Borin thumbed his radio. “This is Agate-Zero-One. Exit your positions immediately and meet me at the edge of the cliff. Leave everything except water and your personal weapons behind. We will follow the footpath down to the river and exfil to the north. That’s where Russia is. We’re going home.”

  ***

  “Alpha-Six, this is Freight-Train. Approximately fifteen tangos are following the path that leads down into the canyon. Do you want air support? Over.”

  ***

  Finn thought about the men and women who’d been killed or wounded during the last hour. Part of him wanted to say, “Yes, kill the bastards.”

  But there was another Finn too. The man who was tired of killing. Especially when there was no longer a purpose in doing so. The bridge had been won. Strike Team 3 was free to proceed. “No,” Finn said. “Let them go. Out.”

  Light strobed Finn’s face and he heard a whir. Keaton was standing in front of him with camera in hand. Her eyes made contact with his. “You did the right thing, Sean,” Keaton said. Then she was gone.

  ***

  Zahedan Airbase, southeast Iran

  Zahedan airport was a sprawling affair located just east of the city with the same name. Prior to the war the facility had been shared by the civilian government and the Iranian air force. Now it was closed to both commercial flights and military planes, due to the fact that it was well within the range of American planes flying off carriers in the Arabian Sea.

  At the moment the airport was serving as an army base from which patrols could monitor the nearby border with Afghanistan. And that, in Lieutenant Colonel Naasif el-Bagheri’s opinion, was work worth doing—since the Afghanis were fucking barbarians.

  What he didn’t want to do was babysit three nuclear bombs for an indefinite period of time. “We’ll come to get them as soon as we have a safe storage facility,” General el-Abassi had told him. “As you know, the Americans attacked all six of our nuclear facilities.”

  El-Bagheri didn’t know that. And didn’t want to. It was too damned depressing. As was the knowledge that one of the enemy strike teams was headed his way.

  But we’re ready,” el-Bagheri assured himself. The necessary defenses are in place. If the Americans come here, we’ll bury them in the desert.

  The thought brought a smile to el-Bagheri’s face as the SUV stopped in front of Hangar 3, the location where the American scientist and her Iranian lackey were about to be interrogated. They’d been interviewed before of course. Once by him and once by his Intel officer. That should have been sufficient, yet he’d been ordered to make the prisoners available again, so some dolt from Tehran could play soldier.

  A sentry came to attention, opened the standard sized door located next to the much larger hangar door, and allowed el-Bagheri to enter. A sleek HESA Kosar trainer was half hidden in the murk to the officer’s left as he followed a pair of yellow lines back to the point where two people were bathed in light. They sat on metal chairs.

  One was a tiny woman of Asian descent. The other was the fucking asshole who’d been the maintenance supervisor at the Natanz Nuclear facility. Both sat with their chins on their chests. A noncom snapped to attention. “Sir!”

  El-Bagheri looked around. “So, where the hell is he? I have things to do.”

  “I’m right here,” a female voice said, as a woman entered the pool of light. “My name is Sakeena al-Emani. I work for Office Thirteen. And you are?”

  Al-Emani was dressed in a long, black chador with a veil that hid everything but her eyes. They were brown and filled with what? Intelligence? Yes. And something else. Something frightening. And that made sense. Office Thirteen was a counter insurrection group tasked with finding and neutralizing traitors. People like Jafari.

  The officer cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Colonel Naasif el-Bagheri at your service.”

  Al-Emani nodded. “I’m here to determine what the prisoners are, and what they aren’t.

  “For example,” al-Emani continued, as she grabbed a fistful of Jafari’s hair, and jerked his head back. “Is this pile of excrement working for the CIA? Is he a common criminal? Or is he a collaborator? Once we learn the answer, we will find the infection and cauterize it.”

  ***

  In order to deal with the continual interrogations Okada had developed an absolutely absurd cover story. Its purpose was to give herself something to say that couldn’t possibly reveal anything about Strike Team 3.

  The essence of Okada’s deceit was that she was an American tourist who’d been touring Iran when the war broke out. She’d been hiding near Natanz when Jafari offered to smuggle her out of the country. As for having a degree in physics, that was a lie. One of many lies Jafari was responsible for.

