by Marc Cameron
“So,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms in thought, “the Sejjil-2 is capable of reaching targets well over two thousand kilometers away?”
“That’s correct, sir,” the major said.
“GPS guidance?”
“Yes, sir. We believe it to be Iran’s most technologically advanced missile at this point.”
“The Russian Gorgons have a range of what, a thousand kilometers?”
“That’s about right,” Burgess said. “Sources within the Kremlin say more recent variants might give half again that range.”
“I see,” Ryan said. “That’s still nowhere near the range of the missiles Iran already has in her arsenal. Could they be planning to move the nuclear warheads from the Gorgons to the Sejjil?”
“That’s certainly possible,” Poteet said. “But it wouldn’t be very smart. The nuclear warhead on the 51T6, or Gorgon, is certainly a plum for the Iranian missile forces, but I believe what they’re after is the more sophisticated Russian guidance system. Iran has a way of grossly exaggerating the accuracy of their own armament.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Mary Pat said. “We have satellite footage of them using an explosive charge to make it look like one of their bad boys hit a target during testing three years ago.”
“True enough, ma’am,” Major Poteet said. “And that’s not an isolated incident. We estimate the Circular Error Probable, or CEP, to be somewhere greater than five hundred meters on the Sejjil, even with the internal GPS.”
“Half a kilometer isn’t what I’d call precise munition,” Ryan said.
“Iran has the largest complement of missiles of any country in the Middle East,” Poteet said. “If you’ll excuse the euphemism, they’re fairly bristling with them. But none of them are precision instruments—yet. Sanctions certainly make it difficult for Iran to obtain certain electronics and the finely powdered metals they need for a consistent burn of their solid fuel. Up until now, even the Russians have balked at providing them with the most up-to-date systems. That said, I don’t want to understate the threat, either. Lob enough explosive at a target and some of it is bound to fall where you want it to.”
The steward from the Navy mess knocked, and then brought in the coffee Ryan had ordered. The conversation fell off until he left and shut the door behind him. As was his custom, Ryan served the coffee himself. It gave his hands something to do while his brain worked on a problem, a trick he’d learned from his father, who would often putter around in his woodshop while he stewed over a difficult murder investigation. He held a cup toward the major, a cube of sugar poised over it between the silver tongs.
“Black is fine, Mr. President,” Poteet said, looking more than a little embarrassed at being served by the Commander in Chief. A relatively junior rank at the Pentagon, majors were often the aides who got coffee for generals.
Ryan passed him the cup. “Let’s have some best guesses on where they want to hit with this Russian missile.”
“The Gorgon is mobile,” Poteet said. “So even with relatively limited range, they could reach any number of U.S. bases in central Asia, depending on where they launched from. Iraq is a viable target, as is Saudi Arabia or any number of Sunni countries.”
“There’s always Israel,” SecState Adler said. “It’s within range if they launch from western Iran. They’ve been rattling sabers at Jerusalem for decades. A nuclear warhead will be just the ticket for some of their hard-liners.”
“Maybe,” Mary Pat said. “But that’s less likely since they only have two.”
“That we know of,” Burgess said. “For all we know, they’ve been slipping missiles across the border for some time now.”
“Maybe,” Foley conceded. “But odds are someone in Russia would notice too many going missing. Even they have a finite number. Regarding Israel, there is a better-than-average chance that their Iron Dome defense system would stop one or two missiles during their terminal phase. We’re not talking MIRVs here.”
A MIRV was a multiple independently targetable reentry vehicle—several warheads on a single missile, maximizing the damage from each. A Trident II submarine–launched missile could carry as many as fourteen.
“Besides,” Foley continued, “Israel has enough nukes of their own to turn Tehran and every other city in Iran into a lake of fire if provoked. Frankly, I think that’s exactly what they would do if they were aware of this present state of affairs.”
