Carefully, the Quds Force noncom compared the photo on the ID card with his face and then handed it back with a nod. He turned away and entered a quick series of numbers on a keypad below a bulkhead-mounted intercom.
“LCC,” a voice answered over the loudspeaker. “Yes?”
“The captain is here,” the chief warrant officer answered. “Status verified.”
In reply, the hatch undogged and swung open, revealing a windowless compartment almost as large as the bridge just above it. Computer consoles and display screens filled almost every square meter. Several civilians sat at the consoles, carefully monitoring the data flowing to their stations. Video feeds from cameras mounted at various places around the ship offered their only views of the outside. Heidari stepped through the hatch and waited while the Quds Force sentry on duty closed and sealed it behind him.
A short, stocky scientist with a scruffy white beard looked up from the central console. He smiled pleasantly. “Welcome to the Launch Control Center, Reza,” Dr. Hossein Majidi said. “I understand that we’ve overcome the first hurdle on this long ocean voyage?”
Heidari nodded. “The Israelis attacked us as expected,” he said calmly. “And we drove them off. Again, just as we expected.”
His little quip drew quick, relieved smiles from the missile technicians on duty. Completely isolated from the rest of the tanker by design, all they could have seen on their screens during the attack were the repeated, pulsing flashes of guns and SAMs firing. He walked over to Majidi’s side.
“Come to inspect our cargo?” the scientist asked. Heidari nodded. Majidi flicked a finger at one of his technicians. “Bring up the missile compartment on my display here, Kamshad,” he said indulgently.
Instantly, the screens at his console brightened, showing views of a long white rocket with a black nose cone lying on its side, securely cradled inside a metal framework. A web of thick data cables ran to ports located along the flanks of the finned Zuljanah launch vehicle. Since they were unable to physically inspect the rocket currently hidden deep inside the Gulf Venture, below storage bunkers containing tens of thousands of barrels of crude oil, Majidi and his technicians were forced to rely on a complex network of remote sensors. These devices provided constant updates of the status of the missile’s engines, electronics, and other internal systems — including those of its special nuclear payload.
The scientist indicated the numbers and graphs flowing across other screens at his console. “As you can see,” he said to Heidari, who could actually see nothing of the kind, “both solid-fuel stages remain completely stable.” He tapped a control on his keyboard. New graphs appeared. “And the volatile hypergolic fuels for the rocket’s third stage are safely stored. There are no problems.”
“What about the warhead itself?” Heidari asked sharply. “Will it work as planned?”
“Relax, Reza,” Majidi said confidently. “All you and your sailors need to do is deliver us safely to the planned launch point.” He waved a hand around the compartment. “Once that’s accomplished, you can sit back and watch while we finish this mission.”
Heidari leaned forward, peering intently at the missile concealed deep in the bowels of his enormous ship. It could only be his imagination he realized, but now the rocket seemed almost to be straining at the data cables and other webbing holding it in place — as though it were a hunting falcon straining at its leash, eager to soar and kill.
Twenty-Six
Tired and sore, Nick Flynn limped slowly out through the sliding doors of Terminal B. The backpack slung over one shoulder was the only piece of luggage he’d brought on the succession of flights home from Israel. He joined a knot of other arriving travelers, most of them in T-shirts and shorts, who were waiting for taxis or Uber and Lyft drivers to pick them up.
A dark blue late-model Jeep Grand Cherokee pulled up to the curb and flashed its lights four times. “Excuse me, folks. That’s my ride,” he said politely, as he edged past a couple of parents with three very excited children wearing matching Disney shirts. Carefully, favoring his right leg, he climbed into the back seat of the waiting SUV next to Fox.
The older man greeted him with noncommittal nod and leaned forward. “We’ll go straight back to Avalon House,” he told the man behind the wheel, Mark Stadler. The tough-looking former Marine was now one of Four’s security personnel. “We shouldn’t have picked up a tail anywhere, but keep your eyes peeled just in case.”
“Yes, sir,” Stadler agreed. “I’m on it.” After checking his mirrors, he pulled out into the airport’s slow-moving traffic.
Fox sat back with a sigh and turned to Flynn. He raised a single, questioning eyebrow. “Well?”
“I’m a little battered and bruised, but I’m not seriously hurt,” Flynn assured him. “My Israeli hosts had me checked out at one of their military hospitals during the mission debrief.” He pointed to the bandage slanting from one corner of his mouth to the middle of his chin. “Took a couple of stiches here, but the docs say I won’t even get much of a scar out of it.”
Fox nodded. “Good.”
“My pride’s taken a hell of beating, though,” Flynn admitted. His jaw tightened. Whoever’d said that any crash landing you could walk away from — or in his case, swim away from — was a good one must not have spent much time around those who hadn’t been as lucky. “I took those poor Shayatet 13 guys right into a goddamned trap. Some of them may never get out of the hospital.”
Fox shook his head. “There’s no point in kicking yourself too hard about this, Nick. I’ve talked to Gideon. No one in the IDF is blaming you. We all knew trying to board that tanker from the air would be extremely difficult and dangerous. What none of us anticipated was the actual strength of those concealed defenses.” He frowned. “I saw some of the gun camera footage from the second Panther helicopter. The amount of antiaircraft fire coming your way looked a bit… hairy.”
“Hairy is an understatement,” Flynn said grimly. “That ship is a floating fortress. No boarding party could have made it past that level of firepower.” He frowned. “Hell, from what I could make out, it’ll take a heavily armed warship to knock out those gun mounts and missile launchers before anyone could hope to make it to the deck alive.”
Fox smiled dryly. “Sadly, Four’s original organizers neglected to provide us with a navy of our own. Or the resources to acquire one now.” Pensively, he looked out his window as they merged onto a highway that would take them north toward Winter Park. “Nor, unfortunately, do I see any hope of persuading our government to take any action in this case.”
“Washington’s still not taking this threat seriously?” Flynn asked in disbelief. “Even after seeing how heavily the Iranians and Russians have armed the Gulf Venture? Those 35mm guns and SAMs sure as hell aren’t on that ship just to protect it from Somali or Malay pirates.”
“My sources tell me the overall mood in the higher echelons of the CIA and its counterparts is one of smug satisfaction that they’ve avoided being caught in what’s considered the usual crossfire between hardliners in Jerusalem and radical Islamists in Tehran,” Fox said quietly.
Flynn gritted his teeth. “Then they’re idiots.”
“Politicians,” Fox corrected him sardonically. “Which I suppose amounts to much the same thing.”
“So we’re basically screwed,” Flynn snapped. “Being able to say ‘I told you so’ isn’t going to be much comfort if a nuke goes off over a city somewhere.”