Primary Target (1999) (24 page)

Commander Fathi Ashmar turned to Rafiqdoust and smiled with unconscious pride. "The Americans are getting their noses bloodied."

Chapter
23

The White House
.

Although it was early morning in the Persian Gulf, the evening was still young in Washington, D
. C
. Freshl
y
shaved and showered, President Macklin entered the wood-paneled bunker known as the White House Situation Room. He'd stopped by the Oval Office to ensure that the TV cameras and lights were positioned where he liked them. If everything went as anticipated, Macklin planned to make a short announcement to his fellow citizens, then enjoy a late dinner with his wife, former foreign news correspondent Maria Eden-Macklin. If things didn't go well, it would be a long night for the commander in chief and his entire staff. The president took his chair at the head of the wide table and greeted his secretary of defense, the national security adviser, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, and Fraiser Wyman, Macklin's chief of staff.

A gaunt man with tightly curled gray hair and deeply set blue eyes, Wyman had been a longtime inhabitant of the political underbrush before Macklin rescued him from obscurity. A late bloomer, Wyman wore small round metal-rimmed glasses and displayed a charming, almost boyish smile. A middle-aged bachelor, he had three passions other than politics; attractive young women, skiing in Switzerland, and expensive foreign sports cars.

"Okay, Pete, tell me some good news," Macklin said cheerfully as he puffed on a fresh Onyx cigar.

Adair hesitated a second, giving himself away. "Well, we have more activity than we anticipated."

"Activity?" Macklin's voice accused Adair.

"Yes, sir."

"Why does that not surprise me?" the president challenged. From previous encounters with Macklin, Adair knew better than to take the bait. "They've launched what appear to be numerous fighter aircraft out of Shiraz and Bushehr. All their forces--air and sea--are in a heightened-alert status." "Wonderful," Macklin said curtly. The single word managed to indicate his concern and irritation. If the operation backfired, and American lives were lost, he would be in deep political trouble. Heads, of course, would have to roll.

"Les, what do you suggest?" the president asked with venom in his voice. "Should we cancel the strike?" Chalmers flicked a nervous glance at his watch. "It's too late," he said, somewhat apologetically. "The Tomahawks are in the air. We should have confirmation any second." Macklin swore to himself, then looked each man in the eye before he spoke. "We underestimated Tehran."

In silence, the men waited for the storm to hit.

"Or," Hartwell Prost finally said in a suggestive voice, "they knew we were coming."

The president frowned and gave him a surprised look. "What are you talking about--what's that supposed to mean?"

Prost tilted his head and half turned to look at his boss. "Someone obviously leaked the plan," he declared with terse calm. "This was a super-secret operation, and the Iranians were waiting for us. That didn't just happen by chance." No one, including the president, said a word until Fraiser Wyman finally found his voice. "I'm sorry, Hartwell, but I find that difficult to believe."

"Why do you find it difficult to believe?" Prost challenged. "Let's hear your explanation."

"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 Herdsme
n
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 hiswithered, 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 the
y
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.

The Situation Roo
m
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!"

Bushehr, Ira
n
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-andpepper hair, and a mouth full of rotten teeth, he sat down on a wooden bench and glanced at the star-studded sky, the
n
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.

Simchukov and three other Soviet scientists were responsible for training a select group of Iranians to become nuclear weapons technicians. The seemingly endless program was expected to be completed in less than two months, freeing the homesick scientists to return to Russia and their families. Taking a last drag on his cigarette and crushing it on the ground, Simchukov cringed when he heard an eerie sound. He'd never heard a Tomahawk missile, but he instinctively knew it was the sound of death. Simchukov leaped to his feet and ran as fast as he could for the perimeter of th
e
compound. In his mind, he knew it was useless to run, but his every instinct told him to flee. The ensuing explosion blew the scientist through the chain-link fence, killing him instantly.

The conflagration in the assembly yard would be totally out of control by the time the second and third Tomahawks plowed into the warhead storage building. The nuclear storage-and-assembly complex at Bandar-e Abbas had suffered a similar fate only minutes before. While chaos reigned at the demolished nuclear facilities, Cheyenne's cruise missiles began arriving. Fortunately, as General Chalmers had assured President Macklin, none of Iran's nuclear weapons detonated.

Chapter
24

Southwest of Khark Island
.

F
lying level at 22,000 feet above the Persian Gulf, LieuItenant Colonel Trent McCutchin checked his fuel and noted the time. Between fifty and eighty miles to the west, a U
. S
. Air Force RC-135 Rivet Joint surveillance aircraft and an E-8 Joint-STARS Boeing worked with an E-3 AWACS Airborne Warning and Control aircraft.

The RC-135 is considered so menacing that senior officers in the Soviet Union's chain of command willingly risked their careers and international scorn by shooting down Korean Airlines Flight 007, a Boeing 747 they mistook for a Rivet Joint aircraft probing Russia's eastern defenses. The Rivet Joint team focused on coordinating the location of electronic emissions with the AWACS powerful aerial radar and the Joint-STARS ground radar and moving-target indications. With all the elements working in harmony, nothing could hide from U
. S
. intelligence for over 300 nautical miles beyond an enemy's front lines.