Текст книги "Drone Strike"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

12

Washington, D.C.

ZEN STARED AT THE NUMBER ON HIS BLACKBERRY phone. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it or the name above: DR. GROD.

He looked up from his seat in the stadium box. The National Anthem was still about five minutes off.

What the hell.

“Excuse me,” he told his guests, a pair of junior congressmen from Florida who had supported one of his bills in the House. “I guess I should take this. It’s on my personal line.”

He wheeled himself back a few feet and hit the talk button.

“This is Zen.”

“Senator Stockard?”

“This is Zen. What can I do for you?”

“It’s Gerry Rodriguez from the Vegas clinic. Remember me from Dreamland? I know it’s been a while.”

“Gerry.” Zen closed his eyes, trying to associate the name with Dreamland.

“I had interviewed you as a follow-up to the experiments that followed, well, what the press ended up calling the ‘nerve center experiments.’ The cell regeneration group.”

“Right, right, right.” The experiments he remembered; Gerry he didn’t.

“You asked if I ever came up with anything . . . about regenerating the spinal tissue. If there was a project—”

“Sure.” Zen glanced toward the front of his box. The two congressmen were rising; the National Anthem was about to begin.

“I’m going to be in Washington tomorrow, as it happens. And I’d like to talk to you. If, uh, we could arrange it. I know your schedule is pretty tight, but—”

Zen got requests like this all the time: scientists looking for direction on how to get funding—and often specifically handouts. Standard Operating Procedure was to fend them off to one of his aides.

“Come around to the office and we can discuss it then,” he told his caller.

“Um, when?”

“Whenever. I don’t have my appointments handy. Tomorrow, the next day. See Cheryl. She’ll take care of you.”

“Great. I—”

“Listen, I’m sorry. I have to go.” Zen hit the end call button and rolled toward the front of the box just as the music began.

13

Iran

THE IRANIAN MILITARY COLUMN WAS TOO CLOSE FOR them to simply avoid. Granderson decided their best bet was simply to play through—keep moving along the road, moving with purpose, and hope to pass the column without hassle.

It almost worked.

With the car in the lead, the American caravan quickly set out, moving along the scratch road as quickly as it could. As they approached the lead Kaviran, the Israeli tucked as far to the side as he dared, the wheels of the car edging into the soft dirt. The Kaviran kept going. Turk, who had his head back against the car seat, caught a glimpse of the driver, eyes fixed on the road ahead, worried about getting past the pickup and truck. The next Kaviran thumped by. Turk saw the passenger in the front of the third Kaviran turn toward them, craning his neck to see inside.

“Faster,” muttered Grease.

But the Israeli was struggling to keep the vehicle simply moving. The two troop trucks hogged the road, and the only way to pass them was to swerve onto the loose gravel at the side. The Israeli waited until the last possible moment, then pitched the car to the right, drifting precariously toward a drop-off on the other side. They held the road, though just barely. Turk grabbed the handle of the door next to him as the car slipped around, the back wheels sliding free on the gravel.

Clear of the last truck, they had just started to accelerate when Turk heard a loud pop behind them. It sounded a little like a firecracker or a backfire, not a bullet, and he at first couldn’t make sense of it. In the next second, Grease barked at the Israeli to keep going and get the hell out of there. Turk turned around, trying to see what was going on, but all he saw was dust swirling everywhere, a massive tornado of yellow edged with brown. Reaching to the floor, he retrieved his rifle. By the time he got it, Grease had leaned over from the front and was pushing down on his shoulders, yelling at him to stay down.

“We have to help them,” protested Turk.

“Just stay the hell down.”

The next few minutes passed in a blur, the Israeli going as fast as he could up the road, Grease holding Turk down while he tried to get the rest of the team on the radio. The jagged hills played havoc with the low-intercept; he kept calling to the others without a response. Turk struggled to free himself even as he realized there was little he could do.

By the time Grease let go, the Israeli had started braking. They came around a curve in the mountain, swerving into a descent and two switchbacks until finally coming to a flat piece of land. He pulled over behind a tumble of rocks.

“Where are our guys?” demanded Turk.

“Easy,” said Grease, letting him go. “You’re more important than all of us combined. We’ll sort it out.”

Turk’s legs shook when they first touched the dirt. He took a few steps toward the road before Grease caught him, the Delta trooper’s thick fingers clamping hard into his arm.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Grease demanded.

Turk spun toward him. Their faces were bare inches apart. “I’m not going to stay back while our guys are getting pounded.”

“Our job isn’t to save them.”

“Screw that.”

“No,” said Grease firmly. “Your mission is more important than their lives. Much more important. If you fail—they fail. They don’t want you hurt.”

Flustered, Turk opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t.

“Listen,” said the Israeli. “Something’s coming.”

They ran back to the rocks, Grease dragging Turk with him. Turk took a knee and peered out, trying to sort his feelings. Grease was absolutely right—and yet he felt responsible for the others. In his gut he knew he had to help them, no matter the cost.

