The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  Khalid nodded as though he understood, although he had no idea how one made metal more dense with explosives. However, he also realized he didn’t need such knowledge. It was enough that Dr. Muzahim did.

  “What happens next?” he asked his host.

  “Well, your Excellency,” the scientist answered, “we install the weapon into the warhead of aAl-Harbi , a Javelin. We have the first one in the next room.”

  “May I see it?” His heart raced with the very thought of seeing the finished weapon at long last.

  “Most certainly,” Dr. Muzahim said, “it is right through here.” He pointed to an open door.

  Cautiously, Khalid followed the scientist. Dr. Muzahim boldly marched through the doorway as though it led to his living room. Khalid, mindful of the precautions he had seen just a few minutes before hesitated for an instant. Then he stepped through the door as well. Inside was a gleaming bullet-shaped object: the warhead of a Javelin missile.

  “Is it a live warhead?” he inquired tentatively.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I touch it?” He sounded like a young boy in awe.

  “Absolutely,” Dr. Muzahim assured him.

  Khalid walked up to the warhead and delicately touched it with a fingertip. Then he laid his hand on it. It felt cool to the touch.

  “This is the first completed warhead,” the scientist told him. “We are working night and day. We should have all twenty completed in about three weeks.”

  “Three weeks? Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Muzahim replied. “We are completing one a day. That means we should have them ready well within three weeks.”

  “So I can commenceAr-Rasm as-Salah ad-Din , Operation Saladin, in three weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  Field Marshal Khalid Rashid Ribat, President for Life of the People’s Islamic Republic of Iraq, stood next to the warhead resting his hand on it. God had delivered to him the weapon needed to cleansead- Dar al-Islam , the Abode of Islam, of the Zionists. Soon, once again Palestine would be Arab, and his place in history would be ensured.

  “Allahu Akbar!God is great!” he cried aloud.

  “Erev tov. Good evening,” Avraham Harkabi, Prime Minister of Israel, uttered upon entering the conference room. He had just subjected himself to a helicopter ride from his home near Jerusalem to the Kfar Sirkin military base just east of Tel Aviv. The prime minister waddled into the room and looked at the single easy chair set at one end of the conference table. It had obviously been brought in for his use.

  “So, why have you called me all the way here?” he inquired. “Why can’t you drive to my house?”

  “The material we are about to present can’t leave this room, sir,” General Amiram Shahar, Chief of Staff of the Israeli Armed Forces said.

  “General,” the prime minister replied scornfully, “you may be able to force me to ride in that helicopter, but I don’t have to listen to you calling me ‘sir.’ You will call me Avraham. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why am I cursed with FOOLS?” the old man screamed.

  “It’s just a force of habit,” David Eshkol, the Israeli Defense Minister, explained. A long-time associate of Harkabi, Eshkol knew the old man’s ways and that he became quite difficult when tired. “It’s part of being a soldier, Avraham. Now, just sit down and relax. General Shahar has the report that you requested. The least you can do is listen.”

  Eshkol tried to lead the old man to the chair he had ordered installed for the prime minister’s visit.

  “I can still seat myself,” Harkabi complained when David Eshkol made the mistake of trying to help him sit in the easy chair. “I’m not that old and doddering—yet,” he scolded as he yanked his elbow away from his defense minister.

  Everyone waited while the old man made himself comfortable. He glanced around as though surprised they were watching him. “Haven’t you seen an old man sit down before?” he grumbled. “Get on with the presentation so I can get home!”

  “Yes, ah—Avraham,” General Shahar replied gingerly, mindful of the reaction he had to his last slip. He looked around the room. There were only five men present. Besides the prime minister, the defense minister, and himself; Saul Kedar, the head of the Mossad and Colonel Eiten Riff, his adjutant, were also present.

  “Eiten, if you would start the projector.” He turned toward the screen. A map of Israel appeared on the screen.

