Exit Plan

12. BAD COMPANY

5 April 2013

1730 Local Time/1430 Zulu

Three Kilometers North-Northwest of Akhtar

They’d ridden out the shamal, which had thankfully ended about 1700. It had been a long, uncomfortable wait. Even with rags stuffed in cracks around the doors and windows, the air in the shed had been filled with fine dust. They’d all worn improvised masks, but the grit still found its way onto their teeth. Clothing offered little protection. This made staying bundled against the damp chill more unpleasant as the gritty cloth rubbed up against their skin.

It wasn’t all bad news. Any trace of their passage last night had been obliterated, and with luck, the old Peykan was buried under a new sand dune.

Jerry had slept, but he didn’t feel rested, and he’d kill for a shower. Still, he felt better. There would be no shamal tonight, and just knowing what to expect helped his attitude. He also blessed the day he’d joined the Navy. He liked the outdoors, but this was taking it too far.

After the shamal ended, they managed to push open a door on the lee side of the storage shed. The SEALs secured the area, Lapointe set up the satellite antenna, and Jerry called Michigan.

“We’re ready for resupply. When do you plan on launching the Cormorant?”

Guthrie’s voice was almost cheerful. “We’ll launch at 1900, just before last light, so we can hide the plume of the booster rockets. Everything you’ve requested is being loaded as we speak.”

“Thank you, sir. This drop will help boost morale.” Jerry knew the resupply effort would solve their immediate needs, but it didn’t deal with the larger issue. “How’s the surface picture looking?”

“Worse. The number of surface patrols has increased steadily; you’d think there was a regatta up there. Fortunately, they haven’t wandered too far from Kangan, yet. But you are less than forty kilometers from the IRGC naval base at Asaluyeh, which means we still can’t come in and get you. By the way, we’ve had a request. Our friends back home examined the material you sent and would like one more file. Tell Dr. Naseri it’s a confidence building request.” Guthrie read off a string of letters and numbers.

Shirin was still dozing, so Fazel quickly explained and Yousef roused her while Pointy used his laptop and found the file Guthrie had asked about. Yawning, she typed in the decryption key, then again when it didn’t work the first time. “This is the last one,” she warned.

1815 Local Time/1515 Zulu

USS Michigan, Missile Compartment

Guthrie had tried not to hover, but now it was time for a last check. Simmons could get Michigan to the right location, depth, and heading without the captain looking over his shoulder.

The missile compartment was crowded when he arrived. The two supply capsules had already been loaded and secured inside the Cormorant’s fuselage. Lieutenant Frederickson, Chief Yates, and several enlisted members of the SEAL platoon were watching with interest as the missile techs performed the prelaunch checks while Lieutenant (jg) Pat Doolan, one of the assistant weapons officers, supervised.

The captain had served in Ohios before as a junior officer, when the boats carried twenty-four Trident II missiles. Now, the “Sherwood Forest” of double cylinders was loaded with other things. And while their general appearance hadn’t changed, Guthrie could see the details: the equipment added to recharge the scuba tanks and the added workspace for the SEALs to maintain their gear. And for two tubes, twenty-three and twenty-four, the equipment that supported the Cormorant UAVs inside. The access hatch was open, with Doolan and his chief making the final inspection. The shape of the UAV was hidden, wrapped inside its own folded wings.

Lieutenant Frederickson offered the captain a clipboard. “Here’s the final list, Skipper — four hundred and seventy pounds.”

“Is that all? The Cormorant can carry more than twice that.”

“But our people can’t. If they split the load equally, it’s over sixty pounds per person. And I don’t think the woman’s going to be carrying much at all. My guys have been working on this list since Matt and the others got stuck on the beach.”

Behind him, the missile techs closed the access hatch to the tube and began checking the seals. “Captain, can we watch the launch in the control room?” asked one of the techs. “The Tomahawk weapons control center is going to be packed, and we’d like to see our bird fly.”

“I don’t need a lot of bystanders in control during this evolution. But, I’ll authorize your team to go to the BMC for the launch. That way those of you who are not on duty can watch.”

The young missile technician smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Half an hour later, Michigan was at UAV launch stations. Sonar reported no nearby contacts, and the diving officer was ready to compensate for the absence of nine thousand pounds of robotic aircraft. The launch procedure was ridiculously simple.

The sound-powered phone talker reported, “TWCC reports Cormorant shows ready.”

Guthrie ordered, “Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three.”

“Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three, aye. Launcher, Control. Open the hatch on missile tube twenty-three.” After no more than thirty seconds, the petty officer reported, “Hatch on tube twenty-three indicates fully open and locked.” The chief of the boat, standing watch as the diving officer, could see the indicators on the ballast control panel. He nodded confirmation.

“Elevate the platform,” commanded Guthrie. The phone talker relayed the order to the launch control station in the missile compartment. The Cormorant was perched on a launch rig that would lift it clear of the missile tube hatch. Since the UAV was uncontrolled during its ascent, it had to be clear of any obstacles before it was released.

“Captain, launch platform is raised.”

“Very well. Release Cormorant.”

“Release Cormorant, aye. TWCC, Control. Release Cormorant.” Seconds later, the phone talker relayed, “Sir, Launcher indicates Cormorant has been released.”

“Good,” Guthrie answered. “Lower the platform and close the hatch on tube twenty-three. Increase speed to five knots, come to course one five zero.”

The helmsman echoed his order and began turning the sluggish sub onto its new course. The Cormorant was still rising, although it would break the surface in moments.

“Up periscope.” Michigan still had an old-style Type 8 optical periscope, along with the newer photonics mast that didn’t need to penetrate the pressure hull. Coached onto the UAV’s bearing by Simmons, the BVS-1 photonics mast would be pointing straight at the Cormorant when it cleared the surface. Monitors in the control room showed the two images side by side; natural light and low-level light from the photonics mast’s cameras. Guthrie used the older Type 8 to conduct a safety sweep.

“Thar she blows!” Simmons announced. “I can see the boosters.” On the natural light monitor, a brilliant spark flashed, but was quickly enveloped by a cloud of backlit exhaust. The vehicle itself was only visible on the low-light monitor, a bent arrowhead at the top of the cloud. Two shapes fell away, and the vehicle arced over from vertical to level flight. The petty officer monitoring the UAV console narrated the action as he reported the telemetry. “Booster separation, engine start. Speed is good, following preset course and altitude.”

Lieutenant Frederickson’s voice came over the intercom. “Control, BMC. We’ve notified the team the vehicle is in the air.”

Guthrie acknowledged the reports. “Understood. Good work, everyone. Mr. Simmons, give me the best course to the recovery position.”

The Cormorant UAV was built from gray angles. A triangular intake in the front was attached to two gull wings and a triangular lower fin that looked like the keel of a sailboat. The cylindrical cargo containers were hidden inside two angled bumps on the fuselage, to maintain the vehicle’s stealthy radar signature.

This was a short trip for the unmanned aircraft, even including the doglegs Guthrie had ordered to conceal Michigan’s position. Cruising at 450 knots, it covered the twenty miles of its flight plan in just less than three minutes.

Halfway to its destination, the vehicle sensed a coded signal. The controller operated by Petty Officer Lapointe refined the location of the drop point, and the vehicle automatically made a minor correction in course.

Lapointe barely had time to acknowledge Frederickson’s transmission before he had to use the remote control terminal. Jerry and the others waited inside for the supply drop. Lapointe had to be in the open so the terminal’s signal wouldn’t be blocked, but Ramey wanted everyone else under cover. “We can’t see it coming, and the thing’s dropping two canisters two feet in diameter and five feet long. If the chutes don’t deploy, I don’t want anyone exposed.”

Although curious to see the vehicle in flight, Jerry agreed. Besides, at night there would be little to see.

The UAV slowed as it approached the programmed waypoint. Lapointe could see their building through the sensor feed, and verified the Cormorant wasn’t about to dump its cargo on top of them. It climbed slightly, to give the chutes a chance to open, and released the two cylinders. Feeling no pride in a job well done, the vehicle immediately turned to the next programmed course, which started it on a dogleg track back to the recovery point near Michigan.

Lapointe gave the “all clear,” and everyone piled out of the storage building. Looking through his nightscope, he was pointing to the north. “I saw two chutes. They’re not far, in that direction.”

The capsules had landed within a dozen meters of each other. At almost three hundred pounds apiece, it took two trips, with four men to lug each container, two SEALs for security, and Shirin carrying the rolled-up parachute.

A five-minute flight following a different path brought the Cormorant to its splashdown point. It orbited, at low altitude and slow speed, waiting for Michigan to reach the spot, farther away from the coast and well away from the launch point.

After reaching periscope depth, Captain Guthrie made a sweep with the optical scope while the photonics mast and the electronic surveillance sensor made their own checks. “No close contacts. The area is clear. Send the splashdown signal.”

