Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  A short woman in a dark headdress stepped through the wide double doors of glass and wood. Her hands went to her hips, and her voice was fiery as she screamed at them, “What is the meaning of this? Do you know whose house this is?”

  Reza had to push his door hard to get it past a piece of the gate blocking it. He stepped onto the crushed gravel of the drive and waved the other security men to enter the house. They rushed past her, leaving only the two of them on the wide flagstone landing.

  “Where is he?” he asked, keeping his voice as even as possible. Inside, he was burning with rage that someone—a fellow Iranian, no less—would stoop to using a nuclear weapon against his own people. He wanted to reach out and throttle this woman, but he held his hands at his side and his voice calm.

  Her gaze fell to the stone steps.

  Reza grabbed her arm and shook her. She was no more than skin and bones, really, like a china doll. He pulled her toward him and used his free hand to grip her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

  “Do you have any idea what he’s done? Where is he?”

  Her dark eyes were black with fear, but she didn’t cry. “He’s in his study,” she said.

  “Take me there.”

  She led him swiftly through the wide hallways of the house, past sculptures that cost more than his apartment and paintings that could feed a south Tehran slum for weeks. The carpet under his feet was deep and soft, and the smell of the midday meal still hung in the air. He could faintly hear the calls of the security men as they cleared the house, but his radio was silent. No one on the security team had found the Ayatollah yet.

  At the end of the hall, she paused next to a heavy door of carved wood. Reza turned the knob. Locked. The woman fished a key from her robe and pressed it into his hand.

  “Go,” he whispered. Her feet made no sound on the thick carpet as she hurried away.

  Reza slipped the key into the lock and swung the door open.

  He might have walked into a television studio. Industrial lights on metal tripod stands lit a heavy wooden desk at the far end of the room, and two cameras on rolling platforms were aimed at the desk.

  Two men were consulting a clipboard behind the cameras. They looked up sharply, their eyes cutting between Reza and the man seated behind the desk.

  Ayatollah Rahmani looked the part of the holy man. With his stumpy legs and big belly hidden behind the desk, he was transformed into a bust of strength and vigor. The snow-white robe and turban glowed in the brightness, setting off the iron-gray beard framing his full face. He had discarded his glasses, but he still wore a paper collar to protect his robe from the heavy makeup on his face and neck. A third tech was balanced on a ladder in front of the camera, making last-minute adjustments to the lighting.

  Reza’s entrance halted the buzz of activity. He snapped his fingers at the three technicians. “Out,” he said. “Close the door behind you.” They ran from the room. The security team would take care of them.

  Aban’s bulk shifted behind the desk. “Don’t get up,” Reza took his time moving the ladder aside and drawing a chair up so that he could sit across from the holy man.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Aban said, his gaze shifting to the muted television in the corner. Reza followed his eyes to Al Jazeera. The commentators were chattering about the nuclear talks in Tel Aviv, rerunning the footage of Rouhani descending from the plane and shaking Netanyahu’s outstretched hand. Reza felt the rage quiver in his belly, and he pushed it down. He needed information now; retribution would come later.

  “Your missile failed to launch.”

  Aban went pale under the heavy makeup, but he kept his confident smile in place. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Your brother attempted to launch a nuclear missile at Tel Aviv earlier today. The missile failed on takeoff. The Americans detected it.”

  The ayatollah’s eyes cut to the silent television. The commentator’s lips moved happily.

  “There won’t be any announcement of the launch. The Americans contacted President Rouhani. We are cooperating with them.”

  The composed face beneath the snow-white turban twisted in rage. “He is cooperating with the Americans? Traitor! I knew it! This just goes to show—”

  “We know your brother has more weapons, and we intend to take them from him.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Reza stood. “I thought so. In that case, you are of no use to me. Aban Rahmani, you are under arrest for treason against the Islamic Republic of Iran—”

  “Let’s not be hasty, sir.” Aban interrupted him. “Arrest?”

  “Do you know what they do to holy men in prison, Aban?”

