Free End Game by Dale Brown Page A

able to fly in a straight line—somewhere over nine thousand miles. But political considerations forced them to skirt Iran and Russia, adding to the journey.
    â€œI believe everyone knows everyone else on the deployment. The one exception may be Major Mack Smith, who’s back with us after a working vacation in the Pacific. Mack has been pinch-hitting for Major Stockard while he’s on medical leave for a few weeks, and he’ll continue to head the Flighthawk squadron during the deployment.”
    Mack, ever the showoff, turned and gave a wave to the pilots behind him.
    Though he’d helped develop the Flighthawks, he had extremely little time flying them. That wasn’t a serious deficiency handling the odd piece of paperwork at Dreamland, where Zen was only a phone call away; it remained to be seen what would happen in the field.
    â€œOne question, Colonel,” said Danny Freah, whoseWhiplash team would provide security at the base. “How long are we going to be there?”
    Dog’s mouth tightened at the corners—a sign, Breanna knew, that he was about to say something unpopular. “As long as it takes.”
    Las Vegas University of Medicine,
Las Vegas, Nevada
1200
    â€œI’ LL JUST SAY I CAN ’ T GO .”
    â€œNo way. You can’t do that.”
    â€œSure I can do that. You’re my husband.”
    â€œYeah, I do seem to remember a ceremony somewhere.” Zen laughed. The two nurses at the other end of the room looked over and gave him embarrassed smiles.
    â€œJeff—”
    â€œNo, listen Bree, it’s fine. Things are going great here. I still can’t eat anything, but other than that, I’m in great shape. I may even go for a walk later.”
    â€œDon’t joke.”
    â€œI’m not joking. It was a figure of speech.” Zen pulled his gown primly closer to his legs. When the phone call was finished, he’d go back facedown on the bed butt naked, but somehow it felt important to preserve what modesty he could.
    â€œThe operation was OK?”
    â€œBing-bing-bing. Didn’t feel anything. Laser looked pretty cool. The nurse are great,” he added. “I won’t describe them or you’ll get jealous.”
    The women—neither of whom was under fifty—blushed.
    â€œI love you, Jeff.”
    â€œI love you too, Bree. Take care of yourself, all right?”
    â€œYou’re sure ?”
    â€œShit yeah.”
    â€œI’ll call.”
    â€œCall when you can.”
    â€œJeff?”
    â€œYup?”
    â€œI love you.”
    â€œI love you too.”
    Southeastern Iran,
near the coast
8 January 1998
1312
    C APTAIN S ATTARI ’ S KNEE , BRUISED IN THE RECENT ACTION AT Port Somalia, started to give way as he climbed from the back of the Mercedes. He grabbed hold of the door to steady himself, pretending to admire the splendor of the private villa three miles east of Chah Bahar on Iran’s southern coast. Being thirty-nine meant the little tweaks and twists took longer to get over.
    The villa was something to admire; its white marble pillars harked back to the greatness of the Persian past, and its proud, colorful red tower stood in marked contrast to the dullness that had descended over much of the land in the wake of the mullahs’ extreme puritanism. Jaamsheed Pevars had bought the house before he became the country’s oil minister. He was one of new upper class, a man who had earned his money under the black robes and thus owed them some allegiance. A decade before the small company he owned had won a contract to inspect oil tankers for safety violations before they entered Iranian waters. Inspection was mandatory, as was the thousand dollar fee, only half of which went to the government.
    â€œCaptain?” asked Sergeant Ibn, getting out from the other side.
    â€œImpressive view.”
    Sattari shrugged off his knee’s complaints, and the men walked up the stone-chipped