The Tehran Initiative (48 page)

“Isn’t the Qaleh unknown to the Zionists and the Americans?”

“Hopefully,” Jazini said. “But we thought Dr. Saddaji and Dr. Khan were too. I just don’t want us to take any chances. Moreover, I no longer think it is a good idea to bring all of the air force and missile commanders together up here on Saturday. It would take only one cruise missile and—”

“Very well,” the Mahdi said, holding up his hand for Jazini to stop. “You have a missile command center north of Tehran, do you not?”

“Yes, we do, my Lord.”

“Then let us go there. But don’t tell the commanders about the change in plans. Give the chopper pilots the new location at the last possible moment.”

“Yes, my Lord. Very good.”

The men bowed again and were dismissed to get their personal possessions and head to the helicopter pad. Javad took the Mahdi aside and asked what he should do about the satellite phones.

“You are scheduled to get more tonight, are you not?” the Mahdi said.

“Yes, another hundred. Won’t we need them for the commanders?”

“We will. Call your contact. See if you can meet him in an hour. Then come meet us at the command center.”

* * *

Route 56, En Route to Qom, Iran

David and Captain Torres were racing for Qom.

With them in the van were five of the CIA’s most experienced paramilitary commandos. David brought them up to speed on some of the events of the last few days and what he had learned from Khan. Torres, in turn, briefed him on the kind of tools the team had with them, from electronic eavesdropping equipment to ground laser target designators. Then David’s mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It wasn’t Zalinsky. It was Javad Nouri. He quieted everyone down, waited a beat, and took the call.

“Are you alone?” Javad asked.

“Yes,” David lied.

“Change in plans.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Do you have the phones?”

David hesitated. He was tempted to lie and say yes. But what if something had happened to the shipment? What if Eva’s package had never arrived? With everything else that had happened, he had forgotten to call the hotel and confirm he had a package waiting for him.

“No, not yet.”

“What? Why not?”

“I had to make a stop in Hamadan. It got later than I thought, so I stayed overnight. But I’m on my way now.”

“How long?”

“I should be to the hotel in a half hour.”

“Fine. Call me when you have the phones, and we’ll plan a new place to meet.”

* * *

Aboard the
Leviathan
, Persian Gulf

Tension was high in the Combat Information Center.

Captain Yacov Yanit stepped into the blue-lit chamber and cross-checked data on multiple computer screens before him. He had just confirmed his new orders with the head of naval operations in Tel Aviv. Sonar had no contacts. So this was it. He and his men had trained hard for such a time as this. But it was hard to believe the time had actually come.

Yanit desperately needed a cigarette. Why had his wife made him promise to quit? He pulled a stick of nicotine gum from his pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. Then he turned to his XO and ordered the 1,900-ton Israeli Dolphin-class diesel submarine to periscope depth. He quickly scanned the surface in every direction. As expected, there were no ships visible, so Yanit ordered the XO to take the German-built
Leviathan
to the surface. They would be there for less than five minutes, but that’s all he and his crew would need to fire all eight Popeye Turbo cruise missiles.

“This is the captain. All engines full stop.”

“All engines full stop, aye.”

“Kill track 89014 with Popeye.”

“Kill track, aye.”

“Mark time to launch.”

“Mark time to launch, aye.”

“Twenty seconds to launch.”

“Twenty seconds to launch, aye.”

The CIC grew deathly quiet.

“Five seconds to time of launch—
five, four, three, two, one. Fire.
”

On cue, Yanit’s fire-control officer turned his ignition key from Off to Fire.

“Boosters armed. Missiles enabled. Popeye One away. Popeye Two away.”

Suddenly the entire submarine shook violently. Two cruise missiles exploded from their launch tubes with a deafening roar and rocketed into Iranian airspace. Thirty seconds later, two more missiles screamed into the heavens, carrying conventional payloads but enormous firepower into the heart of Persia. Then a third time. And a fourth.

And as rapidly as the
Leviathan
had come, she sank back into the ink-black waters of the Persian Gulf without a trace.