Mindlessly circling, the Cormorant cut its engine and deployed a parachute, settling gently into the water. By the time Jerry and the SEALs were opening the supply capsules, an ROV from Michigan had attached the haul-down cable to the Cormorant. It would be reeled back into the missile tube, where it would be refueled and prepared for the next time it was needed.

With darkness, Ramey was impatient to get moving. The remote chance of someone observing the supply drop provided additional incentive to clear the area. Like all SEAL evolutions, they had planned what each man would do as soon as they opened the capsules. Their contents were quickly distributed. In addition to obvious things like food, water, and ammunition, there was a SCAR rifle and tactical vest for Jerry, additional thermal blankets and camouflage suits for the Iranians, handheld night-vision goggles, a more comprehensive medical kit for Fazel, and spare batteries for everything.

Phillips helped Jerry rig the vest and reviewed basic procedures for the rifle. Even though he’d had the session with Ramey on Michigan, it was a lot less academic now. “Bottom line, XO, if you see us shoot, you shoot at that. If you see something that you think needs shooting, talk to us first. There may be a reason we haven’t.”

There were a few surprises. Fazel found a plastic jar with a note attached. Reading it, he smiled and opened the jar. Taking out two pills, he offered them to Shirin along with a bottle of water.

“What are these?” she asked suspiciously.

“Compliments of the ship’s doctor,” he replied. “Vitamin pills. For your pregnancy.”

Five minutes later they were walking southeast.

5 April 2013

1400 Local Time/1900 Zulu

The White House

He wasn’t making headway. Andy had always been stubborn. Myles wouldn’t have won the nomination without his friend’s pigheaded drive. But once made up, unmaking Andy’s mind was nearly impossible.

“Mr. President, it’s my job to give you my best advice, and in this case, it’s a warning. The Iranians are selling us a load of organic fertilizer, and the sooner we recognize that, the better off we’ll be.”

Secretary Lloyd was pacing back and forth, the length of the Oval Office. Myles could feel his frustration. They’d known each other for thirty years, and he knew Lloyd regarded himself as the practical one, and Myles as the idealist.

The president asked, “Why didn’t the Arak file change your mind?”

“Because it’s no different than the first one. If the Iranians can create one file, why not two? Others have done it to us, and we’ve done it as well. Forged documents are an established part of intelligence tradecraft.”

“So it comes down to whether you think this file is authentic or not.”

Lloyd stopped pacing to stand in front of Myles’s desk. “Sir, as secretary of state, my official judgment is that we have been deceived by a long-term Iranian disinformation campaign. Their true status is now being revealed as they prepare to test a weapon, an overt but necessary step. Not only does a test allow the bomb designers to gain critical information, it shows the world that one more nation has joined the nuclear club.”

Lloyd pressed his point. “An Israeli attack within the next few days is inevitable. The argument about whether or not the Iranians have the bomb is moot. The real question is, What do we do when the shooting starts?”

Myles shook his head. “I want to stop the shooting before it even begins. Another war in the Persian Gulf won’t solve anything.”

Lloyd spoke slowly, picking his words. “I will remind you, sir, that our intelligence people have always called an Iranian nuclear test the “starting bell” for an Israeli attack. Our people also said that because of that, the Iranians wouldn’t test the first device, but the third or fourth one. If the Iranians already have two or more nukes, then war may be the only way to stop Iran from using the bombs on Israel, or us.”

Myles’s intercom buzzed. “Dr. Kirkpatrick has arrived.”

“Thank you, Evangeline. Please send him in.”

“Reinforcements, Mr. President?”

Myles laughed grimly. “New information, Mr. Secretary.”

The national security advisor was hardly in the room before announcing, “The Israelis said, ‘Thanks, we’ll look at it carefully.’ “

“And this is Mossad’s official response?” Myles prompted.

“I spoke to Yitzhak Harel, Mossad’s number two, personally,” Kirkpatrick answered. He sounded tired, and disappointed. “He said it would be considered as part of their total intelligence picture.”

“Which is politespeak for giving more weight to the test site and the IAEA findings.”

“As they should,” Lloyd added. He turned to Kirkpatrick. “Doctor, which type of intelligence is more reliable, HUMINT or physical evidence?”

“You’re allowed to disagree with our findings if you want to, Mr. Secretary. We’re trying to find a solution that accounts for all the data. A responsible analyst—”

“Did you get any idea of their time line?” Myles interrupted. As vital as the Opal files were, getting a sense of Israeli intentions was even more important. And the last thing he needed was a fistfight between his national security advisor and the secretary of state.

Lloyd bristled. “My people will tell me, if and when the Israelis tell us.”

