Checkmate

53

Two hours later, they were out of Iranian airspace and 110 miles southeast of Ashgabat, crossing the Garagum Desert on their way to Afghanistan.

Bird had been true to his promise. Eighty seconds after Fisher’s call, the Osprey had come roaring through the canyon and swept over Sarani’s rooftops, then popped up, did a tidy hover-turn over the plateau, and dropped the ramp twenty feet from Fisher.

After scooping the papers into the satchel, he’d locked the front door, planted a wall mine opposite it, then gone out the back and planted two more mines along the side walkway before scaling the bluff to await the Osprey. As he mounted the ramp, he’d heard an explosion from inside Abelzada’s house, followed by screaming, then by two more explosions from the walkway.

The Osprey lifted off and Bird went to full power, leaving the same way he came in. A half-dozen desultory rifle shots trailed after them, but Osprey had turned down the canyon and was lost in the darkness.

The trip out of Iran went smoothly. Having had a couple hours to study and refine his flight plan, Bird took them past the radar stations along the border without incident and with a minimum of beeping from the warning alarm.

Now Redding and Fisher sat in the cabin, sorting through Abelzada’s papers.

“Yeah, it’s all in Farsi,” Redding said.

“Got some Mandarin here,” Fisher replied.

He checked his watch: six hours until the Reagan’s destroyers moved into the Strait of Hormuz.

There had to be something coming, Fisher thought. Zhao had meticulously planned his game — had probably spent two or more years laying the groundwork. He wouldn’t be satisfied to simply let momentum and chance finish it for him. So what was his final move? Every base on the U.S.’s East and West Coasts were on full alert.

What was the last task Abelzada had sent his followers on?

Two hours later they entered Afghanistan airspace. Fisher sat down at the com console and waited for his call to be patched through to Third Echelon’s Situation Room. Lambert’s face appeared on the screen. Fisher said without preamble, “Abelzada’s dead,” and then explained. “When I found him he was making a bonfire. I got most of it — a few dozen pages in Farsi; some in Mandarin. And we’ve got Marjani. I suspect with the right incentives, he’ll have more to say.”

“Stand by.” Lambert was back ten seconds later. “Our best bet for translators and interrogators is CENTAF.” This would be the U.S. Central Command’s Air Force Headquarters at Al Udeid Air Base in Doha, Qatar. “Give me your ETA; I’ll get you cleared through Reagan ’s airspace.”

Fisher changed channels, got an answer from Bird, then switched back. “We have to refuel at the Marine base in Herat. From there, it’ll be five hours.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Lambert said. “Tell Bird to find a tailwind.”

They didn’t catch a tailwind, but a headwind, and five hours later they were just crossing Pakistan’s Makran Coast into the Arabian Sea. Their escorts, a pair of Pakastani Air Force Mirage III’s, waggled their wings and peeled off, their navigation strobes disappearing into the night. Dawn was still an hour away, but Fisher could see a fringe of orange on the horizon, toward India and the Himalayas.

Bird banked the Osprey west and headed into the Gulf of Oman. As they settled on the new course, Fisher walked to the opposite window and looked out. It took him a moment to find what he was looking for on the ocean’s surface: a rough concentric circle of lighted dots — the Reagan Battle Group, steaming toward the mouth of the Strait of Hormuz. Farther still, out of sight from here, the warships of DESRON 9 would already be moving through the Strait, ready to meet the Iranian Navy should Tehran decided to contest the shipping lanes. It would be a mismatch, Fisher knew, but any exchange of shots would signal the end of the parrying and jockeying and the start of war.

From the cockpit, an American voice came over the intercom, “Pike, this is CoalDust Zero-Six, come in, over.”

“Roger, CoalDust, we read you.”

“Here to escort you to Doha. Stay on current heading and switch to button five for ATAC control from Port Royal.”

“Roger,” Bird replied.

Fisher saw the wing strobes of an F-14 Tomcat slide into view out the window.

Behind him, Redding groaned. He was still sitting on the cabin floor with Abelzada’s papers spread all around him.

“Problem?” Fisher asked.

“I’ve got some Farsi and some Mandarin, but I’m not fluent enough to make any sense of this.”

“Another hour and we’ll be at Al Udeid. Let them worry about it.”

“Yeah, yeah… I mean, look at this here,” Redding grumbled, and held up a sheaf of papers. “Clearly, Abelzada or someone was translating this, but we’ve only got bits and pieces. For example, this character here…”

Fisher walked over. As he passed Marjani, who was still strapped to the bulkhead, he glared at Fisher and tried to yell through his gag. Fisher leveled a finger at him. “Mind your manners.” He squatted next to Redding. “Show me.”

Redding pointed to one of the Mandarin characters. “This means snake or worm, I think. And this one here… I think that means cloth. Now, what kind of sense does that make?”

“Take a break. You’ll drive yourself nuts.” He stood up and walked back to the window.

“I guess so… And this one… cat. So what’s it mean: The early cat catches the cloth worm?”

Fisher turned. “What was that? What did you just say?”

“The early cat catches the cloth—”

Fisher held up his hand, silencing Redding. Cat. Snake Cloth.

“What is it, Sam?”

“You said that character could be a worm or a snake.”

“Right. And cat, and cloth.”

“Could it be silk?”

Redding thought about it and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. What—”

“Silkworm,” Fisher murmured.