“Colonel, one of the teams searching the old ruins found a computer in the rocks,” said the sergeant between gasps for air. “Electronics. Computers.”
“Where?” demanded Khorasani.
“Platoon two,” said Karim. He pointed to the left side of the ruins. “It would be in that direction.”
“Go back and tell the commander to meet me,” said Khorasani. “I’ll walk.”
He let his binoculars fall to his chest and began walking down the embankment. The reinforcements were still fanning out around the area, moving in slow motion. For all the braggadocio of its lower ranks, and all the connections of its leaders, the Revolutionary Guard was at its heart a disorganized bunch of rabble one step removed from the streets.
Khorasani was truly baffled about what had happened. While the carnage he’d seen indicated a large, efficient force, anything above squad size would have shown itself by now. Were the Americans or the Israelis fielding invisible soldiers now?
He would figure it all out later. For now, they must be destroyed.
The squad commander was a sergeant, an older man, fortunately. They were the only ones worth a whit in the Guard. The man raised his hand to salute.
“Where are the items that were found?” Khorasani asked.
A jet passed overhead, drowning out the man’s answer. The sergeant glanced upward, but Khorasani ignored it—it was about time the air force got involved.
Another problem.
“The computer?” he asked as the jet banked away.
“We found it in that house below,” said the sergeant, pointing. “It was under some rocks. We left it in case the positioning was significant.”
On the other hand, the older ones knew nothing about computers.
“Let’s have a look,” the colonel said, starting for the ruins.
THE PHANTOM’S GROUND-ATTACK RADAR WAS WORKED from the rear seat, and there was no chance of getting Stoner to activate it without a lengthy explanation. But Turk figured he could do a dead-reckoning drop—point the nose and let ’em go.
He took a practice run first, getting the feel of the plane and his target. It wasn’t as easy as he thought. He realized as he cleared that he would have overshot by quite a bit, and that was before gravity pelted him in the face and chest. He’d have to come in slower and wait even longer.
The soldiers on the ground would undoubtedly realize something was up. Next pass and go.
As he circled to take a second run, Turk tried to remember the last time he had done a dead-reckoning dive on a target. He couldn’t remember doing it ever, though he was sure he must have practiced at some point. In fact, the only situation he could think of that was even remotely close involved a video game when he was thirteen or fourteen.
At least he’d been good at that.
Turk steadied his aim as he lined up, using the nearby house for reference and trying to calculate where momentum would put the bombs.
Five hundred pound bombs. All I have to do is be close.
He pickled and pulled off. The plane jerked upward, glad to be free of the extra weight.
Not like in a video game, that.
The Phantom continued over the city, passing the railroad tracks and the open desert to the west of Istgah-E Kuh Pang. More Pasdaran vehicles had arrived, and there were pools of men gathering at the center of town. Turk banked south, pushing the Phantom over the area where he had bombed.
Black smoke and pulverized brown rock lingered in the air. The corner of the building had been replaced by a double crater. There were bodies on the ground.
Mission complete. Time to go home.
17
Iran
VAHID STARTED THE MIG ROLLING. THE SMOKE FROM the fire made it impossible to see much of the airport in front of him, let alone where the attackers were. He guessed that they must be near the runway, but decided he would have to take his chances and try rushing by them. Staying on the ground would surely cost him his MiG.
The fire blocked the normal access to the runway. Instead, Vahid turned his plane along the narrow road in front of the terminal building. Meant to be used by cars, it was lined by light poles. Seeing the MiG’s wing coming close on the left side, he pulled one wheel off the cement, riding cock-eyed all the way to the service access road before turning onto the ramp that led to the middle of the runway. Gaining speed as he went, Vahid turned right, trundled to the end and pulled a U-turn on the uneven and ill-repaired concrete apron before lining up to take off.
The F-4 near the fuel truck spit a fireball across the field. Flames licked across the wings and up the tail, small curlicues feasting on the paint.
Vahid heard One Eye shouting at him: Go!
He hit his throttle and rocketed down the white expanse, lifting into the morning air. Worried that whoever had attacked the planes on the ground had shoulder-launched missiles, he let off flare decoys, jerking the nose of the MiG upward, pushing the plane for all she was worth.
He started to breathe easier as he climbed through 5,000 feet. No longer worried about shoulder-launched missiles, he began a climbing orbit around the airfield, rising as he spun around looking for whoever had attacked the base. He didn’t have much to attack them with—besides his cannon, there were a pair of radar missiles and another pair of heat-seeking missiles on his wings—but he’d at least be able to give their location to the units on the ground.
Assuming the ground answered. Vahid had taken off in such a rush that he hadn’t even contacted the tower. He tried doing so now, only to belatedly realize he had inadvertently knocked the radio off when climbing into the cockpit.
One Eye would never have let him live that down. Vahid hit the switch and heard the controller practically screaming into his ear, demanding he respond.
“Shahin One acknowledges,” he told the man. “I’m off the field and looking for the attackers.”
“Be advised—someone has stolen Badr Two.”
“Repeat?”
“Badr Two took off without authorization.”
“Who took it?”
“Unknown. The pilots are on the ground. It may have been one of the Israelis!”
“Impossible,” said Vahid. He turned out of the climb and circled toward the control tower, certain that the enemy forces had taken it over.
“Captain Vahid, are you receiving? This is Major Morad.”
Morad was the leader of the Phantom squadron; they’d been joking over tea just a few minutes before.
“Major, where are you?” asked Vahid. “What’s going on with the control tower?”
“Captain, I’m in the tower. I’m on the ground. We’re all on the ground. One of my aircraft has been taken. Pursue it.”
“I have it heading north,” answered Vahid. “What are my instructions?”
“We’re getting in contact with General Shirazi.”
“Are you sure this isn’t one of your pilots?”
“They are all here. It must be a commando, stealing our secrets.”
That is very doubtful, Vahid thought.
“I am setting up an intercept,” he told the major. “Stand by.”
18
Iran
TURK PULLED THE HARNESS AGAINST HIS SHOULDER, tightened it as far as it would go against his shirt. He felt naked, and in a sense he was—no pressurized suit, no survival gear, not even a “hat.” While the Phantom’s cockpit was pressurized, he knew he had to be careful not only about his altitude but his maneuvers—a sharp turn might knock him unconscious, perhaps permanently.
If he had to stay low and level, his better course out of the country would be north—get up and out through the Caspian, where the air defenses were far weaker. It was a little farther, but it was in the direction of the units that were supporting the SEALs. It also might seem counterintuitive to the Iranians; they’d expect him to go toward Kuwait.