“Be advised—someone has stolen Badr Two.”

“Repeat?”

“Badr Two took off without authorization.”

“Who took it?”

“Unknown. The pilots are on the ground. It may have been one of the Israelis!”

“Impossible,” said Vahid. He turned out of the climb and circled toward the control tower, certain that the enemy forces had taken it over.

“Captain Vahid, are you receiving? This is Major Morad.”

Morad was the leader of the Phantom squadron; they’d been joking over tea just a few minutes before.

“Major, where are you?” asked Vahid. “What’s going on with the control tower?”

“Captain, I’m in the tower. I’m on the ground. We’re all on the ground. One of my aircraft has been taken. Pursue it.”

“I have it heading north,” answered Vahid. “What are my instructions?”

“We’re getting in contact with General Shirazi.”

“Are you sure this isn’t one of your pilots?”

“They are all here. It must be a commando, stealing our secrets.”

That is very doubtful, Vahid thought.

“I am setting up an intercept,” he told the major. “Stand by.”

18

Iran

TURK PULLED THE HARNESS AGAINST HIS SHOULDER, tightened it as far as it would go against his shirt. He felt naked, and in a sense he was—no pressurized suit, no survival gear, not even a “hat.” While the Phantom’s cockpit was pressurized, he knew he had to be careful not only about his altitude but his maneuvers—a sharp turn might knock him unconscious, perhaps permanently.

If he had to stay low and level, his better course out of the country would be north—get up and out through the Caspian, where the air defenses were far weaker. It was a little farther, but it was in the direction of the units that were supporting the SEALs. It also might seem counterintuitive to the Iranians; they’d expect him to go toward Kuwait.

Level at 5,000 feet, he turned north and moved the thrusters to max, winding the J-79-GE17 turbojets up like tops ready for a good spin. The Iranian Phantom gobbled fuel; Turk could practically see the needles dive toward empty. He backed off his thrust, deciding that 350 knots was a decent speed, a compromise that would conserve fuel while making good time. At roughly six miles a minute, it would get him to the coast before the Iranians could scramble their northern fighters. Once there, he could goose the afterburners for a few seconds and ride the wave to Baku in Azerbaijan.

There was one last problem: he had no way to use the radio. Breanna and the others were undoubtedly tracking him; he assumed—hoped—they would alert the authorities there as he approached. Landing itself would not be a problem. The runway had been built for Soviet military use and was more than long enough to get in comfortably.

He thought of using the sat phone. That might work.

Not now—he had too much to do and worry about in the unfamiliar plane at low altitude. He’d wait until they were over the water and out of Iranian territory. There was nothing they could do at the moment anyway.

Fifteen minutes to the coast, by his watch.

Turk rocked back and forth in the cramped cockpit, checking his gauges, studying the instrument panel. The main controls for the Phantom’s radar were in the rear compartment, and while he had made sure the unit was on before taking off, he now had no way of doing much more than that. Against the Iranian air force, the Phantom’s early X Band radar would still be a perfectly acceptable tool, but he had almost no control over it beyond the ability to lock a single target at relatively close range. The Pulse Doppler mode that had been preset was useful, allowing the pilot to “see” targets ahead as long as he could interpret the old-style screen. Targets moving “on beam” or at the side in the direction of the plane were essentially invisible, a problem if he was pursued from either flank. But the radar was fine for what he wanted; it would help him avoid problems. If he saw contacts ahead, he’d go around them.

For now, the sky was clear. Fourteen minutes to the coast. They were going to make it.

VAHID COULD SEE THE F-4 FLYING AHEAD FIVE MILES. IF it was being flown by an enemy, he wasn’t being too obvious about it. He was relatively low, at 5,000 feet, and going only about 350 knots: not slow, exactly, but hardly running away.

He was going north, in the general direction of the Tehran air base where the Phantom wing was ordinarily assigned, which was a puzzle. It seemed more logical to Vahid that the pilot should be heading toward a safe haven.

But Major Morad was adamant that the plane had been stolen. He hadn’t radioed back with additional directions; apparently he was still waiting on General Shirazi.

Vahid closed the distance to the F-4 slowly, aiming to draw in tight to the plane’s left wing. The Phantom, meanwhile, made no move to avoid him.

It also didn’t answer on the assigned radio frequency, or even the rescue band used for emergencies. That was suspicious, though not enough to shoot the plane down.

Vahid drew to about thirty meters of the Phantom, matching his speed as he pulled parallel to the aircraft. He could see two men in the cockpit. They didn’t seem to have helmets.

The man in the rear looked at him. Vahid waved and pointed, motioning that they must follow him.

THE VIEW OUT OF THE COCKPIT WAS SO RESTRICTED and Turk was so focused on what was in front of him that he didn’t even notice the MiG on his wing until it was practically touching.

When he did see it, his shudder shook the plane.

He drew a deep breath, trying to plot what to do.

Ignore it.

He held steady, deciding that if he acted nonchalant, the pilot would break off and leave him alone.

Unfortunately, that was pure fantasy, as the MiG soon demonstrated with a swoop over his front quarters. The other plane passed so close that the missiles on its undercarriage nearly hit Turk’s right wing.

Two of those missiles looked like radar homers, Russian R-27 Alamos. The others were heat-seekers, early Sidewinders, from the looks of them. Any one of them could turn the Phantom into a dead hunk of tin in an instant.

Turk waited until the plane reformed on his left wing, then waved to the pilot, signaling that he didn’t have a headset.

I’ll stall for time, he decided. I’ll get close enough to the coast to make a dash for it.

But the MiG pilot wasn’t having that. He signaled adamantly that Turk had to follow him, pointing with his finger to the ground and gesturing violently.

“OK, OK,” said Turk, feigning compliance as he gestured with his hands. “Where do you want me to go?”

The pilot moved his hand left. Turk pretended not to understand.

Turk thought he might catch the MiG by surprise if he went to his afterburners. If he did that, he might be able to get enough of a lead to outrun it, at least to the border. But there was no way that he could outrun the radar missiles, which had a seventy kilometer range.

THE PILOT IN THE PHANTOM SEEMED SOMEWHAT OUT of sorts, gesturing wildly, willing to comply but keeping his plane on the course it had been flying. Vahid guessed that the man was one of the mechanics who’d been working on the plane when it was attacked; he didn’t have a helmet, and while he was doing a good job of keeping the airplane straight, he didn’t seem capable of turning or even going very fast.

Major Morad’s claim that the plane had been stolen seemed ridiculous. Even in Iran, the Phantoms were obsolete. Undoubtedly this was a story the squadron commander was concocting to cover up whatever was really going on.

Life in Iran was becoming unbearable.