He saw Chicago’s gun vomit a burst, but she didn’t pull up immediately, which surprised him. He had anticipated the pull-up, started pulling himself, so now he had to jam his nose down, steepen his descent to get back into position. The Gs and flying sensations had thoroughly disoriented him; the hazy sky without a discernible horizon didn’t help. His only attitude reference was his leader. The radar altimeter sounded a warning, but in the cacophony of sound assaulting his ears, he didn’t even notice.
O’Hare kept descending for a second, probably thinking about a low pass. When she did pull up, it surprised Hillbilly again; he was late matching her maneuver, and his sink rate was greater. He yo-yoed down toward the water. And hit it.
An object striking water at 415 knots reacts as if it had struck concrete. Even though it had struck the ocean a glancing blow, Hillbilly Jones’ Hornet disintegrated on impact, killing him instantly. The pieces traveled along for almost a half mile as they decelerated, making a rolling, continuous splash. Fuel and tiny pieces rained down on the gunboat and tanker as they steamed into the cloud.
Chicago O’Hare was the first American pilot to realize what had happened. She looked back as she climbed, saw the cloud of pieces and fuel and the roiled water and scanned for her wingman, who was nowhere in sight. She keyed her mike. “Shit, I think Hillbilly just went into the drink.”
Harry Lampert had his hands full. The incoming Sukhois had him and Goose locked up for missile shots; the wailing ECM audio told him that, as did the flashing missile light on the panel in front of him.
Now, on top of everything, he had a plane in the water. Did the Iranians shoot it down?
He had several decisions to make, and he had only seconds to do it. Should he turn on his ALQ-199, thereby defeating the Sukhois’ radars and electronically hiding his plane, or should he leave it off? Guess wrong and you die, Harry.
He couldn’t yet see the Sukhois, but he had them on radar. They were at thirty miles and closing.
“Gadget off, Goose,” he said over the air.
“Roger.”
“Chicago, did you see any flak?”
“That’s a negative. Looks like Billy went in when I pulled out from my shooting pass.”
Scanning for the approaching fighters, Harry asked, “Parachute?”
“Don’t see one,” was the reply.
“Don’t let the gunboats get near the wreckage,” Lampert told O’Hare, talking loudly over his ECM. Suddenly infuriated, he reached with his left hand and turned off the ECM audio. Enough of that shit!
He checked his armament panel. Still set up for guns. He flipped the switch for heat. Now the Sidewinders on his wingtips were hot. He bore-sighted the incoming Sukhois and headed right at them. If they launched a missile at him, at least he’d see the flame as the engine lit off. He turned the last fifteen degrees toward the approaching Iranian fighters.
Chicago O’Hare saw Omar’s gunboat slow and turn back into the area where the remnants of Hillbilly’s plane had impacted. She didn’t hesitate. Nose down, she steadied out, glanced at the ball to ensure it was centered and fired a nice two-second burst into the water in front of the boat. It turned away.
She was coming back for another pass when the destroyer’s bow gun began firing. Splashes landed in the wake of the gunboat, one after another, getting closer. Now the second gunboat was taking splashes in its wake.
The two gunboats within range of the destroyer were maneuvering wildly. Yet their crews did not open fire. To the south, the third gunboat was still at least a mile from the empty tanker, still heading toward it.
Suddenly, probably in response to a radio call, all three gunboats turned as one and headed back to Iran.
Harry Lampert and his wingman still had their troubles. As they closed the Sukhois, the missile light in both cockpits continued to flash. To make matters worse, now Harry saw that he was getting a launch indication of an SA-20 surface-to-air missile from Iran.
So was Goose, and he said so.
Another decision to be made: Was there a missile in the air, or were the Iranians faking it to provoke an American reaction?
“Leave the gadget off,” Harry said again. “These guys are just jerking us around.”
Now the Sukhois were beginning to grow in his windshield. Quickly. The fighters were coming together at a combined speed of twelve hundred knots, the Sukhois still supersonic.
Harry raised his nose a trifle, and they went by so quickly that he didn’t see a single detail, just a blur.
“Right turn,” he roared into the radio microphone in his oxygen mask. He whipped his plane around in a six-G pull and, coming out of it, locked the Sukhois up with his radar. He didn’t have a radar-guided missile aboard, but the Sukhoi drivers didn’t know that. Turnabout is fair play.
But the Sukhois were only making one pass. They made a long, gentle high-speed turn that carried them almost into Oman, then headed off to the north as they slowed to subsonic speed.
With the gunboats returning to base and an American destroyer sitting on the slowly settling wreckage of Hillbilly Jones’ Hornet-and presumably searching for whatever was left of Hillbilly-there was nothing for Lampert’s Hornets to do but return to the carrier. The admiral already had another flight of four Hornets on the way up the strait to cover this tanker, which was still steaming steadily south toward the Gulf of Oman, the Arabian Sea, then the Indian Ocean, on her way to America or Japan or Singapore or Europe or India or China with a load of crude to keep the wheels turning.
***
“Well?” Habib Sultani asked the Russian technician at the equipment under the tree. The Russian pulled off his earphones, leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
“They never turned them on,” he said.
