Primary Target

8

The mood was somber when President Macklin walked into the basement Situation Room to join Pete Adair, his secretary of defense. Neither man smiled as they exchanged perfunctory greetings.

The chief executive was tall and thin, with a prominent nose, perfectly coiffed gray hair, and deeply set blue eyes. Impeccably attired in a dark gray suit, custom-tailored white shirt, maroon tie, and highly polished black leather shoes, Cord Macklin looked the part of the consummate politician. Like many ambitious men before him, he had coveted the highest political office in the land.

Boisterous and stubborn-natured, the former F-105 Thunderchief pilot was one tough customer. He was also a highly decorated survivor of the Vietnam War. While flying a Route Pack Six mission to Downtown Hanoi, First Lieutenant Macklin had been forced to eject from his “Thud” when it was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. After a splash landing in a rice paddy near a small village, he evaded his angry pursuers for three days before a gutsy Jolly Green helicopter pilot saved him from an extended stay in the Hanoi Hilton.

Behind his tortoiseshell spectacles, Macklin’s eyes were red and irritated. He politely dismissed two Secret Service agents and sat down at the head of the wide conference table.

The president motioned for Adair to have a seat near him. “What’s the latest on the Tomcat — any sign of the crew?”

“Yessir.” There was a telling hesitation. “Their bodies were recovered about two hours ago.”

Saddened by the mysterious accident, Macklin said quietly. “Have the families been notified?”

“Yes, sir. About half an hour ago.”

The president nodded as he went through the ritual of lighting a maduro cigar. “I want to call them later this evening.”

“I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Do you have a salvage team out there?” Macklin took a deep drag from his prized Onyx.

“They’re en route, and we’ve dispatched two ships to secure the area around the crash site. They’re the ones who recovered the bodies, and they’ve also recovered quite a bit of floating debris.”

“I want you to stay on top of this, Pete,” the president insisted. “If it was hit by a missile, it’s an act of war.”

“I understand, sir.”

Born on a small farm in the Oklahoma Panhandle, Peter McEntire Adair was an island of integrity and honesty in a sea of lickspittles. An ex-Green Beret captain and former bull rider, Adair enjoyed high-stakes poker and skeet shooting. Stocky and in excellent physical shape for his fifty-five years, Adair’s friendly personality and boundless enthusiasm crackled like a lightning storm.

Adair glanced at the detailed map displays of Iran and the other Persian Gulf states. Numerous intelligence sources in the region were convinced that Israel had become so vulnerable that the Muslim world was planning its destruction. The only thing standing in the way was the 5th Fleet and other U.S. military forces in the Gulf region.

SecDef checked his wristwatch and frowned. “Well, the deadline is past and we haven’t heard anything from Shakhar or his cronies.”

“Let’s pray that cooler heads prevailed.”

Adair was nervous and it showed in his eyes. “Prost and Chalmers should be here anytime.” He glanced at the empty chair normally occupied by Fraiser Wyman, Macklin’s chief of staff. “Where’s Fraiser?”

“Recuperating from oral surgery.”

Clasping his fingers together, Adair stared at his briefing folder. For the first time since he’d accepted his position as secretary of defense, he was facing an imminent threat from the premier state sponsor of international terrorism — a sponsor who now had Russian-made supersonic antiship missiles and nuclear-tipped missiles to augment its biological and chemical weapons.

In answer to the continued U.S. military buildup in the Gulf, the Iranian Supreme Council for National Defense had quadrupled Iran’s long-range surface-to-air rocket sites and surface-to-surface missile pads. Provided by a leading Swiss armament company, Oerlikon-‌Contraves AG, the top-line weapons posed serious threats to shipping and air traffic in the Gulf region.

Many scholars and analysts were convinced that Iran planned to take control of the Persian Gulf, now referred to as the Arabian Gulf, so it could blackmail the West. At the U.S. Naval War College, the annual war games featured Iran — not Baghdad — as the number one menace among potential adversaries.

Arriving by helicopter from Andrews Air Force Base, Hartwell Prost walked into the Situation Room and gave the president a thumbs-up. No handshakes were proffered while the president and Pete Adair exchanged pleasantries with the national security adviser.

“Dalton is onboard,” Prost announced triumphantly. “But we have to be conservative about our expectations. They’re taking a hell of a risk.”

“I understand,” Macklin declared, experiencing a moment of concern. “Just make sure they have all the support we can give them.”

“I’ve got it covered.”

“Good,” Macklin said as Prost sat down.

Following on the heels of Prost, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Air Force General Lester Chalmers, entered the quiet room. During his first tour at the Pentagon, Chalmers had developed the ability to absorb a series of questions and extemporize rational answers that addressed each subject.

“Good afternoon, Mr. President.”

“Have a seat, Les.”

“Yes, sir.”

