Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown

dunes.
    “Old military barracks,” said Silver. “Abandoned a couple of years ago.”
    “Glad they’re empty,” said Turk.
    Gorud raised his head and stared out the window as they came around a curve at a high pass in the hills. The city lay ahead, but he was looking to his left, past the driver. Turk followed his gaze. He could see a rail line in the distance and tracks in the rumpled sand. What looked like several revetments lay a little farther up the hills. A large dump truck sat in the distance, the setting sun turning its yellow skin white. There were more beyond it.
    “What’s going on here?” Silver asked.
    “Good question,” said Gorud. “There are mines—but . . .” His voice trailed off.
    “But?”
    “Missiles, maybe,” he said. “Or something else.”
    A reminder, thought Turk, that the problem they were dealing with was vast, and might not—would not—end with this operation.
    The airport appeared ahead, a crooked T of tarmac in the light red dirt and lighter sand. They turned with the road, skimming around an empty traffic circle and then toward the terminal complex, driving down an access road four lanes wide. It was as empty as the highway they’d come down on. An unmanned gate stood ahead, its long arm raised forlornly. They passed through quickly.
    The troop truck with the rest of their team continued on the highway, driving around to the south of the airport. They were on their own now; any contingency would have to be handled by Gorud, by Silver, by Grease, by himself—he touched the butt of his rifle under the front seat with the toe of his boot, reassuring himself that he was ready.
    Immediately past the gate the road narrowed. Tall, thin green trees rose on either side; beyond them were rows of green plants, studded between sprinkler pipes. Two white vans sat in front of the parking lot in front of a cluster of administrative buildings. The buildings themselves looked empty, and there was no traffic on the access road that continued past the largest building and went south. Just beyond the building, they turned and drove through the lot to another road that ran around the perimeter of the airstrips. This took them past a truck parking area on the outside of the complex, beyond a tall chain-link fence. Turk caught a glimpse of their truck moving on the highway, shadowing them.
    The access road took them to the front of the civilian passenger terminal, dark and seemingly forgotten. They turned left and drove around the building, directly onto the apron where the aircraft gates were located.
    “Nothing here,” said Silver as they turned. “No plane.”
    “I see.” Gorud looked left and right.
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Keep going.”
    “Onto the runway?”
    “No. Onto the construction road at the far end. We’ll take it back around.”
    “If it’s sand we may get stuck.”
    “Chance it. We don’t want to look like we took a wrong turn if we’re being watched. We’re examining the airport—we would fly equipment in through here. We’re all Russian. Remember that.”
    “Problem?” asked Grease.
    “The Israeli and the helicopter should have been at the terminal,” said Gorud. “I don’t see it.”
    “What Israeli?” said Turk. “Is that who is bringing the helicopter?”
    Gorud said nothing. He didn’t have to; the expression on his face shouted disdain. Belatedly, Turk realized that “the Israeli” could only be their contact. He also guessed that the man was likely a Mossad agent or officer; the Israeli spy unit would have numerous agents studded around the country, and they would surely cooperate with the U.S. on a mission like this.
    But it was also quite possible the man wasn’t Mossad at all. Everything was subterfuge—they were Russian, they were Iranian, they didn’t even exist.
    “Place looks abandoned,” said Grease.
    “It is,” replied Gorud. “More or less. Most airports outside Tehran look like this with the sanctions. Even if