M20 HIGHWAY, CENTRAL SYRIA
How was this ever going to work? How was he ever going to get there in time?
David was racing through the wastelands of central Syria at nearly a hundred miles an hour. Unfortunately the car wouldn’t go any faster, and David berated himself for not stealing a Mercedes rather than this Iranian family sedan.
At this point, he was off Highway 7 and was flying down the M20 expressway. He had already blown through the town of As Sukhnah and would soon be passing the ancient ruins of Palmyra, known in Arabic as Tadmur. At that point, according to Fox, who was in charge of the map, they would exit onto Route 90 and later onto Route 53. Eventually they would shift onto Highway 2, which would take them directly into Damascus.
David glanced at his watch. It was 12:17 p.m. local time. The problem was, Damascus was over 200 kilometers from Palmyra. At this rate, it would take them more than an hour to get there, and David was certain they didn’t have that much time.
Fox’s satphone rang. David answered it immediately. He was sure it wasn’t going to be Zalinsky. David had already talked to his handler for much of the past half hour, briefing him on Fox’s and Crenshaw’s conditions and war-gaming their next moves. And he was right. It was Eva.
“Hey, it’s me—why aren’t you answering your own phone?” she asked.
“I lost it in the gun battle,” David replied.
Eva gasped. “What gun battle?”
“It’s a long story, but I can’t talk about it now,” David said.
“Where are you?”
“Near Palmyra.”
“And you’re heading for Al-Mazzah?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, you’ve got a friend looking for you,” Eva said.
David immediately thought of Marseille, then his father. But how could it be either? Neither had his satphone number.
“Who?”
“Dr. Birjandi.”
“Really?” David asked. “He called me?”
“Yes, about ten minutes ago.”
“Why? What did he say?”
“He had three things to tell you,” Eva replied. “First, he told you not to call him. He said it’s too dangerous and that this would likely be his last communication with you ‘in this life.’”
David swallowed hard. He tried to press harder on the accelerator, but it was already on the floor. The car simply wouldn’t go any faster than it was, and David harbored doubts the vehicle could really make it all the way to Damascus at this speed. He couldn’t imagine this engine ever having been pushed so hard, especially not in the dust and heat of the Syrian desert.
“Second, he said the warhead is attached to the Scud and on the launchpad, and he believes the Mahdi and President Mustafa are heading there any moment to watch it be launched.”
David pounded his fist on the dashboard. He wasn’t going to make it. He pleaded with the Lord to do something, to help him, to give him wisdom, but he couldn’t find any possible way to stop this launch from happening.
“And third?” he asked impatiently.
“He said he was proud of you and loved you like the son he never had,” Eva said. “He said he would see you on the other side and that he hoped Jesus would let him be the first one to welcome you into heaven.”
At that David choked up. He had never had a friend in his eighties, nor had he ever imagined having—or wanting—a friend that old. But neither had he ever had a friend he’d loved and appreciated more than Dr. Birjandi, and just hearing these words made him miss the man and his gentle wisdom all the more.
“You okay?” Eva asked.
“Not really,” David replied.
“He meant that much to you, huh?”
“He still does,” said David. “He’s not dead yet.”
“What are you going to do?” Eva asked.
“For starters, I’m calling Jack.”
Zalinsky answered David’s call immediately.
“I just heard from Birjandi,” David began, abandoning all protocol. “The missile is on the launchpad. The Mahdi and Mustafa are heading there now. They’re about to launch, Jack, and I’m not going to get there in time. You’ve got to call the president. You’ve got to tell him to order an air strike—now, before it’s too late.”
“Hey, hey, settle down, Zephyr,” Zalinsky replied. “We’ve got that air base covered—a satellite and three Predators are monitoring everything going on there. Believe me, they’re not ready to launch.”
“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t true, Jack,” David insisted. “What have you always taught me? ‘To misunderstand the nature and threat of evil is to risk being blindsided by it.’ Right? I’m telling you, Birjandi is there. He’s inside, and he’s telling us the Scud is on the launchpad. The warhead is attached. They’re getting ready to launch—probably at Tel Aviv—at any moment. I’ve done my job. So has my team. We’ve done everything you’ve asked us to do. We found the warheads. We took one out, with your help. Now we’re racing to the second one because you ordered us to. Right?”
“Of course it’s true,” Zalinsky replied, clearly annoyed but also somewhat—and uncharacteristically—restrained.
“Then listen to me,” David continued. “Even if by some miracle we could get there before they launch, you don’t have a realistic plan to get us into that base, and neither do we. This is it, Jack. We’ve done everything we possibly could. Now it’s up to you. This is the moment. You need to get the president to order a strike now.”
“Zephyr, listen to me,” Zalinsky said. “The two Iranian terrorists responsible for the recent attacks at the Waldorf in New York have just arrived in Damascus. They’re heading for the Al-Mazzah base as we speak. We’ve had two operatives tracking them the whole time, and now those operatives are in Damascus, awaiting instructions. I can link you and your team up with them.”
