Whiplash (44 page)

North of Tehran

S
OME SIXTY MILES TO THE SOUTHWEST
, N
URI AND
F
LASH
had gassed up the car and were heading for the sea, traveling as fast as Nuri dared. They were a bit over three hours from the resort town where Danny had stashed the boats.

Tarid lay passed out in the back. Flash had stopped the bleeding and cleaned the wound in his leg. He’d lost a good amount of blood, but the injury didn’t look life-threatening. Flash had given him three hits of morphine from their first aid kit, enough to keep him slumbering for at least a few hours.

They hadn’t bothered to tie his hands. Nuri figured it was worth the risk; it would be hard to explain if they were stopped.

Tarid’s Guard ID was in Nuri’s pocket. It would be useful, if they were stopped.

Not that he intended to stop.

Flash reached over to the radio and turned it on. Europop music blared from the speaker. Flash jiggled the volume down, then began scanning the dial for a station that played something a little more friendly to his ears. The radio stopped for a few moments as it scanned to a station, then continued on. It hit a classic station, then a news channel. A sonorous voice said the word “emergency” before the radio continued on.

Nuri slammed his hand to stop it, but it moved on.

“Get that back,” he told Flash.

Flash hit the button. The radio went forward, but the same program was playing on several stations at once.

“What’s he saying?” asked Flash.

“The president is announcing there’s been an attempt at a coup,” said Nuri. “Shit. They’re closing the airports, mobilizing troops. It sounds like they’re going after the Revolutionary Guard, too.”

“Not good.”

“Not for us, no.”

The Voice told Nuri that Danny had succeeded in blowing up the missile. Nuri turned down the radio and told the Voice to connect him to Danny.

“Danny, are you all right?” he asked.

There was no response.

“We’re going to the rendezvous point. We’ll meet you there,” he said. “You hearing me?”

Still no answer.

“Problem?” asked Flash.

“I don’t know. He may just be too busy to open the communications channel.”

“Think they need help?”

Nuri glanced back at Tarid. His lips were moving but he made no sound.

“We’re not in much of a position to help them if they do,” Nuri told Flash. “Hopefully they don’t.”

Northern Iran

D
ANNY DIDN’T REALIZE THE WIRES TO THE
MY-PID
CONTROL
unit had been severed until he tried to use it to contact Breanna. Somewhere during the battle, the earphones had fallen, then snagged on something when he moved. They’d been torn off, disappearing on the ground. The control unit had been smashed up pretty badly as well.

He had to use Hera’s satellite phone to tell Breanna the missile was destroyed.

“The warhead is still intact,” he told her. “Should be easy
to move—the assembly is scorched, but in one piece. I tore off some of the circuitry, just in case.”

“I just spoke to Nuri,” Breanna told him. “He has Tarid and is on his way to the boat.”

“Yeah, copy that.”

“Do you want him to meet you?”

“He’s probably better off getting out as soon as he can,” said Danny. “We’re going to be here awhile, right?”

“Danny, are you sure you can hold out there?” asked Breanna.

“I’m fine, Bree. See you in a few hours.”

He ended the transmission.

M
EANWHILE
, H
ERA HAD GONE BACK TO BRING THE CAR TO
the field. At first she walked slowly, flexing her knee. Then, feeling cold, she started to trot and finally to run. Her knee was a little shaky, but okay. The exercise calmed her body, the slow trickle of sweat a balm for the tension that had seized her.

The confrontation at the missile had happened incredibly fast. It belonged to the moment between the flashes of a very fast camera, lost in a sequence that began with her firing the gun and ended with her looking up into Danny Freah’s confident but grim face. She knew what had happened between those moments, but couldn’t picture them.

They’d left the van about a half mile up from the entrance road. She trotted past the chained fence, still holding a good pace, and started along the shoulder of the road. After thirty yards she heard a car coming.

Hera leapt off the road and ducked into the ditch. She crawled to the side, watching in the direction of the entrance to the airfield.

She had no way to warn Danny; he had her phone.

She’d ambush whoever it was when they stopped to open the gate.

Hera began moving in that direction, then froze as the headlights came into view.

It was an Iranian army command Jeep. It passed right by the entrance, continuing up the road, passing Hera. As soon as it was gone, Hera began running along the ditch. Her wind started to fail after a hundred yards; she slowed, but kept moving, worried that whoever had passed would find the van even though they’d left it off the road.

