Drone Strike

1

No one spoke. Breanna stared at the map screen at the front of the control room. Turk’s position flashed on and off, on and off, a lonely green dot in a mass of gray and black.

“Seismographic data, confirmed,” said Teddy Armaz finally. “We have a nuclear explosion — odd pattern — two maybe? One partial? Looks like, uh, four and a half total megatons. Uh—”

“Judging from the wave patterns, there were two weapons,” said Rubeo. “These are only partial explosions. Whether because of our attacks or their design will require further analysis. Interesting.”

Another brief moment of silence followed, no one speaking or even breathing. And then the room exploded with a cheer.

Breanna turned to Reid. He was smiling. “We did it.”

“Yes,” she told him. “Yes.”

Reid picked up one of the handsets to call the White House. Breanna noticed Rubeo behind him. He was staring at one of his laptop screens, his face cemented into a frown.

Someone in the front yelled, “Yeah!” The cheering crescendoed, culminating in a round of applause that would have shaken a football stadium.

They deserved it. Iran’s nuclear program had been critically disabled. It would take at least a decade for the Iranians to reconstitute the human and mechanical infrastructure; by then, all manner of things would have changed.

Still, they weren’t finished.

“All right,” she told the room. “Settle down. We need to get our people home.”

2

Turk lay on his back, confused and disoriented. The control unit, still in his hands, had fallen onto his chest, but for a moment he didn’t realize what it was. He was so tired that his brain was scrambled and his eyes physically hurt; dizzy, he thought he was falling from his bed in a dream.

His confusion lasted only a second. A jet passed somewhere above, nearby and low.

“Grease!” Turk sputtered.

Grease pulled him up by his shirt. “We have to move,” said the sergeant. “Come on.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Turk started putting the control unit into the pack.

“Let’s destroy it,” said Grease. “We don’t need to carry it.”

“There’s still one more UAV overhead,” said Turk. “Which way is the truck?”

“We can’t get it. There are troops watching it,” said Grease. “We’ll circle around and take one of their vehicles.” Holding his rifle in one hand, he started down the slope, half sliding, half walking.

Turk strapped on his ruck and followed. After a few yards he found the slope so steep he had to dig his feet in sideways against the dirt. He leaned his whole side into the hill, trying to keep some control as he started to slide. Digging his heels in didn’t work; he pushed with his elbow and finally turned his whole back against the earth, barely slowing until he slid into Grease’s back.

The soldier said nothing, pulling him off silently, then tugging him to follow down a much gentler incline to a nearly flat path that tucked south. Bisected by a wide but shallow creek bed used by runoff during downpours, the path straightened as they went, moving along what Turk guessed was once a farm field, abandoned years before.

After they walked for a few minutes he spotted a building and what looked like a working farm, or at least a place where underground water allowed trees to grow. It was too far away to see what sort of orchard this might be. The trees looked thin, almost disintegrating in the early sun as they formed a narrow column roughly parallel to the path. Grease and Turk walked past the farm quickly, continuing until Grease, moving by instinct rather than map or GPS, turned sharply to the right.

“Stop,” he said, after they’d gone another hundred yards.

Turk obeyed, lowering himself to his haunches while Grease continued forward. It was quiet, eerily so; Turk knew that they had succeeded, yet the lack of a response seemed to contradict that.

No, he thought. They were five miles from each site, too far to see what was going on at either. And it would be impossible for the Iranians to respond quickly, even if they knew what had happened.

The Iranian jet took another low pass near the hill. If it weren’t for the plane, he might have thought this was all a dream.

3

Captain Vahid checked the MiG’s fuel. he was perhaps five minutes from his reserves, though he had more leeway now that he could use the Pasdaran base. It looked like he would need it: the ground commander had put the attack on hold, deciding at the last moment that he needed clearance not just from Colonel Khorasani but his own commander to make the attack on the truck.

The delay was excruciating. He widened his orbit around the search area, moving up and down Highways 7 and 71, which twined around each other from Tehran to Qom. The great salt lake, Hoz-e Soltan, sat to the east of the highways, a vast flat mirror of salty water so shallow it could be walked across, even in the rainy season.