Disappointed, Sultani walked away with Ghasem at his side. “Too bad,” he muttered. “I was hoping they would use an ALQ- 199.”
“So it didn’t work,” Ghasem said.
“It was always a long shot.”
“You could have shot a missile at them-they would have turned it on then. Afterward, you could claim the launch was a mistake.”
“Would you have done that?”
Ghasem smiled. “No. The international situation is too tense. Ahmadinejad is in discussions with the French and Russians, and they would be outraged.”
His uncle nodded. “If we want to be a nuclear power, we must show the world we can be trusted, that our armed forces will always obey the civilian government. Accidents with missiles and bombs cannot be explained away.”
As they walked toward the car that had brought them to this site, Ghasem asked, “Why is it, Uncle, that you want me to spend so much time with you?”
“Your cousin Khurram is something of a fool. You know that.”
“But I am a scholar. That is what I want to do with my life.”
His uncle stopped and looked him in the eyes. “In the days that come I may need someone beside me with brains and good judgment, someone I trust. We cannot always choose our path. Sometimes Allah puts us where we are needed.”
“I understand,” Ghasem said, nodding.
Together they walked on toward the waiting car.
CHAPTER SIX
When I left the embassy the following evening, I picked up a tail. Actually, two of them, working as a team. I made no attempt to lose them; I went to my hotel.
Before I donned my running duds, I inspected them carefully, especially the shoes. Putting a beacon in a shoe would be an easy way to keep track of me. Apparently the MOIS or IRGC hadn’t yet gotten around to that, but they might, whenever the spirit moved them.
I put on my running clothes and went back out onto the street. My two tails were still there, still dressed in street clothes.
I began jogging, warming up, working up a sweat. No matter how many times you have been followed, every time it happens your mind starts racing. These guys tried to follow me by running, but they weren’t in shape, and soon I saw them no more. Did that mean no
one was following me now, or was I the subject of a more sophisticated surveillance, and the followers just wanted me to think I had shaken loose?
And why today? Why right after Jake Grafton talked to Professor Azari?
The problem with the spy business is that nothing can be taken at face value.
I ran six miles and ended up back at the hotel. After a short walk to cool down, I went in, got a shower and headed for the dining room.
The next day I again talked to Grafton on the encrypted satellite telephone. “Rostram and Azari have exchanged e-mails,” he said. “Azari advised him to cooperate. He didn’t tell him to-he advised him. Don’t know if that nuance is important, but it implies volumes.”
“Okay.”
“Be careful, Tommy!”
“Right.”
That evening no one followed me when I ran. Go figure.
Just in case, I ran to the central bazaar and ducked into one of the myriad of alleys lined by booths. Three turns later, I came out the south side of the bazaar amid a nice crowd. As soon as I could, I began jogging again.
Now you may think I am some kind of exercise nut, but there was method in my madness. The faster the rabbit, the more difficult he is to follow. Sure, every now and then the security apparatus could mount a major effort to keep me under surveillance, but I had been running every night for a month, and if they had used their manpower that way, they had nothing to show for it. I was betting-hoping, actually-that if they had tried it, they had given up on me now.
Of course, there was always last night. Why last night, and not tonight?
What game were they playing?
If I stayed in this business long enough, I was going to wind up a jibbering idiot.
William Wilkins took Jake Grafton with him when he went to the White House to brief the president and National Security Adviser Jurgen Schulz. Sal Molina met the two CIA officers and escorted them to the Oval Office, where the president and Schulz were deep in conversation. Molina closed the door behind him and dropped into a chair near the door.
After everyone shook hands and found a chair, Wilkins got right to it. He briefed them on the incident in the Strait of Hormuz and let them read the Op Immediate message from the task force commander.
“So we lost an F/A-18 and pilot?”
“Yes.”
“A provocation,” the president said softly. “Or an attempt to make the Americans turn on their ALQ-199s,” Jake Grafton said.
“Did they?”
“The admiral was instructed to report it if they did. He didn’t mention it.”
Wilkins removed some satellite photos from his briefcase and spread them on the president’s desk. “Iran is planning a missile test,” he said. “They are moving three ships into the Indian Ocean, a destroyer and two small civilian ships with large radar arrays, and they are positioning missiles on launchers at their test site in the desert.”
“They’ve tested missiles before,” Schulz remarked.
The president picked up a photo, looked at it, then passed it to Schulz and reached for another. “When?”
“Soon. Within days, we think. They have at least one long-range missile on a launcher, a thing they call the Shahab-3. There are also four intermediate-range missiles, Shahab-2s, and four short-range ones, Shahab-1s. As Dr. Schulz noted, they have shot missiles before, but never nine at once.”
“President Ahmadinejad has a trip planned next week,” Schulz interjected. “He’s going to Indonesia, the most populous Muslim nation on the planet, and Malaysia. He’ll massage the leadership, take their temperature, and talk directly to the masses to gin up some grassroots support. One suspects the missile shoot will go off while he’s abroad, so he can play the role of the modern Saladin.”
“How accurate are the missiles?” the president asked.
