by Dale Brown
“Thanks, actually, to the Israelis.” Reid was very big on giving credit where credit was due, even if it went to a competitor; he’d even been known to laud the Defense Intelligence Agency, something most CIA officers and nearly every Agency bureaucrat would never do. “In any event, we’re working to determine what is going on at those facilities. Whatever it is, the Iranians have gone to great lengths to keep their status secret. Given that, we believe it’s very possible—likely—that one may be another bomb assembly area. Because the amount of fuel in the explosion is about half of what we projected, worst case. And now, well, worst case seems to have been too conservative, given the state of the bomb we destroyed.”
Christine Todd was famous for keeping her temper. She prided herself on being able to control her emotions: all of them, but her temper especially. As a little girl, her mother had said she had the famous “Irish temper” of her ancestors.
You are easygoing in your needs, Mother often declared, but let someone fall short of their job or responsibility, and there’s hell to pay. ’Tis a flaw, Christine Mary, a flaw that will make people dislike you, friends especially.
By the time she was out of her teens, Todd had learned to control herself—and more important, learned that everyone was human, most especially herself. The Golden Rule—Do unto others as you would have them do unto you—had become something more than just a biannual theme for a fifteen minute sermon at Sunday mass.
But every so often the forces that she’d chained deep in her psyche reasserted themselves.
“Why in the name of all that is holy,” she demanded, “was this site not found earlier?”
Reid didn’t answer.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Jonathon,” she continued, her Irish-American heritage asserting itself with the mild profanity. “How many times did I go over this with your agency?”
“I don’t have control over the analysts,” he said mildly.
“We believe we can deal with the problem,” said Breanna, stepping in. “We’ve drawn up a tentative plan for a second strike tomorrow night.”
Breanna. Good job. God bless Magnus for recommending you.
“Why tomorrow night?” Todd asked.
“It’s the soonest the assets will be in place,” said Breanna. “We want to strike quickly, obviously.”
“Before I say anything else, let me note that I expect better information, more timely, from the intelligence community,” said Todd.
“Understood,” replied Reid.
How could he argue?
This was one more reason to fire the head of the Agency—not that she needed any more.
And replace him with Jonathon?
Hmmph.
“You can determine which site it is?” asked Todd sharply.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Reid. “Or we’ll hit both.”
“Prepare for a second mission,” Todd said. “I want updates on the hour, and I want you, Jonathon, personally to vouch for the final briefing, and personally available for questions if the need arises.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good.” Todd hit the switch and dismissed them.
“It was an intelligence failure—unacceptable,” said Blitz. His face was red.
“That, Dr. Blitz, is an understatement.” Todd glanced at her watch. It was later than she thought—she was due to speak with the Secretary of State upstairs in five minutes; there was a full National Security Committee session slated immediately afterward. “Your staff will have to explain itself as well. We’ll deal with the immediate problem, then worry about Monday morning quarterbacking.”
“In this sort of situation,” said Blitz, “failure—this is why we need a change of leadership from the top at the Agency. You’ve given everyone concerned more than enough time to fail. And now, this will be—”
“Failure is not acceptable,” snapped the President, standing. “Get the Joint Chiefs ready—I want a plan to take out the remaining site. They are to report to me in an hour. Less, if possible.”
5
Suburban Virginia
THE TV DRONED ON IN THE OTHER ROOM. ZEN, HOME early and hungry, barely paid attention as he made a sandwich with leftovers from the fridge. He wheeled himself back and forth between the refrigerator and the counter island at the center of the kitchen, which was set at wheelchair height to make it easier for him to work. He was just trying to decide whether to add prosciutto to the leftover roast pork and marinated sweet peppers when the word “Iran” caught his attention. He left his sandwich and wheeled over to the family room. The late afternoon talk show had been replaced by an announcer, who according to the flashing red legend at the top of the screen was presenting “Breaking News.”
“. . . an isolated area in Iran north of the capital, Tehran. The area where the earthquake struck includes at least one known Iranian atomic research facility, raising the question of whether an accident occurred there. However, the Iranian government immediately denied there had been any human activity in the area that could have led to the earthquake . . .”
Zen listened as the reporter described the earthquake, saying that preliminary data estimated that it was in the “high fours or very low fives,” which while causing shaking would only damage very poorly built structures. This section of Iran was often subject to earthquakes, added the announcer, and it was too early for information about casualties.
“Interesting,” said Zen to himself, wheeling toward his bedroom, where he’d left his cell phone turned off. Sure enough, he’d missed a dozen calls in the last ten minutes. He scrolled through the list, then selected the number of Jenny Shapiro, one of the staff members of the Intelligence Committee.
Shapiro answered on the first ring. “Senator Stockard, have you heard the news?”
“Earthquake in Iran?”
“Atomic explosion in Iran,” said Shapiro. “More P waves than S.”
“That means something to you, I’m sure.”
