by Dale Brown
AS FAR AS PRESIDENT TODD WAS CONCERNED, THERE was no choice—she had already committed herself to destroying the Iranian bomb program. If there was another site, or even ten more sites, they had to be eliminated.
Far better to do it with the tiny and apparently undetectable Whiplash aircraft. But the B-2s and B-1s were ready. If the team inside Iran couldn’t pull this off, she’d send the bombers in. She was not about to do what her predecessor had done and leave the problem for the next shift.
An overt attack by the U.S. was sure to have dire consequences. The Iranians couldn’t strike the U.S. directly, but they would surely unleash wave upon wave of terrorists. They might also take another shot at blocking the Persian Gulf.
Todd expected Secretary of State Alistair Newhaven to use that as part of his argument against an attack. But he surprised her, telling the packed conference room in the White House basement that he thought the attack must be pressed.
“I think it’s not a matter of debate,” said Newhaven, gesturing with the back of his hand at the map on the display screen at the front of the room. “In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying goes. The real question is what the Iranians will do. If I’m them, I push up my timeline. A lot.”
“If they’re capable,” said the Secretary of Defense Charles Lovel. “We don’t have enough data. Frankly, it’s not even clear whether they would go ahead with a test.”
“We have to assume that they have the capability,” said National Security Advisor Blitz. He studiously avoided looking at the head of the CIA, who sat glumly at the side of the table, all but wearing a dunce cap. “They have been ahead of every estimate. Consistently.”
“If they do test the bomb, they’ll have no material for another,” added Lovel. “We’ve wiped out their centrifuge arrays.”
“They’ll build more,” said Blitz. “We’ll have a twelve month to three year window.”
“I’ll take that,” said Todd. “In any event, that isn’t the issue at the moment. We’ll have time to analyze the situation further once we have more intelligence.”
She took a quick poll on a second attack, going around the room; it was unanimous. As was her custom, Todd let the others think that she was undecided until they had given their opinions; as usual, her mind was already set.
“We will continue the campaign,” she said, rising. “Covertly if possible, overtly if necessary. I expect a second strike within twenty-four hours. Our official posture, until then, will be as it has been: an earthquake. No leaks. Absolutely no leaks—lives are on the line here. And I don’t mean those of just our operatives.”
“Congress,” said Blitz. “The intelligence committee has been screaming—”
“I’ll deal with Congress,” said Todd.
ZEN WAS A LITTLE SURPRISED WHEN THE WHITE HOUSE called back so quickly, but the “invitation” to join the President for an early dinner did catch him off guard. When he hesitated before answering, the President’s chief of staff came on the line personally and told him that “Ms. Todd really wants to talk to you as soon as possible, and if you can’t make supper—”
“I can certainly get to the White House right away,” said Zen. “And I’d love to have dinner with the President. Should I bring my wife?”
“Actually, it’s supper, not dinner. And while I happen to know that the President thinks very highly of Mrs. Stockard, the invitation is for one only. Would you like us to send a car?”
“I’ll drive my van over,” said Zen. “I’m leaving now.”
CHRISTINE TODD LIKED TO WALK AROUND THE WHITE House kitchen, not because she felt the urge to cook or check on the staff, but because it was a refuge from the formal business of the rest of the house. The people doing their jobs here—chefs, cooks, assistants—could have been anywhere in the world. They were naturally circumspect and on their best behavior when she walked in, but even so, the hint of the world beyond the bubble she lived in was welcome.
She wondered how they would take the news of the cancer. Certainly they’d feel bad for her. Would they feel that she betrayed them by not mentioning it?
Maybe she should arrange to tell them first. Or not first, but very soon in the process. Personally.
It was still too theoretical to contemplate. She had too many other things to do.
“Our guest enjoys his beer,” she told the head steward as he came over to greet her. “Anchor Steam is one of his favorites, as I recall. I believe you have that.”
“We’ll look after Senator Stockard, ma’am. Not a problem.”
The President walked around the steel-topped prep island, glancing at the stove and the young cook watching the gravy.
“Very good, very good,” Todd announced. “Wonderful, actually. Thank you, everyone. It smells delightful, as usual.”
One of the chief of staff’s aides intercepted her in the hallway; he had the latest update on the Iranian situation—the strike unit was standing by in Iran, waiting for the next target. The backup set of nano-UAVs were being programmed for the attack. The intelligence agencies were scrambling for more data on the possible target—still unsure which of the two former sites it was.
The update, ironically enough, had come straight from Breanna Stockard. The President had no doubt that Zen knew nothing about the operation, at least not from Breanna.
What an interesting household that must be, she thought as she headed to the family dining room where Zen was already waiting.
She entered the room with her usual bustle, greeting Zen and going straight to her chair. He moved his wheelchair back as a sign of respect.
“Senator, so nice to see you. I hope I haven’t kept you long.”
“I just got here,” said Zen politely.