  But ridiculous though it was, the falsehood gave Okada something to organize herself around. And after telling the story over and over she was beginning to believe it. So, she told al-Emani the same lie and took her punishment—which was a series of back-handed slaps.

  It could have been worse however, and was worse during earlier sessions, which led Okada to believe that al-Emani was mainly focused on Jafari. Probably because the Iranian government was afraid of the National Resistance Movement—a party comprised of nationalists, constitutionalists, and liberals.

  Besides, the Iranians had the bombs, and according to what Okada had been told, Strike Team 3 had been annihilated. So why focus on her?

  Time lost all meaning. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Okada was returned to her cell. She waited for the guards to leave. Then Okada began to cry.

  ***

  Qila Kom (fort Kom), southwestern Afghanistan

  Nura was hiding in her husband’s gun room. It was located just off his private bedroom where, like his grandfather and father before him, Akhtar Wali kept his weapons in case of need. Some were modern and some harkened back to the castle’s earliest days. The light from Nura’s flashlight highlighted racks of swords, spears, and muskets as it swept the room.

  And there, where she’d seen it before, was the glass covered case filled with daggers. All the Pesh-kabz knives shared a common design. They had full-tang grips, with a hooked butt, and long narrow blades designed to penetrate chain link armor, but capable of slicing through flesh as well. Nura opened the case and removed a dagger. It was equipped with ivory grips and a beautifully engraved blade. I will kill the dog with his own knife,” she thought.

  That was when Nura heard movement beyond the door and turned the light off. It was Saba’s turn. She was wife number two, and as such, outranked Nura in the family’s pecking order. Not that it mattered much since all three of Wali’s wives had identical duties: Provide him with sex, make babies, and supervise various aspects of the household.

  At sixteen Nura was the youngest of the three, had been married to Wali for eight months, and was taking birth control pills without her husband’s knowledge. All according to a plan hatched by her mother. “Wait, Nura,” her mother said. “Give yourself a year. Then you can let nature take its course.”

  Well, nature wasn’t going to take its course. Because Nura was going to kill Wali and inevitably be killed herself. But that was of no concern. Jannah (paradise) was waiting.

  Nura put her ear to the door. What ensued was no different from what she had endured for eight months. Wali ordered Saba to disrobe, drop to her knees, and perform oral sex.

  Then, once he was hard, Wali told her to kneel on the bed. From behind. That was Wali’s preference. And Nura was very familiar with the routine. Thrust, thrust, thrust, followed by a grunt of satisfaction and a slap on the butt.

  That was the signal to roll off the bed, get dressed, and depart. Then Wali would place a steel bar across the door and lock himself in.

  Nura didn’t know what her husband did next, but imagined that he read for a while, followed by one of the hot baths he enjoyed so much, and a final phone conversation with his private secretary—a Nigerian named Benjamin Yusuf.

  That meant Nura would have to wait, and wait some more, to ensure that the warlord was asleep when she emerged from hiding. Because he was strong. Very strong. And would no doubt kill Nura if he were awake.

  Time passed. And there were long periods during which Nura couldn’t hear anything other than the soft rasp of her own breathing. At one point she almost made the mistake of opening the door. Her hand was on the knob when she heard Wali’s cell phone chime, followed by the muted sound of his voice, and silence.

  But eventually the light visible through the crack under the door disappeared and no further noises were heard. It was tempting to enter immediately thereafter. But Nura forced herself to wait for an agonizing fifteen minutes before turning the knob and easing the door open.

  The room was dark except for the little bit of moonlight that found its way in through a window. Nura battled to control her fear as she slip-slid forward on bare feet. The big four poster bed was visible as was the blanket-covered body that rested on top of it. I’m close, she thought. So very, very, close. Allah guide my hand.

  ***

  Akhtar Wali was a light sleeper. But something else saved his life. And that was the fact that unbeknownst to his wives, or his servants for that matter, he always slept on the floor next to his bed. It was a way to stay strong and prevent weakness from dominating his spirit. But it had another purpose as well.

