In the course of their conversation, the division first officer made comment about the difficulties the American airborne division was experiencing in securing its airhead around Bandar Abbas. At first, Vorishnov didn't realize what the division officer was saying.
Vorishnov had never heard of Bandar Abbas and assumed it was in another Arab country.
Only when the division officer mentioned in a disgusted tone that all Soviet naval and air forces were ordered not to engage American forces going into Iran did Vorishnov make the connection.
Vorishnov stopped what he was doing, grabbed the division officer by the arm and asked him to repeat what he had just said. The division officer, taken aback, looked at him for a moment before he realized that word had never gotten down to him about the American intervention in Iran. Word traveled slowly in both directions.
The three men seated around the large table were not only from vastly different backgrounds, but figuratively speaking, from different ages.
The physicist, noticeably uncomfortable and jumpy, was from the late twentieth century. A man of the future. The Air Force colonel, equally uncomfortable but determined to hide it from the third man in the room, belonged to an age when honor and glory meant something.
The man at the head of the table, dressed in the garb of a mullah, was a product of the Middle Ages, in thought and deed.
The mullah leafed through a report on the table before him, then let the pages drop and stared at the physicist. "So, you are not ready, despite your promises.
The physicist jumped. "I… I never told you we were ready or gave a date when the device would be ready. I simply said that we had everything we needed and could, given time, put together a couple of devices. This is not easy. If the triggers are not set right, if the material is not of sufficient uniformity-"
The mullah pounded his fist on the table, cutting the physicist off.
"You have deceived us. A great deal of money and effort has gone into your project. You always reported that things were proceeding well and would be ready soon. For six years, you have said the same thing, over and over. Now is the moment of truth. The Council will not tolerate any more delays. The Lesser Satan is almost at the gates of this city. If he is not stopped here, Qom will fall to him. You will produce or pay with your life."
The physicist was now shaking and stammering. He tried to reply, but could not. The colonel, ever conscious of his delicate position, gambled and intervened on the physicist's behalf. "The doctor is right: While we do have all the parts, putting together a functional device is not easy. None of us has ever done so. If we make an error, just the slightest error, we lose everything. Besides, the time is not right."
The mullah, surprised at the show of support from the colonel, stared at him before asking him to explain why the time was not right.
The colonel explained. "We now have to face both Satans. The Soviets continue to advance and, no doubt, will go as far south as possible. They want the oil and the ports on the Persian Gulf. The Great Satan wants to stop them." The colonel stopped for a moment. He had the mullah's complete attention. "Eventually, they will meet in battle. When they do, there will be much confusion. Then, and only then, will be the right time to set off the device. In the heat of the moment and the confusion of battle, no one will be able to tell who, for sure, fired the device. Both, knowing that we do not have such a thing, will believe the other did it. As is their policy, they will retaliate in kind. In this way, with only a single device, we can serve Allah, His name be praised, and destroy not only the forces of the two Satans in our country but, Allah willing, their homelands too."
The colonel sat back in his chair and watched as the mullah thought over the argument just put forth. The colonel had used all the right words and had given the mullah something more than he could have hoped for-a means to strike at both of the godless infidels. In return, the colonel had, he hoped, bought a little more time for sanity to win out.
It was a desperate game the colonel was playing. But the stakes were high. Horribly high.
The mullah looked at him. "Your plan has merit. I will present it to the Council. In the meantime, remove everything you need for the device from Tehran to a safe place where you can continue your work. Destroy all evidence of your work and keep us informed of your progress and when you will be ready."
Without waiting for a response, the mullah stood up and left the room.
Both the physicist and the colonel sat there in silence for a moment, staring at each other, wondering what their next move would be and where the unfolding insanity would eventually end.
Chapter 6
Ever forward, but slowly.
The crews of the two F-15E Strike Eagles were impatient to go. While the ground crew made last-minute checks around the aircraft, they sat in their cockpits and watched the comings and goings of military transports and of civilian airliners pressed into military service. The sun was hardly up and already the place was a zoo. At one end of the runway, Army equipment taken off C-141 and huge C-5A transports was being marshaled. Next to that area was a supply dump where forklifts shuttled back and forth, moving crates from the runway to a temporary open-air storage site. Along the edge of the runway discarded packing materials and tie-downs were strewn about. For the past five days a steady stream of transports and airliners had been bringing in the rest of the 17th Airborne Division and its support equipment. Despite almost frenzied efforts on the part of the Military Airlift Command, called MAC for short, it would be another five days before the entire division was on the ground and the 12th Infantry Division could begin deployment.
Across from the F-15s a flight of Army UH-60 Blackhawk utility helicopters was winding up, preparing for the day's mission. The F-15s were to provide cover for the flight of Blackhawks, whose mission was to pick up a battalion of the 517th Airborne, one company at a time, and move it to a crossroad town by the name of Tarom, seventy kilometers north of Bandar Abbas. The Army was expanding the airhead by leapfrogging units to the north, east and west along the major avenues of approach leading to the Strait of Hormuz. The Marines, operating out of the port of Chah Bahar, were doing likewise. Both forces ran the danger of overextending and isolating themselves rather than isolating the people they were bypassing.
Risks, however, had to be taken. So long as the Soviets were still over five hundred miles to the north and Iranian resistance was disjointed, the risks appeared to be acceptable.
Finally cleared for takeoff, Major Ed Martain, nicknamed "Thunderballs," rolled his F-15 out onto the runway and taxied down to one end. The second aircraft followed Martain's. For a moment, all traffic was held up for them. As they went past the huge transports that were scattered about, Martain's weapons-system operator, or wizzo, commented that it reminded him of driving on the New Jersey Turnpike. Upon reaching the end of the runway, the two F- 15s turned, got themselves set and began to increase power. When they were ready, the pilots released the brakes, allowing the two aircraft to thunder down the runway. Both Martain and the other pilot, by unspoken agreement, kicked in their after burners and lifted off faster than necessary. They wanted to clearly demonstrate to all the trash haulers (their term for transport pilots) who the kings of the roost were.