  “How dare you address me like that. I am Ayatollah—”

  Reza leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “You are seconds away from being stripped and thrown into jail. A nice fat boy like you, a fallen holy man . . .” Reza kissed his fingertips. “They will love you.”

  The fat man began to sweat, his makeup streaking down his cheeks. “Perhaps we can make a deal? Maybe I have some . . . small bits of information I can offer. I don’t generally associate with my brother—half brother, actually, he’s only a half brother. But perhaps I can think of some information that may be useful to you in recovering the other weapons.”

  “How many are there?”

  Aban’s mask slipped for a second. “Two—I mean, I think there are two more.”

  Reza looked over his shoulder at the camera. “I have an idea, holy man. Let’s make a movie.” He unclipped the radio from his belt. “Send the cameraman in here.”

  Within a few minutes, Reza had the camera set up to make a single digital copy of his session with the ayatollah, then he dismissed the cameraman and locked the door behind him.

  He stood before the desk. “Take off your robe,” Reza said.

  The ayatollah started to make a fuss, then stood and slipped the robe off his shoulders. The white T-shirt underneath showed his saggy breasts and stretched tight against the bulge of his belly.

  “Turban off, too.”

  When Aban removed the covering from his head, long gray wisps of frizzy hair leaped off his scalp. Reza nodded. “Perfect.” He swept everything off the desk into a jumbled heap on the floor and indicated that Aban should take his seat again. In the camera monitor, he looked like a homeless man. Reza fingered the record button.

  “This is our deal, holy man. If you tell me the truth, you get to keep this wonderful house and all your servants. If you fail, you go to jail and eventually, after I ensure you’ve been raped enough, you get hanged. Understand?”

  Reza hit the record button.

  The interview lasted thirty minutes. Reza asked him questions about the nuclear weapons in his brother’s possession, and how they were being kept. He hid his surprise when he heard they had originated in Iraq. The ayatollah went on at length about the size of the facility housing the weapons and how it was guarded, but Reza detected another note of slight hesitation when he was asked about the number of weapons.

  Reza stopped the recording and withdrew the thumb drive from the camera. He would call Rouhani and upload the file to the Americans for their raid. Let them clean up this mess.

  He resumed his seat across from the ayatollah. “Well done, holy man, except for one thing. You lied to me.”

  The ayatollah started to protest, but Reza held up his hand.

  “This is your last chance: how many nuclear weapons are there?”

  CHAPTER 42

  Northern Oman

  May 17 2014 – 0300 local

  The pilot’s voice was loud in Brendan’s headset. “Commander, that’s where we’re headed.”

  Brendan followed the direction of his finger and sucked in a breath. According to the map in his lap, this was a small island on the northern tip of Oman, a wildlife preserve with a tiny airstrip.

  Not tonight. The island was lit brilliantly, and in the glare
Brendan could make out at least a dozen military transport aircraft, and teams of men unloading helicopters and pallets of supplies.

  The Seahawk helo banked sharply as the pilot received clearance to land on the far end of the teeming airfield.

  This was Brendan’s second helo of the day. Two hours after Baxter’s cryptic message, the Arrogant had been contacted by an inbound helicopter from the USS Ross. After Baxter’s call, they made best possible speed away from the Iranian coast, and the horizon was clear of any surface contacts.

  As had been agreed, there were no radio comms. With a wave at his crew, Brendan hit the water wearing only shorts and a T-shirt. After he had put fifty yards between him and the boat, he stopped and waved his arm up toward the helo. A line with a horse collar lowered to the water, the wash from the helicopter’s rotor whipping the water flat around him.

  Brendan let the line touch the water before he reached for it. The static charge built up by the rotors could be deadly until the line was grounded. He slipped the collar over his head and under his armpits before waving up to the aircraft.

  The crew chief in the helo had a dry flightsuit and combat boots waiting for him. Brendan pulled on a pair of headphones.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” the pilot greeted him. “You’ll find our accommodations are a bit less luxurious than what you’re used to, but it’s the best we can offer.” He gestured to the sailboat, which was rapidly blending into the haze of the Persian Gulf.