  “As you instructed, Prime Minister.…“

  “Avraham!” the old man snapped angrily.

  “As you instructed, Avraham,” the general began again. “We have mapped the most probable targets Khalid Ribat might choose to attack with his super cannon. They are shown on the map.”

  Suddenly, twenty blotches appeared on the map. They covered over half of the land area of Israel.

  “God, no!” the prime minister groaned. He held his hand over his eyes in grief. “You’re saying that there will be no Israel.”

  “We are assuming that he has twenty weapons in the twenty to thirty kiloton range. The second assumption is that these weapons are radiation enhanced weapons.”

  “Radiation enhanced?” the prime minister questioned.

  “So-called neutron bombs,” the general explained. “They are designed to give off vast amounts of neutrons that will kill people, but don’t destroy buildings except right under the blast.”

  “People killers?”

  “Yes,” the general answered.

  “Why do you believe that he’d use such a terrible weapon?”

  “Because his goal will be to kill Jews and not destroy property,” the general explained. “Also there is the fact that neutron bombs are exceptionally clean—not an insignificant consideration if you happen to live downwind of the blast.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Do?” The general appeared puzzled.

  “Yes, you fool, do!” the prime minister shouted. “What can we do to prevent this slaughter?”

  “A preemptive attack on Iraq is about all we can do, sir,” the general replied.

  “Meaning?”

  “A nuclear attack on Iraqi military installations using our Jericho II missiles.”

  “Iraqi civilian losses?”

  “Several million,” General Shahar replied. “Most of the Iraqi targets are in or near cities. Baghdad would be leveled.”

  “Just what would this accomplish?”

  “Perhaps we’ll kill Khalid.”

  Harkabi’s look burned into the younger man. The others glanced at each other expecting a violent reaction. “You would kill millions to kill one man?”

  “No,” the general asserted firmly. “I was answering your question of what we can do. I answered it. I did not espouse it.”

  “We should consider it,” David Eshkol suggested.

  “Why?” the prime minister snapped angrily. “So I can be remembered as the man who slaughtered millions? NO! A preemptive nuclear attack is out!”

  “Even if it is the only way to destroy that cannon?” Saul Kedar, the head of the Mossad inquired.

  “Can we destroy that cannon, or its nuclear warheads with certainty?”

  “Perhaps,” Kedar said. “May I have slide ten, please?” he asked Colonel Riff who was running the computerized projection system. A moment later, a map of central Iraqi appeared. Five sites surrounding Baghdad were labeled.

  “We know that the Iraqis have plutonium stored at Tarmiya, At- Tuwaitha, Al-Furat, Al-Atheer, and Dijjla. We also now know that they are assembling their weapons at Tarmiya because that’s where they have their hot cells. Apparently, they are moving the plutonium to Tarmiya a little at a time and then taking the finished warheads back to wherever the plutonium came from. That keeps all of their eggs out of one basket. Even though we can’t get all of the warheads with one attack, we can destroy them with a nuclear attack on all five sites.”

  The old man glanced at the head of the Mossad. “Why is it that you are all so eager to use
nuclear weapons? How many dead? How much suffering?”

  “And how history does remember you?” David Eshkol inquired sarcastically.

  Harkabi’s face flushed with anger. “Yes!” he yelled. “That too! My name will be associated with the deed, not yours! There will be no nuclear preemptive attacks with my name on them. You can plot whatever you wish after the first Iraqi nuclear weapon explodes on Israeli territory, but not one second before. Is that clear?”

  “Then there will be no way of stopping Khalid,” General Shahar noted quietly.

  The primer minister glared at him but didn’t speak.

  “The reason is that once those warheads are moved to the Gomazal Valley and hidden wherever that cannon is hidden, there will be no way for us to destroy them,” the general explained. “We could send every missile and every airplane and every nuclear weapon against that cannon and still not be certain of destroying it.”

  “Why?” the old man asked softly.

