The operation, Dalkimoni knew, would be his crowning achievement, and would represent a major victory for the Rais.
Faramoosh Mozafferreddin would in the end emerge victorious in an uneven conflict with the Western democracies that had lasted the course of many decades.
The victory would bring incalculable glory to the Iranian leader. It would destroy the American presence among the Arab states of the Gulf and it would pour the holy fire of Islam's righteous wrath down upon the Israelis in a bloodbath unequaled by anything in antiquity, just as the Rais had promised long ago.
In the first dull glimmers of early morning, Dalkimoni stepped into the first truck to inspect the cargo. The false fronts of the packing crates had been moved aside by his soldiery, and the smooth metallic surface of one of the Winged Bulls of King Darius was exposed to his view.
Beautiful, awesome, he thought. A beauty as terrible and fierce as that of the desert sun that was now rising over the land to cast its scalding rays over the parched and desolate earth.
Since prehistory, men here had worshipped that celestial power, and now Dalkimoni would unleash that same elemental force in the service of his country and his cause. He could now die, in the knowledge that the culmination of everything to which he had devoted his life was about to be realized in a single obliterating flash of terrible glory.
Dalkimoni moved closer within the confining shadows of the truck's cargo hold. He reached out to touch the ovoid weapon slung between the welded steel cocoon of its support assembly. Such protection against shock was necessary to ward off premature detonation. The nuclear explosives were sensitive to the slightest vibration. They were as delicate as eggs.
Yet these were dragon's eggs. The fiery beasts that would emerge from them would consume the Middle East, changing it for a thousand years. They were indeed that consuming fire that Mozafferreddin had promised years before, during the cowardly attacks of the Western coalition's many shock and awe campaigns against Iranian WMD installations.
Then, the Leader had pledged that sacred fire would eat up all of infidel Israel. He had sworn this by Allah, sworn his holiest of oaths before the assembled nations of the earth, sworn it at the unbelieving warmonger in the White House with heroic defiance.
And the Rais had meant it. Had meant every word that he had uttered, there in the confines of his bunker beneath the presidential palace, that same bunker beneath the complex of buildings that had once been the US Embassy in Tehran.
Over the years of his long and provident rule the Rais had proven that he was not like other men. Surely not like the cowardly Americans. He did not calculate his actions in days, weeks, or months. He thought in terms of years, in decades, in centuries. Surely the Leader wove his plans for all eternity.
Mozafferreddin had known then that he was powerless against the United States' formidable technological might, even the courage and prowess in battle of its soldiers. But he had been ready to sacrifice for victory, and to plan even in defeat. Even then, the germ of his nuclear weapons program was taking root. Slowly, steadily, irresistibly, despite the brutal economic sanctions and the UN inspections imposed by the unfair peace treaty he had signed, the expertise and technology base grew.
In time, the four Winged Bulls — Al Assur, the Warrior, Al Tammuz, the Anointed, Al Gerra, the Fire Bringer and Al Samas, Lord of Light — had been fashioned from bomb-grade U-235 extracted by cascades of gas centrifuges hidden deep below the Leader's many presidential palaces.
And here they now were, these terrible weapons of glory. Ready for use against the hated enemies of the Rais.
Dalkimoni continued his inspection. The nuclear weapons were complete and perfect in every regard, except for the arming and blast initiation modules engineered from the Columbine Heads he had spirited with him to Tehran. These he now screwed into special receptacles in each bomb casing. They were not yet armed, however, but they soon would be. For the time being, Dalkimoni issued instructions for his soldiers to move the false crates into position and to seal the trucks' cargo holds.
Then he approached the drivers. Those who would deliver the weapons were each given what Dalkimoni told them were "visas for heaven." On one side of each wallet-sized Mylar card were printed the arming codes for the nuclear weapon onboard an individual truck. On the other side, prayers and greetings for the guardians of the gates of Behesht Zahra — heavenly paradise. On meeting these celestial gatekeepers they were to present their visas, and gain admittance to an eternity of unceasing delight.
As to arming the weapons, they were instructed to do this just before crossing the two borders. The first would be detonated away to the north, inside the Americans' puppet state of Iraq — this weapon's team carried the designation Al-Marduk. The second nuke would explode in the west, beyond the border crossing with Syria — Al-Tiamat was its team's designation.
Dalkimoni assured the drivers that the visa cards they carried would not fail to win them a place of honor in the next world. In heaven these cards would be read by the Prophet himself, and would instantly assure their bearers of the blessings reserved only for Islam's heroic mujahideen.
In their eyes, Dalkimoni saw that they truly believed every word he told them. That was good. The ration of hashish issued to each man would also help, the doctor well knew. It would make it easier for the simpletons to chew on the ration of bullshit about heaven he now expected them to swallow hook, line and sinker.
Breaux's team rotored low across the parched desert crust toward the rising sun in the V-22. Meanwhile, the rest of the unit was extracting westward, to the safety of Drop Forge inside friendly Jordan. Those on the way back had grumbled at deserting the boss, but Breaux had laid down the law, and they'd done as ordered.
Breaux's destination was the main trunk of the Tehran-Isfahan highway. There, he might chance to interdict the route of the other trucks he suspected would form a convoy, as trucks usually did along the route.
He realized his strategy was a long-shot. Hell, it was worse than that. It was Quixotic and probably suicidal. On the other hand, what would you call who-knew-how-many nukes making their way across the highway? Genocidal. And genocide beat suicide any day of the week. Besides, what other option did he have? Calling in B-52 strikes against every truck in Iran just wasn't going to cut it.
No. Breaux had to bet on those trucks being on the Tehran-Isfahan stretch of the Bonn-Karachi truck route. It was the most likely place to find them in a region of the world where few highways existed capable of supporting heavy vehicle traffic. This fact alone brought the chance of locating the rigs within the realm of the possible. The highway amounted to the only transport corridor the trucks could use.
But then what? On this point Breaux figured he would just have to improvise.
The two Iranian Mig-29 Fulcrums had been scrambled to deal with the escaping convertiplanes. Two of the Viper attack helos were along to ride shotgun, but they would be of little use against the speed, armament and sophisticated avionics of Russia's personal best.