Although Jafari had never used the border crossing before, he’d done some research. Prior to the war the crossing had been a casual affair—and one of three locations where all manner of goods, drugs and people were smuggled into and out of Afghanistan.

  Now, according to Jafari’s sources, there were long lines and occasional searches. A frightening possibility to say the least. But according to one contact, so long as Jafari paid the traditional rashua (bribe), he could expect a wave through.

  But what if a border guard insisted on taking a look at Jafari’s load? The bombs looked like bombs. And even a generous rashua wouldn’t be enough to save him. That meant it was necessary to stop, find a place to stay, and devise a way to conceal the bombs.

  Okada was a problem to say the least. Jafari couldn’t trust the scientist. That made it necessary to put Okada in the back of the truck and tie her up. She was complaining. A gag cut her off.

  Once the prisoner was secured Jafari entered the Sistan Hotel through the back door, made his way to the front desk, and requested a room. After filling out the registration form, and paying for the room in advance, he returned to the parking lot.

  Jafari entered the truck and closed the door. The cargo lights were on. “Here’s the situation,” Jafari said, as he freed Okada.

  “I’m going to take you to a hotel room. Once there it will be necessary to tie you up again so I can go shopping. While I’m at it I’ll buy whatever you want. A new set of clothes. Stuff from the drugstore. You name it. Then we’ll spend the night, get up early, and head for Afghanistan.”

  Okada’s hands were free by then so she removed the gag. Jafari could see the fear in her eyes. “Afghanistan? Why?”

  “You know why,” Jafari replied. “The man who is buying the bombs needs a scientist to supervise them. Think of that! You’ll be in charge. A clever woman could use that kind of leverage to get whatever she wants.”

  Wali didn’t strike Jafari as the sort of man who could be forced to do anything. But if Okada needed something to hope for, he was willing to supply it.

  “Come on,” Jafari said. “We’re going to enter the hotel and proceed to our room. If you make a fuss, you’ll be sorry. We’re in Iran. If I slap your face no one will intervene. Women are property here … And that’s true in Afghanistan as well. So, get used to it.”

  The keys to the truck were on Haatim’s key ring. And as Jafari locked the truck his thoughts turned to his nephew. The evil eye ornament that dangled from the key ring hadn’t been enough to protect Haatim. Will it work for me? Jafari wondered. He hoped so.

  The trip from the truck to the hotel room passed without incident. Jafari gave Okada an opportunity to visit the bathroom, wrote down the items she wanted him to buy, and tied her to the bed. “Don’t worry,” Jafari told her. “I won’t be gone for long.”

  Then he fastened the gag in place, slipped into the hall, and attached the “Do not disturb” sign to the doorknob. That was followed by a final check to ensure that the door was locked.

  Jafari made a concerted effort to be efficient. But nearly two hours had elapsed by the time he returned to the hotel with his purchases. He went straight to the room, and freed Okada, who hurried into the bathroom.

  ***

  When Okada returned it was to find that all of the things she’d requested were laid out on the bed. That triggered a surge of gratitude. I’m suffering from Stockholm syndrome,” Okada decided. I must guard against it. My first objective is to survive long enough to escape or be rescued. My second objective is to kill every motherfucker involved in abducting me, starting with Jafari. Game on.

  ***

  Okada was grateful. Jafari could tell because she said so, and was visibly thrilled to receive the tampons, lotions, and over the counter painkiller.

  And the scientist was clearly pleased with the loose-fitting tunic, which hung down just below her waist. A pair of ripped jeans went with it. Lavender colored athletic shoes completed the outfit. All of which would make her look acceptably conservative to Wali’s private secretary the following day.

  The couple ate dinner in their room. Jafari slept on the floor in front of the door. They rose early, ordered room service, and ate breakfast. The TV was on. And, according to Iran’s twenty-four-hour English language news channel, the Allies were searching for the Chinese warship responsible for the devastating attack on Okinawa.

  Iran’s Supreme Leader was elated, and referred to the attack as, “Allah’s revenge on the infidels.”

