Oath of Office

62

Jack Junior and the others followed in the Hilux while Yazdani drove his own car to Mashhad Airbase south of the city. They parked in Toroq Forest Park a kilometer away until Jack received the go signal from Mary Pat.

Yazdani went in without so much as a backward glance, intent on saving his son. He’d assured them he was well respected in the missile defense facility. Years of war with Iraq had necessitated the bulk of any antiballistic missile system to guard against incursion from the west with most protecting Tehran. Few in power expected any attack to come from the east, so the area was lightly defended.

At Ryan’s urging, Dovzhenko had made a call to his immediate supervisor at the embassy in Tehran, briefing him of a plot between Major Sassani, Reza Kazem, and General Alov to destroy a satellite in low earth orbit. He had been unable to make contact earlier due to the obvious security issues related to an investigation of a prominent GRU general who surely had spies everywhere. Dovzhenko was, he explained, only looking out for the good name of the SVR — and his supervisor — by separating himself from normal channels. At this point, he told his boss, he would attempt to find out where the missiles were, but he suspected American assets were somehow on scene.

“You think your supervisor believed you?” Ysabel asked while they waited for Yazdani to come back out.

Dovzhenko shrugged. “I think so. If not, they will send someone to shoot me anytime now.”

“This is a foolish plan,” Ysabel said. “You are going to get him killed.”

Dovzhenko put a hand on her shoulder. “It was not his plan,” he said. “I am good with it. Really.”

“Well I’m not,” Ysabel said.

Yazdani’s compact sedan rounded the corner and pulled up alongside the Toyota, driver’s window to driver’s window.

He handed the flashlight/USB drive to Dovzhenko, who passed it over the seat to Jack.

“It is uploaded.”

“No problems?” Ryan asked.

“No problems.”

Ryan dialed the number to Foley’s prepaid burner phone on the mobile Yazdani had given him.

“Is this the person who called about the pizza?”

His use of the word “person” conveyed that the malware had been uploaded. Reference to a “lady” would have meant it had not happened.

“Now I will go get my son,” Yazdani said. “And you will keep your end of the bargain.”

“Absolutely,” Ryan said. “Go get him. I need to wait for word that the missiles have been destroyed.”

“That was not our agreement,” Yazdani said. “You are to help us get across.”

“And we will,” Ryan said. “As soon as I hear back.”

“And what if something goes wrong?” Yazdani said, eyes flashing. “Is your promise to my son only binding if your aircraft hits the target?”

“No,” Jack said. “But plans will change. If we have to, you can meet my contacts south of Islam Qala and they will see to it you both get across.”

Yazdani spat something in Persian and sped off.

“What did he say?”

“You do not want to know,” Ysabel said. “But it has to do with your balls and a very hot fire.”

“Shit,” Ryan said. “That’s kind of harsh.”

“It’s not very ladylike,” Ysabel said, “but I have to admit that I thought it many times myself over the years while I was waiting for you to call.”

“Raptors heading west, Mr. President,” the chairman of the joint chiefs said. “At roughly Mach 1.8 they’ll be over target in eight minutes.”

Bob Burgess clenched both fists and set them on the table. “With any luck at all, the stealth tech and the asset’s malware will make the birds completely invisible.”

“These are two of the best pilots in two of the most advanced airplanes in the world,” General Paul said.

“What about Russian Verba or other man-portable antiaircraft defense systems?” Mary Pat asked.

“They would have to know we’re there,” General Paul said. “Honestly, with the F-22 I doubt we even needed the malware to blind their system. I think we’re good.”

The chairman nodded to his aide, who pulled up the pilot’s frequency. There was momentary static and then the pilots’ chatter came across crystal clear over the speakers in the Situation Room.

“Twenty miles…” Haymaker One, the flight leader, said. “Commence run in thirty seconds on my mark.”

“Roger that,” the second pilot said. “Thirty seconds.”

“Mark,” the flight lead said.

“Roger.”

General Paul filled in the blanks as the Raptor pilots prepared to drop their ordnance. The assets in Iran — the general had no idea who they were — had provided GPS coordinates for the Russian missiles, giving the JDAMs a positive target to home in on once they were launched from thirty-five thousand feet. With a circular error probable of less than five meters, the four thousand-pound JDAMs would make short work of both Gorgons and anyone who happened to be standing within the blast radius. The Raptors would get close enough to video the attack from a safe altitude with sophisticated onboard sensors and cameras, allowing for a Bomb Damage Assessment, or BDA, in real time before they egressed back across the border to Afghanistan.

“Haymaker One, bombs away,” the flight lead said.

“Haymaker Two, bombs away.”

Eighty seconds ticked by and the flight leader spoke again.

“Only getting one secondary explosion,” he said. “I repeat. Only one secondary. We plastered the target. The second missile must be in a different location.”

General Paul looked at Ryan, who twirled his index finger in the air.

“Get them out of there,” Ryan said.