Hands shaking, el-Jabbour opened the door to a utility closet, pushed his cart inside, and locked the door behind him. That was second nature, because like most janitors, el-Jabbour had dozens of keys hanging from his belt. And he was expected to pay close attention to security. And I have, el-Jabbour thought, until tonight.

  The task given him was extremely simple. All he had to do was leave the main building, follow a taxiway to Gate 14, and use his master key to unlock it.

  Then, according to instructions from the Nigerian, “You will go home, collect your family, and leave Iran. Show these papers to the border guards and they will allow you to pass. A job is waiting for you at Dawat University in Kabul. Go there and identify yourself. Qad yakun Allah maeak.” (May Allah be with you.)

  All of which sounded good. But what if it was a lie? What if the people he allowed onto the base killed him? What would happen to Sobia and the children?

  El-Jabbour knew it was too late for such concerns. The decision had been made. And if el-Jabbour failed to open Gate 14 he knew the Nigerian would have him killed.

  It was chilly outside. Especially without a coat. And that was when the ex-janitor realized that in his haste, he had forgotten to remove his jacket and lunch pail from his locker.

  The base was under blackout orders, so el-Jabbour was forced to use a penlight to navigate. The taxiway led past a hangar and onto a runway which hadn’t been used for a month or more. At least half of the airbase’s military personnel had been shipped off to fight in the northwest.

  So, rather than put sentries on every gate the way he wanted to, Lieutenant Colonel el-Bagheri had been forced to settle for roving security patrols. El-Jabbour’s greatest fear was that a vehicle loaded with military police would spot him. And, with no believable story to explain his actions, el-Jabbour would be arrested on the spot.

  So as the janitor crossed the large expanse of concrete, he continued to glance over his shoulder, fearful that he would see headlights. But he didn’t.

  Eventually the light from his flashlight illuminated the chain-link fence that ran around the perimeter of the base. And from there it was a simple matter to find Gate 14.

  El-Jabbour felt a tremendous sense of relief as he approached the gate and fumbled for his key ring. That was when a spot light lanced through the darkness and pinned the janitor in its glare. The voice came from above, from a quadcopter UAV, and froze el-Jabbour in place. “Halt! Raise your hands! A security vehicle …”

  That was when a burst of gunfire hit the drone and it crashed. “Open the fucking gate,” a voice said from the surrounding gloom. “And hurry.”

  After unlocking the gate, El-Jabbour threw both sides open, barely managing to get out of the way as six Toyota gun trucks roared past him. Then, thankful to be alive, el-Jabbour stepped into the darkness and the new life that awaited him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Zahedan airbase, southeastern Iran

  Lieutenant Colonel el-Bagheri was dreaming. Agent Sakeena al-Emani was naked. And waiting in bed. And el-Bagheri was about to join her when a klaxon began to bleat, and the phone beside his bed rang.

  El-Bagheri lifted the receiver, ready to tear a strip off whoever had the temerity to wake him at 0206 in the morning, but never got the chance. “They’re inside the wire! They’re …”

  That was when el-Bagheri heard the rattle of automatic fire, followed by a scream, and a click. Shit, shit, shit! Whoever “they” were was in the operations center.

  Attack or not, el-Bagheri couldn’t venture out naked. So, he was hurrying to get dressed when a boot hit the door, causing it to strike the wall. A man with a bushy beard entered. He was dressed in a pakol hat, tactical vest, and baggy trousers. A Russian AK-74 was aimed at the Iranian. “Are you Lieutenant Colonel el-Bagheri?”

  “Yes. Please don’t …”

  El-Bagheri saw a flash, felt something slam into his chest, and fell into nothingness.

  ***

  Okada was curled up in the fetal position, fantasizing about a cheeseburger, when they came to get her. Keys rattled, hinges squealed, and the overhead light came on. “Are you Doctor Susan Okada?”

  “Y-y-yes.”

  “Remove your clothing. Put these on. Never fear … We will wait outside.”

  A bundle of clothing landed on the bed. And it soon became apparent that every item was not only new, but very close to her size. Even the athletic shoes.