  ***

  Okada struggled to maintain her emotional equilibrium in the face of the bad news. They’re lying, she thought. Or exaggerating. Keep your cool.

  ***

  Once breakfast was over the couple placed their modest belongings in shopping bags which Okada carried. Jafari’s burden consisted of two large tarps.

  After they reached the truck Jafari spent the better part of twenty minutes spreading the tarps over the bombs, tucking the edges in, and positioning the forklift in front of the load. And that, along with a generous bribe, should be enough to move the bombs through Iranian customs. Then he would collect his money, grieve for Haatim, and leave the country.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In the Kavir Desert west of the Kahf Alqafila (Caravan Cave), Iran

  Strike Team 3 left the salt dome as the sun rose, and headed east. A Raven UAV had been sent forward in hopes of spotting the bomb truck. But, with a range of only six miles, the tactical drone was of limited value. A new Raptor was due to rotate in soon and would be of more use.

  Originally the team had been heading for the Zahedan military base because that was Captain el-Zia’s destination. Would Jafari go there? It seemed unlikely. But, with no other destination to head for, Finn had chosen to stay on the original course.

  As a result, the team’s path was running west to east along the southern edge of the desert, and closer to civilization than before. That was an added risk factor. But, since the team had air cover, Finn was willing to chance it.

  Finn was standing in the Bradley’s top hatch where he could not only see, but free himself from the fighting vehicle’s fuggy interior. RHIP. Rank hath its privileges.

  Because the company was traveling along the vague line separating the desert from the arid land to the south, the landscape had a different appearance.

  A line of transmission towers marched next to the convoy before angling south. Then it was necessary for the column to cross a dry floodway and wait while a herd of domesticated camels passed in front of them. A vast junkyard appeared an hour later. It wasn’t fenced. But the evenly spaced, pole-mounted lights were clearly intended to deter thieves.

  A four-legged tower stood at the center of the sprawling chaos with a garage sized shack on top of it. The structure boasted an outside walkway that would provide employees with a sweeping view of the junkyard and surrounding countryside. Would the caretakers report Strike Team 3 to the authorities? Of course, they would. But that couldn’t be helped.

  As for the junk itself, it was fairly well organized. Wrecked cars were laid out in one section. Piles of scrap metal another, and so on. Thanks to the dry desert air none of the objects were rusty. Did that explain its presence just beyond the edge of civilization? Probably.

  That’s what Finn was thinking about when a carefully concealed Iranian fired a Toophan wire-guided missile at the Bradley called CAMO CADDY.

  It was a well-conceived attack. And would have been successful had it not been for the Israeli Iron Fist APS (active protection system) mounted on the Bradley’s turret.

  The APS consisted of a radar sensor, plus two launchers armed with two interceptors each. One of the explosive projectiles was fired the moment an incoming threat was detected. Then, while the incoming rocket or missile was still in flight, the interceptor exploded near its target, and destroyed it.

  But with only four interceptors per Bradley, there was a limit to how many attacks a single Iron Fist array could defend against. And, it appeared that Iranians were willing to expend dozens of Toophans in order to neutralize the American interceptors, and make the Bradleys vulnerable. Plus, the Iranian missile teams had an entire junkyard to hide in.

  Finn was about to give orders when a male voice came over his headset. “Alpha-Six … This is Rooster-Four. I have an MQ-9 Reaper with four AGM-114 Hellfire missiles. Standby for an old-fashioned ass kicking.

  “Be advised that you are up against an estimated two-zero targets. And, once I clean my racks, you’ll be on your own. Rooster out.”

  Rooster was a man of his word. Hellfires streaked in, struck four different targets, and exploded. Pieces of metal whirled into the air and landed hundreds of feet away. Columns of smoke marked the spots where Iranian missile teams had been hiding.

  “Rooster, this is Alpha-Six actual,” Finn said. “Nice job! Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m out of boom-booms. But I’ll be eyes-on until the next bird rotates in. Rooster out.”