“By which time it will be too late,” Myles answered impatiently “They’ve already written us off. We won’t hear about it until planes are in the air.”

Kirkpatrick answered, “I asked him fiat out what their official assessment was. He said, ‘They have the bomb. We are trying to find out how many and where they are.’ After that, Harel paused for a moment, and added, ‘We must give Laskov our best estimate in less than two days,’ and then he hung up. By the way,” Kirkpatrick added, “General Laskov commands their air force.”

Myles sighed. “Good work, Ray. That’s what we needed to know. We’ve got less than two days to stop them.”

Lloyd acted surprised. “Sir, I don’t believe that’s wise. It may not even be possible.”

“More ‘official judgments,’ Andy?”

“Sir, I say again, the Israelis are going to attack, and we’d best be prepared with our own response. There’s a lot we can do behind the scenes to help them. And frankly, Mr. President, if you want a short war, with a favorable outcome for our interests, our best course is to join them.”

“Mr. Secretary!” Kirkpatrick almost rose out of his chair, shock in his expression as well as his words. “A combined U.S. and Israeli attack—”

Myles held out a hand, cutting off the rest of Kirkpatrick’s outburst. “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes for you to say that, Andy.”

“Iran’s been a bleeding sore in the region since the Revolution — assassinations in foreign countries, exporting terrorism, attacks on Israel through Hamas and Hezbollah, helping the insurgents in Iraq. The only reason they haven’t done more is because they can’t. If Israel’s going to attack, I say help them to do a good job of it, then we can all relax.”

Myles’s temper started to show in his voice. “First you take over General Duvall’s job, now you want to replace Ray here as well? ‘Relax’ is the last thing we’ll be able to do.” The president gestured to Kirkpatrick. “Ray is right. A war between Israel and Iran is bad enough. Israeli bombs can start a war, but heaven knows how it will end, or where it will spread. And you want us in that mess? That’s not judgment, that’s emotion.”

Myles stood and walked to the windows. It was springtime in Washington, but the view didn’t calm him. “Mr. Secretary, it’s the State Department’s job to help me keep the U.S. out of trouble. Are you sure you’re being objective?”

“Mr. President, if you have lost confidence in my judgment, then it’s best if I resign. I can have—”

“No, Andy. You don’t get to take your ball and go home. We’re in a crisis, and I need you at state, but working with me. My official position is that the Iranians are not close to finishing a weapon and that if the Israelis attack, they will be making a mistake that will cost everyone dearly. Your task is to communicate our deep desire for peace throughout the region, while protecting the rights of each nation to live without fear of destruction.”

“Weasel words,” grumbled Lloyd. “It’s an impossible situation.”

“As long as nobody’s shooting, nothing’s impossible,” Myles answered.

“And I know how this town works,” the president continued. His voice became hard. “Do not repeat your opinions of either our intelligence assessments or possible courses of action outside this office. If I read about any dispute between state and the Oval Office in the days to come, I won’t fire you, not right now, but you will lose my trust and respect.”

Myles continued, “I will make sure you are included in the distribution of all relevant intelligence and are present at all the national security council meetings. You can give the State Department’s input at those times.”

Lloyd started to speak, then stopped and nodded. He left without saying another word.

After a moment, Kirkpatrick said, “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I know you were close friends.”

“And still are, I hope,” Myles answered. “What good are friends you can’t argue with?… Although we’ve never been this far apart.” He sighed, but then his tone changed. “And that goes for you, too, Doctor. If this dispute appears in the media, I’ll come looking for you first. I’ve known Andy a lot longer than I’ve known you.”

Nodding, Kirkpatrick got up to leave, but Myles had one more item to discuss. “Have you read Hardy into Opal yet?”

“No, sir. I was going to see who else we could find who’s served with Guthrie. I’m a little uneasy about bringing in someone from the legislative branch — even if he is from our party.”

“I understand the complications, but let’s brief the senator into the program. I think I have a job for him.”

6 April 2013

0300 Local Time/0000 Zulu

3 km Northwest of Bandar Tahari

Ramey had promised lots of short breaks during the walk that night, but had still set an ambitious goal: fifteen kilometers.

As before, they were in the now-familiar diamond. They walked quietly, Shirin and Yousef sometimes speaking softly, the radio headset so silent that Jerry checked occasionally to make sure it was still working. After each break, Ramey rotated the SEALs’ positions. Jerry stayed in the center.

The road was deceptive. Probably built to support construction of a pipeline that paralleled it, it was wide enough for two cars (or more likely trucks) to pass, but it was still just graded earth. It was definitely better than walking cross-country, but the uneven surface kept him alert. Ruts from tires or rocks in the surface could make him stumble. He imagined the effects of a sprained ankle on their progress.