The residence dining room—occasionally known as the President’s Dining Room or the Private Dining Room—was one of three in the building (not counting the formal room), and when she was dining with someone, Todd chose the room depending on the tone she was trying to set. This was the most intimate, less ornate than the Family Dining Room and less work-oriented than the Oval Office Dining Room. At least that was how she thought of it.
“I’m glad you could make it,” said Todd, pulling out her chair. “Especially on short notice.”
“I don’t get invited to the White House very often,” said Zen. “Especially without my wife.”
“Yes.” She turned to the attendant who was waiting nearby. “Perhaps the senator would like something to drink. A beer? Maybe an Anchor Steam?”
“That’d be fine,” said Zen. “Just one, though—I’m driving.”
“I’ll try one as well, and some water,” Todd told the attendant. She turned back to Zen. “I never understood—what’s the difference between regular beer and steam beer? Or is that just something for marketing?”
Zen elaborated on the difference in brewing styles. The beer arrived before he finished.
“It’s very good,” said Todd, taking a sip. “Crisp.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t invite me over to discuss beer styles,” said Zen.
He drank heartily, very much like her husband, Todd thought.
“No, though it has been educational.”
Todd studied him. He would make a good President: sure of himself, easygoing yet intelligent, with sound judgment—usually. An excellent service record, a decorated hero, which in some ways made him virtually unassailable.
Then again, she’d seen more veterans than she could count chewed up by the political naysayers. Washington was a place where real achievements meant much less than the dirt others could throw at you.
Todd felt an urge to tell him about her condition, and what it meant, and would mean, for the future. She wanted suddenly to suggest he run for President. But she couldn’t do that. Too many questions, too many complications. And that wasn’t why she had called him here.
&nb
sp; “My invitation came after I called on behalf of the Intelligence Committee,” prompted Zen.
“Yes.” Todd pulled herself back into business mode. “Your committee is wondering, no doubt, what’s going on in Iran.”
“Exactly.”
“You and I, Senator—occasionally we have disagreed.”
“More than occasionally,” admitted Zen.
“Even so, I consider you one of our finer senators.”
“I’m flattered.”
“We’re wondering what’s going on in Iran ourselves.”
Zen raised his eyebrow.
“Of course, there are situations when we—when I—cannot tell everyone precisely all that I suspect about things that go on in the world,” said Todd, using her most offhanded tone. “I’m always faced with the question: will what I say jeopardize other people?”
Zen nodded. “I imagine it must be difficult to make that call. I think I may have even said something like that to the committee earlier.”
“Are you here personally?” she asked. “Or as the representative of the committee?”
“Both, I guess.”
“What is it that you personally want to know, Senator?” asked Todd.
Zen had pushed his wheelchair sideways—the table was a little higher than what would have been comfortable. He leaned his right elbow on it, finger to his lips, thinking.
“I would not want any information that would jeopardize anyone’s lives,” he told her.
“That’s good, because you won’t get any.”
“What I would want to know is that the administration is aware of the implications.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m told that the signature of the earthquake is not the sort of signature that one sees in earthquakes.”
“Interesting.” Todd reached for her beer and took another very small sip.
“I think that news is going to be public knowledge pretty soon,” added Zen.
“Well, it is a fact that the area contains a number of nuclear research centers,” said Todd, choosing her words as carefully as he had.
Zen glanced toward the door. The steward was approaching with their dinners.
“Meat loaf,” said Todd. “One of your favorites.”
“It is,” said Zen, sounding a little surprised.
“You must have mentioned it somewhere,” said Todd. “The staff doesn’t miss much.”
“I bet they don’t.”
“I like it, too,” she confessed. “Especially the gravy. But it’s very fattening.”
They ate in silence for a while.
“Very good meat loaf,” said Zen.
“I think a full and candid report is in order for your committee,” said the President. “As soon as it can be arranged.”
“How long, do you think, before that can happen?”
“It may be twenty-four hours,” said Todd.
“That’s quite a while,” said Zen. “There are a lot of historical precedents with much shorter time spans.”
“Hmmm.”
The Constitution gave Congress the power to declare war, of course, but the operation was far short of that. Current law called for the President to “consult” with Congress about the use of force, but even that was a gray area here. The previous administration, and the two before that, hadn’t felt the need to inform Congress of every covert operation being undertaken, and in fact had even been rather “loose” when talking about specific programs.
On the other hand, this was an extremely volatile issue, and the dire consequences could certainly include war. Todd knew she needed to keep Congress on her side, and alienating the Intelligence Committee would not help her meet that goal.
“I think we should have enough information for a thorough briefing by then,” she said. “But there’s always a possibility it will take longer.”
“I would think that if something was going to happen that involved a great deal of resources,” said Zen, “a lot of resources, then consultation would have to take place before those resources were ultimately committed.”
Todd took that to mean the committee wanted to be informed before she sent the bombers in.
“I don’t know that that would be possible,” she parried.