  Unfortunately, the American Bradleys had expended all of their Iron Fist projectiles by then, making them vulnerable. That was to say nothing of Captain al-Awan’s machines, which didn’t have APS systems.

  But the Raven was up and Pinnick was working with the drone’s operator to spot targets. It was time for Finn to unleash the tanks. “Alpha-Two, this is Six actual. Hook up with Echo-Six and put some cannon fire on those missile teams.

  “All Bradleys will launch smoke, take evasive action, and avoid running into each other. The Strykers will circle around to the north side of the junkyard and slam the back door. Six out.”

  By common agreement Pinnick and Platoon Leader Scott had moved to a secondary frequency leaving the primary for Finn to use. While watching the feed from the Raven, Pinnick could “walk” each tank’s 105mm HEAT rounds in on their various targets.

  And with five tanks firing in rotation, that was a whole lot of hurt falling on Iranian targets. Scott switched to the primary freq. “This is Echo-Six. The enemy might have a spotter in that tower. Requesting permission to take it down. Over.”

  “This is Alpha-Six actual,” Finn said. “Go for it. Out.”

  The building on top of the tower exploded into a thousand splinters as a 105mm shell struck it. The remains collapsed into a pile of shattered lumber. Flames appeared, found desert-dry wood, and gave birth to an inferno.

  Platoon Sergeant Roy Revell was riding in the Stryker called STEEL ON WHEELS. Finn recognized his voice. “Alpha-Six, this is Delta-Seven. Two vics loaded with tangos attempted to exfil from the north side of the junkyard. All KIA. Out.”

  “Roger that,” Finn replied. “Well done. All units … Did we take casualties? Report.”

  The order was followed by a chorus of “Nos.”

  Finn felt lucky. Very lucky. “Six to all units. Assemble in convoy order and continue east. We have work to do. Out.”

  ***

  East of Zabol, Iran

  Jafari and Okada left the hotel in Zabol shortly after 3:00 a.m. He hoped to arrive at the Iran-Afghanistan border crossing early and breeze through.

  But, once they got there, it was only to join a mile long backup. The sun rose while they were waiting. Pink light suffused the desert, and red tail lights came on, as the trucker in front of them started his engine. He drove thirty feet forward and stopped. Jafari did the same.

  Okada was seated next to Jafari. The truck wasn’t equipped with child locks. So, a piece of cord had been used to secure Okada’s left ankle to her seat, making it impossible for the scientist to open the door and jump out.

  But Okada knew it would be a mistake to bail out of the truck even if she could. Iranian military personnel were very much in evidence. Was that normal? Especially in wartime? Or were they on high alert? And if so, why? Because of the missing bombs? Or something else? It was impossible to know.

  But one thing Okada did know was that if the Iranians captured her, the results could be as bad, or worse than what awaited her in Afghanistan.

  Up ahead, where the road curved, Okada could see the checkpoint in the distance. All sorts of conveyances were backed up behind it. There were cars, little trucks, big trucks, a bus, a pack train comprised of camels, heavily laden motor cycles, a donkey drawn cart, and an old farm tractor—all waiting to enter the Republic of Afghanistan.

  Okada did the best she could to ignore the knot of fear in her stomach by reviewing the scientific method: Make an observation, ask a question, and form a hypothesis. By affirming the method, and her command of it, Okada distracted herself and kept her fear in check.

  More than an hour dragged past as the bomb truck continued to jerk forward until it was only one vehicle back from the customs checkpoint. “Okay,” Jafari said. “I’ll do the talking. You will keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

  Okada nodded.

  The truck in front of them passed through the checkpoint, Jafari pulled forward, and had his ID ready when a soldier appeared at the driver’s side window. “My wife lost her ID,” Jafari said. “I hope this will cover the fine.”

  The soldier eyed the photo on the passport, looked at Jafari again, and frowned. Then he produced a chrome whistle and blew it. The shrill sound cut through all of the background noise and brought soldiers on the run. An officer appeared. “What have you got?”

  The soldier gave the Sotvan dovom (Second Lieutenant) Jafari’s passport and pointed. “Look! It’s him!”

