“That’s enough,” Haatim said assertively. “Cut the crap. Take a pee and mount up. We leave in five.”

  The Kavir desert, Iran

  Captain el-Zia and half of his tiny command were crouched in front of a crackling fire eating their rations. There was little to no conversation. And that was natural.

  El-Zia was an officer for one thing. And so as long as he was present, the enlisted men weren’t about to discuss their favorite subject which was female porn stars.

  The second factor was fear. Help was on the way. But what if the Americans caught up with them? What would happen then? Would el-Zia order them to fight against impossible odds?

  None of the soldiers were volunteers. And, until detailed to move nuclear weapons across the desert, they’d been stationed at Natanz. A post where they enjoyed relatively good food, clean quarters, and were unlikely to die. Unlike the poor bastards on the border with Turkey, who were taking heavy casualties.

  Last, but not least, were the bombs which el-Zia claimed were safe. Maybe that was true. But officers were liars. Everyone knew that. So why should they believe what el-Zia said? Especially since he was scared shitless, and they knew it.

  “All right,” el-Zia said, as he stood. “I’m going to get some sleep. Wake me for the second watch. And, if you see or hear something strange, wake me for that too.

  ‘Don’t worry men. Help will arrive in the morning. They’re bringing a new truck. We’ll finish our trip and all will be well. Good night.”

  The Unimog had a lot of ground clearance. So much that el-Zia had chosen to put his bedroll underneath it. After brushing his teeth, and spitting the water into the sand, the army captain pissed on a huge tire. It was an act of revenge and the only one available to him.

  Then it was time to check his sleep sack for scorpions and snakes. Finding neither he crawled inside. His uniform helped keep him warm and the sand was soft.

  El-Zia was just about to fall asleep when a wolf howled out in the desert. The desert might look empty, but it wasn’t. A chill ran down his spine.

  ***

  Haatim was driving the box truck. And, thanks to the army coke head, he had GPS coordinates for the stalled Mog. That didn’t make the trip a no-brainer though. Rather than the straight line from Kahak to the Mog that Haatim had imagined, the route was rife with hills, dry river beds, and rocky outcroppings. All of which took extra time to negotiate.

  So much so that Haatim estimated that he and his men were going to arrive an hour later than projected. Still, he told himself as he shifted gears, you’ll have enough time. Don’t panic. And Haatim didn’t panic. Even though the trip seemed to take forever.

  Finally, when the convoy was about a mile away from its destination, Haatim ordered the drivers to kill their headlights. The moon was high in a nearly cloudless sky by then.

  When the hijackers were half a mile from their goal Haatim told his men to stop, turn their engines off, and proceed on foot. “Sound travels,” he whispered. “And we need the element of surprise.” Haatim was a city boy. So, prior to leaving the truck he removed the key from the ignition, and placed it in a pocket.

  The GPS screen continued to glow as Haatim led his men away from the truck, through a gully, and around a rock formation. “Look!” an enforcer named Amjad exclaimed. “A fire!”

  Amjad was correct. The blaze would serve as a beacon. “Spread out,” Haatim ordered. “And don’t shoot each other.”

  “Amjad’s more likely to shoot himself,” a voice said. That produced a chorus of half suppressed laughs.

  “Cut the crap,” Haatim whispered. “It’s time to take care of business.”

  The first person the hijackers encountered was a sleepy sentry. He managed to say, “Who are you?” before an enforcer shot him in the face.

  Then the attackers began to jog. They shot at bedrolls. They shot at men drinking tea by the fire. And they shot the soldiers who tried to resist. Captain el-Zia was one of the latter.

  It took what seemed like forever for the officer to battle his way out of the mummy bag, grab his bullpup KH-2002 assault rifle, and roll out from under the Mog. His sudden appearance caught two enforcers by surprise, and they paid dearly. El-Zia took the criminals down with twin bursts.

  Maybe, had el-Zia been given the chance to rally his soldiers, things would have gone differently. But most of his men were dead by then.

  Amjad fired as the officer brought his weapon around to shoot Haatim. The 9mm bullets knocked el-Zia onto his back. He attempted to move but couldn’t. The moon … It was so bright. Then he was gone.