  Okada was happy to shed the filthy rags she’d been wearing and don something clean. But to what end? Who was she about to deal with? And why?

  After tying her shoes Okada went to the door. It was open. A black man was waiting outside. He bowed. “My name is Benjamin Yusuf. I work for Mr. Akhtar Wali. He is your new employer, and will pay you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars per year for your scientific expertise.”

  The bombs, Okada thought. They came for the bombs. “And, if I don’t want to work for Mr. Wali?”

  “Then you will work for him anyway.” Yusuf answered. “For free.”

  So, the choice was no choice. “I see. You certainly have a way with words.”

  Yusef smiled. “I have a degree in English from USC. Please follow me.”

  Okada did as she was told, knowing that a man with an assault rifle was right behind her. After being led through a maze of corridors, and out into the chilly night air, Okada was ordered to board a Toyota gun truck occupied by three fighters.

  The gunmen made way for the newcomers as Yusuf gave orders in what Okada believed to be Pashto. Then he sat down, and the pickup took off, causing Okada to wish she was wearing a thicker coat.

  A rectangle of light was visible in the distance. As the Toyota got closer Okada could see that light was spilling out of a hangar. The truck came to a stop, the fighters jumped to the ground, and Yusuf gestured for her to follow. He led the way into the metal clad building. And there, resting in their cradles, were the three bombs.

  Jafari was seated on a chair, a gag in his mouth, with his hands tied behind him. His eyes beseeched her and muffled words could be heard.

  “Examine the bombs,” Yusuf ordered. “And determine if they are real. Mr. Wali will be very unhappy if we arrive at Qila Kom with fake bombs.”

  “To accomplish that,” Okada told him, “I need a specialized tool that can send streams of neutrons deep into each warhead. That will reveal the weapon’s structure right down to the atomic level.”

  “We don’t have such a tool,” Yusuf replied. “Do the best you can. And be careful. Your life depends on it.”

  With Yusuf’s threat in mind Okada made her way over to the bombs. The writing on the bombs was in Persian. If the weapons were fakes, they were good imitations.

  But, because the critical components were hidden by the casings, Okada couldn’t be sure. All the scientist could do was use common sense. The Iranians had gone to great lengths to guard the bombs, and attempt to recover them, ergo, they were real. Buy time, Okada told herself. And hope for the best.

  Okada turned and made her way back to Yusuf. “They’re real alright,” the physicist said with a confidence she didn’t feel. “So, tell your people to handle them with care.”

  “Good,” Yusef said. “Mr. Wali will be pleased. You will be taken outside and transported to Mr. Wali’s home in a sedan. Refreshments will be available. Enjoy the trip.”

  “What about him?” Okada wanted to know, as she pointed to Jafari.

  “There’s no need for him to accompany us,” Yusuf replied.

  “Good,” Okada said. “I want to kill him.” The scientist was surprised by how easily the words came.

  Yusuf’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a surprise.”

  “He killed two of my friends.”

  “I see,” Yusef said, as he drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. “Be my guest. This is the safety. Move it with your thumb. Do not turn the gun toward me or my men. If you try, they will knee-cap you.”

  “Thanks for the heads up,” Okada said drily, as she accepted the weapon.

  Then she turned toward Jafari. His eyes were wide with fear. Okada held the pistol with both hands, like cops do in movies, and thumbed the safety.

  Then, to make sure that every bullet found its mark, she moved closer. Muffled sobs could be heard through the gag. Okada was unmoved.

  The recoil caught her by surprise. The first slug hit Jafari’s left shoulder. Blood flew.

  Okada corrected her aim and continued to fire. Eventually the chair that the bullet riddled body was sitting on toppled over backwards and landed in a pool of blood.

  Then, careful lest her movements be misinterpreted, Okada placed the gun on the floor and took two steps back. “Thank you. That felt good.”

  My God, Okada thought. I’m one of them.

  ***

  North of Zahedan airbase, southeastern Iran

  “Alpha-Six, this is Kool-Aid. Be advised that as far as I can tell Zahedan airbase is deserted. I see zero, repeat zero, movement. Over.”

