Qom, Iran
In the gray light of predawn, Liz drew the bedcovers up to her chin and thought of lives that might have been.
She was here to kill another human being, Liz knew that. There was talk of recovering the bioweapon and taking Tahir into custody, but that was a remote possibility at best.
I could have—should have—refused.
But in the quiet of their hotel room, with Dre’s breath sighing in the background, Liz faced the truth about herself.
She wanted to be here.
Her children had no father and she was on the other side of the world engaged in an operation that risked her life.
And somehow, she was okay with that.
Maybe it was an overdeveloped sense of duty, maybe it was just pure selfishness, but the truth was when the call came, she didn’t hesitate.
She went to the window, looking down on the streets below. Even this early, the city was electric with anticipation of the Iranian president’s visit. There were security blockades on the street and people already filling the space behind them.
She watched the women dressed in black, only their faces and hands visible. If her parents had not emigrated to America when she was a child, she might be among their number.
The morning sun caught the blue dome of the mosque and Liz drew in a deep breath.
Her moment of self-reflection was behind her. She was here, in this place, to perform a duty for her country. She would take a life, if that life needed to be taken. She would get home safely. She would get Andrea Ramirez home safely.
It was time to go to work.
Liz washed and dressed quickly. She checked her weapons and stowed them in the pockets under her chador. She went through the sequence of drawing them multiple times, laying hands on each item until they were part of muscle memory.
She woke Dre gently. “Chantal,” she said. She had cautioned Dre to ensure they used their cover names while in the hotel room just in case anyone was listening.
“Chantal. Wake up, sweetie.”
Dre opened her eyes, saw Liz already dressed, and sat up in bed. Her eyes darted around the room as she realized where she was.
“It’s okay,” Liz said, taking Dre’s hand. “I’m leaving now. I’ll be back in a few hours. If anything happens, you know what to do.”
The young woman nodded, still wiping the sleep from her eyes. As Liz started to get up, Dre wrapped her arms around Liz, whispering in her ear, “Be safe.”
“Always.”
Liz closed the door behind her and slipped the earpiece into her ear.
“Morning, Liz.” Don’s voice was confident. “We’re looking excellent on this end. Solid coverage for blocks around the conference center. If she’s there, we’ll find her.”
Liz took her time on the street, letting the flow of the crowd move her along. All around her, people chattered excitedly about the president’s visit. Children rode on their fathers’ shoulders, vendors sold trinkets and snacks. There was an air of a carnival about the day. Even international press vans were prominently evident.
If Tahir wanted a place to make a global statement, this was it.
Liz found a place where she could see the Jamkaran Mosque and the conference center and settled down to wait.
An hour passed. Word swept through the crowd that the president’s plane had landed and his motorcade was on its way from the airport. People pressed against the security barriers. After another thirty minutes, a line of black cars roared down the street, headed for the mosque. The crowd cheered.
“We’ve got her,” Don’s voice said in her ear. “Tahir is entering the convention center now. Main entrance.”
“I’m on my way.” Liz pushed against the flow of the crowd. At the security checkpoint for the conference center, she showed her fake entry pass and said she had an appointment with the facility director. After a moment, the security guard let her pass.
When she entered the foyer, she ducked her head. “I’m inside. Where is she?”
“South side.”
Liz recalled the layout of the conference center. Tahir was in the storage area with access to the air systems.
“Copy.” Liz averted her face as she passed by the security office and pushed through the double doors into the long storage hall. She drew her weapon but kept it under her chador.
“She’s on the mezzanine level, Liz. She’s going for the HVAC system.”
“Copy.” Liz strode to the steps and took them two at a time. She could hear the hum of machinery through the heavy steel door.
“There are no cameras inside the mezzanine,” Don said. “We’re blind.”
“I’m going in.” Liz opened the door and slipped in quickly, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The roar of the air handlers was deafening.
Don’s voice sounded distant. “Be careful, Lizzie.”
The room was located over the main ballroom. HVAC units, each the size of a large truck, populated the perimeter of the space. Shoulder-high air ducts ran out from the air handlers to vents in the ceiling. Amid the din of the operating air systems, Liz stood on her tiptoes looking for Tahir’s head poking above the ducts.
Nothing.
A narrow catwalk ran around the perimeter of the room, with branches running in the alleys formed between the massive ducts. With her weapon out, Liz advanced quickly past the first air-conditioning unit. The first catwalk was clear.
So was the second.
The third alley showed a woman trying to remove a maintenance access panel from the side of the air duct. Her back was to Liz.
She advanced down the catwalk, the sound of rushing air all around her.
When she was less than ten feet away, she called out in English, “Freeze.”
The woman’s back stiffened.
“Show me your hands.”
The woman’s fingers were long and elegant, with painted nails.
“Stand up. Turn around. Slowly.”
Liz looked into the brilliant blue eyes of Dr. Talia Tahir.
“Don, I’ve got her.”
25,000 feet over Hatra, Iraq
Of all the sensations in the universe, for Captain Darrin “Witcher” Hammet everything was a distant second to flying.