The curve of the hills muffled the noise at first, and it wasn’t until the pickup appeared that Turk was sure the vehicles were theirs, and only theirs.

Granderson leaned out the passenger-side window of the troop truck. The truck had been battered, the windshield and side window completely blown out, and half the front fender hung down. “What the hell are you stopped for?” he yelled. “Go! Go!”

“Are you OK?” Turk shouted.

“Just get the hell out of here!” yelled the Delta captain. “Just go, go go! Damn. Grease! Get the hell out of here.”

“We’re going,” he said, practically throwing Turk into the car.

THEY STOPPED A HALF HOUR LATER, IN THE SHADOW OF the foothills, within sight of Jandagh, a small city that commanded one of the north-south valleys at the edge of the desert. Old archeological digs, long abandoned, sat nearby. Windswept sand pushed across low piles of rocks; the outlines of forgotten pits spread before them in an intricate geometric pattern, disturbed by an occasional outlier.

The troopers had blown up the two trucks with grenade launchers they’d taken from the barracks but were still badly mauled; the only one in the truck who hadn’t been hit by bullets or shrapnel was Granderson, who miraculously survived without a scratch. Green was the worst; he’d taken shots in both legs and lost considerable blood. It was small consolation, but they’d killed all of the Iranians.

The back of their stolen troop truck had been turned into a makeshift rolling clinic. Turk climbed up, talking to the men as Grease watched from below. Dread tried to make a joke about seeing the “beautiful Iranian outback,” but it fell flat. The canvas top had been punctured by bullets, but the air inside still hung heavy and fetid, smelling of blood and cordite.

Granderson came back from the pickup to get Turk and figure out what to do next. Turk had been lingering with Green. It seemed impossible that the solid old warrior could be wounded, as if his body was made of steel and concrete, yet his legs and fresh green uniform blouse were covered with blood.

“I’m good, Pilot,” he kept muttering. “I’ll be all right.”

There was nothing Turk could do for Green, or any of them. He slipped out and walked around the side with Granderson, who was explaining what had happened.

“The passenger in the front of the first troop truck jumped out with a handgun and tried to wave down the pickup,” Granderson told him. “We didn’t stop. When he started to fire, Gorud and the troop truck ran him down, but the second truck swerved to block us. We fought it out.”

It hadn’t taken too long—three minutes, five—but Granderson was worried that they got off a call for help; one of the command vehicles had disappeared before they could fire at it.

“Hills are so bad Grease couldn’t even hear your radios,” said Turk. “Probably, they couldn’t get anything out.”

“Maybe.” Granderson turned and pointed to the troop truck. “We won’t get far with this. It’s pounded to crap. And the pickup’s not too much better. We’ll have to steal something from Jandagh.”

It was just visible in the distance, off to the right. Turk rubbed the sand off his face and looked at the dunes scattered between them and the small city. Yellow buildings floated below a wavy haze. Patches of green appeared like bunting amid the parched landscape and distant bricks.

“We’ll never get a truck out of there during the day without being seen,” said Gorud, walking over with the Israeli. His left arm was wrapped in a thick bandage. “Assuming we find one.”

“Sitting here is not a good idea,” said the Israeli.

They studied the GPS and the paper map. They were roughly two hundred miles from the target area, and that was if they went on a straight line. Even the best roads would add another hundred miles.

“Maybe the best thing to do is split up,” Gorud suggested to Granderson. “Take the pilot west for the mission. You wait until dark, then take the truck and go north to the escape route. Route 81 is nearby.”

“We’re not leaving without you,” said Turk.

“Gorud is right,” suggested the Israeli.

“It’s not going to happen,” said Turk. He glanced at Grease. The soldier’s stone face offered no hint about what he should say or do. “What if we wait until nightfall?” he asked. “Then we slip into the city and take what we need.”

“Not with wounded,” said Granderson.

“What other cities are there along the way?” Turk asked. “We could go a little distance, stretch it a little bit, then steal something.”

That seemed promising, until they examined the map. The desert west of Jandagh was mostly dunes; the car probably wouldn’t make it and the pickup might not either. So the only route possible was north, where about eighty miles of travel would take them to a cluster of hill cities and oases. If the truck made it that far, it could go the entire way.

Before they could make a decision, Turk heard helicopters in the distance. As they scrambled back to the vehicles, he had an idea.

“We’ll go back up the hill,” he yelled. “We’ll make it look like we’re investigating what happened.”

He spotted the helicopters a few minutes after the car pulled onto the road. There were two, both Shabaviz 2-75s, Iranian reverse-engineered variants of Bell’s ubiquitous Huey series. They looked like Bell 214s, with a thick, rectangular-shaped engine box above the cabin. Dressed in drab green paint, they were definitely military aircraft. They flew from the north, arcing over the sand in the general direction of the gunfight, though about two miles from it.

“They going to be close enough to see what happened there?” Turk asked as they drove back up the road. They were going as slow as the Israeli could manage without stalling the car.

“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.”