by Jeff Nesbit
He looked tired but determined. He’d never been able to beat DJ in one of these games. He’d gotten close at times, like today, but DJ always managed somehow to drive past him when he had to.
DJ took a stutter step to his left. The president didn’t flinch and held his ground. He put his right hand out, daring DJ to go to his right.
“Okay,” DJ said and took the dribble hard to his right. The president put both a body and a hand on the drive, but DJ still managed to get within a few feet of the basket. He went up high and put the ball up against the backboard just over the president’s outstretched hands. The ball banked off the backboard and settled easily inside the rim. It fell softly through the net and then to the court.
“Fifteen, and game.” DJ couldn’t hide the smile this time. He’d been forced to work hard this morning to beat the president. But it was one of the things he most admired about Adom Camara. The president didn’t choose opponents for these morning games who were slouches. He played opponents who were younger, and better, than him on the court. DJ was impressed by that.
“Huh,” the president said with a grunt. “I’d say you were lucky, but I know better.”
“You were strong this morning,” DJ answered. “You hit a few from outside.”
“Not enough to make a difference.” The president massaged the back of his neck. “I’m gonna learn to drive on you. You’ll see. I’ll take you one of these days.”
“I believe you,” DJ said. And, in truth, he did.
They grabbed two of the chairs courtside and sat down. The president finished off a small bottle of water in one long drink and wrapped a towel around his neck.
DJ caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. Other aides usually left the president to his basketball in the morning and didn’t assault him with the day’s work until it was finished. But something was clearly up, because Anshel Gould was striding across the White House lawn with unusual purpose.
“Mr. President,” Anshel said quietly when he was within earshot, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need a moment of your time. I need to talk to you about Iran…and Israel.”
“Sure,” the president said with a tight laugh. “It must be important. This is the closest you’ve come to this basketball court—and real exercise—in weeks.”
Anshel ignored the dig. DJ started to get up from his chair, but Anshel motioned him back down. “DJ, you can stay. This one will end up in your lap.”
DJ settled back into his chair. While he never said much about it—and never brought it up in even casual conversation in the White House—he’d always paid close attention to Israel and issues surrounding its national security because of his own personal Christian beliefs.
Grabbing another water bottle, he opened the cap quietly while awaiting the news. DJ admired Dr. Gould almost as much as he admired the president. The country—and the world—was lucky to have them as leaders. DJ couldn’t think of a single situation or crisis that they couldn’t handle.
They worked well together and complemented each other enormously. Dr. Gould could be abrupt, but DJ knew it was a single-minded drive to get any job done quickly, efficiently, and with the least amount of collateral damage. The president used that to his advantage, sending Anshel into situations when the outcome had to be success—or else.
“Mr. President,” Anshel said, his tone more somber than usual, “a situation is developing in Iran. It’s moving very quickly, and I think we have just a matter of hours until Israel takes action.”
“Iran has made a move?” the president asked.
Anshel nodded. “One of our drones—one that shares data with Israel—discovered the activity overnight. The levels of uranium hexafluoride are at astronomical levels.”
“How astronomical?” the president asked.
Anshel frowned. “Perhaps one hundred times beyond what you might expect from background noise.”
The president grimaced. “Above one of the sites they’d identified to the international atomic agency?”
“No,” Anshel said. “It’s above another site—one that we’ve suspected but never proven conclusively to the UN Security Council. No inspector has ever been to this site, near Shiraz. It’s an old site, from pre-2003 times.”
“But we’re sure it’s HEU from centrifuges?”
“We’ll confirm it absolutely with other sources, but there’s no question. The levels would indicate they’ve moved tens of thousands of centrifuges into production almost overnight. They’ve made their decision. Most likely, they’re producing it for a test.”
“But the Israelis won’t wait, will they?” the president asked almost rhetorically.
“No, they won’t,” Anshel answered. He told the president quickly about the opposition leader arrests in Iran and the attempted suicide bombing in East Jerusalem that were designed to buy Iran time.
Adom Camara had sent every emissary he could possibly think of to Israel in the past few months to hold them off while he pursued direct, bilateral talks with the religious theocracy that truly controlled the political apparatus in Iran. But he’d known, in his gut, it was only a matter of time before Iran made its move—and Israel its countermove.
Israel’s national security team had briefed the Knesset—the Israeli legislature—three months ago that Iran had crossed the technological threshold on nuclear weapons. Israel’s national intelligence team confirmed to the Knesset that Iran had secured the warhead technology from North Korea. Russia, North Korea, and even China had helped the Iranians create missile capabilities—including a space launch capability that could put a satellite (and an ICBM) in orbit. And, thanks to help from North Korean scientists, they had the technical ability to produce enough highly enriched uranium to equip a nuclear weapon.
Russia had always been interested in the Middle East. It had a well-established trade relationship with Iran. But it had begun to discuss oil exploration with Israel as well in recent years as rumors circulated about the possibility of major oil finds in northern Israel and, possibly, beneath the Dead Sea.
