Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 39

The Iranian state jet touched down at Ben Gurion and taxied slowly to a halt in front of the band of dignitaries gathered on the tarmac. As the engines wound down, the ground crew chocked the wheels of the plane and rolled airstairs into place while another team rolled out the red carpet to the bottom of the steps.

An official band started playing as the door of the plane opened and Prime Minister Netanyahu strode across the carpet to the base of the steps. He was alone, as was Rouhani when he exited the plane and made his way lightly down the airstairs.

That was how both men wanted it — they alone were taking responsibility for the course of events. No Americans, no Europeans, no other Gulf States, just these two heads of state setting a new course for the future.

The two men met at the bottom of the stairs and shook hands, both automatically turning toward the cameras and holding their pose. They exchanged a few words, and Netanyahu gave his counterpart a tight smile — or it might have been a grimace. Even the most adept of lip-readers were unable to make out the brief, historic exchange between these two heads of state whose countries had been mortal enemies since before their parents were even born.

Then they walked side by side down the red lane to separate waiting limousines. Tires squealed as the vehicles pulled away.

The whole affair took less than ten minutes.

Hashem felt the mobile phone buzz in his pocket and glanced at his watch.

Rouhani would be in Israel by now. Hashem could imagine him getting off the presidential airplane in the hot Israeli sun and shaking hands with that clown Netanyahu, putting his entire country to shame. He was about to throw away decades of effort in their fight against Israel, all for what? To please the West enough to lift their sanctions? The West needed their oil, all Iran had to do was wait them out.

He’d read the intelligence reports about the US fracking technology and their claims of oil fields in their own country, but he knew it was a trick. They’d be back, they needed Iran’s oil. All his country needed to do was wait long enough.

The phone buzzed again and he drew it out of his pocket and flipped it open. The screen held only one word, an Arabic word from the Qu’ran.

Din. Judgment.

Hashem’s hand shook as he snapped the phone shut. He turned to face his men. They were all gathered in a silent knot, all watching him. The TELs stood in a row, loaded, ready to roll out of the underground bunker into the bright sunshine and rain destruction down on their enemies. Yusef and Valerie stood apart from the men and from each other, like two arguing siblings, both watching him with bright eyes.

Hashem smiled at them all. “My brothers in arms, it is time. May Allah smile on our cause today.”

A cheer went up, and the men rushed to their assigned places. The engines of the TEL vehicles rumbled to life, belching great clouds of black smoke into the closed space of the bunker. Hashem waved to the men manning the entry doors. The heavy steel doors parted, allowing bright sunshine and a hot desert wind to enter the bunker.

The first TEL rolled out the door, followed closely by the second and third. Hashem took his place in the golf cart, and slapped his driver on the arm. He and Yusef had been out into the valley the day before and marked the launch sites for the three TELs. The monster machines were already in their assigned places, with the stabilizing arms already lowering to the sandy earth.

Hashem raised his radio to his lips. “Yusef, radio check, over.”

Yusef’s voice came back immediately, crackling with excitement. “Radio check sat. We are starting to raise the first missile now, Colonel. Twenty minutes to launch.”

Hashem glanced at his watch. It was 1040 in Tel Aviv now. Rouhani, the traitor, would be at the meeting site by now.

Victor Warren liked his new job on the graveyard shift. Not too many people around, just him and the watch officer — and she was pretty easy on the eyes. Not like Gloria, mind you, but a good substitute while he was between relationships. It seemed like he had been between relationships for a really long time. No matter, he was pretty sure Gloria would be coming back any day now.

Well, seventy-five percent sure.

“I’m going for a pee break. You want anything from the vending machine?” the watch officer asked him.

“Dr Pepper, if they have it. Thanks.” He waited until he heard the secure door click shut behind her before he pulled a graphic novel from his bag. Technically, he was allowed to read on watch, but he always felt the WO’s eyes boring into the back of his head when he did. The vending machine was all the way at the other side of the building; she’d be gone for at least fifteen minutes.

He’d just put his feet up when his panel beeped at him. Victor huffed as he leaned forward and clicked on the alarm.

He almost fell out of his chair as he scrambled to face the screen. He would look up the code — it was part of the verification procedure — but he knew this sensor. He’d been there when it was put into service.

He transferred the sensor’s lat and long up onto the big screen, where it showed him the deserts of southern Iran. But the scary part was the flashing message beneath the location.

