Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland)

by Dale Brown

  “Absolutely,” said Grease.

  The helicopters continued southward for a half minute, then turned in a circle and headed toward the vehicles. Grease radioed a warning to the others but got no response, even though they were within a few hundred yards of each other.

  Turk fingered his rifle as the helicopters approached. They appeared unarmed, but someone inside the back cabin with a machine gun could do a hell of a lot of damage.

  On the other hand, if the choppers did land, the crews might be overpowered.

  Turk didn’t know how to fly a helicopter, but he certainly had every incentive to try.

  The helicopters skipped low near the side of the mountain, passing near the vehicles. They flew over the car and the small caravan and promptly banked away, back in their original direction.

  The sound of the rotors grew steadily softer. The Israeli continued for a short while and found a place to turn around. They passed the pickup as it started into a three-point turn.

  The troop truck wheezed up the road, then just stopped as they drew near. Granderson got out and started to climb underneath. As he did, the truck lurched backward. Granderson froze, then looked underneath gingerly as Dome pressed hard on the brake.

  “Oil case is dinked all to hell,” the captain told them. “There’s mud all across the top of the chassis. Must be from the fluid leaking.”

  “We can back it down to the spot where we were,” suggested Turk.

  There wasn’t too much question now. They needed another vehicle. They were going into Jandagh.

  14

  Jandagh, Iran

  IF THEY WEREN’T GOING TO WAIT UNTIL NIGHTFALL, Gorud suggested, then the best approach would be to drive straight in and attempt to buy—or steal—an extra vehicle. And in that case, the most likely candidates were Gorud and the Israeli, since they both spoke the language well and were reasonably familiar with the country. But Gorud was wounded and wouldn’t be much in a fight, so Turk suggested that he go in his place, which would have the advantage of leaving behind a guide in case something went wrong. Grease, his shadow, would go with him.

  No one else liked the idea, but it didn’t take long for them to see it was the most practical alternative if they weren’t going to wait until night. They worked out a cover story on the way—they were Russians, one of their vehicles had broken down, and they wanted to buy or lease another to make it across the desert to the town where they were supposed to meet an official from the oil ministry.

  Jandagh, like many Iranian cities, had a broad but only lightly used main street. It was anchored by two roundabouts on the southern end. Trees lined both sides of the road, though their short branches provided little shade. Beyond them to the west, wind blew the loose sand off the dunes, driving it toward the white walls of the houses. It hadn’t been exactly cool in the hills, but now the heat built oppressively, overwhelming the car’s air conditioner and drawing so much sweat from Turk that his white button-down shirt soaked through, graying with the flying grit.

  They saw no one on the street until they neared the second traffic circle. Two children were standing in the shade of a doorstep, staring at the car. Farther on, a small knot of men sat on some boxes and leaned against the facade of a building that looked to Turk like an old-fashioned candy shop. A police car sat opposite the end of the circle, its lone occupant watching from behind closed windows.

  They passed it slowly, then continued along the road, which was divided by a center island of trees, these in slightly better condition than the others. Turk guessed that there might be a dozen people walking or standing in front of the buildings on either side of the next quarter mile of road. On the right side the buildings were separated by long alleys in a perfect if small grid; from above they would look like a maze for learning disabled rats. The buildings on the other side were larger and more randomly arranged. Most met the public with plain walls of stuccoed stone.

  “See anything worth taking?” Grease asked the Israeli.

  “Nothing.”

  Another large intersection marked the end of the quarter-mile main street. The Israeli passed through it cautiously. The buildings surrounding them were residential, and there were more vehicles on the side of the street—many more, including several vans that Turk thought they might take.

  “Easy enough to find once the sun goes down,” said the Israeli. “There are too many people around to try it now.”

  They avoided the old city and fort area on the hill, turning left and heading toward the highway. Here, there were more vehicles, including several tractor trailers parked around a large open space at the side of the highway. An array of small shops stood at the city end of the space; they were family-run restaurants. Men stood in most of the doorways, bored touts who perked up as soon as they saw the car, but then slouched back when it became obvious it wasn’t stopping.

  “There was a junkyard just where we first turned,” said Grease when the road opened up. “There were some cars and a pickup or two. We might try there.”

  The Israeli turned around.

  The junkyard was actually a garage, the finest not only in Jandagh but the best in any desert in the world, according to the gap-toothed man in his seventies who ambled over to greet them when they got out of the car. The Israeli gave him a brief version of the cover story, but the old man didn’t seem too interested in why they were there. He had several vehicles they would be interested in, he said, urging them toward a group parked in front of the ramshackle buildings on the lot.

  None of the cars was less than a decade old, and a few appeared to be missing significant parts, ranging from a fender to an exhaust system. The prices, as best as Turk could tell, were commensurate; the highest was only 50 million rials—$2,500, give or take. The Israeli haggled over the prices, but it was all show; none of these vehicles would suit their purposes.

