Finn’s pistol was in a holster on his tac vest. It came out smoothly, his thumb found the safety, and he fired. Twice.

  The attacker flinched, stumbled, and fell. The ax clattered to the floor. It wasn’t clear who the man planned to kill.

  Jafari shook his head as he looked down at the body and the spreading pool of blood. “That’s Dr. Silmi al-Faris. He’s related to the president by marriage.”

  If the Iranian felt a sense of sorrow, Finn couldn’t see any sign of it on Jafari’s face. By then Finn was ready to believe that Jafari was a member of FMI, the Freedom Movement of Iran. Or a similar group.

  He thumbed his radio. “This is Six. Tango down. Maintain situational awareness. Over.” Finn heard a flurry of clicks by way of acknowledgements.

  El-Saladin led the group down a side corridor that ended in front of a stainless-steel door. It was very similar to the one the BLACK DEUCE had destroyed, except that it was equipped with a spoked wheel, and two privacy, shroud-protected keypads. One for each of the two people normally required to enter the vault.

  El-Saladin put his tool case down, flipped the lid open, and went to work removing a floor level grill. And there, hidden behind it, were rows of status lights and controls.

  The lights were green, but not for long. After less than a minute spent turning tiny switches with a skinny screw driver, the indicators flashed red, and el-Saladin stood. He said something in Farsi. “The security systems are off,” Karimi announced. “And the door is unlocked.”

  Jafari stepped forward to turn the chromed wheel all the way to the left. Then he gave it a tug. It required a visible effort to pull the heavy door open. And there, in the vault beyond, were six metal cradles. Each and every one of which was empty.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mehrabad International Airport, Tehran, Iran

  In order to close Mehrabad airport French bombers had dropped a dozen Durandal anti-runway penetration bombs on the field. Durandal bombs were designed to produce two successive explosions intended to make craters and displace slabs of concrete.

  The one-two hit made it doubly difficult to repair the damage. Especially if the strip was subjected to continual attacks.

  But that wasn’t all. As Lieutenant Alexi Borin’s Tigr led the tank carriers onto a rubble strewn taxiway, there was nothing to see other than devastation.

  Three burned out passenger planes sat slumped near the terminal building. The only thing that remained of the adjoining control tower was a jagged stump. A sure sign that a radar seeking missile had blown the top off it.

  Yet the airport was where the apparatchiks (members of the government apparatus) had chosen to station the 2nd Battalion of the 74th Guards Motor Rifle Brigade. Probably on the theory that the Russian air force would be able to deliver supplies there. That was impossible now. But the 2nd Battalion had orders to stay where it was. What idiotizm.

  Borin’s GAZ Tigr led the column along a meandering path through the destruction to the other side of the shared airport, where two pristine Chinese-made Chengdu J-7s sat in hardened hangars, waiting for the day when the runway was back in service.

  Borin ordered his MAZ tank carriers and support vehicles to take shelter in the ruins of three different hangars where they wouldn’t be visible from space. That wouldn’t make much difference of course, since it was likely that enemy satellites had witnessed his unit’s arrival. But Borin felt it was his duty to go through the motions.

  Once that was accomplished Borin went over to speak with the sergeant who’d been sent to lead them in. The man was a Sergeant First Class, or Starshina. A rank Borin had held for many years prior to promotions to Warrant Officer and Provisional Lieutenant.

  They exchanged salutes. “First Sergeant Gilyov, sir. Lieutenant Colonel Yelchin sends his regards, and wants to know if you are the same fucking Borin who served under him when he was a kapitan.”

  Borin laughed. “One and the same. I haven’t seen the colonel for years. How is he?”

  Gilyov’s eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t like sitting in this shithole, while what he refers to as the real war is waged in Europe.”

  Borin nodded. “That sounds like him. Please lead the way.”

  Outside the hangar a walkway led to a ramp and a door large enough to accommodate medium sized trucks. Soldiers were stationed next to the personnel entrance. They hurried to present arms which Borin acknowledged with a salute.