  ***

  The village of Rostam, Iran

  The GAZ Tigr lacked air conditioning so the windows were open. But the hot, dry air was in no way cooling, and Lieutenant Alexi Borin longed for a wintry day in Volgograd. “The turnoff is coming up on the right,” Garin said.

  “Any idiot can see that,” Borin said, and wished he hadn’t. Control yourself, Alexi. Don’t be a Mudak (asshole). “Let’s stay on the road. I want to inspect the bridge.”

  The GAZ topped a rise and started down the other side. The two-lane highway was partially obscured by a light drifting of sand. The east end of a steel bridge was visible at the foot of the slope. “Stop short of the bridge,” Borin said. “I want to get out and look around.”

  The area appeared to be deserted, which was consistent with the information received from Iranian Intelligence, and with Borin’s preferences.

  Yes, he would have been willing to destroy a village if necessary, but since the nearby town of Rostam was deserted, there would be no need to. However, there wouldn’t be any diplomatic blowback if he leveled the place.

  Garin braked, the GAZ came to a stop, and Borin got out. The rest of his command was twenty miles to the east, concealed in and around a defunct cement factory. The sort of place where large trucks were expected to be.

  As Borin made his way out onto the bridge he took notice of the fact that there wasn’t any traffic. And that made sense. Gas rationing was in effect and there was no point in going to a deserted village. Plus, the farms the highway served had been subsumed by invading sand dunes.

  Climate change, Borin thought. The permafrost is melting, we have less snow in Russia, and more wildfires. Mother nature is kicking our ass.

  Borin paused to look over the railing and down into the Kal-e Jeni Canyon. The river was bordered by walls of sedimentary rock, each layer with a slightly different hue, and marking a period of geological history.

  As Borin looked north he could see some of what had been the village of Rostam. A minaret was visible, as was a wooden platform and the skeletal crane mounted on it.

  And there, dangling from the hoist was a large bucket. Its purpose was obvious. The container had been used to scoop water from the river below. A real labor saver as compared to carrying heavy jugs up the switchback path that led to the village.

  Borin continued his stroll over to the west side of the bridge, circled around to peer under the structure, and took a picture of what he saw.

  Then the Russian paused to perform a careful 360. He could see the bridge, the highway, and the village on the other side of the river. The weathered houses were made of beige-colored mud bricks which were gradually being reabsorbed by the land from which they came.

  He’ll stop here, Borin imagined. On the west side of the canyon. He’ll have infantry, and I won’t. But the canyon will prevent the American from sending soldiers against me. He will understand that and send his vehicles across. My tanks will be hidden in the village. They will open fire and destroy the pindos.

  It’s a simple plan, Borin thought. But, it’s like Dostoyevsky said, “The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing.” And the American is cunning.

  ***

  Qila Kom (Fort Kom), Warlord Akhtar Wali’s ancestral home, in the extreme southwest corner of Afghanistan

  Qila Kom (fort Kom) was located in the triangle where the borders of Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan met. It sat atop a high hill overlooking the Zerrah Depression, the lowest part of the inland drainage basin that occupied large parts of southern Afghanistan and Iran.

  As a result, the fortress could not only command the ancient trade route that led from India, through Pakistan and into Iran, it could access a year-round supply of good water, all brought to the surface by means of an ancient invention called the “Archimedean screw.”

  As the name would suggest the device was shaped like a giant screw. It was powered by teams of donkeys which labored around the clock to keep the fort supplied with water.

  And it was the screw that made it possible for those in the castle to withstand extended sieges. Something the Wali clan had been forced to cope with more than once.

  Seen from a distance Qila Kom was a study in 5th century military architecture. The bottom of the hill was surrounded by a thirty-foot-high wall interspersed with crenellated towers. A single road circled to the top of the scree-covered slopes which, if the road was blocked, would force invaders to climb a slippery incline to the foot of a sheer curtain wall. All while being firing fired upon with bows, and eventually cannons, that could sweep the slopes with cannister.