Something glowed in the distance: lights at the shuttered airfield and military base they were aiming for.

“Down,” hissed Grease suddenly, punctuating the command with a tug on Turk’s shoulder that nearly threw him to the ground.

A set of headlights swept up on the left. They were closer to the highway than they’d thought.

After the vehicle passed, Grease took out his GPS. “That’s the base.”

“That’s good.”

“We’re behind schedule. It’s almost 2100 hours. We’ll have to hustle to make the rendezvous point by 2200. If there’s no vehicle here, we won’t.”

“We’ll try.”

Grease propped himself up on his elbows and looked in the direction of the glow with his binoculars. He studied it for so long that Turk decided he’d given up on that plan and was trying to think of an alternative. Finally, Grease handed the glasses to him.

“There’s a dark spot on the far side there,” he said, pointing. “We can get past the gate there, get across the runway and then get the vehicle.”

“All right.”

“It’s going to take a while. You better check in.”

15

Office of Special Technology, Pentagon

“ANSWER,” SAID BREANNA CRISPLY, ORDERING THE computerized assistant to put the call through. It was from the duty officer at the Whiplash situation room, reporting on Turk. The call had been routed through the Whiplash system to her Pentagon phone. The background noise on the phone changed ever so slightly—from the vague but steady hint of static to one vaguer and intermittent—and Breanna knew the connection had gone through. “This is Bree. What’s going on?”

“Turk just checked in,” said Sandra Mullen, one of the duty officers borrowed from the CIA to help monitor the operation.

Breanna glanced at her watch, though she knew the time. “He’s a half hour early. What’s wrong?”

“They’re heading toward a patch where they have to go silent com,” Sandy told her. “He wanted to check in.”

Breanna slid her chair closer to her desk. She’d come to the Pentagon to brief the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; she was due in his office in ten minutes. “You’re sure he was OK?”

“Safe words and everything,” said Sandy, indicating she’d quizzed Turk herself to make sure. “Gorud’s dead.”

“What?”

“He’d been wounded—they had to leave his body to get out without being caught.”

“Oh, God. Does Jonathon know?”

“Yes. There’s a possibility they won’t make the control point in time for the download.”

“They won’t make it in time, or not at all?”

“They’ll get there, but they may be late. They had to walk out of the cave. They’re still pretty far away.”

Breanna had already worked out an alternative with Rubeo that would allow them to send the information just before the strike. But that assumed, of course, they did eventually make it.

“What about Kronos?” said Breanna, asking about the plan to send Mark Stoner to Iran.

“The aircraft is in the air and about fifteen minutes from release. Danny Freah is still gathering his team. They’ll be in Iran in forty-eight hours.”

“Very good.”

Sandy continued, filling in little details.

Breanna had an alternative plan for getting the data downloaded, but to utilize it, she’d have to commit to launching the UAVs no later than 2300. If Turk wasn’t in position by then, she would have to scratch the mission.

“I know I’m not supposed to second-guess them,” said Sandy, her words breaking into Breanna’s wandering train of thought. “But—it may be a stretch for them. They’re stealing a vehicle from a Revolutionary Guard camp. And even if they get it, to drive that far—it’s going to be tight.”

Breanna leaned her forehead down toward her desk, cradling her head in her hand. But she managed to keep her doubts to herself.

“It’s all right, Sandra,” she said. “Let’s let them make the moves they think they have to make. Just keep me informed of his progress.”

She sat like that for a while, face in her hand, wanting to collapse on the desk and sleep. Not give up; just sleep. She knew she couldn’t.

There are always moments of doubt in command. The trick is not to let them stop you. Push on.

That was her father’s advice. She played it over in her head, knowing it was good, it was solid, it was what she had to do.

Keep moving forward.

Breanna glanced at the wall, where she had hung a photo of her dad receiving the Medal of Honor from the President. He had a smile on his face, but it was an uncomfortable smile. He didn’t appreciate the fuss, and he didn’t think he deserved the medal.

He surely did, that one and many more. But in many ways Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian was a man out of his time, a throwback to the generation that did heroic things and called them their duty.

The phone on the desk buzzed. Her secretary was reminding her that she was due for the private briefing with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Breanna grabbed the thumb drive from her computer, fixed her lipstick, and set off.

16

Iran

THE FIRST FENCE WAS EASY.

Either some of the men stationed there or black marketeers doing business with them had bent a portion of the bottom away from the ground almost exactly at the spot Grease was aiming. Turk pushed the ruck ahead of him and crawled into the no-man’s-land between the two fences. The ground was dry but its scent was salty. His nose itched and he felt as if he were going to sneeze.

Grease crawled through behind him. “Let’s go,” he said, jumping up and starting to run. “Move.”

Turk did his best to keep up. The sergeant led him to the left, crossing from the spot of inky darkness into the outer edge of a dim semicircle of gray shadow. Grease had spotted another bent-up fence here and trusted that the locals knew the safest route.

Turk squeezed the ruck through once again. His shirt snagged as he went under and he had to back up to get loose. He moved forward and snagged again, the edge of the fence digging into his skin. Suppressing a curse, he twisted sideways, then fought his way free.

A truck or a jeep was headed their way. He looked over at Grease, just coming through behind him.

“Yeah, I see it,” said the Delta sergeant. “Come on, come on.”

They ran for an area of low scrub about fifty yards away. Turk’s heart pounded in his chest, and by the time he threw himself down next to Grease, his thighs had cramped. He slipped off his pack and pushed low into the dirt, trying in vain to ignore the pain in his legs.

Headlights appeared to their right, swinging around from the direction of the runway.

“All right. Come on,” hissed Grease, rising to a crouch.

He started running straight ahead. Turk grabbed the ruck and followed, thinking they were going to stop behind a second clump of bushes about ten yards away. But Grease continued past it.

In seconds Turk lost sight of him in the darkness.

“Grease?” he hissed.

Not hearing an answer, he dropped on his belly. The jeep was near the perimeter of the fence, to his right. He crawled forward, moving in the direction Grease had taken.

“Here!” hissed Grease a few seconds later.

He was ahead, sitting in a defensive position—a foxhole, dug into the inner ring of defenses. He was pointing his rifle toward the jeep.

“Do they see us?” asked Turk.

“Back to us. I doubt it.”

It was a tight fit in the foxhole. Turk shifted himself around, then reached for his pack.

“What are you doing?” asked Grease.

“I’m getting my gun.” It was packed into the ruck next to the control unit, the stock folded up.

“Just relax, huh?”

Oh yeah, really, thought Turk, taking it out. Relax.