Zen got requests like this all the time: scientists looking for direction on how to get funding—and often specifically handouts. Standard Operating Procedure was to fend them off to one of his aides.

“Come around to the office and we can discuss it then,” he told his caller.

“Um, when?”

“Whenever. I don’t have my appointments handy. Tomorrow, the next day. See Cheryl. She’ll take care of you.”

“Great. I—”

“Listen, I’m sorry. I have to go.” Zen hit the end call button and rolled toward the front of the box just as the music began.

13

Iran

THE IRANIAN MILITARY COLUMN WAS TOO CLOSE FOR them to simply avoid. Granderson decided their best bet was simply to play through—keep moving along the road, moving with purpose, and hope to pass the column without hassle.

It almost worked.

With the car in the lead, the American caravan quickly set out, moving along the scratch road as quickly as it could. As they approached the lead Kaviran, the Israeli tucked as far to the side as he dared, the wheels of the car edging into the soft dirt. The Kaviran kept going. Turk, who had his head back against the car seat, caught a glimpse of the driver, eyes fixed on the road ahead, worried about getting past the pickup and truck. The next Kaviran thumped by. Turk saw the passenger in the front of the third Kaviran turn toward them, craning his neck to see inside.

“Faster,” muttered Grease.

But the Israeli was struggling to keep the vehicle simply moving. The two troop trucks hogged the road, and the only way to pass them was to swerve onto the loose gravel at the side. The Israeli waited until the last possible moment, then pitched the car to the right, drifting precariously toward a drop-off on the other side. They held the road, though just barely. Turk grabbed the handle of the door next to him as the car slipped around, the back wheels sliding free on the gravel.

Clear of the last truck, they had just started to accelerate when Turk heard a loud pop behind them. It sounded a little like a firecracker or a backfire, not a bullet, and he at first couldn’t make sense of it. In the next second, Grease barked at the Israeli to keep going and get the hell out of there. Turk turned around, trying to see what was going on, but all he saw was dust swirling everywhere, a massive tornado of yellow edged with brown. Reaching to the floor, he retrieved his rifle. By the time he got it, Grease had leaned over from the front and was pushing down on his shoulders, yelling at him to stay down.

“We have to help them,” protested Turk.

“Just stay the hell down.”

The next few minutes passed in a blur, the Israeli going as fast as he could up the road, Grease holding Turk down while he tried to get the rest of the team on the radio. The jagged hills played havoc with the low-intercept; he kept calling to the others without a response. Turk struggled to free himself even as he realized there was little he could do.

By the time Grease let go, the Israeli had started braking. They came around a curve in the mountain, swerving into a descent and two switchbacks until finally coming to a flat piece of land. He pulled over behind a tumble of rocks.

“Where are our guys?” demanded Turk.

“Easy,” said Grease, letting him go. “You’re more important than all of us combined. We’ll sort it out.”

Turk’s legs shook when they first touched the dirt. He took a few steps toward the road before Grease caught him, the Delta trooper’s thick fingers clamping hard into his arm.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Grease demanded.

Turk spun toward him. Their faces were bare inches apart. “I’m not going to stay back while our guys are getting pounded.”

“Our job isn’t to save them.”

“Screw that.”

“No,” said Grease firmly. “Your mission is more important than their lives. Much more important. If you fail—they fail. They don’t want you hurt.”

Flustered, Turk opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t.

“Listen,” said the Israeli. “Something’s coming.”

They ran back to the rocks, Grease dragging Turk with him. Turk took a knee and peered out, trying to sort his feelings. Grease was absolutely right—and yet he felt responsible for the others. In his gut he knew he had to help them, no matter the cost.

The curve of the hills muffled the noise at first, and it wasn’t until the pickup appeared that Turk was sure the vehicles were theirs, and only theirs.

Granderson leaned out the passenger-side window of the troop truck. The truck had been battered, the windshield and side window completely blown out, and half the front fender hung down. “What the hell are you stopped for?” he yelled. “Go! Go!”

“Are you OK?” Turk shouted.

“Just get the hell out of here!” yelled the Delta captain. “Just go, go go! Damn. Grease! Get the hell out of here.”

“We’re going,” he said, practically throwing Turk into the car.

THEY STOPPED A HALF HOUR LATER, IN THE SHADOW OF the foothills, within sight of Jandagh, a small city that commanded one of the north-south valleys at the edge of the desert. Old archeological digs, long abandoned, sat nearby. Windswept sand pushed across low piles of rocks; the outlines of forgotten pits spread before them in an intricate geometric pattern, disturbed by an occasional outlier.

The troopers had blown up the two trucks with grenade launchers they’d taken from the barracks but were still badly mauled; the only one in the truck who hadn’t been hit by bullets or shrapnel was Granderson, who miraculously survived without a scratch. Green was the worst; he’d taken shots in both legs and lost considerable blood. It was small consolation, but they’d killed all of the Iranians.

The back of their stolen troop truck had been turned into a makeshift rolling clinic. Turk climbed up, talking to the men as Grease watched from below. Dread tried to make a joke about seeing the “beautiful Iranian outback,” but it fell flat. The canvas top had been punctured by bullets, but the air inside still hung heavy and fetid, smelling of blood and cordite.

Granderson came back from the pickup to get Turk and figure out what to do next. Turk had been lingering with Green. It seemed impossible that the solid old warrior could be wounded, as if his body was made of steel and concrete, yet his legs and fresh green uniform blouse were covered with blood.

“I’m good, Pilot,” he kept muttering. “I’ll be all right.”

There was nothing Turk could do for Green, or any of them. He slipped out and walked around the side with Granderson, who was explaining what had happened.

“The passenger in the front of the first troop truck jumped out with a handgun and tried to wave down the pickup,” Granderson told him. “We didn’t stop. When he started to fire, Gorud and the troop truck ran him down, but the second truck swerved to block us. We fought it out.”

It hadn’t taken too long—three minutes, five—but Granderson was worried that they got off a call for help; one of the command vehicles had disappeared before they could fire at it.

“Hills are so bad Grease couldn’t even hear your radios,” said Turk. “Probably, they couldn’t get anything out.”

“Maybe.” Granderson turned and pointed to the troop truck. “We won’t get far with this. It’s pounded to crap. And the pickup’s not too much better. We’ll have to steal something from Jandagh.”

It was just visible in the distance, off to the right. Turk rubbed the sand off his face and looked at the dunes scattered between them and the small city. Yellow buildings floated below a wavy haze. Patches of green appeared like bunting amid the parched landscape and distant bricks.

“We’ll never get a truck out of there during the day without being seen,” said Gorud, walking over with the Israeli. His left arm was wrapped in a thick bandage. “Assuming we find one.”