by Dale Brown
“God help us.”
The words were so emphatic that Reid didn’t know how to respond. He remained silent the rest of the way to the White House.
PRESIDENT TODD HAD MANAGED BARELY AN HOUR OF sleep, but she felt a surge of energy as Breanna completed briefing the current situation, ending with a PowerPoint slide showing the general vicinity of the two possible targets.
Charles Lovel, the Defense Secretary, opened his mouth to speak. Todd cut him off.
“The question comes down to this,” said the President. “If we wait twenty-four hours, do we guarantee success?”
“There are no guarantees for anything, ever,” said Blitz, the national security director.
“The odds will be greatly improved,” said Reid, sitting next to Breanna. “Getting our pilot in place helps if there is a problem with the units. True, they were impeccable in the first strike, and compensated well. But I think, as Ms. Stockard said, the human factor increases the chances of success. Plus, we may be able to narrow down the possible targets. At a minimum, we’ll have a better plan for dealing with both facilities.”
“I don’t know that we can afford to guess which of the sites is the real target,” said Blitz. “Not at this point.”
“On the other hand, the odds of the ground team being discovered will also be higher,” said Reid. “And if they’re discovered, we lose them.”
“We may lose them anyway,” said Lovel.
“The Iranians may close the sites,” said the Secretary of State, Alistair Newhaven.
“Twenty-four hours is not enough time to do that,” said Reid.
“If the attack fails—”
“If it fails, we go ahead and we eliminate both sites with B-2 attacks,” said the President, cutting in. “That’s an easy decision.”
“I would vote to launch a B-2 attack now,” said Lovel. “Why wait?”
“Nothing has happened at that site—at either of the possible sites,” said Reid.
“We were rushing to strike tonight,” said Lovel, “because we needed to hit quickly. Now we’re going to delay another twenty-four hours. The sooner we get this over with, the better. For everyone.”
“Not for our people,” said Breanna. “If we strike, if the bombers go in, we’re writing them off. Because they’ll know that the first attack was launched by us, and they’ll be on the alert.”
“I agree it increases their risk,” said General Maximillian Fresco, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Fresco had only been on the job for a month, and was still feeling his way—a disappointment to Todd, who had selected him because he seemed determined and, like her, prone to err on the side of hawkishness rather than caution. But maybe he would come around.
“They are already at considerable risk,” said Reid dryly. “No matter what.”
“I think we should pull them out,” said Breanna, her voice quivering. “Then send the bombers in.”
Todd was surprised. She looked at Reid. His expression showed he clearly disagreed. Ordinarily, they were in lockstep; she couldn’t remember a time when they had offered even slightly different opinions.
“Our best chance, overall, is to use the nano-UAVs,” said Reid. “We know they work. We haven’t seen the bunker busters yet. This is our best chance.”
Fresco started to object, but Reid cut him off.
“The Hydras work. They leave no trace of our involvement; they raise no moral or ethical questions if there is a mistake. They limit the casualties strictly to those involved in the program.” Reid sounded like a college professor, summing up a semester’s worth of instruction. “The benefits are obvious. At worst, we have the bombers in reserve.”
Todd agreed. She saw from the corner of her eye that the Secretary of State was going to say something—probably, she thought, questioning Reid’s statement about moral questions: they were, after all, setting off a nuclear explosion, even if it was the Iranian’s own bomb.
There was no need for that debate now.
“I think I’ve heard enough,” she said quickly, raising her hand. “We will delay for twenty-four hours. After that, the bombers will be authorized to attack.”
IN THE CAR ON THE WAY BACK TO THE CIA CAMPUS, Breanna fiddled with her personal phone, thumbing through text messages from the past several days, even though she’d read them already. She longed to talk to Zen about the operation but couldn’t.
Her only acceptable alternative was Reid, and she didn’t want to talk to him about anything.
“Why did you change your mind?” asked Reid.
Breanna looked up. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re opposed to the operation now. You weren’t earlier.”
“I’m not opposed.”
“You sounded like you are. Your tone was negative. Even in the presentation.”
“No. I was trying to be neutral. My concern—I just want to get our people out. I feel responsible for them.”
Reid looked at her, his old-man eyes peering into her soul. He was beyond retirement age, and at times like this—deep into an operation, under heavy stress—he looked even older.
He reminded her of her father, once commander of Dreamland, now a virtual recluse.
“Your guilt is misguided,” said Reid.
“I don’t feel guilty.” The words spit out quickly, beyond her control. They weren’t true. “Why would I be guilty?”
“You’re not. That’s my point.”
“I’m responsible for my people. It’s my job to think of them.”
“We are,” said Reid softly. He turned his head toward the driver in the front seat, separated by a thick, clear plastic barrier that made it impossible for him to hear. “But our first responsibility is to the mission. The nano-UAVs are clearly the best choice.”
“Yes,” said Breanna reluctantly. “I can’t disagree.”
18
Iran
WALKING DOWN FROM THE BARN INTO THE ABANDONED grove, Turk checked his watch, then took out the sat phone. He was a few seconds early, but there was no reason to wait.
“This is Breanna.”
