by Jeff Nesbit
DJ closely watched Dr. Gould. Instinctively, he knew that Gould would act to protect the United States’ interests first, and then Israel’s. The Saudi interest, while important, was a distant third. If pushed against the wall, Dr. Gould would let bin Rahman slip through the net rather than risk a move that set Iran against Israel again.
Anshel Gould took a deep breath and made his decision. The joint chiefs had recommended an immediate strike upon receipt of the coordinates at the Sit Room—or none at all.
They’d moved very quickly. The war fighters had set out for Zahedan instantly. But getting to the location wasn’t easy. They’d been forced to navigate through not one, but two, air defense systems in both Iran and Pakistan.
By the time the fighters had reached the target, the car that had almost certainly carried bin Rahman had already arrived in Zahedan. They knew his location. They could take out both the car and the house where he was most likely meeting with Bahadur. That wasn’t a problem—at all.
But taking out bin Rahman also meant that Iran’s air force chief would be collateral damage. There would be no way to explain it away— not to Iran’s theocracy. The fragile peace would be over.
So, Gould knew, the president and the joint chiefs had ordered the fighters to “sit” on their target. They would wait for bin Rahman to finish his meeting with Bahadur and cross back into Pakistan. They would wait until he was safely away from Iran before moving.
But he could not tell any of this to the Saudi ambassador—not right now. Because, Gould knew, the Saudis would not wait. They would act against bin Rahman immediately, no matter who else was in that house with him.
They wouldn’t care if it ended the Iran-Israel peace talks. The Saudi royal family was generally still in favor of a confrontation between Iran and Israel. It was in their interests to see a vastly weakened Iran— and a war with Israel would do precisely that, provided it didn’t spread beyond those two nations.
“Mr. Ambassador, I give you my word that we have taken appropriate action,” Gould said.
“Which is, precisely, what?”
“We have sent fighter jets to the location. They have acquired the target.”
“And have they fired on it?” the ambassador asked grimly.
“They intend to, at the first available opportunity.”
“Again, when will that be?” the ambassador pressed.
“When and if the opportunity presents itself, they will fire on the target,” Gould said. “You have my word.”
14
Zahedan, Iran
Hussein Bahadur was an extremely impatient man. He demanded much of himself and his subordinates. He took orders badly—especially from politicians with no understanding of the needs of war—but always carried them out.
There were only two people on the planet he respected and followed blindly—Reverend Amir Shahidi, the Supreme Leader of Iran, and General Ali Zhubin, who commanded Iran’s Revolutionary Guards Corps. Reverend Shahidi had risen through the ranks of the Revolutionary Guards, eventually taking command of the elite military that served as the lifeblood of the Shi’a regime. He’d then won the presidency and later become Iran’s most powerful ruler as its religious leader. General Zhubin had proven himself so often in battle that Bahadur could only admire his record.
So when he’d been told by both Zhubin and Shahidi to meet with one of the world’s most wanted men in a house near the University of Sistan at the southern end of Zahedan in eastern Iran, Bahadur had set off for the meeting without question. The mission, he’d been told, was simply to hear a proposal from Ali bin Rahman.
He’d arrived in time to stop at the university mosque for prayers. The mosque was full, but Bahadur wasn’t surprised. Students in Iran liked to visit mosques, as much for social reasons as anything else. Bahadur liked to visit mosques when he traveled. It relaxed him and allowed him to think about something other than prosecuting military matters.
Still, he’d had a difficult time focusing on his prayers. He couldn’t help but wonder why someone like bin Rahman would come out in the open like this. It had to be important.
The sun was beginning to set as he made his way to a nice but nondescript home at the edge of campus. It belonged to one of the professors who’d always been loyal to the IRGC, even in the worst of times when students and faculty were questioning nearly every action by Iran’s leaders.
The professor had graciously left the front door open. There was a kettle of hot water on the stove, with a handwritten note about where to find tea, if he was so inclined. Bahadur made some tea while he waited for bin Rahman.
The past few months had been hard on Bahadur. He didn’t trust the Americans, and he despised the Israelis. So it had been especially difficult to sit still while the peace talks proceeded about a Palestinian homeland and Iran’s emerging role in those talks. Iran’s grudging, but public, recognition of Israel’s right to exist had shaken Bahadur to his very core. But he was a good soldier. He did as he was told. And right now, he was being told not to organize actions against his sworn enemies.
So it was with relief that he heard the front door to the home open. Bahadur knew instinctively that something was about to change the equation again. This man—so hated by the West—was not here for peace. He was here for something else.
“Brother Bahadur. May peace be upon you,” Ali bin Rahman said quietly as he closed the door behind him. His driver remained on the front stoop.
“And with you,” Bahadur answered. “I trust your trip was uneventful.”
“It was.” Bin Rahman took three quick steps across the floor, closing the distance between them.
Bahadur extended his right hand. Bin Rahman took it. They studied each other. Where Bahadur was stocky and muscular, bin Rahman was gaunt and emaciated from hiding in the rugged mountains of Pakistan. Yet both men instantly found mutual respect in each other’s eyes, in their common story. This would be a fruitful meeting.