A fair portion of Jerry’s attention was on Shirin Naseri. She trudged along next to Yousef, who concentrated on picking the smoothest path. Jerry followed. Shirin didn’t move quickly, but she seemed to be pacing herself, and never had to wait too long for a short respite.

The moon had just come out, which helped a little with their navigation. To his night-adjusted eyes, a quarter moon seemed bright, especially on the bare, brown landscape. There were lights to the right, either from scattered buildings on the far side of the highway or occasional vehicles passing. The glow from Bandar Tahari could be seen over the ridge past the highway.

Of course, the bare ground also made them more visible, but the SEALs took extra care to limit that vulnerability. Whoever was watching the road would spot the approach of a car by the glare of its headlights, and call a warning. Everyone would go to one knee and freeze until it had passed. It seemed extreme, given that they were several hundred meters away from the highway, but it was best not to take chances. Traffic had trailed off after midnight, but never stopped completely. Highway 96 tied Iran’s Persian Gulf coast together, running all the way from Bandar Mahshahr, near the Iraq border, to Bandar Abbas.

Highway 96, Just North of Bandar Tahari

Corporal Molavi had drawn three new men for the patrol. Men? None was older than nineteen. One of them was still trying to raise a beard, and Molavi’s five-year-old nephew could follow instructions better.

They were covering a twenty-five-kilometer section of Highway 96, ten kilometers on each side of Bandar Tahari, as well as the city itself. The highway ran nearly a kilometer north of the city, between two large ridges; with little light it required boots on the ground to be patrolled properly. The Tahari Basij Brigade did not have enough vehicles for the increased number of patrols, so they were using a panel van loaned by Private Salani’s employer. Local business support of the Basij was considered an act of piety, and with Salani mobilized, there was nobody to drive it, anyway.

The van only had room for two in front, the corporal and Private Salani, who drove. The other two privates had to ride in the back. Salani’s employer ran a cleaning service, but even with most of the cleaning equipment left behind, the privates were uncomfortable in the windowless van. Molavi wasn’t too concerned about the privates’ comfort; but they were useless in the back.

“Here’s a good spot.” The corporal pointed to the left. “Pull off there.” He could hear Salani sigh as he slowed and turned off the pavement. The ground was hard-packed and smooth, and led up to a cement factory. Molavi had him drive about a hundred meters north, until the surface was too rough for a civilian vehicle.

The van sat in a relatively flat area between two high dunes. The land rose sharply to the north, and the dunes were fingers of higher ground shaped by erosion and wind into north-south ridges. The bare ground was graced with a few dark green shrubs, but there wasn’t enough greenery in sight for a decent garden, even if it had all been brought together in one spot.

Molavi pounded on the metal partition between the cab and the rear of the van. “Out! Wake up back there!”

Salani seemed reluctant to get out of his seat. “Qassem, we did this just thirty minutes ago. Isn’t this too soon?”

“It’s ‘Corporal,’ to you, Private, and unless we’re out of the car, searching the ground, we’re not patrolling, we’re just driving. Now get moving.” Molavi grabbed his rifle, an Iranian-made copy of the AK-47, dubbed the KLF. It had a folding stock, which allowed him to carry it in the confines of the cab. The three other members of the patrol were similarly equipped.

The rear doors of the van swung open as Molavi approached, and two privates slowly emerged from its depths. “Get your butts out here!” the corporal roared. “Are you two sharing a goat back there? No, wait. You wouldn’t know what to do. And where are your weapons?”

The taller of the two, Private Jebeli, answered, still stretching. “We had to get out of the back, first.”

“As useless as you two are with a rifle, you’re more useless without them, if such a thing is possible. Move!”

While the two quickly fetched their weapons from the back of the van, Molavi harangued them. “A weekend on the range and a green headband doesn’t make you soldiers. Listen to what I tell you. I was getting shot at by Kurds while your father was teaching you how to wipe your ass.

“We are searching for smugglers, spies — people who are breaking the law. Nighttime is when they are out and up to no good. They will not wait while you lazily retrieve your weapon. When we pull to a stop, you will boil out of the back, alert, armed, and looking for trouble.”

He surveyed the three and sighed. “By now, any lawbreakers nearby have left, but we are still going to search the area for evidence of illegal activity: footprints, tire tracks, evidence of digging, unusual trash.”