“These things are derivations of the old Soviet Scud missiles. The Scuds were short range and wildly inaccurate, but an adequate delivery vehicle for a nuclear warhead. With conventional explosives in the warheads, the Syrians were lucky to hit Israel with the things. From Iran…”
“Have the Iranians updated the guidance systems?” Schulz asked pointedly.
“Probably,” Wilkins said, “but we have no hard evidence.”
“Another guess,” Schulz said, his disgust evident.
“Dr. Schulz-” Wilkins began, but the president cut him off with a gesture.
“What is the range of the Shahab-3?” the president said.
“About twelve hundred miles. Yes, it will reach Israel. And Iraq, and the oil facilities throughout the region, and our air bases in Arabia. It will even reach our bases in Turkey.”
“Terrific,” the president muttered.
“The Patriot system that we have supplied to Israel is designed to knock these things down,” Jurgen Schulz noted.
Wilkins glanced at Jake. “Admiral?”
“A nuclear warhead can be designed to detonate if the delivery missile changes course and speed unexpectedly, which would happen if it is hit by a Patriot missile,” Jake said. “It can also be designed to be ejected from the delivery vehicle so that it free-falls to a preset altitude before it detonates, thereby maximizing damage to surface installations. Destroy the buildings, kill all the people, and so on. And let’s not kid ourselves-the Patriot system is designed for close-in missile defense. Patriot is a last-ditch defense weapon, and it is not perfect-no weapons system is. Some percentage of Patriot’s targets will always escape destruction.”
The silence that followed that statement was broken when the president said to Schulz, “We better start talking to the Israelis.”
“We are talking to them.”
“Talk harder.”
“Do you intend to brief the congressional leadership about this?” Molina asked.
The president mulled it over. “Jurgen, why don’t you go over to the Hill today and see the chairman of the House and Senate committees? I don’t want to blindside them on this.”
Schulz frowned. “Congressman Luvara has been stating publicly that he can’t see why we should worry about Iran getting the bomb when the Israelis have it.”
“If he makes a crack like that to you,” the president said, “suggest that he plan to spend his next vacation in Tel Aviv. Maybe when he’s sitting on Ahmadinejad’s bull’s-eye he’ll see the problem.”
“What he’s really questioning is our commitment to Israel,” Schulz shot back.
“I know that,” the president said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. “The issue is larger than that, though. Will we honor our commitments to all our allies-Britain, France, Germany, Japan, Australia, Saudi Arabia and Israel?”
“Taiwan,” Sal Molina interjected.
“And South Korea,” the president said heavily. “Well, Luvara is a problem for another day.”
He leaned forward, folded his forearms on his desk and scrutinized the faces of the men before him. “The hell of it is that Ahmadinejad knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the United States will not let him wipe Israel off the face of the earth and get away with it.”
“Does he know it?” Shulz asked.
“Well, by God,” the president said, “pack your toothbrush, Jurgen. You can take him a letter from me. I’ll tell it to him in plain English. You can even give him a Farsi translation.”
“Will he believe it?” Sal Molina asked.
“That’s not the right question,” Jake Grafton said flatly. “Even if he believes it, will that knowledge deter him?”
***
Tehran was Ghasem’s city. He had spent his life there and loved every square meter, including the spectacular view of the Alborz Mountains to the north, the sights and smells and press of people in the bazaar, the palaces, art museums, mosques, churches, parks, synagogues and temples, and the myriad of cheap apartment buildings and the perpetual traffic jams and endless crush of people, all fifteen or twenty million of them-no one knew for sure. What everyone did know was that the Persi
an natives had been joined by ethnic and linguistic minorities from all over Western Asia, including Assyrians, Lurs, Gilaks, Kurds, Turkmen, Arabs, Armenians, Talysh, Sikhs, Romas, Syrians and Lebanese, to name just a few. The latest people to join the mix were refugees from Iraq and Afghanistan.
The majority of Tehranis were followers of Shia Islam, but the rest covered the entire religious spectrum, from the Armenian Apostolic Church and the Assyrian Church of the East to Zoroastrianism, and everything in between, including Sunni Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism and Sufism, or Mystic Islam, the religion of the legendary Whirling Dervishes.
This religious soup was the intellectual food for Dr. Israr Murad, an elderly scholar who lectured on an irregular basis at the University of Tehran. Today Ghasem glanced at his watch as he parked his car, locked it, then trotted across campus. He opened the door and slipped into the back of the lecture hall just as Dr. Murad was making his final remarks.
When the students had left the lecture hall, Ghasem went forward to help Dr. Murad gather his notes. Murad was in his early eighties; he was still mentally active, yet arthritis and heart ailments had slowed him down. He sat and watched Ghasem pack the last of his notes in his leather briefcase.
“It went well?” Ghasem asked.
“Aii,” the old man said, and made a gesture. “They ask the same questions that their fathers asked, and their fathers before them. If only they would think up new questions…”
“Their minds work in predictable ways,” Ghasem murmured.
“And religions give predictable answers.” The old man sighed and levered himself erect. “Did you bring the car?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
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