“You’re right about that,” Ryan said. “We know the Russians used this Portuguese arms dealer as a cutout for deniability, but what you said about Israel brings up a good point. The Gorgon has a ten-kiloton yield. That’s roughly two-thirds of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. A tremendous loss of life, but even two direct hits wouldn’t be enough to cripple any of Iran’s enemies.”
SecDef Burgess gave a somber nod. “And a nuclear attack would cry out for an immediate response in kind.”
Ryan took a sip of coffee. “So what’s their game?”
Mary Pat gave a shrug, as if the answer was obvious. “What target would be of the most value to both Russia and Iran?”
Ryan gave a somber nod.
Burgess said, “We would. Mr. President, I know you want to discuss this with the full NSC, but I’d urge you to contact Yermilov and read him the proverbial riot act.”
“I tend to agree,” the secretary of state said. “There’s value in letting Russia know we’re aware of their duplicity. You might be able to shame them into remotely destroying the missiles—or, at the very least, rendering them incapable of launch.”
“I get your point,” Ryan said.
Arnie van Damm stuck his head into the Oval. “The chairman of the joint chiefs is here, Mr. President. The others are waiting in the Situation Room.”
“We’re on our way,” Ryan said. He got to his feet, prompting everyone else to stand as well. “Major Poteet, excellent brief. Mind doing it again for the National Security Council? They can be a tough crowd.”
“Not at all, Mr. President.” The major closed his laptop. “I’d like to point out one more thing, sir. Apart from supplying Scuds and proxy combatants to places like Lebanon and Syria, Iran customarily uses its rocket and missile forces to intimidate. They want the rest of the world to know how many weapons they have and where they are pointed. The fact that they’re keeping these nuclear devices a secret leads me to believe they intend to use them.”
52
Jack and Dovzhenko watched in horror as the taillights on the vehicle carrying Ysabel grew smaller in the distance. The howling wind that blew outside Omar’s compound had covered the vehicle’s approach. The men, likely Taliban who’d come for Ysabel, had decided to cut their losses and run with the single prize.
Rifle in hand, Ryan ran back inside to grab the laptop and satellite phone while Dovzhenko kept an eye on the lights. Jack found the keys to the Toyota Hilux parked out front, and the pickup was bouncing down the road with no headlights in less than a minute.
Jack drove while Dovzhenko checked the weapons. Neither man spoke until the small station wagon turned off the road and parked in an alley behind a concrete building that looked like a mechanic shop at the far end of the block. Two men got out of the station wagon and shoved Ysabel into the shop. They left the door open to the night air.
Ryan parked the Hilux and eased the door shut.
“Let’s go before they lock us out.”
“Two with her,” the Russian said. “There are probably more inside.”
Ryan nodded. “This might get rough. Do you have a problem with that?”
Dovzhenko shook his head. “Do you? You are about to attempt a rescue of a woman you obviously have feelings for, going against an unknown number of assailants, in a place you have never been, with an untried rifle and a man with whom you have never worked.”
Ryan was already creeping dow
n the alley, rifle at low ready, scanning. “If you put it that way, this is going to be a cinch. You do know how to run your gun?”
“Russian babies sleep with a Kalashnikov, not a teddy bear. You did not know this?”
Jack rolled his eyes.
“Do you know what Russian intelligence officers think of American intelligence officers?” Dovzhenko asked.
“You got me,” Ryan said, homed in on the building ahead.
“They think you are too good,” he said. “That you excel at critical thinking, but are not . . . sociopathic enough to be as cruel as you should be.”
“Yeah?” Ryan hissed. “Hide and watch. And anyway, you said ‘they.’ What do you think?”
“I think you simply know right from wrong,” Dovzhenko said.
Halfway down the block, he slowed, leaning closer, whispering. “Your plan?”
Ryan eyed the Russian. This guy was a philosopher, and for the life of him, Ryan couldn’t figure out if that was a good thing or a bad one under the present circumstances. “We’re looking at a corner-fed room,” Ryan said, stopping in the shadows of a head-high pile of trash, eyes still locked on the door. “That means we’ll be able to look down the wall before going in. You know a technique called ‘running the rabbit’?”
