The Libra Affair (40 page)

Farrokh nodded.

“The storm is picking up,” she said. “We've got to roll.”

“Thank you for trusting me, Jordan,” Farrokh said to her.

Then they hurried to the control panel. Jordan depressed the Reset Pushbutton to begin the process. Using her hand, she signaled the count. “Three, two, one, go,” and they inserted their keys to begin the Step Process of initiating launch.

She activated the Function Select Switch first, then the Launch Option. After entering the flight address, target, and time, Farrokh called out the numbers to unlock the code. From their prospective consoles, they entered the numbers and progressed through the prompts until they reached the last steps of activating the Enable, Initiate, and then Launch switches.

With the system fully enabled, initiated, and ready for launch, all that remained was to turn the key.

Jordan looked at Farrokh, nodded, and together they turned their keys.

Seconds and counting, the silo hatch opened. Engines ignited. A seismic shock shook the complex. And Libra shot airborne. Target: Bonn, Germany.

“Are we locked on?” Farrokh asked.

Jordan checked her satellite phone. “Laser One, locked on target. Libra is officially in play.”

“Time to go.” Jordan waved an arm to Ben as she and Farrokh approached the elevator.

Jordan and Farrokh entered the elevator and the three of them rode up to ground desert. The sky was dark, visibility next to poor. The gas masks helped to deflect the sand, but there was a quarter-mile distance to cover and fast. No doubt the Iranian Army was already heading their way.

The truck was burned beyond recognition.

“Keep going,” Jordan shouted to the men. “I'm going to set off a grasshopper.” The robotic device was programmed to head west to act as a decoy. And with this wind, it'd give the device an extra boost, hopefully buying them more time. Then she prepped another one to fly in case they needed it.

Jordan quickly caught up with the men.

“Saeqehs,” Farrokh shouted to her and pointed to the sky.

It wasn't five minutes on the run before a Saeqehs, a military fighter jet, canvassed the area.

“Drop.” Jordan waved an arm to Ben. Together, the three of them dropped facedown in the sand before it came into range.

An air raid siren sounded from Sarakhs.

When the jet passed, they were up and running again. Luckily, the storm was on their side, preventing the pilots from flying in low to get a visual on them.

A hundred feet from the Jeep, Jordan motioned for them to drop again. Another jet was closing in fast.

Gunfire pelleted the sand ten yards south of their position.

It was time. Jordan sent a signal to fire off the second decoy. The jet took the bait when grasshopper launched and thundered off in its direction. The three rose and pushed on toward the Jeep.

Jordan swung open the back door and signaled for the two men to get inside.

The rumble of another jet sounded in the near distance. There was barely enough time to dive for cover. She dropped and rolled underneath the vehicle, not knowing whether the men made it into the backseat.

Bullets littered the area and
boom
, the water tank exploded like a showerhead. Water sprayed in every direction.

The Saeqehs continued west.

Jordan crawled out from underneath the Jeep and scrambled to get inside of it. But when she reached for the door handle, she noticed it was wet with red; so was the side of the Jeep. Blood. Someone was hit.

Inside the vehicle, she glanced over her seat and saw that both men were lying face down on the floor. They were indistinguishable. Facing forward, she turned over the ignition. It was time to cross the border; she'd deal with any injuries when they reached safety.

Another jet was on approach. She waited for it to pass. When it was out of range, she hit the accelerator. She drove hard and fast — making a break for the border, while able to hear intermittent cries from the backseat. Maybe it was only the whine of the engine or the sound of the wind she was hearing, maybe it was only her mind playing tricks, maybe it was nothing. There was no way for her to know if and who was crying in pain. So she did the only thing she could do — she drove.

The road dipped. It was rough. Bumpy. And before long, any sense of direction vanished, but she kept her foot glued to the pedal, meeting each rise head-on. Somewhere along the way, she lost sight of the road.

A squadron of jets flew south of them.

She wondered if she'd crossed the border yet. They must have by now. But the windshield was covered in sand and dirt. She couldn't see well enough to judge where they were.

