by Jack Winnick
Uri directed the soldier to the backseat and strapped him in securely as Lara held him at gunpoint. He used some ropes Major Asani had conveniently left in the rear seat to use for the captured Uri. Once the soldier was immobilized, Lara got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, using the GPS screen on the dashboard to head west, out of the city. Meanwhile, Uri, now next to her in the front passenger seat, probed the major’s car radio, hoping that its signal would not set off an immediate alarm. He tuned into the emergency frequency of Tom’s phone, using the nonsecure citizens band. He hoped Tom’s staff would be able to generate a path to a helicopter rescue via an emergency pickup from the Caspian Sea. The remaining Iranian staff at the holding facility might not yet have had time to alert their army of Asani’s assassination.
Uri found the correct frequency and, using their emergency code, radioed the coordinates of the city of Qazvin, 120 miles northwest of Tehran; the navy should be able to complete their rescue. If it were possible, they would hear a verification signal back within the hour. Meanwhile, Lara noted the GPS showed they were headed toward a major route south, toward the Persian Gulf; she turned onto it. That should get the Iranians headed in the wrong direction.
“The GPS—can you switch it off?” Lara asked the corporal. After a slight pause, she added, “Your life is at stake.” The soldier nodded reluctantly as she pulled onto a small side road, protected by large trees and bushes. Uri released his bonds, and the young man gingerly got into the front seat, opening the glove compartment. As the two agents watched carefully, he unscrewed a globelike electronics package and handed it to Uri. The soldier nodded, in anticipation of his release.
“Not yet, Corporal, but soon,” Uri said. The soldier grudgingly got into the back seat again.
They started off once more, still not noticing any police or army vehicles chasing them, nor hearing any sirens. Seeing a blank screen where the GPS display had been, Lara assumed they would now be invisible to the Iranian authorities. She turned quickly to Uri, who nodded subtly. As soon as she saw a likely spot, she exited again onto a small side road and drove west for about a mile, stopping at a barren area.
The corporal, fearing for his life, turned pale. “It’s all right,” Lara told him kindly. “We’re letting you out here. You can walk back to the highway and get a ride to your base.”
She returned his identification papers, then gave him about twenty dollars in Iranian currency. “Good luck to you,” she said sincerely.
He looked back and forth between her and Uri, who just nodded. Still unsure of what was happening, he just sat there, uncertain what to do.
Finally, Lara asked him bluntly, “Why did you disarm the GPS when we asked you to?”
There was an awkward silence while he seemed to consider his reply. “The major and the others were going to kill him,” he said, gesturing at Uri. “I heard them talking about it. What’s more, they were talking about poisoning the drinking water in California somewhere. They were laughing about it.” He paused. “You see, I have relatives in California . . . I never told anyone about them . . . but I couldn’t stand by while they were being executed like that. Do you see?” He stared at Uri, presuming he, being the man, was in charge.
“May Allah be with you, Corporal. I trust you not to give us away. Roll around out there in the dirt as if you have been in a fight; say you escaped from us, that you have no idea where we’re headed,” Lara said.
The frightened soldier looked back and forth at his two captors, mumbled, “Thanks be to Allah,” and dirtied himself as she had asked.
Lara turned the sedan around and returned to the highway. At the first opportunity, she crossed over and headed north toward a marker denoting the major four-lane to the northwest and Qazvin. A mile ahead was a cloverleaf junction, and she was able to smoothly make the transition. Should the corporal change his mind and report them, he would have no idea in which direction his captors had gone. She and Uri were aware that the last GPS signal the Iranians had from the major’s sedan showed it heading south toward the Persian Gulf, a reasonable destination for the fugitives. With any luck, the agents would be at their emergency pickup point in less than two hours, within helicopter range of the Caspian. She noticed on the dash that Major Asani had conveniently kept the fuel tank near the full mark. They could survive on the sandwiches and water the deceased major had packed in the trunk.