  “Check each body,” Haatim ordered. “Make sure they’re dead.”

  The easiest way to accomplish that was to put a bullet in each head. Shots rang out. Haatim stood by. He hadn’t been required to fire his pistol and had no desire to do so.

  Once the “clean up” was complete Haatim began to issue orders. “Get the vehicles. Bring them here. And open the Mog so we can access the bombs.”

  “Bombs?” an enforcer named Saood inquired. “I thought this was a drug heist.”

  “You were wrong,” Haatim said coldly. “Do as I say.”

  Saood frowned. If the enforcers had an unelected leader, it was Saood. And he saw an opportunity. “I think we should get paid more money. The bombs could blow up.”

  “They won’t,” Haatim assured him. “But I’ll tell you what … Quit whining and I’ll pay each man five-hundred more. That’s my final offer.”

  The truth was that Haatim didn’t plan to pay the enforcers anything at all. But Saood didn’t know that. “Agreed,” Saood said.

  “But what about Rifat and Fahd?” Amjad wanted to know.

  “What about them?” Haatim answered. “They’re dead. Get your ass in gear.”

  It took the better part of fifteen minutes to fetch the vehicles and position the box truck side-by-side with the Mog. A bolt cutter made short work of the padlocks attached to the roll-up door. Once freed, it was easy to push the barrier up and out of the way. And there they were … Three bombs resting on a four-bomb rack.

  Haatim nodded approvingly. “Good. Now open our truck, unload the lumber, and build a ramp for the forklift.”

  The enforcers did as they were told. Cargo lights came on as the back doors parted. And there, chained to the floor, was the used Toyota forklift Haatim had purchased. His stash was taking a hit. But it couldn’t be helped. There was no way that he and his men could lift the 2,400-pound bombs and carry them from one truck to the other.

  “Get the rest of the lumber off the truck,” Haatim told them. “And start the forklift.”

  Saood had experience driving forklifts. And that was one of the reasons why he’d been chosen for the team. He climbed up onto the cargo deck, released the chains, and slid into the driver’s seat. Thanks to the new battery Haatim had installed, the lift started first try. Wooden planks were in place by then. And it was clear that Saood knew what he was doing as he backed the lift down onto the ground.

  Meanwhile a similar ramp had been constructed to access the bombs. Saood went after them one-by-one, backed down onto the ground, and placed them in a line.

  Amjad had served six months in the army before deserting, and considered himself to be an expert on all things military. “Those are 2,000-pound bombs,” Amjad announced. “The biggest the army has.”

  None of that was true. But Haatim saw no reason to set the enforcer straight.

  Once all of the bombs had been removed from the Mog, it was time to take the rack, and transfer it to the box truck. Then, after the rack was secured, the bombs were lowered onto it, and strapped in place. “There,” Haatim said. “Now I want you to siphon fuel from the government vehicles to our vehicles.”

  That was a simple process thanks to the battery-powered, fuel-transfer pump that Haatim had brought along. But simple or not, time was passing.

  The pale blush of dawn was visible along the eastern horizon by the time the chore was completed. “Put Rifat and Fahd in the back,” Haatim said. “We’ll bury them east of here.”

  The enforcers clearly approved. Because, in spite of the way they made their livings, most were at least somewhat devout.

  Haatim wasn’t worried about Allah. He was worried about the possibility that the dead men would be identified and, by dint of good policework, the authorities could connect the enforcers to him. That would constitute a serious problem. Especially if his uncle’s plan collapsed, and Haatim found himself back on the streets selling dope.

  At Haatim’s urging the enforcers hurried to board their vehicles, engines roared, and headlights stabbed the darkness. An SUV led the way. Haatim was driving the bomb truck. The second SUV brought up the rear. It was equipped with a winch in case another vehicle got stuck. So far so good, Haatim thought. Now we need a deal.

  ***

  Finn was riding in WHEELER DEALER. And rather that stand in the noncom’s hatch the way he usually did, he was trying to grab some shut eye in the cargo compartment.

  But, because Finn was packed in along with five soldiers and their gear, he was awake. So the announcement from truck commander Dean Hall came as a relief. “We’re almost there, sir.”

