“. . . an isolated area in Iran north of the capital, Tehran. The area where the earthquake struck includes at least one known Iranian atomic research facility, raising the question of whether an accident occurred there. However, the Iranian government immediately denied there had been any human activity in the area that could have led to the earthquake . . .”

Zen listened as the reporter described the earthquake, saying that preliminary data estimated that it was in the “high fours or very low fives,” which while causing shaking would only damage very poorly built structures. This section of Iran was often subject to earthquakes, added the announcer, and it was too early for information about casualties.

“Interesting,” said Zen to himself, wheeling toward his bedroom, where he’d left his cell phone turned off. Sure enough, he’d missed a dozen calls in the last ten minutes. He scrolled through the list, then selected the number of Jenny Shapiro, one of the staff members of the Intelligence Committee.

Shapiro answered on the first ring. “Senator Stockard, have you heard the news?”

“Earthquake in Iran?”

“Atomic explosion in Iran,” said Shapiro. “More P waves than S.”

“That means something to you, I’m sure.”

Shapiro gave Zen a brief explanation of the type of shock waves generated by explosions and earthquakes. While every event had its own particular “fingerprint,” scientists generally had little difficulty differentiating between earthquakes and man-made explosions by the overall pattern of the shock waves. In this case, said Shapiro, one of the committee’s technical experts, there seemed little doubt that this was some sort of event—almost surely an accidental explosion of a nuclear device.

“Why accidental?” asked Zen.

“A couple of reasons. For one thing, the epicenter wasn’t set up as a test area, or in a known facility.” Shapiro’s Boston accent got quicker and quicker as she spoke. “But if I had to make a guess, I’d say they were putting a device together for testing elsewhere and somebody made a very big mistake.”

“Or they were helped.”

“You said that, Senator. I didn’t.”

“And we don’t know about this facility?”

“If the epicenter of the waves is where the scientists say it was—”

“What’s the word from the White House?”

“No word is the word. NSC staff say, ‘Evaluating.’ State is preparing a statement on ‘the Iranian earthquake.’ That’s what I know,” she added. “Are you going to be available for the special meeting?”

“Which is when?” Zen glanced down at the list of callers. Two were from the secretary in charge of arranging the Intelligence Committee’s meetings.

“Fifty-two minutes and counting.”

“On my way,” he said.

6

Iran

THE STARS FADED EVER SO SLIGHTLY AS THEY WALKED, as if they were pulling back from the earth. Turk’s thigh muscles burned with fatigue, but there was no time to slow or complain. He wasn’t afraid of being caught but of being left behind. The Israeli and Grease had moved at the same steady pace since they’d started, and even if he hadn’t been exhausted he would have had trouble keeping up. But he had to keep up, because the alternative was being left in Iran, and being left in Iran was unacceptable, was impossible.

Turk’s confidence wavered under the weight of his fatigue. He was back to being a pilot—competent, more than competent, in the air; nearly useless on the ground.

When they first set out for the train tracks, he thought they would arrive within minutes. To keep his brain occupied, he amused himself by picturing his arrival home, back in Las Vegas, back in Li’s arms. He felt her arms and smelled her perfume; he remembered the way they’d lain together in bed.

Now he thought of nothing and simply walked.

“Up there,” said Grease, stopping ahead and crouching.

Turk walked up to him. Grease put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him down. “Sssssh,” said the soldier.

The railroad tracks were about fifty yards away on the right, just on the other side of a hard-packed dirt road. The ground sloped gently from their position to the tracks, then fell away a little steeper. The cover was sparse, large clumps of stiff grass and clusters of low bushes.

“What are we waiting for?” asked Turk, hoarse.

“Ssssh,” said Grease, this time sternly.

The Israeli started ahead, then suddenly flattened himself.

“Come on,” hissed Grease, moving on his haunches to a nearby bush.

Turk lost his balance as he got up. He managed to push and fall forward, half diving and half crawling into position behind Grease. Under other circumstances it might have been hilarious, but Turk was not in the mood to laugh at himself, and Grease seemed congenitally averse to humor of any kind. Neither said anything.

A hum grew in the air, vibrating stronger and stronger. Turk didn’t realize it was a train until it burst in front of him. There were no lights on either of the two diesel engines in the front, nor were there any on the two passenger cars and a half-dozen freight cars that followed, or the flatcars with trucks and tanks. The train melted into a brownish blur, leaving a film of dust floating in the air in its wake. The scent of half-burned diesel fuel was so strong Turk thought he would gag.

“They’re sending troops to cordon the area off and find out what happened,” said Grease. “There’ll be patrols.”

“Yeah.”

Turk remembered the image of the ground as it imploded. He wasn’t sure what the radioactive effects would be. Would the entire area be poisoned for years?

Was five miles far enough way to avoid the effects? A slight twinge of paranoia struck him—maybe his fatigue was due to radioactive poisoning.

Unlikely. He was just exhausted, plain and simple.

They both rose, Turk unsteadily, Grease as solid and smooth as ever. The Israeli trotted toward them.

“There’s a truck at the other side of the intersection,” he said when he reached them. “I think it is your people.”

A FEW MINUTES LATER TURK WAS SITTING IN THE BACK of the truck, wedged between Gorud and Grease. The other members of the team were spread out along the floorboards, sitting or leaning toward the back, watchful. The Israeli had gone up front with the driver.

Gorud had been emotionless when Turk reported that the mission was a success. Turk wondered at his own peculiar lack of elation as well—they’d just struck a tremendous blow against Iran, probably prevented a war or at least a wider conflict, and yet he didn’t feel particularly elated. He didn’t feel anything, except the aches and pains of his bruises, and the heavy weight of his eyelids.

“We’ll be there soon,” said Gorud, checking his watch. “Granderson and one of the men are already there. It should be safe until morning, or beyond.”

“Why are we waiting there?” asked Grease.

“They didn’t explain,” said Gorud as the truck bounced along the dirt road. “They just want us to stand by for further instructions.”

“We should be getting as far away as possible,” said Grease.

Turk completely agreed. There were still a few hours before dawn. They ought to use every one of them to get closer to safety.

Several plans had been drawn up for their “exfiltration.” The preferred one had been by airplane from the airport where they were supposed to meet the helicopter. But that option had apparently gone by the boards when they were shot down.

“I don’t disagree,” said Gorud. “But this is what they said. Maybe they know something we don’t.”

“Right,” sneered Grease.

A few minutes later the truck slowed to a stop. One by one they got out. Dread helped Turk down, easing him onto the ground as if he were an old man. Turk was mildly amused—until his legs went rubbery on him after a step or two. He stood stock-still for several seconds, regaining his composure.