“I’m checking in.”
“Good. What’s your status?”
“Same as it was forty-five minutes ago.”
“We have approval to push the operation off until tomorrow night,” said Breanna. “Twenty-four hours. And then it’s on.”
“Thank you.”
“Turk, we’ve been speaking with WARCOM. The SEAL command landed the recovery team from the Caspian. They’re not going to be able to reach you before the attack. We’re sending as much support as we can, but—”
“I know, I know. It’s all right. We’re good. Don’t worry about me.”
Turk felt a little annoyed—first at Breanna, then at himself for sounding like a teenager fending off an overanxious mom.
“We have a plan,” he added. “We’ll execute it.”
He heard the sound of another aircraft in the distance. It was flying quickly, moving in their direction.
One engine. Loud. The plane must be low.
“Listen, I have to go,” he said to her. “I’ll check back at the top of the next hour.”
He clicked off the satcom, then took a few steps toward the barn before realizing that he would never make it before the plane was overhead. The closest thing to cover nearby was an empty irrigation ditch; he jumped into it. Grease, his constant shadow, followed. They crawled a few yards to a spot where the sides were nearly horizontal and the shadow was thick.
It was another light civilian aircraft, a Beechcraft Bonanza, a later model with a conventional tail instead of the trademark V. Turk saw it flying from the northeast, paralleling the other side of the highway. It looked to be at about eight hundred feet.
He ducked his head, as if believing that if he didn’t see it, it wouldn’t see hi
m.
The plane made another pass, this time to the north. Turk remained prone until the sound sunk into a faint and distant drone.
“I don’t think he saw us.” Turk stood and stretched the muscles in his back, then his legs. He leaned against the soft dirt of the ditch and kicked his toes into the other side. “He would have circled a few times.”
“Maybe,” said Grease, noncommittal.
“When do you think Granderson will be back?” Turk asked. He and the Israeli had taken the pickup into town, hoping to find another vehicle to either buy or steal.
“Soon.”
“I was wondering—maybe it would be better if just you and I went and finished this. Let them take care of their wounded.”
“They’re never going to leave you, Turk. To the last man. They’ll crawl along and bleed out before they let that happen. Every one of them.”
“That wouldn’t make much sense.”
“It’s their mission. It’s their job and duty. Their honor.”
“Together, we attract more attention than if we were on our own. Way more.”
Grease shook his head.
“We could take Gorud,” said Turk. “Because he speaks the language. But we don’t need escorts. I don’t really even need you. No offense.”
“Not happening.”
Turk started to laugh, but Grease’s grim expression warned him off.
“Let’s get inside,” he said instead.
GRANDERSON AND THE ISRAELI RETURNED NOT FIFteen minutes later, the latter driving an open farm truck. The truck had been parked in the town center, in front of a small building. They’d driven up in the pickup, spotted it, jumped out and walked over. The keys were in the ignition.
“Pretty quiet town,” the captain told Turk as they checked it over. “If anybody saw us, they didn’t say anything.”
“You sure you weren’t followed?” asked Grease.
“If we were, they’d be here by now, right?”
Gorud thought they should leave the school bus in the barn, but Turk suggested that it might work better as a decoy—if the planes they’d seen and heard earlier were part of a search party, making the bus easier to find would give them something to do. By the time they spotted it and then checked it out, it would be nearly nightfall, maybe later. He volunteered to drive it himself down along the highway.
“I’ll get rid of it while you’re organizing to go,” Turk said. “I’ll point it south on the highway.”
“You’re not going,” said Grease.
“You sound like my mother. It’s better than waiting around.”
“I’ll follow you in the pickup,” said Grease.
The ride back to the highway was longer than Turk remembered, and bumpier; he didn’t reach it for a good fifteen minutes. When he did, an SUV approached from the direction of Sar-e-Kavir; Turk sank behind the wheel, hoping whoever was in the vehicle wouldn’t get a good glimpse of his face. The SUV continued south, moving at a good pace; Turk drove out cautiously, starting to follow. His speed gradually picked up, the bus accelerating slowly but steadily. After about five minutes Grease sped up in the pickup and began flashing his headlights. Turk slowed, then pulled off.
“I kept it running,” he told Grease when he reached him in the truck. “If they find it with the motor on, it’ll be a mystery. Maybe it will buy us more time.”
“Wishful thinking,” said Grease.
“It’s all we got,” replied Turk as they headed north to join the rest of the team.
19
Iran
BACK IN THE FLIGHT ROTATION, CAPTAIN VAHID FOUND himself assigned to a late afternoon patrol, flying what was in fact a combat air patrol mission over the area of the atomic lab, though officially the mission was written up as a “routine observation flight.” Given the air force’s fuel woes, the fact that it was being conducted at all meant it was hardly routine, but that was the least of the official lies involved.
Vahid was not allowed to overfly the epicenter of what was officially termed the earthquake area; he had to maintain a five mile buffer between the ostensible fault point at all times. He tried avoiding the temptation to glance at the area, though he couldn’t help but notice the roads in the vicinity were empty. Checkpoints had been established; rescue teams were supposedly heading in to help relieve victims, but there was no surge of aid. Clearly, the state and national authorities were still confused about what to do.