Chapter 26
The two agents arrived at Qazvin just before dusk. Uri showed the effects of his imprisonments, though he didn’t complain; he was too happy to be on the loose, and even better, with his loved one. As Uri rubbed his angry-looking bruises and shifted uncomfortably in the seat, Lara did all the driving. They compared notes on the details of the emergency pickup and headed to the small municipal airport on the north edge of town. It was hardly an airport at all, merely two airstrips perpendicular to each other with a weather vane and sock roughly indicating wind direction and speed. There was no control tower; there were strictly “visual flight rules only” here. This was to be expected if their rescue was to be secret.
They drove, as instructed, with Uri at the wheel, to the north end of the north-south runway and searched for the sign showing the campground. Sure enough, there was a battered, old sign amid remnants of oilseed plants. Oilseed was the main agricultural product in this semidesert area of Iran; it looked much like western Kansas. They parked the major’s sedan in the shelter of crops taller than the car and walked in the direction shown by the sign. They were pleased to note that the yellow and brown dust had all but obliterated the insignias of the major’s office from the doors, and the license plate was unreadable.
Tom’s description of their surroundings, as they remembered, turned out to be quite apt. For the first time since they’d dropped off their captive, they spoke to each other freely. It had been nearly three hours, and the sun was settling toward the western horizon to their left. “It’s almost empty prairie,” Lara stated, looking around at the rolling hills to their left and right, with the steeper foothills of the mountains directly ahead. Undulating waves of yellow oilseed seemed to send greetings, as if no other humans ever had walked among them.
They trudged on for another fifteen minutes before Uri pointed out the approaching sunset. “No chance of contact anymore today. It’s well past fifteen hundred.” He was referring to the time the observation drone was due to pass overhead, hopefully spotting them.
Suddenly, Lara glimpsed a nomad’s hut in a small clearing; it nearly matched the color of the ripening oilseed. She noticed a scattering of similar huts, all but invisible against the tall stalks of crops. In the open flap of the first hut, a small, wizened old man sat, his face baked from years in this dry climate. “Welcome, my friends,” he said in Farsi with a wide toothless grin, waiting for a response.
Noting that he directed his greeting solely to the man, Uri replied in Farsi, also with a friendly smile. “And you would be Omar, is it not so?”
“Indeed! My friend Tom has sent you here, am I not correct?”
The agents were startled but also pleased by the recognition. These were the first comforting words they had heard in a long time. “It is so, my friend. May we impose on you for a night or two?”
“Of course, my friends! Let me introduce my wife, Karin.” He turned to an old woman even smaller than he, who was sitting just inside the tent. She too carried the imprint of the inhospitable climate on her sun blasted face. She smiled broadly at the visitors, exhibiting an irregular set of yellow teeth. The pair may have been a strange sight for the agents, but their greeting was clearly genuine. Lara and Uri bowed graciously to their new friends.
“May we serve you some hot tea and cakes? I understand you have had quite a journey.” Once again, Omar directed his remarks to Uri.
That was as wonderful an offer as they could have imagined in this remote location. Tom had intimated that these nomads, who tended the crops during the growing season, were in the pay of the CIA, who mai
ntained contact with them. They were fiercely opposed to the ayatollah and the rigid Muslim government. While Karin shuffled into the tent to see to the refreshments, Omar showed Uri the tent they were to occupy during their short stay. It was discreetly separated from the remainder of the workers’ housing area, much to Lara’s relief.
“May we ask that you communicate our arrival to Tom?” Uri asked his host gently.
“It will be my pleasure,” Omar said immediately. “It will be early morning there now, and he will be relieved to hear of your safe transit. Here, let me show you your temporary lodgings. You will have to excuse our primitive accommodations . . .” He gestured sympathetically at the community outhouse at the edge of the enclave. “It is, however, our mildest of seasons, so . . .”
Quickly moving on to more pleasant topics, he advised them that during their short stay, the cooks would be providing two hearty meals; also, clothing appropriate for the oilseed farm, as well as the weather, was on hand all courtesy of Tom Buckley and the US government.
