by Dale Brown
The airport appeared ahead, a crooked T of tarmac in the light red dirt and lighter sand. They turned with the road, skimming around an empty traffic circle and then toward the terminal complex, driving down an access road four lanes wide. It was as empty as the highway they’d come down on. An unmanned gate stood ahead, its long arm raised forlornly. They passed through quickly.
The troop truck with the rest of their team continued on the highway, driving around to the south of the airport. They were on their own now; any contingency would have to be handled by Gorud, by Silver, by Grease, by himself—he touched the butt of his rifle under the front seat with the toe of his boot, reassuring himself that he was ready.
Immediately past the gate the road narrowed. Tall, thin green trees rose on either side; beyond them were rows of green plants, studded between sprinkler pipes. Two white vans sat in front of the parking lot in front of a cluster of administrative buildings. The buildings themselves looked empty, and there was no traffic on the access road that continued past the largest building and went south. Just beyond the building, they turned and drove through the lot to another road that ran around the perimeter of the airstrips. This took them past a truck parking area on the outside of the complex, beyond a tall chain-link fence. Turk caught a glimpse of their truck moving on the highway, shadowing them.
The access road took them to the front of the civilian passenger terminal, dark and seemingly forgotten. They turned left and drove around the building, directly onto the apron where the aircraft gates were located.
“Nothing here,” said Silver as they turned. “No plane.”
“I see.” Gorud looked left and right.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Keep going.”
“Onto the runway?”
“No. Onto the construction road at the far end. We’ll take it back around.”
“If it’s sand we may get stuck.”
“Chance it. We don’t want to look like we took a wrong turn if we’re being watched. We’re examining the airport—we would fly equipment in through here. We’re all Russian. Remember that.”
“Problem?” asked Grease.
“The Israeli and the helicopter should have been at the terminal,” said Gorud. “I don’t see it.”
“What Israeli?” said Turk. “Is that who is bringing the helicopter?”
Gorud said nothing. He didn’t have to; the expression on his face shouted disdain. Belatedly, Turk realized that “the Israeli” could only be their contact. He also guessed that the man was likely a Mossad agent or officer; the Israeli spy unit would have numerous agents studded around the country, and they would surely cooperate with the U.S. on a mission like this.
But it was also quite possible the man wasn’t Mossad at all. Everything was subterfuge—they were Russian, they were Iranian, they didn’t even exist.
“Place looks abandoned,” said Grease.
“It is,” replied Gorud. “More or less. Most airports outside Tehran look like this with the sanctions. Even if they have an air force unit, which this one doesn’t.”
“There was an aircraft on the left across from the terminal as we came in,” Turk said. “I didn’t get much of a look. Maybe that was it.”
“Was it an Mi-8?”
“I don’t think so. It looked a little small for an Mi-8.”
“We’ll go back.”
“Can you call your contact?” Grease asked.
Gorud shook his head. Turk guessed that he was afraid the missed connection meant that the man on the other end had been apprehended. Calling would only make things worse—for them.
“We can do it by ground if we have to,” Turk said. “If we have to.”
Silver took them across the dirt roads at the side of the terminal. A half-dozen excavations dotted the surrounding fields; all were overrun with dirt and sand that had drifted in. There were construction trucks on the other side of the entrance area, parked neatly in rows. As they drove closer, Turk saw that they were covered with a thick layer of grit. They’d been parked in the unfinished lot for months; work had stalled for a variety of reasons, most likely chief among them the Western economic boycott.
They had just turned back toward the administrative buildings when Turk spotted a light in the sky beyond the main runway.
“Something coming in,” he said.
“Take the right ahead, bring us back to the edge of the terminal apron,” Gorud told Silver.
Turk craned his head to see out the window as they turned and the aircraft approached.
“It’s not a helicopter,” he told them. “Light plane—looks like a Cessna or something similar. No lights.”
“What should I do?” asked Silver.
“Keep going, as I said,” snapped Gorud.
They parked at the edge of the terminal road, across from the gates and close enough to see the runway. The plane was a high-winged civilian aircraft, a Cessna 182 or something similar. The aircraft taxied to the end of the runway, then turned around quickly and came over to the terminal apron.
“Wait here,” said Gorud, getting out.
“Something is fucked up,” muttered Silver as the CIA officer trotted toward the plane.
Turk continued sketching an alternative plan in his head. In some ways it would be easier to work from the ground, he thought. His part would be easier: there’d be no possibility of losing a connection, and he wouldn’t have to worry about the distraction of working in a small aircraft. It’d be harder to escape, of course, but that was what he had the others for.
The key would be getting there. It was a long way off.
Gorud ran back to the car.
“It’s our plane,” he said. “Only two of us will fit. Come on, Captain.”
Grease put his hand on Turk’s shoulder. “I go where he goes.”
“You won’t fit in the aircraft,” said Gorud.
“Then you stay on the ground,” said Grease.
Turk pushed out of the car, leaving Gorud and Grease to sort out the situation themselves. The man in the right front seat of the aircraft—the copilot’s seat—got out to help him. He pushed his seat up and nudged Turk into the plane.