T
HE TWO SOLDIERS IN THE
J
EEP WOULD HAVE DRIVEN RIGHT
by it, had the headlights of the Jeep not reflected off a bottle on the shoulder of the road about twenty yards away from the turnoff for the farm.

The lieutenant in the passenger seat couldn’t tell what it was at first, and told his companion to back up. It was only as they started in reverse that they saw the van in the field up at the right.

The two men got out cautiously, pistols drawn.

Though the missile launcher had exploded only a half hour before, neither man had seen or heard the explosion. The base was so isolated that, while it was spectacular, no one had been close enough to witness what was happening. A few night owls in the distance had seen flares, but they dismissed them when they died down, too far away to realize what was going on. The soldiers in the Jeep had been playing cards with the rest of their unit at a small post about fifteen miles away. A phone call had woken them, alerting them to the attempted coup and placing the unit on high alert.

Told that the Revolutionary Guard might have weapons caches in the hills, the unit immediately organized scouting parties. Literally hundreds of other small units were conducting similar surveys all across the country, while much larger units were rushing to keep the Guard in its barracks.

The van was the most interesting thing they had spotted since setting out. The locks were only a nuisance—the lieutenant fired through the keyhole on the driver’s side door. When that failed to release it—the bullet severed the connection to the rod, leaving it closed—he fired three more shots through the window, then broke it with the butt of his gun.

Hera heard the shots, and knew that the men had found the van. She slipped into the woods and climbed the slight rise to the woods behind the old farm field. She came out to the right of the van, parallel to the rear fender.

The soldiers, meanwhile, had pulled out the suitcases with the Whiplash gear. They hauled the cases next to the van, opening the passenger side door for light. The light framed them perfectly.

Six bullets later, both men were dead.

A
S SOON AS
D
ANNY HEARD THE GUNSHOTS, HE BEGAN
running down the road, sure Hera was in trouble. By the time he reached the access road, he was out of breath—spent not just by running, but by the past two weeks. His legs felt as if they’d been pummeled, and his arms hung almost limp from his body. His fingers barely gripped his rifle.

He stopped and crouched by the side of the road. It was hard to accept, but this was the best he could do.

A few minutes later he heard something coming. He went to one knee, steadying himself to fire.

He nearly pressed the trigger when the vehicle came into view. At the last moment he realized it was their van; a second later he saw Hera at the wheel.

He rose. She jerked on the brakes. Worried that someone was holding her hostage, he pointed his gun at her.

“Hey, don’t shoot!” she yelled, leaning over to the passenger side. “It’s just me.”

“What happened?”

“Two army guys saw the van. They’re dead.”

“Where’s their truck?”

“Back at the road. We should get it.”

“Yeah,” said Danny.

“What’s the matter?”

“What do you figure they were doing up here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Somebody probably heard the explosion,” he said. “I don’t know how long we’ve got.”

The sat phone rang. It was Nuri.

“Freah.”

“Glad to hear you’re OK,” said Nuri, who’d just been talking to Breanna. “Listen, the Iranians have mobilized. Their president thinks the Guard is revolting against him. Which is a pretty good assumption.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“They’ve started blocking off the roads. We just barely turned away from one before we would have been caught. I don’t think I can get to the boat, so I’m going to come up to the field.”

“All right.”

“We’re forty-five minutes away. Maybe less, if Flash keeps us on the roadway.”

“Be careful. Hera just picked off two soldiers on patrol. What kind of shape are you guys in?”

“Shape? You mean wounded? Both of us are OK. I have Tarid with me. His leg is shot up. Why?”

“You have experience moving nuclear weapons?”

“You mean the warhead?”

“Yeah.”

“No experience. I’ve seen pictures of them exploding. That was back in high school.”

“All right. Get here as soon as you can.”

“We’re on our way.”

“What are you thinking?” Hera asked when he put down the phone.

“I think if we wait for Delta, we’ll be dead when they get here.” He punched Breanna’s number into the sat phone.

Over Iraq

T
HE ABORTED ATTEMPT ON THE PRESIDENT OF
I
RAN HAD
sent the country into high alert. Army troops were moving on Revolutionary Guard installations around the country; half a dozen were already fighting pitched battles. Two Iranian warships were having a gun battle with Guard raiders—essentially speedboats with guns—in the Persian Gulf, and the air force had scrambled all of its aircraft.

The U.S. Air Force strike package tasked to hit the missile base was being held on the ground; the plan now was for the group to follow up and hit the base once the warhead had been removed.