The agents glanced into their temporary home and saw a comfortable-looking double bed next to a wooden table that held a pitcher of water, two clean cups, and a small metal mirror. There was, additionally, a chair and nightstand. Lara, with the hint of a smile, seemed to ask her mate, “What more could we have asked for?”
Their host nodded to the darkening sky, saying, “Night is approaching; let me show you the exact location for you to stand to identify yourselves come morning.”
So, this was not a totally original arrangement for agent pickup, both visitors noted with relief. It must have worked before . . .
After a hearty meal, their host bid them good night and handed them a small flashlight, so they were not totally alone out here with the cicadas and nightingales. The occasional flurry of bats quit bothering them as they dropped the flap of their little shelter and fell into each other’s arms on the down mattress.
Chapter 27
Morning dawned with increased activity in the little community outside the town of Qazvin. A central fire crackled to life as the workers readied for a day like all days, preparing to weed their crop with a tractor and other tools hidden from prying eyes by yellow netting. All must look enough like the ripening crops to keep them safe. Besides, these nomads must have been tending fields like these for decades, if not longer. How their compensation was provided, the agents never discovered.
At 9:30 a.m., Omar politely informed them that it was time to head for the observation point at the end of the runway. The agents were there in plenty of time, nervously eager to present themselves to the electronic eyes in the sky, hopefully friendly ones. As instructed, the agents removed their sunglasses. Uri was grateful for an old pair found in the major’s glove compartment. With their eyes closed, they exposed their faces to the midmorning sun for twenty seconds at a time. The wind tousled their hair as the blistering sun baked them. The elevation was about two thousand feet here, so protection from its rays was minimal. They never did see or hear a drone, and of course, a satellite would be invisible. With only their trust in Tom and his troops to depend on, the agents headed back to the enclave at 10:30 a.m.; their only real duty, their reappearance at 15:00 for another try. After that, they could only wait and hope for a helicopter rescue at 10:00 a.m. the following day.
* * *
Exactly at 3:00 p.m. or as close as they could tell, the flash and roar of a US Apache broke through the calm of the high desert. There was a splash of yellow and brown as the giant bird settled onto the ground about ten feet from the excited agents. With a quick wave to their Persian hosts, the pair were gently helped by four crewmen into the waiting helicopter. The speedy aircraft had lifted off from its camouflaged ship not thirty minutes before, taking a circuitous path to the landing site.
“Strap in, sir, ma’am. We’re jumpin’ right off!” hollered the pilot, Cmdr. Scott “Buzz” Searles, over the intense noise of the eager machine, as if it were irritated to be on the ground even this long. They had already climbed on a path directly out of the sun and over a pass in the mountains. As they reached the appropriate altitude, Searles swiveled in his seat and greeted his new passengers with a toothy grin. “Bet you’re plum glad to be leavin’ this place,” he yelled, as if from a semi at 70 mph. The three crewmen were used to the oversize Southern drawl; they smiled accommodatingly.
“You might say that,” Uri answered, vastly understating his appreciation for the perfectly executed retrieval and maneuver. Within minutes, the blue Caspian Sea rose to meet them, the mountains already passing out of sight behind them. “About how fast are we going? Feels almost supersonic!”
The crewmen laughed at the overstatement. “Oh, nothin’ close to that. Y’all want some gum? It he’ps a bit.”
Uri refused with a wave of his hand, but Lara held out hers; her ears were screaming in pain. One of the crew obliged immediately. They all knew just a bit about their passengers but only the bare essentials of their mission in enemy territory. They were well aware of the dangerous situation they were in out here; the Iranians would not hesitate to bring them down if given half a chance. Lara glanced over her right shoulder at the young, tow-haired ensign manning the 30mm automatic rifle. It could fire more than thirty rounds a second. She knew there was a Hellfire missile launcher on board as well; she hoped neither would be exhibited today.
