General Sattari followed the control tower’s instructions, taxiing the airplane away from the main runway. He felt physically drained. It had been years since he flew a large jet, and even with his nephew, an experienced multiengine copilot, managing the Airbus’s takeoffs and landings had not been easy.
“Turn coming up ahead, Uncle,” said Habib Kerman.
“Very good.”
Sattari’s eyes shuffled back and forth from the windscreen to the speed indicator. He could give the airplane over to Kerman if he wished, but his pride nagged him.
“You haven’t lost your skills,” said Kerman as they pulled into the parking area. “Outstanding.”
Sattari smiled but said nothing. Kerman was his sister’s youngest son. He had been a close friend of his own son, Val, though a few years younger; at times he reminded him very much of Val.
Four or five men trotted from a nearby hangar, followed by a pickup truck.
This was the most dangerous moment, Sattari knew — when his plot was nearly but not quite ready to proceed. He needed to refuel the jet in order to reach his destination. The airport had been chosen not for its geographic location but the fact that he had agents he believed he could count on to assist. He himself had not been here in many years, so he could not be positive they would help — and indeed might not know for sure until he took off.
The men ran to chock the wheels. A good sign, he thought. They were unarmed.
Sattari glanced at his nephew. “You have your gun?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Sattari nodded, then rose. He went to the door behind the flight cabin and opened it, pushing it with a sudden burst of energy. A fatal dread settled over him as the muggy outdoor air entered the cabin. He was ready; ready to die here if that’s what was ordained.
But it wasn’t, at least not at that moment. A metal stairway was being pushed close to the cabin.
“God is great, God is merciful, God is all knowing,” shouted a man from the ground, speaking in Persian.
“Blessed be those who follow his way,” said Sattari, completing the identifier he had settled on in their e-mail conversation.
“General, it is my pleasure to serve you,” said Hami Hassam, climbing eagerly up the steps as soon as they were placed. “What cargo do you have?”
“That should not be relevant to you.”
Hassam smiled, then reached inside his light jacket. “You have perishable dates,” said Hassam confidently. “With all necessary papers and taxes paid.”
“Good work.”
“For our air force, nothing is too good. I have taken the precaution of purchasing several crates of fruit, in case there are any complications. I can have them loaded aboard the aircraft in a few—”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Sattari.
“Sometimes, the inspectors do come aboard.”
“It won’t be necessary,” repeated Sattari.
The man’s crestfallen face made it clear he was being too strident. He’d given Hassam to believe he was transporting banned missiles and other aircraft parts, a matter sufficiently important and clandestine that Hassam would probably not probe too deeply.
“The items we have are packed very delicately,” said Sattari, explaining while not explaining. “And the fewer in contact with them, the better. We can put a few crates here if necessary,” he added, pointing to the rear of the flight cabin. “But — should I expect trouble?”
“No,” said Hassam, a bit uncertainly. “Usually there are no inspections at all. Not once fees are paid. Which has been done.”
“The money transferred properly?”
“Yes, General. Of course.”
“Can we get some food?” asked Sattari.
“There is a place in the terminal.”
“Come, then,” said Sattari.
“Your copilot?”
“He and the others will stay with the plane.”
“You have others in the plane?”
“Not important,” said Sattari, unsure whether his bluff had been detected or not. “I’ll bring back a few things.”
Reviewing all of the recorded sensor and other data from the flight would take several days, but the tapes made it clear that the
Dog got up from the copilot’s station and walked slowly through the
“No one comes aboard this aircraft without my explicit permission,” he told the sergeant standing near the ladder to the lower deck. “You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You noted that all the systems were intact when I left?”
“Uh, yes, sir. OK.”
“It’s OK, Sergeant, they were. You saw them playing, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was a long, long walk to the borrowed Navy Hummer, and a short, short ride to the base commander’s office. General Samson had concluded whatever meet and greet operation he’d been conducting and was striding out to his SUV when Dog arrived.
“General, I need to talk to you,” said Dog, leaning out his window.
“Not now, Bastian. I’m meeting the commander for dinner.”
“You’re going to want to talk to me first, General.”
“What about?”
“We’d best go someplace a little more private.”
The first thing Samson thought was,
The next thing he thought was,
The incident with the family in the desert was bad, very bad, but the video vindicated the men, and it could be argued that the Dreamland people were on a mission of mercy. Whether they should have undertaken it or not was beside the point.
But this was very different.
“You’re sure it was a civilian plane?” Samson asked Bastian.
“Dreamland Command says there’s no doubt. It’s a small airline that flies in northern India. This wasn’t a scheduled flight,” added Dog. “It apparently was some sort of relief plane or charter flying workers north to do electrical repairs.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t they have had a working transponder?”
“I don’t know. We’ve encountered plenty of planes that haven’t. Usually, though, it’s because they’re up to something they shouldn’t be. This might just have been a malfunction.”
“Why the hell wasn’t it visually identified before they fired?” Samson asked. “That’s standard procedure.”
“There wouldn’t have been time to visually check before the Osprey was in danger.”
“That’s their excuse?”
“That’s my assessment. They haven’t offered an excuse.”
