“No, but we got the higher ground. If they get too close, we open fire.”
“Can we make it if they call for aerial support?”
“I don’t want to find out.”
A loud shout that sounded like an order pierced the tense silence. Other inaudible voices followed, then the sound of heavy boots cracking on the rocks littering the trails, going up the hill.
“What’s he saying?” Justin asked.
“Find them. Find them now!” Nathan translated the order from Farsi.
Justin clenched his carbine tighter to his chest. “All right, you go left. I’ll take the right. We’ll meet at the truck.” His hand gestures punctuated their intended moves.
Nathan nodded. “Got it.”
Justin drew in a deep breath. The voices grew louder, along with the climbing footsteps. “We roll in ten.”
He began counting the seconds in his mind. Nine. Eight. Seven.
Another round of shouting. Angrier. Much closer.
What the hell are they saying?
Nathan’s hand fell on Justin’s arm. He turned and read Nathan’s lips, “Not that way, you idiots. They wouldn’t hide up there. Look down. Down. That’s what he’s saying.”
Justin held Nathan’s eyes. Nathan shook his head. “No. They’re retreating.” He mouthed the words.
Justin nodded. His fingers still clasped the carbine. He relaxed his grip, but kept his hands in place.
More inaudible words followed, and the footsteps crunching against the rocks faded out. A few distant shouts, then the truck’s engine coughed as it refused to start. The coughing continued for a long minute. Justin counted the seconds, wishing for the Iranian troops to get in the truck and out of his sight. Finally, the engine settled into a steady roar, which grew louder as the truck picked up speed. The rattle of the jeep came moments later, and then it sounded like everything had returned to its relative calm.
“Are they gone?” Nathan asked.
“I’m not sure.”
They waited and listened in silence. A soft breeze rustled through the branches of the scarce shrubs, but there were no other sounds. Justin glanced at his wristwatch and counted one hundred and eighty seconds. He exchanged several looks with Nathan, both men nodding and agreeing to stay put for a little longer.
A bone-jarring screech jolted them.
Justin clenched his jaw and lifted his carbine.
Nathan swore. “The vultures are back.”
“You mean the birds, right?” Justin asked with a grin.
Nathan smiled. “Yeah.”
Justin slid forward until his body was flat with the ground. He poked his head out and took a peek at the road. No truck. No jeeps. No troops. Two vultures had returned and were furiously pecking at their dead prey.
“Looks clear,” Justin said.
He retrieved his binoculars and took his time studying the road, the hilltops, the valleys, everything. Nothing caught his eye. “We’re good. Let’s roll.”
Nathan jumped to his feet. “That was a close call.”
“We should stay away from the road.”
“Agreed.”
“Although that truck would have given us a great advantage.”
Nathan shot Justin a sideways glance. “Perhaps. But the shooting would have alerted the men in the other jeep, the one at the gas station—”
“In turn, they would have called for more troops,” Justin finished Nathan’s sentence.
“Right.”
Justin stowed his carbine in his knapsack. “Let’s go. We have to cross over that border.”
Chapter Three
Nathan’s dagger indicated the agents were two miles inside the Turkmen territory. Justin had relaxed a bit now that they were out of the immediate reach of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, but he knew their lives and their mission were still in danger. His rapport with Colonel Garryev was new and untested in the face of adversity. He was not worried the Colonel would detain them and hand them over to the Iranians. But the Colonel’s reluctance to dispatch an exfiltration team had put him on guard.
The hills, the river beds, the shrubs, the road, the entire landscape resembled the one they had just left behind south of the border. The blistering sun continued to punish the land with its ruthless heat. After the long, excruciating march, Justin was longing for the sight of the black jeep Colonel Garryev had promised them.
“There it is.” Nathan pointed as they neared a clearing at the bottom of a hill about a hundred feet high. He handed Justin his binoculars, then held out his H&K P30 pistol, providing cover. They stood next to a pile of large rocks.
The vehicle waiting for their arrival was not a jeep, but the Russian version of the American jeep. It was a UAZ-469, the famous all-terrain transport of the Red Army and paramilitary units of former Eastern Bloc countries. And it was not black. Justin could not determine its original color, but its current one was a dirty olive green with specks of dried mud. Its canvas ragtop was black once, but now it was discolored and held in place by duct tape.
“Where’s the driver?” Justin whispered.
“Hilltop. Two o’clock.”
Justin raised the binoculars and followed Nathan’s directions. The grass at the hilltop was flattened, as if someone had recently sat or lay over it. The nearby shrubs were parted, and a few branches were broken off, but there were no rifle barrels or any other signs of someone waiting for them to fall into a trap.
Justin listened to the silence. It was all too quiet.
“He’s not there,” he said, handing back the binoculars to Nathan. He dug out of his knapsack his C8 carbine under Nathan’s watchful eyes. After cocking the gun, he said, “All right, let’s split up and find our contact.”
Nathan nodded. They would consider the area and the contact hostile until they were convinced otherwise.
“Left.” Justin motioned in that direction, and Nathan pressed forward. He held his pistol high in front of his chest, moving it slowly from side to side, sweeping the area. His eyes searched the shrubs and the occasional small tree, as he guided his steps around dead branches, loose pebbles, and sharp rocks.
Justin gained ground fast on the right side. He came to a blind turn, and the narrow path seemed to lead to an eroded edge of the hill. Estimating the distance and negotiating his steps, Justin skirted around a couple of rocks jutting out of the ground. He took a deep breath and jumped out, aiming his gun at the target.
A bearded man who appeared to be in his fifties was sitting cross-legged on a large flat rock. He was dressed in dark khaki pants and a light blue shirt, stained by sweat at the chest. He was ten, maybe twelve feet away from Justin. The man was looking down at the ravine about a hundred feet below. A cool breeze offered a much-needed relief from the scolding sun.
“Hands up,” Justin said in Russian.
The man’s large hands went to his sides. The left one formed a tight fist.
Nathan emerged on the other side behind the man and put him in his pistol’s sight.
“Get your hands up,” Justin shouted his order in Arabic, then in English. “And drop whatever you have in your hand,” he added in both languages, making a clear gesture with his carbine.
The man nodded slowly, then looked up at Justin. His sun-tanned face carried a grin, and his dark eyes had an eerie glow, as if the man held the upper hand. He looked neither scared nor surprised.
Justin scanned the man’s body. A large bulge at the right side of his waist suggested he was wearing a gun. Another bump by his left ankle was a sign of another weapon, a small pistol or a knife. Justin’s gaze rested on the man’s left hand as he raised both arms above his head. The sun hit at just the right angle, and the glint of a grenade’s notched casing caught his attention. Justin peered and noticed the missing grenade’s pin. The man jerked his right hand. The pin was hanging from one of his fingers.