chests. Once ashore, the equipment could be rolled up to the size of a portable umbrella. The downside was that it couldn’t hold much oxygen; it was intended to get them from the vessel to the surface and back, with about eight minutes to spare.
But then they weren’t there to tour coral reefs.
“Gonna be cold,” warned one of the SEALs, as Conners got ready to follow Ferg out.
He wasn’t kidding. Though they were wearing wet suits and the Gulf water was warm by ocean standards, Conners shuddered as he released himself under the ASDS and began stroking toward the surface. Ferguson bobbed in the water a few yards away. The SEALs — perfect mother hens — swam around them, fussing and fretting, making sure that their two charges and their gear were okay. They were barely a hundred yards from shore, close to the remnants of an abandoned pier once used by an old cement factory on the shore beyond.
The minisub had used a special radar to scan the shore just to make sure no defenses had sprung up overnight; even so, the SEAL swimmers conducted their own survey using night-vision devices adapted to a water environment. They held their hands out, keeping Conners and Ferg back until they were sure it was safe to proceed.
“Gentlemen?” said Ferg. The swimming gear was equipped with com devices.
“Just checking the lay of the land, sir,” said the petty officer next to him. “Don’t want to deliver you into a machine-gun nest.”
“You won’t get a tip if you do,” said Ferg.
The deliverymen finally gave the okay, and the pizza began swimming toward the shore.
A half hour later, Ferg and Conners unpacked a pair of bicycles from the long plastic cases their SEAL companions had towed behind them to shore. Gear stowed beneath the broken timbers of the pier, they began pedaling toward their rendezvous point with an Iranian who had been recruited a year before by the CIA.
The contact was the most vulnerable point of the mission. Ferguson never completely trusted a foreign agent, no matter who vouched for him or what he’d done in the past. But the native would make it considerably easier to check the onshore sites that might be connected to the waste operation.
The cement factory sat at the far end of what in America would have been a port-area industrial park. There were several other abandoned facilities along the long access road to the highway that went north to the port itself. At the intersection with the highway sat a large area devoted to cargo containers; even though it was three o’clock in the morning, several work crews were unloading and moving containers. The two Americans pedaled past quietly, heading toward a field at the right side of the road where their contact, Keveh Shair, was supposed to be waiting.
A small pin of light flashed in the distance as Ferguson and Conners approached. Stopping immediately, they split up, Conners moving to flank the position in case it was a trap. His stomach felt much better now that he’d gotten out of the wet suit.
Ferguson slung his MP-5A5 — a SEAL-issued version of the familiar submachine guns designed to withstand a wet environment — over his back and started walking slowly toward the light. Rubble lay everywhere before him in the lot, and even if he didn’t want to give Conners time to find his position, he would have had to move slowly. The two men were connected through their Team communications system.
“Stop,” said a voice in Farsi.
A pair of shadows appeared roughly where the light had been. Ferg wasn’t wearing a NOD, and had trouble making them out.
“How we doing?” he asked Conners.
“Two guys, guns. Truck back by the road.”
“OK,” said Ferg quietly. The shadows were moving toward him. He held his hands out, said the password — Ayatollah.
One of the shadows laughed.
“I thought it was funny, too,” said Ferg.
“Mr. Ferguson?” said a heavily accented voice in English. “I’m Keveh.”
The two shadows materialized into a pair of bears. The one on the left had an early model M-16 in his paws. The one on the right stepped toward Ferguson, extending his hand.
There was a black pistol in it, aimed now at his head.
“Shit,” said Conners over the com system.
Ferg stood motionless.
“Where did you go to school?” demanded Keveh.
“Yale.”
“Who was your Philosophy Two teacher?”
“Xavier Ryan. Never met a Greek he didn’t like,” said Ferg. “Which is why he only lasted a year. I had Daniel Frick for conceptual physics. Now that was a kick-ass class. You know, if you run fast enough, you don’t weigh anything?”
“Excuse the precaution,” said Keveh, lowering the gun.
“Not a problem,” said Ferg. “What’d you do, download my course transcript?”
“A friend checked it. You understand here, there are precautions. I understood there would be two of you.”
“Yeah. He has you both covered at the moment. Excuse the precaution.”
The
“Easiest thing for us to do,” Ferguson told Keveh as they drove by a second time, “we go in as workmen. We don’t have to stay very long; we just plant some automated sensors and split. Maybe I take some pictures.”
“I don’t think so,” said Keveh. “They’re bound to have a list of who works there.”
“You sure?”
Keveh shrugged.
“How about a government inspector or something?”
“Doesn’t happen.”
“Then we’ll have to figure something else out. Let’s go grab some food,” said Ferg.
The Iranians took them to the edge of the city in an area that was the equivalent of an American middle- class suburb. The houses were only two or three years old, fairly close together, with identical white facades offset around the circular roadways. It was still dark, but Ferguson and Conners went in through the side door under the carport, stumbling against furniture before Keveh met them with his pin flashlight pointed toward the floor. He led them into a back room that had twin beds, then disappeared to get some food.
“I don’t trust him,” said Conners.
“Specific reason or general paranoia?” asked Ferg.
Conners shrugged. He didn’t have a real reason.
Ferguson took out his sat phone. While he could communicate with the submarine and Rankin by calling a number that connected with a SpecOps/Navy ELF underwater system, there was no need; they’d planned to spend the day reconnoitering. He called Corrigan instead, telling him they were ashore safely and proceeding.
“Anything new?” Ferg asked.
“Corrine Alston is pissing off everybody in sight,” said Corrigan. “She’s been in the library.”
“Good place for her.”
“Slott’s trying to find out what the hell the story is. I have Lauren babysitting her. I don’t trust her with any of the guys. Her legs are too sleek.”
“I hadn’t noticed. Any new satellite data?”
“Still being studied.”
“Jesus—”
“We may have something for you in a couple of hours.”
“All right. I’ll call you back,” said Ferg, as Keveh returned with a bowl and two plates.
Conners and Ferguson sat against the beds to eat, the bowl between them and their plates perched on their knees. The food was a kind of meatless stew. Conners had only a few bites; now that his stomach had settled he