  “Copy that,” Finn replied. “Zero movement over what period of time? Over.”

  “One-five minutes. Over.”

  “Roger. Let me know if anything changes. Out.”

  Deserted? That didn’t make any damned sense. But what was, was.

  According to the download from Central Command, the city of Zahedan was home to more than half a million people, boasted numerous universities, and was a center for commerce. So, if Finn brought Strike Team 3 in from the northwest, there was no telling what might occur.

  Perhaps the citizenry would allow the Americans to roll through town unhindered. And maybe pigs would fly. Fortunately, most of the town was located west of the airport. By veering east, then turning south, the team could avoid the dangers that might be lurking in the city. Like a well-armed police force for example.

  The terrain was little different from what the company had endured during the past few days. It consisted of dry river beds, low hills, and stony ground occasionally interrupted by a touch of green.

  Finn was riding in STEEL ON WHEELS, along with Pinnick and the UAV operator. He was standing in the squad leader’s hatch when the air force officer tugged on his pant leg. Finn ducked down into the cargo area. “There’s something I want you to see,” Pinnick told him. “Check it out.”

  A Raven UAV was cruising low along the west side of the airbase. And there, secured to the chain link fence, were dozens of spreadeagled bodies. Vultures lumbered into the air as the UAV flew by, their heads red with gore. “My God,” Finn said. “What the hell happened?”

  “That,” Pinnick said grimly. “Is the million-dollar question.”

  “Get Central Command on the horn,” Finn said. “Tell them what we saw and send video. Ask them to look at whatever the NRO has for the last twelve hours. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  The return call came in thirty minutes later. “Colonel Selton wants to speak with you,” the radio operator said, as she offered a sat phone.

  Finn took the device topside. “This is Major Finn.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Selton replied. “It looks like a fleet of about fifteen small vehicles approached the airfield from the east around 0200 last night, gained entry, and went every which way. Put that together with the video and I’d say they took control of the base.”

  “And the bombs,” Finn added.

  “Yes,” Selton said. “That’s my guess. Although I want you to confirm that.”

  “Did the NRO backtrack the vehicles?”

  “Yes, as far as Afghanistan, but they weren’t able to identify a single point of origin.”

  “So, the Taliban has nuclear weapons,” Finn ventured.

  “Maybe,” Selton replied. “And maybe not. I want you to go over that place with a fine-toothed comb. Gather all the Intel you can.”

  “And the reinforcements?”

  “They’re in the air. Along with a shit load of supplies. Keep me in the loop.” Click.

  Finn frowned. Supplies? What for? All Strike Team 3 needed was a ride to Kuwait. Followed by a good dinner.

  It took half an hour to reach a spot east of the Iranian base and turn west. The top of a rise provided Finn a sweeping view of the airport. Thanks to his binoculars he could see the chain link fence, the runway, and the buildings beyond.

  That was when Finn realized there weren’t any bodies strapped to the fence on the east side of the base Why? Because there’s no one on the east side to see them, that’s why, Finn concluded.

  As for the purpose of the display on the west side, that was to scare the hell out of the townspeople, and it appeared to be working. Because there was no movement on or near the base. None he could see anyway.

  Finn thumbed his radio. “This is Six. We’re going in. STEEL ON WHEELS has the point. There is the possibility of a trap. So Alpha Two will maintain airborne surveillance. Let’s roll … The C-17s are something like thirty out. Over.”

  STEEL ON WHEELS raced forward to cut a tank-sized hole in the security fence. It took a four-man team armed with bolt cutters ten minutes to make the necessary cuts and peel the barrier open. WHELER DEALER had arrived by then, and the Strykers took off to circle the perimeter, searching for any signs of resistance.

  The stench associated with the dead bodies made Finn gag. A cloud of flies buzzed around them. But no one opened fire on the Americans—for which Finn was grateful.

  After completing the tour, and rejoining the unit, Finn called for Captain al-Awan. Pinnick was on the horn and preparing to bring the first C-17 in when the Saudi appeared. “Yes, sir, what’s up?”