“And then what?” David asked. “That’s still not enough men, and there’s still not enough time. You have to get the president to order a strike now.”
The debate got more heated—a lot more heated—and went on several more minutes. It was time, David knew all too painfully, they couldn’t afford. Still, he made an impassioned and nearly insubordinate case for a massive, lightning-fast attack by F/A-18s and cruise missiles launched from Carrier Strike Group Ten and the USS Harry S. Truman, currently steaming through the eastern Mediterranean. When Zalinsky refused to commit, David argued that at the very least the Agency had the moral obligation to inform the Israelis that they were about to be hit, but an even greater moral obligation to proactively and aggressively defend Israel, the United States’s most faithful ally in the region, not to mention the Palestinians, who were completely defenseless and unprepared for what was coming.
David knew he was on speakerphone. He knew the entire Global Operations Center was listening in, including Tom Murray and Director Allen, and that’s precisely why he was making the case so strenuously. Because he was being listened to. Because he was being recorded, and not just in the GOC but by the NSA as well. Because if somehow he lived through this day and stood trial for illegally informing the Israelis, he wanted evidence on the record that he had made the case, that he had done everything he could to push the Agency and the White House to do the right thing . . . and had failed.
Another few minutes passed. Zalinsky wasn’t budging. It wasn’t because Zalinsky didn’t agree with him, David could tell from the conversation, but because he knew the president wouldn’t act regardless. Nevertheless, David pleaded with his mentor and handler one more time to at least make the case to the president or have Allen do it. At least try.
“Just think of it, Jack,” David concluded. “Not only could the president take out this warhead and save Israel in one shot, but it could be a decapitating strike. The president could take out the Mahdi, Hosseini, and Mustafa all at the same time. With Darazi dead too, that would effectively neutralize the threat of any of the Pakistani missiles being used by the Cali
phate. Indeed, the Caliphate would likely unravel. Jackson would be a hero. With one strike, the United States might never have to go to war in the Middle East again.”
David knew the last thought was a bit of an overreach, but only a bit. And then, to his surprise, Director Allen came on the line.
“You make a compelling case, Zephyr,” Allen said calmly. “I’m convinced, and I’m calling the president right now.”
David couldn’t believe it.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, son. Now keep moving toward Damascus. Get there as fast as you can. But I’ll see if I can’t get you some air support. Over and out.”
49
“Do you believe him?” Crenshaw whispered, in excruciating pain but still conscious and apparently still paying attention.
“Who? Allen?” David clarified.
“Yeah.”
“Do I believe he’s going to make my case to the president?”
“Right.”
“Yes, I do,” David said.
“Will it matter?” Fox asked.
“You mean do I think the president will order an air strike to defend Israel?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you?” David asked them both.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Crenshaw shook his head. Then he looked at Fox, who also shook his head. Well, he thought, at least they were all on the same page.
“So what are we going to do?” Fox asked.
“There’s nothing we can do, not together,” David conceded. “But there’s something I can do.”
“What do you mean?” Crenshaw asked.
“I’m going to make a call,” David said. “You’re not part of it. You didn’t support it. I’m doing it on my own, and I’m ready to pay the consequences. But as for me, I don’t have a choice. This is something I have to do.”
Fox and Crenshaw looked as bewildered as they must have felt, but David didn’t have time to explain. He dialed the number to the Mossad from memory. It didn’t go through. He dialed again. It still didn’t go through. Speed-dialing Eva, he asked her to repeat the phone number to him, lest he’d dropped or added a digit. But he hadn’t. The number she gave him was the number he’d just dialed not once but twice. Had the Mossad shut it down, even with Mordecai still out there? he wondered. It was an awfully big risk, one that might prove fatal.
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
The door of General Hamdi’s office swung open. Esfahani watched as General Jazini led the way out of the office and down the hall with the Mahdi right behind him, followed by the Ayatollah, President Mustafa, and Rashidi, who was carrying the “nuclear football” of communications gear and Pakistani launch codes. They were surrounded by Iranian and Syrian bodyguards and they were moving quickly.
Once they were gone, Esfahani took a deep breath and stepped out of Hamdi’s office as well. He asked Dr. Birjandi to take his arm and keep up with him. “We don’t have much time,” he explained.
“Why? Where are we going?” Birjandi asked.
“Hangar Five,” said Esfahani.
“Is that where the warhead is?” Birjandi asked.
“Not for long.”
At the end of the long hallway, they boarded an elevator and descended to ground level. There, a lone black sedan was waiting for them. The rest of the entourage, Esfahani noted, was already gone. He put Birjandi in the back, closed the door, and got into the front passenger seat.
“Move it,” he ordered. “Hangar Five.”
Birjandi was a hero of Esfahani’s, but events were moving rapidly now, and Esfahani somewhat resented being the old man’s babysitter. He didn’t want to risk the possibility, however slim, of getting left out—or shut out—of witnessing the launch.