  Turk saw one that might—a school bus, parked next to a pair of vans and a panel truck at the far end of the lot. The Israeli saw it as well, but he worked the owner like a pro, meandering around, arguing, dismissing, obtaining a price for everything and committing to nothing. Eventually, he settled on one of the vans next to the bus, going back and forth on the price and requirements—he wanted new seat cushions, which the dealer couldn’t do, and a full tank of gas, which would have come close to doubling the price of eight million rials. Feigning frustration, he pointed to the school bus and asked how much that was.

  One hundred million Rials, with some diesel thrown in.

  Too, too much. The Israeli went back to the van.

  “I’m going to get him to help me buy my next car,” Turk whispered to Grease.

  Grease didn’t answer. He was gazing across the empty lot at the side, to the far road. The police car they’d seen earlier had driven over and parked nearby.

  “Watching us?” said Turk when he saw it.

  “That or they’re thinking of upgrading.”

  The Israeli spent a few more minutes haggling before the lot owner gave up in frustration, deciding that he was just a tire-kicker.

  “We’ll come back,” whispered the Israeli, walking over to them. “I think we can steal the bus.”

  “Cop’s watching us,” said Grease under his breath.

  “I see.”

  They got into their car and drove a short distance to a small restaurant. The Israeli did all the talking here, ordering an early dinner and filling the server in on their backstory—Russians, visiting sites that promised to yield oil, and how bad was the earthquake? The story was intended for the policeman, who had followed but stayed outside; surely he would come in and question the owner if he didn’t stop them himself. Turk and Grease played along, exchanging bits of Russian while the Israeli chatted up the waiter, who turned out to be the owner of the place.

  The man’s face grew worried when pressed for details about the earthquake. He had heard
rumors, he said, that it wasn’t an earthquake at all, but an attack by American stealth bombers. If so, there would be hell to pay, he predicted; the Americans would be wiped off the face of the earth.

  The Israeli pretended to translate all of this into Russian, then translated their “responses,” agreeing with the Iranian that the Americans were the worst people on earth, always ready to stir trouble. Absolute devils.

  No, said the shop owner, it was just their government that was bad; he had met Americans several times, and always they were polite and even generous. It was a shame that their leaders were so horrible.

  Grease grinned when the Israeli relayed this after the owner disappeared into the back. The dishes came out shortly—rice and vegetables covered with a thin sauce. The sauce had a curried taste, which ordinarily would have turned Turk’s nose if not his stomach, but he was hungry, and he finished his small plateful quickly.

  They spent just under an hour in the café. During that time, they could have been tourists or even the Russian oilmen they claimed to be, oblivious to the dangers both of their mission and Iran in general. But reality confronted them as soon as they emerged—the policeman who’d been watching them earlier had been joined by a companion. They were now camped on the front bumper of their car.

  They’d obviously searched the vehicle—the two AK-47s they’d left under the seats as a precaution were on the hood.

  “I’ll handle it,” whispered the Israeli. “Stay back a bit. They just want bribes. Speak Russian only.”

  The Israeli stormed toward them, yelling in Russian that they were thieves and waving papers in their faces. The Iranians wilted under the pressure of his complaints, backing toward the car and gesturing with open palms.

  Grease casually positioned his hand at the back of his right hip, ready to grab the pistol hidden in the small of his back. Turk’s pistol was at his belt, under the baggy shirt—harder to grab. He stood with his arms crossed, trying to rehearse grabbing it in his mind. All he could think about was an infamous case a few years before back in the States, where a football star accidentally shot his leg while grabbing a Glock from his waistband.

  The Israeli modulated his tone, and it was clear they were now negotiating the price of a “fine.” Turk started to relax, until he saw Grease’s mouth tighten. He followed Grease’s stare out to the highway, where another police car was just turning toward them.

  “Getting expensive,” said Turk.

  “Let’s hope that’s all it is.”

  Grease took a small step toward their car, then another. Turk realized what he was doing—he wanted to be as close as possible to the rifles if there was trouble. Turk decided to take a more direct route; he walked over to the Israeli as if listening in. The Israeli swatted the air, waving him off; Turk slid back against the fender of the car. Grease joined him.

  The policeman the Israeli had been negotiating with suddenly stopped talking, noticing the other police car for the first time. He yelled something at the Israeli and pushed him back, his fist suddenly in the Israeli’s chest.

  The other officer went for his gun.

  Grease got his first, firing two shots into the man’s chest. Turk grabbed both AKs and ducked behind their car as Grease fired at the policeman they’d been negotiating with. The police car that had come off the highway, meanwhile, sped toward Grease and the Israeli. Turk rose and began firing, riddling the passenger compartment with gunfire as the car careened across the lot toward Grease. The sergeant leapt out of the way at the last moment, but the Israeli was caught by the back end of the police car as it fishtailed. He fell back, just barely missing being pinned as one vehicle smashed against the other.

  Turk had backed away from both vehicles, but the impact drove the police car against the front of their car and pushed it all the way to where he was standing, knocking him onto his back.

  “Turk, Turk!” yelled Grease.

  “I’m good, I’m good.”

  He struggled to his feet, the rifle still in his hands. Grease made sure the policemen were all dead, then went to the Israeli, who was bent over the hood of the second car.