The tanned, athletic-looking general had twinkling hazel eyes that squinted through narrow slits. His cheekbones were pronounced and wide, with thin lines etched down his cheeks. A full head of close-cropped gray hair and a slow smile added to his handsome features. An even-tempered man who seldom made a political blunder, General “Lucky” Les Chalmers was the embodiment of a senior military leader. He was also a former classmate of cadet “Cordy” Macklin. They had attended the Air Force Academy together.

The president studied the men’s faces before he spoke. “The first item of business is the ultimatum from Shakhar.”

Macklin switched his focus to Pete Adair. “From the day he issued his threat, I’ve made it clear that we have no intention of removing our military presence in the Gulf. With that in mind, I don’t think we should underestimate him. Even though his first deadline has passed, we may get another one — we need to be extremely cautious, and we need to be prepared for any contingency.”

When he faced the president, Adair was dead serious. “I have every confidence in our military leadership.”

Macklin glanced at Chalmers, then turned to Prost. “Hartwell, what are we doing about overall security?”

Prost glanced at his notes. “All government agencies — plus our foreign embassies in the Middle East and Indian subcontinent — have been ordered to take increased security measures. The FBI is sending additional undercover agents to every major airport in the United States, including Alaska and Hawaii.”

Tired from his trip, Prost spoke in hushed words. “Every airline that flies to U.S. locations has been informed of the terrorist threat, and the FAA is on notice. Our airports are at Level Three now, so unattended vehicles are being towed to inspection points, unattended bags are being confiscated, and passengers must show proper IDs and answer questions about their luggage. As you know, all baggage is being matched to the boarded passengers.”

“What about more police patrols?” Macklin asked.

“They’re working on it as of this morning,” Prost said, then added, “The FBI is coordinating their efforts with local law enforcement agencies to patrol airports and to search warehouses — anything suspicious — for biological and chemical agents. We’re taking every step that we feel is necessary to preserve the safety of our citizens, both domestically and abroad. And, the FBI is working with the Immigration and Naturalization Service to investigate Iranian students who are attending school here. They plan to expel any suspicious diplomats or students.”

Prost paused, then turned to face Chalmers. “Do you have anything to add, General?”

“No, sir,” he replied. “Our forces are still being mobilized.”

Although Cord Macklin appeared to be calm and unconcerned, inside he was nervous. Possessing the ego of a fighter pilot who now presided over the lone superpower, he didn’t want to discuss the threat of assassination. It simply wasn’t good form. Satisfied for the moment, he took a long drag on his cigar and slowly exhaled.

“Gentlemen,” Macklin began slowly, “the next item on the agenda has to do with the question of Iran’s recent emergence as a nuclear player. Moscow’s fingerprints are all over this development, including the Russian Space Agency and the Central Aerohydrodynamic Institute. I want your input, and don’t pull any punches.”

Silence filled the room.

Pete Adair was the first to breach the void. “We all know the Russian foreign minister is openly anti-American. He has demonstrated that he will do anything to elevate Russia on the world stage. I think Moscow and Tehran are betting we won’t cross the ‘Mogadishu Line.’”

Prost removed his glasses and quietly nodded in agreement. “They’re taunting us,” he said in his clipped eastern accent. “After watching third-rate powers stand up to us, they’re convinced we don’t have the stomach for boots-in-the-mud warfare.”

The chief executive narrowly eyed Prost, then spoke slowly. “They — the powers in Moscow and Tehran — figure we’re too squeamish to do anything unilaterally, especially if it means taking casualties and getting bad press?”

“That’s a reasonable inference,” Prost said, with the confidence of a man who was accustomed to being the most intelligent person in a room. “They’ve closely watched us since Desert Fox and the Kosovo crisis. They honestly don’t believe we would undertake a military action that risks more than a few lives, or a few thousand cruise missiles and bombs.”

Pete Adair felt a sudden tenseness. “They know our military is half the strength it was during the Gulf War, and, they know we’re stretched mighty thin. They figure there’s no way we’ll go it alone.”

“What’s your inclination?” the president turned and asked Adair. “Do we rely on ourselves to destroy their nukes, or do we try to build an alliance to work with us?”

SecDef paused a moment, combing his fingers through his rumpled hair. “In my judgment,” Adair said reluctantly, “we have to deal with the problem. Our NATO allies and Arab friends have gone soft on us, and we don’t have time to play games with the UN or NATO.”

The president eyed Prost. “What do you think?”

“I agree,” Hartwell declared. “Because of their business ties to Iran, some of our allies want to offer more incentives to the Iranians. They simply don’t want to face the fact that Tehran has no moral compunction against using any type of weapon, including nukes.”

Macklin quietly nodded.

