by Jeff Nesbit
A fourth was headed to the reactor at Bushehr, on the coastline of the Persian Gulf waters. Ben knew at least one other Bandit was flying near him, on his way to that site.
A fifth was at the enrichment facility run by the Guards near Qom that Iran had kept secret for years.
Ben’s mission, though, was by far the most critical. His F-117 was targeted on the covert, underground site near the Guards’ missile plant at Shiraz, where the U.S. drone had detected the massive amounts of uranium hexafluoride in the atmosphere above the site.
The site, south of Shiraz and near Fasa, contained tens of thousands of gas centrifuges, in full production, according to a human intelligence source the Mossad had worked inside over the previous years. Now that Iran had made the political decision to move into production, this site became the only one that mattered for the near future.
The problem was that the site had been secured under nearly one hundred feet of concrete and rock. It was virtually untouchable with even the most sophisticated conventional bombs.
Ben’s F-117 was equipped with two sets of weapons. The first set contained conventional, laser-guided bombs. The second set contained nuclear-tipped missiles, with a kiloton yield. That yield was considerably smaller than the nuclear weapon that had exploded at Hiroshima in World War II, but they were still nuclear weapons.
The tactical nuclear-tipped bomb, if it worked properly, would explode well underground, with very little radioactive fallout. Still, for those looking down from satellites, there would be enough of a signature to hazard a guess as to what had just happened.
As Ben neared the end of the Euphrates and Khuzestan, he instinctively gripped the controls a little harder. The next few minutes, though, passed uneventfully. He knew from his pre-mission training that the reactor at Bushehr was likely under attack right now, drawing the Iran air-defense system away from him. As he crossed the border into Iran, he was relieved to see that nothing was showing up on any of his instruments.
As he neared his target, he flew west and then south of Shiraz to avoid even possible visual sighting from anyone on the ground.
The target was inconspicuous—just a few one-story buildings spread apart over about an acre. But Ben knew that underneath the buildings were a series of tunnels that worked their way down to a facility large enough to contain tens of thousands of centrifuges.
Ben released his conventional, laser-guided payload first. There was no sound inside the cockpit as it fell to earth, and no discernible sound as it struck. But an instant later, Ben spotted the puffs of dirt cloud kicked up by the strike.
He banked and then returned to deliver the second, final payload. Ben would have no way of knowing the success or failure, once he’d dropped the final weapons from his bomb bay.
After releasing them, he pulled away from the site rapidly. He thought he detected a muffled blast and looked down at the site. All of the buildings on top of the site suddenly collapsed in an immediate pile of rubble.
Ben pushed the plane to almost six hundred miles an hour and climbed to thirty-five thousand feet as quickly as he could. Based on the damage he’d been able to see firsthand above ground, he was fairly certain he’d succeeded in destroying whatever was beneath those buildings. Others, though, would judge the ultimate success of his mission—and, more importantly, what might happen next.
12
SOUTH OF THE LITANI RIVER
LEBANON
The young teenage boy flipped through the dog-eared pages of the cheap novel again, as he had for weeks on end. He loved the book. It gave him great comfort in a confusing world. Many of his friends had read the book. It was hugely popular among the masses of people who moved in and around the highly secret compound his family called home.
The book had just one picture—of a fat, olive-skinned man with a dark beard, an ugly, misshapen nose, and a blind right eye. The man—the Dajjal—stared out at the readers of the book with a leering confidence. He seemed like evil incarnate to the young boy.
The flowery Arabic script within the book moved along quickly. It told the story of a coming age in which the Jewish Dajjal—the Anti-christ—would rise somewhere in either Iraq or Syria and rule for a time. Then it spoke of the coming of Issa, who would defeat the Dajjal and usher in the age of Islam throughout the world.
Stories of the Dajjal showed up like the old cheap, dime-store novels about the American West in bazaars and outdoor malls all throughout the Middle East. The young boy had seen many such books, all with the same fat, leering Jew who would someday rise up from the lands of Iraq or Syria to take control of some shadowy Western army—only to be defeated at the hands of the triumphant forces of Islam.
But Ali Nouradeen wasn’t just any young, impressionable teenager, curious about the politics of the world in which he lived. His father, Sa’id Nouradeen, was the secretary general of the Lebanese Islamist Party.
But, more than that, Ali knew from all the stories he’d heard for years, his father was the only Islam leader to defeat the Israelis on the field of battle. His father had led the victorious Hezbollah forces that had defeated Israel’s ground troops and caused them to flee from southern Lebanon.
Ali believed his father was the man of destiny for Islam and would, someday, be central to the armed forces that would rise up to defeat the Dajjal, the Jewish Antichrist supported by the morally corrupt powers of the West.
Ali hoped to be part of that destiny, but his father was hesitant to bring the family into the struggle. The Israelis had murdered his older brother, Abdul Nouradeen, years ago, when Ali was just a young boy. He could still see the pain in his father’s face when Abdul’s name came up in conversation. Ali knew that his father would avenge his brother’s death one day.