  By placing two pillows under the covers, Wali made it appear that he was sleeping on the bed. An easy target for any assassin who managed to penetrate his inner sanctum.

  And more than that, Wali slept with a revolver close at hand. Not a semi-automatic, but a British made Webley .455 top-break revolver, which was unlikely to jam or discharge accidentally.

  So, when someone stepped on his right leg, Wali was ready to raise the weapon and fire six shots. A body fell, something clattered to the floor, and the warlord rolled to his feet.

  He then quickly stepped on the panic button next to the bed. An alarm began to bleat as Wali turned on the lights. And there, lying in a pool of blood, was Nura, his third wife. A knife lay only inches from her hand.

  Fists were beating on the door by then, and Wali shouted, “It’s me! Don’t shoot!” before removing the bar, and opening the door. Benjamin Yusuf was there with a clutch of South African guards gathered behind him. The secretary’s eyes rose and fell, looking for any signs of a wound. “Are you alright, sir?”

  “Yes,” Wali answered, as he gestured to the body on the floor. “Nura tried to kill me … Why would she do that? For money?”

  Yusuf shook his head. “No, sir … I think it was an attempt to exact revenge.”

  Wali frowned. “Revenge? For what?”

  Yusuf looked surprised. “For her father, sir … You had him impaled.”

  Wali was stunned. But he knew it was possible. He’d met Nura’s father only once, and that was at the wedding. And her maiden name was Mohammad. A name so common it belonged to what? Tens of thousands of people? Yes.

  Wali’s eyes met Yusuf’s. “Why, in Allah’s name, didn’t you tell me?”

  Yusuf bowed. “It wasn’t my place to do so, sir. I assumed the choice was intentional.”

  Wali stared at the Nigerian. A long moment passed. Then, after giving the matter some thought, the warlord nodded. “And you were correct, Benjamin. It wasn’t your place.”

  ***

  The Dash-e Lut Desert, Iran

  The Lut desert was a large salt desert located in the southeast section of Iran. It was even hotter than the Kavir desert which the team had traveled through days earlier. In fact, according to Pinnick, in her role as “weather lady,” the surface of the sand had been measured at temperatures as high as 159° Fahrenheit, making it one of the hottest places in the world.

  And as Strike Team 3 rolled south and east, flat-topped “sand castles” were visible in the distance. Fortunately, Colonel Selton had been able to arrange for another supply drop the day before, which meant the team had plenty of food, ammo and fuel. But it was still “Too fucking hot,” according to First Sergeant Dyson. And Finn agreed.

  Their orders were the same as they’d been prior to the battle at Rostam. They were to reach the Zahedan airbase as quickly as possible when, according to Selton, submarine-launched TLAMs (Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles) would be used to destroy the Iranian fighter jets on the tarmac.

  Once that was accomplished a company of Rangers would arrive to help secure both the base and the bombs. That’s when C-17s would land to take everyone out. Something Finn was looking forward to.

  For the moment, however, all he could do was stand in the WHEELER DEALER’S open hatch and sway with its movements. A towel, plus his shirt, were carefully positioned to keep his bare torso from making contact with hot steel. Even though it was 0934, Pinnick said the temperature was 112 degrees.

  Doctor Parcel was making frequent use of the company radio freq to remind the team of the need to stay hydrated. “Drink a quart of water every hour,” she told them. “But don’t gulp it down all at once. And don’t pour water over your head and shoulders. That may feel good, but we need to conserve what we have.”

  WHEELER DEALER was on point. And, as Finn examined the landscape ahead, he found himself looking at a stony, barren desert which interpreter Hooman Karimi referred to as a “hamada.” There were rock formations too—including the sand-blasted stones called ventifacts. All of which was fascinating to look at, but primordial, like photos of Mars.

  Slowly, but surely, the scenery changed as an army of sand dunes appeared, impeding the convoy’s progress. Because many were hundreds of feet tall, the WHEELER DEALER had to find paths between them.

  Everyone knows that a straight line is the quickest route from one place to another. So, Finn was aware the serpentine course would cost the team valuable time. But it couldn’t be helped.

