Текст книги "Drone Strike"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

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.

He could deal with that, if it turned out to be the case. It would be far easier to explain than letting saboteurs get away.

The colonel continued his circuit around the vehicle. He’d been on his way to the destroyed lab when the report of the stolen school bus was relayed to him. Khorasani had decided to follow a hunch, joining the investigation personally. It was risky on many counts. But it did allow him to say he was pursuing his leads with vigor.

And vigor was the word he would have to use for the pilot: he had followed his orders well. The vehicle had been utterly demolished.

Good, perhaps, if there were questions.

“A phone,” said Private Navid, pulling at a brick of melted plastic and metal that had melted to one of the bodies. “Or a radio.”

It was tangled with other material—cloth and hair, skin and a bone that snapped as easily as if it had been a brittle twig. Navid handed it to him.

The phone would have fit easily in Khorasani’s hand, but the debris that had melted to it was two or three times as large. Khorasani turned it over, unable to discern anything from it.

A satellite phone, maybe? An Israeli would have one.

Or a cell phone, which a member of the Guard would have. The remains were too mangled to tell.

“Colonel, the ayatollah wishes to speak.” Khorasani’s communications aide had walked up unobtrusively. He handed him the secure sat phone.

It was twice the size of the one in the wreck. Khorasani handed the melted mess back to Navid and told him to put it in his staff car.

“Reverence,” he said, putting the phone to his ear.

“What progress have you made?” asked the ayatollah.

“We have found the men who stole the bus. They are dead.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“They were responsible for the explosion?”

Khorasani hesitated. Saying yes would simplify things for him, but it could also come back to haunt him as well.

“I have no evidence yet. The Israelis are very clever and would do much to disguise themselves.”

“But you are sure they were responsible.”

Khorasani considered what to say.

“Be honest,” the ayatollah reminded him before he made up his mind.

“I have no indication that any outsides were near the facility,” confessed Khorasani. “I am only starting my investigation. This seemed like a good lead, but to be frank, I see nothing at the moment that connects it. And my aides—the preliminary inquiries would suggest an accident. Everything we have seen suggests no one was aboveground when the explosion occurred.”

“You are saying it could have been a quake.”

“I’ve been told that is . . . unlikely.”

The ayatollah, who was a member of the ruling council, had undoubtedly been told the same. He let the matter drop. “Have you spoken to the pilot who shot down the plane?” he asked instead. “Find out what he saw. Perhaps it was a B-2.”

“That is on my agenda, your excellency.” The wreckage had been recovered; it was a light plane, flown by a man tentatively identified as an Iranian. Perhaps he was a spy, but more likely an unfortunate smuggler bound for Iraq. Considerable money could be earned ferrying certain people and items from the country. But pointing that out would not be useful at the moment.

“Report to me. Speak to no one else.”

The line went dead. Khorasani handed the phone back to his aide. “Tell Major Milanian that I wish to speak to him as quickly as possible. He will need to investigate this site. It would be best if he could get here before it is much darker.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“The pilot—the one who shot the plane down last night. Find out where he is stationed. I wish to speak to him.”

“I believe it is the same squadron that responded to the vehicle,” said the aide.

“Really?”

“They were given responsibility for this area.”

“Excellent. Find his name,” said Khorasani, walking to his vehicle.

4

Washington, D.C.

“SENATOR, HE INSISTS IT’S PERSONAL. HE’S NOT HERE for funding, or legislation. He really emphasized that.”

Zen frowned at the intercom. It was his own fault, though; wanting to get Rodriguez off the phone when he’d been at the baseball game, he invited him to come in person whenever he wanted.

Even that would have been acceptable had the Nationals not proceeded to give up six runs in the top of the first.

“All right. Send him in.” Zen wheeled out from behind the desk. By the time Cheryl knocked and opened the door, he was sitting a few feet from the door.

“Senator.” Rodriguez, visibly nervous, extended his hand.

“Gerry. How are you?” Zen shook his hand. The night before, he thought he vaguely remembered Rodriguez. Now he couldn’t place him at all. “It’s been too long.”

