Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) (34 page)

10

Iran

S
TONER FO
UND NO VEHICLE WORTH
TAKING IN THE
hamlet of a dozen houses near where he had landed, and the only thing with four wheels in the next town was a farm truck so old and rusted he doubted it would last more than a mile. He ran for a while instead, moving through the foothills and skirting the village of Saveh, since he was making decent time and there was no need to risk being seen. He checked on Turk’s location every half hour, using a radio device that tapped into the Iranian cell phone network and from there a Web site where Whiplash was relaying the data. While the Web site could be found and his cell phone intercepted, as a practical matter he was following the theory behind Poe’s famous
Purloined Letter
—hide in plain sight, and no one will see you.

Some nine miles east of Saveh, Stoner came to the outskirts of another village, this one large enough, he reasoned, to have a good choice of vehicles. It had taken nearly three hours for him to get this far; he reckoned that it would take another two to get to Turk. Taking the vehicle now was insurance against needing one later; getting away from the area after dispatching Turk would be best done quickly.

The place wasn’t particularly large, and with a few key exceptions—one being the lack of pavement on the streets, another the two minarets—it looked like a rural hamlet in the southwestern United States might have looked in the late 1940s. As Stoner got closer, he noticed a curious set of low-slung brown structures near the older houses.

He stopped. Focusing his eyes—his augmented vision let him see about as well as a good pair of field glasses—he examined the huts. At first he thought they were barracks and that the village had been turned into a military town, something not unheard of in Iran. But as he watched, he saw people emerging. After a few minutes of observation, he realized the structures were hovels constructed for the poor by the government, or some local charity. The town was filled with them. Many of their occupants worked at the small factories on either end of the village or tilling the fields that surrounded it.

Stone moved around the outskirts of the village cautiously, staying just beyond the edge of the cultivated fields. His smart helmet was slung over the top of his narrow rucksack; his gun was over his shoulder. The dark green jumpsuit he wore was patterned after clothes Pasdaran mechanics used. If he went into town, he would stash his gear and keep his mouth shut, hoping that between the coveralls and his frown he would look both sufficiently ornery and ordinary to be left alone.

Stoner found a group of fallow fields separated by a narrow, weed-strewn lane. He walked down the lane, trying to see beyond the farms at the village boundaries. There weren’t many people on the streets; most people were either at work or school this early in the morning.

A pair of cars were parked in the courtyard beyond the fields. He walked toward them, considering which of the two would be easier to steal. He had just decided on the car on the left—it looked like a ’70s Fiat knockoff—when he spotted something more enticing leaning against the barn wall: a small motorcycle, twenty years old at least, but with inflated tires and a clean engine.

Stoner walked to the bike. Everything in his manner suggested he was the proper owner. He put on his helmet—rare in Iran, especially in the countryside, but appropriate—then reached to fiddle with the ignition assembly.

He didn’t have to. A pair of wires hung down from the keyed ignition, already used as a makeshift hot wire. He connected them, then launched the kick start.

He kicked the metal spur so hard it stayed down for a moment. The bike caught in a fit of blue smoke and a backfire. He eased it toward the dirt road that separated the fallow and productive fields, gradually picking up speed. He didn’t look back.

T
H
E MOTORBIKE
S
TONER FOUND WAS IN NEED
OF A
tune-up; its clutch stuck and the brakes grabbed only on whim. But these were considerations rather than impediments as far as Stoner was concerned. He nursed the vehicle north through a series of low hills, occasionally cutting back to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He’d gotten clean away. No one was following him.

He wasn’t sure he could say the same for Turk. As he approached the village where Turk was hiding—its name according to the GPS map in his smart helmet was Istgah-E Kuh Pang—he saw a pair of troop trucks rushing along the dirt road that paralleled the railroad tracks. Two jets, Phantom F-4s, streaked across the sky so low that it seemed he could have spit on their bellies.

It would be more difficult if the Iranians found him first. But only a little.

Stoner let the little bike putter along at four or five kilometers an hour, easing it over a dirt road that veered eastward away from both the railroad tracks and the village. Old ruins lay dead ahead, their red-tan bricks already growing warm with the morning sun.

