! he told himself. Go! Go!
He was sent to kill you. He’ll kill you still—that’s what he’s doing. Go!
Turk looked at the terminal building. There was a truck there, but no movement. He craned his head, looking at the burning fuel truck.
Where was Stoner?
“Stoner!” he yelled again.
“Here,” shouted the other man, clambering up the wing on the right side of the plane, away from the fire. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah. OK.” Turk blinked; Stoner really was Superman.
“Strap yourself in,” Turk yelled. “We don’t have oxygen. Just hang on and we’ll be home.”
Without oxygen hookups or pressurized suits Turk would have to keep the plane low, or risk decompression sickness.
“OK,” said Stoner, dropping into the seat.
Turk engaged the other engine, starting it and then ramping to full power. The Iranian F-4 was a lot like Old Girl, but it wasn’t exactly the same; he had to stop and think about what he was doing. First and foremost, the instrument panel was very different—Old Girl had been modernized several times, and now featured a full glass cockpit close to state-of-the-art. This Iranian plane was all dials and knobs. The stick and throttle looked a little different as well, though in function they were fully equivalent.
Turk let off his brakes and eased the Phantom into a turn up the ramp, picking up speed gently as he lined up to start the takeoff.
Damned if the runway didn’t look short.
Very, very short.
Too late to worry about that now. Too late to worry about a lot of things.
Turk jammed his hand on the throttle, making sure the engines were pushed to the max. They rumbled behind him, coughing for a half second on some impurity in the fuel, then shaking it off. They whined with a high-pitched, distinctive scream as the Phantom raced down the long bumpy stretch of concrete.
The plane wanted to fly. Her wings flexed with the wind, sinews stretching. The base and desert swept by in a blur.
And then they were airborne, the Phantom rising like a bird, a thundering, anxious bird, but a strong one nonetheless, knifing into an onrush of wind.
15
Pasdaran Base 408
Kushke Nosrat, Iran (Manzariyeh)
AS SOON AS VAHID HEARD THE GUNFIRE, HE RAN FROM the lounge of the terminal where he’d been drinking tea, passing through the long hallway to the outside parking area. His first thought was that the Pasdaran Guards had had enough of his wingman and decided to shoot him.
Then he saw the fire.
“What the hell is going on?” yelled Vahid as two men came at him on a dead run. One was bleeding from the head. Vahid reached to stop him but the man charged past, blood streaming from his temple to his neck and from there to his shirt. He’d been hit by a fragment of some kind; if he would stop to stanch the bleeding, he would be all right, but in his panic he was going to bleed to death.
One of the Phantoms rose off the runway.
How? He’d left the F-4 pilots inside, waiting for a fresh pot to boil.
Vahid started for his own plane. If they were under attack, he had to get in the air.
Where was Lieutenant Kayvan?
Two figures were crouched near the rear of his MiG. One was one of the maintainers who’d arrived a short while before. The other was his wingman.
“The planes!” yelled Vahid, starting toward them. “Kayvan! We’re taking off. We’re taking off!”
16
Iran
TURK STEADIED THE PHANTOM AS HE CLEANED THE landing gear, coming off the runway a bit slower than Old Girl would have. He had more weight and weaker engines: two 500-pound bombs were strapped under his wings, and a pair of old model Sidewinders on the outer rails. But on the positive side, the plane was loaded with more than enough fuel to make Kuwait.
The first thing he needed to do was jettison the bombs. As he banked westward, he checked the armament panel—old school but easily operated. He reached to the switch to select the weapons so they could be jettisoned. Then he remembered the control unit, still hidden in the ruins near the village.
Why not drop the bombs there?
COLONEL KHORASANI STARED AT SERGEANT KARIM AS he ran down the hill from the control car.