  Brendan flushed. “Oh, that; I’m a—”

  “No need, sir.” The pilot held up his hand. “I’ve been briefed that you’re a rich American businessman with a burning need to get to Muscat, and we’re happy to help.” He flashed Brendan a smile.

  Brendan nodded and spent the rest of short trip staring out the window as they sped over the waves. He hadn’t been in a helo since . . . since the mission in the South China Sea. As if in sympathy, his knee twinged with pain.

  The Seahawk landed with a flourish at the edge of the Muscat airfield. A lone figure waited for Brendan as he ran under the heavy downdraft. The tempo of the rotors increased as the helo took off again.

  Brendan’s ears rang in the silence, and he worked his jaws to clear them. The middle-aged man opposite him wore a muted print Hawaiian shirt with khakis and loafers. A wide-brimmed straw hat completed the outfit. He extended his hand. “Artie Brindle. You must be Brendan.”

  Brendan shook the man’s hand. It was a firm grip that seemed in contrast with the man’s overall innocuous appearance. He saw his smile reflected in the man’s dark glasses. “Brendan. Can you tell me what’s going on, Artie?”

  Artie offered him a thin smile. “Sorry, my young friend, I’m just the middle man. I’m here to get you some fresh clothes, a hot meal, and a ride to your next destination in…” He consulted his wristwatch. “Two hours.”

  He swept his arm toward a waiting car, a late model SUV. Brendan realized Artie was probably an NOC, a CIA case officer in nonofficial cover, used to handle local needs when the CIA needed to keep an arm’s length. What the hell had Baxter gotten him into?

  The next two hours passed in a blur as Artie took Brendan to a small apartment where he had a stack of clothes waiting and some takeout food. “Sorry about the pile. I wasn’t sure about your size, so I just bought the rack.”

  Brendan had no idea where he was going, so he opted for comfort and layers. He selected a pair of jeans, ankle-high hiking boots, an Under Armour T-shirt topped by a Patagonia long-sleeved shirt, and a dark-colored form-fitting Northface jacket. After a quick shower, he joined Artie in the small sitting room and was surprised to see it was already dark outside.

  “Eat up,” Artie told him. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

  They rode in silence back toward the airport, and Brendan noticed he stayed off the main roads. Finally, Artie parked on the edge of the airfield and shut off the headlights. Darkness fell around the vehicle, and the only light in the area came from a lone overhead light outside a distant hangar.

  The whipping cadence of rotors sounded overhead and Brendan could make out a darkened Black Hawk helo descending toward the ground in front of them. Artie stuck out his hand. His smile was a white slash in the darkness as he leaned close to Brendan and shouted, “They don’t tell me much, but this thing looks serious. Good luck, sir.”

  A few seconds later, Brendan was in his second helicopter of the day and being handed another set of headphones.

  The pilot flared the rotors and landed gently in the harsh glare of the military encampment.

  “This one looks big-time, Commander,” the pilot said before Brendan pulled the headset off and handed it back to the crew chief.

  He dropped to the ground and ran across the sand toward a waiting figure, a Navy lieutenant, who popped him a smart salute before he extended his hand.

  The roar of the helo faded, letting the officer drop his voice to a conversational tone. “I know you’ve got questions, Commander, but right now, my orders are to get you to the general.”

  “But—”

  “The general does not like to be kept waiting, sir.” He was half-jogging toward a small building on the edge of the makeshift airfield, surrounded by smaller inflatable tents.

  Brendan had never seen one, but this had all the earmarks of a JSOC exercise. The Joint Special Operations Task Force was the US military’s quick response team. Designed to be able to launch a full-scale raid anywhere on the planet within a few hours of Presidential notice, JSOC had come to public fame following the raid that killed Osama bin Laden. While most of the media attention went to SEAL Team Six, the JSOC force was also comprised of Army Rangers and Green Berets, as well as the full-scale military transport fleet needed to move an elite fighting force anywhere in the world at the drop of a hat.