“What happened to the helicopter?” Turk asked as he got in.
The pilot shook his head.
“You speak English?” Turk asked.
Another head shake. The cockpit smelled like a locker room after an intense basketball game: sweat, and a lot of it. Perspiration ran thick on the back of the pilot’s neck. His shirt was drenched.
Grease slipped in next to him.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said the Delta sergeant. “Come on.”
The man who’d gotten out of the plane climbed back in. Turk assumed he was the Israeli.
“What happened to the helicopter?” asked Turk again.
“Contingency,” said the man. “This will have to do. Gorud is not coming?”
“Not unless he sits on your lap,” said Grease.
“Too much weight anyway,” the man said as he slammed and secured the plane door. The plane moved fitfully back toward the runway.
“I’m Turk,” said Turk, reaching toward the front.
“No names,” said the Israeli.
Turk slipped back and looked at Grease. “At least I know now I’m on the right plane,” he muttered.
The faintest of smiles appeared on Grease’s lips.
6
CIA campus, Virginia
“SPACECRAFT TWO IS SIXTY SECONDS TO TARGET area,” said Colonel Schaffer, the Air Force liaison tracking the X-37B. “They need a final go to launch.”
Breanna glanced at Jonathon Reid, then back at the screen showing where Turk was. The pilot was wearing a small ring that allowed the Whiplash network to locate him at all times.
“Has Gorud
sent the signal?” she asked Reid.
“Still waiting,” he replied, his voice so soft she could barely hear it over the whisper of the air conditioner. It was a habit of his—the more tense he felt, the quieter he made his voice. Undoubtedly it had served the old CIA hand very well when he was in the field.
Gorud was supposed to signal that the operation was proceeding by calling a prearranged number in Egypt that they were monitoring. The number belonged to an Iranian who spied on the West, a nice little piece of misdirection cooked up by Gorud himself. They expected the call when they boarded the helicopter, but though Turk was clearly aboard and moving, there had been no signal.
Breanna stared at the screen, watching as Turk moved away from the airport. They didn’t have real-time visual of the operation, having decided that even a stealthy UAV might give them away if something went wrong. Iran, using Russian technology, had already demonstrated the ability to track American drones.
There was something wrong about the way the aircraft was moving—it didn’t seem like a helicopter.
“Is the X-37 close enough to Birjand to pick up that aircraft?” Breanna asked Schaffer.
“Negative. Not even close. Is there a problem?”
“Turk’s supposed to be in a helicopter.”
“What’s wrong, Breanna?” asked Reid.
“I’m pretty sure Turk’s in a plane, not a helicopter as planned.”
“Maybe they had to change their arrangement,” said Reid. “Will he be able to control the UAVs?”
“He should. The question is whether they can stay in the area, and do so without attracting too much attention.”
“Maybe Gorud thought the plane would be less noticeable,” said Reid.
At one of the original briefing sessions on the planning, someone had mentioned that there were often helicopter flights in the area; she remembered quite clearly because she’d asked a question about it.
“I’m not trying to second-guess their operation,” she told Reid. “I am concerned because we haven’t confirmed that it is our aircraft. Gorud hasn’t checked in.”
“Understood.”
“Ma’am.” Schaffer cleared his throat. “If you want a launch, you need to authorize. The window on this pass is only forty-five seconds.”
If she authorized the launch and Turk wasn’t in a position to “catch” the UAVs, the mission would be aborted and the aircraft lost. The operation would have to wait another twenty-four hours, and the margin of error would be cut in half.
Breanna looked again at the screen plotting Turk’s location. He might be heading for the target. Or he might be going to Tehran—the logical place to bring a prisoner.
Something her father had told her years before popped into her head: There are always reasons to put off a mission, Bree. A lot of them, and they’re always good ones. Going ahead is always the lonelier way. But it’s almost always the better choice.
“Launch,” she told Schaffer.
7
Iran
TURK BRACED HIMSELF AS THE CESSNA BANKED sharply. It turned nearly 270 degrees in what felt like a half second, dropping at the same time. His stomach felt as if it had hopped up to his eyeballs.
“What the hell are we doing?” he demanded as the pilot leveled off.
“We have to avoid being detected,” said the man in the right front seat. While Turk labeled him the Israeli because of what Gorud had said earlier, his accent sounded Eastern European. But then those two things were not necessarily a contradiction.
“You haven’t told me what happened to the helicopter.”
“This will have to do,” said the Israeli.
“What happened?” snapped Turk.
“It’s immaterial,” said the Israeli. “This is what we have. Do the job.”
“Listen—”
Grease patted him twice on his leg, silently trying to calm him. The pilot started speaking quickly in Farsi.
“Let’s all relax,” said Grease, first in English, then Farsi. He turned to Turk. “You OK?”
“He’s going to have to stay very close to the site,” Turk said. The plane dipped sharply. “And he’s going to have to fly a hell of a lot better than he’s flying.”
“He’s a good pilot,” said the Israeli.
“And I’m a good truck driver.”
