He turned through the circuit a second time, his altitude passing through 15,000 feet above ground level. The radar warning detector began to bleep urgently. Red blossoms appeared on his screen.

Tracers.

He stared at them. They were red—Russian-made ammunition, slightly different than the orange typically used by Americans and NATO. They looked like fountains, sputtering and then dying.

They thought he was a plane. A line of red appeared in front of him, a slash in the sky revealing blood.

Now great bursts of red pummeled the thin blue around him. Angry fingers groped toward his body.

He was being fired at. And the bullets were coming from the direction he needed to go through to reach his target.

3

Manzariyeh Air Base, Iran

“YOU IDIOTS! I AM AN IRANIAN PLANE! I NEED TO LAND! Stop your idiotic shooting.”

Parsa Vahid screamed into the radio as the antiaircraft batteries continued to fire, seemingly in every conceivable direction. A radar installation near Qom had reported an unexplained contact—very likely Vahid or his wingman—and sounded an alarm that caused every gunner in the western half of the country to see if his weapon worked. At least no one was firing missiles.

Yet.

An ominous fist of black and red reached for his aircraft.

“Controller! I need these guns to stop!” Vahid radioed to the Pasdaran controller at the former Manzariyeh air base.

“We are attempting, Captain. Please stand by.”

Vahid couldn’t stand by: he had only a few pounds of fuel left in his tanks. He lined up with the airfield and held on, just ducking under a fresh wave of flak as his wheels touched the ground.

“The gunfire is being extinguished,” said the controller as the plane rolled out.

Too late now, thought Vahid. Let them fire all they want.

He had cut it close—too close. The MiG’s engines sputtered and shut down. Vahid coasted to the apron and onto one of the access ramps. Aiming for the hangar area near the headquarters building, he ran out of momentum just shy of the parking area near the civilian terminal building.

Kayvan, who’d landed some minutes before, ran toward his plane. Vahid got out, tossing his helmet back into the aircraft in disgust.

“We need fuel,” he told the wingman, jumping down. “Where are the fuel trucks?”

“A visitor is on the way.” Kayvan pointed to an SUV driving up from one of the dirt access roads. Two military vehicles were following it at a distance.

“It’s the general,” added Kayvan. “I think we’re in trouble for landing here.”

It took a moment for Vahid to realize the general Kayvan was talking about was the head of the air force, General Shirazi. He had no idea why Shirazi was here rather than in Tehran or Omidiyeh, but he suspected whatever accident of fate had brought him was going to turn out to be a poor one for himself.

“Do we have facilities inside?” he asked Kayvan.

“The Pasdaran haven’t even sent anyone to greet us,” said the lieutenant.

“Great.” He stripped off his survival gear, disgusted, awaiting his fate.

The general’s vehicle came to a stop a few meters from him. The rear window rolled down.

“Captain Vahid,” General Shirazi called from inside. “You’ll ride with me.”

Vahid walked over to the SUV and got in the other side. Kayvan stayed behind.

“What happened?” asked the general. They remained parked.

“I was asked to strike a vehicle that the Pasdaran said had been stolen,” said Vahid. “There were two vehicles, excuse me. One was on a hillside. The other was moving. We destroyed both of them.”

“They admitted the trucks were stolen?”

“They said—”

“Why would they do that? Only to shift suspicion,” said Shirazi, adding his own explanation. “It makes them look bad, so whatever they are hiding is worse. Ten times worse. A traitor. Several traitors.”

The general’s tone made it clear that the subject was not one for debate. He asked Vahid to recount everything that had happened on the sortie, starting with his takeoff. Vahid did so, including even the most mundane details, even his debate over his fuel reserves. The general began humming to himself. Vahid wondered if he was aware of it, but thought it best not to ask. He had never seen or heard of this eccentricity, but stress often brought out odd quirks.

“Enemy troops infiltrated the area,” said the general finally. “That is the only explanation that can be given. Bombers would have been detected and shot down.”

“General, I thought there had been—you said the other day that there had been an accident.”

Shirazi gazed at Vahid as if he were the dumbest student in a class of idiots.

“The official explanation,” said the general finally.

“Yes, General.”

“Do not contradict me.”

“No, General. I personally do not know what happened. My role was to follow orders.”

“Exactly.”

Shirazi was clearly contemplating something; surely it had something to do with how to use the incident to improve his position with the government. But it was not of immediate importance to Vahid—what he had to do was keep his head down.

“Your wingman,” said the general, “can he be trusted?”

“Uh, absolutely.”

Probably not, thought Vahid, but certainly that was not what he should answer.

What would One Eye say to this? The old flight instructor would warn him away from politics—warn him away from all of it.

But if he didn’t toe the general’s line, what would happen to him?

“I am glad to hear that the man is a worthy officer under your command,” said the general. “You will do well as a squadron leader.”

Even though Vahid knew he was being flattered, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride and some anticipation.

“Not today, but soon,” added the general, deflating him a little. “In the meantime, write up what you have told me in a report. It is to come directly to me.”

“Yes, General.”

Shirazi turned his gaze to the window. “A nice air base, don’t you think?”

“Yes, General.”

“We should have it back. Many people feel that way. Getting it back in its rightful place . . .”

Shirazi trailed off, but Vahid could easily guess what he was thinking: the man who restored Manzariyeh to the air force’s portfolio would not only win unlimited honor from his fellow service members, but would be seen as someone of great power, able to deal with and perhaps even best the Pasdaran.

“I am glad you landed here. An accident perhaps,” added the general, “but a fortunate one. We will do everything we can to continue your operations here—it is very necessary.”

“Yes, General.”

“You may go,” said Shirazi. “We will have trucks and maintainers sent. But remember this—Colonel Khorasani, the man you have dealt with?”

“Yes?”

“Be very careful with him,” warned Shirazi. “If he asks to speak to you, tell him you must speak to me first. Route things through my office. In the meantime, do your report and return to the air as quickly as possible. We need all aircraft to protect Iran.”

“Yes, General.”

“Off with you now. I will send maintainers to you shortly.”

4

Iran

STONER’S FIRST INCLINATION WAS TO SIMPLY STAY ON course. The tracers were exploding below him, and while there was a slight chance of being hit by the shrapnel, he thought it was worth the risk to get as close as possible to Turk Mako and complete his assignment. But when a flourish of shells exploded a half mile ahead, he realized they were exactly at his altitude. With the gunfire spreading before him, Stoner ducked left, just barely avoiding the fusillade that followed.

The sharp maneuver allowed him to change course, but it presented a problem with his stability. He began dropping at an extreme rate, accelerating as he pushed his arms and legs out full. Within seconds his body began to rotate, and he realized he was heading toward a dangerous flat spin, impossible to recover from.