“If the attack fails—”

“If it fails, we go ahead and we eliminate both sites with B-2 attacks,” said the President, cutting in. “That’s an easy decision.”

“I would vote to launch a B-2 attack now,” said Lovel. “Why wait?”

“Nothing has happened at that site—at either of the possible sites,” said Reid.

“We were rushing to strike tonight,” said Lovel, “because we needed to hit quickly. Now we’re going to delay another twenty-four hours. The sooner we get this over with, the better. For everyone.”

“Not for our people,” said Breanna. “If we strike, if the bombers go in, we’re writing them off. Because they’ll know that the first attack was launched by us, and they’ll be on the alert.”

“I agree it increases their risk,” said General Maximillian Fresco, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Fresco had only been on the job for a month, and was still feeling his way—a disappointment to Todd, who had selected him because he seemed determined and, like her, prone to err on the side of hawkishness rather than caution. But maybe he would come around.

“They are already at considerable risk,” said Reid dryly. “No matter what.”

“I think we should pull them out,” said Breanna, her voice quivering. “Then send the bombers in.”

Todd was surprised. She looked at Reid. His expression showed he clearly disagreed. Ordinarily, they were in lockstep; she couldn’t remember a time when they had offered even slightly different opinions.

“Our best chance, overall, is to use the nano-UAVs,” said Reid. “We know they work. We haven’t seen the bunker busters yet. This is our best chance.”

Fresco started to object, but Reid cut him off.

“The Hydras work. They leave no trace of our involvement; they raise no moral or ethical questions if there is a mistake. They limit the casualties strictly to those involved in the program.” Reid sounded like a college professor, summing up a semester’s worth of instruction. “The benefits are obvious. At worst, we have the bombers in reserve.”

Todd agreed. She saw from the corner of her eye that the Secretary of State was going to say something—probably, she thought, questioning Reid’s statement about moral questions: they were, after all, setting off a nuclear explosion, even if it was the Iranian’s own bomb.

There was no need for that debate now.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” she said quickly, raising her hand. “We will delay for twenty-four hours. After that, the bombers will be authorized to attack.”

IN THE CAR ON THE WAY BACK TO THE CIA CAMPUS, Breanna fiddled with her personal phone, thumbing through text messages from the past several days, even though she’d read them already. She longed to talk to Zen about the operation but couldn’t.

Her only acceptable alternative was Reid, and she didn’t want to talk to him about anything.

“Why did you change your mind?” asked Reid.

Breanna looked up. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re opposed to the operation now. You weren’t earlier.”

“I’m not opposed.”

“You sounded like you are. Your tone was negative. Even in the presentation.”

“No. I was trying to be neutral. My concern—I just want to get our people out. I feel responsible for them.”

Reid looked at her, his old-man eyes peering into her soul. He was beyond retirement age, and at times like this—deep into an operation, under heavy stress—he looked even older.

He reminded her of her father, once commander of Dreamland, now a virtual recluse.

“Your guilt is misguided,” said Reid.

“I don’t feel guilty.” The words spit out quickly, beyond her control. They weren’t true. “Why would I be guilty?”

“You’re not. That’s my point.”

“I’m responsible for my people. It’s my job to think of them.”

“We are,” said Reid softly. He turned his head toward the driver in the front seat, separated by a thick, clear plastic barrier that made it impossible for him to hear. “But our first responsibility is to the mission. The nano-UAVs are clearly the best choice.”

“Yes,” said Breanna reluctantly. “I can’t disagree.”

18

Iran

WALKING DOWN FROM THE BARN INTO THE ABANDONED grove, Turk checked his watch, then took out the sat phone. He was a few seconds early, but there was no reason to wait.

“This is Breanna.”

“I’m checking in.”

“Good. What’s your status?”

“Same as it was forty-five minutes ago.”

“We have approval to push the operation off until tomorrow night,” said Breanna. “Twenty-four hours. And then it’s on.”

“Thank you.”

“Turk, we’ve been speaking with WARCOM. The SEAL command landed the recovery team from the Caspian. They’re not going to be able to reach you before the attack. We’re sending as much support as we can, but—”

“I know, I know. It’s all right. We’re good. Don’t worry about me.”

Turk felt a little annoyed—first at Breanna, then at himself for sounding like a teenager fending off an overanxious mom.

“We have a plan,” he added. “We’ll execute it.”

He heard the sound of another aircraft in the distance. It was flying quickly, moving in their direction.

One engine. Loud. The plane must be low.

“Listen, I have to go,” he said to her. “I’ll check back at the top of the next hour.”

He clicked off the satcom, then took a few steps toward the barn before realizing that he would never make it before the plane was overhead. The closest thing to cover nearby was an empty irrigation ditch; he jumped into it. Grease, his constant shadow, followed. They crawled a few yards to a spot where the sides were nearly horizontal and the shadow was thick.

It was another light civilian aircraft, a Beechcraft Bonanza, a later model with a conventional tail instead of the trademark V. Turk saw it flying from the northeast, paralleling the other side of the highway. It looked to be at about eight hundred feet.

He ducked his head, as if believing that if he didn’t see it, it wouldn’t see him.

The plane made another pass, this time to the north. Turk remained prone until the sound sunk into a faint and distant drone.

“I don’t think he saw us.” Turk stood and stretched the muscles in his back, then his legs. He leaned against the soft dirt of the ditch and kicked his toes into the other side. “He would have circled a few times.”

“Maybe,” said Grease, noncommittal.

“When do you think Granderson will be back?” Turk asked. He and the Israeli had taken the pickup into town, hoping to find another vehicle to either buy or steal.

“Soon.”

“I was wondering—maybe it would be better if just you and I went and finished this. Let them take care of their wounded.”

“They’re never going to leave you, Turk. To the last man. They’ll crawl along and bleed out before they let that happen. Every one of them.”

“That wouldn’t make much sense.”

“It’s their mission. It’s their job and duty. Their honor.”

“Together, we attract more attention than if we were on our own. Way more.”

Grease shook his head.

“We could take Gorud,” said Turk. “Because he speaks the language. But we don’t need escorts. I don’t really even need you. No offense.”

“Not happening.”

Turk started to laugh, but Grease’s grim expression warned him off.

“Let’s get inside,” he said instead.

GRANDERSON AND THE ISRAELI RETURNED NOT FIFteen minutes later, the latter driving an open farm truck. The truck had been parked in the town center, in front of a small building. They’d driven up in the pickup, spotted it, jumped out and walked over. The keys were in the ignition.

“Pretty quiet town,” the captain told Turk as they checked it over. “If anybody saw us, they didn’t say anything.”

“You sure you weren’t followed?” asked Grease.