The killing of the eldest Nouradeen boy had compelled his family to move to a highly secure compound south of the Litani River in southern Lebanon. Friends and supporters had bought up much of the land south of the Litani after prolonged battles with the Israelis had rendered the area a perpetual war zone.
But the Nouradeen family members were welcomed throughout the lands in southern Lebanon as conquering heroes, and they were able to travel safely throughout the region. Ali had grown up surrounded by supportive families.
Ali closed the book and looked up at his father, who had been unusually pensive this morning. “Tell me the story of the Dajjal again, Father, and how we will defeat him one day,” Ali said. He never tired of hearing his father’s mellifluous voice, which could weave tales of wonder and awe on almost any subject under the sun.
Sa’id Nouradeen sighed. He had many things on his mind this morning. “Not now, Ali,” he told his son. He was weary. He had been up all night, monitoring the reports.
“Please, Father,” Ali begged, “there are parts of the book that you can help me understand.”
The phone attached to Sa’id’s belt rang, saving him from any further pleading. Sa’id glanced at his son, told him to be quiet, then answered the Iridium 9555 phone. For years, he’d been forced to communicate with his network in person, without the use of phones. But Russian and North Korean scientists had taught them how to safely communicate via secure lines, and they cautiously stayed in touch. Still, they were always careful with their words and only confirmed what would otherwise be known. He always assumed the NSA was listening. When they needed to discuss anything secure, his network still did so in person.
Ali was an inquisitive, talented youth, Sa’id knew. Under usual circumstances, he enjoyed casual political banter with his youngest son about the Dajjal, the Mahdi, and such things. But today was not usual, and he could not afford to be distracted.
“Yes,” Sa’id said, speaking softly into the satellite phone that served as his secure lifeline to a far-flung global network. He moved into the next room, out of earshot. “Remember that we are likely being recorded on this call. Mind your words.”
“I understand. But I wanted to inform you that it is confirmed,” said the voice at the other
end of the phone call.
“They destroyed the entire compound near Fasa, at Shiraz?” Sa’id asked.
“Yes, all of it. There is nothing left but a pile of rubble above ground.”
“They were able to get inside the concrete?”
“Yes, they opened tunnels, and then used a very large bomb to finish the job.”
“So they used a tactical nuclear weapon?”
“It appears so. We won’t know for sure for a little while.”
“Is there any usable uranium left?”
“Not from Fasa. We needed several more days of work there.”
Sa’id Nouradeen was quiet for a moment. “And the other sites—did we get what we needed from any of those sites?” he said finally.
The voice on the other end of the line hesitated. “Yes, we did obtain some from a second site, before the attack. It is being loaded onto a truck.”
“Will it be enough?”
“It will be enough.”
They both knew what that meant and did not need to elaborate for the benefit of NSA ears.
Sa’id nodded to himself. “So it will be a question of what they wish to do in Tehran.”
“I believe we will get what we need,” the other person said. “And we will strike back. We must.”
“Even though it may not make it to Israel,” Sa’id said. “Perhaps. We shall see. We must be prepared for other contingencies.”
Iran’s Revolutionary Guards had shown the Shahab 3 missile to the world in the fall of 1998, at a ceremony in Azadi Square in Tehran. More than half a dozen test flights had been conducted since then. Most of the tests had been failures, with mid-air explosions the end result.
But in recent months, with North Korea’s help, the missile’s power and accuracy had been vastly improved. It could reach Israel from Iran—barely. Whether it could, in fact, make it through Israel’s emerging third-generation Arrow air-defense system was an open question—one that would apparently be answered shortly.
“You know, we might be better served to let you deploy there,” his contact said at the other end.
“Without question,” Sa’id answered. “We would ensure success.”
But the Revolutionary Guards and Iran’s leadership had said for years that they would retaliate against an attack by Israel with the Shahab 3. So attempt to retaliate they must, Sa’id reasoned. Anything short of that would show weakness at this crucial juncture in history.
“So what will you do?” his contact asked.
“Nothing yet,” Sa’id answered. “But we will act quickly—when it is time. Let us see what Tehran decides, and the success of the mission they choose.”
“And if it does not make it through the Israeli defenses?”
“Do not worry,” Sa’id said, his voice full of confidence. “There is much that we have prepared, and much we can do. Israel will taste our revenge.”
“Such as?” His contact, as always, was impatient. He demanded action, as well as loyalty, from those who had joined the cause.
“Patience, my friend,” Sa’id answered. “And remember that our enemy is always listening. All in time. Let us see what we will see today. And then tomorrow will bring another effort. We will continue until we have succeeded.”
Sa’id Nouradeen hung up and replaced the Iridium 9555. He walked back into the room where his son was still studying the book about the Dajjal.
“I must leave for a time,” he said to Ali. “Tell your mother not to worry.”
“Where are you going?” Ali asked. “Can I come with you?”
“Not today,” his father said, smiling at his young son’s eagerness. “Another time. I have many people to see today. There is much to be done.”
He strode from his family’s compound, purpose evident in every step. There was much to be done on this day—the day that he and others had anticipated for years. When Israel had attacked the nuclear facility in Iraq—and in Syria more recently—the world had not reacted. But they would react this time to the attack in Iran. And Sa’id wanted to be ready when his own time to act arrived.
