“I will if I can. Sometimes—”
“No. You are to check in every hour. I need to know you’re still alive.”
“I will call you if I can,” he said, hitting the end call button before she could respond.
17
CIA campus, Virginia
BREANNA TURNED TO REID AS SOON AS THE TRANSMISSION from Turk ended. “They’ve taken heavy casualties. I think we should pull them out.”
“It’s not our decision, Breanna.”
“They’re all shot up.”
“He’s not.”
“Let the bombers go in. If they stay, it’s suicide.”
“It already is suicide.” Reid picked up the phone and told the computerized operator to get him the President.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER BREANNA AND REID WERE ON Lee Highway, speeding toward the White House. As a security precaution, the driver had always to follow a different route; at four in the morning traffic was not a particular concern, and for once they were going on a relatively direct route.
Reid stared out the darkened window at the cars passing in the distance. The lights in the parking lots of the buildings and on the signs and streets melted together in a blur.
He would tell the President that they should continue. It would inevitably mean the death of his officer, Gorud, of the Whiplash pilot, and whoever remained from the rest of the team. The Israeli operative, a deep, valuable plant with an impeccable cover. And a family.
But Reid knew absolutely that this was the right thing to do. The nano-UAVs had done a perfect job on the first strike; they would succeed here as well. The result would be far more desirable than a missile strike. No matter what the Iranians did, the scientists who rebuilt the program would never be sure whether there had been an attack or a critical flaw.
Delaying the strike twenty-four hours would increase the odds of success. Even if the analysts didn’t identify which of the two sites was the one with the bomb—or if they decided both had enough material to be a threat—the delay would give Rubeo and his people more time to work on the programming for the mission.
The scientist had demurred when asked for a prediction about the outcome of a split attack. The first strike had been heavily modeled. This one was still being calculated.
“Lovely night,” said Breanna. It was first time she’d spoken since they got in the car.
“It is.” Reid forced a smile. He had grown to like the younger woman, though he felt at times she was too easily influenced by her Pentagon superiors. “Though it’s almost morning now.”
“Technically, it is morning.”
“How’s the senator?”
“Still stubborn as ever,” said Breanna. “And still swooning over the Nationals. Their losing streak has him in the dumps.”
“I hear there’s talk he might run for President.”
“God help us.”
The words were so emphatic that Reid didn’t know how to respond. He remained silent the rest of the way to the White House.
PRESIDENT TODD HAD MANAGED BARELY AN HOUR OF sleep, but she felt a surge of energy as Breanna completed briefing the current situation, ending with a PowerPoint slide showing the general vicinity of the two possible targets.
Charles Lovel, the Defense Secretary, opened his mouth to speak. Todd cut him off.
“The question comes down to this,” said the President. “If we wait twenty-four hours, do we guarantee success?”
“There are no guarantees for anything, ever,” said Blitz, the national security director.
“The odds will be greatly improved,” said Reid, sitting next to Breanna. “Getting our pilot in place helps if there is a problem with the units. True, they were impeccable in the first strike, and compensated well. But I think, as Ms. Stockard said, the human factor increases the chances of success. Plus, we may be able to narrow down the possible targets. At a minimum, we’ll have a better plan for dealing with both facilities.”
“I don’t know that we can afford to guess which of the sites is the real target,” said Blitz. “Not at this point.”
“On the other hand, the odds of the ground team being discovered will also be higher,” said Reid. “And if they’re discovered, we lose them.”
“We may lose them anyway,” said Lovel.
“The Iranians may close the sites,” said the Secretary of State, Alistair Newhaven.
“Twenty-four hours is not enough time to do that,” said Reid.
“If the attack fails—”
“If it fails, we go ahead and we eliminate both sites with B-2 attacks,” said the President, cutting in. “That’s an easy decision.”
“I would vote to launch a B-2 attack now,” said Lovel. “Why wait?”
“Nothing has happened at that site—at either of the possible sites,” said Reid.
“We were rushing to strike tonight,” said Lovel, “because we needed to hit quickly. Now we’re going to delay another twenty-four hours. The sooner we get this over with, the better. For everyone.”
“Not for our people,” said Breanna. “If we strike, if the bombers go in, we’re writing them off. Because they’ll know that the first attack was launched by us, and they’ll be on the alert.”
“I agree it increases their risk,” said General Maximillian Fresco, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Fresco had only been on the job for a month, and was still feeling his way—a disappointment to Todd, who had selected him because he seemed determined and, like her, prone to err on the side of hawkishness rather than caution. But maybe he would come around.
“They are already at considerable risk,” said Reid dryly. “No matter what.”
“I think we should pull them out,” said Breanna, her voice quivering. “Then send the bombers in.”
Todd was surprised. She looked at Reid. His expression showed he clearly disagreed. Ordinarily, they were in lockstep; she couldn’t remember a time when they had offered even slightly different opinions.
“Our best chance, overall, is to use the nano-UAVs,” said Reid. “We know they work. We haven’t seen the bunker busters yet. This is our best chance.”
Fresco started to object, but Reid cut him off.
“The Hydras work. They leave no trace of our involvement; they raise no moral or ethical questions if there is a mistake. They limit the casualties strictly to those involved in the program.” Reid sounded like a college professor, summing up a semester’s worth of instruction. “The benefits are obvious. At worst, we have the bombers in reserve.”
Todd agreed. She saw from the corner of her eye that the Secretary of State was going to say something—probably, she thought, questioning Reid’s statement about moral questions: they were, after all, setting off a nuclear explosion, even if it was the Iranian’s own bomb.
There was no need for that debate now.
“I think I’ve heard enough,” she said quickly, raising her hand. “We will delay for twenty-four hours. After that, the bombers will be authorized to attack.”
IN THE CAR ON THE WAY BACK TO THE CIA CAMPUS, Breanna fiddled with her personal phone, thumbing through text messages from the past several days, even though she’d read them already. She longed to talk to Zen about the operation but couldn’t.
Her only acceptable alternative was Reid, and she didn’t want to talk to him about anything.
“Why did you change your mind?” asked Reid.
Breanna looked up. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re opposed to the operation now. You weren’t earlier.”
“I’m not opposed.”
“You sounded like you are. Your tone was negative. Even in the presentation.”
“No. I was trying to be neutral. My concern—I just want to get our people out. I feel responsible for them.”
Reid looked at her, his old-man eyes peering into her soul. He was beyond retirement age, and at times like this—deep into an operation, under heavy stress—he looked even older.