Hoz-e Soltan was famous in Iran, and Vahid’s older sister had told him stories about monsters in the lake when he was a young child. Bad children were led there and made to walk along the edge, where they slowly sank into the marshy edge.

But not all the way. When only their heads were above the surface, birds would come and build nests on their hair. The salt would preserve them forever as waterlogged mannequins, swelled and wrinkled by the saltwater.

On Vahid’s first visit as an adult, he was surprised to see shapes rising from the salt bed in the distance. They looked like heads and nests, and for a moment he felt the same horror he’d felt listening to his sister. It was only when he drew closer that he realized they were large mounds of salt crystal and cakes of salt packed tightly like concrete, the afterbirth of the receding water.

“Do they want us to bomb this truck or not?” asked Lieutenant Kayvan finally. “Five more minutes of this and we are walking to base.”

“We have more time than that,” said Vahid, though he agreed with Kayvan’s point. The idiot Pasdaran should hurry up and decide whether they wanted their truck shot up or not.

“Shahin One, can you hear me?” Colonel Khorasani’s voice exploded in his helmet, sharp and angry.

“I hear you, Colonel.”

“What is your status?”

“Colonel, the ground commander is waiting permission to destroy the truck.”

“I already gave the order.”

“Yes, Colonel, but the ground unit—”

“Destroy that vehicle immediately. Destroy anything near it. Do it quickly. Destroy anything that moves. Use every weapon you have. Do it now, Captain.”

“Colonel, there are friendly units within a few hundred yards,” said Vahid.

“You have my orders.”

“Shahin One acknowledges.”

“Whoa,” said Kayvan. “What bit his ass?”

“Line up with me.”

“Did he just give us permission to wipe out the Pasdaran unit?” Kayvan asked.

“Follow me in, and watch out for friendlies,” snapped Vahid, switching to the ground unit’s frequency to warn them.

4

Pacing on the highway a mile north of Qom, Colonel Khorasani shook the handset of his satellite communications system as if it were a rattle before handing it back to Sergeant Karim in the command truck. The jets were some thirty kilometers north, much too far for him to see or hear.

“Has Fordow 14 checked in?” he asked his aide.

“No, sir. We’re working on it.”

“Work harder.” Khorasani folded his arms in front of him and began pacing. Occasionally he glanced at the dusty skyline of the holy city on his right, but mostly he kept his eyes in the direction of Fordow 12, which had reported an “incident” nearly twenty minutes before.

The report was sketchy, but alarming: the captain of the Guard unit stationed there had reported a blast followed by a fire in the main underground bunkers. It had been severe; he reported there was a massive cave-in, with smoke and debris still spewing from the ventilation shafts. The access elevators were off-line; he had sent two men from the security team down the secondary stairways to find out what happened.

The men had not yet reported back. It was, after all, a long way down.

Khorasani had questioned the captain personally, asking about aircraft. There had been no sign of any, nor had the local radars picked up bombs or missiles approaching.

Sergeant Karim bent to the phone.

“A policeman near Baqeraba reports he felt an earthquake a few minutes ago,” he said, looking up.

“Take his name.”

“There was another report—”

“Don’t bother me with trivia, Sergeant. Record the names. We’ll have someone talk to them.”

Khorasani had felt nothing, but the reports were ominous. When Karim hung up, he told him to try Fordow 14 himself.

“Colonel, I did try.”

“Try again. And then I want you to contact Saiar in the Tehran office.”

“The scientist?”

“Yes, you idiot. Tell him — ask him if there has been an event similar to the other day.”

“It’s still early.”

“Call him at home if you have to. Find out.”

“Right away, Colonel.”

By now Khorasani knew it was highly likely that there had been another explosion, or perhaps two, similar to the one at Natanz D. One such incident might be a malfunction, but two? This could only be a deliberate attack.

And that spelled great trouble for him. He was sure to be blamed for not moving quickly enough to prevent further attacks.

If they were attacks. Surely, they must be due to flaws in the weapons or the procedures for handling them.

“Air General Shirazi for you,” said Sergeant Karim, leaning out of the truck. “He wants to know what’s going on.”

Khorasani took the handset. “General, are we under attack?”

“You are asking me?”

