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

by Dale Brown

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “One of us has to stay with Gorud. I’ll be fine. You’re the better scout.”

  Grease said nothing.

  “I’ll be OK,” Turk insisted. “You don’t have to look over my shoulder the whole time.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “One of us scouting is less likely to be seen,” said Turk. “And it makes sense that you’re the one to do it. You’re going to have to trust me.”

  “It’s not a matter of trust.”

  “I haven’t done anything stupid yet,” said Turk. “Except get involved in this.”

  Grease helped Turk put Gorud into the cab of the pickup. The CIA operative was still running a fever, though he didn’t feel quite as hot as he had before. It was dark in the cave now, too dark for Turk to see anything more than Grease’s shadow as he backed out of the truck and closed the door.

  “Stay by the mouth of the cave,” Grease told him. “Just stay there. No matter what happens.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’ll come back and we’ll drive out. Or we’ll go the back way.”

  “Got it.”

  It was hard waiting. The darkness made it impossible to see. Turk was anxious. For the first time since the mission began he felt very alone—more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

  He started thinking about what he would do if Grease didn’t come back.

  He heard a vehicle in the distance, driving in his direction. He waited, saw the faint arc of the headlamps.

  They disappeared. The night fell quiet again.

  Ten minutes later he heard someone scrambling across the rocks to his right. He went down on his right knee, brought the rifle up and moved his finger to the trigger, ready to shoot.

  “Me,” hissed Grease, still unseen outside.

  “Come.”

  “There’s a patrol down there,” said Grease when he was closer. “They have a checkpoint on the road. My guess is there’s another one on the north side that we can’t see.”

  “Can we take them?”

  “Going Rambo’s not going to help us complete our mission.” Grease moved past him to the pickup.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Watch the mouth of the cave.”

  Turk hesitated for a moment, then started after him. He didn’t catch up to Grease until he’d reached the truck.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Grease ignored him, working inside the pickup. Turk peered over his back as he jabbed Gorud’s side.

  “What are you doing?” said Turk again. “Hey.”

  “Shut up,” snapped Grease.

  Turk tried pulling him away, but the sergeant was built like a bear and wouldn’t be moved. He jabbed twice more.

  “Grease, what the hell?” he demanded.

  “He’s not going to make it.”

  “You’re giving him morphine? Why?”

  Grease remained in the truck. Turk pulled at him.

  “Just get back,” said Grease, voice shaky. He turned and shoved Turk with his free hand. Caught off guard, Turk stumbled back and fell down. He felt powerless for a moment, then gathered his energy and leapt back to his feet.

  There was a muffled gunshot. Grease closed the pickup door.

  “Get your stuff,” he told Turk. “We gotta walk.”

  13

  Iran

  COLONEL KHORASANI STUDIED THE MAP. HE HAD made the mistake of reporting the vehicle to General Arfa, the political commander who in ordinary times was his boss. Arfa had immediately seized on the theory that it belonged to saboteurs—defectors, rather than commandos or smugglers—and demanded that Khorasani find them. Khorasani knew he had only himself to blame.

  “It is getting rather dark,” said Sergeant Karim.

  “I’m quite aware of the time, Sergeant,” said Khorasani.

  “Every house and farm within five kilometers has been searched. The roads are being patrolled. But some of the troops—”

  “What about this block here?” asked Khorasani. “These mines. Were they checked?”

  “The search area didn’t go down that low. And, the map says—”

  “I know what it says.” The legend declared the hills a special reserve area—in other words, a place owned by the nuclear research projects, though as far as Khorasani knew, there were no labs there.

  Mines would be a good place to hide.

  “Get Captain Jalol back on the radio. Tell him to have his men begin searching the hills north of the Exclusion Zone, in this area here. There are old mines—check each one. Look for caves in the hills. Each one to be checked. No excuses! And I want a house-by-house search in Saveh. And it’s to start now, no waiting for morning. If there are questions, have them speak to me.”

  “There’ll be no questions, Colonel,” said the aide, gesturing to the communications man.

  14

  Iran

  MOVING THE ROCKS THAT BLOCKED THE BACK ENTRANCE of the cave was easier than Turk expected, and within minutes they were outside, walking along a narrow ridge and trying not to fall off the side or start a small avalanche of dirt.

  Turk was tense and tired, his nerves raw. He felt as if his colon had twisted itself into a rat’s tail of knots on both sides of his abdomen. The fresh air, though, was a relief, a blast of oxygen blowing away a hangover.

  They were on the far side of the hills, away from the patrol. As the path widened the walking got easy. Turk felt as if they had escaped into a different country, free of the men who would kill them on sight. But he soon heard more troop trucks.

  They’d made the right decision, even though he hated it with all his soul.

  The gentle slope they walked out to had been farmed many years before, and in the twilight provided by the sliver of moon and the twinkling stars, he could see not only the outlines of a dirt road but a network of drainage ditches long since filled in by blowing dirt and neglect. The land here must surely be among the most difficult in the country to cultivate, excepting the absolute desert, and yet people had tried, apparently with quite an effort.