  The prince’s nonchalant greeting was vastly different from their first encounter. Finn grinned. “I want you to take two Bradleys into town, find the correct officials, and tell them that we have no intention of entering the city—and don’t expect to be here for long.

  “Please convey my sympathies regarding the murders, and invite them to send workers to cut the bodies down, and remove them for burial. But, if we see weapons, we’ll open fire. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir,” al-Awan replied. “But I would like to make a comment. The Iranians regard Saudis as enemies.”

  Finn nodded. “True. But you are Muslim and can make yourself understood. Fly white flags from both vehicles. Odds are that they will react in an appropriate manner.

  “But if they don’t, then defend yourselves, and call for help. A Reaper is circling overhead and I’ll warn the pilot about your mission.”

  “Roger that, sir. Consider yourself to have been saluted.”

  Finn laughed. “Thanks, Talha … So noted.”

  After the Saudi left, the first C-17 Globemaster arrived. Engines screamed as the so-called “Moose” touched down. There was lots of unobstructed runway to work with, plus decent taxiways, so two additional planes landed within minutes of each other.

  Finn felt a sense of foreboding as ramps went down and unloading began. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Strike Team 3’s mission had been extended. Colonel Selton would explain the exact whys and wherefores when he felt like it. In the meantime, all Finn could do was organize whatever came his way.

  And that, as it turned out was quite a lot, including two tanks, three Strykers, and one hundred and thirty-four soldiers. Not Rangers, as he’d been told to expect earlier, but Brits.

  Then the first C-17s took off and two more landed. They were loaded with supplies including food, weapons, and ammo—plus the trucks required to transport them.

  Meanwhile fighter planes continued to circle overhead on guard in case the Iranians or Russians tried to interfere. And the fact that al-Awan hadn’t been forced to request assistance was a good sign.

  The infantry company was Scottish. This was made abundantly clear when a piper marched off the C-17 playing “Scotland the Brave.”

  The Americans stood with mouths agape as members of the 53rd Highland Volunteers followed the noncom down onto the pavement in a column of threes, stopped on command, and performed a smart left face. A towering sergeant yelled, “Parade rest!”

  Finn continued to stare as an officer approached him, came to a halt, and saluted. “Captain Archie Howard, commanding officer of Bravo Company, 6th Battalion of the 53rd Highland Volunteers, reporting for duty, sir!” The introduction was accompanied by an open-handed salute.

  Finn returned the courtesy and hoped that Howard would have better sense than to salute while under fire. “Welcome to Strike Team 3, Captain. I’m Major Finn. Did the powers that be provide you with orders?”

  “No, sir,” Howard replied. “I was told that you would provide orders.”

  Finn was about to say that he didn’t have any orders, when a radio operator appeared with sat phone in hand. “Sorry, sir … Colonel Selton is on the horn.”

  Was Selton watching via the Reaper? Or a satellite? The timing made Finn wonder. “This is Major Finn.”

  “I assume you’re a happy man,” Selton said without any preamble. “A company of infantry, tanks, Strykers and supplies. It’s like Christmas.”

  “Only if the three wise men are arms dealers,” Finn countered. “What exactly, am I supposed to do with this unexpected bounty?”

  “Don’t be thick,” Selton replied. “You’re going to go east into Afghanistan, find the bombs, and bring them back.”

  “So, we don’t know where they are?”

  “If we knew, Central Command would drop some SEALS in to handle the matter,” Selton said. “Head for the city of Rudbar. A guide will contact you there. Hopefully, assuming all goes well, he or she will tell you where to go.

  “And remember, Afghanistan has no air force to speak of. And we’ll have a Reaper and at least two fighters overhead 24/7. The whole thing will be a walk in the park.”

  Finn came very close to saying, “Tell that to the men and women we’ve lost since landing,” but managed to restrain himself. Getting into a pissing match with Selton would be a waste of time. The colonel was nothing more than a conduit through which orders flowed. “Rudbar. Yes sir.”