Countdown to Midnight

Sixteen

One hundred and forty kilometers southeast of the Caspian Sea, the Shahrud Missile Test Facility sat in a desolate wasteland. A steep, rocky ridge rose above the complex of blue-roofed rocket assembly buildings, concrete blockhouses, and solid-fuel storage facilities. They were surrounded by protective earthen berms and office and headquarters facilities. From the air, it didn’t look like much, scarcely a dozen individual buildings set in a square grid pattern that was little more than seven hundred meters on a side. The rocket launch site itself — a large concrete pad, gantry, and flame trench — was located five kilometers away.

Appearances, though, as with so much else in Iran, were deceiving.

Like an iceberg, nine-tenths of the Shahrud Test Facility was hidden from sight — concealed in vast, bombproof tunnels dug into the adjoining ridge. Two green-roofed sheds hid the main entrances to these tunnels from satellite and air observation.

Captain Leonid Kazmin stood in the shade provided by one of these sheds. He felt uncomfortable in the baggy drab green fatigues his Iranian Revolutionary Guard “hosts” had provided to replace his immaculately tailored Russian uniform with its distinctive 12th Main Directorate atom-and-mace unit badge. A frown creased his pale, narrow-nosed face. How long was he going to have stand here, waiting around like an ill-dressed buffoon?

Irritated, he swung toward his two minders. One of them was a slim, almost dandyish major in the Revolutionary Guards. The other, burly and wide-shouldered, was one of Voronin’s Raven Syndicate “specialists.” Which was really nothing more than a polite euphemism for a hired killer, Kazmin thought with contempt. His mind immediately danced away from the awkward realization that the same epithet could just as easily be applied to him — with the sole difference being that while the other Russian’s violent acts might be calculated in terms of small-caliber pistol and rifle rounds fired, his own would be measured in hundreds of kilotons of explosive power. “Well?” he demanded waspishly. “What’s the delay now?” He checked his watch. “We have less than three hours until the next American reconnaissance pass.”

“Patience, Captain,” the Iranian major said soothingly. “Everything is still on schedule.” He smiled. “My superiors are well aware of our adversaries’ spy satellite orbits. And we are quite used to working around them.”

As if in answer, klaxons blared suddenly.

Startled, Kazmin spun back toward the huge entrance dug into the ridge. A massive steel outer door swung ponderously open, revealing a brightly lit tunnel leading deep underground. Almost before the door stopped moving, a long convoy of vehicles rumbled slowly out of the enormous passage.

The first out were seven four-wheel-drive, Iranian-built Raksh armored personnel carriers. Three were equipped with 12.7mm heavy machine guns. Two more carried 30mm autocannons. And the remaining pair were armed with 23mm antiaircraft guns already pointed skyward. All of the APCs were crowded with well-armed soldiers, a mix of Revolutionary Guards and Voronin’s former Spetsnaz troops. All of these wheeled fighting vehicles fanned out around the mouth of the tunnel in a protective arc.

A flock of smaller Safir utility trucks, modeled on America’s famous World War II — era Willys Jeeps, emerged next. Some carried stern-faced Iranian officers and more soldiers. Others were filled with missile technicians from the Shahrud facility.

Last out of the tunnel were four very large trucks. Three of them towed heavily loaded flatbed trailers. Thick canvas tarpaulins shrouded the long cylindrical shapes tied down aboard these trailers. The fourth big rig hauled a freight container whose doors were tightly sealed and padlocked. It braked to a stop right beside Kazmin and his two minders.

The Iranian major stepped forward and opened the cab’s passenger side door with a flourish. “Please get in quickly, Captain,” he said politely. He smiled thinly. “As you rightly point out, our schedule is very tight. We have no time to waste.”

Kazmin fought down an urge to protest the other man’s obvious insolence. For all the fanatical dreams and desires of Iran’s theocratic rulers, the sophisticated rockets built at their orders were still only longer-ranged versions of the Nazi V2s that had pummeled London, Antwerp, Paris, and other Allied cities during the Second World War. Deadly as Hitler’s vengeance weapons had been on a small scale, they could not change the course of history. Nor could any of Iran’s ballistic missiles. Without the combination of his expertise and the special device aboard this truck, the Iranians might as well plan on throwing rocks at their greatest enemy.

Awkwardly, he pulled himself up into the truck cab. Too late, he recognized the other passenger already seated next to their driver. Short, stocky, and white-bearded Dr. Hossein Majidi was the chief missile engineer for Tehran’s unconventional weapons programs. And Kazmin had been doing his best to dodge the other man’s probing questions ever since arriving at Shahrud. His orders from Voronin required him to cooperate with the Iranians, but only to the extent necessary to make sure MIDNIGHT succeeded. He had not planned to instruct them on the complete details of one of Russia’s most carefully guarded nuclear weapons technologies. But now he was trapped.

Still smiling smugly, the Revolutionary Guard major slammed the door shut and stepped back. Then he raised a clenched fist in a signal and brought it down fast. From near the front of the convoy, the deep, echoing blaaat of a truck air horn replied. Fitfully at first, with quick stops and starts, the long line of trucks and smaller vehicles lurched into motion. Three of the Raksh armored personnel carriers moved out to take the lead. The rest fell in behind the larger vehicles.

Twin rotors whirling, two armed Agusta Bell 212 helicopters, export versions of the U.S. military’s UH-1N Twin Huey, clattered low overhead. They flew onward across the empty desert, scouting out in advance of the slower-moving vehicles. Minutes later, they circled back to orbit slowly over the convoy, watching over its flanks and rear. One by one, the trucks and other vehicles turned onto an access road that would take them south to connect with a wider highway.

Kazmin slumped back against the bench seat. This was only the beginning of an arduous trek south to the Shahid Darvishi shipyards outside Bandar Abbas. Completing the 1,200-kilometer-long journey would take them at least two full days — especially with the need to hide their trucks in tunnels or under special shelters erected along the way whenever foreign reconnaissance satellites were overhead.

Beside him, Dr. Majidi pulled out a notebook and a pen. With a genial smile, the white-bearded scientist leaned closer. “Since we now we have a considerable amount of time on our hands, Captain,” he said politely, “I wonder if you could brief me more thoroughly on how to set parameters for the various environmental sensors inside the warhead — so that it will detonate precisely as planned? After all, when the great moment arrives, this will be one of my most important tasks.”

Kazmin sighed. Judging how much to reveal and how much to withhold was going to be a nightmare, he thought gloomily. Grimly, he settled in for what he was suddenly sure would be the longest trip of his life.