A second group of fighters, along with AWACS, a tanker, and other support units was being readied to act as escorts for the Ospreys. Rather than accompanying the transports, the flight group would operate over the Iraqi border, just close enough to come to the rescue if something happened. The idea was that any activity would alert the Iranians that something was going on. If they didn’t know something was up, the Ospreys would be able to scoot over and back without being detected.

That was the theory anyway.

“Danny, everything’s moving on schedule,” Breanna told him as soon as he called. “We’ll have you out in a few hours.”

“I’m not sure that’s going to be quick enough.” He explained what had happened.

“Get out of there and find a quiet place to hide,” Breanna told him. “Change the rendezvous with Nuri.”

“If we do that, they’ll end up with the warhead,” Danny said. “I have a better idea. You’re in an MC-17, right?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you can land on the strip here. It’s hard-packed.”

Breanna brought it up on the screen and looked at the specs. It was just long enough for the C-17.

And it was less than an hour away. They could land and be back over the Iraq border as the sun was rising.

She turned to the pilot. “Do you think we could get in and out of Iraq in one piece?”

“Colonel, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Danny,” said Breanna, “We’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

Iran

S
EVERAL ARMY VEHICLES PASSED
N
URI AND
F
LASH AS THEY
made their way to the field. Nuri ducked a little lower in the seat each time. A fatalism had settled over him; he was sure they were going to die now, apprehended probably by chance. He’d run his streak of luck too far into the ground for the result to be anything else.

Flash was too busy paying attention to the road to feel optimistic or pessimistic about anything.

“There,” said Nuri, pointing to the turnoff. “Stop in front of the gate. I’ll put some video bugs to cover the road before we go up.”

Danny and Hera had left the gate open when they retrieved the Iranian army vehicle. Nuri and Flash found them next to the van at the end of the airstrip.

“Put the car back on the other side, opposite the missile storage building,” Danny told him. “The army Jeep is there, along with a couple of others that were here.”

“What building?” asked Flash.

Danny pointed to the wreckage. “Leave the lights off.”

“Help me with Tarid,” Nuri told him. “He’s a bit heavy.”

“How’d you knock him out?”

“Morphine, and lots of it. He’s probably due for another hit. He took a bullet in his leg, but I don’t think it’s too bad.”

They carried him to the van, where the Iranian they’d helped earlier was still clinging to life.

“How long before the C-17 gets here?” Nuri asked.

“Ten minutes now,” said Danny. “A little more.”

“You sure they can land here?”

“I’ve seen them land on smaller strips.”

“You’ve seen everything, huh?”

“Not everything.” Danny stared at Nuri. “I’m just as scared as you are,” he told him. “But we’ll get out of here.”

Neither one of them spoke for a moment.

“Where’s the warhead?” asked Nuri finally.

“It’s up by the wreckage.”

“How do we get it into the plane?”

“We’ll have to rig something to carry it,” said Danny. “They usually have a come-along and some other loading tools in the back.”

“Why don’t we use the van to pull it in?” said Nuri. “If we can get it into the back.”

“Actually, we could just drag it,” said Danny. “If we had a chain.”

“The one on the fence at the gate.”

“Good idea.”

They took Tarid and the wounded Iranian out, then drove down and got the chain. As the van backed up near the warhead, Danny realized they could tip it into the back if they could lift it just a little. The gear the Iranians had used to move it around had been destroyed by the fire, but Flash figured out how to use the van’s jack to push the nose of the warhead cone up just enough to get it onto the bed of the van. Pushing back slowly, they levered it far enough inside to get it in.

“Sucker is heavy,” said Flash.

“Not as heavy as you’d think,” said Danny. “Look at it. It fits in the back of the van.”

“Considering what it can do, it ought to weigh a million pounds,” said Nuri.

“Exactly.”

“You sure it ain’t going to blow us up?” said Flash.

Before Danny could answer, the high-pitched whine of the approaching MC-17’s engines broke over the hillside.

I
T WAS NO HYPERBOLE TO SAY THAT THE
MC-17
HAD NO
peer among jet transports when it came to flying behind enemy lines. The stock version of the aircraft had been designed to operate under battlefield conditions, landing and taking off from short, barely improved airfields, and it did that job superbly. The MC-17/M shared those qualities, and added a few of its own. It could fly in the nap of the earth, hugging the ground to avoid enemy radar. It could maintain its course to within a half meter over a 3,000-mile, turn-filled route—no easy task, even for a GPS-aided computer. And it could land in a dust bowl without damaging its engines.