  A Chinook helo, the immense double rotors folded back for transport, was being unloaded from one of the massive C-17 cargo planes. A team of techs stood by ready to prep it for immediate flight.

  The lieutenant held the door for him as they entered the small command center. In contrast to the organized chaos outside, the interior of the building was hushed. An Army colonel looked up from one of the waist-high tables and stabbed his finger across the room.

  “You! McHugh!” He might have meant it as a question, but it came out like an order. He stalked over to Brendan, his deep-set eyes fierce.

  Brendan swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re late. Boss wants to see you. Follow me.” He turned on his heel and marched to a larger table at the far end of the room.

  The colonel touched an older man on the arm. “He’s here, sir.”

  Lieutenant General Dave Sitler looked more like a grandfather than the commanding officer of the most lethal strike force on the planet. He offered a warm smile as he clasped Brendan’s hand in his massive paw. “Welcome to the party, McHugh.”

  He cocked his head. “You look a little confused. Do you know why you’re here?”

  “No, sir. I was extracted from my sailboat this afternoon and flown here—”

  “Sailboat?” Sitler’s laugh echoed. “Son, what you do on your free time is up to you, but we’re here to lock down some loose nukes in Iran, and I’m told you are an expert on the launchers.”

  A light went on in Brendan’s head. The TELs—the sensor must have detected a nuclear-tipped missile. “The sensor my team placed on the North Korean launcher detected a nuke? In Iran?”

  “No flies on you, McHugh. You led that raid and your expertise could make all the difference right now.”

  “How can I help, sir?” Over the general’s shoulder, he could see a flat screen showing what looked like an interrogation of a fat man sitting behind a desk and wearing only a T-shirt.

  “Gear up. You’re going with us.”

  Brendan’s knee throbbed. “Sir, I—”

  “No time, son. Looks to me like you walk fine, and we’re not planning on putting you on point. You have first-hand knowledge of the target vehic
les. We need to be absolutely certain these are the same TELs your team tagged before we turn them into piles of slag.” Sitler nodded to the lieutenant. “Get him geared up. We leave in twenty.”

  Brendan’s mind whirled as the lieutenant pulled him toward the door. Outside, the tempo had reached a fever pitch. A line of helos, rotors extended now, were being swarmed by technicians and flight crews doing preflight checks.

  They entered the open door of a large tent where a team of men were gathered around a crude topographical display. No one looked up. Brendan recognized the concentration on their faces. These were SEALs prepping for an assault. This was a bad idea. He had no business being here. Not anymore.

  Two men detached themselves from the group and approached Brendan. The first stuck out his hand. “Lieutenant Dave Ringler, call me Ringo.” He gestured to the man trailing him. “Meet Petty Officer Jack Wiley—we call him Coyote. He’s your babysitter, Commander. I understand you have operational experience—that’s great, but I need your word that you’ll do whatever Coyote says.” He leveled his gaze at Brendan. “His job is to get you in and out in one piece and with no extra holes. Capisce, sir?”

  Brendan nodded. He held out his hand to Coyote. The man’s dark eyes glittered and it seemed to take a long time before he grasped Brendan’s hand.

  Ringo clapped Brendan on the shoulder. “Wonderful. I’ll leave you two girls to get acquainted.” He pointed to a stack of assault gear on the side of the tent. “You can gear up over there, sir. You need anything, ask Coyote. Best step on it, we’re outta here in fifteen.”

  Brendan sorted through the gear for battle armor, knee pads, and a helmet, wishing all the time that he had his own gear. Coyote watched him silently, his dark eyes following Brendan’s movement, his mouth pressed in a thin line. Brendan finally stopped what he was doing and faced the man. “Is there a problem, Petty Officer Wiley?” He pitched his voice low, so that the men at the table wouldn’t hear him.

  Coyote’s head swiveled in the direction of the briefing, then back to Brendan. He stepped forward and reached for a strap on Brendan’s body armor as if he was helping to adjust the fit.