Troops were going door-to-door in the village. They’d cordoned it off for a search. But they hadn’t reached the ruins yet.

The motorcycle stalled as Stoner took it up an incline. He coasted to a stop, then pulled out the cell phone to find out where Turk was. He’d just hit the button for the locator app when something whizzed over his head.

He threw himself and the bike to the ground, instinctively knowing he’d been fired on before the actual thought registered in his conscious mind.

11

Istgah-E Kuh Pang

C
OLONEL
K
HORA
SANI JERKED HIS HEAD AROUND AS
the rifle fire began.

“What are they shooting at?” he demanded.

Sergeant Karim, who was no closer to the action than he was, nonetheless answered in his usual authoritative voice. “Someone near the ruins, Colonel. On a motorcycle. They called to him and he didn’t stop. The villagers say he does not live there.”

“I want them alive,” he commanded. “I want them alive so they can be questioned.”

“They may get away, at least temporarily,” said the sergeant. “Would you prefer that?”

The sergeant’s tone was halfway between condescending and informative; Khorasani couldn’t quite decide whether he was being mocked or not. He decided to give the sergeant the benefit of the doubt. They’d had a long night without any sleep.

And now that he thought of it, wouldn’t it be better, and simpler all around, if they just shot the bastards? In that case, the matter would be much more easily settled. He could huddle with his superiors, and then with Shirazi. They would concoct a story that would minimize the damage. There would still be great danger, and undoubtedly more complications, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about someone getting hold of the prisoners and reinterrogating them.

“On second thought, Sergeant, tell them to attack with extreme prejudice and vehemence,” commanded Colonel Khorasani. “The sooner we dispose of these pests, the better.”

S
TONER SAW THE TWO M
EN WHO’D FIRED MOVING
down along the rocks. He could take them easily; the question was what to do next.

Turk was in the ruins due west of him. To get there he would have to get past another group of soldiers coming down a road at the far end of the village.

He could retreat south, then swing back, hoping they didn’t have time to span out along the flank. Some would follow him; those he could ignore. The others between him and his target could be picked off one by one.

Better to move ahead now, while the size of the force was still manageable and the initiative was still in his favor.

Stoner rose and fired two bursts. The men who had shot at him fell. He picked up the bike and pushed it to the left, coasting with the hill until the engine caught. Steering down the dirt road, he angled toward the ruins.

The dirt in front of him began to explode in tiny volcanoes of dust.

More bullets. There were men nearby he hadn’t seen.

T
URK PUSHED AGAINS
T THE SIDE OF THE RU
INS AS THE
gunfire stoked up. It was coming from the western end of the hamlet, up near the tracks.

They weren’t shooting at him.

Was it Grease?

Grease was dead.

It had to be Grease.

Dread? Curtis? Tiny? Captain Granderson? Gorud?

All dead. He knew they were dead. He’d passed the truck. So it could only be Grease.

A fresh wave of guilt and shame swamped him. He’d abandoned his companion, even though he was still alive.

Turk started through the window, then stopped, catching a glimpse of a vehicle moving from the far end of the ruins, down the dirt road at the eastern edge of the desert. A half-dozen men trotted behind.

There were too many. Too many for one man, and even two.

Too many even for Grease.

S
TONER PUT THE
M
-4 ON HIS HIP
AND FIRED AS HE
drove, hoping to chase back the men coming down from the village on his left. It worked, but he faced a more difficult problem ahead—a troop vehicle had stopped at the far end of the ruins, and soldiers were using it for cover. From their uniforms, he guessed they were Pasdaran, Revolutionary Guards.

He got off two bursts, taking down three or four, and was aiming a third volley when the bike began slipping out from under him—someone had managed to get a bullet into the tire. He let it go as gracefully as he could manage, putting his weight on his left foot and swinging his right out as the bike hit the dirt. As he started to run, something hit him in the chest, just above his heart.

The slug was stopped by the thin, boron-carbon vest he had under the coveralls. He barely felt it.

