Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

The president’s head came up. “Israel’s survival depends on more than surviving a nuclear blast. If you make a first strike on Iran with your limited assets, you will use nuclear weapons.”

The ambassador stiffened. “The military has not-”

“I know, I know,” the president interrupted. “Your government hasn’t shared a strike plan with you. But I am telling you, without transports and commandos on the ground and enough planes, the only possible way Israel can neutralize those missiles before they are pulled into the open for launch is to use nukes on the tunnel entrances.”

The ambassador took the blow in silence. The president continued relentlessly, “If you do that, the Islamic world will never forgive you; Europe will never forgive you; and, truthfully, most Americans will never forgive you. Israel will have ignited World War III- which is precisely what Ahmadinejad hopes to accomplish -and no power on earth could save it from the holocaust that will follow.”

The ambassador looked around for a chair. He sank into the nearest one.

After a moment the ambassador said slowly, “I merely deliver the message from my government. I do not make the decisions.”

“I understand.”

“The weight of responsibility is not on my head.”

The president waited until the ambassador was looking up at his face. “ I am responsible,” he said. “The weight of responsibility is upon me .”

The president turned back to his desk, his hands still in his pockets. Finally he parked a cheek on the polished mahogany. “When I ran for president, I never thought I would have to make decisions like this.” He rubbed his chin with his right hand, then wiped his forehead with it and dried it on his trousers.

“Be that as it may,” the president added, “ I know I am right . You know it, too.”

The ambassador nodded.

“An airburst over Tel Aviv or Iran will doom Israel,” the president continued remorselessly. “That choice is simply between a quick death or a slow one.”

“Show us an alternative.”

The president glanced at Jake Grafton. “Let’s go to the conference room. You can brief us.”

Jake Grafton rose from the couch and led the way.

An hour later, after the ambassador had left, the president stood looking at the charts. “I pray to God, and Allah, that your plan will work,” he said to Grafton, who merely nodded.

“Come on, Sal,” the president said, looking at Molina. “Let’s go next door and call the Israeli prime minister. Now I have to sell him.” He and his aide walked out of the room, leaving Jake Grafton alone with the charts and maps.

After a while, the admiral packed up all the charts and maps, locked them in his briefcase, chained the briefcase to his wrist and went home.

Grafton was home alone that evening-his wife was at a faculty function at the university-sitting in his den sipping whiskey, when the telephone rang. He picked it up.

“Grafton.”

“Jake, this is Sal. The Israelis agreed to hold off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They said that if one nuke goes off over Israel, they’ll massively retaliate. There won’t be two bricks left stuck together anywhere in Iran.”

Grafton shot back, “Of course the president told them that we would have airplanes over the country and boots on the ground.”

“He did,” Molina replied.

“Yeah,” said Jake Grafton, then slowly lowered the telephone onto its cradle.

That night G. W. Hosein and Joe Mottaki stole some army vehicles. They didn’t tell me where they got them or who they had to kill, and I didn’t ask.

The following morning Davar, G. W. and I set forth in an SUV painted army colors. We wore uniforms, even Davar, who had a heavy beard glued to her swollen face. At least the swelling was going down. Still, she looked as if she had been in a car wreck and smashed her face on the dashboard.

Joe Mottaki followed us in an army truck. His men, Haddad Nouri and Ahmad Qajar, rode in the back with AK-47s in their arms. They had a machine gun on the floor of the bed, near their feet, that they had liberated somewhere.

After a half hour of inching through traffic and avoiding roadblocks, we found ourselves in an area of finger ridges that came down from the mountains to the north. The Parliament building and other large government buildings were about half a mile to the south.

“The executive bunker is under that ridge,” Davar said, pointing.

“The main entrance,” she continued, “is under that prayer ground there.” She pointed again. “The Mosalla Prayer Grounds. It’s like a park, except one goes there to pray. The entrance to the bunker is in the basement of that small mosque. There is a tunnel that the people walk through to get to an elevator shaft. The head of the shaft is under twenty-five feet of reinforced concrete. Then they covered the concrete with ten feet of dirt.”

I looked at the buildings, trying to visualize the underground complex. “The main tunnel-it slopes down to the elevator room?”

“Yes,” Davar said. “It is precisely seventy-two meters long and ends at the top of the shaft. There are two elevators to take people up and down. Winding around the shaft is a staircase, in case the elevators cannot be used. The elevators take the people down seventy meters, then there is another room. Bombproof doors divide the room in two. Once through the doors, one finds another elevator shaft, and stairs, descending to the ground floor of the bunker. The floor of the bunker is a hundred and forty meters below the top of the elevator shaft.” She pointed. “Most of it lies there, under that ridge to our left. Between the top of the bunker and the surface is over three hundred meters of solid rock.”

“Okay,” I said.

“There are three air shafts, which will be sealed off when the bunker is occupied. The air in the bunker is recycled through scrubbers, and oxygen is added as necessary. It is submarine equipment we purchased from the Russians.”

“How long can four hundred people live down there?” G. W. asked.

“There is food, water and air for six months. A shaft drilled down from the floor of the bunker holds human waste and garbage. It is three hundred meters deep.”

“How big is this bunker?” G. W. wanted to know. “How much floor space?”

“Almost two acres. It is cut up into living units, which are separated by fireproof doors. Each living unit has its own fire detection and suppression system. My father was worried that a fire in the bunker might kill everyone, so he designed the units and fire suppression systems. Each is self-contained.”

“Electrical power?”

“It is provided by diesel generators, which suck air down four shafts that are not sealed. The air is sucked down and passed through a complex filtration system to scrub out the dust and dirt, then sent to the generators and finally exhausted back to the surface. Even if the intake air is contaminated with radiation, the diesels should still run as long as they have fuel available. A tank in the bunker area contains enough for six months’ judicious use.”

“Communications?”

“Wires in a pipe laid in a buried trench. Of course, the trench is only ten feet deep, and it only runs to the nearest boulevard. Then the wires are on poles and go to the local telephone exchange.”

“Doesn’t sound as if they thought that out very carefully,” G. W. said.

Davar shrugged. “The blueprints called for a pipe buried fifty feet underground, running to a military switchboard in a bunker under the Alborz Mountains, but that installation was never funded or built. Consequently an airburst over Tehran would wipe out the radio stations and landlines, and the bunker would be isolated anyway.”