* * *

Hatzerim Air Base, Israel

Captain Avi Yaron steadied his emotions.

He wasn’t scared. He was exhilarated. But he needed to stay calm and focused and not let the spike in adrenaline cloud his judgment.

Like he had done before every training mission, he muted his radio, closed his eyes, and prayed,
“Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha olam, she hehiyanu v’kiy’manu v’higi’anu la z’man ha ze.”

Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season.

Behind him sat Yonah Meir, his weapons systems officer, who tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he was ready to roll. As he had done on a thousand training missions, Avi throttled up his engines and carefully veered his F-15 out of its underground bunker, then taxied onto the tarmac and waited for clearance. Behind him, a half-dozen flight crews in Israeli-modified F-15s and F-16s also maneuvered across the Hatzerim Air Base toward the prime runway, not far from the city of Beersheva, the town where Avi had been raised. But this was no training mission. This was the real thing.

Operating under strict radio silence, the ground crew used hand signals to give him the
go
sign. Immediately Avi gunned his two engines and put his Strike Eagle in the air.

Rather than rocket to forty-eight thousand feet in less than a minute as he typically did, Avi—flight leader for Alpha Team—shot low and fast across the Negev Desert. Six other heavily armed fighter jets were right behind him. He prayed the Gulfstream 550 electronic warfare jet was already in place. He prayed the Israeli efforts to jam the Jordanian, Egyptian, and Saudi radars had worked. It wasn’t clear to him what the Jordanians would do if they picked up his scent. The king had given private assurances he would not interfere in this mission. But he had no doubt the Saudis and the Egyptians, now that they were on board with the Mahdi, would alert Tehran instantly if they detected Israeli planes moving through the southern route.

Weaving low through the mountains and wadis of the Sinai Peninsula, Avi reached his first critical turn and banked hard to the left. Seconds later, as he crossed into Saudi airspace, his jet hit Mach 2.5. If all went well, he would be over the Iranian nuclear facilities in Natanz in a little under an hour.

* * *

Off the Southern Coast of Iran

Two other Israeli submarines now surfaced, if only for a moment.

The first was positioned near the strategic Strait of Hormuz. The second was positioned about two hundred kilometers to the south in the Gulf of Oman.

One by one, they fired their cruise missiles as well and then slipped beneath the waves with barely a ripple.

* * *

Ramat David Air Base

Avi’s twin brother, Yossi, throttled up his F-16.

Quickly taxiing out of the hangar at the Ramat David Air Base, not far from Har Megiddo, the mountain of Armageddon, he put the pedal to the metal, climbing to fifty-seven thousand feet in less than two minutes. Behind him, eleven more F-16s—all armed to the teeth with Python-5, Sparrow, and AMRAAM missiles and two GBU-28 bunker-buster bombs—lifted off in succession and raced to catch up with him.

As leader of Beta Team, Captain Yossi Yaron led the way through the northern route. Beta Team would arc out into the Mediterranean, bypassing Lebanon, then slice back through Syria, careful not to cross into Turkish airspace at any time. They would eventually cut across the Kurdistan region of northern Iraq and then into Iran, where they would target the regime’s nuclear facilities in Qom.

The first order of business, however, was to not get caught.

Yossi had been the strike force leader in the Israeli attack against a nuclear facility under construction in Syria in the fall of 2007. At the time, he had successfully penetrated Syrian air defenses, hit his target, and slipped back out before the Syrians had even known they were there. He’d been tempted to take a victory loop over Damascus but knew if he ever wanted to fly that route again, he must maintain the strictest discipline. And there was no doubt he’d wanted to fly that route again. But the game was not quite the same this time. Since then, the Syrians had bought and installed advanced air defense systems from both the Russians and the Iranians. Israeli technicians were confident they could penetrate and confuse those systems too, and they were about to find out.

With the glistening blue Med below him, he punched a series of controls on his dashboard. This allowed him to begin invading Syrian communications and radar networks. Soon he was hopping through their signals, unscrambling and decoding and digitally analyzing them until he found and locked onto the Syrian air force’s command-and-control frequency. Now he could see what Damascus could see. A few more buttons, and Yossi was taking over the enemy’s sensors. Soon he was transmitting false images to them, causing them to see clear skies in every direction rather than the Israeli onslaught that was overtaking them.

