Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  Their ecstasy was short-lived. The missile rose above the immense cloud of dust and exhaust into the sky. When it had cleared the rim of the valley, it began to wobble. Yusef looked up from his laptop, his eyes wide behind his goggles. Over the din, Hashem saw him mouth the word No!

  The wobble increased. The missile corkscrewed, then flipped end over end like an enormous Roman candle. Everyone hit the deck when the explosion bloomed over the far ridge.

  Time seemed to stand still for Hashem. He hauled Yusef to his feet and ripped the goggles off his face. “What happened?” he screamed.

  Yusef’s chin quivered. With the red lines of the goggles still imprinted on his face and his dark curls hanging over his eyes, he looked like an unkempt child. “The gyros,” he whispered. “It must be a bad gyro.”

  “What about the others? Can we launch them?”

  Yusef shook his head. “They’re all from the same batch—but I have more in the back. I can replace them.”

  “How long?”

  “A day . . .”

  A day? Could they hide for a day?

  Hashem released Yusef. He turned to his men. “Get the missiles back in the bunker now! I want all traces of the launchers removed from the valley immediately. Move!”

  Hashem took a deep breath.

  He needed to contact Rafiq. Now.

  ***

  National Military Command Center (NMCC), Pentagon, Washington, DC

  16 May 2016 – 1121 Tel Aviv (0421 local)

  Colonel Tom Anderson had drilled for an event like this all his twenty-two years in the US Air Force, but he’d never expected to actually deal with a nuclear launch from a hostile nation.

  “Get me the latest from the Agency,” he said in a loud voice that he hoped conveyed calm. His underarms were soaked, and he clenched his teeth from the strain.

  He had confirmation from two distinct intel sources—the SBIRS bird and the CIA “sneaky” source—that the Iranians had just attempted a launch of a nuke against someone to their west. Israel, most likely.

  But that made no sense; their president was in Tel Aviv right now at the nuclear treaty talks—he was watching it live on CNN, for Christ’s sake.

  ISIS? A coup? What the fuck was going on?

  His first call should be the Secretary of Defense, but the Secretary was in Tel Aviv.

  “Get me the White House,” he called.

  “President on the line, sir.”

  The colonel jerked the red handset out of its cradle. “Mr. President, Colonel Anderson, NMCC. We’ve just received an alert from STRATCOM of a missile launch in southern Iran, mountainous desert, sir. CIA has an alert from a sensor that indicates the missile may be armed with a nuclear warhead. The launch failed after about seven seconds and crashed in the vicinity. No nuclear detonation on impact.”

  The president sounded remarkably clearheaded for a man who had just been woken up in the middle of the night. “Thank you, Colonel. Do we have interceptors in the region on standby?”

  “Yes, sir. The Navy BMD-capable destroyers Ross and Benfold are both in the region, eastern Med and Persian Gulf, respectively. No indications of further missile launches.”

  “I’ll be in the Situation Room in five minutes. I’ll call you back. In the meantime, get SecDef on the line, pull him out of the meeting in Tel Aviv if necessary. Find the Chairman and have him meet me in the Situation Room.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 40

  USS Arrogant, Gulf of Oman, off the coast of southern Iran

  16 May 2016 – 1215 Tel Aviv (1415 local)

  Brendan squinted at the flat horizon through his Ray-Bans. It was going to be another hot one. The breeze was enough for them to leave a gentle wake in the dark blue ocean. It had been a long week of nothing and now they were sailing south for some liberty in Oman.

  This last week had melted into a haze of three meals a day and flat seas. He longed for some action, something to make him sit up in his seat. Failing that, he could use a long run on a sandy beach.

  He heard Dot call out below and a muffled response. Sitting in the bright sunshine, the cabin below was a black hole to him. Scottie hurried up the ladder, and said to Brendan, “Dot needs you below, skipper. There’s something going on out there.” He gestured at the flat, sunshined sea.

  Brendan dropped into the cool of the cabin and pushed his Ray-Bans up on his forehead. The wall of cabinets had been rolled out of the bulkhead to reveal a row of gleaming electronic workstations. Dot hunched over the center console.

  “What’s up, Doc?”

  The joke usually elicited a smile, but this time her face stayed in a frown. Maggie, leaning over her shoulder, glanced up at him with a disgusted look.

  “I’m not sure,” Dot replied, “but I’m sure it’s not good. Basically, the world has gone berserk. About ten minutes ago, every satellite we own has been retargeted over this area.” She pointed to the screen at southern Iran, where they were.

  “Every single piece of electronic gear in the region has been turned on. Fifth Fleet HQ in Bahrain just put the AOR on full alert, and the destroyer Benfold is repositioning close to the boundary of international territorial waters off the Iranian coast.”

  Brendan whistled. The Fifth Fleet Area of Responsibility included the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf, and the northwest Indian Ocean. “Okay, so what are the Iranians doing to provoke us?”

  “That’s just it, nothing. This is all us.”

  “Any chance this is an exercise?”

  Dot shook her head. “I’m getting some secure traffic that’s outside our crypto capability—tons of it. This is being directed from Washington.” She looked up at him. “It looks like we’re about to launch an attack.”

