“Gorud made a call from the airport,” said Reid. He stood as well. The gray-haired CIA veteran seemed a little more tired than normal, but there was good reason for that. “After the plane took off.”
“Plane?”
“There was a problem and they had to substitute. There wasn’t enough space in the aircraft. Gorud opted to stay on the ground. It was either him or Grease.”
“I see.”
“He decided it was important enough to break the planned protocol. That’s why it took so long. I just wanted you to know. I’ve got to go back over to the big building,” Reid added, using his slang for the Agency’s administrative headquarters across the way. “I have to run back for a quick meeting. I’ll be here again in time for the actual show.”
“OK.”
“You’ll alert the President?” said Reid.
“Of course. I better get back inside. The WB-57 will be launching from Afghanistan soon.”
9
Iran
TURK RAN THROUGH ALL THE TESTS A THIRD TIME, RECEIVING one more confirmation that everything was in top order and ready. The main screen on the controller, which resembled a laptop, was currently displaying a situation map, with their location plotted against a satellite image. He tapped the window to the left, expanding it and then selecting the preselect for the target area. The image that appeared looked at first glance like a sepia-toned photo of capillaries crisscrossing a human heart. Only after he zoomed the image did it start to look something like it was: a synthesized image of the target bunker, taken in real time.
The image was being provided by a WB-57, flying at high altitude just over the border from Iraq. Owned by NASA but currently being flown by an Air Force pilot, the WB-57 was a greatly modified Cold War era B-57 Canberra. Originally designed as a bomber, the high-flying, ultrastable plane had proven adept at reconnaissance from the earliest days of its career. After their retirement from the bomber fleet, the planes continued to do yeoman’s service during the Cold War, snapping photos of missile sites and other installations. When no longer useful to the Air Force, a handful of planes were taken in by NASA, which made them into high-flying scientific platforms, gathering data for a number of scientific projects.
This WB-57 had been borrowed from NASA for a more ominous assignment. Inside its belly was an earth-penetrating system that could map deep-underground bunkers in real time. The gear would be used to monitor the nano-UAVs as they penetrated the target.
Related to the technology developed for the HAARP program, the complex monitoring system used the auroral electrojet—a charged-particle stream in the ionosphere high above the earth—to send a burst of dispersed ELF, or extremely low frequency waves, into the bunker. The WB-57 tracked the waves, using them to draw pictures of what was happening beneath the earth’s surface. The angle and direction of the waves meant the WB-57 could stay a considerable distance away from the bunker.
Even at 60,000 feet the plane was vulnerable to all manner of defenses, from Iran’s recently acquired Russian S-200s and even older Hawk missiles left from the Shah’s era. And while it could provide detailed images of what was underground, its sophisticated equipment could not provide even the fuzziest picture of the ground’s surface. For that Turk knew he would have to look at the video provided by the Hydras as they approached the target.
He fiddled back and forth with the screen configuration, trying to decide how much priority to give the optical view of the lead UAVs. He tried his favored arrangement for the Sabre UAVs, dividing the screen into two unequal parts, the right side about three times as large as the left. He then created a pair of panels on the right, with an area plot at the bottom and the larger, forward video feed at the top. The left panels were split into four equal boxes, each to receive a feed from a different UAV. That would make it easier to switch as the mission progressed.
The control unit bounced on Turk’s knees as the Cessna jerked upward. They were flying in a mountain range, at roughly 8,000 feet, which left a hundred feet and sometimes far less between their wings and the nearby mountaintops. The pilot was even more nervous than he’d been when they took off, and on top of that appeared physically exhausted. He kept glancing to his right as he flew, checking on the Israeli in the right seat but rarely saying a word.
The Israeli said even less. His attitude made the severe Gorud look like a carnival clown high on laughing gas. Turk had begun thinking of him as the Grim Reaper, but grim barely described his demeanor.
“This shows where we are, right?” Grease asked, pointing at the lower map on the control unit.
“Not exactly,” answered Turk. “It shows where the target area is. Then when I add this, we get a GPS indicator to show that we’re in it. But I don’t want to query too often, on the off chance that the Iranians will monitor the signal.”
“Is that likely?”
Turk shrugged. It wasn’t, but at this point the fewer chances the better.
“So we’re close?”
“We’re a little ahead of schedule.”
“That’s not good?” Grease said, reading Turk’s frown.
“We’ll have to keep flying around. I’m afraid of being seen. There are radars all along this area, and a major antiaircraft site here at Natanz. Not that they’d need much to shoot us down.”
The antiaircraft sites had all been marked on a special map in the briefing files, which were destroyed when Grease torched the pad computer. But in truth the location was immaterial—the Cessna was already well within their range. The success of the plan hinged on staying low, near the mountaintops. As long as they did, the radars associated with the missile batteries were unlikely to see them.
“You’re going to have to hold the plane a lot steadier once we reach the target area,” Turk told the pilot as the aircraft bucked. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The pilot didn’t answer.
“Tell him,” Turk told the Israeli.
“He knows.”
“Tell him anyway.”
He did. The pilot replied curtly, apparently not agreeing with whatever the man said.
“He suggested I fly the plane myself,” said the Israeli.
Turk laughed. It was the first time the man actually sounded like a pilot.
He reached forward and patted the man on the shoulder. Then he took the folded map on the board clipped to the instrument panel.
“This is where we have to stay,” he said, drawing the safe area within five miles of the target. He showed it to the pilot and then to the Israeli. “We fly a steady figure eight and hold altitude. We’re on the west side of the mountains. We have to stay steady until I say we go home. It’ll be a while.”
The Israeli explained. The pilot nodded.
“When he comes over the peak ahead, tell him to bank southward,” Turk told the Israeli. “Take it south gently, and stay in the area I’ve outlined.”
As bright as the stars were, the ground was pitch-black, with no lights visible anywhere nearby. The city of Badroud lay some twenty miles beyond the peak, off their left wing. Turk expected to see a yellow glow in that direction as they turned. When he didn’t, he checked their position again. The GPS locator in the control unit had them exactly twenty-two miles from Badroud, as did his handheld unit. They were precisely on the course.
Early, though—the UAVs wouldn’t be in range for twenty-two more minutes.
“We’re looking very good,” he announced, deciding to look on the positive side. “Just keep flying the way we planned, and everything will be fine.”
10
Omidiyeh, Iran
CAPTAIN PARSA VAHID TOOK HIS HELMET IN THE CROOK of his arm as he got out of the Khodro pickup truck, balancing the rest of his gear in his right hand as he reached for his briefcase with his left. Then he spun and kicked the door closed, walking toward the front of the ready hangar. The nose of his MiG-29 sat just inside the open archway. The aircraft was armed and fueled, sitting on ready-standby in the special hangar.