A hundred kilometers to the east, Yossi knew, an Israeli Gulfstream 550 electronics plane was simultaneously scanning Turkish and Lebanese frequencies and jamming those as well. What’s more, they were monitoring his success—or lack thereof. If they detected a problem, they would alert him. But they hadn’t—not yet, at least. So Yossi rocked his wings, alerting his teammates that they were a
go
, and shot into Syria, just above the town of Al Haffah.

57

Qom, Iran

David and his team finally reached the Qom International Hotel.

The modern, three-story, steel-and-glass building was far more impressive than the Delvar in Khorramabad, but they had no time right now to enjoy it or any of its business-class amenities. While Captain Torres and his men stayed out in the parking lot, David sprinted for the lobby, checked in, asked if a package had arrived for him, and waited for the clerk to find it.

His phone rang. It was Birjandi.

“Hello?”

“Reza, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” David said. “Is everything okay?”

“No, something has happened,” Birjandi said. “I can feel it in my spirit.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ve been praying and fasting for you, for Najjar, for the country. And something just happened, about an hour ago. I wish I could say I’d had a dream or a vision, but I haven’t. It’s just an instinct.”

“What do you think it is?”

There was a long pause. Then Birjandi said, “I think the war just started.”

* * *

Tel Aviv, Israel

Naphtali took a deep breath.

He glanced at the various digital clocks mounted on the conference room wall, noting the times in key capitals around the world. It was 3:34 a.m. in Washington, 10:34 a.m. in Jerusalem, and just after noon in Tehran. Naphtali had stalled long enough. It had been nearly an hour since he’d given the
go
order. The first Israeli planes were now in Iranian airspace. They would soon be hitting their targets. If he didn’t call now, the president was going to hear the news from the CIA or the Pentagon, not from him directly. US–Israeli relations were going to be difficult enough from this point forward. He couldn’t make them worse by not giving Israel’s closest ally a heads-up of what was coming.

He picked up the secure phone in the conference room and asked the Defense Ministry operator to put him through to the White House.

* * *

Arak, Iran

A military helicopter landed in the parking lot.

Flanked by six heavily armed Revolutionary Guards, Jalal Zandi was rushed outside wearing a flak jacket and a helmet and carrying his laptop. There he presented his identification and answered several questions to convince the pilot and security crew on the chopper that he was who he said he was. Then he was loaded into the chopper, the door closed, the parking lot was cleared, and they lifted off and headed north.

* * *

Qom, Iran

“I’ve heard nothing like that,” David said.

“Well, perhaps I am wrong,” Birjandi said.

“Is this it?” asked the young clerk, carrying a large DHL box.

“Look, I’ll see what I can find out and let you know,” David told Birjandi. “But right now I have to go.”

“I understand, my friend. May the Lord be with you.”

“He is,” David said. “He finally is.”

“What do you mean?” Birjandi asked, a sudden air of hope in his voice.

“I can’t really talk right now,” David replied, “but I want you to know that your prayers and your counsel have meant a great deal to me. I am with you, on all of it. I believe now. And I’m so grateful.”

He hung up, wishing he could tell Birjandi more about how he’d given his life to Christ—and wishing even more that he could ask the man his many and growing questions. For now, however, he turned his attention to the clerk and the box. It was severely beat up, dented in places and actually ripped in others. The whole thing looked like it had been run over by the delivery truck. But it was definitely addressed to Reza Tabrizi and was marked as being shipped from Munich, though David knew full well it had just come from Langley. He had no idea how Eva had pulled that off, nor did he have the luxury to care.

“Yeah, this looks like mine, but what happened to it?” he asked, feigning annoyance.

“I don’t know,” the clerk said. “That’s just how it came.”

“What if I want to file a complaint?”

“I don’t know, sir. You’ll need to take that up with DHL. Just sign here to say you received it.”