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

by Dale Brown

  “Vehicle looks abandoned,” Vahid radioed the ground unit. “The area around it is empty.”

  “Acknowledged, Shahin One,” said a new, more authoritative voice. It belonged to Colonel Khorasani, the Guard officer who had been assigned to investigate the situation. He was handling his communications personally. “I have ground units en route. They should arrive in zero-five minutes.”

  “Acknowledged. We’re going to spin around the area and see if we can find anyone.”

  “Police units are coming down from the north,” added the local ground commander. “They will arrive quickly.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Vahid and his wingman began a slow, spiraling rise above the area.

  “Farm building to the north on the side of the hill,” said Kayvan. “Maybe they are there.”

  “Make a run,” Vahid told him. “I’ll follow you.”

  Vahid climbed out and changed positions with his wingman, so that Shahin One was now trailing Shahin Two. The buildings were on a small, nearly flat tongue of land. Just below, he saw an abandoned orchard, its trees parched stubs.

  A crooked road ran from the highway to the farm, then petered out. Neither Vahid nor the wingman could see any other vehicles, let alone people.

  “Shahin One, what’s your status?” asked the Pasdaran colonel.

  “We’re waiting for ground units to arrive. We have no contacts.”

  “We have a report of a vehicle stolen from Sar-e-Kavir. A farm vehicle. We believe there may be a connection.”

  “Do you have a description?”

  “Stand by.”

  20

  Iran

  THEY TOOK A SHORTCUT ACROSS THE RIDGE, DRIVING on a hard-pack road that got them out in front of Granderson and the others. Grease had been studying the maps and gotten advice from Granderson; there was an Iranian army barracks about twenty-five miles ahead on the highway. Once past that, they should have an easy time north; they could cut south of the cities of Semna¯n and Sorkheh, then follow the highway west for another two hours or so before veering once more onto narrower roads in the mountain foothills. At this point they would pick up one of the trails the Delta team had scouted as an alternate route to the target area, aiming for a hiding place originally planned as part of the escape route. Ironically, it was within a half-hour drive of their new target area. They would stay there through the next day, achieve their objective, and leave.

  It was easy when you laid it out step by step that way. Simple and direct.

  Turk leaned into the back, grabbing one of their last two bottles of water. He took two sips, then put it back.

  “Rationing yourself?” Grease asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “There should be more water at the place where we stop. A team went in and set it up two weeks ago.”

  “What if it’s been found?”

  “Nobody’ll find it.”

  Turk folded his arms. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Granderson and the truck are two miles ahead,” said Grease. “Pickup’s about a half mile ahead of that. Gorud’s driving. The Israeli swapped with him in the troop truck.”

  “Why?”

  “His leg’s pretty screwed up. Didn’t you notice?”

  “I thought he was all right.”

  Grease shook his head. Badly battered when they encountered the police, the Israeli’s knee had locked; most likely there were torn ligaments and cartilage damage as well.

  “You think Green and the others are going to make it?” Turk asked.

  Grease thought for a moment before answering. “Yeah. Probably.”

  “Probably or maybe?”

  Another pause as he weighed his estimate. “Probably,” he announced at last.

  “That’s what everybody has to say, right?” asked Turk, suddenly oppressed by the weight of what they had to do. His energy had completely drained, taking his optimism with it.

  “You know what will help?” asked Grease. “Focus your mind on the next checkpoint, the next step along the way. If you try to keep the whole mission in your head, it may wig you out. But if you go from A to B to C, it’ll be much easier. It’s a fact.”

  Turk’s ears perked up—he heard a jet nearby, low.

  Two of them.

  “Somebody’s looking for us,” he told Grease, thumbing above.

  FIVE HUNDRED METERS ABOVE THE GROUND, VAHID rode Shahin One up over the ridge, banking easily to the west. There was a car ahead, white and fairly new—probably a government official, Vahid thought, maybe even someone from the interior ministry. As he nudged a little lower, he saw a glint in the distance—another vehicle three or four kilometers farther along the highway.

  In normal times this would hardly have been unusual, but today there was so little traffic it couldn’t help but pique his interest. Vahid steadied himself at three hundred meters and waited for the vehicle to appear.

  It was a pickup truck. Just as Vahid was about to turn off, he saw the top of another vehicle just descending a low hill. This one was larger, another truck.

  “Shahin Two, do you see the vehicle beyond the pickup?”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Looks like it could be a farm truck. I’m going to get a closer look.”

  “On your six.”

  Vahid pushed even lower, dropping through three hundred meters. The truck matched the description—a green farm vehicle with slat sides—but it had a canvas top, which hadn’t been described.

  “Two, radio the Pasdaran colonel and see if you can get a definitive description,” said Vahid. “I’m going to take another pass.”

  TURK FELT THE MUSCLES IN HIS STOMACH TIGHTEN AS the MiGs turned ahead. They were definitely interested in something on the highway, and since there was no other traffic nearby, that meant them. He bent forward to the dashboard, trying to get a glimpse as the planes flew by.