  “Don’t lag,” said Grease.

  “I’m moving.”

  “We have two hours to go eight miles,” said Grease. “Come on.”

  Past the ridge, they were about three-quarters of a mile from the paved road they needed to take south. They angled westward as they walked, gradually getting closer. Turk saw the lights of one of the checkpoints: headlights from a truck, and a barrel filled with burning wood or other material. Shadows flickered in front. Turk counted two men; Grease said there were three.

  Rather than taking the road, they walked along a very shallow ravine that paralleled it. Roughly a quarter mile from the road, the ravine had been formed ages ago by downpours during the rainy months. It was wide and easy to walk along, and at first Turk felt his pace quicken. But gradually the weight of the control pack seemed to grow, and he slowed against his will. Grease at first adjusted his pace, then fell into a pattern of walking ahead and waiting. He was carrying his own ruck, filled with ammunition and medical gear, water, and some odds and ends they might need. They’d changed back into fatigues similar to those the Iranian Guard used, and decided not to take spare clothes. Even so, Grease’s pack was heavier than Turk’s, and though he offered to take the control unit, Turk refused.

  “Pick up the pace, then,” muttered Grease. He repeated that every few minutes, and it became a mantra; before long Turk was saying it himself, almost humming it as he trudged. His knees ached and his left calf muscle began to cramp. He pushed on.

  After they had walked for about an hour, Turk heard the sound of an aircraft in the distance.

  “Jet,” he said, without bothering to look.

  “Will they see us?” Grease asked. />
  “Nah. They don’t have the gear.”

  Turk listened as they trudged onward. The plane was low—no more than 2,500 feet above the ground.

  “You sure he couldn’t see us?” asked Grease after it passed.

  “Nah,” insisted Turk, though he was no longer sure. How good were Iranian infrared sensors? He didn’t remember—had he ever even known?

  After about fifteen minutes Grease spotted some buildings that hadn’t been on the map. Making sure of their position with the GPS unit, they walked into the open field to the east of the settlement. The area looked to Turk as if it had been soil-mined; mounds of dirt sat on a long, gradual slope southward. They reached the western end and climbed up an uncut hill, then walked along the edge and continued south for about a half mile.

  Something glowed in the distance: lights at the shuttered airfield and military base they were aiming for.

  “Down,” hissed Grease suddenly, punctuating the command with a tug on Turk’s shoulder that nearly threw him to the ground.

  A set of headlights swept up on the left. They were closer to the highway than they’d thought.

  After the vehicle passed, Grease took out his GPS. “That’s the base.”

  “That’s good.”

  “We’re behind schedule. It’s almost 2100 hours. We’ll have to hustle to make the rendezvous point by 2200. If there’s no vehicle here, we won’t.”

  “We’ll try.”

  Grease propped himself up on his elbows and looked in the direction of the glow with his binoculars. He studied it for so long that Turk decided he’d given up on that plan and was trying to think of an alternative. Finally, Grease handed the glasses to him.

  “There’s a dark spot on the far side there,” he said, pointing. “We can get past the gate there, get across the runway and then get the vehicle.”

  “All right.”

  “It’s going to take a while. You better check in.”

  15

  Office of Special Technology, Pentagon

  “ANSWER,” SAID BREANNA CRISPLY, ORDERING THE computerized assistant to put the call through. It was from the duty officer at the Whiplash situation room, reporting on Turk. The call had been routed through the Whiplash system to her Pentagon phone. The background noise on the phone changed ever so slightly—from the vague but steady hint of static to one vaguer and intermittent—and Breanna knew the connection had gone through. “This is Bree. What’s going on?”

  “Turk just checked in,” said Sandra Mullen, one of the duty officers borrowed from the CIA to help monitor the operation.

  Breanna glanced at her watch, though she knew the time. “He’s a half hour early. What’s wrong?”

  “They’re heading toward a patch where they have to go silent com,” Sandy told her. “He wanted to check in.”

  Breanna slid her chair closer to her desk. She’d come to the Pentagon to brief the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; she was due in his office in ten minutes. “You’re sure he was OK?”

  “Safe words and everything,” said Sandy, indicating she’d quizzed Turk herself to make sure. “Gorud’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “He’d been wounded—they had to leave his body to get out without being caught.”

  “Oh, God. Does Jonathon know?”

  “Yes. There’s a possibility they won’t make the control point in time for the download.”

  “They won’t make it in time, or not at all?”

  “They’ll get there, but they may be late. They had to walk out of the cave. They’re still pretty far away.”

  Breanna had already worked out an alternative with Rubeo that would allow them to send the information just before the strike. But that assumed, of course, they did eventually make it.

  “What about Kronos?” said Breanna, asking about the plan to send Mark Stoner to Iran.

  “The aircraft is in the air and about fifteen minutes from release. Danny Freah is still gathering his team. They’ll be in Iran in forty-eight hours.”

  “Very good.”