NUCLEAR SIGNATURE DETECTED

He scanned the information on his screen. The sensor was embedded in a North Korean TEL, in Iran. The Iranians had a nuke on a mobile launcher in their desert. His mind refused to process the information.

Where the fuck was the watch officer?

Victor’s mouth was dry, and he was borderline hyperventilating. This was her job. He was supposed to read the screens, and she was supposed to make the calls. He read the contact profile. It said to call the CIA Emergency hotline, which he knew would go straight to the Director himself. In the middle of the night.

He looked back at the door. Where the fuck was she?

He struggled to think straight. Seconds counted in situations like this one. He needed to make the call. Now.

Victor dialed the assigned number. A sleep-numbed voice answered after two rings.

“Hello?”

“Sir, I have you secure.” Victor tried to keep his voice from shaking.

“Confirmed secure. Go ahead.”

“Sir, this is the monitoring office at headquarters. I just received an alert on a signal from southern Iran, indicating a sensor on a North Korean TEL.”

The voice turned caustic. “Yes, we receive occasional alerts on that sensor; the Iranians have many North Korean — made TELs.”

Shit! He’d left out the most important part!

“Sorry, sir, this sensor is showing a nuclear weapon in close proximity to the TEL.”

“What?”

“Sir, this sensor—”

“I heard you. Contact the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon immediately. Give them every bit of information you have. I’ll be there in twenty.”

The line went dead.

The secure door to the room clicked open, and the watch officer walked in holding two cans of soda. She stopped when she saw his face. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’re about to hurl.”

Victor pointed at the screen.

Her face went slack. “Get the CIA Director on the line—”

“I already called him.”

“Then get me NMCC.”

Victor turned back to his screen. The pinger sent another signal. It was set to ping every sixty seconds once it had a nuclear signature. Victor’s hand started to shake.

Had it really only been one minute?

The first missile was fully erect, white, glistening in the sun. The second and third missiles were slowly coming into position. Hashem, never a religious man, said a silent prayer for their success. His heart felt crushed by the rush of emotions that swirled in his chest, and he fought to keep a clear head.

He keyed his radio. “Yusef, what’s your status?”

Yusef’s response came back muffled. “Loading the final coordinates now for primary target. Spinning up the gyros. Five minutes to launch.”

Primary target: Tel Aviv. Valerie had explained how the missiles were programmed to detonate five hundred meters above the ground, the optimum altitude for blast overpressure. The intense heat from the explosion would vaporize thousands on the ground — including their own President Rouhani — and the shock wave would flatten everything within a few kilometers. Over time, the fallout would drift with prevailing westerly winds across the Israeli landscape, laying waste to the rest of the country.

The second and third missiles would do the same to Haifa and Ashdod, completing the destruction of the Israeli state.

Hashem and Aban had discussed a nuclear response from either the US or Israel, but that was the genius of their plan. The Iranian head of state was in Israel, killed by the attack. Who would suspect the Iranians of killing their own leader? Aban’s television broadcast would blame the Islamic State, and while the world dithered on what to do about ISIS, Aban would consolidate his support in the Assembly. From there, his men would take control of key government positions, the intelligence apparatus, and the military.

“Colonel, I’m ready.” Hashem looked up to see Yusef trotting back to the bunker, where they would initiate the launch.

Hashem spoke into his radio. “All hands, clear the area. Launch in one minute!” Hashem jumped into the golf cart and pointed his driver back to the bunker. They stopped along the way to pick up Valerie. The big Russian’s shirtfront was dark with sweat and his chest heaved with the effort of walking in the desert, but a huge smile creased his gray beard.

Everyone had gathered behind the table they’d set up for the launch. Three big red buttons with plastic covers over them sat on the table. Yusef had already seated himself and plugged in his laptop. His good eye, mostly hidden behind a mop of dark curls, looked up at Hashem. Yusef was shaking with excitement, and his lazy eye wandered to the right.

Hashem glanced at his watch: 1115 in Tel Aviv. The meeting would have started by now. Rouhani would probably be making his opening remarks.

“Begin the launch sequence on missile one,” he said. Valerie sobbed behind him.

Yusef’s voice cracked as he began the countdown: “Ten… nine…”

“Sir! We have a missile launch indication!”

The big screen on the wall changed to a map display of the Persian Gulf as the technician spoke.