Shapiro gave Zen a brief explanation of the type of shock waves generated by explosions and earthquakes. While every event had its own particular “fingerprint,” scientists generally had little difficulty differentiating between earthquakes and man-made explosions by the overall pattern of the shock waves. In this case, said Shapiro, one of the committee’s technical experts, there seemed little doubt that this was some sort of event—almost surely an accidental explosion of a nuclear device.
“Why accidental?” asked Zen.
“A couple of reasons. For one thing, the epicenter wasn’t set up as a test area, or in a known facility.” Shapiro’s Boston accent got quicker and quicker as she spoke. “But if I had to make a guess, I’d say they were putting a device together for testing elsewhere and somebody made a very big mistake.”
“Or they were helped.”
“You said that, Senator. I didn’t.”
“And we don’t know about this facility?”
“If the epicenter of the waves is where the scientists say it was—”
“What’s the word from the White House?”
“No word is the word. NSC staff say, ‘Evaluating.’ State is preparing a statement on ‘the Iranian earthquake.’ That’s what I know,” she added. “Are you going to be available for the special meeting?”
“Which is when?” Zen glanced down at the list of callers. Two were from the secretary in charge of arranging the Intelligence Committee’s meetings.
“Fifty-two minutes and counting.”
“On my way,” he said.
6
Iran
THE STARS FADED EVER SO SLIGHTLY AS THEY WALKED, as if they were pulling back from the earth. Turk’s thigh muscles burned with fatigue, but there was no time to slow or complain. He wasn’t afraid of being caught but of being left behind. The Israeli and Grease had moved at the same steady pace since they’d started, and e
ven if he hadn’t been exhausted he would have had trouble keeping up. But he had to keep up, because the alternative was being left in Iran, and being left in Iran was unacceptable, was impossible.
Turk’s confidence wavered under the weight of his fatigue. He was back to being a pilot—competent, more than competent, in the air; nearly useless on the ground.
When they first set out for the train tracks, he thought they would arrive within minutes. To keep his brain occupied, he amused himself by picturing his arrival home, back in Las Vegas, back in Li’s arms. He felt her arms and smelled her perfume; he remembered the way they’d lain together in bed.
Now he thought of nothing and simply walked.
“Up there,” said Grease, stopping ahead and crouching.
Turk walked up to him. Grease put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him down. “Sssssh,” said the soldier.
The railroad tracks were about fifty yards away on the right, just on the other side of a hard-packed dirt road. The ground sloped gently from their position to the tracks, then fell away a little steeper. The cover was sparse, large clumps of stiff grass and clusters of low bushes.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Turk, hoarse.
“Ssssh,” said Grease, this time sternly.
The Israeli started ahead, then suddenly flattened himself.
“Come on,” hissed Grease, moving on his haunches to a nearby bush.
Turk lost his balance as he got up. He managed to push and fall forward, half diving and half crawling into position behind Grease. Under other circumstances it might have been hilarious, but Turk was not in the mood to laugh at himself, and Grease seemed congenitally averse to humor of any kind. Neither said anything.
A hum grew in the air, vibrating stronger and stronger. Turk didn’t realize it was a train until it burst in front of him. There were no lights on either of the two diesel engines in the front, nor were there any on the two passenger cars and a half-dozen freight cars that followed, or the flatcars with trucks and tanks. The train melted into a brownish blur, leaving a film of dust floating in the air in its wake. The scent of half-burned diesel fuel was so strong Turk thought he would gag.
“They’re sending troops to cordon the area off and find out what happened,” said Grease. “There’ll be patrols.”
“Yeah.”
Turk remembered the image of the ground as it imploded. He wasn’t sure what the radioactive effects would be. Would the entire area be poisoned for years?
Was five miles far enough way to avoid the effects? A slight twinge of paranoia struck him—maybe his fatigue was due to radioactive poisoning.
Unlikely. He was just exhausted, plain and simple.
They both rose, Turk unsteadily, Grease as solid and smooth as ever. The Israeli trotted toward them.
“There’s a truck at the other side of the intersection,” he said when he reached them. “I think it is your people.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER TURK WAS SITTING IN THE BACK of the truck, wedged between Gorud and Grease. The other members of the team were spread out along the floorboards, sitting or leaning toward the back, watchful. The Israeli had gone up front with the driver.
Gorud had been emotionless when Turk reported that the mission was a success. Turk wondered at his own peculiar lack of elation as well—they’d just struck a tremendous blow against Iran, probably prevented a war or at least a wider conflict, and yet he didn’t feel particularly elated. He didn’t feel anything, except the aches and pains of his bruises, and the heavy weight of his eyelids.
“We’ll be there soon,” said Gorud, checking his watch. “Granderson and one of the men are already there. It should be safe until morning, or beyond.”
“Why are we waiting there?” asked Grease.