“There has been an explosion at one of the laboratory facilities north of Qom, near Fordow. We expect many casualties,” said Khorasani. “And I cannot contact another of our sites. There had been — some people have felt an earthquake in the region.”

“That is why I am calling.”

“Has there been an air attack?”

“We have seen nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

General Shirazi cut the line, clearly angry. Khorasani had not meant that as an insult, only a question. The American stealth bombers certainly had ways of launching sneak attacks, and even a cruise missile might be undetected before it struck.

Why were there commandos and spies in the area, then?

Who said they were commandos? Just smugglers — a coincidence.

Khorasani had to consider the situation carefully. It could be an accident. Three accidents.

Blame it on the air force. No, more subtle: set it up so the air force would take the blame. He himself would say nothing.

Hints, only. Subtly.

If it was a ground attack, he had to capture the men who were responsible. If someone else captured them, they would be tortured and admit what they had done. They might even brag about it.

Americans surely would brag.

5

The deep bass of the jet’s thrust shook the floor of the desert as it dove toward the vehicle parked on the slope. A cannon thumped, the sound more like a runaway sewing machine than a gun. There was an explosion, then a sharp, loud crack.

Three thrp-thrp-thrps followed. The two men who had been guarding the vehicles on the road fell to the ground.

“Go!” hissed Grease.

Turk jumped to his feet as Grease ran toward the nearest truck. The aircraft was turning north, lining up for a second run. Iranian soldiers were some fifty or sixty yards away, beyond the farthest vehicle and close to the hill. The rest of the troops were strung out along the road and hillside, waiting for the jets to complete their attack.

Turk ran up along the passenger side of the vehicles. The straps on the rucksack with the control unit had loosened, and the pack bounced against his back. Its metal base punched his kidneys in an unsteady rhythm, a drunken boxer who knew where his mark was but couldn’t quite find a steady pace for his hooks.

Suddenly the cab in front of him opened. Turk couldn’t believe it — there wasn’t supposed to be anyone here, and if there was anyone, surely Grease would have killed him.

The man had a gun.

He fired.

So did Turk.

The man fell. Turk kept running. When he reached the cab, he pushed the AK-47 inside, fired a burst, then looked in. The truck was empty.

“Go, go, go,” hissed Grease, running from the head of the column. He’d killed the other guards.

Turk jumped behind the driver’s side.

“It’s running,” he said, starting to back into a three point turn.

“Yeah. Just go.”

Turk saw the fighter pull up beyond the hill. Its wingmate was above, circling out of sight, though he could hear it.

“I just killed someone,” he said as he finished the turn.

Grease didn’t answer. He was leaning out the window, making sure they weren’t followed. The sound of the jets flashing overhead had muffled the gunshots.

Was it really that easy to kill someone, Turk wondered, so easy that he didn’t even have to think about it?

Yes, it certainly was. It was easy to live.

When they’d gone a mile, Grease insisted they change places. He took the wheel and headed south. They were doing over a hundred kilometers an hour by the time they reached the highway, dirt furling behind them.

“We’re headed toward Qom,” said Turk as they turned onto the well-paved and marked road.

“No shit.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“I’ll turn west as soon as I can. We have another safe house out in Lorestan. We should be there before morning, if we don’t get stopped.”

High above Qom, Vahid checked his instruments and got ready to return to base. He, too, was now low on fuel.

The truck had been completely destroyed; not even dust remained.

“Shahin One, are you reading us?” It was the ground unit they had just assisted.

“This is Shahin One.”

“One of our vehicles has been stolen. We require your assistance.”

“What the hell?” snapped Kayvan on the squadron frequency. “What are these idiots doing?”

“Silence,” commanded Vahid. The ground unit gave the description of the vehicle — one of their small tactical utility trucks, a Kaviran. They had seen it heading south.

Vahid acknowledged and tucked his wing, rolling downward toward the dark earth. They were nearly twenty kilometers south of the truck he had just destroyed.

“I am on your six,” said Kayvan, sounding chastised. “I am low on fuel. Ten minutes, maybe.”

“See anything?”

“I have the highway — Freeway 7. I can see it clearly.”

“Traffic?”

“No traffic.”

Freeway 7, also known as the Persian Gulf Highway, was on Vahid’s right.