He nearly bit his tongue. He hated being a BS artist—it was the normal political crap: beentoolong, howareya, goodtaseeya, wereallymustgettogethermoreoften.

Trivial phrases, meaningless, expected, but using them made him feel like a phony.

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” said Rodriguez.

“I don’t,” admitted Zen. “Not well, anyway. Dreamland seems like a million years ago.”

“I know. It was, um, well, the experiments didn’t go that well. So, um . . . I guess I’ve changed quite a lot.”

Rodriguez—the friendly junior doctor who’d worked out with him pre-experiment?

Yes.

“Sure—you jogged with me while I used my chair, right? Or maybe it was a fast walk.”

“Definitely a jog,” said the scientist. “If not a run.”

“You’ve gained a little weight, Jersey,” said Zen, suddenly remembering Rodriguez’s nickname. “You’re not running anymore, I’m guessing.”

“I do, but a lot less than I should. And, uh, a hernia operation a couple of years ago slowed me down.” He gently patted his stomach. “Put on about twenty pounds I haven’t been able to get rid of.”

More like thirty or forty, thought Zen, but now that he knew who Rodriguez was, he felt more comfortable. “So what have you been up to?”

“Well, I left Nevada for a few years, to work at Stanford. Then I came back with the Spinal Cell Clinic. I, uh, well, I helped start it. I’m one of the partners.” Rodriguez shifted in the chair. “I—we’ve been doing very interesting, very important work over the past few years. I guess, well maybe you saw the piece on 60 Minutes the other night on Mark Huntington.” Rodriguez sat.

“He was one of your cases?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. As you saw, he can walk now.”

“I met him,” said Zen. “I met him right after his accident at the bowl game. And I saw him again a few weeks ago. You’re right. He can walk. It’s a phenomenal story.”

“There’s a lot of hope for the procedure.”

Zen glanced quickly at his watch. It wasn’t a dodge; the Iranian “earthquake” had greatly complicated his schedule. “Doc, I have a lot of things I have to do today, including getting down to the floor in ten minutes. You’ve sold me. You have my backing. Tell Cheryl what you need. To the extent that I can help—”

“I’m not looking for backing. Or money. We’re funded through the next decade. And, to be honest, the patents—we may actually, um, stand to make a considerable amount of money.”

“Well, why are you here?”

“We want to try the process on someone who was injured at least ten years ago. Someone in good shape, willing to put the time in. Someone we already had a lot of baseline information on. You’d be the perfect candidate.”

5

Washington, D.C.

ONCE UPON A TIME, MARK STONER HAD BEEN A CIA paramilitary officer. He had been a good one. Even exceptional. Paras, as they were often called, were all highly accomplished, but Stoner stood out as a man of great skill, courage, and flexibility. He had worked with some of the best operators in the Agency’s clandestine service, and in other agencies as well, including the secret Air Force units that operated out of Dreamland.

Stoner had no memory of any of that. He had seen all of the records of his missions, scant as they were; none were familiar. On the bad days he could feel the echo of long-ago wounds he’d suffered. But he could make no link between the aches and pains and whatever had caused them.

His mind was a blank when it came to his past. He had no retained memory of anything beyond the past few months. He couldn’t remember his elementary school days, his high school years, college. He didn’t know the names of his teachers or the faces of his best friends. He could close his eyes and think of his childhood home and it wouldn’t be there. He couldn’t remember the faces of his mother and father—long dead, he was told—not even with the help of photographs.

The doctors who treated him sometimes said it would be better that way.

Stoner had been through an extremely rough time. Captured after a horrendous crash in Eastern Europe, he had become a human experiment. Designer drugs and steroids were pumped into his body to rebuild his muscles and erase his will. He’d been made into an assassin, controlled by a criminal organization in the dark recesses of the old Soviet empire.

Better not to know, said the doctors. Even his friend Zen Stockard agreed.

