18

Iran

“ANOTHER TRUCK,” SAID GREASE AS THE HEADLIGHTS swept along the highway, moving up the pavement toward them.

Turk slid down in the passenger seat and tried not to stare at the lights as they came close. He saw the vehicle from the corner of his eye as it passed; it was another Kaviran, filled with soldiers.

“Check the GPS,” said Grease. “We should be real close to that turn.”

“Another mile,” said Turk. “It’ll be on the left.”

Grease found the dried up streambed without any problem. The truck’s springs groaned as they left road and navigated past a tumble of rocks, but they found solid, easy ground to drive on before they’d gone more than thirty yards. The ground had been worn down to bare rock; it was slippery in spots, but they were able to move quickly.

“Look for a good place to stash the truck,” said Grease.

Turk scanned the silvery landscape. It seemed something like a scene in a movie, lit for impending horror. Grease turned off the headlamps, but the reflected light from the moon filled the air with phosphorescence.

“What’s behind those rocks?” he asked, pointing ahead.

Turk stuck himself halfway out the window to see. “Just dirt.”

“Too much of a slope,” said Grease as they got close.

“It’s hilly everyplace.”

“Yeah.”

The ground became pebbly and loose; the wheels started to slip. Grease put the truck in its lowest gear.

“Those bushes,” he said, angling toward a low clump of gnarled shrubs about thirty yards away. “If we can make it.”

He stopped just below them, cranked the wheel, then attempted to back up the Kaviran so its nose would point down the hill. Even with the lowest gear and all wheels engaged, they couldn’t quite pull the truck entirely behind the brush, but it didn’t make much difference—the bushes barely came to the top of wheel well and would not completely hide the truck.

Grease stopped the engine by stalling it, his foot hard on the brake while the clutch was still engaged. He pulled the emergency brake so hard Turk thought he would snap the handle.

“Maybe we get to use it again, maybe not,” he said.

Limbs suddenly stiff, Turk got out of the truck and shouldered the ruck. He checked the AK and kept it in his hands as he started to climb behind Grease. It was 2250.

19

CIA campus, Virginia

BREANNA PERCHED HERSELF AT THE EDGE OF THE seat, one hand on the seat belt buckle as the helicopter swept down toward the lawn behind the building Whiplash used as its command center. She rarely used a helicopter to get around Washington, but time was of the essence.

The private briefing for the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had gone as well as could be expected. Maximillian Fresco was not a big supporter of the Whiplash concept—he was uncomfortable not with the technology, but with the relationship with the CIA—and it seemed clear to Breanna that he had already concluded the operation would fail. That was ironic, given that she had been against using bombers in the first place. But she decided that knowing the President insisted the atomic program be stopped, Fresco had decided war with Iran was inevitable and should be relentlessly pursued.

War might come even if their operation succeeded. It would be pointless and stupid—Iran would certainly be punished severely. But there would surely be a price to pay for all.

Breanna leapt out as the Jet Ranger steadied itself on the ground. As she ran across the lot, two members of the Agency security detail trotted behind her; the escort was more ritual than necessity, as it would have been extremely difficult for a terrorist or other criminal to get onto the CIA campus, let alone near the small facility Whiplash used. Pausing at the entrance to the building, she turned and waved at the men, dismissing them. Then she put her hand on the identity panel, where all five of her fingerprints were scanned, and the door automatically opened. Inside, she gave her password as she entered the elevator; the hidden systems analyzed her biometrics and she was whisked downstairs.

Jonathon Reid was waiting at the door of the secure conference center. The room was empty. The only light came from the glow of the near wall, which was filled with the blank static of the secure video connection to the White House.

“Two minutes to spare,” he said. “How did the meeting go?”

“Better that you weren’t there,” she said.

Reid, a scarred veteran of the political infighting between the DoD and the CIA, gave her a wry smile. Breanna followed him inside. The pitcher of water on the table was draped with perspiration, as if even the inanimate objects understood the gravity of the situation.

“Are you ready for the President?” intoned the deep voice of a White House staff member.

“We are ready,” said Reid.

“Ready.”

Breanna sat down, wishing she had been able to grab a cup of coffee. She glanced at Reid, who shook his head—Turk had not checked in.

Still waiting for the President to appear on-screen, Breanna tapped a small rectangle on the table. As soon as it glowed green, she spread her hand. A computer screen appeared. After placing her hand flat so the computer could read her prints, she tapped the corner and a menu appeared. She selected the status map; a map of Iran appeared. She zoomed until she found Turk’s marker. He was moving in the direction of the rendezvous point, but even without asking the computer to calculate, she knew it was excruciatingly slow.

She switched the underlying image from map to satellite. An image appeared. It was several hours old, taken during the day as a satellite passed, but it was an accurate depiction of the terrain. They were climbing up a rock slide.

President Todd’s image flashed on the screen. She was in the White House situation room, sitting at the head of the conference table. Two aides were behind her, leaning against the wall; Breanna knew the room would be filled with NSC staffers and other advisors.

“The Joint Chiefs of Staff will be with us in a second,” said the President. “Before they come on, I wanted to speak to you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Breanna, her voice a bare whisper. She reached for Reid’s water and took a sip.

“We’ve taken a lot of casualties,” said the President. Her voice was dispassionate, empty of emotion. Reading her expression, Breanna thought she was struggling to remain neutral. “Can we complete the mission?”

“Absolutely,” said Breanna.

“And you’ve taken care of all contingencies following the attack?”

“The SEAL unit had to withdraw. We have another backup plan in place.”

The President turned her head, listening to someone else in the room. She frowned and turned back. “Jonathon? Will we succeed?”

“I’m confident we have a good chance of success,” said Reid. “But I can’t make any guarantees.”

“Understood.” Todd nodded.

Breanna glanced at the screen on the table. Turk was still some distance from the control point.

“I understand you have to give the final authorization for the attack within ten minutes,” said Todd, turning her head back in Breanna’s direction.

“It’s slightly more complicated than that,” said Breanna. “But yes, ma’am, that’s the gist.”

“Your ground team is not yet in place?”

“They’re en route.”

“Will they be there by the time you launch?”

“Probably not,” admitted Breanna. “They will be there in time for the assault.”

“Can the mission be completed without them?” Todd asked.

“It would be difficult,” admitted Reid. “Without a good bit of luck.”

“Ms. Stockard?”

“Madam President, they will be in place,” said Breanna. “This mission will succeed.”