“Our relations with Tehran have hit rock bottom,” Wyman suggested in a steady, pleasant voice, “and this is simply a reaction to our increased presence in the Gulf. It’s that simple.”
Hartwell’s jaw muscles twitched. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. They were waiting for us.”
“Okay,” Wyman taunted in a harsher tone. “Give us some facts.”
“You want facts?” Prost snapped back. “How many times have the Iranians launched fighter planes — and gone on alert — when one of our carrier battle groups entered the Persian Gulf?
“None,” Prost answered his own question. “They may not have known precisely what our objective was, but they knew something was up.”
“They have good surveillance and reconnaissance capabilities,” Wyman blurted. “Maybe they picked up something, or the crash of the Tomcat could have spooked them. We don’t know what they think.”
Macklin raised his hands to Wyman. “We’ll discuss this later. Regardless of what the Iranians know or don’t know”—he glanced at General Chalmers—“Les says that we have missiles en route to their targets. We’re facing a major threat, and we better start making some informed and intelligent decisions for a change.”
“Sir,” Chalmers said, trying to sound confident, “we have overwhelming firepower in the Gulf. I don’t believe the Iranians are going to cross swords with us, even if this operation has been compromised.”
The president traded glances with Hartwell Prost and Pete Adair, then turned to Chalmers. “Would you bet your job on it?”
Caught off guard by the taunt, Chalmers managed to keep his composure. “I just did, sir.”
The secure phone rang, warming the chill in the room. The general lifted the receiver and identified himself. A moment later Chalmers placed the phone in its cradle and looked straight at the president. “It’s confirmed. The Tomahawks are airborne, sir.”
“Get everything up,” Macklin ordered. “If the Iranians counterattack, I want to stop them in their tracks.”
“Yessir,” Chalmers replied with painful stiffness.
The president reached for the phone with the blinking light. Holding for the chief executive, the speaker of the House of Representatives was on the line.
The last embers of the small fire barely glowed as the lame and partially blind sheep tender struggled to rise from his mangy makeshift bed. He lost his balance and tripped over the man lying on the adjoining sleeping mat. Speaking in Luri, his younger companion grumbled as the older man made his way to a shallow trench to relieve the pain in his bladder.
After he was finished, the native of Baluchistan shuffled to the reddish-orange embers and stirred them with a short stick. He added a few thin pieces of wood to the small fire and warmed his withered, arthritic hands over the warm flames.
A few moments later he heard a strange sound approaching him — one he’d never heard in his seventy-one years. The younger man, with his eyes darting in fear, bolted upright and fought to control the panic that was engulfing him. He listened intently while his mind raced to associate the sound with something he could relate to. The low screech became a high-pitched scream as the Tomahawk missile raced straight at their resting place, then blasted directly over the heads of the frightened men. Shocked by the invisible, screaming monster, they sat in stunned silence for a moment before they began talking excitedly to each other.
They were trying to calm their fears when the same eerie sound approached a second time. Afraid that the monster was returning to kill them, the men huddled in sheer terror and trembled while they frantically tried to extinguish the fire. Unsure if the flames were attracting the flying beasts, the older man yanked off his frayed jacket and quickly smothered the low flames.
With the horrendous sound growing closer and closer, the men sprawled on the ground and began praying to Allahu. Reeling from absolute panic, they covered their heads when the screaming monster roared low over them and flew off in the darkness. Thirty seconds later the sound returned from the original direction, causing the younger man to soil his clothes. At an altitude of seventy feet, the missile flew directly over their campsite and continued on course. Eyes sunken and terrified, the men didn’t move a muscle until they could no longer hear the monsters. As the minutes ticked away, their heart rates slowly subsided while they shivered and waited for the first signs of daylight.
Shoving the silver coffee service aside, President Macklin gave Les Chalmers an anxious look as they studied the progress of the cruise missiles on a giant, state-of-the-art multicolored screen. According to satellite information, the first Tomahawk from Hampton would be striking the nukes at Bandar-e Abbas in less than nine minutes. Lost in his concern, Cord Macklin was only vaguely conscious of the other men gathered in the Situation Room.
An aide stepped into the revamped room and quietly conferred with Fraiser Wyman, then silently left.
Irritation and uneasiness combined to twist Wyman’s face. He leaned close to Macklin. “Mr. President,” the chief of staff began, then paused for a long moment.
“What is it?” Macklin snapped.
“Sir, CNN, MSNBC, and the Fox News Channel are reporting that we have launched an attack on Iran, and that we are preparing—”
The color drained from the president’s face.
“—to engage them in—”
“Damn them!” Macklin bellowed, his teeth clenched in fear and anger. “Damn the sorry bastard who leaked this, and damn the sonsabitches who aired it!”
Unable to sleep, Peter Simchukov rose from his small bunk and walked out of the austere barracks adjacent to the missile storage-and-assembly facility at Bushehr. Formerly associated with Russia’s state-run Polyus Research Institute, Simchukov was a highly respected scientist who designed advanced missile guidance systems called ring-laser gyroscopes. A portly man with bloodshot eyes, stringy salt-and-pepper hair, and a mouth full of rotten teeth, he sat down on a wooden bench and glanced at the star-studded sky, then lighted a cigarette and studied the heavily guarded assembly building.
Inside, four North Korean No Dong I missiles and two Chinese DF-25 missiles were being readied to accept the Russian nuclear warheads. The rearmament program was over three months behind schedule, but the stockpile of nuclear-tipped missiles was steadily growing.
Simchukov was one of thousands of Russian scientists, engineers, and nuclear technicians who’d been underemployed and underpaid after the collapse of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The group represented the cream of the former “rocket scientists” at the secrecy-shrouded state-run nuclear laboratories and technical institutes.
Unable to adequately feed, shelter, clothe, or provide medical care and basic needs for their families, the men had cast aside their ethics in order to care for their loved ones. Renegade nations with aspirations of becoming nuclear powers were all too willing to help the downtrodden Russians regain some degree of dignity and pride.
Russian involvement in the development and installation of Iran’s nuclear-power-generation industry had made it easy to slip thousands of extra scientists and technicians into the country to accelerate the Iranian nuclear weapons program. The anti-Western regime now had a clear military edge in the Persian Gulf and the Middle East.
Simchukov’s thoughts turned to his wife, Katerina, and their two young children, Natalya and Gennady. They were living in a cold, crowded apartment with his parents and grandparents while his wife attempted to make ends meet by working as a clerk at the Center for Conversion and Privatization in Moscow.