  “Only air-to-air missiles,” he said as the lead plane thundered past. The wingman was higher and offset to the south; hard to see, but Turk guessed he would be equipped the same.

  “What’s that mean?” asked Grease.

  “Means he won’t be able to bomb us. But he’ll have a cannon he can use if he decides to shoot.”

  Turk opened the car window and leaned out, trying to see where the planes were. He wished them away far to the east. Instead, he saw them turning in the distance behind them.

  “Coming back for another look,” he told Grease.

  “Captain, you seeing those airplanes?” Grease asked over the team radio as Turk slid back down. The sun was just setting; the red glow on the horizon might make it tough for the pilot to see.

  Not tough enough, though.

  VAHID ASKED THE COMMANDER TO REPEAT WHAT HE SAID.

  “You are ordered to stop the farm truck,” said Colonel Khorasani. “Destroy it.”

  “Colonel, it appears to be a civilian vehicle.”

  “It is a vehicle filled with Israeli commandos.”

  The colonel’s voice was completely rational, and soft rather than loud—which chilled Vahid even more. “It is a little different than you described when you radioed me earlier.”

  The colonel was silent for a moment. “Should I call your commander?”

  “Of course not,” said Vahid. “I want to make sure I understand your requirements. My fuel tanks are close to empty.”

  He was, in fact, about sixty seconds from bingo, the calculated point where he would have only enough fuel to get home. He considered using that as an excuse not to shoot up the truck, but what was the point? Already two other members of his squadron were flying northward; they would destroy the truck if he didn’t.

  And going against the Pasdaran colonel was not a wise move, even if General Shirazi was his patron.

  But to kill civilians?

 
Surely they were thieves. As unlikely—as impossible—as it must be that they were Israeli commandos, they still had no right to steal a truck. So it was Allah’s punishment that he was meting out.

  “Shahin Two, you’re on my wing,” he told Lieutenant Kayvan, glancing at the armament panel to make sure his gun was ready.

  “We’re going to shoot up the truck?”

  “We’re going to stop it, yes.”

  TURK HEARD THE RUMBLE OF THE JET ENGINES AS THE MiGs came up the road behind him. Once more the muscles in his stomach clenched. He pushed back in the seat, waiting as the car began to shake.

  “Shit,” he muttered as the plane shot overhead, then rose into a quick turn.

  “Tell them to get out of the truck!” Turk yelled. “Tell them he’s coming in to fire! He’s firing!”

  AS VAHID PUSHED THE MIG’S NOSE DOWN, THE FARM truck seemed to fly into the pipper. He gave the trigger a gentle squeeze before breaking off. The rounds missed, flying into the pavement well ahead of the vehicle.

  Which was what he intended. In his mind, an innocent civilian would see the bullets and realize something was wrong. He would pull off the road and run from the truck.

  “Shahin Two, did he stop?” Vahid asked.

  “Still moving.”

  “Stay clear.”

  “No fun for me?”

  Vahid ignored his juvenile wingman, moving into position to destroy the truck. He rode the MiG through five hundred meters before tucking his left wing toward the highway. He leveled the wings and found the vehicle speeding ahead.

  It started to weave left and right. He pressed the trigger.

  A GRAY GEYSER OF SMOKE ERUPTED AHEAD.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” yelled Turk. He pounded the dashboard as the gray turned black. A funnel of red appeared from within, like a volcano.

  They rushed toward it as the cloud shifted downward, folding itself across the road. Turk had shot up trucks himself a few months before, pouncing on them from the air. Now he was seeing things from the other side, from underneath and inside out.

  The truck was on the right, off the road, completely destroyed, smoldering.

  Two bodies, black, lay between it and the road.

  “You’re not stopping!” Turk yelled at Grease.

  “I know that.”

  “You gotta stop!”

  “We can’t.”

  “Grease! Grease!”

  Turk grabbed for the door handle. Grease reached over and grabbed him with his hand, holding him in place even as he accelerated away from the wreckage.

  SUPERMAN

  1

  Iran

  CAPTAIN VAHID FLEW OVER THE WRECKAGE OF THE farm truck one last time, making sure nothing was moving. The vehicle had been split into five different pieces by the MiG’s cannon. Only one, a segment that included part of the cab, was still on fire.

  The pickup truck and then the white car he’d seen had passed by quickly. The pilot wondered at that: he could understand the pickup, but why the car, which he assumed belonged to a government or perhaps a Guard official. Wouldn’t they have been curious?

  They must have been afraid. People seemed to have an unnatural ability to shut everything else out when they felt themselves in danger.

  Did they think they were next?

  And really, why wouldn’t they? As far as they knew, he had just destroyed a civilian truck, a poor man’s vehicle at that.

  Vahid banked, aiming for another pass over the highway.

  “One, I am at bingo fuel,” said Lieutenant Kayvan.

  “Acknowledged, Two. Set course for base.”

  As Vahid clicked off his mike, another transmission came, this one from Colonel Khorasani, asking what their status was.

  “The truck has been destroyed.”

  “Are there confederates? Are there other vehicles?”

  “It doesn’t appear so.”