“Not the term,” Dovzhenko said. “But I can guess. I run in and draw fire while you shoot the bad guys.”
“No,” Ryan said. “I run in and draw fire while we both shoot the bad guys. They should be focused on Ysabel so we’ll have the element of surprise. We go in and shoot everyone who isn’t her. You SVR guys get some hot-shit training in marksmanship. Right?”
“SVR is an intelligence organization. We are not commandos.” He gave Ryan a sideways look. “But do not worry. I can shoot.”
The windows at the rear of the shop were covered with wood, but the men ducked as they went by to be on the safe side. Ryan reached the edge of the door first. He began to inch sideways, the muzzle of his rifle pointing where he looked. Each shuffling step brought a tiny fraction more of the room into view without giving away his position. The eastern wall that ran down the side of the building directly in front of the door and to the right was clear. It had a window, but no doors, which meant the bad guys either were to Ryan’s left or had gone through some other door in that direction.
A little farther, an inch at a time.
North wall—which was actually a set of rolling garage doors thirty feet away . . . clear.
Wooden toolbox in the northwest corner . . . clear.
Voices.
Metal lift rack in the center of the garage—but no vehicles, giving a clear field of fire.
Ryan froze as the shoulder of one of the men came into view. He was squatting with his back to Ryan, in the approximate center of the west wall. It was one of the men from the station wagon, which meant his eyes were not yet accustomed to the bright light of the garage. Ryan risked another half step, farther into the fatal funnel of the doorway, bringing Ysabel into view. She was gagged and seated on the dirt floor, leaning against the west wall. She looked up and to her right, at someone who was just out of Ryan’s view.
Ryan eased out of the doorway so as not to create a flash of movement.
Shoulder to shoulder with Dovzhenko, he kept his gun on the doorway. “At least two,” he whispered, then quickly described the layout. Recon grew stale in no time and he wanted to move while the bad guys were in the same relative position as when he’d last seen them. “Not sure about this wall or the southwest corner.” Ryan pointed, in case the Russian wasn’t keyed in on his cardinal directions. “The guys closest to Ysabel have to go first. I’ll take everyone north, working back to the center. You buttonhook and take everyone south—on this side. Our fields of fire will overlap in the middle.”
“What is ‘buttonhook’?”
“I go straight in the door,” Ryan said. “You come in behind me, hooking around the left side of the door, engaging as I draw fire.”
Dovzhenko gave a curt nod. “Understood.”
“On three,” Ryan said.
“On three,” Dovzhenko repeated, bringing Ryan’s anxiety level down just a little. He had done this before.
Ryan moved quickly but surely, making it a good fifteen feet before anyone realized he was there. All eyes—and guns—trained on him as Dovzhenko came in behind him. AKs boomed in the enclosed space, snapping off the concrete-block wall. Ryan turned when he reached the halfway point, putting two rounds into the pelvis of the man on Ysabel’s right as he brought up his rifle.
The angle put Ysabel between Jack and the bad guy to her left. Trusting Dovzhenko to take care of that one, Ryan swung farther left. A third target stood in the southwest corner, holding a video camera in one hand and a Kalashnikov in the other. Ryan shot him in the chest, then, using the muzzle rise of his rifle, followed up with shots to the neck and face. The last took off the man’s black turban along with half of his skull.
This one down, Jack scanned to his right in time to see the other man near Ysabel fall under two well-aimed shots from Dovzhenko.
Ryan covered the far door. “Any more?” he shouted over the piercing whine in his ears.
Ysabel shook her head.
“We must go,” Dovzhenko said, already helping Ysabel to her feet.
Ryan backed out, covering their exit, while Dovzhenko faced forward with Ysabel tucked in between them. Ryan grabbed three extra AK mags from one of the men, and a wood-handled knife from a table on the way out. He paused just long enough in the alley to cut Ysabel’s hands free.
The shooting lasted less than six seconds from the time Jack had cleared the door. Just over a minute later, they were in the Toyota Hilux, heading northwest.
