“Roughly four hundred and fifty miles,” said Gorud. His tone remained hostile. “Yes, it’s far. We’ll carry extra fuel, and refuel halfway. The flight itself shouldn’t be a problem. The Russian oil exploration company that uses it makes that flight through the area all the time. We get it at 2000 hours, refuel by midnight, begin the operation at 0100. Then we fly on to the farm near Dasterjad, wait out the day, and leave.”

“Disney World after that,” said Granderson. He got a few smiles, but no laughs.

Turk visualized the map he’d half memorized on the flight out to the Azores. The target was a hidden complex in Abuzeydadab northeast of Nantz, which itself held a major facility, though its existence had been made public by the West years before. Abuzeydadab’s had not. The Iranians believed the U.S. didn’t know about it, and had studiously avoided anything that would draw attention to it. That gave the operation certain advantages; chief among them was the absence of serious air defenses or a detachment of troops. They’d have to worry about shoulder-launched weapons—MANPADS, or Man Portable Air Defense Systems—and grenade launchers, but if things went well they wouldn’t be close enough for those to be a problem.

The actual penetration of the plant and the final attack were preset with the computer, so assuming nothing went wrong, Turk believed the toughest part of the job would be “picking up” the nano-UAVs as they descended. This was as much a matter of being in the right spot as pressing the proper buttons when they needed to be pressed. When prompted, the control unit broadcast a lower-power signal for the aircraft to home in on. But to make sure he got the connection, he’d have to start broadcasting well before the UAVs were due to arrive, and stay within a two-mile-square box. Once the assault began, two UAVs would circle above the attack area, relaying the signals to the rest of the swarm. They would self-destruct when the last signal from the swarm members was lost, a security precaution hard-wired into the units and that could not be overridden.

Two miles sounded like a large area, but a helicopter flying in the vicinity for nearly twenty minutes as the mission unfolded was certain to attract attention. Fortunately, the area to the east of Abuzeydadab was desert and largely empty. Even if they were heard, it would presumably take the Iranians a while to respond.

“Problem!” said the man at the door of the barn. “We got a car coming down the driveway.”

“Lights,” said Granderson, even as they were doused.

Grease grabbed Turk by the arm and began tugging him toward a window at the back. “Stay close to me.”

“Who’s in the car?”

“Just come on.”

Turk tried to object, but it was useless—Grease pushed him to the ground, smothering him with his body as gunfire erupted at the front of the house.

ADVENTURER

1

Iran

BY THE TIME GREASE LET TURK UP, THE GUNFIRE HAD stopped and the barn was empty.

“All right, let’s go,” said Grease, pointing. “Through the window.”

Turk pushed the control unit back into its pack, took his rifle and followed Grease to the window. He went out first, waiting while Grease jumped through.

“What’s going on?” Turk asked.

“Don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough. Keep your gun ready. This way.”

Grease led him across the flat yard to a small outbuilding that the team had agreed earlier would be a first regrouping area if they were attacked. Grease checked around the building, then had Turk kneel next to him on the side farthest from the road.

“Uh, thanks for watching out for me,” said Turk as they waited.

Grease didn’t respond.

You have to be the coldest son of a bitch I’ve ever met, thought Turk.

Sergeant Major Curtis trotted toward them a few moments later, followed by Dome. The younger man was carrying an M-240 machine gun.

“We’re clear,” said Curtis. “We move out as soon as the captain gives the signal.” He looked at Turk. “You OK, Pilot?”

“I’m good.”

“Careful with that rifle, all right? Especially if that safety is off.”

Turk realized he was pointing it at Curtis. “Sorry.”

“Someone told me you were a good shot.” Curtis smiled. “So you don’t need to prove it.”

Dome laughed.

“I’m all right,” said Turk defensively. “Not as good as you guys, I’m sure.”

“Don’t worry. Your job isn’t to shoot,” said Curtis mildly. “Wait for the truck.”

Curtis and Dome left, circling around behind the house as they checked the perimeter. Two troopers were moving near the front of the barn; Turk asked Grease what they were doing.

“Dunno. Probably hiding the bodies.”

“Shouldn’t we be getting out of here?”

“Relax, Pilot. We’ll get you where you got to go.”

They waited in silence until the truck emerged from the barn a few minutes later. Then Grease wordlessly nudged Turk into motion, trotting alongside him as the truck moved up to the front of the house. The others were waiting there in a semicircle, standing by a Toyota sedan.

“In,” said Grease, pointing to the truck.

“Where are we going?”

“We’ll find out when they tell us.”

2

CIA campus, Virginia

DANNY FREAH PAUSED FOR A SECOND, WAITING FOR the computerized security system to recognize him by his biometrics, then continued through the large, empty basement space surrounding the “Cube”—Whiplash’s secure command center on the CIA headquarters campus in McLean, Virginia. He walked directly toward a black wall, which grew foggy as he approached. The wall was actually a sophisticated energy field, which allowed him through as soon as he touched it and was recognized by the security system.

He went down the hallway—these walls were “real”—to the central command center, where Breanna Stockard, Jonathon Reid, and six specialists were monitoring the Iran operation in a small, theaterlike room. Three rows of curved console tables, arranged on descending levels, sat in front of large screen. The floor, chairs, and tables moved, allowing the room to be reconfigured in a half-dozen ways, including a bowl-like arrangement that reminded Danny of a baseball stadium. While the designers had hailed the flexibility, it turned out the room was almost exclusively used as it was now, in a traditional “mission control” layout.

Paul Smith looked up at Danny from the back bench. Smith was a military mission coordinator “borrowed” by Whiplash from the Air Force’s Space Reconnaissance Command. He’d worked as the liaison with Dreamland on the nano-UAVs, and was now the primary communications link to the command center with Turk and the ground team. Like the others in the room, he generally handled a variety of tasks, often all at once.

“He’s in-country,” Smith told Danny.

“Any trouble?”

“Not with the jump. They had to move, though. One of the owners came to the house where the Delta team had hidden. Just one of those things. Murphy’s Law.”

“Were they compromised?” Danny asked.

Smith shook his head. He wore civilian clothes to fit in with the rest of the team; only Danny was in uniform. “Bad luck for them.”

Smith meant for the people who had undoubtedly been killed, though Danny didn’t ask.

Luck, good or otherwise, was the wildcard of life. It was also the one ingredient of every operation, covert or conventional, that could never be fully factored in. Things happened or didn’t happen; you planned for as many contingencies as possible, then thought on your feet.

As it happened, the team’s presence at the farm was already part of a contingency plan—they’d moved from what had been an abandoned warehouse complex when workmen showed up suddenly to start tearing down the place. But then the entire operation was a cascading series of contingencies, revamped on the run.