Exit Plan (47 page)

“Understood, Boss,” Jerry answered. There was no warmth in Ramey’s tone, but that was okay, because this was business. He was in his element, and the lieutenant was indeed “Boss” for this patrol.

Jerry knew that Ramey didn’t really want him along, but he needed to get a pilot’s eyes on the airfield. They couldn’t make a plan without it.

Ramey was especially cautious leaving the layup. While getting spotted at any time would be disastrous, being seen now would reveal everyone’s position, and with Lapointe wounded, it would be almost impossible to escape pursuit.

The lieutenant moved slowly, and Jerry did his best to copy his movements, even stepping where the lieutenant stepped whenever possible. They hugged the line of trees and bushes for as long as they could.

Just east of the copse was a small farm, with cultivated fields just turning green with new crops. They moved to the north, bypassing scattered buildings, some looking abandoned, others occupied.

Jerry spent a lot of time on his stomach behind trees or low brush. When they crossed open ground, they sprinted, but only after Ramey was convinced the coast was clear. Twice they had to detour around farmers out in their fields. They crawled, climbed, and dashed from cover to cover. Finally, Ramey found a dried-out streambed that wandered through trees up to Highway 96. Although he was in good shape, Jerry was almost breathless when they reached their goal some four kilometers away.

Luckily, they didn’t have to go all the way to the airfield. There was a rise to the west that provided enough cover, as long as they low-crawled their way to the top. The hill not only saved them some time, but as far as Jerry was concerned, the only decent way to look at an airfield was from above.

They’d studied the satellite photos so often he knew it as well as the field at Pensacola, where he’d learned to fly. This one was a lot smaller, though. A single strip, twenty-seven-hundred-meters long, it ran almost straight east-west. There was a single taxiway from near the middle of the runway to a wide apron where aircraft parked, and sure enough, he could see a pair of Falcon 20 jets, their white paint almost sparkling in the sunshine. Other aircraft, a mix of helicopters and what looked like civilian light aircraft were parked to either side. He looked for the fueling arrangements, and spotted several fuel trucks parked by an admin or maintenance building. The control tower was a three-story affair, with few antennas on its roof. There was no sign of traffic control radar or instrument landing aids. Of course, the weather here was usually clear.

Ramey, using his own glasses, gently nudged Jerry’s shoulder and said softly, “XO, look about ten o’clock, near this end of the runway.”

Jerry hadn’t paid much attention to the runway itself. Looking to the left, at the near end, he saw an earthen mound, then spotted a ring of sandbags on top. Inside, a pair of soldiers was working with some sort of heavy weapon on a tripod.

“That’s a DShK heavy machine gun,” Ramey told him. “It’s like our .50 caliber.” Jerry felt his body go cold. Ramey continued, “This complicates things, but we can cope. While you’re getting the plane ready, I go over with a knife and slit their throats, just like in the movies.”

Jerry started checking other parts of the airfield. “Ahh, it looks like they’re setting up a machine gun at the other end of the runway, too. These weren’t on the overhead imagery we saw. This is recent. This is today.” Jerry could see where they were still carrying sandbags to the top of the mound.

“Okaaay,” Ramey answered. “So I get one, and Philly gets the other. That leaves Harry and you to carry Lapointe. Maybe Shirin carries one end so Harry’s free to move. We can make this work.” He paused. “Or maybe not. Look next to the hangar. In the shadow.”

One large hangar dominated the cluster of buildings that lay on the south side of the runway. It was big enough to take a small commercial airliner, although they couldn’t see what was inside. Parked in the shade, probably to avoid the sun as much as for concealment, were a pair of armored vehicles. Each had a flat top that led to an angled front, and a small circular turret with a gun barrel sat in the middle.

“Those aren’t tanks, are they?” Jerry asked.

“They’re armored personnel carriers, some variant of a Russian BMP. The gun on top is a 73mm. It’s not as big as a tank gun, but bad enough. They each carry half a squad of infantry.”

“Okay, so we use a Cormorant to take out the heavy stuff and distract them while we steal the plane,” Jerry suggested.

“No good,” Ramey argued. “Once that UAV starts shooting, we can give up sneaking onto the field. They’ll go to general quarters and we’re out of luck. Let’s go around and look from a different angle.”

They worked their way farther east. This entailed another half hour of creeping and dashing, then low-crawling up another hill. Now more concerned with the airfield than the aircraft, Jerry spotted trouble the instant he used his binoculars. “I see more BMPs,” Jerry reported. He almost pointed, but remembered in time to stay low.

“I see them, too,” Ramey answered. “The rest of a platoon, five altogether.”

“And there will be troops for them, as well,” Jerry concluded.

“Oh, yeah, probably setting up more emplacements all over the airfield. They’ll use the vehicles as strongpoints.” The SEAL lieutenant backed down away from his position, then rolled onto his back.

“Do the math. We took out a squad last night. This morning the airfield is alive with troops. Maybe they’re afraid we might try to steal a plane.”

“Not anymore we’re not,” Jerry answered.

“Never say die, XO. Let’s keep looking.”