53
Hope was not a plan, but Jack and the others had little else.
Ysabel bounced like a nervous cat in the front passenger seat, hyped from being kidnapped twice in a row, and talked nonstop for the next twenty minutes. Dovzhenko drove, and she directed him onto a two-lane dirt path south of the Islam Qala Highway. Ryan took the backseat. They discussed a variety of options as they went—until the adrenaline finally wore off and Ysabel fell asleep.
Rock-strewn smuggling trails crisscrossed the desert, leaving law enforcement and military on both sides of the border guessing. Ysabel had warned of loitering unmanned aerial vehicles, jeep patrols, motion sensors, and cameras, but explained that graft was rampant and staffing was abysmally low. Beyond that, the wind rendered all of it nearly useless.
Crossing the border was the easiest thing any of them had done in the past day. The most difficult thing about it turned out to be putting up with the bumpy ride. The Wind of 120 Days began to blow in the early summer and didn’t let up until the fall. It laid down some during the night, but was still stiff enough to cloud the air with dust that could be felt biting the skin. Every crack and surface inside of the Toyota was clogged and covered in a thin yellow patina. Jack had a chronic cough by the time they’d traveled the forty miles to rejoin the paved highway. Taybad lay just a few miles ahead. It was a small city by Iranian standards—around fifty thousand people—just large enough so strangers could blend in, but small enough that there were few people on the road at two o’clock in the morning. Unlike cities in America, it was almost completely dark.
Ysabel stirred when they hit smooth pavement, jolted by the sudden comfort of the ride. Arms over her head, she gave a long feline stretch, which did not go unnoticed by either man.
Dovzhenko took a chance and drove into a quiet neighborhood on the eastern side of town. Toyota Hilux trucks were common and Dovzhenko dropped Ryan off with a screwdriver from the glovebox so he could steal a local license plate. Islam’s feelings about dogs made them few and far between in Iran, so he didn’t have to contend with any barking while he unscrewed the plate. Dirt all but cemented the license plate to the truck’s frame, but
the constant moan of wind helped to cover any errant squeaks and clanks when Ryan pried it loose. With any luck, they’d be in Mashhad before the theft was reported.
The new plate attached to the rear of the Toyota, Dovzhenko left Taybad in the blowing dust. Ryan took a quick moment to send a flash message to Clark on the laptop with the satellite hookup. The signal was active for less than two minutes before he powered off the phone and closed the laptop. Headlights cut the blackness ahead and silence settled inside the vehicle.
Dovzhenko knew the name of the engineer they hoped to turn was Yazdani. He knew the hospital where Yazdani’s son received medical treatments, but he had no idea where the man lived. They moved forward with only the vaguest of plans.
Pitching a foreign national was touchy, even if one had something tangible to offer, like the promise of medication for a sick child. Some people put patriotism above all else. Even those who might eventually come around had to leap over hurdles of conscience. That took time—something Ryan and the others did not have.
The pitch would have to be made at Yazdani’s home, where the rules of Persian hospitality dictated he invite visitors in and offer them refreshment. Ysabel could use her credentials from the UN Office on Drugs and Crime at the children’s hospital and, she hoped, find out where Yazdani lived. Then they would simply knock on the door. If he refused . . . Ryan didn’t want to think about that.
But first they had to rest.
Dovzhenko knew a place, a woman who he’d worked with in the past, he said. The iffy friend of an unproven Russian spy didn’t exactly fill Ryan with confidence. But his ear was starting to throb and probably needed to be looked at. Judging from the muddy slop he’d had to swim through to get out of the burning van, a double dose of antibiotics was in order. The worst part, at least in the near term, was the bandage around his head. Wounds said there’d been a fight, and fights drew unwanted police attention. It couldn’t be helped, so he put it out of his mind. He had enough to worry about. Fatigue already threatened to lead to stupid mistakes, and in a country like Iran, they weren’t likely to get many do-overs. The physical and mental stress of the past few hours had taken a tremendous toll on all of them.
