Stoner felt his energy increasing with every step. He ran as fast as he had ever run, the wind whipping past his helmet.

The man near the tanker truck spotted him and raised his hand to warn the others. Stoner brought his gun up, zeroed on the cue in the visor and fired. As the man fell, Stoner turned the barrel toward the man under the wing with the fuel hose and shot him from two hundred yards; the man dropped the hose and took a step back. Then he staggered forward, falling facedown onto the cement.

Fuel squirted out for a moment, then stopped, shut off by the safety device at the nozzle.

The two men who’d been working on the bomb took off on a dead run in the direction of the MiGs. Stoner changed direction to follow. He could feel his legs get stronger, the muscles thickening with each step. Hate filled his head. He wanted to kill these men, crush them like ants, pound each skull against the tarmac. Hatred and anger built exponentially. He felt his head warming, his heart racing.

Why was he so angry?

Anger was an excess emotion, something that clouded his vision and his judgment. He could not be angry.

And yet he was, beyond all measure.

TURK’S LUNGS FELT LIKE THEY WOULD COLLAPSE BY the time he reached the first runway; by the second, his legs were cramping. He willed himself forward in a delirium of broken energy but desperate and wild hope.

Do it! Go!

Stoner was far ahead, running after the two men who had retreated from the Phantom. Turk started to follow but realized Stoner would catch them long before he caught up to Stoner; he was better off going to the planes.

The scent of jet fuel nearly overwhelmed him as he ran onto the apron. When he got to the first Phantom, he saw why—some of the bullets that had killed the man closest to the tanker had punctuated the tank as well. Two narrow streams of fuel spurted from the truck, crisscrossing as they dropped toward the pavement. The fuel ran in a large puddle toward the second plane. He turned to the first, which was the one being prepped when they attacked.

Go, Turk told himself. Get the plane started and go.

HOW HAD ANGER BECOME A PHYSICAL THING? HOW had it become so overwhelming?

Stoner saw himself grabbing the nearest man by the back of his mechanic’s coveralls and dashing him to the ground. He saw the blood bursting from his skull, the front of the man’s leg turning ninety degrees forward. Stoner floated above his body and saw himself grab the second man, throwing him to the ground and then kicking him, pounding him to unconsciousness with two blows from his foot.

The hatred was irrational. The hatred felt incredibly good. It felt familiar. He had felt it many times before.

That was the man they had made him, the angry man. That was the purpose of the experiments and additions to his body, the manipulation. Create the perfect assassin. Create the angry man.

That was not who he was now. Zen and Danny had rescued him. He was no longer the angry man. Drugs or not, he was Mark Stoner.

He stopped kicking the Iranian and turned to go back to the planes.

When he was about two hundred yards away, something told him to stop and turn. He spun and saw an Iranian Hummer moving out from the terminal building. Dropping to a knee, he took aim at the windshield of the vehicle. He fired a three-shot burst into the driver’s head. The vehicle slowed to a stop.

More men were coming, these on foot, running from a building on the left. Fighting back the rising anger, Stoner calmly flicked the gun’s shooting selector and began picking them off as they ran, firing center mass on each Revolutionary Guard, taking down four of the five.

The last man, seeing his friends go down, threw himself on his face. Stoner got to his feet and fired a single bullet, striking the cowering man on the top of his skull.

It didn’t make him feel better to have killed the man.

Progress, he thought.

As he turned toward the Phantoms, Stoner saw the jet fuel leaking from the truck. He headed straight for the truck, splashing the last few yards to the cab. The vehicle’s engine was still running; he put it into gear and drove to the edge of the ramp connecting it with the rest of the airport’s ramp network. He hopped out of the truck and ran to the stream of jet fuel spitting out of the side.

Reaching to the lower pocket on the leg of his pants, he took out a plastic bag with a lighter and kindling. He lit the bag and tossed it toward the stream of fuel. Before he could back away, the stream exploded into a fireball that consumed the tanker.

WORRIED THAT THE LEAKING FUEL TRUCK WOULD catch fire, Turk had taken the plane up the apron before bothering to start the Phantom’s second engine. When he was a safe distance away, he stopped and glanced back for Stoner.

A wall of fire erupted on his left, blocking off the plane from the rest of the airport. It was so hot that he felt a sudden rush of heat.

He was going to die.

“Stoner!” he yelled. “Stoner!”

Turk pushed up in the seat, leaning over the side to look for the other man.

Leave! he told himself. Go! Go!

He was sent to kill you. He’ll kill you still—that’s what he’s doing. Go!

Turk looked at the terminal building. There was a truck there, but no movement. He craned his head, looking at the burning fuel truck.

Where was Stoner?

“Stoner!” he yelled again.

“Here,” shouted the other man, clambering up the wing on the right side of the plane, away from the fire. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah. OK.” Turk blinked; Stoner really was Superman.

“Strap yourself in,” Turk yelled. “We don’t have oxygen. Just hang on and we’ll be home.”

Without oxygen hookups or pressurized suits Turk would have to keep the plane low, or risk decompression sickness.

“OK,” said Stoner, dropping into the seat.

Turk engaged the other engine, starting it and then ramping to full power. The Iranian F-4 was a lot like Old Girl, but it wasn’t exactly the same; he had to stop and think about what he was doing. First and foremost, the instrument panel was very different—Old Girl had been modernized several times, and now featured a full glass cockpit close to state-of-the-art. This Iranian plane was all dials and knobs. The stick and throttle looked a little different as well, though in function they were fully equivalent.

Turk let off his brakes and eased the Phantom into a turn up the ramp, picking up speed gently as he lined up to start the takeoff.

Damned if the runway didn’t look short.

Very, very short.

Too late to worry about that now. Too late to worry about a lot of things.

Turk jammed his hand on the throttle, making sure the engines were pushed to the max. They rumbled behind him, coughing for a half second on some impurity in the fuel, then shaking it off. They whined with a high-pitched, distinctive scream as the Phantom raced down the long bumpy stretch of concrete.

The plane wanted to fly. Her wings flexed with the wind, sinews stretching. The base and desert swept by in a blur.

And then they were airborne, the Phantom rising like a bird, a thundering, anxious bird, but a strong one nonetheless, knifing into an onrush of wind.

15

Pasdaran Base 408

Kushke Nosrat, Iran (Manzariyeh)

AS SOON AS VAHID HEARD THE GUNFIRE, HE RAN FROM the lounge of the terminal where he’d been drinking tea, passing through the long hallway to the outside parking area. His first thought was that the Pasdaran Guards had had enough of his wingman and decided to shoot him.