  Once inside Borin felt at home. The underground bunker looked, felt, and even smelled like what a Russian military facility should. Well-lit halls led to an anteroom in which three officers were seated waiting to see Yelchin. Jealous eyes followed Borin as he was ushered past them and into the colonel’s office.

  Yelchin was a big man with heavy brows, a frog-like mouth, and a pugnacious jaw. He rose from his chair, circled his desk, and opened his arms for a Russian bear hug.

  “Starshina Borin! An officer now … I’m not surprised. You were one of the smart ones. A noncom with a brain. Just like Gilyov here. You can leave First Sergeant … I will interrogate the ‘prisoner.’”

  Once the men were seated Yelchin lit a cigarette. “You did a nice job on Road 77, Alexi. The Iranians are thrilled, and told our ambassador as much. He wasted no time passing the word to President Toplin. And the ambassador is likely to hang a medal on your manly chest.

  “And that, old friend is how things are here. We’re political pawns sent to help the Iranians repel a ground invasion that will never come. The Americans are stupid, but not that stupid. Not after Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “Then why send a company of tanks?” Borin inquired.

  “Why indeed?” Yelchin said, as he sent a column of smoke up into the air. “But what’s done, is done. And, fortunately for you, a mission awaits. The Americans aren’t going to invade. But they did put five strike teams on the ground. One for each nuclear facility in Iran. That includes Tehran.”

  Borin frowned. “Why?”

  “We think they’re looking for nuclear bombs. The Iranians say they don’t have any finished devices, but the Foreign Intelligence Service thinks they do, and it appears that the CIA shares that opinion.

  “One of the strike teams put down near the Natanz nuclear facility located 150 miles south of here. It’s a company strength unit that includes tanks and Bradleys. Your orders are to find the Americans and kill them. So, top off your fuel tanks, pull whatever supplies you need, and hit the road.”

  Borin knew a dismissal when he heard one and stood. “And Borin,” Yelchin said.

  “Sir?”

  “If you find the bombs, take them into custody, and let me know immediately. Don’t notify the Iranians. Understood?”

  Borin offered a text book perfect salute. “Sir, yes sir.” Then he did an about face and marched out of the room.

  ***

  Natanz Nuclear Facility, Iran

  “So,” Captain Owens said, as she eyed the empty bomb rack. “What the fuck do we do now?”

  Finn turned to Jafari. “Where are the bombs?”

  Jafari was visibly frightened. “I don’t know. They were here … Someone took them.”

  “Well, that’s obvious,” Finn replied. “But who?”

  “His name is Captain Hamad el-Zia,” a female voice said. “He was ordered to load three mission ready bombs onto a civilian truck and take them east.”

  Finn turned to find that Molly Keaton had entered the vault. “How do you know that?” Finn inquired.

  “A female employee told me,” Keaton replied. “Lieutenant Colonel Shihaab el-Sattar’s secretary to be exact.”

  “You speak Farsi?” Jafari asked incredulously.

  “I do,” Keaton replied in that language. A comment which Karimi hurried to translate.

  Keaton was, in Finn’s estimation, nothing less than amazing. “Thank you. Where is el-Zia going? Does the secretary know?”

  Keaton nodded. “To the Zahedanan military base. It’s very close to the border with Afghanistan.”

  All sorts of needs were battling for priority. Finn knew he should report in, prepare for extraction, and take a pee. “Take pictures of the vault. Then let’s go back to the garage.”

  After returning to the garage, and going from there to the surface—for the sake of better radio reception—Finn went through the rigmarole of getting through to Colonel Selton. He was in a meeting but willing to take the high priority call. “Whatcha got, Major? Good news, I hope! Over.”

  “No, sir,” Finn replied.

  Selton listened while Finn brought him up to speed, and said he was sorry about the casualties. “This situation is above my pay grade,” Selton confessed. “We’ll need a general, a platoon of staff officers, and a herd of DOD (Department of Defense) civilians to weigh in. I’ll get back to you ASAP. Over.”

  So rather than the extraction Finn was expecting he found himself in limbo. There was plenty to do however, including a visit with the wounded, and a meeting with the Iranian POWs. “With a couple of exceptions, we’re going to turn you loose,” Finn told them. “That’s likely to be tomorrow.