They leveled off, the plane steadying. They were flying fast and low, and it was possible that the pilot was just jittery because he was a little nervous—the Israeli didn’t exactly put people at ease. Even a light plane, if unfamiliar, could be a handful. Turk tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, leaning back in his seat and recalculating the mission in his head, rearranging what he would have to do.
As long as they stayed in the general area, they’d be OK. He’d have the Cessna fly a long, continuous circuit as close to the target as the pilot dared. Once he acquired the UAVs, things would happen pretty fast.
Turk checked his watch. They were four hours from the rendezvous time. The mission plan had called for the helicopter to take about two hours getting to the refuel site; the target area was another hour and a half away.
“Are we stopping to refuel?” Turk asked.
“Nonstop,” said the Israeli. “Straight line.”
Turk leaned forward, checking the gauges. The pilot had the throttle at max; they were pushing 140 knots.
“Set your speed to 110 knots,” Turk said, calculating their flight time. “One hundred and ten knots.”
The pilot made no move to comply.
“Tell him to drop his speed to 110 knots,” Turk told the Israeli. “Or I’ll strangle him.”
Grease glanced at Turk, then took out his pistol.
The Israeli said something to the pilot. The pilot disagreed, and they started to argue.
“Look, we don’t want to get there too soon,” said Turk. “If 110 knots is too slow for the aircraft, then we’ll have to change course and fly around a bit. But he’s heading straight for the target area. I don’t know what you’ve told him, or what you think we’re doing, but we don’t want to get there too soon. Do you understand? This isn’t a race. We have to be there in a precise window of time.”
“He says we have to maintain speed,” said the Israeli harshly.
“The pilot does exactly what the captain says,” Grease announced, raising the Iranian-made Sig and nudging it against the edge of the pilot’s neck, “or he dies.”
The pilot glanced back nervously. The plane edged with him, reacting to his hand on the yoke.
“Don’t be a fool,” hissed the Israeli. “You’ll kill us all.”
“He’s going too fast,” said Turk. “Tell him to relax. Tell him I’m a pilot, too. I know what I’m talking about.”
“He knows where he has to go and when to get there,” said the Israeli, only slightly less antagonistic. “He wants a cushion.”
“We can’t afford a cushion. This isn’t a transport. Tell him there’s a penalty for getting there too soon.”
The Israeli frowned.
“Does he know what we’re doing?” Turk asked. “Do you?”
“He knows the very minimum he needs to know. As do I.”
The pilot said something. His voice was high-pitched, jittery. A thick ribbon of sweat poured down the side of his face. Turk thought of finding a place for them to land and taking over flying the plane. But he couldn’t do that and guide the UAVs.
“Tell him I know that he’s nervous, but I trust that he can fly the plane,” said Turk. “Tell him I’m a test pilot. And I like his skills. Tell him to relax, just relax and fly. He’s a good pilot. A very good pilot.”
The last bit was a lie—a rather large one—but Turk’s goal was to get the man to trust him, and accurately evaluating how he was flying would not do that.
The pilot nodded, though there was
no sign that he relaxed.
“Tell him that we’ll be flying a low figure eight when we get to the area,” said Turk. “Even if we get there when planned, we’ll have to do that for more than a half hour. That’s a long time. We don’t want to be detected. The longer we’re there, the more chance of that—that’s why we want to slow down. And it’ll conserve fuel.”
“I want him to know the minimum necessary,” answered the Israeli. “Telling him he has to orbit for a half hour isn’t going to calm him down.”
“Tell him whatever the hell you want,” said Grease, “but make him do what Turk says.”
“I think we should all calm down,” said the Israeli. “There’s no need for excitement.”
“Then let’s follow the captain’s game plan. To the letter,” said Grease.
8
CIA campus, Virginia
“THE CALL HAS BEEN MADE,” SAID REID, RISING. “That’s their plane.”
Relieved, Breanna looked at the large area map of Iran projected on the front wall. They had hours to go; she knew from experience the time would alternately drag and race, as if her perceptions were split in two.
“Breanna, could we speak?” said Reid, touching her elbow.
“Sure.”
Breanna got up and led Reid down the hall to her office. The lights flipped on as she entered. She saw the small clock on the credenza at the back, thought of her daughter, and wondered what subject she would be studying now.
Just starting English. They always did that before lunch at eleven.
Breanna stopped in front of her desk, standing at the side of the room. She’d been sitting too long; she felt like standing.
“Gorud made a call from the airport,” said Reid. He stood as well. The gray-haired CIA veteran seemed a little more tired than normal, but there was good reason for that. “After the plane took off.”
“Plane?”
“There was a problem and they had to substitute. There wasn’t enough space in the aircraft. Gorud opted to stay on the ground. It was either him or Grease.”
“I see.”
“He decided it was important enough to break the planned protocol. That’s why it took so long. I just wanted you to know. I’ve got to go back over to the big building,” Reid added, using his slang for the Agency’s administrative headquarters across the way. “I have to run back for a quick meeting. I’ll be here again in time for the actual show.”