by Jeff Nesbit
Nash nodded to himself. “Got it. So you said there were two things?”
“Yes, well, I’m actually looking several steps beyond what might or might not be happening in Iran right now or the next couple of days,” his dad said. “If Israel does act, the world will be riveted on that action, even if it’s only partially successful. They’ll be watching the Revolutionary Guards’ next steps with the nuclear question, the response from Iran’s surrogates, like Hezbollah…that sort of thing.”
“But you’re not so much interested in that, are you?” Nash asked. He knew the way his father thought.
“No, I’m not,” his dad said. “I’m much, much more interested in what the next line players will do—especially North Korea, because they can act right now.”
Nash knew, immediately, what his father was really looking for. He didn’t even need to hear the question, because he could guess the direction his father was headed.
While Nash had never thought much about Israel, he did have a deep, abiding interest in another country—North Korea, the most secretive totalitarian regime on the planet. His fiancée was the daughter of a past president of South Korea, under the United New Democratic Party that had merged with the Democratic Party to become the United Democratic Party. They were now the opposition party to the more conservative Grand National Party in power.
Nash had met the girl he planned to marry at Harvard. Kim Su Yeong had grown up in the shadow of North Korea. Su and Nash had talked for hours and hours about the highly secretive, paranoid government in North Korea.
After Harvard, Su had gone to work at the State Department in the Camara administration. She logged a lot of hours during the day for the Korean desk, while she went to law school at night at Georgetown. Now Su was almost finished with school.
The two of them talked via Skype constantly. Nash hated that he had to travel as much as he did, but it was the cost of doing business.
“You know our mVillage network is only just beginning in North Korea,” he said. “They’ve blitzed and re-blitzed the cell networks there. They’ve thrown everything they have at it to block any sort of communications in and out of the country.”
“But I’m guessing they haven’t been completely successful in blocking everything, have they?” his dad asked.
“No, in fact, they haven’t. They tried targeting individual SIM cards to get at sources of MMS and SMS texts. But a black market of interchangeable SIM cards with topped-off community accounts solved that problem. SIM cards are being passed around, along with cell phones. People are communicating. An mVillage network is starting to form. North Korea’s only choice will be to completely shut down the state cell network—which is something it doesn’t want to do.”
“So there is an mVillage network database, one that feeds the community portals?”
“Yes. And we’ve been told the folks in Pyongyang pay really, really close attention to the mVillage community portals.”
“I’ll bet,” his dad added sardonically. “Can you ask your staff to check on something? I know you can’t look at any one individual, but we’ve heard that MMS reports have made their way out of all five of the major political prison camps in the country.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Nash said quickly. “I was shocked when I first heard about it. I didn’t think it was possible. But we just got a report out of Camp 14, where people work until they die. I was stunned that an MMS video of working conditions made its way out of there and to the community portals. I can only imagine what must have happened after that.”
“So you’ve gotten reports from all five—including Camp 16, near Chongjin?”
“Yes, I’m certain. We’ve gotten reports to mVillage from all five.”
“Wow,” his dad said. “I’m amazed.”
“So are you looking for anything specific from Camp 16?”
“Eventually,” his dad said. “Camp 16 is where they send purged government officials and others. We’ve heard, very recently, that some interesting folks were just shipped there.”
“Like?”
“Like the lead negotiator we’ve been trying to deal with, unsuccessfully, on their nuclear program. I guess they didn’t like how soft he was becoming in his discussions with us.”
“Wow.”
“And the number two from the National Defense Commission, who tried to block the third son’s succession to the Dear Leader’s position.”
“Wow, again.”
“So we’re looking for anything from Camp 16. Anything at all.”
“Hang on,” Nash said. He fired off another text, then waited. The answer came back a minute later. “Nope, nothing from Camp 16, not in a while.”
“But you’ll let me know right away if you hear anything?”
“Absolutely. No worries.”
“And you’re being careful out there in Africa, right?”
“You bet. Always,” Nash said.
As Nash ended the call to his father, he couldn’t help but wonder which direction things might turn. He’d have to check in with Su later, as well as the mVillage portals. It sounded like the world was in for a wild ride in the next few days. Nash was personally more interested in the Korean aspect of it all, but he couldn’t help but wonder what might happen to Israel in the coming days.
10
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
It always amused him. The sycophants and hangers-on who trailed in his wake seemed perpetually worried—so sure his next adventure would be his last.
But they worried needlessly. His time was far from over. There was still much to do, places to see, and mountains to climb. Plus, what was life without great risk and great reward?
When Andrei Rowan had taken a mini-sub to the bottom of the world’s deepest lake to tag a whale, his aides were certain that, somehow, the sub would malfunction, and he would be trapped at the bottom of Lake Baikal. When he’d embraced a tiger or flown one of Russia’s bombers himself, they were certain each adventure would end badly.
“There is still much work to be done on earth,” he was fond of saying.
What no one ever seemed to grasp was that the people demanded a level of risk and vision in their leaders. With great power came great expectations—and Rowan’s many adventures in the world reinforced an image he’d carefully crafted on his rise to power as the prime minister and chairman of the United Russia Party.
