Even under the best case, the planners believed that several hundred American soldiers and Marines would die. The Iranians knew exactly the sites the United States was targeting. They could concentrate artillery and armor on the highways and bridges that led to Natanz and Fordow. American airpower would shred the Iranian positions, but not before they had inflicted plenty of casualties on the invading units. The Iranians would also try to lay the massive roadside bombs that guerrillas had used so lethally against Americans in Iraq, though the Pentagon had a countermeasure, round-the-clock drones overflying the roads the ground forces would use and destroying bomb-planting teams before they could even dig holes.
But the real concern was that Iran would block the advance of one or both invasion forces. Neither the 82nd nor the Marines had nearly enough men to protect long supply lines. Instead, they would advance in tight clusters, relying on the ammunition, fuel, and food that they brought with them until they reached Natanz and resupply. Along the way, they would have to depend on the Air Force to defend their flanks and rear. The attack would be almost a blitzkrieg, though aiming to take territory rather than encircle and destroy enemy armies. It ran counter to the doctrine the Pentagon had used to invade Iraq in 1991 and 2003. In both those cases, the United States had slowly assembled massive armies and then demolished the undermanned Iraqi forces that faced them.
The plan gave the United States the chance to destroy Iran’s nuclear program quickly, and potentially with far fewer casualties than a multiyear occupation. But if it failed, the invading forces risked being surrounded and trapped in a way no American soldiers had been since the Battle of Chosin Reservoir in the Korean War. After three days of simulations, the Pentagon put the odds of rapid success at 75 percent, of a campaign that was longer and bloodier than expected but ended in American victory at 15 percent, and of failure at 10 percent. Both the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of Defense told the President that 10 percent was too high a risk and that he should consider a bigger invasion force. “It will take longer, both to put together and to move once we cross the border, but it’ll be safer.”
“Maybe the first few days will be safer,” the President said. “Then we’re stuck. It’s your job to make sure that ten percent doesn’t happen.”
As she reread the plan, Green understood the military’s concerns. The United States had lost almost seven thousand soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, but those deaths had occurred during more than a decade of fighting. Here, the United States could see hundreds of soldiers killed in a day. And that wasn’t even the worst case. The worst case was that the entire invasion collapsed and that the 82nd or the Marines were forced to retreat to their bases in Turkey or Afghanistan. Or to surrender. Americans couldn’t even imagine that their soldiers would ever be forced to throw down their weapons and put up their hands. The psychic damage would be unthinkable. Green believed that a major defeat would cause America to retreat from the world, becoming isolationist in a way it had not been in generations. And history suggested that whatever the problems with American leadership, the world was a more dangerous place without it.
But the President had made up his mind. Despite all the uncertainties, including the fact that the CIA still couldn’t find the Revolutionary Guard colonel who had first told it about the highly enriched uranium in Istanbul, he would not back down from his ultimatum. At the same time, he did not want another long war in a Muslim country. He would live with a ninety percent chance of success. And the decision belonged to him, no one else.
Green had done her best to help him sort the pros and cons. But as she finished rereading the briefing book that night, Green was happy she hadn’t had to decide.
She and Rodgers left Dulles just after midnight and ran into a winter storm over the western Atlantic. She was so tired that even the bumps couldn’t keep her awake. She woke to bright blue skies, the sun already behind them. “Where are we?”‘
“Western France.” Rodgers looked grim.
“What’s wrong? Weather make us late?” She checked her watch: 7 a.m., so 1 p.m. local. Right on time, a few minutes late at most.
He handed her his CIA BlackBerry. “Reception just kicked in.”
The headline jumped out at her. American Airlines Jet Lost Off South America…
Iran’s hardliners had just incinerated five hundred people to send her, and maybe their moderate counterparts in Tehran, a message: You’re wasting your time. Point made. This meeting, their last best hope for peace, was over before it even began.
She wondered if she should order the pilots to land in Paris, refuel, turn around. But they were barely an hour from Marseilles. Might as well go ahead. At least she’d get to see Behzadi in person, judge for herself whether he’d had advance knowledge of the attack.
“I should call in,” Rodgers said.
“No.” Besides two hundred new emails, his BlackBerry had seventeen unheard voice mails. No doubt hers had dozens more. She didn’t want advice or opinions. Not now. She handed it back to him. “Keep reading so we don’t miss any updates, but don’t send any emails, don’t take any calls. I don’t want to talk to anyone until I hear for myself what he has to say.”
The runway at Istres — Le Tubé stretched three-plus miles, the longest in Europe. NASA had considered using the base for emergency space shuttle landings. The Bombardier taxied for what seemed like an eternity. When they finally reached the apron at the end of the overrun, Behzadi’s jet was nowhere in sight. Insult to injury. Instead, five armored SUVs waited, along with a dozen French paratroopers, red berets cocked jauntily, short sleeves cuffed smartly over their biceps. They rolled a Jetway to the cabin door. A French air force officer in a perfectly pressed uniform mounted the steps.
“Madame National Security Advisor”—only a Frenchman could make those four words sound like an invitation to dance—“I’m Colonel Muscoot. I regret to tell you your friend is not so punctual. We expect him within twenty minutes. Would you like something to eat while you wait? I have sandwiches.”
Muscoot’s manner suggested he hadn’t heard yet about the downed jets, and Green couldn’t bring herself to tell him. “No thanks.”
“They’re excellent, I assure you.”
Why not? They would be back in the air soon enough. Might as well ride on a full stomach. “All right, then.”
He whistled sharply and a paratrooper trotted up the stairs with a picnic basket, a ridiculous and perfect flourish. Under better circumstances, Green would have been thrilled. Muscoot took it and stepped past her into the cabin. She realized that the lunch had been an excuse for him to peek inside the Bombardier, make sure it didn’t have a kidnap team stowed in back.
Still, she was glad she’d agreed. The basket held salads, tomato-and-mozzarella sandwiches on black bread, a thermos of steaming hot coffee. She had a feeling that if she’d asked for a bottle of wine, Muscoot would have snapped his fingers and produced it. While they ate, she asked about the SUVs on the tarmac, which seemed to have come straight from a Mad Max set.
“We call them VBLs. Not so armored as the Humvee, but quick. Also, it — how do you say this — it swims.”
“Amphibious.”
“Oui, amphibious.” Muscoot gave her a thousand-watt smile. Before she could come up with a suitably witty answer, his radio buzzed. After a brief back-and-forth in French: “Please excuse me. Monsieur Behzadi’s plane is arriving.” He trotted outside.