The smoke drenched them both in inky soot, covering their mouths and poking at their eyes, a caustic acid. Turk pushed and pulled and pushed, finally getting his balance and then his breath. He had the admiral under him like a messenger bag, moving forward until finally the sky cleared and it was bright again, the sky a faultless blue.
There were trucks. A jet streaked overhead.
Someone grabbed him. Someone else took the admiral from him.
“I’m all right,” protested Turk.
“Move back,” said the airman who’d grabbed him. He was a parajumper, an Air Force special operations soldier trained as a medic. “Come on now. Get in the ambulance.”
“I’m OK,” said Turk. He turned back to look at Old Girl. As he did, one of the fuel tanks exploded, sending a fireball nearly straight up into the sky. Flames erupted from the fuselage, and two more fireballs shot from the sides.
“Old Girl’s going out with a bang,” he muttered, turning to find the ambulance.
2
Iran
CAPTAIN PARSA VAHID RAISED HIS ARMS UPWARD AS he walked between the two mounds of sand, stretching his upper body in a vain attempt to unknot the kinks coagulating his muscles. He had been sitting in his MiG on high alert for hours, waiting to fly. It was a ritual he had repeated for weeks now, the government worried that the Americans and Israelis would finally carry out their threats to attack Iran.
Or more specifically, the secret bases in the area of Qom, which lay many miles to the north. The fact that work on a nuclear bomb was being conducted was perhaps the worst kept secret in the world.
Vahid had never been to Qom itself. In fact, though his unit was specifically charged with protecting it, he hadn’t so much as overflown it—the government had laid down very strict rules some months before, closing an Iranian air base there and warning that any aircraft in the vicinity was likely to be shot down.
Besides, given the shortage of jet fuel plaguing the air force, Vahid rarely got to fly at all these days.
Qom was an ancient city, dwarfed in size by Tehran but still among the ten largest in Iran. More important than its size was its history. It was sacred to Shi’ites, long a center for religious study, and a site for pilgrims since the early 1500s. Though he was a Muslim, a Shi’ite by birth, Vahid did not consider himself devout. He prayed haphazardly, and while he kept the commandments, it was more for fear of punishment than belief in afterlife or even earthly rewards.
His true religion was flight. Vahid had dreamed of flying from the time he was three. Becoming a pilot had been a pilgrimage through the greatest difficulties, his barriers even higher because he had no connection with either the service or the government. His love had not diminished one iota. Even today, with the service’s chronic fuel shortages, problems with parts, poor repairs, bureaucratic hang-ups, and political interference—Vahid could put up with them all as long as he got a chance to get in the air.
The pilot paused at the crest of the hill. Two hours would pass before the faithful would be called to prayer with the rising sun. The words would stretch across the bleak, high desert air base, with its dusty hangars and dorms.
“Captain, you must be careful,” said a voice in the darkness. “You are very close to the perimeter.”
Startled, Vahid jerked back. A soldier was standing nearby, rifle at the ready. Vahid stared, then realized it was Sergeant Kerala, a man whom he knew vaguely from an earlier assignment. His Farsi had the accent of the South.
“I hadn’t heard you,” said Vahid. “But why are you working at night?”
“I made the wrong comment to someone.”
“Ah.” Vahid nodded. The wrong remark heard by any one of the half-dozen political officers assigned to the base, and the consequences could be quite severe. “I was just taking a walk. My legs are stiff.”
“Do you think there will be an attack?”
Vahid was taken off guard by the question. His first thought was that it was a trick, but there was little chance of that.
“I don’t honestly know,” he told the sergeant. “We are ready for whatever happens.”
“I don’t think the Americans will be so insane,” said Kerala. “The Israelis, them I am not sure about.”
“We will defeat them. Whoever it is,” Vahid assured him. “We’re ready. I’m ready.”
“Yes,” said Kerala. “We will have a great battle if they are foolish enough to try. God willing.”
3
Washington, D.C.
PRESIDENT CHRISTINE TODD SAT DOWN ON THE SMALL settee in the passage off the Cross Hall of the White House, listening to the hushed murmur of guests arriving in the State Dining Room a short distance away. Todd was hosting a dinner to honor the heads of several museums, part of a recent initiative to expand awareness of American history. It was a subject dear to the President’s heart, and she was especially looking forward to talking to the curator of a recent Smithsonian exhibit on George Washington. But history was hardly the only thing on her mind tonight.
“Decision made?”
Todd looked up at her national security advisor, Michael Blitz. Blitz looked like a walrus in his tuxedo—a gruff and grim walrus.
“Still working on it,” she told him.
“The Israeli ambassador is inside already.”
“Mmmm.” Todd patted the bench, signaling for Blitz to sit. Blitz’s voice had a tendency to carry, and she didn’t want any of the guests overhearing.
“There really are only two options,” said Blitz. “Let Iran have the weapon, or attack now. Stop the process.”
“But for how long, Doctor?”
Blitz had a Ph.D. in international affairs, but Todd tended to use the honorific sporadically. He’d told her several times that he took it as an indication of how she was feeling about him and his advice: if she used “Mister,” he was on thin ice; if she used “Doctor,” he was sunk.
“If we strike, we stop it for at least a year,” said Blitz. “Maybe as long as five.”
“Your staff estimated less than twelve months.”
“That’s too pessimistic. Even the Secretary of State thinks it will be halted longer than that.”
Todd glanced toward the hall, where one of her Secret Service agents stood, making sure no one wandered down the wrong way. A light scent of food wafted in; the amuse bouche maybe, or else a figment of Todd’s hungry imagination—she’d skipped lunch.
“We need two years before the ABM system is fully operational and can protect Israel,” said Blitz. “Iran knows that. That’s why they’re trying to move so quickly.”
“If there was a guarantee of success—or even a probability,” said Todd, “then the decision would be easier.”
“The Israelis will attack if we don’t. The result of that will certainly be war—declared or undeclared. And as I said this afternoon, the probability of Iran actually using the bomb at some point goes up to one hundred percent in that scenario. Bad for your second term.”
Todd managed a smile.
“If you’re concerned, we should move ahead on the covert plan first.” Blitz himself preferred that option, and had in fact been pushing it. Todd saw the attraction, but didn’t like the odds.
“A twenty percent chance of success?” She sighed. “And that’s if we’re not discovered.”
“Better odds than anything else out there. Has Blackheart checked back with you?”
“No. I expect he’ll be positive. But I doubt the odds will change.” Todd heard her husband clunking down the stairs. She rose just in time to see him step out from the landing. His eyes twinkled as they caught hers—all these years, and she still felt her heart kick up a few beats.
“We’ll talk,” she told Blitz, holding her arm out for her escort.