His slight frustration at his current task notwithstanding, Esfahani was trembling with excitement. This was the day they had prayed for so long, the day they had planned and worked for so long, and it was finally here. He had been a devoted Twelver all his life, but ever since first actually meeting the Mahdi in Hamadan on the day of the massive earthquake—what turned out to be the day of Iran’s first underground nuclear test—Esfahani had been in something of a fever. He could barely sleep. He desperately wanted to be found faithful in the Mahdi’s service, and now here he was, in the inner circle, on launch day, the day the War of Annihilation of the Zionists would finally be won.
It was turning into a nasty March day, threatening clouds moving in. Esfahani expected it to burst out raining at any moment. He wondered if that would delay the launch in any way and desperately hoped not.
“Faster,” he ordered the driver. “You must move faster.”
The driver accelerated, and they sped across the air base to the far side, to a remote corner, a good six or seven minutes away from the main facilities.
“Why is it taking so long?” Birjandi asked.
“You’ll see,” Esfahani said, then realized how ridiculous that was. “I’m sorry, Dr. Birjandi. Please forgive me. There are certain things I am not permitted to say.”
“To me?” Birjandi asked. “Why?”
“Well—”
“You think a blind eschatology professor—personally summoned here by Imam al-Mahdi himself—is going to give secrets to the Zionists?” Birjandi charged.
“No, no, I’m just—”
“Then where are we going?” Birjandi asked again. “I don’t have much in my life, my young friend, but I like to have some idea where I am. It gives me a sense of peace, of clarity, that I’m not sure I can adequately explain to you.”
“You’re right, and I’m very sorry,” Esfahani replied. “I have been very rude. You are the father of the Twelver movement, Dr. Birjandi. Until Imam al-Mahdi revealed himself to mankind, no one had done more than you to explain who he was and why he mattered. My deepest apologies.”
“You’re stalling, Abdol.”
Esfahani smiled. The old man was a shrewd judge of character. The car stopped. They had arrived. He leaned over and whispered in Birjandi’s ear. “Hangar Five is a secret. It’s an underground hangar on the far edge of the base. It’s out by the leach field, near where they burn all the refuse. Come, my friend; let’s go see history be made.”
PALMYRA, SYRIA
David and his team were now cruising past the ancient ruins of Palmyra.
“Do you see signs for Route 90?” Fox asked.
“The turn is just ahead,” David said.
“Good,” said Fox. “Take it, and then watch for Route 53 in about another seventy or eighty kilometers.”
“Who were you calling?” Crenshaw asked from the backseat.
“No one,” said David. “It’s not important.”
“It is important,” Crenshaw responded. “You said so yourself. That’s why you made such a big deal about making sure we had deniability.”
“It didn’t work anyway,” said David. “The call didn’t go through.”
“Who were you calling?” Crenshaw pressed again.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. Let it drop.”
“You were calling the Israelis, weren’t you?” said Fox.
David stared straight ahead and kept driving. “You guys need to rest.”
“No, we need to stop these madmen from incinerating an American ally,” said Fox. “You think we’re not with you? That’s our mission, David. That’s what we’re here to do—protect the American people and our allies from a nuclear holocaust. Isn’t it?”
David was silent.
“How did you get that number?” Crenshaw asked.
“I’d rather not say.”
“Get off it, David,” Crenshaw shot back. “This is it, man. We’re dying here. Fox and me might very well not make it. We get that. We’re okay with that. But we’re not okay with you holding back information that could save the lives of millions. Now start talking!”
David felt ashamed. Crenshaw was right. He didn’t know why he hadn’t brought them into this sooner. He’d been trying to protect th
em. But maybe he should have at least given them the option of rejecting his plan rather than keeping it from them. He explained the call he had made earlier at the border and why he’d made it.
“And now that number won’t work?” Fox asked.
“Right.”
“They probably cut the line,” Crenshaw said.
“Maybe,” said David. “But that’s it. I’m out of ideas.”
“You don’t have any other numbers to the Mossad?” Fox asked.
“No, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
David looked at him quizzically. “How?”
“Tolik,” said Fox.
“What?”
“Call Matty,” Fox continued. “Tell him the situation. Tell him to give that Tolik guy a satphone and have him call the Mossad. They’ll listen to their own man a lot more than they’ll listen to you. They’ve got to listen to him. And Naphtali will definitely order a strike. But you’d better move fast.”
“You know we’ll all go to prison,” said David.
Fox shook his head and looked at David. “Just you, my friend,” he said. “Nick and I . . . it’s not going to matter. We’re not going to make it back.”
David winced. He refused to believe that. He didn’t even want to think about it. But deep down, he feared Fox might be right.
“You’re sure?” David asked. “Both of you?”
Fox and Crenshaw nodded, and David finally did as well.
Damascus Countdown Page 42