“They didn’t explain,” said Gorud as the truck bounced along the dirt road. “They just want us to stand by for further instructions.”
“We should be getting as far away as possible,” said Grease.
Turk completely agreed. There were still a few hours before dawn. They ought to use every one of them to get closer to safety.
Several plans had been drawn up for their “exfiltration.” The preferred one had been by airplane from the airport where they were supposed to meet the helicopter. But that option had apparently gone by the boards when they were shot down.
“I don’t disagree,” said Gorud. “But this is what they said. Maybe they know something we don’t.”
“Right,” sneered Grease.
A few minutes later the truck slowed to a stop. One by one they got out. Dread helped Turk down, easing him onto the ground as if he were an old man. Turk was mildly amused—until his legs went rubbery on him after a step or two. He stood stock-still for several seconds, regaining his composure.
They saw what looked like a large construction area, with bulldozed sections and piles of dirt, sand, and gravel. Captain Granderson, waiting here with one of the troopers in the car they’d “borrowed” earlier in the evening, said the area had been used by the Iranian army for maneuvers some years before. There were buildings across the road to the east. They were abandoned, but Granderson had decided to avoid them.
“We’ve been monitoring the radio,” he told Turk. “There’s been an announcement of an earthquake. But the military has been put on alert. They have aircraft all over the place.”
“Probably looking for us. We were shot down.”
“You were shot down?”
“Yeah. I managed to get it in, more out of luck than anything else. The pilot was killed.”
“Damn.”
“Did you hear anything about a MiG?” Turk asked. “I went after it with the nano-UAVs. I don’t know if I got it down.”
“I haven’t heard anything. It’s not always easy to understand what they’re saying, though.”
“What are they talking about, you think?” Grease asked, nodding toward Gorud and the Israeli. The two appeared to be arguing.
“Don’t know. Gorud doesn’t like him, though.”
“He said that?”
“You could just tell.” Granderson stared at the two men as if he could read their lips in the twilight.
“Does he trust him?” asked Grease.
“I don’t think like and trust are related,” said Granderson.
“If he didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t have let us go with him, right?” said Turk.
“He’s Mossad?” asked Grease.
“I don’t know. I think he’s actually a Russian who’s paid by Mossad,” said Granderson. “Based on what he was cursing about.”
“How do we get out of here?” Grease asked.
“At this point, go north through the mountains to the Caspian,” said Granderson, understanding the question to mean the country, not the pit where they were hiding. “We have two stash points along the way, and there should be two guys near the water waiting for us. There’s also a SEAL unit that’s a quick reaction force, more or less, that can help us once we’re farther north.” Granderson seemed almost matter of fact, but he was proposing they travel through rough mountains. “But we can’t do anything until I get the OK from the States.”
“You think we can sit here all day without being sighted?”
“If we have to.”
7
Washington, D.C.
“THE WHITE HOUSE POSITION THAT IT’S AN EARTHQUAKE is untenable,” said Shapiro, the Senate committee aide who was an expert on, among other things, the Iranian nuclear program. “Even if they are just referring everyone to the Iranian government. Every scientist looking at the data will know it’s false. They’re not going to be quiet about it. Already someone from MIT was quoted in a Web report saying it must have been related to their nuke program.”
Zen leaned his head back, gazing at the ceiling in the closed conference room. He could think of
exactly one reason why the White House wouldn’t want to confirm that it had been a nuclear accident: the explosion was the result of a U.S. operation which was still under way.
Senator Brown, the chairman of the committee, gave him a sideways glance as Shapiro finished. He seemed to have come to the same conclusion.
Not that this necessarily made the President’s silence right.
“So am I correct that the members are not comfortable with the lack of information coming from the White House?” said the chairman mildly. He of course knew he was, and waited for only the briefest moment before proceeding. “What we want is an up-to-date, no-holds-barred, closed-door briefing. Do I have that correct? I’ll set about getting one.”
Brown tapped his gavel lightly before anyone could answer. Zen rolled backward from the table, trying to make a quick escape.
He didn’t make it.
“Jeff—Zen—if you could hold on a second,” said Brown. “I just need a word.”
Zen smirked as if he was a grammar school kid caught trying to leave class via the window. He backed himself against the wall and nodded to the others as they filtered out in twos and threes.
“You want me to talk to the President,” he said to Senator Brown when they were alone.
“Exactly.”
“You don’t think that’s the chairman’s job?”
“I’ll definitely call her, but it’ll be next year before she returns the call.”
“I doubt that.”
“Will you talk to her?”
“All right. But I don’t expect her to say more to me than she’s willing to say to you or the committee as a whole.”
“We’re supposed to be informed.”
Zen nodded.
“If this is the start of a war,” added Brown, “there’ll be hell to pay. Impeachment maybe. She’s got plenty of enemies around here.”
“Maybe she’s trying to stop one.”
“Either way,” said Brown, “the result may be the same.”
8
Washington, D.C.