  Finn thumbed a switch. “What have we got from the Reaper?”

  “Nothing, sir. They had to bring it back. Some sort of mechanical problem.”

  So, we’re going in blind, Finn thought. What did el-Zia have? Six men? Or was it nine? No matter, we have them outgunned.

  Finn stood, asked the squad leader to vacate the top left hatch, and took his place. The outside air was chilly, but smelled better. “This is Six actual. Turn your lights off. We’ll circle them. Standby to engage.”

  “I see what might be a fire,” Hall said over the intercom.

  “It could be bait,” Finn warned. “All units will swing wide. Over.”

  But as the Strykers circled the fire, and the vehicles parked nearby, there was no response. No flares, no gunfire, and no movement.

  “All right,” Finn said. “Hit your lights. And stop a hundred feet apart. Over.”

  If the Iranians opened up Finn wanted to divide the enemy fire. But too much separation could make each vic vulnerable and lead to a friendly fire scenario.

  It wasn’t a problem. From his position in the hatch Finn could see the sprawl of bodies. And, worse yet, was the fact that the Mog’s cargo compartment was wide open. Did that mean what he thought it meant? Had the bombs been stolen? The answer was yes.

  Finn felt his spirits plummet. Who? How? Why? All of those questions demanded answers. “Delta-Seven will establish a security screen, and release a squad to Alpha-Eight, who will work with me to conduct a grid search.

  “I want photos. I want electronics. And I want pocket litter. Be sure to bag it and make a note of which body it came from.

  “Medical staff will confirm that the people who appear to be dead actually are. Don’t assume anything. Approach each body with care, and watch for IEDs. Execute. Out.”

  Finn heard a flurry of clicks by way of a response. And as he heaved himself up out of the hatch, and jumped to the ground, he wasn’t surprised to discover that First Sergeant Dyson was already on the job. Together they went from vehicle to vehicle, and from body to body.

  The bombs were gone. No surprise there. But the bodies were another story. “Each soldier was shot in the head,” Dyson observed. “Execution style.”

  “Exactly,” Finn agreed. “But it looks like they were already down. If I’m right, the head shots were a way of insurance. That suggests a criminal gang.”

  “I agree,” Dyson replied. “Look at this … Two patches of blood within a few feet of each other. But no bodies.”

  Finn went over to inspect the assault weapon lying next to an officer who had to be Captain el-Zia. “This weapon was fired,” Finn concluded. “It’s my guess that he managed to smoke two attackers.”

  “And their bodies went wherever the bombs went,” Dyson speculated. “We’ll follow their tracks.”

  “For a while,” Finn agreed. “But the wind will erase them by noon.”

  “Incoming vehicles,” Platoon Sergeant Revell warned. “Prepare to engage.”

  What the hell? Had the hijackers returned? No, Finn decided. The soldiers on the incoming vehicles had probably been dispatched to repair the Mog, so it could continue east. So how large a force was it? They were about to find out.

  There wasn’t enough time for Finn and Dyson to board Strykers. All they could do was take cover behind the Mog and prepare to receive infantry.

  But instead of infantry, four-wheeled fighting vehicles attacked. The machines weren’t designed the same way Strykers were, but fulfilled the same function, and were heavily armed. Grenade launchers began to chug, and heavy machine guns went thump-thump-thump as the Iranians opened fire.

  They know, Finn decided. They called to warn el-Zia that they were close. And, when they failed to get an answer, it was full speed ahead.

  Not that it mattered since a hellacious battle was underway. Finn couldn’t command the Strykers from where he was. That meant he had to place his trust in Platoon Sergeant Revell, who had taken command of the platoon when Lieutenant Cobb was killed.

  Finn wasn’t aware that Dyson had left until the noncom reappeared carrying a Russian made RPG-7 and a couple of rockets. “Look what I found,” Dyson said happily. “Do you want to fire or load?”

  Finn had fired an RPG once. He’d been a lieutenant then. “I’ll load, First Sergeant. But thanks for pretending that I could aim and fire it.”

  Dyson laughed. “Come on, sir … Let’s kill us an I-ranian—whatever those things are.”