  Finn looked back every now and then. The Bradley named HELL BENT was next in line. And as luck would have it, Finn was facing that way when the fighting vehicle suddenly took a nose dive into the sand, and began to sink. He thumbed his radio. “Clark! Get everyone off the vic! Do it now!”

  Soldiers had been outside the oven-like cargo compartment, clinging to the Bradley like fleas on a dog, when the sand-hole opened up. They jumped clear. Most made it. But one soldier missed solid ground and was yelling for help as the hole tried to eat him.

  Fortunately, Vehicle Commander Clark was able to dive forward and grab the man’s wrists. Then, as both were about to be sucked into the sinkhole, a medic got hold of her ankles. And with help from other soldiers the twosome was pulled free.

  Then, as suddenly as the episode had begun, it was over. The Bradley’s front end was now buried in sand with its back hatch pointed at the sky. “Alpha-Seven,” Finn said. “This is Six actual. I’m going to need a tank and a tow chain. Turn the rest of the company around and return to the other side of the dune. Send scouts ahead and put a lot of space between the vehicles. Let me know when you’re forward of my position. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Owens answered. “Out.”

  “Alpha-Six, this is Echo-Six,” Scott said. “AXIS ACE reporting for duty. We have two tow chains. Over.”

  The extra length would allow the tank to stay that much further away from the sink hole. “That’s a good idea,” Finn replied. “Hook them together. Over.”

  “Alpha-Six, this is Charlie-Six,” Captain al-Awan said. “I’m standing on HELL BENT. Tie a rope to the chain and throw it over to me. I will pull the chain across and connect it. Over.”

  Finn turned to look, and sure enough, al-Awan had taken it upon himself to make the jump from solid ground to the Bradley. The prince might be spoiled but he had balls.

  Scott hurried to connect the chains, attach a tow rope, and throw it. The first attempt fell short. The platoon leader tried again. The second effort met with success.

  Al-Awan grabbed the rope and began to haul it in hand-over-hand. The weight of the chain caused the line to sag. The Saudi continued to pull. A huge U-bolt was attached to the rope. And once al-Awan had hold of that he hurried to connect the chain to one of the tow points on the Bradley. Those who were watching clapped. Al-Awan bowed.

  Finn smiled as the officer made use of the chain to reach solid ground. If that didn’t gain al-Awan the acceptance he desired nothing would.

  The AXIS ACE weighed sixty tons and was equipped with a Honeywell AGT-1500 turbine engine. It roared as Valdez put the behemoth in reverse, took up the slack in the chain, and backed away. The chain went taut and seemed to vibrate as the M-1 pulled.

  For its part the Bradley remained where it was, gun down in the sand, ass in the air. Then Finn saw the back end come down a little, pause, and fall some more. The sand seemed to grab the vehicle at that point, as if reluctant to surrender its prize, but eventually let go.

  The Bradley’s tracks weren’t turning though so it didn’t matter. The AXIS ACE pulled the machine free by the use of brute force. And once HELL BENT was safe, Valdez backed off the throttle, his knuckles white from maneuvering the tank.

  The next hour was spent getting HELL BENT up and running, cleaning sand out of the machine’s chain gun, and circling around to rendezvous with Owens and the rest of the company.

  By that time, it was too hot to travel. So, Finn gave orders for his soldiers to take shelter in the shadow cast by an enormous dune, and to shift their vehicle positions as necessary to remain in the shade. Once the sun went down the journey would resume. Zahedan airbase was waiting. And so were the bombs.

  ***

  Zahedan airbase, southeastern Iran

  It was 1:50 am when Mastoor el-Jabbour checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Ten minutes to go. Finally. The custodian didn’t know what was going to happen, but sensed it was going to be violent, and knew that he and his family would have to flee into Afghanistan once the killing was over. That was because his real employer was a warlord named Akhtar Wali who, if the Afghan TV networks were correct, was likely to become the next president.

  And that was a good thing from el-Jabbour’s perspective, because the money Wali paid into his bank account always arrived on time, a sure sign that the warlord would be a trustworthy leader. Why the Afghan hired him was a mystery. Jabbour had a theory however. Maybe, if the rumors were correct, Wali was toying with the possibility of invading Iran. If so, the airbase would represent an important prize.