Two men got out of the jeep and walked in front of the headlights. Turk stared at the haze around them, not sure if he should hope they came toward them—kill them and the truck would be easy to take.

Grease must have read his mind. “We let them go for now. If we shoot them, someone will hear. If there’s one vehicle here, there’s bound to be two.”

Turk hunkered lower to the ground. The shadows of the men grew more distinct. They walked back to the vehicle, got in, and continued around the interior circuit of the base.

Grease started to move almost as soon as they put it in gear.

“Let’s go,” he said, reaching down to help him up.

They ran toward the hangar buildings just south of the end of the runway. Turk ran as fast as he could, legs growing rubbery; by the time he reached the back of the building where Grease was crouched, he felt barely able to stand.

“Just a little more,” said Grease. “Catch your breath.”

“OK.”

Turk slumped against the wall, trying to will his heart rate back to something close to normal. Grease crawled out from the corner of the building, observing the barracks and administrative areas about fifty yards away.

“It’s gonna be easier than I thought,” said Grease when he returned. “Two trucks, parked near the fence. We get up over it and take one, disable the other.”

“We’re going to stop and disable it? How?”

“You’re going to get under the hood and pull the wires off. I’ll get the other truck going. Pull off anything you can,” said Grease. “Ready?”

“Which way and which one?”

Grease made a little diagram with his finger as if they were running a football play. There was a fence; he’d have to climb it as quickly as he could.

“What about the other jeep we saw?”

“We shoot them if we have to. I don’t think we’ll need to. They went up near the big building. They’re probably the night guard or something along those lines. Come on.”

Turk managed to keep up all the way to the fence, threw himself against it and began to climb. He couldn’t get his boots into the links well. He pulled himself up but his fingers slipped.

He told himself it was the obstacle course where he’d first started training with the Delta boys. He pushed harder, remembering the snarls of his trainers. After what seemed an eternity he managed to get to the top and slid his foot over.

By the time he got back to the ground, Grease had the hood open on one of the vehicles.

“Get the other one,” he hissed. “Open the hood. Pull the wires. Every wire you see.”

Turk went to the second truck. It was a Kaviran; up close it looked to him like a cartoon version of a Land Rover, its metal squared and thin. He hunted for the release to the hood.

The other truck revved. Turk pulled the hood on his up, then reached in and began pulling wires. When he had pulled everything he could find, he let go of the hood, expecting it to slam, but it was held up by hydraulic arms at the back. He reached up and slammed it down, louder than he should have, then grabbed his pack and gun and walked to the other truck.

“Fucker’s a standard,” said Grease.

“Can you drive?”

“I got it.”

Grease got it moving but had to hunt for second gear, revving the engine too soon as the gears ground and then nearly stalling it. They drove out around the back of the barracks and headed left, turning and driving toward the perimeter fence. Turk stayed quiet, his heart pounding in his chest. They passed a small guard building, its exterior dark, and headed toward the front gate.

“Slide down a little bit in the seat,” Grease told Turk. “You look too white.”

Turk did as he was told. His fingers curled around the body of the gun as they turned toward the front gate. He tried to slow his breathing, knowing he was gulping air.

“Here we go,” said Grease, the truck gathering speed.

As they breezed out the open gate, the Delta sergeant raised his arm in a half salute to obscure his face.

“They left only a skeleton crew,” he said as he turned onto the main road. “If that. I bet they’re out looking for us. Those assholes we saw up near the cave came right out of this barracks. Funny, huh?”

“Oh yeah. I’m just about dying of laughter.”

“We should have gone inside and stolen new uniforms,” said Grease. He glanced at Turk. “You got crap all over your face.”

“I thought you said I look too white.”

“Where there isn’t any dirt, sure.”

Turk rolled down the window. The breeze felt nice, cooling the sweat at the side of his face and the back of his neck. His shirt was soaked with perspiration.

“All downhill from here, Turk.” Grease seemed happier than Turk remembered ever seeing him. “They think we’re outside. We’re inside. The one place they won’t look. All downhill from here.”

17

Iran

THE NEWS THAT ONE OF THE PASDARAN TEAMS HAD found a pickup truck in a cave filled Colonel Khorasani with pride touching on smugness; his hunches had led to the breakthrough. But that quickly dissipated as the next report indicated only one man had been found, and he was dead, shot in the head, undoubtedly by a compatriot.

The man’s body was still warm. He looked Iranian, and had papers identifying him as such. That, of course, meant nothing—a smuggler or an Israeli spy could easily have obtained forgeries or hired a local with the promise of enough gold. But Colonel Khorasani felt confident; he was going to solve this mystery. He ordered the units in the region to deploy around the cave, racing men up from the south, where they had been concentrated. And he called the air force to ask for search planes.

As usual, they were uncooperative. The heathens should be shot with the infidels. The local squadron commander refused to take his call; Khorasani finally called General Shirazi himself, invoking the ayatollah’s name in a gambit to get what he wanted.

“I need patrols in the area north of Qom,” he told the head of the air force. “We believe we may have found saboteurs.”

“You are still chasing ghosts? I heard you had a farm vehicle shot up and killed members of the Guard.”

“The occupants were spies,” insisted Khorasani. The wreckage had been so decimated by the attack that it was impossible to say who the men were, but admitting this wouldn’t help him in the least. “I am tracking their accomplices. We have found a truck. I need air surveillance.”

“We don’t have the capacity for night searches.”

“Your planes can’t see vehicles?” Khorasani paused. “What good are they?”

“We do our best with what the government allots us,” snarled the general.

“I hear aircraft above. What about them?”

“We are patrolling in case the Americans attack. They won’t come by ground.”

“Can I tell that to the ayatollah?”

The general didn’t answer. Khorasani decided to take a different tack—the general had political ambitions beyond the air force; perhaps those would work in his favor.

“We are all Iranians,” said Khorasani, softening his tone. “And cooperation will help us all, no matter the outcome. Evidence that you worked violently against commandos—this would surely be positive in the ayatollah’s eyes, and in everyone’s.”

It took only a moment for General Shirazi to respond. “You will have more patrols. They will be up in two hours.”

“I want good men.”

“I don’t have any who aren’t,” snapped Shirazi.

“The pilots who shot up the truck. They were skilled.” More importantly, they had proven they could follow his orders. But Khorasani didn’t mention that. “Get them.”

“If they are available, they will fly,” agreed the general. “But I expect full cooperation in all things. Now and in the future.”

“Certainly,” said Khorasani, deciding an alliance with an ambitious general might not be a bad thing.