“Hell,” Prost went on, “we’ve tried to work with the Security Council. We’ve encouraged other countries to increase diplomatic and economic pressure on Iran, and we all know it’s been a pitiful failure. All it’s done is cause a tremendous backlash. The Arab nations believe that we use the ‘dual containment’ of Iraq-Iran as a way to reinforce our position as a superpower.”

Hartwell paused for his message to have an impact. “Sanctions aren’t going to solve this problem. They just provoke the power structure in Tehran and make them more intransigent. We’re going to have to stand up to Iran, like we did to Iraq in Desert Storm.”

There was a moment of hesitation while all eyes were on Prost.

“I may be wrong,” Hartwell’s voice resonated, “but I don’t think anyone else is going to dive into this snake pit with us. We’re going to have to be sensitive to our allies and our Arab friends, but in the end, we’re going to have to swim up this river alone.”

The president still hoped to come up with a less forceful way to deal with the crisis. “Before we start lobbing ordnance at the Iranians, we have to establish some form of meaningful dialogue with Tehran.”

Prost sighed heavily, betraying a dry patience. “Sir, as of two hours ago, we don’t have diplomatic representation with Iran. We can’t even muster a contact at the level of chargé d’affaires, let alone pursue critical dialogue with the foreign minister.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Macklin said with open irritation. “Brett and Dave are on their way to the Gulf, and you’re telling me that we can’t communicate with anyone in Tehran?”

“Not at the moment, sir.”

Vice-President Dave Timkey and Secretary of State Brett Shannon were en route to the Gulf to meet with members of the Gulf Cooperation Council and the assistant secretary of state for Middle East affairs. In addition, Timkey and Shannon hoped to persuade the Saudi Arabian leaders to allow U.S. Air Force aircraft stationed there to fly cover for the naval vessels in the Gulf.

“Mr. President,” Hartwell said firmly, “we’ve tried everything. We even appealed to the Russian and the French ambassadors to intervene on our behalf. They both refused, citing their strong financial ties to Iran. Israel isn’t going to get onboard either. They’re afraid of getting nuked if things go south.”

With a look of disgust on his face, Macklin stared at Prost. “Tell Tehran that the president of the United States is calling.”

Hartwell hesitated for a few seconds. “We, ah… already tried that, sir.”

“And?” Macklin prompted, his eyes narrowing.

The muscles along Hartwell’s jaw stood out in ridges. “The message was quite clear; they despise us for attempting to turn their oil industry into their Achilles’ heel. After the harangue, they pulled the plug.”

Macklin bristled, then spoke in a tight voice. “What an absolutely insane region — beyond comprehension.”

“Mr. President,” Pete Adair said hastily, “we’re clearly on a collision course with Tehran. The powers that be would like nothing better than to see you get on CNN or MSNBC and beg them to negotiate with us, especially after you’ve formally declared Iran a slum of global society.”

Macklin’s neck and face reddened, a clear signal to back off.

Adair paused to measure his words carefully. “Sir, we have to eliminate their nukes before some zealot in Tehran decides to rearrange the topography of Israel, or some other place in the neighborhood.

“And,” Adair went on, “one of those neighbors is sitting on the world’s richest oil field. Alarm bells have been ringing all over Saudi Arabia, especially after the terrorist bombings there.”

“Pete’s right,” Prost quickly added. “We all know that tensions in the region have been growing since the Gulf War, primarily because of the increased presence of our military forces, and the westernization of the region.”

“It’s an assault on traditional Arab culture,” Adair asserted. “We’re viewed as the bad guys, no question about it.”

Prost nodded in agreement. “Another factor we have to consider is the national instability facing Saudi Arabia, and the possibility of a political shake-up within the House of Saud. Between the royals’ succession issues, the disaffection in the middle class, and the passions of the Islamic puritans, the monarchy could literally collapse overnight.”

Pausing to gaze at each man, Prost continued. “Then, gentlemen, we’d have a bunch of squabbling ministates ripe for Iran and Iraq to fight over. Of course, if Iran uses their nukes, the entire Gulf region could become a huge ghost town.”

“And,” Adair quietly added, “we’ll be out one fifth of our oil imports.”

The president suddenly looked tired. “If we launch a unilateral, preemptive strike on Iran’s nuclear stockpile, they’ll unleash the terrorist factions on us — we know that. They could use crop dusters to spray chemicals all over this country and remotely activated atomizers to disperse biological agents almost anywhere.”

With a look of confidence, Pete Adair countered. ‘They’ve already threatened to terrorize us if we don’t pull our troops out of the Gulf. I’m convinced we have the capability to deal with their thugs, and we have the military muscle to keep the Strait of Hormuz open.”

“Their thugs may not respond to your deterrence calculus,” Macklin retorted, and shifted his gaze to the Air Force general. “Les, what do you think about this? I want to hear your thoughts.”