~ * ~

Rahim and the others had managed to find a meal, but had returned to find no news. It really was too soon to expect any developments. But he was impatient, and set Dahghan and Sattari to work calling every barracks and headquarters between Kangan and Lengeh to make sure there was no new information. He’d learned the hard way. He wouldn’t wait for them to report.

Overflowing with nervous energy, he started to organize the chaos they’d left behind. As he sorted through the documents, he found one pile laid to the side, from the Pasdaran Navy headquarters. “Did either of you see these?”

Dahghan shook his head. “No, Major.”

They were reports from last night. None of the boats had seen any hostile vessels, of course. There were reports of a distress flare being fired, and extra boats had been called in. They’d searched the area between the Farur and Lesser Tunb Islands, starting at 2045 hours, but no further signals were received, either visually or by radio. Because of the darkness, aircraft had not been used.

That was close to where the second squad had been wiped out last night. The timing was also about right. Had the fugitives found a boat and escaped to the sea? But the patrols hadn’t found anything. And if they had been on a boat, why would they attract attention by firing flares into the air?

As soon as he asked himself the question, Rahim understood. The image of a flame rising filled his mind. It wasn’t a flare, it was a missile.

He had a message to send.

~ * ~

The C-37 was fitted for VIP transport, and they both managed a little sleep after talking late into the night about Iran, Israel, and Jerry. There’d been no new information since his last report, and the conversation swirled in her mind.

“I keep thinking about Emily,” Joanna complained. “I know we can’t tell her a thing. Even if we told her, all she could do was worry.”

“You’re worrying enough for the two of you. He’s been in bad spots before,” Hardy reassured her. “Don’t let it distract you.”

“I understand, Lowell. Is this what you felt when you commanded
Memphis
?”

“Sort of. You didn’t send Jerry into this mess, but you know him, and of course you care. There are seven people on the beach, and I try to worry about all of them, even the Iranians. Go read the writeups on the SEAL team. Learn their names. Look at their faces.”

She’d fallen asleep with her tablet open to a webpage entitled “SEAL missions.”

~ * ~

One of their security detail had awakened Hardy an hour before landing, and he woke Joanna immediately. By the time they’d washed, dressed, and had some breakfast, the plane was ready to land at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv.

As they buckled in their seats, an Air Force staff sergeant handed them their message traffic. Most of it was classified. None of it shed any more light on Iran’s activities or Israel’s preparations.

The morning news summary was useful only for gauging the world’s stress level. Several nations had already taken sides, either urging Israel to act against Iranian aggression or supporting Iran’s right to develop its own nuclear capability. An interesting side discussion was underway about Israel’s own nuclear capability, which the country had never publicly admitted having. If a conventional attack failed to derail Iran’s nuclear ambitions, would Israel use its own weapons?

There were also articles on America’s role in the crisis. Some criticized the U.S. for not allying openly with Israel. The threat of a two-nation strike would surely deter Iran. Others complained about “American indifference,” and its refusal to restrain their ally. Many assumed Israeli compliance would be automatic if the U.S. gave the order.

As much as the U.S. tried to stay on the sidelines, it was already a major player in the crisis, based on past decisions and policies. If Israel attacked Iran, they would use U.S.-made planes and many U.S.-made weapons. Even if America did nothing, the country was involved.

And the Iranians made it clear they would do their best to involve the world if the Islamic Republic was attacked. Statements came from either General Moradi himself, or a government spokesman in Iran, and they seemed to be in a competition to see who could make the wildest claims or the darkest threat. Iran would make the Strait of Hormuz an “iron barrier” to the world’s oil tankers, and would “drown Israel in its own blood.”

Iran’s rhetoric wasn’t doing a thing to calm the situation. It fit with what Jerry had told them, but the Iranians routinely trash-talked their enemies. Still, with Israel hypersensitive about its national security, and Iran dedicated to a policy of confrontation and provocation, Patterson wondered if there was any way it could end well.

The pilot’s voice interrupted her reading. “We’ll taxi to the military terminal. The tower says we will be met.”

They had to wait after the door opened while the head of their security detail met with the Israeli security personnel, performed the proper rituals of greeting, and gave the “all clear.”

Hardy and Patterson stepped out into brilliant, almost blinding sunshine. A small, compact-looking man introduced himself. “My name is Adir Ben-Rosen. I’m Dr. Harel’s assistant. He cannot meet with you until later today. In the meantime, we’ve made arrangements for your lodging.” His English was heavily accented, but understandable.

Hardy shook his hand, but did not smile. “I hope Dr. Harel understands the urgency of our visit.”

“Two presidential envoys? In normal times, the deputy director would be here to greet you, but these are not normal times, Senator. Dr. Harel is not in Tel Aviv at the moment, and neither is the director. Dr. Harel is expected back this afternoon, and will meet with you as soon as he returns.”

Ben-Rosen greeted Patterson warmly but did not shake her hand, and gestured toward the waiting cars. As they got in, Joanna whispered, “Orthodox Jew?” to her husband, and he nodded. “Likely, unless you’ve got some history with Israel you haven’t told me about.”

The half-hour drive through Tel Aviv’s center was accompanied by a fascinating description of the sights along the way and the city’s history. Neither of them had been in the city before, and Ben-Rosen recommended restaurants, museums, shops, even plays that they might want to see.