13
LILONGWE, MALAWI
Nash had been able to sleep for only a couple of hours. The sun was just coming up on the horizon. As much as he liked to do his own thing, he couldn’t help himself. His father’s world—and interests—had pulled him in. He’d logged onto his mVillage account from the guest house at the private hospital on the outskirts of Lilongwe. He’d read every piece of traffic through mVillage that was coming out of Iran. It was all unbelievable.
The moderate opposition movement in Iran was going crazy. They’d known, almost from the minute the Revolutionary Guards had moved into high gear on the nuclear HEU question, what was going on—and had reported it frantically to the world through mVillage. Their reports were absolutely dead-on accurate, from what Nash could see.
The reports tracked the movements of the two Revolutionary Guards leaders who acted almost autonomously—Ali Zhubin, the overall commander of the IRGC, the Army of the Guardians of the Iranian Revolution, and Hussein Bahadur, who commanded the IRGC’s air force and missile command.
Zhubin was Iran’s master of asymmetrical warfare. He was close to the conservative clerics who ran the country and was influenced only by them. Bahadur was known for his successful ability to recruit fanatical loyalists to IRGC and the cleric leaders. Those two alone made the key military decisions, and spoke for the clerics, which was why the opposition tracked their actions closely.
Both Bahadur and Zhubin had threatened for years to respond immediately to an attack of its nuclear facilities with the launch of nuclear-tipped Shahab 3 missiles at Israel and U.S. ships, and efforts to shut down oil traffic through the Strait of Hormuz. Much of the world’s oil flowed through this narrow passage. Iran controlled the north side of the Strait and had always threatened to exert military control over the world’s oil if provoked. Even now, some of the mVillage reports were beginning to track Bahadur and Zhubin and focusing on what might happen next.
In just the past two hours, the mVillage system had doubled back on itself as reports of the Israeli Stealth attacks had begun to sweep across the countryside. The people in Iran were waking up to a nightmare scenario. Israel’s planes had hit at least a dozen targets, from what Nash could see in the mVillage reports. They’d hit all the big ones—Isfahan, Bushehr, Arak, Natanz.
Amazingly, contributors to the mVillage network had already uploaded unclassified satellite images to Google Earth of the before and after pictures of well-known sites like Isfahan. It appeared that GBU-28, deep-penetration, bunker-busting bombs had done considerable damage at all of the well-known sites. There were no reports about use of tactical nuclear weapons.
The Google Earth pictures—obviously obtained from some country’s military leaders—revealed that the tunnels had all been caved in, which meant the GBU-28 bombs had done their jobs. All of the buildings above ground at these sites were now piles of rubble.
Nash studied the Isfahan site, where Iran had been processing uranium and had secured a storage facility beneath a mountain. Google Earth pictures from just a few years ago clearly showed no buildings of any significance above ground. But by 2006, two tunnels had been built from several new buildings. Now, after the Israeli attacks, those buildings were gone, and the tunnels had caved in.
The site at Natanz was even more telling. Several years ago, Google Earth photos showed a few outbuildings. But then Iran had built underground cascade halls, covered by concrete, and co-located a pilot fuel-enrichment plant. The IAF planes had thoroughly destroyed the enrichment plant, and the cascade halls had fallen in on themselves. The centrifuges stored below that concrete were now trapped or covered in piles of rubble.
Other sites circulated by Google Earth links through mVillage were showing similar levels of devastation. The IAF planes had done a thorough job. Nash was amazed they’d been able to fly in under the cover of darkness to so many locations, and then get out. It was cl
ear to Nash they’d been planning these strikes for some time.
They’d also hit sites the world had not known or cared about as well, places Nash did not recognize. He could only assume these were covert military sites that intelligence sources had targeted.
One of them, near Shiraz, was attracting a few posts, speculating that the destruction there was much more extensive than other sites. But no one knew much about the facility—in fact, it had never shown up on a single unclassified report as a possible site for nuclear activity—so there wasn’t much to go on beyond speculation.
There were also no reports—at all—of any downed Israeli planes. Somehow, miraculously, the IAF planes had managed to fly into Iran without detection, drop their payloads, and then leave. The posts were evenly split—with half attributing it to the IAF’s air superiority, and the other half to God’s protection of the Jewish people. A few mVillage reports were already starting to speculate that the IAF had somehow gotten their hands on Stealth technology and Stealth planes. At this point, there were only rumors.
As the young CEO of VHC—which ran mVillage—Nash had a unique view of everything coursing through the mVillage system. Reports were coming in quickly from all parts of Iran. Thousands and thousands of reports entered the mVillage system from everywhere.
Since it was impossible for the Revolutionary Guards or the clerics who ultimately ran the country to shut down the traffic, Nash wondered if, perhaps, they would eventually go after the hardware behind mVillage. But Nash’s systems engineers had long ago cut a deal with Google and had embedded everything deep within their highly secretive cloud-computing network that spanned the globe. Google’s cloud was virtually impervious to attacks because its whole was made up of the sum of its parts. There was no killing that system, short of some sort of global government conspiracy.