  Brendan puffed out his cheeks. “Get me Baxter on the horn.”

  It was a few minutes before Maggie passed him the red handset. Baxter’s voice sounded alert, even though it was very early in the morning in DC.

  “Sorry to wake you, sir, but it looks like we have a situation going on here that I’m not sure how to handle.”

  “Does it involve your neighbors to the north?”

  “Well, that’s the issue. As far as we can tell, it’s just us directed at them.”

  The line hissed for a moment.

  “Brendan, do you remember when we first spoke? That time in the South China Sea?”

  Brendan glanced down at his knee. Even now, it was still misshapen and had ugly pink scar lines. “Yes, sir.”

  “You remember what you were doing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It just turned on.”

  ***

  Situation Room, White House

  16 May 2016 – 1220 Tel Aviv (0520 local)

  The President looked around the table at the stony faces: Chief of Staff, National Security Advisor, Director of National Intelligence, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who was speaking.

  “The immediate threat seems to have abated for now, Mr. President. The first launch that failed made them pull back into what we can only assume is a bunker inside that mountain.” He had satellite photos up on the screen showing an empty basin, with the ground hastily raked over. “As near as we can tell, they have three TELs, including the one that’s already launched. No idea if they have a missile to reload onto it.”

  “What are our options?”

  The Chairman adjusted the folio in front of him. “If we want to strike immediately, there’s Tomahawks and air power in the region. They’re in a bunker, and it’s probably reinforced, so there’s no guarantee we’d actually get them with this approach.” He stopped to clear his throat.

  “My recommendation is to launch JSOC immediately. It will take them twelve hours to get on station and be in a position to launch a raid. In the meantime, we put bombers in the air and have Tomahawks standing by in the event that they poke their heads out again. If by some chance they manage to get a missile launched, we have the Benfold in the Gulf and the Ross in the eastern Med, b
oth of which are Ballistic Missile Defense–capable ships. Nothing will get through to Israel.”

  The Secretary of Defense’s voice filtered through the phone. “I concur with that, Mr. President.”

  “Very well, JSOC is authorized to launch.” The President turned to his Chief of Staff. “Schedule a briefing on this for later today.” He gave a curt nod to the Chairman. “Thank you, General. I’ll let you get to it.”

  As the Chairman departed, the President turned his attention to the DNI. His face was tight with anger. “Explain to me how the hell the Iranians got nukes and why we don’t know about it. We’ve been negotiating with these guys for two years and every single intel report I’ve seen says they’re clean.”

  “I can’t explain the how, sir, everything about this stinks. They were launching on their own president, for God’s sake. We have two working theories: one is that ISIS has managed to set up a missile base in southern Iran and is trying to draw the West into launching on their enemies; the second is that someone in Iran is trying to stage a coup and betting we won’t launch on Iran.”

  “A rogue element in the Iranian power structure? With nukes?” The National Security Advisor sat back in her chair. “If that’s the case, we have to assume Rouhani’s power base is not as stable as we thought.”

  The DNI nodded. “The question is how to deal with it. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”

  The President leaned his elbows on the table and blew out a breath. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to tell Rouhani what’s happened and see what kind of reaction we get. Then Mr. Rouhani is going to go back in and negotiate his ass off with the Israelis to get a nuclear treaty done. Meanwhile, we’re going to take down this bunker and clean up whatever mess is in there.” He looked around the table. “You know what we’re not going to do?”

  “Tell the Israelis?” Chief of Staff volunteered.

  “Exactly.”

  ***

  Oval Office, White House

  16 May 2016 – 1250 Tel Aviv (0550 local)

  President Rouhani’s square face filled the video screen. A faint smile curled his lips, relaxed, but wary.

  “You are looking well, Mr. President,” he said in English, his voice a rich baritone.

  The US President studied the screen for another long moment before he spoke. “I apologize for this unscheduled interruption, sir, but there has been an incident that you need to know about.”

  “Oh?” Rouhani’s brow contracted a fraction, but the smile stayed in place.

  “Firstly, I want to assure you this is a secure connection. There is no one listening apart from the Secretaries of State and Defense on your end and the National Security Advisor on mine.”

  “I understand.”

  “Approximately ninety minutes ago, our satellites detected a missile launch in the Islamic Republic of Iran, in the southeast portion of the country. The launch came from a mobile launcher of North Korean manufacture and was an Iranian Shahab-3 missile. The missile crashed shortly after launch.”

  Rouhani drew in a sharp breath and opened his mouth to speak, but the President stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Please, sir, let me finish. We know from corroborating sensors that the missile was outfitted with a nuclear warhead. The trajectory of the missile showed it was aimed at Tel Aviv.”

  Rouhani’s mouth gaped open. He stared at the camera. “You are sure about this?” he said finally.

  The President nodded. “We believe there are at least two more launchers, but they have been withdrawn into a bunker—for now. What do you know of this event, sir?”