All that remained was the decision to move. Iran’s conventional military forces might have been twenty years old and out of date, but it would only take one nuclear weapon to slip through the Arrow defense system in Israel, and the world would likely see a second Holocaust.
The president’s team had made some headway in the move to direct talks with Iran’s religious leadership. But, in just the past few weeks, the talks had begun to grind to a halt. That meant one thing, and the news this morning confirmed it. Iran had made the decision to join the nuclear club.
“How much time do you think we have?” the president asked Anshel.
“Not much,” Anshel replied. “Hours, maybe. They’ll want to go tonight. As we know, the Israelis have been ready for this for months. They won’t wait.”
The president took a deep breath. He’d discussed this situation with Anshel and others on the joint chiefs and the national security team almost from the moment they’d entered the White House.
Israel’s national leadership had moved to the right just as the U.S. leadership was moving to the left. The United States was still Israel’s most trusted and invaluable ally in the world, but the rules had changed. Israel’s national security team and leadership thought the United States was naïve in believing that direct, bilateral talks with Iran could forestall their inevitable move to nuclear weapons.
But President Camara was committed to a diplomatic course—one that did not automatically side with Israel when it made unilateral military decisions in its own national security interests. He and others on his team truly believed they could change the game, and the equation, in the U.S. relationship with Russia, China, North Korea, Iran, and the moderate Arab world.
Camara’s first speech to the Arab world had taken place, strategically, in Cairo, Egypt. It was a brilliant first move in the dangerous, endless world of Middle East politics and intrigue. The speech had reassured moderate Arab nations that th
e Camara administration was committed to rebalancing equations in the center of the world, where hostility and violence were everyday occurrences.
He’d followed that speech with meetings with the Russian president and, the next day, with the Russian prime minister—the country’s real leader and someone who was rapidly consolidating power in ways not seen since the days of the tsars.
President Camara had sent an ex-president to meet with the leadership of North Korea. He’d dispatched no fewer than six Cabinet secretaries to meet with Chinese leaders, paving the way for progress on global warming and international security issues. He’d made significant progress in both Afghanistan and Pakistan. He’d fulfilled his campaign pledge to dramatically scale back the U.S. military presence in Iraq, even as democracy was beginning to flourish there.
But Israel had remained at the center of the equation, even as chess moves were made elsewhere. The American president had not officially denied a direct request for IAF planes to fly through at least some part of Iraqi air space—but neither had he said that he would allow Israel’s planes to move through Iraq on a mission that both countries knew was almost inevitable.
The American president had hoped that delaying a response to Israel would give the U.S. time to open and conclude direct talks with Iran’s theocracy. He knew he was racing against the clock, but he’d still hoped to make it work.
And now—the decision was here. He’d made very little progress with Iran.
“Anshel,” the president asked softly, “have they made the request?”
Anshel didn’t answer right away. He glanced over at DJ, who was still sitting quietly, sipping on his water and taking in the conversation and its implications. The president glanced over at DJ as well, and nodded.
“I can leave, if you need…,” DJ offered quickly.
“No,” the president said. “I want you in on the front end of this. When it comes time to characterize our decision on how much we cooperated with Israel, I want you to know where the decision came from.”
“It’s fine,” Anshel said.
DJ sat still.
“So, has Israel made the request?” the president repeated.
This time, Anshel didn’t hesitate. “Not officially, but I just spoke to the deputy head of Mossad. They’re going to ask for permission to land at our three bases in western Iraq sometime in the next three hours. They’ll refuel and take off immediately.”
“How many targets?”
“He wouldn’t say, but it’s at least a dozen, and probably closer to twenty. They’re using every single one of the Bandits who trained with our guys at Nellis and Tonopah.”
“And your position hasn’t changed on this?” the president asked.
Again, Anshel did not hesitate. He was the most pro-Israeli member of President Camara’s inner circle. But he was also a political realist and knew how far he could push his boss. “We must allow their planes to fly over Iraqi airspace unimpeded, Mr. President. To do anything less would be unconscionable, given our relationship with them. But we also cannot allow them to land at our bases. The consequences of that, down the road, would undermine everything we’re trying to do.”
“And if we deny landing rights, how will Israel finish the mission?” asked the president. “Have they made their own decision on that question?”
“I believe they have,” Anshel said. “It places them at enormous risk, but they’ve apparently made the decision to strike first and then refuel outside Iranian air space. The planes that will be central to the mission have a range that’s a few hundred miles beyond their targets. The planes—the ones that have a chance to make it back—will land either in Turkey to the north, or try to refuel out over the sea and land on the one carrier they’ve acquired.”
The president cringed. He knew that success for those pilots—in either case—was difficult. “They won’t try to make it all the way back to Israel?”
Anshel shook his head. “They don’t think it’s possible. They don’t have any with the range to make it all the way back once the targets are hit. They will need to land somewhere first, or re-fuel. When we deny landing rights in Iraq, Turkey and the sea are their best options.”
