Target Omega

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Arlo led Brandt down the hall toward to the Oval Office. After Brandt had left the Situation Room, he’d proceeded next door to the Old Executive Office Building to meet Olivia. He had been there barely ten minutes when he took the call from Iris Cho informing him of the mayhem that had occurred on H Street.

Brandt’s anguish was plain on his face. The placid countenance, the cool demeanor, were gone. Olivia wasn’t simply his aide. She was his closest confidant, their relationship more familial than professional. The two of them had been a prolific intellectual team in the comfortable cocoon of academia. Now the real world had intruded ruthlessly.

“They’re all inside, Mr. Brandt,” said the president’s secretary, Maggie Dixon, a note of sympathy in her voice.

Arlo remained with Maggie as Bob Bertrand, head of the president’s Secret Service detail, escorted Brandt into the room. The president was seated at his desk. Secretary of Defense Merritt and Joint Chiefs Chairman Robert Taylor were seated opposite him on a low couch. As Bertrand guided Brandt to a chair next to Merritt, Marshall stood.

“Jim, for the thousandth time, you know that Arlo’s welcome here.”

“The Secret Service insists he stay with Maggie, Mr. President,” Brandt replied.

“Hell, I’ve known Arlo longer than I’ve known Bertrand here.” Marshall cut himself off, not wanting to make light in view of the situation. “Jim, I want you to know we’re doing everything we can to find Olivia. We’ll get her back. You have my word.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brandt said as he lowered himself into the chair.

Marshall sat. “I’ve read Doug and Bob in on our talk with President Mikhailov. I’ve also spoken to Prime Minister Chafetz and relayed the intel about the EMP threat, just as we discussed — neutral, just the facts. I offered support from the Fifth Fleet if needed. He didn’t hesitate. He definitely thinks it’s necessary.”

Brandt, Merritt, and Taylor sat quietly. Events were unfolding rapidly. Taylor, who had seen a lifetime of military conflict, thought the situation had a certain ominous, martial inevitability about it.

“Chafetz is placing the Israeli Air Force on alert,” the president continued. “He said he can’t risk a delay. Frankly, I don’t blame him. He has no margin for error.

“Now, with this brazen attack right here on American soil”—Marshall jabbed his desktop with his index finger, his voice projecting anger—“barely two miles from the White House, we can’t suffer any illusions that we’re no longer involved — that this is only Israel’s problem.”

“What do you need from us, Mr. President?” Brandt asked.

“I need to know from you, Jim, how far you think our support for Israel should go,” Marshall replied. He pointed at Merritt and Taylor. “And I need to know from Doug and Bob whether we have the capability.”

“Mr. President, do we have any idea who struck the vehicles on H Street?” Brandt asked. “Can they be tied to any state actors?”

“The CIA and NSA are trying to determine that right now. They’re reviewing security cameras in the vicinity, electronic intercepts, satellite feeds. So far, nothing. They’re baffled, absolutely baffled. It’s not like this happened on some country road; it happened during the evening rush in Washington, D.C. Yet no sign of the attackers. They’re ghosts. How’s that possible? And that’s not all. As you know, those were DGT folks that got hit. I’ve been a little skittish about them from time to time, mainly because of the optics. The press absolutely hates private military contractors. But DGT’s men are damned good at what they do and they were wiped out. I’m no intelligence expert, but that looks to me like it requires the kind of skill, logistics, and coordination that can only be pulled off by a state actor.”

“If it was a state actor, that’s unequivocally an act of war,” Merritt interjected. “And we’d be justified in responding accordingly.”

“Mr. President,” Brandt added, “we may not have the luxury of waiting until we’ve nailed down — with a hundred percent accuracy — whether a foreign country was responsible. We may never be able to nail that down. We don’t know when — or even if — there’s going to be an EMP strike, but all signs are that something big is going to happen, and soon. Although you and I both have our doubts about Russia’s innocence in all this, I’m concerned that the actor is Iran. If we’re caught flat-footed, it could be a debacle. At minimum, Israel could cease to exist.”

“So what do you advise, Jim?”

“What specific support did you offer to Chafetz?”

“Logistics, refueling, intel, and, of course, presence of a carrier strike group — the Eisenhower—in the Gulf as a deterrent.”

Brandt shook his head. “Respectfully, that’s not enough, sir. Israel’s air force can do a lot of damage. Perhaps take out a majority of Iran’s nuclear capability. But they don’t have the kind of bunker busters — like our MOPs — needed to be sure that Iran’s most hardened facilities are taken out. Only we have that capacity. We need to seriously consider deploying that weaponry.”

The president turned to Taylor. “Bob?”

“We’re positioned to both assist the IDF and deploy our own forces, Mr. President,” Taylor said. Brandt’s statement had caused the chairman of the Joint Chiefs to sit at attention. The old soldier was much more cautious, more reluctant to use military force, than anyone else in the room. “But, sir, if I might suggest — strongly suggest — that we not take any action until we’re at the point of no return.” Taylor held up his hand as if to ward off the inevitable question. “That point isn’t easily definable. Mossad has outstanding intelligence on the locations of Iran’s nuke facilities. We’ve also gotten some from the MEK dissidents in Iran. But neither Mossad nor the CIA knows from which site any nukes would be launched. We need to hold off until we get as much intel as possible, before our strike window closes.”

“I concur, Mr. President,” Merritt weighed in. “If we go down this road, we need to maximize the possibility that we’re successful. We can’t risk that they’ll be able to get off even one of their missiles.”

“I don’t disagree, sir,” Brandt added. “If we — along with Israel — hit Iran, the consequences are obvious; too numerous to mention. The oil shock alone will drive markets worldwide into a tailspin. And that’s if we’re successful. If we attack and still leave Iran with nuclear capacity”—Brandt shrugged—“well, earlier today we talked political fallout. Many of the Iranian nuclear facilities are located in the midst of civilian populations. Intentionally so. Human shields.”

“Doug, do we have any military options other than hitting their facilities with these godforsaken bunker busters?” Marshall asked. “Anything that could avoid innocent Iranian casualties?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. As you’re well aware, our missile-intercept programs were stagnant, if not degraded, during the previous administration. Peace through unilateral disarmament. At this moment we have six Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruisers in and around the Persian Gulf. But their design capability is for midcourse and reentry-phase intercepts, not boost phase. That’s not going to help Israel. So we need to hit the launch sites before any missiles are fired.”

Marshall slapped his desk in frustration. He stared vacantly across the room for an instant before collecting himself.

“All right, gentlemen. Doug, Bob, be ready to go when I give the order. Liaise with IDF. I assume we’ve gamed this with them multiple times.”

Taylor opened his mouth to confirm, but Marshall cut him off. “We’ll wait until we’ve gathered all the intel that’s available before our window of opportunity closes, Bob’s point of no return. I trust you all to alert me when that time approaches. I will then give the order to strike Iran.”

The finality in Marshall’s voice gave the trio sitting across from him their cue to leave. As they rose, Marshall said, “Jim, stick around. No sense in coming and going every ten minutes. I’m certain to need you.” The president turned to Merritt and Taylor. “As you leave, tell Maggie to let Arlo in here. If Bertrand gives you any shit, deck him.”

Merritt, Taylor, and Brandt chuckled. All three men comprehended the magnitude of what was transpiring. Each was aware of the crush of responsibility weighing upon the man behind the desk, a feeling only previous wartime presidents could truly understand. Each was signaling respect, not just for the office but for the man holding the office. And appreciation that the man appeared equal to the moment.

“One last thing,” the president said as Merritt and Taylor were opening the door. “Where in hell are we going to get that intel?”