“I don’t like the fact that Turk’s not moving,” Breanna told Reid.

Reid was concentrating on the screen. “The WB-57 pilot has been recovered. Well that’s one of ours back, at least.”

“What about Turk?”

“He’s moving in the area,” answered Reid, zooming his screen. “He’s still alive. For how long is anyone’s guess.”

8

Iran

TURK HEARD THE VEHICLE COMING AS SOON AS HE reached the rifle. He grabbed it and the ruck with the control unit and ran back to Grease.

The sergeant was lying exactly as Turk had left him. His eyes were closed. If it weren’t for his groans, Turk would have thought he was dead.

The truck was just reaching the wreckage. Rather than stopping, though, it kept going. Turk felt a slight bit of relief, then remembered the airplane was still above somewhere.

He had one more nano-UAV, didn’t he? Where was it?

Pulling the control unit from the backpack, he unfolded it and turned it on. The Hydra was circling above, descending in a gradually tightening spiral. Because it hadn’t been contacted in a half hour, it had begun its self-destruct sequence. In twenty-eight seconds it would blow itself up.

“Computer, establish direct control,” said Turk. “UAV 1.”

“Control established.”

The destruct panel cleared. Turk checked the aircraft’s status. It was in perfect order, except for the defective gauge, which still indicated it was overheating.

The aircraft had an infrared sensor. Turk scanned the feed, looking for the Iranian aircraft. But the sky near the Hydra was clear; the MiG had moved on.

The sound of the truck interrupted him. He crawled to the side of the small mound of dirt, squinting into the distance as the vehicle stopped near the wreckage. Men appeared from the truck, casting long shadows as they stepped in front of the low sun. There were six. They split up and moved around the wreckage methodically.

Turk calculated his odds with the AK-47.

He had only one magazine. One three-round burst per man—he’d have to be incredibly good—and lucky.

The shadows of the men danced wildly. They ran to the vehicle.

They’ve missed me, thought Turk.

Then he saw the truck back up and turn in his direction.

Turk turned around and looked at Grease. The Delta sergeant was in no shape to move.

“I’m not going to abandon you,” said Turk, patting Grease’s shoulder. “I just need a better vantage point to fight from.”

Six against one? Even Grease would have trouble with those odds.

Turk started to go back to the side of the hill, thinking he would ambush the men when they got out of the truck. Then he had a better idea.

He pulled over the control unit and took command of the UAV.

“Target vehicle,” he said. “Destroy.”

Turk looked up from the screen. The UAV was 3,000 feet above, banking around in a turn. He strained to see it, but the bright sky wouldn’t give it up.

He raised his rifle, steadying his aim on the truck. Suddenly, an ear-piercing whistle broke the silence. As the shriek grew unbearable, it was overrun by a sharp crack. The UAV exploded point-blank in the cab of the truck rushing toward him.

Turk grabbed the rifle and ran forward, gun hard against his side, legs churning. The truck was on fire. Someone stumbled out of the passenger side. Turk raised the nose of his gun and fired.

The man fell.

Running to his right, Turk circled the truck, finger ready against the trigger.

There was no one to shoot. There’d been six in the vehicle; five died in the explosion and fire. The lone survivor lay gut-shot on the ground nearby, dead by Turk’s burst.

Something popped. Turk dropped to his haunches, spinning toward the road.

Ammo cooking off.

There’d be more. He looked for another weapon but saw none.

Best to go, he told himself, best to get the hell out of there before their friends come.

He ran back to Grease.

THE SERGEANT HAD PROPPED HIMSELF UP ON ONE elbow by the time Turk returned. Only his left eye was open.

“Grease,” said Turk, lowering himself next to him. “Hey.”

“I screwed up,” said Grease.

“No. We got them. We got them. Their labs are destroyed.”

“You did that. That was your mission.”

“No. We both did it.”

Grease coughed. “I . . .” His arm slipped and his head collapsed to the ground. He was having trouble breathing. “I . . .”

“It’s all right,” Turk told him. “Save your strength.”

“I didn’t complete mine.” Grease’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll get out. Don’t give up.”

“I . . .”

“We’re going to make it, Grease. I’ll get us to that next safe house or whatever you mentioned. Then tomorrow night we’ll go to the coast. We’ll make it.”

“I was supposed to kill you,” muttered Grease. “I just . . . supposed to . . . can’t, but . . . I just . . . I . . . failed . . . I failed. I’m too weak . . .”

Turk jerked back, a shudder running through him. By the time he recovered, Grease was dead.

REFUGEE

1

The White House

IT WAS, IN MANY WAYS, A PHILOSOPHICAL QUESTION.

Was it better to leave some portion of doubt in your enemy’s mind, or did you enhance your position by taking full credit for their turmoil?

Christine Mary Todd had never been a devotee of Sun Tzu, the Chinese philosopher on warfare, who would have counseled doubt. She did, however, know her Machiavelli. The early fifteenth century Italian writer counseled judicious use of both brute force and deception, a philosophy with which she agreed.

Barely an hour had passed since the second lab and its weapons had been destroyed, but already there had been two reports about earthquakes in the region. It would soon be well known that the seismographic signal indicated these were not earthquakes; from there, even the dimmest reporter would connect it to the still unexplained incident a few days ago and declare that something was going on with the Iranian nuclear program.

The only question was what.

Todd feared that the Iranians, realizing their program had been destroyed, might attempt to claim they had tested a bomb, and make some geopolitical hay out of that, perhaps bargaining for a full lift of sanctions in return for “dismantling” the now destroyed program. The calculated yield would indicate that if it was a test, the bomb had not lived up to its potential, but an atom bomb was still an atom bomb.

“My feeling is that we must declare that we did it,” Todd told the others gathered around the conference table in the White House basement. “The question is how many details to give.”

“Tell them,” said the Secretary of State, Alistair Newhaven. “Demonstrate the aircraft. If you don’t go into enough detail, it’s very likely the Iranians will claim that we used nuclear weapons on them.”

“The scientific data will show that the explosions were too small to be our nukes,” answered Blitz, the national security advisor.

“Not the second one,” countered the Secretary of State. “And they might claim that the explosions came from our warheads. Frankly, I’m amazed that the Iranians haven’t said anything yet. We’ve been lucky.”

“They’re too confused. As I predicted,” retorted Blitz. “I’m still against making any statement. It’s an invitation to be attacked. And even the most generic remarks may give away secrets. Why give the enemy information when there’s no need? I say, no announcement at all.”

“We went over this weeks ago,” said Newhaven, frustration creeping into his voice. “They will simply assume it was us in any event. If you were worried about retaliation—a valid fear, I might add—then you should have been against the attack in the first place.”