Actually, the latter was not part of the design specs. While the engines were designed and situated to minimize the potential for damage, especially from bird strikes, there was only so much the engineers could do. Their debates about where to draw the line had filled several long and surprisingly heated meetings at Dreamland, not to mention countless sessions after hours in the all-ranks “lounge,” aka bar.

Those discussions came back to Breanna as the wheels of the C-17 hit the ground. Dust flew everywhere. The dirt was packed down and hard, but it wasn’t asphalt, let alone cement. The plane shook violently, drifting to the right but finally holding to the runway area and slowing to a crawl well short of the cratered apron where the van and warhead were waiting.

“Let’s turn it around,” said Captain Dominick. “The tail will be right next to them.”

It was a narrow squeeze, but they managed to make it, pulling around in a three-point turn that even a driving instructor would have been proud of.

Boston, Sugar, and the loadmaster sprinted down the ramp. Nuri was already at the wheel of the van.

“You sure we ain’t gonna glow sittin’ next to this sucka?” asked Sugar.

“You glow already,” said Boston.

There wasn’t enough room for the van with the Ospreys in the rear. But the loadmaster improvised a chain and tackle and a pair of impromptu ramps, allowing them to bring the warhead into the bay and place it, without too much groaning, onto a pair of dollies. They wheeled the weapon alongside the Ospreys, chaining it to the side.

By that time, Greasy Hands had helped Hera bring Tarid and the wounded missile technician inside. They lay them on temporary stretchers behind the Ospreys in the seating area. The accommodations weren’t exactly first class, but neither was in a position to complain.

“Greasy Hands? What are you doing here?” asked Danny when he saw Parsons.

“Enjoying retirement,” said the chief, clapping him on the back.

“Social Security doesn’t stretch as far as it used to,” said Boston. “So he decided to moonlight. We pay him under the table.”

“Well I’m glad as hell to see you,” said Danny.

“Same here,” said Greasy Hands. “Next time you guys kidnap somebody, though, pick someone about fifty pounds lighter.”

T
HEY GOT OFF THE GROUND A FEW MINUTES LATER, THE
aircraft shuddering as the wind kicked up, but lifting them up with plenty of room to spare.

Plenty of room being defined, in this case, as three and a half meters.

Breanna worked out a course that would bring them back
to Baghdad International Airport, where they could refuel before continuing on. They would also be able to get a doctor for Tarid, who’d woken but remained dazed on a makeshift stretcher below. The other Iranian didn’t look as if he’d make it, though he was still alive.

“Twenty minutes to Iraqi territory,” Breanna announced. “We’ll be in Baghdad inside the hour.”

The MC-17 had come east without a direct escort, operating on the theory that they were safer if the Iranians had no idea they were there. The fighters tasked to protect it remained over southern and northern Iraq, ready to scramble if necessary, but otherwise attempting to look as if they were interested in something else.

The theory had proven correct on the flight in, but now reality injected complications. Because of the coup, the Iranian air force had scrambled several flights of MiGs. While they were slow to get in the air—the C-17 had already landed at the missile site before the first one took off—there were now a full dozen over the western half of the country, with more on the runways.

The AWACS detected one of the patrols flying up from the south on a rough intercept with the MC-17 shortly after it took off. Though it didn’t seem likely that the Iranians had spotted the cargo aircraft, the fighter group commander decided to take no chances. The group of F-15s to the south were told to intercept.

The fighters were picked up immediately by Iranian air defenses. Radars and missile sites began tracking them along the border area, trying to lock on and launch missiles. One of the antiaircraft sites was almost directly in the MC-17’s path. The northern group of interceptors, which included an F-16 Wild Weasel SAM suppressor, was ordered to take out the defenses. More MiGs came out for them as they started toward the site.

In the space of ninety seconds the sky became intensely crowded and angry.

The cargo aircraft, however, remained at very low altitude, undetected by either the SAMs or the Iranian interceptors.

“I think we can sneak by all this,” Dominick told Breanna. “We just stay on course.”

“Exactly.”

The word was no sooner out of her mouth than the AWACS announced a new warning: A pair of Iranian fighters had taken off from Tabriz and were heading south, in their direction. Two more aircraft were coming off the runway right behind them.