Vahid accepted that what General Shirazi had told him was correct; it made the most sense and fit with what he himself had observed. He wondered if the facts about what had happened would ever come out. It would be much easier to blame the Americans or the Israelis than to admit that the project had suffered a catastrophic setback. On the other hand, blaming the Americans or the Israelis would be tantamount to admitting that the Iranian nuclear program was not aimed at producing a peaceful source of energy rather than a weapon.
Everyone knew, of course, that it was aimed at making a bomb. But admitting that it was a lie before the bomb was completed would be a great loss of face. Only when the weapon was completed could it be revealed. Then the lie would not be a lie, but rather a triumph against Iran’s enemies.
Vahid knew this the way he knew that one plus one equaled two, as every Iranian did. “Truth” was a subjective concept, something directly related to power; one accepted it as one accepted the fact that the sun rose and set.
With General Shirazi as his backer, he knew his future was bright. Squadron commander was in his sights. Wing commander would not be an unattainable goal. There were already signs of his improved standing: he had been assigned the squadron’s reserve jet and given the most sensitive area to patrol.
Vahid ran his eyes around the gauges, confirming that the aircraft was operating at spec, then checked his six, glancing briefly in the direction of his wingman, Lieutenant Nima Kayvan, who was flying off his right wing and about a half mile behind. Their box north of the Zagros Mountains was clear of clouds, as well as enemies. The flight had been completely uneventful—another sign to Vahid that the Americans had not struck the lab, since they would surely be conducting reconnaissance and perhaps a follow-up raid.
The ground controller’s adrenaline-amped voice caught him by surprise.
“Shahin One, stand by for tasking.”
“Shahin One acknowledges.” Vahid listened as the controller told him there had been a terror attack in Jandagh; he and his wingman were to head west and join the search for a school bus.
“So now we go after auto thieves,” said Kayvan on the squadron frequency as they changed course. “What would the Jews want with a bus?”
Kayvan certainly had a point, but Vahid chose not to answer. The wingman was an excellent flier, but his mouth would one day land him into much trouble.
Jandagh was some three hundred kilometers away, across a series of high desert mountains and a mostly bare landscape. Vahid immediately snapped to the new course, tuning to the contact frequency he’d been given for the Revolutionary Guard unit assigned to coordinate the reaction. He tried for several minutes but couldn’t get a response to his hails.
“We’ll go down to three thousand feet,” he told Kayvan. “Look for anything moving.”
“Goats and sandstorms included?”
They saw neither. The ground appeared as empty as the sky. Kayvan did see something moving near a road about two miles west of their course north, and they made a quick pass, only to discover a pair of dump trucks and an excavator working a gravel or sand pit. Swinging back toward their original vector, the commander of a local militia unit contacted Vahid on the radio and asked him to help check a vehicle a civilian had spotted south of Sar-e-Kavir.
“We have another unit to rendezvous with,” Vahid told him.
“I am making this request at the order of the special commander,” explained the off
icer, saying that the colonel who originally requested the air support had now delegated him to use it. The radio garbled the name of the commander—it sounded like Colonel Khorasani—but as the officer continued, Vahid realized the special commander was a member of the Pasdaran—the Revolutionary Guards—assigned to investigate the “earthquake.” The fact that there would be an investigator had been mentioned by the intel officer at the preflight briefing: alienating the Pasdaran was a greater danger than American F-22s.
“That’s over a hundred kilometers away,” said Kayvan, once again using the short-range squadron radio so his disrespect wouldn’t be overheard. “They don’t have other planes?”
“You’d rather sit on the ground?” snapped Vahid.
“I would rather see the girl who will be my bride. And we do not have much fuel.”
The wingman was right. Vahid did a quick calculation, and figured that once they reached Sar-e-Kavir they would have about ten minutes of linger time before having to head back to their base.
“We’ll make the most of it,” he said. “Stay on my wing.”
“I do not plan to disappear.”
Vahid found Highway 81. The road climbed over the desert ridges, paralleling a route once used by silk traders; well before that, it had overlooked the edge of a vast lake. Now the area was largely desolate. Barriers lined long sections of the road to cut down on the sand drifts.
Passing over a pair of white four-door pickup trucks heading north on the road, Vahid angled his jet toward a collection of ruins ahead on his left. He descended quickly, thinking he might catch a glimpse of anyone hiding amid the old clay brick walls and foundations. But he was by them too quickly to see anything other than shadows and broken earth.
As he nudged back toward the road, he spotted the bus about two kilometers ahead. Slowing to just above stall speed, he leaned toward the canopy, getting a good view of the road and the vehicle. It was facing south, off the road on the shoulder. The old highway was to the right.
“I have found a bus,” Vahid told the local ground commander. “Stand by for the position.”
The commander took the information with great enthusiasm. Vahid’s description seemed to match the bus that had been stolen. The only problem was it was facing in the wrong direction—toward the town where it had been taken. But that didn’t seem to bother the ground commander, who asked Vahid to take a low pass and see if there were enemies nearby.