“I have a car,” said Kayvan.

“Not a target,” said Vahid. “Keep looking.”

“Something ahead.”

“We’ll go past and then sweep back around,” Vahid told his wingman, realizing he was moving too fast to get a good look at the vehicle or shoot at it. “Stay with me.”

“The planes are out of bombs,” said Turk as the aircraft passed. “Probably out of ammo, too. They don’t carry much.”

“They’ll be spotting for the ground units,” said Grease. “Dig out the map. We’ll have to look for another route.”

Turk dug the map and GPS out from Grease’s pack, on the floor between them.

“So what’s the general plan?” he asked.

“Get the hell out of here. Go to Lorestan.”

“Then what?”

“North to the Caspian.”

“Five or six hundred kilometers.”

“There’s fuel at Lorestan. We can get there in two hours.”

“In broad daylight?”

“You got a better plan, I’m all ears.”

Grease’s sharp retort felt like a slap across the face.

“We’ll figure it out at Lorestan,” said Grease, his voice softer. “Do you have to check in?”

“They’ll have picked up the rumble. From here it’s silent coms, unless we get into trouble,” said Turk.

“Yeah. Unless.”

“It’s a Kaviran,” said Kayvan. “Definitely.”

“You didn’t see anything else north?” Vahid asked.

“Nothing.”

“How’s your fuel?”

“Well, I have to land soon.”

So did Vahid. “We’ll use the Pasdaran airfield,” he told his wingmate.

“Even so — maybe five minutes?” Kayvan’s voice made it clear that he was being extremely optimistic, and even at five minutes, his fuel stores would be even lower than Vahid’s.

“Let’s do this quickly,” replied Vahid. “Take a run and head toward the base. Stand by while I talk to the ground unit.”

The commander of the Pasdaran unit was in his own truck, coming south. Worried that he had mistaken the vehicle, Vahid told him to pull off the road immediately and fire a flare. He hunted around in the air for several seconds before he found the signal well to the north.

“Stay where you are until we clear,” Vahid told him. “We’re making our run now.”

Turk heard a loud screech, the sound of metal ripping, then nothing; the world had gone silent. The truck disintegrated around him, whirling him into the darkness at the side of the road. The next few moments were lost in a cloud of metal haze and fire. He crawled across the dirt, a black cowl around his head. He choked. His eyes burned. Finally he got to his feet and took a few tentative steps, moving toward clear air.

Grease — where was Grease?

Turk turned back toward the expanding fist of smoke that marked the road. He still didn’t comprehend what had happened. They’d hit a bomb or something.

“Grease!” he yelled, starting forward. “Grease!”

The putrid air drove him to the left. He crossed the road and saw the front end of the truck sitting a few yards away. It looked as if it had been sawed in half, then quartered. The cab was nearly intact, propped on one end by the wheel.

Grease was still inside. Turk ran to the door, grabbed his shirt and pushed it between his fingers and the handle to act as an insulator if the metal was hot. But the latch was cool, as was the rest of the cab; it was the back of the truck that was on fire.

Turk pulled the door open. Grease was slumped forward against his restraints, hanging a few inches from the steering wheel. Turk undid the belt, fingers fumbling. He pulled at Grease, and though the sergeant’s eyes were closed, somehow expected that he would follow him from the truck. Instead, his companion and protector sprawled out the door, face first against the ground, his feet wedged under the damaged dashboard.

“Come on,” said Turk. He hooked his arm under Grease, pulling him up and out. He started back in the direction that he had come, circling back to the spot where he first emerged from the smoke.

It didn’t occur to Turk that Grease might be dead until he put him down. He couldn’t hear anything, and despite the full sunlight could barely see. His ears had been blown out by the bang of the explosion, his eyes unfocused by all that had happened.

“God,” moaned Grease.

The word restored Turk’s hearing. But it worked too well. Now he heard everything: the drone of planes in the distance, the rumble of trucks far away, the sizzling hiss of the fire continuing to burn.

He needed a gun. And the control unit. And Grease’s ruck. But where were they?

“Stay here,” Turk told Grease, letting him down as gently as he could manage, then ran back to the destroyed truck. The AK-47 and the control pack sat in the dirt a few yards from the front of the cab.

