“Colonel, I did try.”
“Try again. And then I want you to contact Saiar in the Tehran office.”
“The scientist?”
“Yes, you idiot. Tell him—ask him if there has been an event similar to the other day.”
“It’s still early.”
“Call him at home if you have to. Find out.”
“Right away, Colonel.”
By now Khorasani knew it was highly likely that there had been another explosion, or perhaps two, similar to the one at Natanz D. One such incident might be a malfunction, but two? This could only be a deliberate attack.
And that spelled great trouble for him. He was sure to be blamed for not moving quickly enough to prevent further attacks.
If they were attacks. Surely, they must be due to flaws in the weapons or the procedures for handling them.
“Air General Shirazi for you,” said Sergeant Karim, leaning out of the truck. “He wants to know what’s going on.”
Khorasani took the handset. “General, are we under attack?”
“You are asking me?”
“There has been an explosion at one of the laboratory facilities north of Qom, near Fordow. We expect many casualties,” said Khorasani. “And I cannot contact another of our sites. There had been—some people have felt an earthquake in the region.”
“That is why I am calling.”
“Has there been an air attack?”
“We have seen nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
General Shirazi cut the line, clearly angry. Khorasani had not meant that as an insult, only a question. The American stealth bombers certainly had ways of launching sneak attacks, and even a cruise missile might be undetected before it struck.
Why were there commandos and spies in the area, then?
Who said they were commandos? Just smugglers—a coincidence.
Khorasani had to consider the situation carefully. It could be an accident. Three accidents.
Blame it on the air force. No, more subtle: set it up so the air force would take the blame. He himself would say nothing.
Hints, only. Subtly.
If it was a ground attack, he had to capture the men who were responsible. If someone else captured them, they would be tortured and admit what they had done. They might even brag about it.
Americans surely would brag.
5
Iran
THE DEEP BASS OF THE JET’S THRUST SHOOK THE FLOOR of the desert as it dove toward the vehicle parked on the slope. A cannon thumped, the sound more like a runaway sewing machine than a gun. There was an explosion, then a sharp, loud crack.
Three thrp-thrp-thrps followed. The two men who had been guarding the vehicles on the road fell to the ground.
“Go!” hissed Grease.
Turk jumped to his feet as Grease ran toward the nearest truck. The aircraft was turning north, lining up for a second run. Iranian soldiers were some fifty or sixty yards away, beyond the farthest vehicle and close to the hill. The rest of the troops were strung out along the road and hillside, waiting for the jets to complete their attack.
Turk ran up along the passenger side of the vehicles. The straps on the rucksack with the control unit had loosened, and the pack bounced against his back. Its metal base punched his kidneys in an unsteady rhythm, a drunken boxer who knew where his mark was but couldn’t quite find a steady pace for his hooks.
Suddenly the cab in front of him opened. Turk couldn’t believe it—there wasn’t supposed to be anyone here, and if there was anyone, surely Grease would have killed him.
The man had a gun.
He fired.
So did Turk.
The man fell. Turk kept running. When he reached the cab, he pushed the AK-47 inside, fired a burst, then looked in. The truck was empty.
“Go, go, go,” hissed Grease, running from the head of the column. He’d killed the other guards.
Turk jumped behind the driver’s side.
“It’s running,” he said, starting to back into a three point turn.
“Yeah. Just go.”
Turk saw the fighter pull up beyond the hill. Its wingmate was above, circling out of sight, though he could hear it.
“I just killed someone,” he said as he finished the turn.
Grease didn’t answer. He was leaning out the window, making sure they weren’t followed. The sound of the jets flashing overhead had muffled the gunshots.
Was it really that easy to kill someone, Turk wondered, so easy that he didn’t even have to think about it?
Yes, it certainly was. It was easy to live.
WHEN THEY’D GONE A MILE, GREASE INSISTED THEY change places. He took the wheel and headed south. They were doing over a hundred kilometers an hour by the time they reached the highway, dirt furling behind them.
“We’re headed toward Qom,” said Turk as they turned onto the well-paved and marked road.
“No shit.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“I’ll turn west as soon as I can. We have another safe house out in Lorestan. We should be there before morning, if we don’t get stopped.”
HIGH ABOVE QOM, VAHID CHECKED HIS INSTRUMENTS and got ready to return to base. He, too, was now low on fuel.
The truck had been completely destroyed; not even dust remained.
“Shahin One, are you reading us?” It was the ground unit they had just assisted.
“This is Shahin One.”
“One of our vehicles has been stolen. We require your assistance.”
“What the hell?” snapped Kayvan on the squadron frequency. “What are these idiots doing?”
“Silence,” commanded Vahid. The ground unit gave the description of the vehicle—one of their small tactical utility trucks, a Kaviran. They had seen it heading south.
Vahid acknowledged and tucked his wing, rolling downward toward the dark earth. They were nearly twenty kilometers south of the truck he had just destroyed.
“I am on your six,” said Kayvan, sounding chastised. “I am low on fuel. Ten minutes, maybe.”
“See anything?”
“I have the highway—Freeway 7. I can see it clearly.”
“Traffic?”
“No traffic.”
Freeway 7, also known as the Persian Gulf Highway, was on Vahid’s right.
“I have a car,” said Kayvan.
“Not a target,” said Vahid. “Keep looking.”
“Something ahead.”
“We’ll go past and then sweep back around,” Vahid told his wingman, realizing he was moving too fast to get a good look at the vehicle or shoot at it. “Stay with me.”
“THE PLANES ARE OUT OF BOMBS,” SAID TURK AS THE aircraft passed. “Probably out of ammo, too. They don’t carry much.”
“They’ll be spotting for the ground units,” said Grease. “Dig out the map. We’ll have to look for another route.”
Turk dug the map and GPS out from Grease’s pack, on the floor between them.
“So what’s the general plan?” he asked.
“Get the hell out of here. Go to Lorestan.”
“Then what?”
“North to the Caspian.”
“Five or six hundred kilometers.”
“There’s fuel at Lorestan. We can get there in two hours.”
“In broad daylight?”
“You got a better plan, I’m all ears.”
Grease’s sharp retort felt like a slap across the face.
“We’ll figure it out at Lorestan,” said Grease, his voice softer. “Do you have to check in?”
“They’ll have picked up the rumble. From here it’s silent coms, unless we get into trouble,” said Turk.
“Yeah. Unless.”
“IT’S A KAVIRAN,” SAID KAYVAN. “DEFINITELY.”
“You didn’t see anything else north?” Vahid asked.
“Nothing.”
“How’s your fuel?”
“Well, I have to land soon.”
So did Vahid. “We’ll use the Pasdaran airfield,” he told his wingmate.
“Even so—maybe five minutes?” Kayvan’s voice made it clear that he was being extremely optimistic, and even at five minutes, his fuel stores would be even lower than Vahid’s.