A pair of jets passed to the southeast. He started to duck, afraid they’d been sent as reinforcements, then realized they were in a landing pattern.
The same base as the Phantoms he saw landing earlier, he thought. The base that had been empty.
WITH THE LAST OF THE IRANIANS DEAD, STONER CONSIDERED taking one of the vehicles. But it would be easily spotted, especially from the air; he’d heard aircraft and decided that he would do better, at least in the short term, on foot. So he turned and ran back toward the ruins.
“Map subject,” he told the computer in the smart helmet.
A map appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the visor, showing Turk’s location and his own. Turk Mako was several hundred yards away, on the top of a hill.
Kill him now.
Stoner heard the order in his head, and recognized it as a remnant of the person he’d been—the assassin created as the ultimate weapon, guided by hypnotic suggestion.
He was no longer that person. He was Mark Stoner—not quite the man he’d been before the accident, but more himself than the robot he had become. He decided what he did, not some human programmed with designer drugs.
He would bring Turk Mako back alive.
TURK WATCHED THE WHIPLASH TROOPER RUN TOWARD him, moving faster as he approached. He was a big man, thick at the shoulders though not the waist. Dirt and dust trailed behind his feet. He ran like a sprinter, but faster. Turk had never seen a man run that fast, not when he was training with the Delta team, not when he was a high school athlete.
The two remnants of the Guard unit were still back at the village, split in two and separated by nearly two miles. They weren’t moving to pursue. Perhaps they didn’t even know what had happened.
Turk let his rifle slide down by his side as the man came closer. He was starting to feel tired again, starting to feel the aches in his muscles.
The man ran up the hill, his rifle pointed directly at him. Turk felt his throat tighten; his heart clutched, contracting with a long beat.
What was this?
The man stopped, gun still pointing at him. “Captain Mako?”
“Yes.”
“Stoner. Let’s go.”
Stoner turned to head north.
“Wait,” said Turk. “Not that way.”
The trooper turned back.
“I have an idea,” said Turk. “I think I know how we can get out of Iran quickly.”
12
Pasdaran Base 408
Kushke Nosrat, Iran (Manzariyeh)
CAPTAIN VAHID WATCHED THE TWO F-4 PHANTOMS SET down on the closer of Manzariyeh’s two runways, then bump along the access ramps and head for the apron adjacent to the terminal building. The uneven concrete pavement was one of several signs of neglect only visible up close. With Qom closed to foreign pilgrims and the air force evicted, the Pasdaran troops quartered here had little incentive to keep the place in top shape. They didn’t even keep the name: known to the air force as Manzariyeh, the few men they had met here on the ground used the civilian “Kushke Nosrat” and stared blankly when he’d said “Manzariyeh.”
“More planes,” said Kayvan. “But no maintainers.”
“Yes.”
“They can’t expect us to fly without fuel.”
“It’s supposedly on its way.” More than a little of Vahid’s frustration slipped into his voice. They’d been here for hours, told to stand by and join the Phantoms on reconnaissance but given no support—not even a place to sleep.
The Pasdaran were ignorant animals and idiots.
“I wonder what we did to deserve this punishment,” added Kayvan. “Escorting old ladies.”
“It’s not punishment,” said Vahid. “It’s an honor.”
“An honor, flying with Phantoms? What are we protecting them from? The scientists’ own errors blew up their labs.”
Vahid whirled. “Shut your mouth,” he told the lieutenant. “Just shut it.”
“Why? You know the Americans didn’t send bombers. We would have seen them. Even the B-2s aren’t invisible.”
“Shut your mouth, Lieutenant. Keep your criminal thoughts to yourself.”
“Don’t worry, Captain. I won’t hurt your chances for promotion.”
Vahid just barely kept himself from decking the man.
“I’m going inside to see if I can find something to eat,” he told Kayvan. “Stay with the planes.”
“But—”
“Stay with the planes, Lieutenant, if you know what’s good for you.”
Where the hell was their fuel?
13
Istgah-E Kuh Pang
COLONEL KHORASANI COULDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT the major was telling him.
“Half of your company?” said Khorasani. “Half your company is dead?”
“Twenty men,” admitted the major. “But the enemy has not escaped. They are still in the ruins. Hiding.”
“How many?”
“Two dozen at least. Maybe more.”
The major described how his unit had surrounded the village, then been ambushed from the site of the ancient city at the edge of the desert. By the time the major finished, the enemy force had increased twofold.
Khorasani was split between disbelief and awe. How had such a large force managed to get inside Iran, let alone avoid notice over the past two days? Even allowing for some exaggeration—the major, whose shirttail was askew, was clearly not the most competent officer in the Pasdaran—the enemy force must be considerable. By the time Khorasani arrived, the enemy force had retreated, though there was still some scattered automatic rifle fire near the ruins.
One or two enemy soldiers—even a dozen—might be dealt with. But there would be no explaining away something this size.
On the other hand, the regular army was responsible for dealing with conventional enemy forces. They would be the ones to blame.
“I’ve called for reinforcements,” continued the major. “We should have more forces soon.”
“Send more people south,” said Khorasani, “so they can’t escape from the ruins.”
“I have sent two squads into the hills. I will send more when I have them. They won’t escape.”
“Good.”
“I was wondering, Colonel—should I call the army for reinforcements? The air force has flown over a few times, but they do not yet—”
“The army is not to be involved,” snapped Khorasani. “Our forces only. Keep me informed.”
The colonel’s shoulders drooped as he walked back to his command car. There was very little he would be able to do to shield the Guard from some blame, at least.
They had to neutralize the enemy force, kill all its members. That was the first priority. After that he would construct the story of what had happened.
No matter how creative he got, there would be serious repercussions. The Pasdaran could well end up decimated.
As for his own career, that clearly was ruined. Whether he could save his life or not remained to be seen.
14
Iran
STONER LISTENED TO TURK DESCRIBE HIS PLAN TO GET to the airport and take a truck, the words triggering a cascade of images in his mind. Half were specifically related to the mission—he recalled the map of the area, the airport layout, and the general disposition of the forces, all of which had been briefed.
Half of the rest had nothing to do with the mission, and were neither benign nor comforting. He saw explosions, cars and buildings, a head bursting as a bullet hit, a vehicle veering straight into a bridge abutment.
He had no idea where they came from. There was no caption material, no explicit connection or explanation, no context, just seemingly random images interfering with the matter at hand.
The pilot’s plan made some sense—they would go to a lightly held base and steal a vehicle. The base was some eleven miles away.