Rowan lived with the certain, unwavering belief that the collapse of the People’s Republic of the Soviet Union was the single most tragic event of the twentieth century—greater, even, than the slaughter of six million Jews in the Second World War or the beginning of the atomic era with the explosion of nuclear weapons in Japan at the end of that war. He believed with that same certainty that it was his destiny to return Russia to its rightful place in the world, and he lived every aspect of his personal and political life with that in mind.
Most people in Russia never gave any thought to their country’s place in the world order. Few cared for the rule of principalities and powers or the interplay of nation-states. They were content to see bread on the table and a roof over their head. But Rowan thought of nothing else. He would not rest until Russia straddled the world again as it had under the former Soviet Union. And near the top of Russia’s list was oil. Rowan was willing to pursue it, from Iran to Israel if need be.
While he rarely spoke of it, Rowan thought often of the great calling and mission of Lenin. The people of Russia had all but forgotten what Lenin had achieved in his time—what he had done for his countrymen and his fight to establish a governing principle for the rights of common men and women.
The West always underestimated Rowan—the lieutenant colonel in the KGB who’d been rescued from obscurity by Boris Yeltsin. They thought less of him when he rode bare-chested on a horse while vacationing or dressed all in black to ride, helmetless, with the Night Wolves through the streets of St. Petersburg.
But Rowan had learned much from Lenin, who had lost his humanity in his tire
less, brilliant pursuit of revolution. Lenin had led the people of Russia out of the wilderness. He’d been utterly committed to revolution and had demanded equal obedience from others to that cause.
In the process of his servitude, though, Lenin had almost written himself out of the hearts of the people. They knew Lenin as the figure at the helm of the revolution—not as a great, human leader who could relate to their dreams, their visions, and their hopes for a better future.
Rowan would not make that same mistake. He was every bit as committed to the ideals carried by Lenin—and, later, by Stalin—but he would never make the fatal mistakes they’d made. History condemns those who do not learn from its mistakes. Rowan had studied, and learned, from those mistakes.
Making oneself human and open to risk was necessary in the pursuit of the people’s support for a leader, he believed. Would they trust a man who hid behind bulletproof glass walls, with guards armed to the teeth to protect their leader? Or would they follow a man who was unafraid to take personal risk in order to see and touch the world? The answer, to Rowan, was obvious.
There was a knock on the door. Rowan looked up from the desk in his private study, where he had been meticulously poring over reports from two of Russia’s principal intelligence agencies—the GRU and the SVR. As always, he’d spent considerably more time with the SVR reports, which he instinctively trusted. He’d learned, long ago, that it made sense to demand both a report at the close of the day and then a new round of reports at the start of the day to reflect what had occurred elsewhere in the world while Russia slept. It drove the intelligence agencies insane, but he slept better with this system of reporting.
“Come in,” Rowan said loudly.
His top aide, Nicolai Petrov, leaned in through the doorway. “I just thought you would want to know that the activity has begun,” he said softly.
“Yes, I know,” Rowan said, glancing down at the SVR report he’d just been studying. “It appears that our friends in Tehran have progressed.”
“And Israel is about to act,” Petrov answered, nodding.
“Are we ready? Have you told the leaders in Duma of the events?”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister, I have informed them. They are ready to accept you in the morning.”
“And do we know what we are going to tell the Duma in the morning?” Rowan asked.
Petrov nodded once and returned a level gaze at the man who would fill the shoes of Lenin and Stalin. “That it is an historic moment for Russia, that we must not miss this opportunity, that in times of chaos and turmoil, the cause of the revolution can be furthered.”
“Or something to that effect,” Rowan said, smiling easily.
“Yes, something to that effect,” his aide said. “I am certain you will find the appropriate words for the leaders in Duma—as you always do.”
Rowan cocked his head to one side. “And, Mr. Petrov, do you believe that?”
“Which, Mr. Prime Minister? That you will find the words to soothe and direct the leaders of Duma, or that out of chaos a greater, stronger Russia will emerge?”
“The second, Mr. Petrov,” he answered smoothly. “There can be no doubt of the first proposition.”
In fact, Petrov had long thought of what a day such as today would mean to Russia. He did believe that Andrei Rowan was right about the opportunity it presented to Moscow. “Without question, Mr. Prime Minister, it is an opportunity.”
“A chance to begin to correct one of the great wrongs of the twentieth century,” Rowan said.
“Yes, a great chance.”
“It is the return of the great cause of revolution, on a world stage,” Rowan said quietly. “The West has given us this chance, at long last. We must not let it pass us by.”
“We will not, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“No, we will not, Mr. Petrov. History will judge us badly otherwise.”
11
WEST OF THE EUPHRATES RIVER
NEAR AL HILLAH, IRAQ
“Identify yourself!” the voice commanded.
Israeli Air Force pilot Ben Azoulay reached over to the F-117’s controls and turned the knob to the right to decrease the volume on his headset. He was surprised that, in fact, it had taken the U.S. bases this long to spot him over Iraqi airspace. After all, it was their own Stealth fighter, created by their own military-industrial complex.