Looping the backpack strap around his right shoulder, Turk picked up the gun. He could hear a truck engine whining in the distance.

Grease curled himself into a little ball, moans and grunts coming from the recesses of his abdomen. He started to cough, and didn’t stop until Turk lifted him to a sitting position. “We have to get to cover,” Turk told him. “Can you walk?”

Grease groaned something in response. Turk twisted himself around to lever Grease upward, trying to be gentle as he propped the wounded man onto his back.

“We’re going, let’s move,” said Turk, commanding his feet and the rest of his body to cooperate. He decided he couldn’t get the gun or the control ruck without losing his balance; he’d have to come back for them.

Turk began walking away from the road, his first goal simply to get as far away as possible. Blood and adrenaline rushed to his muscles. He felt strong.

“We’re getting the hell out of here,” he told Grease.

Grease, draped over his side and back, didn’t answer. He moved, as if trying to walk.

“I got it,” Turk told him. “Let me do it.”

A clump of gray and green loomed before him. At first glance it looked like a large body, laid out on the ground. Turk pushed that image away, stubbornly insisting to his brain that it couldn’t possibly be a body. He was right; within a few yards the shadow had broken itself into several small trees and a cluster of rocks. He walked steadily toward it, Grease’s weight pushing him closer and closer to the earth.

The rocks were the far side of an open pit that had been bulldozed sometime before, then abandoned. Turk walked to the rocks and put Grease down as gently as possible. Taking off his own shirt, he fashioned it into a narrow pillow and placed it under Grease’s head.

“I’ll be right back,” he told his friend. “I have to get our stuff.”

Grease said nothing. Turk took a step away, then remembering that he wasn’t armed, reached down and took the sergeant’s handgun. He held it in his hand as he ran back in the direction of the road.

6

“Truck destroyed,” Captain Vahid told the ground commander as he headed for the airfield.

“Are there survivors?”

“I don’t think so,” said Vahid. “I took a pass but the smoke was so thick I couldn’t see anything. The vehicle split into several pieces.”

“Acknowledged, Shahin One.”

“I’m rather low on fuel,” said Vahid. “I’ve already sent my wingman to make an emergency landing.”

“We’ll proceed to the site. Thank you for your help.”

“I can do one last run if you want.”

“Negative, Captain. Thank you for your help. God is great!”

“You’re welcome. God is great!” he repeated, with more enthusiasm than he had mustered in some time.

7

“They don’t seem to be moving anymore,” said Breanna, staring at the screen where Turk’s position was marked. “They’re only a few miles south of Qom — are the Guard units responding there?”

“The Iranians are still trying to figure out what’s going on,” said Jonathon Reid, who’d gone over to the console where a digest of NSA intercepts were being displayed in near-real time. “They’re very confused.”

The intercepts, compiled from a variety of sources, were translated by machine and color-coded for source. A program in the network applied various filters, showing Whiplash only the information that corresponded to a set of keywords and geographic locations. The sheer volume of the intercepts as well as the Iranians’ own confusion made it doubly difficult to figure out what was going on.

“What about that Pasdaran colonel who was assigned to handle the investigation into the first attack?” asked Breanna. “Where is he?”

“I’m not sure at the moment,” said Reid. “We’re working on it.”

“There’s one nano-UAV remaining,” said Teddy Armaz. “It was the unit with the malfunctioning sensor. It has about five minutes of flight time left.”

“Can we self-destruct it?”

“No. The X-37B is well out of range.” Armaz looked over Bob Stevenson’s shoulder at the status panel. “It should destroy itself on its own in about five minutes, since it hasn’t had a command.”

Breanna nodded. The self-destruct protocol was one of several safeguards that had been instituted throughout the military’s UAV fleet following an accident in 2012 that allowed a Stealth drone to descend into Iran practically without damage. Ironically, the capture of the drone and the subsequent sale of its technology to China had spurred the development of several more advanced American UAV projects, including the Hydras. Iran would have been better off simply letting the Stealth UAV alone.

“I don’t like the fact that Turk’s not moving,” Breanna told Reid.

Reid was concentrating on the screen. “The WB-57 pilot has been recovered. Well that’s one of ours back, at least.”