“Even with the tactical Stealth fighters we sold to them, with extended range? The ones you pushed me on relentlessly?”
“Those planes will allow the IAF to make it into Iran through the air defenses, Mr. President,” Anshel answered. “They won’t allow the pilots to make it all the way back to Israel. But I’m still grateful that you made the decision you did.”
“And you?” the president asked, smiling. “You’ve made your own decision, then? No landing rights in Iraq? We’re going to sit on the sidelines?”
Anshel didn’t blink. He knew it was, in fact, a serious question. “You know me, Mr. President. If it was my call, and I had no other considerations, I would make Israel’s mission as easy as possible. I would let them take off from Iraq and then land there as well after the bombing raids are finished. But I know that position isn’t tenable, and that it would actually jeopardize our own security. So, yes, that’s my recommendation. We can’t allow them to stage this mission from Iraq.”
The president looked over at DJ. “So?” the president asked lightly. “What do you think of that decision? Can we defend it publicly? Will Egypt, Jordan, Russia, and others buy it?”
DJ looked thoughtful. “We can defend it publicly. We have to. There’s no choice. We need to make sure all of the other nations that have a stake in this know we were not partners with Israel in the attack. We have to make sure everyone knows, quickly, that this was Israel’s own decision.”
“But letting them fly through Iraqi airspace?” asked the president.
“We have no choice there, either,” DJ said. “Israel is our ally. It’s not like we’re going to shoot down an IAF plane as it flies over Iraq. If we can’t stop this mission, and their decision, then we have to let their planes through. From the way it sounds, they won’t be coming back through Iraq to get home. So we can explain what happened.”
“Can you defend it publicly?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I can,” DJ said. “We must make it very clear that this was Israel’s own, unilateral decision. We did not facilitate the mission. I’ll emphasize—strongly, and on background—that we denied landing rights in Iraq. I’ll stick to that position, no matter what. And I’ll point to the fact that IAF planes did not return through Iraqi airspace. I believe I can drive both of those points home. I’ll make sure they’re out there by the time you talk to the press. I’ll run interference first.”
The president nodded. This was the decision he’d wanted, and he was glad to have aides around him who knew him well enough to understand where he was likely to wind up on a question such as this. They would defend it with everything they could muster. There wasn’t much that any of them could do, not at this point. “When will Israel begin?” he asked.
“In truth,” Anshel answered, “they’ve already begun. Their refuelers are out over the water, and their tactical fighters will be in the air shortly.”
“I see,” the president said thoughtfully. “Well, then, we’d better prepare.”
A threshold was clearly being crossed here. Regardless of the relative success or failure of Israel’s mission, the world would be forever changed. How nations—and their leaders—responded in kind would make all the difference.
06
LILONGWE, MALAWI
Nash had been stunned by one of the mVillage network messages addressed to him. It was from a student leader from Tehran University he’d met twice at international conferences. They’d exchanged network addresses.
The MMS message had been sent to Nash’s personal account with mVillage, which he gave out selectively. In this case, he was glad he had.
The message contained a video—and a message about what it meant. It clearly showed Reza Razavi, the opposition leader who’d allegedly been denied the presidency in Iran—being placed u
nder house arrest. Nash didn’t guess what it might mean, but he had called his staff in London to make sure it received proper treatment.
“Can you post it right away?” he had asked before setting out on his travels for the day.
“Sure can,” said one of the young staff in the London office.
“Give it prominent placement on the boards,” Nash said. “We want people to see this one.”
“We will,” his staff aide replied. “There are other reports, about student arrests in Iran. But this one will go big.”
Satisfied, Nash had set off for a quick visit with a local pastor of a small church near Lilongwe. Over the years, the two had become friends. Nash was always traveling, but he tried to stop by his friend’s house whenever he was in Malawi.
As he navigated his borrowed motorbike around the deep ruts in the road, he almost missed the sign that was tacked, lopsided, to the side of a shanty on the way into town. Nash had plenty of time to read and translate it. The road didn’t allow him to go much faster than twenty-five miles an hour here.
Chokani kunyumba yanu, Madonna, use musabe ana anthu! the Chichewa words said. Loosely translated: “Go home, Madonna. Stop stealing our babies!” The message had been scrawled with some sort of dark, burnt stone. The next good rain would wash it away. But no matter. The point was clear to those who understood—even if the author was powerless to do anything about the issue.
There was an orphanage around the corner, on the outskirts of Lilongwe, where the aging pop star Madonna had adopted her first Malawi child, David. The adoption had created international furor at the time with children’s welfare groups, who were concerned that Malawi officials had bent the rules because of her celebrity status.
Malawi, one of the poorest countries in the world, was land-locked and somewhat isolated. AIDS, malaria, and tuberculosis had done their damage, as they had in other African nations. Madonna had created a charity, Raising Malawi, years earlier to help feed and care for the orphans. During one of her visits to the country, she’d arranged to adopt one of those orphans.