Bahadur, unlike the rest of the world, did not care what bin Rahman had done on the field of battle. All he wanted to know was whether bin Rahman could be trusted, whether he might prove an ally—and whether there was something he and his organization might bring to the table that would restore the balance of power in his country’s favor.
For, as far as Bahadur was concerned, Iran was professing weakness by listening to the United States and Israel. A man like bin Rahman had it right—he would fight and die from the shadows and the caves if need be to remain faithful to his cause.
While Bahadur considered al Qaeda little more than a loosely held confederation of like-minded groups—and certainly not the fearsome threat painted by the Western press—he nevertheless admired their dedication to their cause. And bin Rahman was central to that obsession. It was hard not to like his passion. He also admired the enormous risk bin Rahman was taking by traveling down from the mountains to meet here, out in the open.
Even in the midst of peace talks, Bahadur was certain the Americans were keeping very close watch on nearly everything that happened in Iran.
In fact, it would not have surprised him to learn they were being monitored even now from one of the Americans’ many reconnaissance and eavesdropping platforms. However, they would not attack this house— not as long as he was here. But Bahadur guessed that bin Rahman would not make it back to Pakistan alive—though that was not his concern.
“So you have come here, to Iran.”
It was more a statement than a question, but bin Rahman understood its import. “In time. But first, what can you tell me of the most unusual terms of peace between your leadership and the West?”
Bahadur did his best not to flinch, though it pained him. “The Reverend Shahidi has pledged to work with the Americans.”
“Why, if I might ask?”
It was a fair question—one Bahadur had asked Reverend Shahidi many times. “Because the United States has foolishly pledged to spend its capitalist dollars to build the Palestinian homeland and guarantee it
s security,” he said. “Because the Americans have guaranteed the safe return of refugees, and given assurances about Jerusalem’s status. Because they and the Russians have begun to provide for our energy needs.”
“Provided you dismantle your nuclear weapons program,” bin Rahman interrupted.
“Yes, that is what we have promised,” Bahadur responded evenly.
“And you intend to honor that pledge?”
“We will see.”
“So what else were you promised?”
“The United States, for its part, has agreed to lift all sanctions. The president has given us his full assurance that both our economic and national security will be assured and restored.”
Ali bin Rahman exhaled. “And you believe that?”
“Not for a moment.” Bahadur met bin Rahman’s eyes. “But in return, we have only been required to tell the world that we recognize Israel’s right to exist.”
“And dismantle your nuclear weapons program.”
“Such as it was. We shall see what will be.”
“Interesting,” bin Rahman answered. “Still, I must say I was surprised to hear of such things. I never expected the great and glorious leadership of Iran to be so easily taken in by the Americans and their promises.”
Bahadur held his tongue. He was here, on orders, to listen to bin Rahman—not argue philosophy or diplomacy with him. “So,” he said evenly, “will you tell me why you’ve risked your life for this meeting?”
The al Qaeda deputy took a seat near the window. He was calm enough—though Bahadur was certain the deputy also guessed that the Americans would find him once he returned to Pakistan. That meant the news was important enough for him to be willing to take the risk.
“I have news,” bin Rahman said.
“Of?”
“Of the very thing your own president has predicted for some time, and your people have believed in for much longer.”
Bahadur stared hard at his visitor. Unlike the Iranian people, Bahadur didn’t think much of Iran’s elected president, Nassir Ahmadian. But he was useful to the Reverend Shahidi, and he had a populist touch with at least some of the people. He often talked in apocalyptical terms that played well to the uneducated in Iran’s society. But it was hard to take Ahmadian seriously.
“I can’t even begin to imagine what this thing might be.”
“Well, there is no need to imagine any longer,” bin Rahman said, smiling for the first time since he’d arrived. “For we have found him. He has emerged, as predicted. We have found your Twelfth Imam and our Mahdi. And we are prepared to bring him to you, at your earliest convenience.”
15
The Situation Room
The White House
Washington, DC
Between the Rivet Joint eavesdropping plane and satellite coverage, President Camara had hoped to glean something from the conversation between bin Rahman and Bahadur. But there had been only silence. Whatever the two men were discussing, they’d have to learn about it from secondhand accounts.
Not only was there no way to discern the nature of the talks, but they were forced to sit on their hands, unable to take any action against a man they’d sought for years as one of the most-hunted terrorists in the world.
The president stood up from his chair at the end of the large table in the Sit Room and began to pace. “We can’t strike surgically? Really?” he asked no one in particular.
A half dozen of his most senior national security staff said nothing. They knew Camara was frustrated. But they also knew there was nothing they could do—not until bin Rahman left the house and made his way back through Pakistan.
Finally, the president’s secretary of defense, Senator Dan Johnson, spoke up. “Mr. President, we’ve looked at every conceivable scenario,” he said, glancing briefly at John Alton, the army general who served as the vice chair of the joint chiefs at the White House. “We don’t have anything quite that precise.”