  Rouhani shook his head. He appeared shaken and a little frightened. “The political situation in Iran is . . . difficult, but this is beyond the pale. I can assure you, I did not authorize such an attack or even know of the existence of any nuclear weapons.”

  The president gave him a tight smile. “Your current location would seem to exonerate you, Mr. Rouhani.”

  “May I ask what you are going to do?”

  Balls of brass. I like this guy.

  “I have air- and sea-based assets in place that can be put into action, if needed. There is a military strike team en route to the Gulf now and they will be in position to launch an assault in the next twelve hours. Our preferred option would be to deal with this situation quietly.”

  Rouhani had regained some of his previous composure. “And, of course, you need my permission to launch a US military raid on the sovereign soil of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

  The President nodded. “Naturally.”

  Rouhani’s image was so still the President feared they’d lost the connection. Finally, the Iranian leader stirred. “Very well then, Mr. President, you have my authorization to launch the assault. Now if that is all—”

  “It’s not.”

  Rouhani’s face went still again, and the President could see him gritting his teeth. “Yes?” he said in a tight voice.

  “Let’s be clear: we have a shared interest in the success of these talks. You need this agreement; I need this agreement. I suggest you return to the nuclear talks, Mr. President, and make it happen. We will go down in history together as the men who brought peace to the Middle East and Iran back into the world order.”

  Rouhani nodded.

  ***

  The Lincoln Memorial, Washington, DC

  16 May 2016 – 1300 Tel Aviv (0600 local)

  Baxter sat on the edge of the park bench, watching the sky lighten behind the Washington Monument.

  He checked his watch again. His source had told him Vice Admiral Daugherty, now retired and a senior director on the DNI staff, was a habitual runner: always the same route, always the same time, rain or shine. As long as he was in town, he ran in the morning. Every morning.

  As if on cue, Baxter heard the rhythmic crunch of someone coming down the gravel path. He stood, suddenly wondering if this was a good idea after all.

  Jack Daugherty’s profile came into view around the bend. He moved at a good clip, chin up, arms pumping, breath coming in easy puffs. He saw Baxter and slowed to a stop a few feet away. He checked the device on his wrist and hit the pause button on his run timer before meeting Baxter’s eyes.

  “Baxter, right?”

  Rick gave him a brisk nod. “Yes, sir. Sorry to ambush you like this, but there’s a situation.”

  Daugherty glanced around them, then moved toward the edge of the Reflecting Pool. “I’ve been briefed. Is there something new?”

  “No, sir, not new, but we have an asset in the region that you should know about.”

  Daugherty glanced at his heart rate monitor and his lips tightened. “Spit it out, Baxter. Why are you here?”

  “The Feisty Minnow Program”—Baxter winced at how fanciful the name sounded in this circumstance—“has an asset in the Gulf. The skipper is a former SEAL, and the same guy who ran the raid that placed the sensor on the North Korean launcher.”

  Daugherty stopped fiddling with the device on his wrist. “You mean to tell me we have a guy who has actually touched these TELs before? And he’s in the region now?”

  Baxter nodded.

  Daugherty reached behind his back and fished out a mobile phone. He thumbed the device, then raised it to his ear.

  “Tisch? Good morning, it’s Jack.” He laughed. “Yeah, no rest for the wicked. Listen, can I get five minutes with you this morning? It’s pertinent to our situation. Seven in the White House cafeteria?” He looked at his watch, then at Baxter. “Perfect. I’ll be bringing someone with me.”

  He stabbed the face of the phone with his free finger to end the call. His eyes dropped to Baxter’s shoes.

  “Can you run in those?”

  ***

  USS Arrogant, Gulf of Oman

  16 May 2016 – 1430 Tel Aviv (1630 local)

  “Skipper, incoming call for you on the bat phone.”

  Brendan scrambled down into the cabin, and pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead
before he took the red handset.

  “McHugh here.”

  “Brendan, how’d you like some shore duty for a few days?” Baxter’s voice crackled in the receiver.

  “Um, that sounds good. What did you have in mind?”

  “Sorry, buddy, I can’t brief you on this line, but stand by for a helo extraction in the next few hours.”

  CHAPTER 41

  North Tehran, Iran

  16 May 2016 – 1600 local

  When they reached the tony suburbs of north Tehran, Reza leaned over from the passenger seat and flipped off the siren and lights. The traffic had thinned enough that it was no longer necessary. Besides, when Iranian drivers saw two black armored SUVs in their rearview mirrors, they usually got out of the way.

  They made the final turn and Reza could hear the team leader telling the second car to cover the back and side entrances. He called over his shoulder, “Remind them again. I will deal with Rahmani, your men secure the building. I want him alive. Do you understand?”

  The team leader’s black ball cap bobbed once, and the reminder went out over the secure channel.

  “Boss,” the driver grunted. Reza turned his attention forward again. The gate protecting the entrance to Ayatollah Rahmani’s house was closed. “Shall I take it?”

  Reza nodded.

  The high gates slammed down on the hood of the car, but they proved to be more for decoration than security. With the elaborate ironwork partially blocking his view, the first car skidded to a halt before the front doors. The second vehicle raced past them, bound for the back entrances.