  “Because when we went through the intelligence we got from the Americans after the Gulf War, we came across an interrogation with an Iraqi major who worked as a mining engineer before the war on a strange slanted tunnel that Saddam Hussein had ordered built. It was in the Gomazal Valley. When put in context with this super cannon, it is obviously meant to be used to hide it.”

  “So you are certain that the cannon is underground?” Saul Kedar queried.

  “Yes,” the general said.”I am certain that only a direct hit on the firing port of the cannon or a massive nuclear explosive in the hundreds of megaton range will destroy it,” the general replied. “We have neither capability.”

  Avraham Harkabi stared silently at the others. “Since we apparently have little hope of avoiding the holocaust again, we must try to save what we can. I want all military units that can be moved to safer ground moved. I want an evacuation system set up. We must do what we can. Is there anything else we can do?”

  “Yes,” General Shahar answered. “We can pray.”

  “I’m sorry to have to keep you from your weekend, gentlemen,” the president announced upon entering the National Security Council meeting room, “but I need some clarification on what the hell is going on.

  “Okay,” the president said as he sat down, “let’s begin with Iraq. I’d like an update. What’s going on?”

  Director Boswell fidgeted. “Ah, it seems that Khalid is testing his cannon, and it appears to be surprisingly accurate.

  The president glared at him in response. “How so?”

  “Well,” Boswell began, “we’ve located a target area in western Iraq apparently used to test the cannon. So far, our satellites have spotted ten test rounds being fired. All the shots have landed within a half-mile circle and most of them within a hundred yards of the target center.”

  “And with a nuclear warhead, that’s right on,” the president commented. He looked at Admiral Ronald Hillman, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, as well as Secretary of Defense Gilbert Van Dyne.

  “Let’s assume that Khalid has twenty nukes for this monster cannon and that it can reach Israel,” he asked them. “What sort of damage could he do?”

  Secretary of Defense Van Dyne glanced to Admiral Hillman. He was going to pass that one on for sure. The admiral hemmed and appeared very nervous.

  “If the weapons are even moderately large, there would be no Israel when he is through. Virtually every important target could be taken out with just twenty bombs. Israel is a small country, and so everything is real close to everything else.”

  “Do you think that the Israelis would try to take out this cannon?”

  “I do,” the admiral responded.

  “But we don’t even know for sure where it is,” President Hayward noted. “And we sure as hell have been trying to find it. How do you expect the Israelis to do any better?”

  The admiral shrugged. “I doubt that they would do any better, sir.”

  “Now, supposing we were able to tell them exactly where that cannon is in that goddamn valley, what could they do? “the president continued.

  “They could possibly launch an air strike against it. However, it would be suicidal. The Iraqis possess some pretty sophisticated air defenses.”

  “Missile attack?” President Hayward suggested.

  “They have a missile, the Jericho II, with the range to reach the Gomazal Valley, sir. However, it hasn’t the accuracy to hit anything as well protected as this cannon must be.”

  “And us?”

  “You would attack that cannon?” the admiral asked, uncertain of what the president was thinking.

  “Possibly, but not with nukes,” the president answered. “What conventional weapons do we have that can take out that target?”

  The admiral thought for a moment. “Effectively none, sir.”

  “None?” the president yelped. “What do you mean ‘none’?”

  “Well, sir,” the admiral explained, “given that they have that goddamn smoke screen over the valley, virtually all of our smart weapons are useless, even if we managed to force a path through their defenses from, say, Incirlik Air Base, Turkey.”

  “Why?” the president demanded.

  “Because they all depend on a laser illuminator. If you can’t see the target, you can’t illuminate it. If you can’t illuminate it, you can’t hit it.”

  “How about the Tomahawk?” The president appeared to be adamant about finding a solution.

  “Same problem, but in a different way, sir,” the admiral told him. “It looks at the ground terrain and follows a map. If it can’t see the ground, it can’t navigate.”