Stoner didn’t have an opinion, particularly. Opinions belonged to a realm beyond him, housed in a metaphysical building some towns away. The only thing he cared about now were his present surroundings—a gym on a quiet campus of a federal prison. Stoner wasn’t a prisoner, exactly; he just had no other place to go, at least not where the government could keep an eye on him.

For his own protection, the doctors said.

Stoner looked at the boxing gloves on his hands, checking the tape. Then he began hitting the weighted bag. It gave slightly with each punch, though never so much that he felt as if he were a superman.

Jab-jab-punch. He danced left, jabbed some more, then moved right. He wasn’t a boxer. He could box, but he wasn’t a boxer. He just hit the bag for something to do.

“Hey, Mark. How’s it going?”

Stoner stopped in mid-jab and looked behind him. Danny Freah was standing near the door next to two of Stoner’s doctors—Dr. Peralso and Dr. Rosen. Rosen was the case doctor; Peralso was the head of the psychiatric section responsible for him.

Both men were afraid of Stoner. It was obvious from the way their eyes darted when he approached.

Danny wasn’t afraid. He was a friend. But his eyes betrayed a different emotion: pity.

Stoner greatly preferred fear.

“Danny, hi.” He turned back and began pounding the bag again.

As he continued to wail away, he heard the three men walking across the large gymnasium floor toward him. His senses of hearing and sight were greatly improved, thanks to the ordeal he couldn’t remember. Or so the doctors said.

Stoner slammed his fists against the thick canvas. It didn’t really feel good, but it didn’t feel bad. It just was.

Finally, he turned toward Danny.

“Business?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Danny nodded. “A couple of weeks ago you told me you wanted something to do. Well I have something. It’s not easy. Actually, the odds are against success.”

Stoner shrugged. “Sounds good.”

DANNY FOLLOWED STONER AND THE DOCTORS DOWN the long hallway. His friend’s reaction was exactly what he had expected. There’d be no joy or disappointment, no excitement, and no fear. He wondered if Stoner really understood.

The doctors, though they didn’t know the actual outlines of the mission, clearly suspected it was suicidal, because they began peppering Stoner with objections from the moment he agreed. They were still at it now, talking about “treatment modalities” and “long-term rest.”

Stoner ignored them, continuing to his room. He pressed his index finger against the reader at the lock, then raised his head so the laser reader embedded above the door could measure his face. The biometric check took only a few seconds. The door snapped open as the security system recognized him.

The room was as spare as a Buddhist monk’s. A bed covered with a single sheet sat in the middle of the room. There were no blankets, no pillows. An orange vinyl chair sat in the corner. Stoner’s clothes, the few he had, were closeted behind a set of folding doors opposite the bed. Having removed his gloves while walking down the hall, he pulled the last bit of tape from them and dropped it in a nearby wastepaper basket. He put the gloves on one of the shelves, then started to change.

“Do you want privacy?” Danny asked.

“Why?”

Danny backed out of the room anyway. The doctors stayed. He guessed they were continuing to argue with Stoner about not going.

Danny didn’t mind. Part of him agreed with them.

Stoner emerged from the room, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt.

“Is that all you’re taking?” Danny asked.

“Do I need anything else?”

“No. I guess not.”

Stoner glanced at the two doctors, who had fallen silent.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” he told them.

They walked together to Danny’s car, neither man talking. Danny got in, but hesitated before turning the key to the ignition.

“This may be a suicide mission,” he said, staring straight out the front window. “Assuming it’s authorized, you’ll be dropped into Iran. It’s doubtful they’d keep you alive if you are captured.”

“OK.”

“You have to locate someone,” added Danny. “An American. He may be in custody by the time the mission is approved. If so, the mission will continue.”

“OK.”

“He can’t be allowed to tell the Iranians anything.”

“OK.”

Danny turned to look at Stoner. The former CIA officer was looking straight ahead, as if he were watching a movie. It would have to be a boring movie, as his face was expressionless.

“You’ll have to leave promptly.”

“Sure.”

“Immediately.”

“Yes.”

“You can say no,” Danny told him.

“Understood. Let’s go.”