“How fast are we going, anyhow?” she yelled at the copilot, a smiling lieutenant. She couldn’t read his name tag.
“Don’t know exactly right now, but she can get up over two hundred knots flat-out, once we’re on the straightaway,” he yelled back with a grin. “We’ll be on deck in less than twenty.”
Lara looked out at the now-undisturbed sea. Well, more like a lake, if you wanted to get technical, she thought.
It was less than fifteen minutes later when Uri spotted the black dot near the horizon; it looked like a fishing trawler, perhaps two hundred feet long, covered with nets and cranes. As they descended, he could see the clear space aft of the tower, the helipad that would be their landing area. He also noticed a flag attached to the stern; he seemed to recall it as that of one of the satellites of the old Soviet Union, maybe Azerbaijan. He realized his heart rate was headed north of 150 bpm as the helicopter swung around to the west, preparing for landing.
It was not yet dawn as the ersatz trawler crept into the harbor at Baku, on the east coast of Azerbaijan. A waiting jeep drove them to a small military airport, where they said their farewells to Commander Searles and crew.
“I don’t know where y’all are headed, but it sure does smell important,” Buzz drawled from a bright salute as the jeep took Lara and Uri to a military aircraft, already revved-up and ready for them on the runway. They were handed their bags of essentials for their coming flight as they were escorted into the spacious, four-engine aircraft. A minimal crew greeted them with breakfast just as soon as they had taken off and reached altitude.
“Where we headed?” a still-sleepy Uri asked the crewman.
“Gee, sir, ma’am, I thought you knew,” he stated deferentially to the two honorees. “There’s a certain General Wainscroft waiting for you at Incirlik—the US Air Force Base—about five hundred miles west of here . . . that’s in Turkey.”
“Thank you, crewman . . . , yes, we are acquainted with the general and the base, actually. You have any idea what it’s about?” Uri didn’t really think he would get any details, but he was hoping . . .
“Oh no, sir, I’m afraid that’s way above my pay grade,” he replied. “But we’ll be there in about three hours, and he’ll be waiting there for you both. I’ll ditch these lights, and you can get some shut-eye.”
Lara had already let her seat down as far as it would go; she was getting as much sleep as possible. It looked they were in for something special . . . and it was not a vacation.
Chapter 28
“Well, my friends, how nice to see you again . . . even though you look like you’ve been in a war zone!” The
lean, fit three-star general with the gray buzz cut had hosted the pair on their last mission to Iran just a short year ago. That had turned out quite well, with the elimination of a major threat to the United States. Lara had the feeling, seeing the general there waiting for them, bright and early, that something big was up.
Wainscroft led them into his impressive offices on the main floor of the headquarters building and offered them chairs. “Well, it’s bad, as I guess you figured. I wanted to give you a briefing before you get some well-earned rest. Quite simply, it’s the US drinking water again—this time in San Francisco. The same bad guys, I’m afraid, and we’re going to need your help—again.
From the word we’re getting, it appears their General Gharoub of military intelligence has figured out we’re on his tail. He got the fake messages that Uri sent to be translated.” Looking directly at Lara, he continued, “The translations that you delivered to him—”
“I heard about that,” she added quietly.
“At any rate,” Wainscroft continued, “those details of the approaches to the reservoirs on the peninsula convinced him that they—the peninsular lakes and reservoirs—would be the easiest and best places for their troops to deliver the poison—”
“Wait a minute,” Uri interrupted. “How did you find out . . . ?”
Wainscroft had just a touch of mirth on his face as he confided to his agents, “There is, in the office of their military intelligence, a certain Mrs. Khorasani, a trusted secretary. She can’t translate the incoming dispatches from our agents, but she can read General Gharoub’s outgoing instructions and relay them to us. Has for years.” Lara and Uri both reacted sharply to this bit of news. Wainscroft held up his hand to signify there was more coming. “But just after he made that decision, he gets word that Uri is not who he appears to be, but is, in fact, an American agent in disguise, so . . .”