Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  The city of Tehran lay in a vast valley surrounded by mountains. During the winter, in a weather phenomenon known as temperature inversion, colder air would settle over the region, sealing the warmer polluted atmosphere into the valley like a lid on a pot. Usually the weather patterns changed by March, but winter had been slow to release its grip this year and a fog of car exhaust and smoke swirled around the vehicle.

  Hashem continued to watch the news on his mobile as he periodically redialed Aban’s phone. Still no answer.

  As the news developed, things got worse. Rouhani, looking to all the world like a smiling grandfather, gladly accepted Israel’s “generous offer.” He made the statement from the meeting room of the Expediency Council, surrounded by his cronies. Hashem closed his eyes, hoping that his brother had not seen that added insult to his pride.

  The P5+1 nations negotiating the Iranian nuclear deal issued a joint press release endorsing the new location for the meeting. With a broad smile, President Obama, flanked by his Secretaries of State and Defense, endorsed Israel’s “bold move to stabilize a troubled region.” Then he praised Rouhani’s “visionary leadership to bring Iran back into the world community.” Even Saudi Arabia and Jordan offered their endorsements.

  Hashem clenched his eyes shut. It was a brilliant move, an end run by Rouhani around the entire Iranian hard-line establishment. Worse yet, the Iranian intelligence organizations, so wrapped up in their own fights about budgets and staffing, had missed it. Completely. The thought of all the money he’d spent on informants made him sick.

  The car picked up speed as it entered the more exclusive neighborhoods and the road took a gentle slope upwards. If Aban had been angry about losing the election, he would be apoplectic over this turn of events.

  The gate to Aban’s estate opened as they rolled into his street. Maryam was waiting for him on the front steps. The air was cleaner at this end of the city, and held a hint of spring.

  “Where is he?” Hashem asked.

  Maryam led him to Aban’s study. In the dim hallway, he knocked on the heavy wooden door. “Brother, it’s me. Hashem. Open up, please.”

  No answer.

  Maryam pressed a key into his hand and hurried down the hall. He could hear her weeping.

  Hashem braced himself, recalling the drunken hovel he had seen the last time his brother encountered bad news. He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

  A fire burned brightly in the fireplace, and a huge stack of files and loose papers were piled next to the hearth. Aban was seated at his desk, a pair of heavy glasses halfway down his nose. He looked up at Hashem and smiled.

  “Come in, Hashem. Come in and shut the door.”

  Hashem pushed the door closed and felt the heavy lock click into place. “Salaam, brother.” He hesitated, then crossed the room to stand before the desk. “You’ve heard the news?”

  Aban’s smile broadened. He unfolded a wide sheet of paper and gestured for Hashem to come around the desk.

  The paper was a map of the Middle East with Iran in the center. Aban tapped Tehran and then slid his finger to the west, stopping on Tel Aviv.

  “He thinks he’s so smart.” Aban let out a bark of a laugh. “Rouhani makes his backroom deals with the West, sells out our country to the Great Satan and the whores of Israel. But this time he has gone too far, my brother, too far. Rouhani’s arrogance will be his undoing—and our gain.” He tapped his thick finger on Tel Aviv.

  “This is your target, brother.”

  Aban’s eyes glittered behind his glasses, and his face was flushed. Hashem swallowed hard. After all these years, he would have the chance to use the massive weapons he had built in his desert hideaway . . . but on his own President? The very thought tied his stomach in knots.

  As if sensing his unease, Aban reached out and grasped Hashem’s hand. “It’s perfect. Rouhani has worked so hard to convince the world that Iran possesses no nuclear weapons that your strike will take them all by surprise. While Rouhani’s stinking corpse burns alongside his Israeli friends, I will take control here.” His grip tightened.

  “Rouhani could not have done this without the blessing of the Supreme Leader. When Rouhani fails, the Supreme Leader’s position with the Assembly will be badly compromised. While he struggles to contain the chaos, I will go on television and blame the Islamic State. I will be the voice of reason and stability in the crisis. And when I’ve rallied enough votes in the Assembly, I will be the new Supreme Leader of Iran.”

  Hashem felt the hammering of his own heart. It was perfect. Aban had thought of everything. All those years of waiting and planning were nearly over. Together, he and his brother would change the world.

  He dropped to his knees before Aban, the rich cloth of his brother’s robe blurred behind tears of joy. “I am your instrument, my brother.”

  Aban placed his hands on either side of Hashem’s face. His grip was tender, almost fatherly, and he placed a kiss on Hashem’s forehead.

  “They have sown the seeds of their own destruction. Let us reap the harvest.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Ben Gurion International, Tel Aviv, Israel

  16 May 2016 – 1000 local

  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.

  ***

  Zagros Mountains, south of Gerash, Iran

  16 May 2016 – 1011 Tel Aviv (1141 local)

  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 sm
ile 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.

  ***

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  16 May 2016 – 1040 Tel Aviv (0340 local)

  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?

  ***

  Zagros Mountains, south of Gerash, Iran

  16 May 2016 – 1100 Tel Aviv (1230 local)

  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 . . .”

  ***

  Schriever AFB, Colorado, Integrated Missile Defense, Operations Center watch floor

  16 May 2016 – 1115 Tel Aviv (0215 local)

  “Sir! We have a missile launch indication!”

  The big screen on the wa
ll 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.”

  ***

  Zagros Mountains, south of Gerash, Iran

  16 May 2016 – 1119 Tel Aviv (1249 local)

  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.