  Vahid slowed, edging toward stall speed, so he could get another look at the truck. While he’d splashed some targets in training, he had never blown up a “real” truck before, certainly not one that was moving.

  At the moment he fired he felt joy—that was the word for it, joy—but already his feelings were complex. There was great satisfaction at having achieved his objective, but there was something empty about it as well.

  He flew past the lingering black curl of smoke, accelerating before climbing out. Vahid felt a flush of anger—he should hit the car. The men were cowards to go by without stopping to help.

  How would he explain?

  Easily—Khorasani had just given him an excuse. The men were compatriots. They’d been close to the truck when he blew it up.

  Kayvan radioed to ask if they were leaving.

  “Go ahead, Two. Return to base.”

  “I’m staying with you, Lead,” said the wingman.

  Strike the government vehicle? But they would find out eventually that it wasn’t connected. And there would be repercussions.

  It was not his job to punish cowards.

  Vahid radioed the Pasdaran commander. “The truck is a complete wreck. No survivors. We are low on fuel. We need to return to base.”

  “Go. One of my units will be at the site in a few minutes.”

  He thought of giving the colonel a sarcastic answer to the effect that he was welcome for the assistance—the colonel hadn’t so much as thanked him. But he thought better of it. With the Pasdaran, it was always better to keep your mouth shut.

  2

  CIA campus, Virginia

  BREANNA SAT STOICALLY AS TURK RECOUNTED THEIR situation. Gorud’s arm had been injured but he was all right to drive. Grease was fine, as was Turk.

  The rest of the team, including the Israeli spy, had been killed. Turk and the others were traveling toward Hoz-e-Soltan Lake and the vast, empty salt desert north of Qom and east of their target. He estimated they would be at the hiding place in two more hours.

  Breanna had read the translated Iranian communications relating to the strike soon after the truck was destroyed. Captured by a U.S. elint satellite and forwarded by the NSA after translation, the script was succinct and depressing: the Iranian air force officer, though clearly concerned he was firing on civilians, nonetheless followed orders and killed them.

  Breanna knew from the locator data that Turk was still moving. But she suspected from the description that the truck was theirs. And even if it hadn’t been, the savagery of the decision was chilling.

  She glanced to the end of the table where Reid was sitting. His face was pale, as if the long night had bled the blood from his body. There were times when he looked ancient, and other times beyond age. This was one of the former. Reid’s eyes darted from the map screen to the blank transmission screen—there was only audio, no visual. The rest of his body remained stone still, as if he were a projection.

  Breanna leaned forward in her chair. “Turk, I want to ask you a question. I need a candid answer. Do you feel you can carry out the mission?”

  “Yes.” He said it quickly, without hesitation.

  “You’re going to have difficulty getting out of the country.”

  “It’ll be no harder then than now.”

  “We’re confident you will succeed,” Reid told him.

  “Yes,” said Breanna, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice. “Check in when you reach the cave.”

  “Yup.”

  He signed off. Breanna rose. Reid remained sitting, staring at the map, his thoughts obviously far off.

  “Coffee?” Breanna asked him.

  “The SEAL element that was coming down from the Caspian,” Reid said. “They’ve run into resistance. They are going to have to withdraw.”

  Reid continued to stare at the map. One of the suspected sites was five miles northeast of Fordow, the other a few miles
west. The area was near a Guard base established at a former Iranian air force installation. It would be heavily patrolled, especially now.

  “It makes no sense to get them out,” said Reid finally. “Even to try will be suicidal, and possibly expose the operation.”

  “Of course it makes sense.” Breanna felt her face flushing. “Gorud is there, too—what are you saying?”

  Reid didn’t answer.

  “I’m not ordering Sergeant Ransom to kill him after the attack,” said Breanna.

  “He’s already under orders, Breanna.”

  “We need a backup if the SEAL team has to withdraw. We need Kronos.”

  “It’s too late to revive Kronos,” said Reid. “And it was vetoed for a reason.”

  “I understand that. But—”

  “Kronos calls for assassination.”

  “Escape or assassination. And I think he can get them out. I’ve always thought that.”

  “We may end up losing him as well.”

  Now it was Breanna’s turn to be silent.

  “Very well,” conceded Reid. “We had best attempt to move it forward. Do you want to talk to Colonel Freah, or should I?”

  3

  Iran

  THE SMELL OF DEATH STUNG COLONEL KHORASANI’S nose as he got out of the Kaviran. It was metallic, with the slightest hint of salt.

  He disliked it. He disliked death completely. How ironic, then, that it had become so intimately entwined with his profession.

  “We count six bodies, Colonel.” Sergeant Karim made a sweeping gesture toward the truck. “An entire team of Mossad.”

  Khorasani said nothing, continuing across the soft ground to the burned out farm truck. The charred remains of automatic weapons had been discovered in the back, but that hardly meant that the occupants were Mossad, or even foreign agents. Khorasani in fact worried that they were Pasdaran—some of the local units had not yet reported to their commanders, and this could easily be a group of men who’d been on the way to their barracks.