  Sandy continued, filling in little details.

  Breanna had an alternative plan for getting the data downloaded, but to utilize it, she’d have to commit to launching the UAVs no later than 2300. If Turk wasn’t in position by then, she would have to scratch the mission.

  “I know I’m not supposed to second-guess them,” said Sandy, her words breaking into Breanna’s wandering train of thought. “But—it may be a stretch for them. They’re stealing a vehicle from a Revolutionary Guard camp. And even if they get it, to drive that far—it’s going to be tight.”

  Breanna leaned her forehead down toward her desk, cradling her head in her hand. But she managed to keep her doubts to herself.

  “It’s all right, Sandra,” she said. “Let’s let them make the moves they think they have to make. Just keep me informed of his progress.”

  She sat like that for a while, face in her hand, wanting to collapse on the desk and sleep. Not give up; just sleep. She knew she couldn’t.

  There are always moments of doubt in command. The trick is not to let them stop you. Push on.

  That was her father’s advice. She played it over in her head, knowing it was good, it was solid, it was what she had to do.

  Keep moving forward.

  Breanna glanced at the wall, where she had hung a photo of her dad receiving the Medal of Honor from the President. He had a smile on his face, but it was an uncomfortable smile. He didn’t appreciate the fuss, and he didn’t think he deserved the medal.

  He surely did, that one and many more. But in many ways Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian was a man out of his time, a throwback to the generation that did heroic things and called them their duty.

  The phone on the desk buzzed. Her secretary was reminding her that she was due for the private briefing with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Breanna grabbed the thumb drive from her computer, fixed her lipstick, and set off.

  16

  Iran

  THE FIRST FENCE WAS EASY.

  Either some of the men stationed there or black marketeers doing business with them had bent a portion of the bottom away from the ground almost exactly at the spot Grease was aiming. Turk pushed the ruck ahead of him and crawled into the no-man’s-land between the two fences. The ground was dry but its scent was salty. His nose itched and he felt as if he were going to sneeze.

  Grease crawled through behind him. “Let’s go,” he said, jumping up and starting to run. “Move.”

  Turk did his best to keep up. The sergeant led him to the left, crossing from the spot of inky darkness into the outer edge of a dim semicircle of gray shadow. Grease had spotted another bent-up fence here and trusted that the locals knew the safest route.

  Turk squeezed the ruck through once again. His shirt snagged as he went under and he had to back up to get loose. He moved forward and snagged again, the edge of the fence digging into his skin. Suppressing a curse, he twisted sideways, then fought his way free.

  A truck or a jeep was headed their way. He looked over at Grease, just coming through behind him.

  “Yeah, I see it,” said the Delta sergeant. “Come on, come on.”

  They ran for an area of low scrub about fifty yards away. Turk’s heart pounded in his chest, and by the time he threw himself down next to Grease, his thighs had cramped. He slipped off his pack and pushed low into the dirt, trying in vain to ignore the pain in his legs.

  Headlights appeared to their right, swinging around from the direction of the runway.

  “All right. Come on,” hissed Grease, rising to a crouch.

  He started running straight ahead. Turk grabbed the ruck and followed, thinking they were going to stop behind a second clump of bushes about ten yards away. But Grease continued past it.

  In seconds Turk lost sight of
him in the darkness.

  “Grease?” he hissed.

  Not hearing an answer, he dropped on his belly. The jeep was near the perimeter of the fence, to his right. He crawled forward, moving in the direction Grease had taken.

  “Here!” hissed Grease a few seconds later.

  He was ahead, sitting in a defensive position—a foxhole, dug into the inner ring of defenses. He was pointing his rifle toward the jeep.

  “Do they see us?” asked Turk.

  “Back to us. I doubt it.”

  It was a tight fit in the foxhole. Turk shifted himself around, then reached for his pack.

  “What are you doing?” asked Grease.

  “I’m getting my gun.” It was packed into the ruck next to the control unit, the stock folded up.

  “Just relax, huh?”

  Oh yeah, really, thought Turk, taking it out. Relax.

  Two men got out of the jeep and walked in front of the headlights. Turk stared at the haze around them, not sure if he should hope they came toward them—kill them and the truck would be easy to take.

  Grease must have read his mind. “We let them go for now. If we shoot them, someone will hear. If there’s one vehicle here, there’s bound to be two.”

  Turk hunkered lower to the ground. The shadows of the men grew more distinct. They walked back to the vehicle, got in, and continued around the interior circuit of the base.

  Grease started to move almost as soon as they put it in gear.

  “Let’s go,” he said, reaching down to help him up.

  They ran toward the hangar buildings just south of the end of the runway. Turk ran as fast as he could, legs growing rubbery; by the time he reached the back of the building where Grease was crouched, he felt barely able to stand.

  “Just a little more,” said Grease. “Catch your breath.”

  “OK.”

  Turk slumped against the wall, trying to will his heart rate back to something close to normal. Grease crawled out from the corner of the building, observing the barracks and administrative areas about fifty yards away.