“Possible or not, I would guess that would be the sentiment of the full committee.”
“So the volume of resources makes a difference?” said Todd.
“Well, I don’t know how one measures that,” said Zen carefully. “I do know that, personally, I draw a line somewhere. But if there were, well—to speak theoretically—if there was a sizable commitment, something so large that the press couldn’t help but notice—there are a lot of members who naturally, and rightly, would press for an explanation.”
Todd didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t necessarily demanding that she inform Congress before she attacked, but he was certainly telling her that if she didn’t, there’d be consequences. But then, she was already aware of that.
“In the meantime, I’d like to schedule that briefing from NSC or the Agency,” said Zen, meaning the National Security Council or CIA staff. “Can we say first thing in the morning?”
“I think that’s premature.”
“The afternoon?”
“I don’t know that I could commit to that.”
“An entire day.” Zen’s voice more than hinted disapproval. “That’s a long time under the circumstances. A lot may happen by then.”
“I know some on the committee thinks the intelligence services are overstaffed,” said Todd, her tone matching Zen’s. “But I’m sure you don’t share that feeling.”
Zen only smiled. They ate for a while longer, each concentrating on the food, until Todd broke the silence with a remark about the Nationals, who had unfortunately just lost five games in a row. Zen responded with some thoughts about how soon the hitting might come around. Dessert arrived in the form of a peach cobbler, but Zen took only a few bites.
Todd skipped hers completely. She had a great deal of work to do; the staff knew to save it as a midnight snack, when it would get a fresh dollop of ice cream on the side.
“Tell me one thing,” said Zen as he got ready to leave. “Was it a success?”
Todd studied him. He would make a good President, she decided; his only problem would be the wheelchair. Were people ready to vote for someone with such an obvious handicap, even if it had been “earned” while in the service?
“Good night, Senator,” she said finally. “Best to your wife.”
9
Iran
TURK SLEPT DEEPLY, HIS MIND PLUNGING SO FAR INTO its unconscious layers that he had no memory of dreams when he woke. He was disoriented for a moment, unsure where he was. Then he saw the boulders at the side of the dugout space where he’d bedded down. He rolled onto his back and saw blue sky above.
“Come on,” said Grease. He was a few feet away, hastily grabbing gear. “We have to go.”
Turk rose to a sitting position. “What time is it?”
“Oh-seven-twenty. Come on. We have to move.”
“Did you wake me up?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
“What’s happened? Were we spotted?” asked Turk.
“No—they have a new mission for us. For you.”
“Huh?”
“We’re not done yet,” added Grease, walking out around the sand pile.
Turk shook out the blanket he’d slept on and folded it up. The control gear and his rifle were sitting next to him. He checked the pack, made sure everything was there, then shouldered it and went to find the others.
Gorud, the Israeli, and Captain Granderson were standing near the hood of the car, bent over a paper map. Not one of them looked anything less than disgusted.
“Here’s the pilot now,” said the Isra
eli. “Let’s ask him.”
“We have to get up beyond Qom without being seen,” said Granderson. “We have to be up there before midnight. They want you to launch another strike. And they won’t tell us where it is until we’re in place.”
“How can we go somewhere if we don’t know where we’re going?” asked Turk.
“Even the pilot is baffled,” said the Israeli darkly.
“It’s not his fault,” answered Gorud. He slid the map around to show Turk. “We’ll backtrack up this way, and go the long way around, across the mountains, then come down through the desert. This way, we avoid the area they hit altogether.”
“Back up a second,” said Turk. “How are we going to attack the place again? It blew up.”
“It’s another facility,” said Gorud. “They didn’t know it was there. But they’re not sharing details at the moment. This is roughly where we’re going. It’s north of Qom.”
Qom—rendered sometimes on maps as Q’um, Qum, or Ghom—was located about a hundred miles south of Tehran, and at least two hundred by air from where they were. Qom was a holy city, with hundreds of seminaries and universities. It housed a number of important sites sacred to the Shi’ite branch of Islam, and served as the general locus of several nuclear enrichment plants.
“We have to go north,” said Granderson. “Stay as far away from the crash site as possible. Then we’ll cut east. We don’t want to be stopped, if at all possible.”
“What do we do if we are?” asked Grease, peering over Turk’s shoulder.
“Deal with it, depending on the circumstances.”
WITH THE CAR AHEAD OF THE TROOP TRUCK, THEY drove northward through the desert on a barely discernible road. They risked the lack of pavement to cut an hour off their time and avoid the highway, which one of the scouts said had been heavily traveled by military and official vehicles since dawn. The scrub on the hillside gradually became greener as they drove, and soon they saw a small patchwork of narrow streams and ditches, with an occasional shallow pond.
Turk, sitting in the back passenger seat of the car, passed the time by trying to imagine what sort of people lived here and what their lives were like. Farmers of some sort, though most seemed to have given up tilling some years before. The handful of buildings they passed—always very quickly—looked abandoned.