“What about Turk?”

“He’s moving in the area,” answered Reid, zooming his screen. “He’s still alive. For how long is anyone’s guess.”

8

Turk heard the vehicle coming as soon as he reached the rifle. He grabbed it and the ruck with the control unit and ran back to Grease.

The sergeant was lying exactly as Turk had left him. His eyes were closed. If it weren’t for his groans, Turk would have thought he was dead.

The truck was just reaching the wreckage. Rather than stopping, though, it kept going. Turk felt a slight bit of relief, then remembered the airplane was still above somewhere.

He had one more nano-UAV, didn’t he? Where was it?

Pulling the control unit from the backpack, he unfolded it and turned it on. The Hydra was circling above, descending in a gradually tightening spiral. Because it hadn’t been contacted in a half hour, it had begun its self-destruct sequence. In twenty-eight seconds it would blow itself up.

“Computer, establish direct control,” said Turk. “UAV 1.”

“Control established.”

The destruct panel cleared. Turk checked the aircraft’s status. It was in perfect order, except for the defective gauge, which still indicated it was overheating.

The aircraft had an infrared sensor. Turk scanned the feed, looking for the Iranian aircraft. But the sky near the Hydra was clear; the MiG had moved on.

The sound of the truck interrupted him. He crawled to the side of the small mound of dirt, squinting into the distance as the vehicle stopped near the wreckage. Men appeared from the truck, casting long shadows as they stepped in front of the low sun. There were six. They split up and moved around the wreckage methodically.

Turk calculated his odds with the AK-47.

He had only one magazine. One three-round burst per man — he’d have to be incredibly good — and lucky.

The shadows of the men danced wildly. They ran to the vehicle.

They’ve missed me, thought Turk.

Then he saw the truck back up and turn in his direction.

Turk turned around and looked at Grease. The Delta sergeant was in no shape to move.

“I’m not going to abandon you,” said Turk, patting Grease’s shoulder. “I just need a better vantage point to fight from.”

Six against one? Even Grease would have trouble with those odds.

Turk started to go back to the side of the hill, thinking he would ambush the men when they got out of the truck. Then he had a better idea.

He pulled over the control unit and took command of the UAV.

“Target vehicle,” he said. “Destroy.”

Turk looked up from the screen. The UAV was 3,000 feet above, banking around in a turn. He strained to see it, but the bright sky wouldn’t give it up.

He raised his rifle, steadying his aim on the truck. Suddenly, an ear-piercing whistle broke the silence. As the shriek grew unbearable, it was overrun by a sharp crack. The UAV exploded point-blank in the cab of the truck rushing toward him.

Turk grabbed the rifle and ran forward, gun hard against his side, legs churning. The truck was on fire. Someone stumbled out of the passenger side. Turk raised the nose of his gun and fired.

The man fell.

Running to his right, Turk circled the truck, finger ready against the trigger.

There was no one to shoot. There’d been six in the vehicle; five died in the explosion and fire. The lone survivor lay gut-shot on the ground nearby, dead by Turk’s burst.

Something popped. Turk dropped to his haunches, spinning toward the road.

Ammo cooking off.

There’d be more. He looked for another weapon but saw none.

Best to go, he told himself, best to get the hell out of there before their friends come.

He ran back to Grease.

The sergeant had propped himself up on one elbow by the time Turk returned. Only his left eye was open.

“Grease,” said Turk, lowering himself next to him. “Hey.”

“I screwed up,” said Grease.

“No. We got them. We got them. Their labs are destroyed.”

“You did that. That was your mission.”

“No. We both did it.”

Grease coughed. “I…” His arm slipped and his head collapsed to the ground. He was having trouble breathing. “I…”

“It’s all right,” Turk told him. “Save your strength.”

“I didn’t complete mine.” Grease’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll get out. Don’t give up.”

“I…”

“We’re going to make it, Grease. I’ll get us to that next safe house or whatever you mentioned. Then tomorrow night we’ll go to the coast. We’ll make it.”

“I was supposed to kill you,” muttered Grease. “I just… supposed to… can’t, but… I just… I… failed… I failed. I’m too weak…”

Turk jerked back, a shudder running through him. By the time he recovered, Grease was dead.