“Okay, you need to feed the antenna through the tube,” said Zalinsky.
David did as he was told.
“Done,” he said.
“No,” said Zalinsky. “You need to stuff it in. Cram as much of the antenna into that pit as you possibly can. Wiggle it around. It’s flexible, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Then keep stuffing it in — again, as much as you can.”
David complied.
“Okay, that’s it. I did it.”
“Good,” said Zalinsky. “Now, take your scissors and snip off the end of the antenna.”
“Done,” David said when he was finished.
“Take the tip of your knife and push the last bit of the antenna into the pit so it can’t be seen, can’t be grabbed hold of, and can’t be pulled out.”
David did this as well. “Done,” he said again.
“You’re sure?” Zalinsky asked.
“I’m sure.”
“Good,” said Zalinsky. “Now the warhead is permanently disabled.”
“Permanently?” David asked.
“Yes,” Zalinsky confirmed. “At this point, even if someone could feed tritium into the pit, the implosion can’t occur. With the steel wire in there, the pit can’t be compressed enough, no matter how intense the explosives. And that’s it. No implosion, no detonation. The only way someone can use that warhead now is to cut the entire thing open, take the pit out, take the steel wire out, completely overhaul and remanufacture the plutonium, and put the whole thing back together. It would take weeks if not months.”
David couldn’t believe it. He’d done it. He started to breathe again, then asked, “Now what?”
“Get your men out of there,” Zalinsky ordered. “I’m firing two Hellfire missiles at that ambulance in ninety seconds. No one is touching that warhead. You hear me? No one.”
“Got it,” said David. “Just find me some wheels.”
“Up the street, about forty yards, there’s a white four-door Khodro Samand,” Zalinsky said, referring to an Iranian-made sedan.
“Thanks,” said David.
He cut the line to Langley, shoved the satphone in his pocket, crawled out of the ambulance, and raced up the street. Sure enough, the car was right where Zalinsky said it would be. It wasn’t running, but the driver had fled too quickly to remember to take his keys. David jumped in, gunned the engine, and raced to the ambulance. He carefully loaded Fox into the front passenger seat and lowered it to about a forty-five-degree angle. Next, he picked up Crenshaw and laid him on the backseat. Then he gathered their weapons, made sure he wasn’t leaving behind any ammo, and jumped in the driver’s seat. Seconds later, as he sped along Highway 7 heading southwest, he both heard and felt the Hellfires obliterating the Red Crescent ambulance and what was left of the Iranian nuclear warhead.
“Now what, boss?” Fox asked as David pushed the pedal to the metal.
“Next stop, Damascus, gentlemen.”
For David, there were just two questions remaining: Could they neutralize the second warhead? And could they rescue Birjandi? He knew the odds. He also knew his men desperately needed medical attention, but the brutal truth was there was no place to get it. Not yet. Not now. They had to press forward. They had to see this mission through to the bitter end.
48
General Youssef Hamdi raced down the hallway toward his large, plush corner office overlooking the flight line where two dozen MiG-29 fighter jets were parked, gleaming in the midday sunshine. Standing in the hallway were ten heavily armed Revolutionary Guards, along with two bodyguards from the Syrian presidential detail. Sitting there on a chair in the hallway was Dr. Birjandi, still waiting for his meeting with the Twelfth Imam. But the Mahdi was behind closed doors with Ayatollah Hosseini, Syrian president Gamal Mustafa, and General Jazini, along with the Mahdi’s most senior aides, Daryush Rashidi and Abdol Esfahani.
“General Hamdi, is that you?” Birjandi asked. “Are you okay?”
“It is me, Dr. Birjandi, but I’m sorry; I cannot speak now,” Hamdi replied, his voice agitated, almost panicky. “I must see the Mahdi.”
“I’m afraid he is busy,” Birjandi said calmly. “He summoned me, as you know, but I keep being told I must wait a little while longer. It’s okay, of course; I’m not in a hurry.”
“But I am,” said Hamdi. “This cannot wait.”
It felt strange to Hamdi, knocking on the door to his own office, but he had to remind himself that he was not in charge any longer. He took a deep breath, tried in vain to calm himself, to steady his nerves, then knocked twice.
“Who is it?” Jazini asked.
“Your humble servant,” Hamdi replied.
“Come,” said the Mahdi.
Cautiously the Syrian commander entered, knelt, and bowed to the ground.
“Is everything all right, General Hamdi?” Jazini asked. “You’re breathless.”
“I have terrible news, Your Excellency,” Hamdi replied, his forehead still touching the Persian carpet.
“The convoy has been attacked by the Zionists outside of Dayr az-Zawr,” said the Mahdi.
The general looked up, startled. He had no idea whether the attack had come from Israelis or Americans or some other force, but he was still reeling from the fact that the attack had happened at all. Who could possibly have known they were sending the warhead to the north? They hadn’t told anyone. Jazini hadn’t even allowed Hamdi to alert the commander of the air base in Dayr az-Zawr, a close personal friend for more than a quarter of a century. Strict operational security had been maintained.
“How did you know, Your Excellency?” Hamdi asked. “I just got the news from the commander of the air base there myself.”
“My men called me from the scene a few minutes ago,” Jazini explained.
“How could this have happened?” Daryush Rashidi now asked, taking the words out of Hamdi’s own mouth.
“Ye of little faith,” the Mahdi said. “The ruse worked just as I had suspected.”
Perplexed, Hamdi asked, “How so, my Lord?”
“We have a mole,” the Mahdi explained. “Someone on this base — indeed, likely someone in this very room — is working for the Zionists.”
The room went deathly silent.
“And since I know and trust everyone in this room except you, General Hamdi,” the Mahdi continued, “I’m going to have to conclude it is you.”
Hamdi began shaking. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had been a loyal servant of the Syrian Arab Republic since he had been drafted into the air force at the age of eighteen. He was a devout Muslim, an Alawi, and a distantly related cousin of President Mustafa. He had numerous medals for bravery and was known, above all else, for his loyalty to the regime. In fact, he had personally overseen many of the massacres in recent weeks against Syrian Christians and Jews and even the stepped-up, targeted murders of high-ranking pastors and priests in just the past two days, a command that had come directly from the Mahdi. What’s more, he had created the very infrastructure of ballistic-missile development and deployment that was making possible the Mahdi’s goal of attacking the Zionists with a nuclear warhead from Syrian soil. How could anyone believe he had sold out his country or the Caliphate?
Both terrified and angry, Hamdi wanted to defend himself. He wanted to prove his faithfulness, but a deep chill suddenly descended upon the room or at least upon him. He felt paralyzed by a force that had come over him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Though he could not turn his head, he sensed a dark spirit moving close by, and then he sensed several. They were swirling about his feet and his chest and now his head, and then it was as though they had entered through his nostrils and his mouth, and he felt himself being choked to death, but it was as though he were being choked from within.