He handed Private Jafari, the other militiaman riding in the back, a pair of binoculars. “Your turn.” Molavi pointed to a large dune to the west. “Get up there and see what you can see. Report any movement off the highway, no matter how innocent it looks. Stay there and watch until I come and get you.”

The skinny private nodded and trotted off. “You two,” he ordered, “we are going to systematically search the area.” He gestured with his arm. “Salani to the left, Jebeli near the road, and I’ll take the center. Go.”

They started quartering the ground. Molavi didn’t expect to find anything, of course, but that was when you were most likely to actually find something: a cache of weapons, drugs, or maybe those two fugitives they had been warned to look for.

Molavi divided his time between searching his own sector while watching the other two privates. He was sure they could screw up walking. They had flashlights, but were under orders not to use them. It ruined their night vision, and besides, with the moon out, there was enough illumination for a simple search.

They’d been looking for about ten minutes when Jafari, up on the dune, called out, “Corporal, I see something!” Molavi turned to see the private on his knees waving to him. “There’s something out there.” The private pointed to the west, the far side of the dune.

“Get down, you moron!” Molavi took off at a trot, but he turned his head and called to the other two as he ran. “Keep searching your sectors.”

Shirin thought about her uncle while she walked. It kept her mind off her feet, and besides, there was a lot to think about. Seyyed Naseri was Mehry’s younger brother, and was as bold and outspoken as Mehry was quiet and thoughtful. Their similar temperaments were one reason she’d always been close to Seyyed, who bragged about being Shirin’s “favorite uncle.” Of course, he was Mehry’s only sibling.

He would be delighted to see her, and doubtless willing to help her and Yousef, but a mob of Americans? And getting two people out of Iran had to be easier than smuggling out seven.

How would they go about contacting him? They’d have to hide somewhere while Shirin or Yousef made contact. But if VEVAK agents were looking for her and Yousef, would they be watching Seyyed? They might be watching him anyway. Maybe she’d have Harry go into town with her. She didn’t normally go veiled, but wearing one would keep her from being recognized. That seemed like something from a spy novel, which meant it was probably the right answer.

Shirin was trying to figure out where they could get the clothes for the American when Jerry, from behind her, whispered, “Down.” Almost without thinking, with Yousef’s help, she dropped to one knee. Yousef knelt beside her, both of them keeping perfectly still and holding hands. They’d done this over a dozen times as they marched, and she watched the highway for the headlights from a passing vehicle. Once it passed, they’d start walking again.

Instead, Jerry leaned closer to them, and said softly, “Philly saw something move on the crest ahead of us, to the right.” In the moonlight, she could see the ground ahead of them, and the sharp line between land and sky, but otherwise she couldn’t see a thing. She hadn’t expected to. The Americans had night-vision scopes, though. What had he seen? Men? An animal? She tried to remember what creatures lived in this part of Iran. She wasn’t frightened, not with Yousef next to her and surrounded by commandos, but she was curious.

Molavi was slowed by the loose surface of the rise, but he took the time to drop to all fours, and then crawled to the crest line. Jafari was prone, binoculars glued to his face. Even in the dim light, Molavi could see the private straining to pull detail out of the dark landscape. If anything was there.

The corporal eased in next to the private, trying to keep as low as possible. He reached over, and Jafari handed him the glasses without being asked. Molavi used them to scan the area, a stretch of ground turned by the moonlight into pale gray and dark gray shadows.

Patiently, he studied the construction road that paralleled the highway closely here. He looked for lines, shapes that seemed out of place. Nothing moved.

“Where?”

Jafari pointed to a patch of rocks to the left, some distance away. “I saw motion over there, near the dirt road. It looked like someone holding a rifle.”

There was nothing there now, and most likely there’d never been anything. But dismissing the private’s report would make him less likely to report the next time.

He handed the binoculars back to Jafari. “Keep watching. I’ll send Jebeli up to you. Call if you see more movement, or anything at all.” Backing away from the crest, Molavi kept low until he was well clear, then double-timed to the bottom, motioning to the other two privates.

They hurried over, and Molavi pulled them into a huddle. “Jafari’s seen movement on the other side of this rise. We’re going to investigate.” He pulled out three magazines from the pouches on his vest. He handed them to the privates, their eyes wide as saucers.

He handed one to Salani, and two to Jebeli. “Here’s one for Jafari as well as you. Go ahead and load, and for the sake of the Prophet, keep your selectors on ‘Safe! ‘“

Molavi’s weapon was already loaded. He watched them insert the magazines, then said carefully, “Salani and I will go around this rise on the left while Jafari and Jebeli cover us from above. Remember trigger discipline. Nobody shoots unless they see a person with a gun. Even if I shoot, you don’t shoot unless you have a clear target, and anybody who shoots me had better kill me, or they’ll wish they were dead. Clear?”