An explosion reverberated to the southwest.

The Jeep hit a bump and flew airborne. When it landed hard, someone cried out in pain. This time she knew for a fact that the scream was real.

Gripping the wheel, Jordan tried to focus on anything other than Ben — on the storm, her duty to her country, the mangled wipers beating crazily against the glass of the windshield, Sonya, Isbel, Willoughby — but Jordan couldn't still her mind. She feared Ben had taken a bullet; maybe both men had. The wind howled like a raging idiot; it wasn't helping. She told herself to stop thinking and to keep driving. It was all she could do. So she drove, she drove like a madwoman — a woman who had everything to lose.

Some minutes later, maybe five, ten, or twenty, she lost track of time; the storm leapt in front of them, and like magic, the wind suddenly vanished like a fan unplugged, spiraling to a stop. She let her foot off the accelerator and withdrew her mask. The Jeep bolted to a stop.

Unable to see through the dirt-covered windshield, she rolled down the window and squinted through the fresh-squeezed light. A field of green appeared. Several long-leafed stalks fell inside the window. It was sugarcane.

Jordan slid a hand across one of the blades greeting her inside her window. There was no question now; she had stayed the course. They were no longer in Iran. They were close to the Hanhowuz Reservoir in Turkmenistan.

She unstrapped her seatbelt and was about to hop over the seat to the back when one of the men lifted himself up from the floor. His mask, covered in blood, sand, and dirt, shielded his identity. The other man lay motionless on the floor.

Her heart sank as the man pulled the mask from his face.

“Ben!” she cried at seeing his face.

“Farrokh's hurt,” he told her.

She asked, “How bad is it?” knowing that it was bad. Almost instantly, her sense of relief in seeing Ben's face faded once she saw Farrokh lying helplessly on the floor. She didn't want Farrokh to be injured any more than Ben. But he was.

“Should we move him to the seat?” Ben asked her.

“Yes.” She quickly hopped into the backseat to assist. “It's his gut,” she said, eyeing him over, then threw two fingers to his jugular to check for a pulse.

“Is he alive?” Ben asked her.

“Barely,” she answered. “He's losing blood,” she said. Then on her own, she lifted Farrokh to the backseat.

“Get his mask off,” she told Ben.

Ben removed the mask.

“Farrokh? Farrokh!” she called. “Can you hear me?”

“What do we do?” Ben asked.

“We've got to get him some help if he stands a chance. I need you to apply pressure to the wound, it'll help.” She jumped over the seat and thrust her body up and outside the window. She stood on top of the window frame and searched the field. “I think I see a way,” she called out and then climbed back into the driver's seat.

“Let's go,” Ben said.

“Do what you can to control the bleeding. Use a finger inside if you have to,” she said. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” he replied.

When they reached the end of the row, she shouted back, “I think this is the way out,” and quickly turned to her right. She drove over a small rise and a dirt road came into view. A farmer driving a tractor was heading their way. Punching it, she met him halfway.

The farmer turned off his engine. “I think there must have been a few explosions in Iran,” he said by way of a greeting.

“It just about killed us,” Jordan replied. “We've got an injured man. Can you help us?”

“I live a few miles from here,” the farmer said. “Follow me.”

On the way, Jordan dialed Sonya's number. When she answered, she immediately asked her, “Where are you?” and after Sonya answered, Jordan told her, “Bring the girl.”

• • •

“How bad is it?” the farmer's wife asked as she raced with her husband to the Jeep.

“Pretty bad,” Jordan told them.

“Let's get him inside,” the wife said.

Jordan and the farmer carried Farrokh inside the house.

The wife led the way. “This room,” she said, scurrying around to ready the bed.

“Thank you,” Jordan replied.

“What happened?” the wife asked.

“We were taking a ride in my husband's Jeep. We were just having fun. A storm hit. We got lost. Then these planes appeared. They started firing in every direction. He got hit.”

“How awful,” the wife said.

“Yes. Let's get him undressed,” Jordan said next.

The wife turned to her husband. “Get some hot water and some towels. Be quick.”

