Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

“Where was this photo taken?” the SecDef wanted to know.

“In the factory where the warheads are assembled, a tunnel under the Hormuz Mountains near Tehran.”

“The photo is genuine,” Wilkins said heavily. He was in no mood to put up with people who wanted to split hairs and quibble, rather than face facts.

The president cut to the chase. “When the missiles are armed with these warheads, what are the Iranians going to do with them?”

No one had an answer to that question.

“It sounds as if the consequences of our sins are arriving all at once,” the president said lightly. No one in the room cracked a smile.

“Obviously,” he continued, “the Iranians’ options range from doing nothing-highly unlikely-to threatening their neighbors-more likely-to immediately launching some of those missiles at the people they like the least, which would be us and the Israelis. The last option seems insane, improbable and highly unlikely, and yet one suspects Ahmadinejad and the holy warriors are capable of it.”

“If they do-” the secretary of defense began.

The president cut him off. “I have made an executive decision, for better or for worse, and this is the time to tell you of it. I am not going to order the use of nuclear weapons against Iran, regardless of whom they shoot missiles at or whom they kill. We will respond with conventional weapons only. And we will not attack first; the Iranians get the first shot.”

Dead silence followed that remark, broken only when Jake Grafton asked the president directly, “Have you shared that tidbit with our troops in Iraq and Arabia, or with the Israelis?”

The president stared at Grafton, then looked around the room at the faces looking back at him. “If we attack first, the political damage will lead to a century of warfare in the Middle East, which has something like fifty percent of the world’s oil. The economies of the United States, Europe and Japan will be severely impaired. Quite simply, a first strike on Iran will inaugurate a war between Islam and the West that will not end until every last Muslim is dead. Gentlemen, I am not going to go there.”

“If American soldiers are killed with nuclear weapons and you fail to retaliate, the American people will eat you alive,” Grafton said softly. “You’ll be impeached.”

“I am aware of that,” the president shot back. He was obviously irritated that Jake Grafton was talking when he should be listening, yet he had to respond.

With Grafton silent, the president paused, collected himself, then continued. “I have thought long and hard about nuclear retaliation. Iran is not the Soviet Union, nor is it modern Russia. Iran is controlled by a collection of religious fanatics who want to be somebody. They rant, bluster and threaten, and the world ignores them. We will elevate them to the status of a worthy enemy if we overreact. Overreaction and underreaction would both be grave mistakes, ones we will not make.”

When he paused, no one in the room had a word to say.

The president again surveyed the faces, then went on. “It is my hope and prayer that the Iranian government will not attempt to use nuclear weapons on anyone. However, in the event that they do, we must be ready to do whatever is required to shoot down the missiles and prevent them from employing nuclear weapons in the future.”

The president looked at his watch, then rose from his chair. “Sal,” he said, “keep me advised.” Then he walked out of the room.

Shortly after that, the meeting broke up. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs waggled his finger at Grafton. “You come over to the Pentagon as soon as you can. We’re going to need your help.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sal Molina buttonholed Grafton and his boss, William Wilkins, before they could get out of the room. “You didn’t need to make that crack, Jake.”

Wilkins wasn’t in the mood. “Someone around here needs to remind everyone, and I mean everyone , that the Iranians are playing for keeps. The survival of Israel is at stake. Millions of lives are on the block. Millions! And some thousands of those people are American servicemen.”

“The president is aware of the risks,” Molina shot back.

“He’d damn well better be,” Wilkins retorted grimly, “because however the worm turns, he’s going to have to live with it.”

“We all are,” Grafton muttered. He stepped around Molina and headed for the door.

Fifteen minutes later, when the president and Sal Molina were alone in the Oval Office, Molina wanted to apologize for Jake Grafton’s comments. The president waved him off. “Oh, I don’t mind Grafton. He’s our mine canary. He doesn’t give a damn if we fire him this afternoon, so he calls it the way he sees it.”

“He’s not a team player,” Sal said.

“We’ve got enough team players,” the president said sourly, fingering some of the mementos on his desk. “What we need are some original thinkers.” He eyed Molina. “We can’t keep doing business as usual in the twenty-first century. You see that, don’t you? We spend billions on ships and planes and tanks that are essentially useless against stateless guerrillas and terrorists, who are the people we will be in conflict with for generations.”

The president abandoned the toys and dropped into his chair. “Jake Grafton is a damn smart warrior who swings a very sharp sword. I want him on my side.”

After I sent off the photos from the weapons factory and called in my report, my life became more focused. Grafton wanted to chat every few hours. Zipped into that portable security telephone booth, I felt like the interior of a frankfurter.

“Tommy,” he said, “I hate to have to ask you to do this, but I must. I want the target list of those dozen nuke missiles.”

“Why don’t you Google it?” I shot back.

“Also, if possible, I want to know the types of missile they are putting the nukes on and their launch locations.”

“All I can do is try, boss. But how do we know Ahmadinejad and the mullahs are going to do anything?”

“We don’t know.”

“Ahmadinejad may simply call a press conference, strut and rant for a while and dare anyone to knock the chip off his shoulder.”

“He might,” Grafton acknowledged.

“And he might have bigger ideas,” I admitted.

“If he is going to pull the trigger,” Jake Grafton said, “I suspect he will complicate our problem by launching everything they have that will fly. Anything you can tell us that will help us identify the hot birds will help.”

“I couldn’t get that information even if I could charm Ahmadinejad into marrying me.”

“Talk to Rostram’s cousin. See if he has any more rabbits in his hat.”

“Yo. Rabbits.”

“And the sooner the better.”

I tried to salute, but there wasn’t room in that damn zip-up plastic bag.

I got out of the bag, put the satellite phone away and went in search of Frank Caldwell.

“Hey, Frank, do you still have that motorcycle?”

“Yep,” he said smugly. “It’s perfect for riding around town. I get over fifty miles to the gallon.”

“I need to borrow it.”

“Say what?”

“I need a bike that the MOIS hasn’t seen before. If anything happens to it, the Company will buy it from you and you can get another.”

He eyed me without enthusiasm. Although Frank was a case officer, he rarely if ever got his hands dirty. He still hadn’t forgiven me for recommending two tourist visas to the States, either. It was as if he’d caught me cheating at cards. He agreed with ill grace.

“Terrific,” I said with comradely warmth. “Let’s go take a look at it.”

He had it parked behind the annex and locked with a chain through the wheels. The thing was made in Japan and had a 500 cc motor. New five to ten years ago, it was still in reasonable shape. Tires had been replaced recently. Two helmets were locked onto the back of it.