Both privates nodded nervously, and Molavi sent Jebeli up to join Jafari on the crest. “And for pity’s sake, stay low near the crest!”

The corporal blessed the good fortune of having not sent Salani up the hill. He was the only one of the three that had anything on the ball. “You and I will circle around this rise. We take turns moving in rushes while the other one watches from cover. Just like that weekend practice. All right?”

Jerry listened to Phillips’s report of movement on the crest, suddenly feeling exposed. There was little cover, and he’d known better than to look for some when Ramey had told them to freeze.

Jerry knew which misshapen shadow was Phillips. Like Jerry, he was also on one knee, but probably was looking through his night-vision scope. Jerry had frozen in place with his rifle lowered, and dared not move now to raise it. Phillips had also managed to stop near a scrubby-looking bush. Combined with his camouflage, he was nearly invisible from Jerry’s position ten yards away. The ridge was much farther ahead, sixty or more yards.

“More movement, the same location.” Jerry studied the crest line carefully. There might be something near the top of the crest, but he couldn’t see it. He divided his time between watching the suspicious location and making sure Yousef and Shirin didn’t move.

Phillips was in front, with Lapointe nearest the highway, and Fazel on the left. Ramey was in the rear, and probably itching to move up. Fazel and Lapointe reported their sectors as clear, and Ramey told them to all hold in position. “XO, keep our friends very still.”

Jerry told Shirin about the sighting, and Ramey’s instructions. He could hear her relaying them to Yousef, who replied softly. Jerry could see Yousef’s right hand resting on his pistol.

How long would the SEALs stay like this? Motionless. Exposed. What were they waiting for?

“More movement. A second man just joined the first.” Jerry thought he saw them now, or imagined that he saw their location. And he understood. Ramey was waiting for whoever else was on the far side of the rise.

“I see a rifle barrel, now two.” Not civilians, then. Jerry’s urge to find cover was almost uncontrollable. Whoever was up there had clear shots at all of them. Did they have night-vision gear?

Phillips’s latest report seemed to make up Ramey’s mind. “Harry, shift to Philly’s targets. Philly, cover to the left. Pointy, cover the right.”

As the sniper, Fazel’s scope was more powerful, and his SCAR Heavy rifle had a longer barrel and a bigger round for better accuracy and greater range. The ground also rose on the left side of the construction road, which gave him more height. His reply came in seconds. “I have them. Two men prone, one with binoculars. Confirm rifles. It’s not a great angle, but I have a shot on both.”

“Understood. Wait.”

Jerry wished Ramey had given him a target. It wasn’t that he felt left out, but with nothing to concentrate on, his mind raced. Without moving, he tried to look for cover. There was precious little, just shallow depressions that didn’t offer protection from above. If the men on the crest started shooting, where would he go? What about Yousef and Shirin? He was sure that Yousef would shield his wife and unborn child with his body.

“Movement on the right.” Lapointe’s report was so quick, Jerry almost missed it, but this time he could see what Lapointe was warning them about. A shape appeared on the right of the crest’s slope, near the ground. Ramey’s instruction came immediately. “Wait. Hold. XO, do not fire. Tell our friends to stay still.”

As Shirin translated the lieutenant’s order, a second shape that could only be a man running came into the open and dove down behind a fold in the ground. After a moment the first shape left its hiding place and sprinted, falling behind a piece of low brush.

“I see them,” Ramey said, almost casually. “Wait.”

Yousef weighed their chances. They and the Americans were exposed, and if the others had indeed put two men on the hill, then Shirin, he, and the Americans were in a lethal crossfire. He didn’t think much of their chances.

It was five against four, but the Americans’ senior officer was inexperienced. The others had cover, and were on guard. They were still, what? Forty, fifty meters away? When the SEALs opened fire, the others would reply. There would be a gun battle. He and Shirin were not directly in the line of fire, but he knew how far and how wide stray rounds could go.

They would need his weapon after one or two of the Americans went down. He resolved to draw it the instant Shirin was flat on the ground. He would hold his fire until the others advanced. They would not see him until he fired, as they came into range of his pistol.

Jerry listened to his headset. Were there more coming? He was sure now that they didn’t have night-vision gear, or they’d already be shooting. Jerry wondered how close they’d have to get before they’d see him.

“Philly, keep watching your side. Harry, are you good?” asked Ramey.