“SBIRS detects a ground firing… seven seconds ago… heat bloom is classified as an Iranian Shahab-3 medium-range ballistic missile.”

The general manning the watch center stood and slipped his headset on. “Let’s cut the chatter, people. Work the problem. This is not a drill.”

The Space-Based Infrared System, or SBIRS, fed a continuous stream of data to the onsite computers on the watch floor. His finger hovered over the button that would put him in instant contact with the NMCC. Just a few more seconds to figure out if this was an unannounced missile test or some idiot trying to start World War Three.

“SBIRS indicates a westerly heading, sir.” The tech’s voice rose an octave as he spoke. No way, even the Iranians weren’t dumb enough to launch an unannounced missile test toward the west. There was only one target west of Iran worth firing on: Israel. If it was real, then NMCC would task the US Navy guided missile destroyer in the eastern Med to blow the frigging thing out of the sky.

The general swore and stabbed the button to NMCC. “This is Schriever, I have positive confirmation of a missile launch from southern Iran with a westerly heading—”

“Sir, it’s gone.”

He muted the connection with NMCC. “Say again!”

“The missile is gone and SBIRS shows a large explosion on the ground.”

“Work the problem, people. Let’s get satellite coverage of the area now.”

He unmuted the connection to NMCC. “Standby.”

When the missile lifted off the launcher, Hashem thought his heart might burst. The men around him were sobbing openly, hugging each other, and a few had fallen to their knees.

Their ecstasy was short-lived. The missile rose above the immense cloud of dust and exhaust into the sky. When it had cleared the rim of the valley, it began to wobble. Yusef looked up from his laptop, his eyes wide behind his goggles. Over the din, Hashem saw him mouth the word No!

The wobble increased. The missile corkscrewed, then flipped end over end like an enormous Roman candle. Everyone hit the deck when the explosion bloomed over the far ridge.

Time seemed to stand still for Hashem. He hauled Yusef to his feet and ripped the goggles off his face. “What happened?” he screamed.

Yusef’s chin quivered. With the red lines of the goggles still imprinted on his face and his dark curls hanging over his eyes, he looked like an unkempt child. “The gyros,” he whispered. “It must be a bad gyro.”

“What about the others? Can we launch them?”

Yusef shook his head. “They’re all from the same batch — but I have more in the back. I can replace them.”

“How long?”

“A day…”

A day? Could they hide for a day?

Hashem released Yusef. He turned to his men. “Get the missiles back in the bunker now! I want all traces of the launchers removed from the valley immediately. Move!”

Hashem took a deep breath.

He needed to contact Rafiq. Now.

Colonel Tom Anderson had drilled for an event like this all his twenty-two years in the US Air Force, but he’d never expected to actually deal with a nuclear launch from a hostile nation.

“Get me the latest from the Agency,” he said in a loud voice that he hoped conveyed calm. His underarms were soaked, and he clenched his teeth from the strain.

He had confirmation from two distinct intel sources — the SBIRS bird and the CIA “sneaky” source — that the Iranians had just attempted a launch of a nuke against someone to their west. Israel, most likely.

But that made no sense; their president was in Tel Aviv right now at the nuclear treaty talks — he was watching it live on CNN, for Christ’s sake.

ISIS? A coup? What the fuck was going on?

His first call should be the Secretary of Defense, but the Secretary was in Tel Aviv.

“Get me the White House,” he called.

“President on the line, sir.”

The colonel jerked the red handset out of its cradle. “Mr. President, Colonel Anderson, NMCC. We’ve just received an alert from STRATCOM of a missile launch in southern Iran, mountainous desert, sir. CIA has an alert from a sensor that indicates the missile may be armed with a nuclear warhead. The launch failed after about seven seconds and crashed in the vicinity. No nuclear detonation on impact.”

The president sounded remarkably clearheaded for a man who had just been woken up in the middle of the night. “Thank you, Colonel. Do we have interceptors in the region on standby?”

“Yes, sir. The Navy BMD-capable destroyers Ross and Benfold are both in the region, eastern Med and Persian Gulf, respectively. No indications of further missile launches.”

“I’ll be in the Situation Room in five minutes. I’ll call you back. In the meantime, get SecDef on the line, pull him out of the meeting in Tel Aviv if necessary. Find the Chairman and have him meet me in the Situation Room.”

The line went dead.