Chalmers answered without hesitation. “I agree with Secretary Adair and Mr. Prost. There’ll never be any insurance against human folly. We’re dealing with people who don’t behave rationally, at least not according to our accepted principles of logic. They’ve been accustomed to arbitrary rule for nearly 3,000 years, so I seriously doubt that Tehran — at our request — is going to peacefully destroy their nukes and become model citizens.”

Macklin glanced at Prost and Adair, then fixed the JCS chairman in his gaze. “What do you recommend?”

Chalmers spoke in a confident, clear voice, “Sir, Tehran is the real threat in the region, not Baghdad. Iran has already demonstrated their ability to launch cruise missiles from the air, sea, or land. I recommend we take away their nuclear capability, before our conventional power becomes checkmated.”

Chalmers poured himself a glass of water. “With the aid of certain Islamic fundamentalist groups, Tehran may feel that the time has come to purge the United States from the Holy Land, then destroy Israel.”

“He’s right,” Prost declared. “The Israelis have been passing out gas masks and updating their emergency kits.”

“Nuclear missiles,” Chalmers continued, “or even conventional cruise missiles, are a surefire way to take advantage of the situation and destabilize the whole peninsula. If we, or one of our allies, take a major hit, then cut and run, the fanatics in Iran will be doin’ the boogie-woogie right down Main Street, Tehran.”

The president eyed him skeptically.

“We have to consider every possibility,” Chalmers stubbornly persisted. “If Saudi Arabia is ruled by Islamic extremists, we’re going to see an oil shock that’ll dwarf the one of the seventies. But that’ll pale in comparison to the tremendous oil wealth the Islamic extremists will devote to anti-American terrorism worldwide.”

Chalmers leveled his gaze at the president. “When you consider the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction to Islamic extremists, transnational terrorism quickly emerges as our primary national security threat. It isn’t if they’ll use the weapons, it’s a question of when they’ll use them… and where.”

A hint of worry crossed the president’s face as he rested his cigar in an oversized crystal ashtray.

“We can’t deny the obvious,” Chalmers persisted. “Terrorism is rapidly engulfing our world, and that includes the heartland of America. There are millions of zealots — Islamic or otherwise — who believe they’re the agents of Allahu, or some other God. These kooks see terrorism as a way to punish their enemies in God’s name.”

Macklin slumped in his chair and quietly tapped his fingers on the table.

Chalmers spoke slowly and clearly. “We have to take away Iran’s nuclear capability, and we have to do it now… before we’re caught in a crossfire in the Gulf.”

The president leaned forward and folded his hands on the table, then caught Chalmer’s eye. “They aren’t going to take this lying down. We’re a major target for states or terrorist groups whose ambitions are frustrated by our superpower status.”

“Sir,” Chalmers said as his mouth tightened, “we have the biggest and heaviest hammer on the block. I’m not overly concerned about Iranian reprisals once we destroy their nukes, and I’m damn sure not worried about keeping oil flowing through the strait.”

“Les,” the president said impatiently, “this situation is ripe for miscalculation. I don’t mean to sound like the harbinger of doom, but those people are going to strike back — and strike back with a vengeance. There’s no doubt about it. They’re absolutely convinced it’s their moral responsibility to attack their tormentors. If we’re not careful, we could find ourselves backed into a very uncomfortable corner.”

Macklin gritted his teeth. “If we get drawn into a major regional conflict — like the Gulf War — we could be vulnerable to aggression by a host of potential enemies.” The president narrowly eyed his former wingman. “Enemies who might be convinced that we lack the military capability to oppose them.”

Prost quickly intervened. “Sir, if we become paralyzed with fear, then the terrorists have already won the war.”

“Dammit,” Macklin exclaimed in frustration. “We have to consider the consequences of our actions. We’re dealing with a primary supporter of terrorism here. Forget about their submarines, antishipping mines, cruise missiles, and nukes. No other thug regime on the planet employs terrorism more effectively as an instrument of national policy.”

Prost became rigid with indignation.

“Terrorism,” the president went on contentiously, “that reaches every corner of the globe. There was a time when the World Trade Center bombing would have seemed unthinkable. Now, the friggin’ terrorists are crawling in our back doors, and they have chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons. Think about it. One nuke concealed in a truck or car could take out Los Angeles or New York.”

When no one said a word, the president realized his voice had trembled in frustration. He quickly gathered himself together. “Gentlemen,” he said with a wide smile, “enough of this discussion.”

With a trace of embarrassment, Macklin took a slow, deep breath. “We’ll discuss our options after dinner.”

Pete Adair and Les Chalmers exchanged a brief glance. They had known the president for many years and he wasn’t his usual self.

Seconds later Attorney General Sandra Hatcher and Jim Ebersole, the director of the FBI, were quickly ushered into the Situation Room. Sensing trouble, Macklin braced himself against the tension in the air.

“Mr. President,” Sandy Hatcher said without hesitation, “we have a serious problem.”