They parked the pickup under a lean-to roof shed at the side; the rear poked out a little, but it would be hard to see even directly overhead. Turk drove the car fifty yards down the hill to what had once been a grove of pomegranate trees but was now mostly a collection of dried stumps. Here and there green shoots and a leaf struggled from the twisted gray trunks, nature refusing to give up even though the underground spring that once supplied the crisscross of irrigation ditches had dried to bone.

He got out of the car and walked a short distance away before using the satellite radio to check in.

Breanna Stockard herself answered. “Turk, are you OK? Where have you been? Why haven’t you checked in?”

“We had a setback in Jandagh,” he told her. “The police—there was an incident in town. A lot of our guys are hurt. We escaped with a bus.”

“The mission tonight, can you—”

“We won’t make it in time.”

Breanna went silent.

“I’ll be in place tomorrow,” said Turk. “Tonight’s going to be too tough. We’re still pretty far away. And we’re pretty banged up.”

“All right. All right. Listen, I know where you are. We have intercepts from the Iranian police and the interior ministry about a stolen bus in one of the towns where you spent time. Is that you?”

“Must be.”

“All right. Stand by.”

Turk heard another aircraft in the distance. This was another propeller plane, but larger; two engines, he thought.

“The report concerning the bus stolen in Jandagh talks about terrorists,” said Breanna. “They’re looking for Russians.”

“That fits with our cover. Do they mention the other vehicles?”

“Negative. The descriptions are vague: three Russian males. Some of these communiqués claim it’s a robbery.” Breanna paused, obviously skimming through screens of data. “They haven’t made a connection with the attack.”

“OK.”

“Turk, what kind of condition are you in?”

“I’m fine. Not a scratch.”

“Your team?”

“Very shot up,” he said. “Only Grease, me, and Granderson are really at full strength. We have two guys—no, three now—who are just immobile. Coming in and out of consciousness. Everybody else is hurt to some degree, though they can still fight.”

“Have you considered aborting?”

“No.”

“You’ve already completed the mission you were sent on.”

“We . . .” Part of him wanted to say yes, they were through; it was time to go home, time to bail.

But the larger part wanted desperately to complete the mission—the next phase. Because the object was to stop the Iranian weapons program. If there was another site, they had to hit it.

So much of a sacrifice, though. For all of them. Was it worth it? Couldn’t they just send in bombers and be done with it?

There was no guarantee they’d make it out alive in that case either. Better to go ahead. Better to do his duty.

At such a cost.

“I can do this, Bree,” Turk insisted. “We just have to get to the other side of the desert. And if they don’t really know what we’re up to—”

“I can’t guarantee that they won’t,” Breanna told him. “The reaction force can’t reach you that far deep in Iran.”

“It’s all right. I’ve done harder things.”

In the air, perhaps, but not on the ground. Definitely not on the ground. But Breanna didn’t call him on it.

“I want you to contact me at the top of the next hour,” she told him. “Do you understand?”

“I will if I can. Sometimes—”

“No. You are to check in every hour. I need to know you’re still alive.”

“I will call you if I can,” he said, hitting the end call button before she could respond.

17

CIA campus, Virginia

BREANNA TURNED TO REID AS SOON AS THE TRANSMISSION from Turk ended. “They’ve taken heavy casualties. I think we should pull them out.”

“It’s not our decision, Breanna.”

“They’re all shot up.”

“He’s not.”

“Let the bombers go in. If they stay, it’s suicide.”

“It already is suicide.” Reid picked up the phone and told the computerized operator to get him the President.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER BREANNA AND REID WERE ON Lee Highway, speeding toward the White House. As a security precaution, the driver had always to follow a different route; at four in the morning traffic was not a particular concern, and for once they were going on a relatively direct route.

Reid stared out the darkened window at the cars passing in the distance. The lights in the parking lots of the buildings and on the signs and streets melted together in a blur.

He would tell the President that they should continue. It would inevitably mean the death of his officer, Gorud, of the Whiplash pilot, and whoever remained from the rest of the team. The Israeli operative, a deep, valuable plant with an impeccable cover. And a family.

But Reid knew absolutely that this was the right thing to do. The nano-UAVs had done a perfect job on the first strike; they would succeed here as well. The result would be far more desirable than a missile strike. No matter what the Iranians did, the scientists who rebuilt the program would never be sure whether there had been an attack or a critical flaw.

Delaying the strike twenty-four hours would increase the odds of success. Even if the analysts didn’t identify which of the two sites was the one with the bomb—or if they decided both had enough material to be a threat—the delay would give Rubeo and his people more time to work on the programming for the mission.

The scientist had demurred when asked for a prediction about the outcome of a split attack. The first strike had been heavily modeled. This one was still being calculated.

“Lovely night,” said Breanna. It was first time she’d spoken since they got in the car.

“It is.” Reid forced a smile. He had grown to like the younger woman, though he felt at times she was too easily influenced by her Pentagon superiors. “Though it’s almost morning now.”

“Technically, it is morning.”

“How’s the senator?”

“Still stubborn as ever,” said Breanna. “And still swooning over the Nationals. Their losing streak has him in the dumps.”

“I hear there’s talk he might run for President.”

“God help us.”

The words were so emphatic that Reid didn’t know how to respond. He remained silent the rest of the way to the White House.

PRESIDENT TODD HAD MANAGED BARELY AN HOUR OF sleep, but she felt a surge of energy as Breanna completed briefing the current situation, ending with a PowerPoint slide showing the general vicinity of the two possible targets.

Charles Lovel, the Defense Secretary, opened his mouth to speak. Todd cut him off.

“The question comes down to this,” said the President. “If we wait twenty-four hours, do we guarantee success?”

“There are no guarantees for anything, ever,” said Blitz, the national security director.

“The odds will be greatly improved,” said Reid, sitting next to Breanna. “Getting our pilot in place helps if there is a problem with the units. True, they were impeccable in the first strike, and compensated well. But I think, as Ms. Stockard said, the human factor increases the chances of success. Plus, we may be able to narrow down the possible targets. At a minimum, we’ll have a better plan for dealing with both facilities.”

“I don’t know that we can afford to guess which of the sites is the real target,” said Blitz. “Not at this point.”

“On the other hand, the odds of the ground team being discovered will also be higher,” said Reid. “And if they’re discovered, we lose them.”

“We may lose them anyway,” said Lovel.

“The Iranians may close the sites,” said the Secretary of State, Alistair Newhaven.

“Twenty-four hours is not enough time to do that,” said Reid.