  “I know there are dead to bury—and I know you’d like to do that just after sunrise. I suggest that you clean and wrap the bodies now.”

  The civilians were understandably upset, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Strike Team 3 had a similar issue to deal with. If the unit was extracted, they would take their dead with them. Otherwise, it would be necessary to bury them nearby. And time might be of the essence. So, Finn gave orders for five graves to be dug on top of the hill situated east of the base, just in case.

  After two hours of logistical work, Finn decided to “borrow” a car from the parking garage, and drive it to the site. Five open graves were waiting atop the hill. The burial detail had departed by then so Finn had the summit to himself. He sat with legs crossed.

  Time passed as the sun inched toward the western horizon and the air began to cool. Finn saw a single headlight leave the base and come his way. It was accompanied by the rattle of a motorcycle engine. He figured Owens was coming to see him. To discuss something off-radio.

  But when the visitor arrived at the top of the hill it was Keaton. “May I join you?”

  “Of course,” Finn replied. “Pull up a chair.”

  There was no chair. Keaton smiled as she lowered herself onto the ground. “So,” she said. “What were you thinking?”

  Finn glanced at her. “On the record? Or off?”

  “Off.”

  “Good. I was thinking about the fact that just south of Rome there’s a grave, thought to contain the remains of a World War II private named Futch. His marker reads, ‘Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God.’

  “And Futch isn’t the only one. Tens of thousands of men have died on hills like this one. Turkmen, Mongols, Arabs, Africans, Greeks, Romans, Brits, Frenchmen, and yes, Americans. Most were buried without markers. They deserve to be remembered.”

  “Some of the names are here,” Keaton said, as she pushed a sleeve up. “I knew each one of them.”

  Finn looked. And now, as he examined Keaton’s arm more closely, he realized that all of her tattoos were names. Dixon, Smith, Wang, and Sanchez. There were dozens of them. Many were intertwined. Some were written in cursive. Others were printed in block letters or Asian pictographs. All soldiers Keaton had known. All dead. “A few died in my arms,” Keaton added. “Some called me mommy.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Finn said. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  Keaton made a face “My ex says they’re ugly. He says I’m obsessed with death.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No. I came close, but it didn’t work out.”

  Keaton forced a smile. “Please don’t die. I’m running out of room.”

  Finn laughed. And, when he discovered that he was holding her hand, he hurried to release it. The stars were coming out. They glittered like diamond dust. Finn’s radio burped static. “Six, this is Seven actual.” Owens said. “We have orders.”

  ***

  Kavir Desert, Iran

  The convoy consisted of a Morattab SUV, a Unimog 4x4 box truck, and a second Morattab—which looked like a Land Rover.

  None of the vehicles bore camouflage paint or military markings. Either of which would turn them into targets.

  The desert route had been chosen by el-Zia’s Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Shihaab el-Sattar. “The Americans will never think to look in the desert,” el-Sattar predicted. “They will search the highways of Iran using their planes and satellites. Meanwhile, you and your vehicles will cross the Kavir unnoticed.”

  But what el-Sattar hadn’t anticipated was the fact that the Unimog wasn’t running the way it should. For one thing, the box truck was slow to accelerate. And that made it difficult to power up and out of the seemingly endless dry washes the convoy had to cross.

  One of el-Zia’s soldiers, a corporal named al-Bey, claimed to know something about diesel engines. But something wasn’t enough. Which “something” was it? Contaminated fuel? A dirty fuel filter? A loose throttle linkage? A problem with the truck’s fuel injectors? According to al-Bey, any of those issues could be at fault.

  El-Zia wanted to blame el-Sattar for choosing the desert route. But in his heart of hearts, he knew that was a load of rwth albaqar (cow dung). You are the commanding officer of this mission, el-Zia told himself sternly. As such you should have insisted on bringing a mechanic and spare parts. But did you think of that? No, you didn’t. And now you are in the desert with a faulty truck, and a load of atomic bombs.

