Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

A murmur went through his audience. I didn’t bother glancing at them. I scribbled on.

“You insult us with your threats. Now I say to you, tell your president that his threats didn’t work. If we are attacked by the Zionists, we will destroy them. We will bury Israel. We will defend ourselves before Allah and man against the attacks of Satan, and no power on earth can prevent it.”

There was more, but I’ll spare you. Still, I was a little surprised when he got to his peroration. “America is a living fossil, a godless imperialist that interferes with our commerce and prevents us from selling our goods internationally. America’s day is done. Over. Finished. America will soon be groveling in the dirt and begging for mercy from the true believers, who will show no mercy.”

A rumble of approval came from those behind us and to either side who were listening to this rant, and it grew in volume and intensity as he continued. “Death to the spies and provocateurs and saboteurs. Death to all those who sneak across our borders in the dark of night and murder Iranians. Death to all those who oppose the will of Allah. Death to their friends, death to all infidels. Death to America! ”

As the audience cheered, Ahmadinejad threw the president’s letter on the floor and stepped on it.

“Be gone,” he said over the noise to Schulz, “and take this shameless woman with you.” He made a shooing motion with his hand.

We went.

We were in the car, creeping through traffic, when Eliza Ortiz swabbed her forehead with a hankie. “When you get back to Washington,” she said to Schulz, “talk to the people at State. I want another assignment, and sooner rather than later.”

“I talked to them before I left,” Schulz shot back. “The reason you are here is because you are the best they have.”

So I wasn’t the only person that heard that lie . I kept that comment to myself, though.

Schulz had more to say. “We can’t let the prejudices of third-world dictators decide the careers of our diplomats. Can’t and won’t.”

“Ahmadinejad is just… impossible,” Ortiz said. “All of them are. They are chauvinists, xenophobes, homophobes… ignorant, self-righteous, ranting prigs, and…” She ran out of words there.

“Assholes,” I put in.

Startled, Ortiz and Schulz looked at me as if I had just cut a stinky wet one.

I smiled broadly.

“Yes,” Ortiz said, nodding her concurrence. “That is the perfect word to describe them.” She turned back to Schulz. “I have had enough. The whole crowd is going straight to hell, and, personally, I think that is precisely where they ought to be. I want another assignment.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Schulz assured her.

“I’d like another assignment, too,” I said brightly. “Assistant visa officer at our embassy in Paris would be just perfect. I’ve been here for six weeks saying no, and I’m getting pretty good at it. As it happens, I know a couple of women in France, and-”

I shut up because Schulz and Ortiz were both staring at me as if I had three eyes. It’s such a bother when the help don’t know their place.

We followed Davar to a drop,” G. W. Hosein told me when I stopped by his cart to buy a pear. “It was sheer dumb luck. Joe saw her reach into an upright pipe, part of an old fence. She took out a piece of trash, reached in again and got something, then stuffed the trash back in and walked on. Couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds. By some miracle Joe was in the right place at the right time.”

“Where is this drop?” I asked as I squeezed pears, looking for one that was ripe, but not too.

He told me the location. “It’s a nice drop,” G. W. admitted. “It’s on the edge of a little park, really just bare dirt, and hard to observe due to the way the buildings and trees are situated around it.”

“You and Joe use your people to set up around-the-clock surveillance. I want a photo of the person who services it.”

Another customer came to the cart, so G. W. nodded at me and I left, without a pear. Better luck next time.

The sun had been up only an hour, yet desert heat had already begun to build. The sky was cloudless, and there was little wind, less than predicted. When one schedules an event weeks in advance, one never knows about the weather.

Perhaps Allah has taken a hand , Habib Sultani thought.

Sultani and his nephew Ghasem stood on a small rise a quarter mile away from a launcher that contained the largest missile to be fired today, a Shahab-3. The launcher had raised the missile into a vertical position. Since the sun was at their backs and reflecting off the stark, white-painted surface, it looked, Ghasem thought, somewhat like the finger of God.

Missiles were normally painted in a neutral, two-tone camouflage scheme to make them more difficult to see as they rode around on their launchers, but this one was painted white so that cameras could more easily follow its flight. Staring at the thing, Sultani thought it looked proud against the browns and yellows of the desert.

Sultani focused the large binoculars on the stand as he listened to the countdown on the radio that sat on the small table behind him. Then he turned and surveyed the crowd, noting who was there. Various technicians manned movie and television cameras to his right and left. A flock of Revolutionary Guard generals with binoculars dangling from straps around their necks stood around making small talk. The general in charge of the Ministry of Intelligence and Security stood somewhat apart, with Major Larijani, his chief enforcer, at his side. They were holding a private conversation.

Brigadier General Dr. Seyyed Ali Hosseini-Tash, in charge of the WMD program, stood, arms crossed, talking to no one.

The tension rose as the moment approached. Sultani turned back to his binoculars and looked again at the upright missile.

Ghasem seemed to sense his mood. “It will work as it should, Uncle,” he said softly, so only Sultani could hear.

Ahh, faithful, loyal, brilliant Ghasem.

“The ships downrange are in position,” Ghasem continued. “The ship with the bad radar has it working again. The airplanes are almost in position. The radar station on the coast is in telephone communication. All is in readiness.”

“Very good. And the Americans?”

“Their carrier is a hundred miles away from the target area.”

Close, but not too close , Sultani thought. Of course, the Americans know we are going to launch these missiles and are observing. They will get an eyeful.

“Even the sun is at the proper angle,” Ghasem added.

“Thank the sun,” Sultani said as the radio announcer said there was one minute to go.

Sultani heard only the whisper of the breeze in his ears as he stared at the missile.

The first glimmer of fire from the exhausts came precisely when the announcer said it would.

The fire grew rapidly to a focused flame, almost as bright as the sun. The wave of sound washed over them, a deep booming thunder, forcing Sultani to momentarily abandon the binoculars.

His eyes refocused in time to see the missile rising above the launcher, accelerating against the hazy shape of the distant mountains. Then it was above the mountains into the deep blue of the sky, the sun full upon it.

“Go,” he heard Ghasem shout.

The missile accelerated as it raced into the sky. The sound was dropping in intensity, which was welcome. Then, twenty seconds after liftoff, when it was very high and its exhaust a brilliant baby sun, the missile began to tilt to the southeast.

Sultani grabbed the binoculars on his chest and raised them to his eyes. He had a moment of trouble locating the missile, then he had it. He thumbed the focus knob, bringing it into sharp relief.