When Farrokh's shirt was off, Jordan instantly realized the hit was fatal. He'd never make it to the hospital in time.

However, the young wife, unversed in medicine, said, “We have to get him to hospital, Mary is the closest city or Serahs has a clinic.”

The farmer returned with the supplies. Jordan and the wife worked to clean the wound. But there was too much damage; all they could do was wrap towels tightly around Farrokh's abdomen and stomach to hold him together.

With a nod, Jordan motioned to the wife to walk with her into the hallway. “Do you have any hard liquor by chance?” Jordan whispered to the wife.

“Yes, from my father, but — ”

Jordan told her, “He's not going to make it,” and she squeezed the arm of the young farmer's wife to reassure her. “It's worse than I thought.”

From the kitchen, a radio was broadcasting news. “Just a moment.” Jordan held up a finger to listen.

The announcer was saying, “After an explosion shook the skies above Bonn today, the United Nations is calling for an emergency session with … ”

Farrokh moaned in pain. He was coming around.

“Jordan?” Ben appeared at the doorway. “It's Farrokh.”

Jordan glanced at Ben and then back at the wife. “Can you get the liquor now? It'll help him get through this.”

Back inside the room, Farrokh's eyes were half-opened. When he saw Jordan, he tried to smile as he asked in a garbled voice, “How bad is it?”

“Bad.” She didn't try to hide the fact. Then she took his hand in hers and sat next to him.

“Libra?” he asked.

“I just heard on the radio. We did it,” she said. “Thanks to you.”

He nodded modestly. “There's something,” he groaned with his voice falling to a whisper, “I need to tell you.”

Jordan came closer.

“Isbel — ”

“I've already called for her. They're on the way.”

“No,” he said.

Jordan waited while he gathered his strength.

“She's not my biological … ” Farrokh coughed, spewing blood.

Jordan wiped his face with a towel. She had to let him talk; these were his last words.

“Her parents, it was an op.” He coughed more.

Jordan dabbed his face.

“I couldn't … ” He paused, near choking. “She was only a baby. I couldn't.” His brow folded. He shook his head. Every ounce of emotional pain he'd kept bottled up for the past thirteen years was now pouring from his soul. “Her eyes … so beautiful … trusting.”

Jordan finished the story. “You took her … ”

Farrokh nodded.

“ … and raised her as your own daughter,” she said.

He nodded again. “Tell her,” he choked, “I'm sorry.”

“You spared her, Farrokh. You gave her a life.” Jordan felt a tear form at the corner of her eye. She wiped it away, then brushed the tips of her fingers across the outside of her shirt. The second she touched the diamond pendant concealed underneath the shirt, she was instantly stricken with a new depth of grief.

Farrokh reached his prosthetic hand to Jordan, while his eyes begged the question.

“I'll take her, Farrokh. Don't worry. I'll be the mother she never had … she'll always have me.” Jordan's heart ached; she'd never missed her mother more. Then she stroked Farrokh's arm reassuringly. “There's no reason she has to know anything.” Tears flowed rapidly down Jordan's cheeks.

Farrokh closed his eyes and nodded. The strained expression freed from his face. His internal pain released. “You're a good woman, Jordan,” he struggled to say.

The front door to the house opened. Rapid footsteps beat toward the back bedroom. It was Isbel and Sonya.

“Baba,” Isbel cried as she entered the room. “Baba,” her voice lowered as she stopped at his side. Jordan rose from the bed and placed the girl's hand in her father's.

Farrokh opened his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said to his daughter. “I wanted us to be together.” He coughed more blood. Jordan walked to the other side of the bed and dabbed his face.

“Baba,” Isbel whispered.

Farrokh looked into his daughter's eyes. “I love you. I've loved you since the first moment I set eyes on you. I will always. Forever.” He coughed.

Isbel pleaded, “I love you, Baba. Don't die. Don't leave me.”

“Jordan.” He paused. “She will take care of you.”

“Baba,” Isbel's voice weakened, “you're not going anywhere.”

He continued, knowing his time was short. “I wish I could have given you more.”