  Dyson led and Finn followed. Chaos reigned as grenades exploded, gunfire rattled, and vehicles sped every which way. Dyson knelt next to one of el-Zia’s SUVs, took aim, and fired. The unguided rocket flew toward an enemy vehicle and passed behind it. The subsequent explosion did nothing more than add more noise to the din of battle.

  “Damn it!” Dyson exclaimed, as Finn fed a rocket into the launcher. “I need to lead the bastards more.”

  “Loaded! Go army!” Finn said, as he slapped Dyson on the shoulder.

  The noncom tracked another vehicle, fired, and uttered a whoop of joy as the rocket struck its target. Judging from the nature of the explosion the warhead was a HEAT round.

  It blew the heavy machine gun turret off the enemy vic, and that was enough to trigger a secondary explosion. The six-wheeler shook spastically as more ammo detonated inside the hull.

  “Good work, Top,” Finn said. “I’m going to buy you a drink when we get back to Kuwait.”

  The fighting had died down by then. And Finn heard isolated shots as he thumbed his radio. “Six here … Give me a sitrep. Over.”

  Revell’s voice was tight with emotion. “This is Delta-Seven. We lost the ROAD RUNNER and her crew. Four of six enemy vehicles were destroyed. Two crews surrendered. Over.”

  The loss of a single Stryker during a fight in which four Iranian vics were destroyed, and two were captured, would look good on paper. But the reality of it made Finn feel sick to his stomach. “Shit. I’m sorry Seven. All of us are.” Finn heard two clicks by way of a reply.

  At that point Finn faced a host of problems. The company’s strength was starting to ebb away. Two Strykers and two Bradleys had been lost. The mental sitrep didn’t look good. The rest of the unit was still half an hour out. And it was running low on fuel.

  On top of that there were casualties to treat, POWs to guard, and bombs to find.

  It would have been nice to tackle the problems one at a time. But Finn would have to tackle them all at once. Beginning with the bombs. He turned to his radio operator. “Get ahold of Colonel Selton at Central Command. Tell the duty officer that this is a high priority code blue request.”

  With the radio operator in tow, Finn went looking for the senior medic, and found her kneeling next to an Iranian soldier. “Thanks for your efforts, Doc. What do you need?”

  “Three of our patients are critical, sir. We need Doctor Parcel, and we need her stat.”

  “She’s fifteen out,” Finn replied.

  “Good,” the medic replied. “We’re going to require a shelter. A place where the doc can work without sand getting into everything and the sun beating down on her. A general-purpose pole tent would do.”

  “How ‘bout the back of an empty box truck?”

  “That would be fine,” the noncom said, as she stood. “So long as it’s well ventilated.”

  “I have Colonel Selton on the horn,” the radio operator said.

  “Good. Get ahold of the Top. Tell him to clean out the back of the Mog, and turn it into an operating theatre as soon as the necessary gear arrives.”

  Finn took the handset. The ensuing conversation lasted for the better part of fifteen minutes. Selton was disappointed. Very disappointed. But stopped short of blaming Finn. “You sure as hell did everything you could, Major. If it hadn’t been for the hijackers, we’d have those bombs now. I’ll pass the word and we’ll put lots of brain power on it.

  “In the meantime, I think you should assume that Strike Team 3 will receive orders to pursue the hijackers. So, I suggest you send scouts forward.”

  “Yes, sir,” Finn replied. “I will. But we’re running low on water, fuel, and ammo. Some MREs would come in handy too.”

  “I’ll send all of the above,” Selton promised. “You’ll get a follow up message from the supply people. More when I have it. Over.”

  The rumble of engines was heard as the rest of the company arrived and began to lagger up. After locating Doctor Parcel, he gave her a briefing. “We’ll take care of it,” she assured him. “The box truck sounds like a good idea.”

  Then Finn was off to find Owens. After explaining the situation, he told her about Selton’s suggestion. “I’m not about to send the remaining Strykers forward without full fuel tanks. And the crews are exhausted,” he added. “But we can launch a Raven, and send it east. Let’s see what we can find.”

  The company supply officer, Lieutenant Jim Emery, was the next person on the list. Tents were going up, and he was pulling on a rope. “Hey Jim,” Finn said. “Got a minute?”