Stoner sprinted to the left, running toward a low wall. As he neared it, he rolled on his shoulder, turning and facing the men who had fired at him from above. He saw three men; all of them fell with a tight double-pump on the trigger.

Stoner checked his breathing, slowing it to retain control. He could feel blood vibrating in the vessels at his neck, and knew adrenaline was coursing through his veins. For years he’d been pumped with artificial stimulants, every bit of him altered and manipulated. He’d been the slave of monsters who used him as their weapon, primed him to kill, hired him out as a high-profile assassin.

And now he remembered not the details of that time, the horror of being controlled, but something deeper: excitement. Danger. Life.

He loved it. It was oblivion.

Stoner saw two more men coming from the direction he’d just driven. He aimed and fired, got one, but missed the next, leading him rather than simply squeezing off a bullet into the man’s chest.

It was the sort of error one made in haste. It was emotion-driven, adrenaline-fueled. He would not make it again.

The man had ducked behind a wall. Stoner took a very long, very slow breath, switched the gun to single fire, then waited for the man to rise.

He took him with a shot to the head.

“Infrared,” said Stoner, telling the smart helmet to switch on its infrared sensors. “Count.”

The smart helmet calculated five targets moving along the edges of the ruins behind the men he’d just killed. They were obscured by the terrain, but their heat signatures were visible.

Stoner looked left and then right, gauging the area and its potential for cover.

They’ll expect me to be in the ruins.

If I retreat to the low run of buildings behind me, I can crawl into the weeds on my left. Then I’ll have a clear shot at the group coming up in front of me now.

I’ll get Turk Mako when I’m done. If they don’t find and shoot him first.

T
URK REALIZED
HE WAS GOING TO DIE.
B
UT RATHER
than scaring him, the knowledge freed him. It told him that he should take out as many Iranians as he could. In that way, he would atone for having left Grease.

He had to be smart about it. Going kamikaze was foolish, and an insult to all Grease and the others had taught him.

Slipping out the window of the ruined building, Turk slithered to the ground like a snake. Automatic rifle fire boomed left and right; it sounded like he was on a firing range.

Move out!

He crouched down, keeping himself as low as possible as he moved along the ancient alley between the ruins. The loose sand and dirt were slippery, and with his weight bent forward, it wasn’t long before he tripped, sprawling forward in the dirt and landing hard on the rifle.

Once, this might have discouraged him, perhaps even sending him into a depressed spiral that he’d never recover from. It would have reminded him that he was a pilot, useless on land, awkward and vulnerable. Now it was only something to work through, even take advantage of: he had become adept on the ground as well as in the air, a true warrior.

Turk crawled along the ground, knowing that in his final moments on earth he was going to kill as many of his enemies as he could. He kept going until he reached an open spot between the walls where he could see the nearby ruins. Something moving on his left. He raised his rifle but before he could aim it was gone. He watched along the top of the old stone wall, saw one, two shapes briefly passing, then nothing as the wall rose a little higher.

Two men, a pair of Iranians trying to get down along the side of the ruins.

Turk started forward, then stopped. It would be better, he realized, to retreat to the remains of the building on his left and a little behind him. Then he could go around and come up on their rear.

He’d have to be fast.

Up,
he told himself, and in a moment he was on his feet, running.

S
EVEN TARGETS APPEAR
ED ON
S
TONER’S SCREE
N,
IR
ghosts that moved across the darker rectangles of the ruins. Lying prone in the dirt amid a few clumps of scrub weeds, he waited until they stopped near the edge of a building that was nearly intact. Switching to burst fire, he moved his rifle left to right, shooting into the scrum until all but one of the men were down. The survivor retreated up one of the alleys, disappearing behind a low run of tumbled-down blocks and stone.

Two or three of the men he’d shot were still alive, trying to crawl to safety. Stoner dispatched them, then changed the magazine and started after the man who’d escaped.

Two vehicles appeared in the distance on his left, both Kavirans. One winked at him—a machine gun was mounted in a turret at the top, Hummer style. Stoner went to a knee, zeroed in on the small area of glowing flesh at the top of the flashes, then fired.

