David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Hashem and Aban had discussed a nuclear response from either the US or Israel, but that was the genius of their plan. The Iranian head of state was in Israel, killed by the attack. Who would suspect the Iranians of killing their own leader? Aban’s television broadcast would blame the Islamic State, and while the world dithered on what to do about ISIS, Aban would consolidate his support in the Assembly. From there, his men would take control of key government positions, the intelligence apparatus, and the military.

“Colonel, I’m ready.” Hashem looked up to see Yusef trotting back to the bunker, where they would initiate the launch.

Hashem spoke into his radio. “All hands, clear the area. Launch in one minute!” Hashem jumped into the golf cart and pointed his driver back to the bunker. They stopped along the way to pick up Valerie. The big Russian’s shirtfront was dark with sweat and his chest heaved with the effort of walking in the desert, but a huge smile creased his gray beard.

Everyone had gathered behind the table they’d set up for the launch. Three big red buttons with plastic covers over them sat on the table. Yusef had already seated himself and plugged in his laptop. His good eye, mostly hidden behind a mop of dark curls, looked up at Hashem. Yusef was shaking with excitement, and his lazy eye wandered to the right.

Hashem glanced at his watch: 1115 in Tel Aviv. The meeting would have started by now. Rouhani would probably be making his opening remarks.

“Begin the launch sequence on missile one,” he said. Valerie sobbed behind him.

Yusef’s voice cracked as he began the countdown: “Ten… nine…”

“Sir! We have a missile launch indication!”

The big screen on the wall changed to a map display of the Persian Gulf as the technician spoke.

“SBIRS detects a ground firing… seven seconds ago… heat bloom is classified as an Iranian Shahab-3 medium-range ballistic missile.”

The general manning the watch center stood and slipped his headset on. “Let’s cut the chatter, people. Work the problem. This is not a drill.”

The Space-Based Infrared System, or SBIRS, fed a continuous stream of data to the onsite computers on the watch floor. His finger hovered over the button that would put him in instant contact with the NMCC. Just a few more seconds to figure out if this was an unannounced missile test or some idiot trying to start World War Three.

“SBIRS indicates a westerly heading, sir.” The tech’s voice rose an octave as he spoke. No way, even the Iranians weren’t dumb enough to launch an unannounced missile test toward the west. There was only one target west of Iran worth firing on: Israel. If it was real, then NMCC would task the US Navy guided missile destroyer in the eastern Med to blow the frigging thing out of the sky.

The general swore and stabbed the button to NMCC. “This is Schriever, I have positive confirmation of a missile launch from southern Iran with a westerly heading—”

“Sir, it’s gone.”

He muted the connection with NMCC. “Say again!”

“The missile is gone and SBIRS shows a large explosion on the ground.”

“Work the problem, people. Let’s get satellite coverage of the area now.”

He unmuted the connection to NMCC. “Standby.”

When the missile lifted off the launcher, Hashem thought his heart might burst. The men around him were sobbing openly, hugging each other, and a few had fallen to their knees.

Their ecstasy was short-lived. The missile rose above the immense cloud of dust and exhaust into the sky. When it had cleared the rim of the valley, it began to wobble. Yusef looked up from his laptop, his eyes wide behind his goggles. Over the din, Hashem saw him mouth the word No!

The wobble increased. The missile corkscrewed, then flipped end over end like an enormous Roman candle. Everyone hit the deck when the explosion bloomed over the far ridge.

Time seemed to stand still for Hashem. He hauled Yusef to his feet and ripped the goggles off his face. “What happened?” he screamed.

Yusef’s chin quivered. With the red lines of the goggles still imprinted on his face and his dark curls hanging over his eyes, he looked like an unkempt child. “The gyros,” he whispered. “It must be a bad gyro.”

“What about the others? Can we launch them?”

Yusef shook his head. “They’re all from the same batch — but I have more in the back. I can replace them.”

“How long?”

“A day…”

A day? Could they hide for a day?

Hashem released Yusef. He turned to his men. “Get the missiles back in the bunker now! I want all traces of the launchers removed from the valley immediately. Move!”

Hashem took a deep breath.

He needed to contact Rafiq. Now.

Colonel Tom Anderson had drilled for an event like this all his twenty-two years in the US Air Force, but he’d never expected to actually deal with a nuclear launch from a hostile nation.

“Get me the latest from the Agency,” he said in a loud voice that he hoped conveyed calm. His underarms were soaked, and he clenched his teeth from the strain.

He had confirmation from two distinct intel sources — the SBIRS bird and the CIA “sneaky” source — that the Iranians had just attempted a launch of a nuke against someone to their west. Israel, most likely.

But that made no sense; their president was in Tel Aviv right now at the nuclear treaty talks — he was watching it live on CNN, for Christ’s sake.

ISIS? A coup? What the fuck was going on?

His first call should be the Secretary of Defense, but the Secretary was in Tel Aviv.

“Get me the White House,” he called.

“President on the line, sir.”

The colonel jerked the red handset out of its cradle. “Mr. President, Colonel Anderson, NMCC. We’ve just received an alert from STRATCOM of a missile launch in southern Iran, mountainous desert, sir. CIA has an alert from a sensor that indicates the missile may be armed with a nuclear warhead. The launch failed after about seven seconds and crashed in the vicinity. No nuclear detonation on impact.”

The president sounded remarkably clearheaded for a man who had just been woken up in the middle of the night. “Thank you, Colonel. Do we have interceptors in the region on standby?”

“Yes, sir. The Navy BMD-capable destroyers Ross and Benfold are both in the region, eastern Med and Persian Gulf, respectively. No indications of further missile launches.”

“I’ll be in the Situation Room in five minutes. I’ll call you back. In the meantime, get SecDef on the line, pull him out of the meeting in Tel Aviv if necessary. Find the Chairman and have him meet me in the Situation Room.”

The line went dead.

Brendan squinted at the flat horizon through his Ray-Bans. It was going to be another hot one. The breeze was enough for them to leave a gentle wake in the dark blue ocean. It had been a long week of nothing and now they were sailing south for some liberty in Oman.

This last week had melted into a haze of three meals a day and flat seas. He longed for some action, something to make him sit up in his seat. Failing that, he could use a long run on a sandy beach.