  “I’m all right,” said the Israeli. “We have to get out of here.”

  Turk looked into the police car. His bullets had shattered the heads of both men inside; the interior was full of blood. He pulled open the door, then pushed the driver toward his companion.

  “What are you doing?” Grease asked as he got in.

  “I’ll back it up.”

  The car had stalled. Turk turned the key but nothing happened. The smell of blood and torn body parts started to turn his stomach. As calmly as he could, he put the car in park, put his foot on the brake, and tried the ignition again. The car started; he backed up.

  Grease helped the Israeli limp back to the vehicle. Though in obvious pain, he remained silent, moving stoically. Turk backed the police car out of the way, then got out and ran to the others.

  “We better get the bus now,” Turk told Grease.

  “They’ll look for it.”

  “You don’t think they’ll look for this?”

  They drove over to the lot. The man who ran the garage must have seen or at least heard the gunfire, but he was nowhere to be seen. Turk pulled near the school bus and got out. Unsure how to work the exterior lock—it was a handle that turned on the front part of the cab—he forced the door open with his rifle, then dashed up the steps.

  The key wasn’t in the ignition. He dashed back down, running toward the small building where the office was. The door was locked. Turk put his shoulder against it twice but failed to budge it, so he took the rifle, put it point-blank against the lock and fired. The gun jerked practically out of his hands, but the burst did enough damage that the door swung open. He pushed in, expecting to see the owner cowering inside, but the place was empty.

  A large board with keys stood by the door. Turk tossed the ones that were obviously car keys, but that still left him with half a dozen to try.

  Outside, Grease had lifted the Israeli into the bus, then gone to work jumping the ignition wires. He had the bus running by the time Turk appeared with the keys.

  “Take the car and follow,” he yelled. “Let’s go. Back to the others.”

  15

  Omidiyeh, Iran

  CAPTAIN VAHID SPENT THE MORNING AFTER THE ATTACK in an administrative “freeze.” While the rest of his squadron conducted a patrol around the scientific research area, the pilot was told to prepare a personal brief for the area air commander. That meeting was scheduled for 8:00 A.M.; it was postponed twice, then indefinitely “delayed.” He sat the entire time in a vacant room next to the squadron commander’s office, waiting with nothing to read or do. The only furniture were two chairs, both wooden; one was sturdy but uncomfortable, the other so rickety that he didn’t dare to use it even as a foot rest.

  A pair of plainclothes guards from the interior ministry stood at the door. He wasn’t under arrest, but he wasn’t allowed to leave either. He wasn’t given anything to eat.

  Vahid had reviewed his mission tapes, and knew that what he had shot down was some sort of light plane, not a drone and certainly not a B-2. It seemed impossible that the plane had made any sort of attack itself, or been involved in one. He had a host of theories, but they boiled down to this: either there had been a genuine earthquake, or the nuclear program had a major accident.

  He favored the latter.

  Vahid sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair until his butt was sore, got up and paced around until he tired of that, then sat back down. He repeated the ritual until after two in the afternoon, when one of the squadron commander’s aides appeared in the doorway to tell him that the general was finally on his way.

  Vahid straightened his uniform. In the days of the Shah—long before he was even born—the Iranian air force was a prominent organization, equipped with the finest fighter
s in the world—F-14s and F-4 Phantoms. They trained with the Americans, and while the larger Israeli air force might claim it was better, many rated the Iranians just as good. The branch was an elite part of the Iran military and its society.

  The overthrow of the Shah hurt the air force tremendously. An order for F-16s was canceled. Needed parts became almost impossible to get. Worse, though, were the questions, innuendo, and accusations leveled at the pilots and the service in general. The air force had supported the Shah to the bitter end, and in the Revolution’s wake, many of the officers were shunned, purged, and worse.

  The service regained a measure of respect with the blood of its members during the Iran-Iraq war, where its aces shot down a number of Iraqis and carried out many successful bombing missions. But some thirty years later, the air force continued to be viewed with suspicion by many, especially the government and the Revolutionary Guard, which was jealous of any entity that might have a claim to power and influence.

  Politics had always been a distant concern for Vahid, who joined the air force only because he wanted to fly. But the longer he sat in the little room with its bare walls and blue-shaded fluorescents, the more he came to realize that he was a pawn in something he didn’t understand. So when the door opened and General Ari Shirazi—the head not of his wing or subcommand but the entire air force—entered, Vahid was far less surprised than he would have been twenty-four hours before.

  The general studied him for a moment.

  “You’re hungry,” Shirazi said, more an order than a statement. “Come and eat.”

  Vahid followed him from the room, falling in behind the general’s two aides and trailed by a pair of bodyguards. They walked out of the building to the cafeteria, where the VIP room had been reserved for the general. Two sergeants were waiting near the table, already stiff at attention, as the general entered. Shirazi ignored them, gesturing to Vahid to sit before taking his own chair. He folded his arms, worked his eyes slowly across the pilot’s face, then turned to one of the sergeants.