  “However, you could possibly set the Tomahawk to go to the valley, dive through the cloud and then attack from under the cloud, couldn’t you?”

  Admiral Hillman took several seconds to respond. “Assuming that we had pictures of the target, we could possibly do it. Given that we send in a large number of Tomahawks, say fifty, we could literally blast our way through whatever defenses they have.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. President,” Lazarus Keesley interrupted, “but you seemed determined to destroy that cannon. May I ask why?”

  “That’s a fair question, Lazarus,” the president said. “As you know, I have no great love for Avraham Harkabi. However, I do have a duty to not only the Israelis but also to all the people living in the Middle East. I talked to Harkabi last week right after the Iraqis foiled our attempt to use the SR-96 to get those pictures. He knew all about that cannon and what it could do. Surprisingly, he didn’t rant or rave, or make any threats. He merely pointed out that he and I would one day stand before our Maker and explain our actions to Him. I do not plan to let Armageddon happen on my watch. Therefore, I must find a way to destroy that cannon, but without using nuclear weapons, if there is anyway of doing it. There seems to be a way—if we get some good pictures of that cannon in that valley.”

  The president faced Jonathan Boswell. “A hell of a lot is hanging on your Indian, Jonathan. When do you expect to hear from him?”

  “He’s already in Iraq, Mr. President,” Director Boswell replied. “We expect him to take about four days to complete his mission.”

  “Then we’ll know where that cannon is in that goddamn valley by Tuesday?”

  “Ah, more likely on Wednesday, sir,” Director Boswell answered cautiously.

  Although not pleased with the delay, President Hayward nodded. “Okay, then we’ll meet again on Wednesday,” he announced. “In the meantime, Admiral Hillman, I want you to draw up plans for a massive Tomahawk attack on that cannon and be prepared to launch it as soon as we have those pictures. As for all of you, don’t tell anyone anything whatsoever about this discussion. I don’t want any leaks. Absolutely nobody—do you hear me? This thing is just too damn hot to take any risks with it. Everybody understand?” The president glanced around the room, waiting for everybody to nod their heads in agreement.

  “Okay,” he added in a softer tone. “I guess in the meantime we might as wel
l go home to our families. I hope to hell nothing else goes wrong this weekend.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Sergei Kadomtsev used the can-opener blade of his Swiss Army knife to cut the top off the iced tea can. Next, he delicately extracted the slip of paper thatZerkalo had hidden inside the can, being careful to avoid cutting his fingers on the razor-sharp edges. He shuffled over to the stove in his little kitchen, turned on a gas burner and gently fanned the paper over the flame.

  “Ah,” he muttered as the secret message appeared, “so the woman scientist and her lover are finally coming to visit the city.”

  A half-hour later, Sergei Kadomtsev climbed out of his battered old Toyota sedan and walked slowly toward Von’s supermarket. Apparently remembering a promised phone call, he veered toward an empty telephone booth and picked up the receiver. He dug some change out of his pocket, carefully picked out a quarter, and then dialed a number from memory.

  “May I speak to Mr. Jack Blundell,” Sergei Kadomtsev asked when the phone was answered.

  “I sorry, señor,” a Latino voice apologized, “but Señor Blundell es no en.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “I think en two days, señor,” the Latino responded apologetically.

  Sergei frowned as though he were deeply disappointed. “That’s too bad,” he replied. “I wanted to see him tonight, if at all possible.”

  “I sorry, señor,” the Latino apologized. “Perhaps I geve ‘em a message?”

  “Just tell him that Tony called,” Sergei said and hung up.

  He contemplated his phone call before entering the food market. Kadomtsev had no idea who the Latino was; he was merely following his orders. The message regarding the woman scientist and her lover had been passed on; they’d be in Las Vegas tonight.

  Without knowing or caring about it, Sergei had putOperatsiyaIpomeya , Operation Morning Glory, into play. His task complete, he went into the store to buy a barbecued chicken for dinner.