Still, it had been the best Stealth fighter for a generation. The Russians and Chinese, especially, had thrown everything they had at systems to detect the ugly, black plane in the sky. Unless you had some idea where the plane was in the sky, you had no hope of spotting it.
“I said, identify yourself!” the voice barked again.
Ben was almost to the Euphrates. From there, he would follow the river southeast, almost to Kuwait, and then move into Iran near Khuzestan. He didn’t dare go farther south, over the water of the Persian Gulf. There were too many threats there. He needed to make the straight shot into Iran from Iraq’s southeast border, then head toward Shiraz.
Ben had been coached and coached on what to do in this scenario. IAF leadership had determined that they were going to take the most direct route to Iran, and risk action by either Jordan or the U.S. if they were detected. They would ask for permission after the fact.
Jordan had been no problem. He was in and out of Jordan’s airspace in almost the blink of an eye. But Iraq? That was a different matter, and Ben had been certain he would encounter something, at some point.
“This is Bandit 1,” Ben said finally. “We’re on a friendly training mission.”
Ben waited for several long seconds. He glanced to either side, then down at the ground. The night air was clear. Ben could see for miles in all directions. He kept his eyes peeled for the telltale signature signs of either a plane chasing him or a surface-to-air missile starting its chase. He saw neither.
The voice came back on. “Do you mean IAF Bandit 1?”
“Yes, IAF Bandit 1,” Ben said, smiling to himself. He was Bandit 1 in Israel. But there was an American Bandit 1 somewhere—and the U.S. side wasn’t too keen on having two Bandit 1s flying around on the plane they’d built for their own pilots.
“You said you’re on a friendly training mission?” the voice asked.
“Yes, that’s right. I will be out of your area soon.”
There was another pause. “You’re solo?”
“Yes, I’m solo.”
“Where are the other IAF Bandits? The same training mission?”
Ben knew he had to be careful here. He was instructed not to lie—but to remain firm in his own situation. “I am solo. I do not know the status of the other IAF Bandits.”
“Are they in your area?”
“No,” Ben answered. “I do not believe they are in my area.”
“Do you wish an escort?” the voice asked after another pause.
“I don’t believe that’s necessary,” Ben answered. “I’ll be gone from your area soon.”
Which was true, of course. At the speed he was traveling, he’d be out of Iraqi airspace shortly—and headed toward his target.
There was a very long period of silence as the F-117 hurtled through the night sky. He could see the outline of the Euphrates just ahead. Ben could imagine what was happening on the ground, wherever the voice came from. They were probably racing through all sorts of protocols. Ben hoped they arrived at the right answer.
“We don’t have a training mission logged,” the voice said finally. “Why is that?”
Ben answered immediately, with the script. “Sorry about that. We all got yanked out of our beds for a mock, surprise exercise. None of us knew about it. We were just told to scramble, in real time, as a test.”
“A test?”
“Yes, sir. A test. Just to see how quickly we could get up and out. In case we had to.”
By now, Ben was certain they knew where he was, his rate of speed, and his direction. They also probably knew he was carrying a payload. If they knew that one of those bo
mb bays carried a tactical nuclear weapon, they might have reacted a little differently. But even with that information, they’d still have a tough time shooting him out of the sky—if, of course, they decided they needed to do that.
“You said you’d be gone from the area soon,” the voice said. “What’s your destination?”
Again, Ben followed his script. “I’m to meet up with others in Kuwait, re-fuel, and then head back.”
After the last, final pause—during which someone obviously made a decision—the voice came back online. “All right, IAF Bandit 1. You’re clear. We will not engage. Good hunting.”
“Thank you, sir. Appreciate it.”
Ben turned to head southeast as he came across the Euphrates. Even now, at night, he could see the great river had all but dried up in parts. A sustained drought had created long patches of dry land throughout the course of the river.
Ben wondered how the other IAF bandits were faring in their missions. They were all consigned to radio silence until they’d hit their targets. The IAF leadership had not wanted to risk a breach, so all of the pilots were flying on their own, with pre-set missions and computer controls.
There were a handful of critical missions. One was at Natanz, where the first of Iran’s centrifuges had been installed for uranium enrichment. The Mossad believed that, in fact, Natanz had been designed to draw the attention of the IAEA inspectors, and that it had never truly been designed for mass production of highly enriched uranium. Nevertheless, it was a high-priority target just in case.
A second target was a uranium conversion facility near Isfahan where gas for the uranium-enrichment process was stored in tunnels. The IAF believed that conventional bunker-busting payloads would destroy those tunnels and everything stored in them.
A third target was the heavy water reactor at Arak. This was a difficult target, especially since the Russians had moved in to secure it. The site was designed to produce enough plutonium for a weapon. HEU was an older technology and easier to produce. But plutonium was the way most modern nuclear weapons were produced, and Iran was intent on finding a path to the production of enough plutonium to arm a nuclear weapon.