  The last thought caused el-Zia to laugh out loud. His driver turned to look.

  Then the engine quit and the Mog jerked to a halt. Why me Allah? Why me? El-Zia wanted to know. If Allah had an opinion, he kept it to himself.

  ***

  Natanz Nuclear Facility, Iran

  After returning to the base Finn found Owens waiting in Jafari’s office. “So, they got back to us … What’s the word? Are we going to exfil?”

  “Far from it,” Owens replied. “We’re supposed to chase the bombs and capture them! The brass could send a helicopter loaded with SEALS to do the job. But the chopper would have to refuel in the air. And, since there aren’t any special ops people standing around waiting for a mission, good ‘ol Strike Team 3 got the nod.

  “The NRO confirmed the information Keaton gave us,” she added. “Two SUVs and a white box truck left the base headed east an hour after we landed on the lake. They’re stalled at the moment out in the desert. All we have to do is catch up with them and boom! We return to Kuwait for burgers and milkshakes.”

  Finn made a face. “Just like that?”

  Owens smiled. “Probably not, but a girl can hope. Mr. Jafari tells me that there’s plenty of diesel available on base.”

  “Good,” Finn said. “Order the vehicle commanders to fill up, and tell the tank truck crew to do likewise. And remind the platoon leaders of how important security is.

  “A sunrise burial service will take place at 0400. I want everyone in their vics and ready to roll at 0500.”

  “I’m on it,” Owens assured him. “By the way, the wrench turners were forced to write WAR GIRL off. She took a lot of damage.”

  “That sucks,” Finn said. “But she saved her crew.”

  “Yes,” Owens agreed. “She saved her crew.”

  ***

  The maintenance tunnel had a low ceiling, which forced Ahura Jafari to bend over as the blob of light produced by his flashlight led him north, and away from the administrative complex. A thick bundle of cables ran along the left side of the passageway which made walking difficult.

  Jafari paused to listen for signs of pursuit. There were none. He smiled. The Americans were stupid. Well, thank Allah for that … Because his plan wouldn’t work otherwise.

  Jafari resumed his journey. There were scorpions in the tunnels. And snakes too … Including cobras and pit vipers. So, it was necessary to pay attention.

  Numbers appeared at regular intervals, and each one signaled an access hatch. After spotting number 11 Jafari was watching for 12.

  Once it appeared, he was able to stand up straight. Metal rungs led up to a blast proof hatch. It was heavy. Jafari had to brace himself in order to push it upright.

  The plastic wrapped sat phone was where Jafari had hidden it, tucked into a dark cranny, where his techs weren’t likely to spot it. A stratagem made necessary by the facility’s strict security regulations. Employees weren’t allowed to have phones of any kind within the perimeter. And surprise searches were commonplace.

  It took a couple of minutes to punch in access numbers and dial his nephew. Jafari took comfort from the knowledge that the call would be encrypted up and down.

  Haatim al-Mian was his sister’s son, and a good boy, by Jafari’s standards anyway.

  With Jafari on the inside, and in control of all the spare parts purchased, stored, and used at the Natanz facility, and al-Mian on the outside, selling everything his uncle could steal, both men had done well.

  But not well enough to retire in Mozambique which was Jafari’s dream. However, thanks to the opportunity before him, a life of leisure might come sooner than expected. Haatim answered on the third ring. “Yeah?”

  Jafari could imagine Haatim, somewhere in Tehran, selling drugs. That was understandable. Two-point-eight percent of Iranians over the age of fifteen were addicted to opiates. That meant lots of competition for dealers like Haatim. “This is your uncle. Calling to check on your health.”

  Haatim laughed. “That’ll be the day. What have you got for me?”

  “What I have is a deal,” Jafari replied. “A huge deal. If we pull it off, you’ll never need to work again.”

  “I’m listening,” Haatim replied. “What’s up?”

  Jafari told him. “You must be joking,” Haatim said, when his uncle was finished.

  “No,” Jafari said, “I’m not. I want you to assemble a team. A professional team. The convoy consists of one officer and six men. Kill them all, take the bombs, and hide them.”