Breanna looked at the IDs, which were flashed over via a messaging system from the AWACS. The planes were Su-27s, older Russian aircraft recently sold to Iran. They were long in the tooth—but would have no trouble shooting down an unarmed cargo aircraft. Both were equipped with improved versions of Slotback radar; the “look-down, shoot-down” radar system made it easy for them to locate and destroy aircraft at low altitudes.

The MC-17 was a sitting duck. Even a Megafortress would have had trouble against them, if it didn’t have its Flighthawks.

“They’ll see us as soon as they come further south,” Breanna warned Frederick. “We need to get as close to that border as we can. I’m going to call the F-15s south. Maybe they can help.”

As soon as the Eagle pilots hit their afterburners, the Iranians changed course and headed for them.

So far no one had fired at each other. The Iranians protested that the Americans were trespassing and would be shot down; the Americans replied that they were covering an operation on the Iraqi side of the border and would return as soon as they were confident that the Iranians would not interfere. The white lie led to considerable huffing and puffing, but no gunplay.

Not yet, anyway.

“We’re clear,” said Breanna, following what was going on via the AWACS link.

But they didn’t stay clear. The second flight of Sukhois continued south, directly toward their path.

“We have thirteen minutes to the border,” Breanna told Frederick. “Just keep on keepin’ on.”

But the Iranians had finally spotted them. The lead Sukhoi asked the MC-17 to identify itself.

“What should I say?” Frederick asked Breanna.

“Tell them we’re on a mercy mission,” she said. She remembered the list of injuries, all minor except for Tarid’s bullet wound, that her people had suffered. “We have a patient who requires burn treatment.”

“Maybe you ought to talk to them,” said the pilot, doubtfully. “Maybe they’ll believe a woman.”

They didn’t.

“Unidentified aircraft. We see that you are a U.S. warplane,” answered the Iranian. “You are ordered to turn to the north and fly to Tabriz airport.”

“Negative,” said Breanna. “We have a very sick patient we’ve evacked from one of your facilities. You better check in with your superiors. Your English, by the way, is very good. Where did you learn it?”

Flattery got her nowhere. The pilot increased his speed. The two Sukhois were now less than thirty miles away, closing the distance between the two aircraft at a little over four miles a minute.

The border was just over twelve minutes away. More importantly, the closest American fighters, off to the south with the MiGs, were nearly fifteen minutes from firing range.

Depending on what missiles the Iranian interceptors were carrying, they might already be in range to fire. Even if they were under orders to obtain a visual identification before making an attack, they would get to the MC-17 well before the Eagles did.

Frederick tried to get more thrust from the engines, even though they were already at max.

“Maybe we should do what they want,” he suggested as the Sukhois continued to gain.

“I don’t see that as an option,” said Breanna coldly.

“What I mean is, we make it look like we are,” explained the pilot. “We turn and head north very, very slowly. We give the F-15s a chance to catch up. When they’re here, no more problems. We turn around and go home.”

Draw the encounter out and stall for time, then run away. There didn’t seem to be another choice.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Breanna. “Let’s play it by ear.”

“Iranian flight, please state your intentions,” she said as the Sukhois closed in.

“We are going to shoot you down if you do not comply with our directions.”

“Have you checked with your commander? We are on a mission authorized by your president.” Breanna could almost feel her nose growing.

“You will change your heading immediately,” replied the pilot.

Nine minutes to the border. Eleven to the Eagles.

“They’re going to shoot us down,” said Frederick. His voice cracked, betraying the pressure he felt welling inside his chest. He’d never been in combat before. He was starting to gulp air, hyperventilating despite his efforts to stay calm.

“It’s all right,” said Breanna. “They’re under orders to see what they’re firing at first. We have more time. Just play it out slow.”

The Iranian jets lined themselves up on a course that would take them over the MC-17’s wings. They didn’t slow down as they approached, deciding that a close buzz of the aircraft might intimidate the pilot into doing what they wanted.

Or crashing. Which would be just as good.

Breanna saw it as one more minute in her favor. That gave her seven to the Eagles.

Who now checked in with a warning of their own.

“Iranian aircraft approaching the Iraqi border, identify yourselves,” said the lead Eagle pilot.

The Iranians declined. Instead they circled back behind the MC-17 and fired a pair of warning shots over its wing.

“What do you want to do?” asked Frederick.

“I want to shoot the bastards down,” said Breanna.

“That’s not an option.”

“I know. But it’s what I want to do.”

If she’d been flying a Megafortress, even without missiles or Flighthawks, it would be an option. She’d sucker them in close, then open up with the Stinger air-mine cannon in the tail.