“Seriously?” asked Camara. “What about the X37B we have up in the air?”
The X37B was easily the most closely held spacecraft the US had developed. Only the Gang of Eight in Congress—the Republican and Democratic leaders of the Senate and House of Representatives, and the chair and ranking members of both Intelligence committees for the two chambers—knew its real cost or what its true mission was. All the press knew was that a prototype of the thirty-foot craft had once been launched from Cape Canaveral using an Atlas V rocket, which looked something like a tiny space shuttle, and that it operated like an orbital test vehicle.
A couple of the military trade journals had speculated that one potential use was to launch small, directed satellites over a specific trouble spot during a conflict, giving the military highly specific “eyes and ears” over that location.
The X37B had begun as a NASA program in the 1990s. But it had been transferred to the Pentagon’s Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency and then to the air force. A recent prototype had been able to test a new generation of laser systems.
“It’s helping us,” said Johnson. “It’s one reason we were able to track bin Rahman so quickly. But we can’t pick up conversations with it.”
“And the laser system?”
“Not even remotely that specific,” Johnson said.
The president sighed. “All right. Then what about that system we launched with the Minotaur from Vandenberg? What did you call it—the Prompt Global Strike?”
Senator Johnson shook his head. “It’s just a prototype. It isn’t operational.”
“But your staff said it can hit any target, anywhere in the world, within a matter of minutes. That it could hit any site, from bin Rahman’s safe house in Pakistan to a North Korean launch pad.”
“Yes, it was designed with that in mind,” Johnson said. “But it’s a future weapons system, and it isn’t nearly that specific. It would take out the house, along with everyone in it.”
“Well,” Camara said glumly, “then what good is it?”
The door to the Sit Room swung open. DJ followed Dr. Gould in and scanned the room to see who was with the president. As always, he couldn’t believe they allowed him access to these sorts of meetings. But the president had made it very clear to the NSC staff that DJ could be trusted.
DJ had to smile as he saw the group of aides assembled around the table. Just as he’d thought, the president’s national security advisor, General Thomas, wasn’t here. In his place at the table was Susan Wright, the deputy national security advisor. Senator Johnson, the secretary of defense, was next to her.
“About time you bothered to show up, Anshel,” the president said dourly.
“The Saudi ambassador is here,” Dr. Gould answered.
“Here? At the White House?” Camara asked.
“Yes, at the driveway. He wants to see you. He knows we’ve acquired bin Rahman, based on their human intelligence asset in Pakistan. And he wants you to take action.”
Camara frowned. “I’d like nothing better. But we can’t—not while he’s with Bahadur.”
“I know,” Dr. Gould said. “I said as much to the ambassador, without revealing too much. But you know, he’ll see all of this in the shared transcript at some point.”
“Undoubtedly, but he’ll also see why our hands are tied,” the president said.
“He won’t care,” Dr. Gould responded. “As he said, he doesn’t care if bin Rahman is meeting with the Supreme Leader of Iran himself. We have a moral obligation to act, or something to that effect, because bin Rahman attacked their future king.”
“Easy enough for him to say,” Camara said. “He isn’t managing peace talks with Iran and North Korea while several Arab nations are overthrowing their dictators on a weekly basis. We have to be exceedingly careful. Our shot at bin Rahman has to be clean, without complications that involve Iran’s leadership.”
“I understand,” Dr. Gould said. “But the Saudi ambassador will not. And he is demanding that we give them the same intelligence, if we
will not act, so that they can do something themselves.”
The president turned his attention back to the table. He glanced at the array of monitors around the room that displayed real-time information and signatures. It was maddening to have bin Rahman in sight at last, yet not be able to act.
“What if we tell Iran’s leadership that we thought bin Rahman was alone in the house?” the president asked plaintively.
Susan Wright leaned forward. “We all know that won’t work,” she said evenly. “Iran knows what we’re capable of. It wouldn’t be credible.”
“Well, maybe I don’t care,” Camara said. “How can we simply sit here—and not act?”
There was an uneasy silence in the room. “Because we—as a preeminent superpower—are expected to at least try to do the right thing,” Dr. Wright offered finally. “And the right thing here is to give peace with Iran a chance, for the greater good. We have no choice but to wait until bin Rahman has left the house in order to return to Pakistan.”
“And if he doesn’t return to Pakistan?” asked the president.
“Then we’ll have to cross that next bridge,” Dr. Wright answered.
16
US Naval Base
Manama, Bahrain
Vice Admiral Truxton paced back and forth across the floor of the command and control center in the middle of the base at Bahrain. He was careful to dodge the debris that had been pushed to one side. The entire base was in the middle of a billion-dollar retrofit—ordered at the conclusion of the recent conflict with Iran’s navy in the Strait of Hormuz—and there were parts loose in the center.
Truxton was on edge. The data from the unmanned X37B was being routed through their console at the base in Bahrain, and from there directly to the White House Situation Room and the joint chiefs at the Pentagon. But Truxton saw and heard it first. And what he was seeing and hearing was deeply troubling.