Vince Flynn - Protect And Defend

“I meet a lot of characters over there. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The guy from PMOI.”

“PMOI?”

Rapp was talking about the People’s Mujahedin of Iran, but he didn’t want to say it out loud. “Remember, we were at the palace and we stayed up until four in the morning drinking brandy and smoking cigars. He told us how a certain leader over there is referred to as the peacock president.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ridley replied. “I’m with you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Last time I checked, he moves back forth between Mosul and Baghdad. He’s got a car parts business, if you can believe it. I hear it’s booming.”

“Track him down and set up a meeting.”

“For when?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Rapp said. “And find someone else to brief the president. You’re coming with me.”

“Are you going to fill me in?”

“I’ll explain it all on the plane. Meet me at Andrews in two hours.”

“You got it.”

Ashani found if he took controlled, shallow, breaths it helped minimize the coughing attacks. He sat hugging the arm of the couch, with the Chief of the Armed Forces to his right and the Foreign Minister next to him. The Supreme Leader sat alone in a simple chair almost directly across from Ashani. His meeting chamber was void of all technological advances. There were no computers or plasma TVs. No projectors or drop-down screens. There wasn’t even a conference table for them to sit around. It was the century-old setting of kings and religious leaders. Supplicants and advisors came to plead their cases, and the monarch would lay down his edict. He was not to be bothered with details or execution. The advisors would sort things out later. The system also conveniently gave the Supreme Leader the ability to take credit for what worked and distance himself from what didn’t.

The walls were bare, with one exception. A framed photograph of the Supreme Leader hung on the wall above his right shoulder. Between the Supreme Leader’s chair and the love seat where Najar and Amatullah were seated the Iranian flag stood upright in an effort to give the dull room an air of official state business. The president and head of the Guardian Council had dropped any pretense of liking each other. They were adversaries, and everyone in the room knew it. Both men sat stiffly and leaned away from one other, Najar toward the Supreme Leader and Amatullah toward Ashani.

Ashani had hesitated for only a second when his doctor told him he would like him to come straight to the hospital so he could check him out. Ashani knew it was essential that he be at this meeting, if for no other reason than to make sure Amatullah did not try to blame him for what had gone wrong, or somehow convince the Supreme Leader to rush into some foolish act of reprisal. There was one other reason, though, that continued to nag him. He was deeply worried by what he had seen when he looked down into the pit of what was not so long ago his country’s epicenter of scientific advancement and national pride. More to the point, he was worried about what he didn’t see.

Persian pride would demand that they hit back. Ashani and his ministry would play a crucial roll in whatever they decided to do. A straight-out military counterstrike was foolish, but that wouldn’t stop several key members of the council from advocating all-out war with Israel. There would be a lot of saber rattling in the coming weeks, but in the end they would find surrogates to do their dirty work. That part would not be difficult. There were plenty of impoverished Palestinians who would jump at the chance to martyr themselves.

Ashani’s more immediate concern was in protecting himself and his people. Someone was going to be blamed for what had happened. One would think that the Ministry of Intelligence would be safe, but with Amatullah one never knew. The man never let the facts get in the way of his version of events. Things were going to get ugly. Alliances on the council were sure to shift as the inevitable blame game ensued. Who would try to rewrite history? Who would try to deflect? Who would stab whom in the back? Anything was possible and Ashani could not afford to be laid up in a hospital with doctors poking and prodding him.

The Supreme Leader finished leading the group in prayer and then gave his friend Najar the signal to begin.

Najar looked at Major General Dadress and said, “General, your report.”

Like every man in the room Dadress had a full beard. His was thicker than the others and dyed an oily black. He had a broad forehead and a receding hairline. He was in his olive green army uniform, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable. Leaning forward, he said, “By our best estimates the attack took place shortly after noon. We had no radar contact with the bombers, so we are assuming they used the B-2 stealth bomber. We estimate that they flew near the operational ceiling of the B-2, which is fifty thousand feet.”

“I seem to remember the Russians telling us their new missile system would be able to detect the Americans’ stealth aircraft,” Najar said in an unhappy tone.

“They claimed that the bombers would be vulnerable when they opened their bomb doors.”

“And our air force detected nothing.”

“Correct.”

“Wonderful,” Najar said in a sour tone. “Twenty-seven million dollars for a missile system that doesn’t work.”

Ashani’s doubts were beginning to grow. He knew the science behind the stealth bombers, and they should have in fact left themselves open to detection for five to ten seconds while they dropped their payload. More worrisome, though, was the time of the bombing. Ashani had no knowledge of the Americans ever using one of the valuable stealth bombers in a daylight operation. Why would the Americans expose their billion-dollar planes during a daylight bombing run? The answer for Ashani was that they wouldn’t.

“There is a pilot,” Amatullah announced, “who made a positive identification of an Israeli plane in the area. My people are debriefing him at this very moment.”

Najar slowly turned his head and looked at the president. “I heard your comments on TV earlier this evening, and I saw your pilot interviewed. I am not sure I believe him.”

“You are a born skeptic,” Amatullah countered.

“Have you not listened to anything General Dadress has told us? The Air Force detected nothing. They think the stealth bombers flew at their operational ceiling of fifty thousand feet. Commercial air traffic flies at thirty to thirty-five thousand feet. Your pilot must have very good eyes to see a plane from such a distance.”

“Fifty thousand feet is an estimate by radar operators who failed to do their jobs. At this point I am more than happy to take the eyewitness account of a veteran pilot.”

“Really.” Najar turned to Dadress. “General, how many stealth bombers do the Israelis have?”

“None that we know of.”

“And if the Americans had given them some, do you think they would paint big white and blue Stars of David on the wings?”

“No.”

Najar nodded and waited to see if Amatullah had anything further to add.

“You may quibble over the specifics of how it happened, but it is obvious to everyone that it was the Jews and the Americans who were behind this.”

“Even so, this council would appreciate it if during a national crisis you would consult us before you rushed to get in front of the cameras.”

Amatullah looked past Najar to the Supreme Leader. “My apologies.”

Ayatollah Nassiri acknowledged the apology with the faintest of nods. In a soft voice he asked Najar, “How many perished?”

Najar turned to Golam Mosheni, the man in charge of the country’s nuclear program and in a much louder voice asked, “How many?”