“Yes for both.”

“XO, on my mark, drop flat and freeze.”

“Understood.” Jerry softly passed Ramey’s order to Shirin, who relayed it to her husband.

“XO, drop. Open fire!” Ramey commanded.

Yousef heard the American’s call. As he helped Shirin to lay flat, a flurry of single shots erupted from the Americans’ weapons. Each SEAL popped off two rounds at their respective targets, then stopped just as suddenly as they began. He saw the two men on the right fall. One fired a burst, the muzzle flash almost blindingly bright, but the shots were wild, into the air. As Yousef protected Shirin with his body, he waited for the soldiers on the crest to return fire. Instead, he heard the Americans calling to one another.

The SEALs then charged forward. In moments, they were at the fallen Iranian soldiers’s positions in the ravine and on the dune crest. In the next moment, two of the SEALs were around the rise, gone from view. The other two at the top of the rise fell prone, facing south.

Yousef waited, but there were no shots. Was that it? He’d never been in combat, and was relieved the shooting was over, but shocked at the ease with which the Americans had prevailed. No gun battle, not much return fire from the others at all, just a single random burst from one man, dying as he fell. Yousef still thought they were undisciplined, and he didn’t know if the Americans could get them out of the country, but by Allah they were good shots.

Telling Shirin to stay down, he rose to his knees and then stood, ignoring Jerry’s calls behind him. Walking quickly to the two soldiers he’d seen fall, he bent down and checked. Both were dead.

They wore Basij uniforms. One of the bodies was distressingly young, a boy still in his teens. Yousef had been ready to kill his countrymen for Shirin and the baby’s sake, but he was glad he hadn’t had to use his pistol. It was still in his hand when one of the SEALs came back around the rise.

Shirin, watching Yousef as he stood over the bodies, saw the American first, and screamed, “Don’t shoot!” as Yousef lifted his head and the SEAL leveled his weapon.

Jerry added his own voice. “It’s Yousef!” and the SEAL snapped the barrel up and clear. After pausing a moment, Lapointe reported, “All clear. It looks like it was just these four.”

Jerry stood, then helped Shirin to her feet as her husband came back, holstering his weapon. Lapointe followed him, then went over to Jerry and spoke urgently. “Sir, we needed you to keep them down and in one place. I thought one of the bad guys was getting back up.” His tone was earnest. Nodding toward Shirin, he said, “If she’d waited half a second to speak, she would have been a widow.”

Beside them, Shirin had heard Lapointe and stifled a small cry. She grabbed Yousef’s arm and pulled him close, also speaking earnestly.

“I understand, Pointy. Next time I’ll tackle him if I have to.”

“Tackling is good. Using the headset to warn us he’s moving is good, too.”

Jerry stood quietly, absorbing Lapointe’s remarks. This was the real deal, with live ammunition. His first firefight, and he hadn’t done anything, except almost let Yousef get shot.

Shirin didn’t stop talking until she’d gotten a promise from Yousef to stay right next to her from then on, especially if there was any shooting. In the darkness, she’d seen and heard little except the flashes of gunfire, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to see any more than she had.

Ramey came back a few minutes later. Ignoring the near-disastrous meeting between Lapointe and Yousef, he announced, “We’ve got transport. Let’s get out of here.”

With the others, Jerry walked around the southern edge of the dune. Fazel was searching the two bodies there and collecting their uniforms and weapons. Shirin stopped just long enough to ask him a question in Farsi. He nodded and answered, first in Farsi and then in English. “Yes, they will face Mecca.”

He handed the results of his search to Ramey, which included a set of car keys. There were two rifles, and the lieutenant offered one to Yousef, who paused for a moment before taking the weapon and slinging it over his shoulder. There were also magazine pouches, flashlights, and cell phones, which they quickly disabled.

The transport was a white panel van. “There’s room for everyone, but it’ll be crowded,” Ramey announced. We’ve got to police the area and get out of here ASAP.”

He put everyone except Shirin to work. While Phillips kept watch, the others, including Yousef, dug a grave big enough to hold the four bodies and deep enough to satisfy Fazel and Yousef. They had to pause several times as vehicles passed, but with so many digging, the work was done quickly.

The four corpses were gathered from where they fell and placed with care in the grave so that they faced southwest, toward Mecca. While three of the SEALs policed the area for spent brass and any other remnants of the fight, Fazel joined Yousef and Shirin, standing by the graveside and reciting the Janazah Salah, the prayer for the dead.

Half an hour after Phillips’s first warning, the van pulled back onto Highway 96, heading southeast.