David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Then they walked side by side down the red lane to separate waiting limousines. Tires squealed as the vehicles pulled away.

The whole affair took less than ten minutes.

Hashem felt the mobile phone buzz in his pocket and glanced at his watch.

Rouhani would be in Israel by now. Hashem could imagine him getting off the presidential airplane in the hot Israeli sun and shaking hands with that clown Netanyahu, putting his entire country to shame. He was about to throw away decades of effort in their fight against Israel, all for what? To please the West enough to lift their sanctions? The West needed their oil, all Iran had to do was wait them out.

He’d read the intelligence reports about the US fracking technology and their claims of oil fields in their own country, but he knew it was a trick. They’d be back, they needed Iran’s oil. All his country needed to do was wait long enough.

The phone buzzed again and he drew it out of his pocket and flipped it open. The screen held only one word, an Arabic word from the Qu’ran.

Din. Judgment.

Hashem’s hand shook as he snapped the phone shut. He turned to face his men. They were all gathered in a silent knot, all watching him. The TELs stood in a row, loaded, ready to roll out of the underground bunker into the bright sunshine and rain destruction down on their enemies. Yusef and Valerie stood apart from the men and from each other, like two arguing siblings, both watching him with bright eyes.

Hashem smiled at them all. “My brothers in arms, it is time. May Allah smile on our cause today.”

A cheer went up, and the men rushed to their assigned places. The engines of the TEL vehicles rumbled to life, belching great clouds of black smoke into the closed space of the bunker. Hashem waved to the men manning the entry doors. The heavy steel doors parted, allowing bright sunshine and a hot desert wind to enter the bunker.

The first TEL rolled out the door, followed closely by the second and third. Hashem took his place in the golf cart, and slapped his driver on the arm. He and Yusef had been out into the valley the day before and marked the launch sites for the three TELs. The monster machines were already in their assigned places, with the stabilizing arms already lowering to the sandy earth.

Hashem raised his radio to his lips. “Yusef, radio check, over.”

Yusef’s voice came back immediately, crackling with excitement. “Radio check sat. We are starting to raise the first missile now, Colonel. Twenty minutes to launch.”

Hashem glanced at his watch. It was 1040 in Tel Aviv now. Rouhani, the traitor, would be at the meeting site by now.

Victor Warren liked his new job on the graveyard shift. Not too many people around, just him and the watch officer — and she was pretty easy on the eyes. Not like Gloria, mind you, but a good substitute while he was between relationships. It seemed like he had been between relationships for a really long time. No matter, he was pretty sure Gloria would be coming back any day now.

Well, seventy-five percent sure.

“I’m going for a pee break. You want anything from the vending machine?” the watch officer asked him.

“Dr Pepper, if they have it. Thanks.” He waited until he heard the secure door click shut behind her before he pulled a graphic novel from his bag. Technically, he was allowed to read on watch, but he always felt the WO’s eyes boring into the back of his head when he did. The vending machine was all the way at the other side of the building; she’d be gone for at least fifteen minutes.

He’d just put his feet up when his panel beeped at him. Victor huffed as he leaned forward and clicked on the alarm.

He almost fell out of his chair as he scrambled to face the screen. He would look up the code — it was part of the verification procedure — but he knew this sensor. He’d been there when it was put into service.

He transferred the sensor’s lat and long up onto the big screen, where it showed him the deserts of southern Iran. But the scary part was the flashing message beneath the location.

NUCLEAR SIGNATURE DETECTED

He scanned the information on his screen. The sensor was embedded in a North Korean TEL, in Iran. The Iranians had a nuke on a mobile launcher in their desert. His mind refused to process the information.

Where the fuck was the watch officer?

Victor’s mouth was dry, and he was borderline hyperventilating. This was her job. He was supposed to read the screens, and she was supposed to make the calls. He read the contact profile. It said to call the CIA Emergency hotline, which he knew would go straight to the Director himself. In the middle of the night.

He looked back at the door. Where the fuck was she?

He struggled to think straight. Seconds counted in situations like this one. He needed to make the call. Now.

Victor dialed the assigned number. A sleep-numbed voice answered after two rings.

“Hello?”

“Sir, I have you secure.” Victor tried to keep his voice from shaking.

“Confirmed secure. Go ahead.”

“Sir, this is the monitoring office at headquarters. I just received an alert on a signal from southern Iran, indicating a sensor on a North Korean TEL.”

The voice turned caustic. “Yes, we receive occasional alerts on that sensor; the Iranians have many North Korean — made TELs.”

Shit! He’d left out the most important part!

“Sorry, sir, this sensor is showing a nuclear weapon in close proximity to the TEL.”

“What?”

“Sir, this sensor—”

“I heard you. Contact the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon immediately. Give them every bit of information you have. I’ll be there in twenty.”

The line went dead.

The secure door to the room clicked open, and the watch officer walked in holding two cans of soda. She stopped when she saw his face. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’re about to hurl.”

Victor pointed at the screen.

Her face went slack. “Get the CIA Director on the line—”

“I already called him.”

“Then get me NMCC.”

Victor turned back to his screen. The pinger sent another signal. It was set to ping every sixty seconds once it had a nuclear signature. Victor’s hand started to shake.

Had it really only been one minute?

The first missile was fully erect, white, glistening in the sun. The second and third missiles were slowly coming into position. Hashem, never a religious man, said a silent prayer for their success. His heart felt crushed by the rush of emotions that swirled in his chest, and he fought to keep a clear head.

He keyed his radio. “Yusef, what’s your status?”

Yusef’s response came back muffled. “Loading the final coordinates now for primary target. Spinning up the gyros. Five minutes to launch.”

Primary target: Tel Aviv. Valerie had explained how the missiles were programmed to detonate five hundred meters above the ground, the optimum altitude for blast overpressure. The intense heat from the explosion would vaporize thousands on the ground — including their own President Rouhani — and the shock wave would flatten everything within a few kilometers. Over time, the fallout would drift with prevailing westerly winds across the Israeli landscape, laying waste to the rest of the country.

The second and third missiles would do the same to Haifa and Ashdod, completing the destruction of the Israeli state.