Everything.
Of course, that feeling waned some when you were sixteen hours into a projected thirty-eight-hour combat mission on a B-2 bomber.
The Spirit of Kitty Hawk, operational call sign Cyclone One, was just completing their third in-flight refueling since they had departed Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, late last night.
To Witcher’s right, mission commander Lieutenant Colonel Randy “Thunder” Peebles handled the in-air refueling logistics with the massive KC-46 tanker that flew above and slightly ahead of the B-2. The refueling boom ran down to them from the rear of the tanker to the refueling port in the top of the B-2.
Thunder keyed his radio. “Exxon One-One, Cyclone One. That’s a hundred K and we are topped off. Request disconnect.”
“Stand by to disconnect,” came the crisp reply.
The V-shaped wing that marked the end of the fueling boom connecting the Spirit of Kitty Hawk to the tanker appeared over them.
“Confirm disconnect,” Thunder said. “Descending to the bottom of the box. Thanks, gents.”
“Cyclone, Exxon, good luck.”
As Witcher moved them away from the tanker and ascended, the mission commander closed out the refueling checklist.
“Post air-refueling checklist complete,” Thunder reported.
Witcher verified that the refueling port on top of the aircraft had rotated back into the fuselage, restoring the plane’s trademark smooth appearance. “Doors closed.”
Witcher leveled out at forty thousand feet and put them into a racetrack holding pattern the size of Delaware. “Autopilot engaged,” he said.
“Copy,” Thunder replied. He sighed as he pulled off his helmet and raked his fingers through a thick mop of jet-black hair. “No updates on the tasking?”
Witcher knew the answer was no, but checked the laptop screen anyway. “Nothing yet.”
“I’m gonna get some shut-eye, partner, okay?”
Witcher grinned. “Roger that, boss.”
“Wake me if we get any tasking updates.”
Thunder hoisted his six-foot frame out of his seat and stepped to the rear of the cockpit. Although the B-2 was a massive aircraft—170-foot wingspan and 70 feet long—the space allotted for the crew was tiny. A four-by-six-foot open floor area behind the pilot’s and mission commander’s chairs was all they had for a rest area. Although the Air Force provided a folding cot for sleeping comfort, Thunder did what most B-2 pilots did: He rolled his sleeping bag out on the floor. When Witcher glanced over his shoulder a few minutes later, he saw the mission commander’s chest rise and fall in an even rhythm.
Witcher settled into his chair and established his solo routine. Instrument scan, horizon scan, four deep breaths, repeat.
Life as a B-2 pilot on a mission was a marathon, not a sprint. Self-discipline was the key to success. You needed to plan ahead and think smart. Flying out of the continental US to hot spots all over the world meant missions were grueling events, typically lasting more than twenty-four hours.
Through marathon training sessions in the simulator, pilots learned to plan what and when to eat, when to sleep, and how to fall asleep quickly so as not to waste precious downtime.
With only twenty B-2 bombers in the US Air Force’s arsenal, the cadre of pilots was small and highly trained. The Air Force mined the ranks of the best fighter and bomber squadrons all over the world to cross-train as B-2 pilots.
Instrument scan, horizon scan, four deep breaths.
He hadn’t been on as many missions as Thunder, but this one felt different, and from the way Thunder was acting, his mission commander felt it, too.
The sudden nature of the call-up with only a few hours’ notice was not typical, but not unusual either. On the other hand, their payload was a different matter altogether.
The B-2 could handle a payload of sixty thousand pounds, an astonishing amount of ordnance when he saw it laid out on a hangar floor. Today, they carried only two bombs.
The GBU-57A/B, better known as the Massive Ordnance Penetrator, or MOP, was the most powerful non-nuclear weapon in the United States military’s arsenal. At nearly thirty thousand pounds, each unit measured twenty feet long and thirty-one inches in diameter. The satellite-guided weapon was designed as a “bunker buster,” used to obliterate a hardened target. For this mission, the ordnance had been modified to trigger on contact.
No reason was given for the last-minute modification. Another unusual aspect of this mission.
Instrument scan, horizon scan, four deep breaths.
Somewhere out there was Cyclone Two, their mission backup, outfitted with an identical set of ordnance in their bomb bay.
Witcher checked the laptop and immediately saw the new message header: CYCLONE ONE—NEW TASKING. He opened the message and scanned the contents. He forced himself to slow down and read the message again.
Instrument scan, horizon scan, four deep breaths.
“Thunder?” Witcher reached behind his seat to tap his partner on the shoulder.
“Yeah.” The mission commander snapped out of sleep instantly. His voice was clear and sharp.
“New tasking is here.”
Thunder rose without a word, stowed his sleeping bag, slid into his chair, and donned his helmet. He reviewed the tasking message, but the only outward sign of emotion was a bunching of his jaw muscles.
“So,” he said finally. “Iran, huh?”
Witcher nodded. The orders were to prep for a bombing run on a city called Qom, Iran, and wait for a voice release.
Thunder clipped a checklist to the writing surface on his right thigh.
“Stand by for stealth mode checklist.”