He was, in fact, about sixty seconds from bingo, the calculated point where he would have only enough fuel to get home. He considered using that as an excuse not to shoot up the truck, but what was the point? Already two other members of his squadron were flying northward; they would destroy the truck if he didn’t.

And going against the Pasdaran colonel was not a wise move, even if General Shirazi was his patron.

But to kill civilians?

Surely they were thieves. As unlikely—as impossible—as it must be that they were Israeli commandos, they still had no right to steal a truck. So it was Allah’s punishment that he was meting out.

“Shahin Two, you’re on my wing,” he told Lieutenant Kayvan, glancing at the armament panel to make sure his gun was ready.

“We’re going to shoot up the truck?”

“We’re going to stop it, yes.”

TURK HEARD THE RUMBLE OF THE JET ENGINES AS THE MiGs came up the road behind him. Once more the muscles in his stomach clenched. He pushed back in the seat, waiting as the car began to shake.

“Shit,” he muttered as the plane shot overhead, then rose into a quick turn.

“Tell them to get out of the truck!” Turk yelled. “Tell them he’s coming in to fire! He’s firing!”

AS VAHID PUSHED THE MIG’S NOSE DOWN, THE FARM truck seemed to fly into the pipper. He gave the trigger a gentle squeeze before breaking off. The rounds missed, flying into the pavement well ahead of the vehicle.

Which was what he intended. In his mind, an innocent civilian would see the bullets and realize something was wrong. He would pull off the road and run from the truck.

“Shahin Two, did he stop?” Vahid asked.

“Still moving.”

“Stay clear.”

“No fun for me?”

Vahid ignored his juvenile wingman, moving into position to destroy the truck. He rode the MiG through five hundred meters before tucking his left wing toward the highway. He leveled the wings and found the vehicle speeding ahead.

It started to weave left and right. He pressed the trigger.

A GRAY GEYSER OF SMOKE ERUPTED AHEAD.

“Shit, shit, shit!” yelled Turk. He pounded the dashboard as the gray turned black. A funnel of red appeared from within, like a volcano.

They rushed toward it as the cloud shifted downward, folding itself across the road. Turk had shot up trucks himself a few months before, pouncing on them from the air. Now he was seeing things from the other side, from underneath and inside out.

The truck was on the right, off the road, completely destroyed, smoldering.

Two bodies, black, lay between it and the road.

“You’re not stopping!” Turk yelled at Grease.

“I know that.”

“You gotta stop!”

“We can’t.”

“Grease! Grease!”

Turk grabbed for the door handle. Grease reached over and grabbed him with his hand, holding him in place even as he accelerated away from the wreckage.

SUPERMAN

1

Iran

CAPTAIN VAHID FLEW OVER THE WRECKAGE OF THE farm truck one last time, making sure nothing was moving. The vehicle had been split into five different pieces by the MiG’s cannon. Only one, a segment that included part of the cab, was still on fire.

The pickup truck and then the white car he’d seen had passed by quickly. The pilot wondered at that: he could understand the pickup, but why the car, which he assumed belonged to a government or perhaps a Guard official. Wouldn’t they have been curious?

They must have been afraid. People seemed to have an unnatural ability to shut everything else out when they felt themselves in danger.

Did they think they were next?

And really, why wouldn’t they? As far as they knew, he had just destroyed a civilian truck, a poor man’s vehicle at that.

Vahid banked, aiming for another pass over the highway.

“One, I am at bingo fuel,” said Lieutenant Kayvan.

“Acknowledged, Two. Set course for base.”

As Vahid clicked off his mike, another transmission came, this one from Colonel Khorasani, asking what their status was.

“The truck has been destroyed.”

“Are there confederates? Are there other vehicles?”

“It doesn’t appear so.”

Vahid slowed, edging toward stall speed, so he could get another look at the truck. While he’d splashed some targets in training, he had never blown up a “real” truck before, certainly not one that was moving.

At the moment he fired he felt joy—that was the word for it, joy—but already his feelings were complex. There was great satisfaction at having achieved his objective, but there was something empty about it as well.

He flew past the lingering black curl of smoke, accelerating before climbing out. Vahid felt a flush of anger—he should hit the car. The men were cowards to go by without stopping to help.

How would he explain?

Easily—Khorasani had just given him an excuse. The men were compatriots. They’d been close to the truck when he blew it up.

Kayvan radioed to ask if they were leaving.

“Go ahead, Two. Return to base.”

“I’m staying with you, Lead,” said the wingman.

Strike the government vehicle? But they would find out eventually that it wasn’t connected. And there would be repercussions.

It was not his job to punish cowards.

Vahid radioed the Pasdaran commander. “The truck is a complete wreck. No survivors. We are low on fuel. We need to return to base.”

“Go. One of my units will be at the site in a few minutes.”

He thought of giving the colonel a sarcastic answer to the effect that he was welcome for the assistance—the colonel hadn’t so much as thanked him. But he thought better of it. With the Pasdaran, it was always better to keep your mouth shut.

2

CIA campus, Virginia

BREANNA SAT STOICALLY AS TURK RECOUNTED THEIR situation. Gorud’s arm had been injured but he was all right to drive. Grease was fine, as was Turk.

The rest of the team, including the Israeli spy, had been killed. Turk and the others were traveling toward Hoz-e-Soltan Lake and the vast, empty salt desert north of Qom and east of their target. He estimated they would be at the hiding place in two more hours.

Breanna had read the translated Iranian communications relating to the strike soon after the truck was destroyed. Captured by a U.S. elint satellite and forwarded by the NSA after translation, the script was succinct and depressing: the Iranian air force officer, though clearly concerned he was firing on civilians, nonetheless followed orders and killed them.

Breanna knew from the locator data that Turk was still moving. But she suspected from the description that the truck was theirs. And even if it hadn’t been, the savagery of the decision was chilling.

She glanced to the end of the table where Reid was sitting. His face was pale, as if the long night had bled the blood from his body. There were times when he looked ancient, and other times beyond age. This was one of the former. Reid’s eyes darted from the map screen to the blank transmission screen—there was only audio, no visual. The rest of his body remained stone still, as if he were a projection.

Breanna leaned forward in her chair. “Turk, I want to ask you a question. I need a candid answer. Do you feel you can carry out the mission?”

“Yes.” He said it quickly, without hesitation.

“You’re going to have difficulty getting out of the country.”

“It’ll be no harder then than now.”

“We’re confident you will succeed,” Reid told him.

“Yes,” said Breanna, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice. “Check in when you reach the cave.”