The Iranian fell off the top of the vehicle. The passenger-side door opened. Stoner waited, then took the man as he tried to climb up to the gunner’s spot.

Stoner shot down two more Iranians, one from each truck, before they decided to retreat. Then he shot out the tires on both vehicles. It slowed, but didn’t stop, their retreat. He turned back toward the collection of ruins to follow the man who’d gotten away.

Something moved at the corner of his vision as he neared the closest ruin. He spun and found two Iranians taking aim.

He emptied the mag, dropped the box and pulled up a fresh one. In the half second it took for him to grab the fresh bullets, something turned the corner on his right. Two men, shooting—Stoner threw himself down. But before he hit the ground, the gunfire abruptly ended. Both Iranians keeled forward, blood pouring from their shattered heads.

Behind them stood Turk Mako.

I
T WASN’T
G
RE
ASE.
T
URK STARED AT
THE FIGURE IN THE
field, the man he’d just saved. He had the faded camo uniform of the Pasdaran Guard, but he was wearing a Whiplash smart helmet.

Grease really, truly, was dead.

“We have to get out of here!” yelled Turk. He pointed left and started to move. “Come on.”

S
TONER S
TOOD, FROZEN TO THE
SPOT.
T
URK
M
AKO
was there, not fifty feet away.

Assassinate.

He raised his gun, then hesitated. Turk had just saved his life; at that range, the Iranians would have had good odds of hitting him somewhere.

A strange emotion took him over: doubt.

What was his job, exactly?

Find and eliminate Turk Mako. He had been sent precisely because he wouldn’t feel.

Stoner hesitated as Turk ran. Killing him was trivial. He raised his weapon.

What was his mission? They wanted him eliminated.

Stoner was a killing machine, turned into something less than human. He hesitated. He had a memory of something else, something deeper.

Turk Mako had just saved his life. He was an American. Turk Mako was on his side.

A man’s heat signature flared in the corner of his screen. Stoner turned, saw that he had ducked behind the wall.

He waited until the man peeked out again, then fired, striking the Iranian in the head.

Assassinate Turk Mako.

Save Turk Mako.

Stoner moved methodically up the row of the ruins, reaching the dirt road that ran along the edge of the city. A dozen buildings sat between the road and the railroad tracks, strung out in a long line between clusters of buildings at either end. The Iranians had moved two large troop trucks near the tracks at the exact center of the road and the city; a half-dozen men were standing in disorganized clumps around the vehicles.

Poor discipline, thought Stoner, switching his weapon to single fire to snipe them, one by one.

T
URK REACHED THE SLOPE OF ONE OF THE FIRST HILLS
overlooking the city before realizing he was alone. He climbed up, some seventy or eighty feet, and looked back in confusion. The Whiplasher was in the center of town, walking near the vehicles parked there, methodically eliminating soldiers.

Turk watched in wonder as the trooper single-handedly took on what had to be a platoon-sized force. The enemy didn’t gang up, and the groups of soldiers east and west at either end of the village remained where they were, but it was still an impressive, almost superhuman show. Even Grease couldn’t have accomplished it.

Was he just lucky? Could he keep it up?

Turk climbed to the rounded peak and surveyed the area behind him. Hills poked out of the desert like measles. There were clumps of vegetation, mostly in the valleys between the hills.

A pair of jets passed to the southeast. He started to duck, afraid they’d been sent as reinforcements, then realized they were in a landing pattern.

The same base as the Phantoms he saw landing earlier, he thought. The base that had been empty.

W
ITH THE LAST OF TH
E
I
RANIANS DEAD,
S
TONER CONSIDERED
taking one of the vehicles. But it would be easily spotted, especially from the air; he’d heard aircraft and decided that he would do better, at least in the short term, on foot. So he turned and ran back toward the ruins.

“Map subject,” he told the computer in the smart helmet.

A map appeared in the lower left-hand corner of the visor, showing Turk’s location and his own. Turk Mako was several hundred yards away, on the top of a hill.