Aboard USS Bataan (LHD-5), off the North Carolina Coast, November 1st, 2006
"All right, ladies and gentlemen, this is our final confirmation brief before we do this run-through for the last time. Are we clear on all the important points?" Colonel Mike Newman was going over the last of his briefing slides.
The young captain commanding Charlie Company replied, "Yes, sir. The last time showed that we're good on time and tasks, but we need to work on order and flow?"
"That's right, Jimmy. It's not so much that you're doing anything wrong; it's just that I want to see you guys flowing like black ink through the compound mock-ups. There's nothing we can do about being noticed eventually. I just want to delay the inevitable as long as possible, so the diversion force can really get the attention of that battalion on the north side of the access road." He stopped, and then his face wrinkled into a thinly veiled grin. "I want them giving their full attention to defending their own barracks," he continued, "and not bothering with a few guys in black jumpsuits." He finished with: "Let's do it right this last time, and put it into the can, folks!"
The last run-through was nearly perfect, good enough to satisfy Colonel Newman and the SOTG observers. With this part of the preparation completed, and the procedures for the disposal of the defensive oil platforms dealt with, they would be ready to deploy in early December.
Warhead Assembly Room, Bushehr, Iran, December 4th, 2006
The Machinery Minister looked around with satisfaction at the twelve warhead assembly bays that were being finished. The movement of parts from the automobile factory had gone without incident, and the last phase of the plutonium extraction process had begun on time. In three weeks, a dozen nuclear weapons would take shape in this room, and there was nothing that the infidels or anyone else could do about it. That morning, he had received an intelligence briefing from his assistant at the ministry. The young man had a gift for this work, and amazingly, did absolutely nothing that was illegal in any country. The 1-meter-satellite imagery was acquired from a half-dozen different providers from France to the People's Republic of China. Data on movements by military units was also available over the Internet; it was as good as what most intelligence analysts saw in their morning briefings.
There was absolutely no indication of anything unusual at the bases where enemy special forces were plying their trade. In fact, there was a steady decline of military activity by the U.S. and her allies around the world. Even the U.S. Air Force, with its boast of "global reach," had been cutting back. The only matter of note that would be happening in the next month was a handover between two token Marine units in the Gulf. Nothing to worry about: only a single battalion aboard three ships with a couple of escorts. The carrier battle group based around the USS Constellation (CV-64) would be operating out in the Arabian Sea, and would not enter the Persian Gulf on this cruise. It was going to work.
Onslow Beach, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, December 7th, 2006
It was deployment day, and Captain Bill Hansen had the double problem of saying good-bye to his own wife and baby daughter, and getting his company of fifteen amphibious tractors aboard the USS Trenton (LPD-14). He would have the honor of taking the first unit of AAAVs out on cruise. He knew the real reason for this honor. Unlike others who had taken new systems to sea for the first time, he knew he would be taking this one into battle in just a few weeks. Luckily, the new vehicle had proven pretty reliable in field trials, and he had four contractor technicians to keep them in good shape.
His concentration was broken suddenly by the buzz of twin turboprops, and he looked up just in time to see Lieutenant Colonel Colleen Taskins banking her MV-22B Osprey to the north, followed by three other Ospreys from HMM-263. She had a fifteen-minute flight ahead, and then a landing aboard Bataan. He smiled, because Taskins faced the same problem he did. Though the Osprey had been in service for a few years, this would probably be its first combat trial. Lieutenant Colonel Taskins had been chosen as the first woman to command a Marine combat helicopter unit; now she would likely be the first female to command a Marine unit in actual combat. Not that this was a problem: Inside the pixie-faced lady who could turn the head of every male Marine in the MEU (SOC) was the heart of a warrior. He also knew that if something went wrong at Bushehr, she would be the first one in the air to come pick them up. Shaking the thought off, he climbed into his AAAV, and ordered the driver to head into the surf.
Reactor Control Room, Bushehr, Iran, December 15th, 2006
Lev Davidovich Telfian was nervous. A few days earlier he had been visited by Rogov, from the embassy in Tehran. The visit, sponsored by the Iranians, was one of many to industrial plants employing contract Russian personnel. He and Rogov had gone walking along the waterfront, beyond the ears of Iranian security. Rogov had quietly advised him to be ready for "something," possibly even "anything." Then he'd headed back to Teheran. Since that time Telfian had taken to carrying his personal effects with him. His computer, passport, and hard currency were carefully stashed in his briefcase, along with a clean pair of socks, underwear, and a toothbrush. He explained this to the security guards as an accommodation to the plant managers who were asking him to work extra shifts, which in fact they were.
Now he was doing his turn in the rotation as the midnight-to eight supervisor. He would continue on this schedule until New Year's Eve. After that, the Iranians had offered all the foreign workers a paid three-month vacation. He was ready for it. Even though he had grown up in the former Soviet Union, where you learned to suppress all outward signs of fear, suspicion, or thought, the stress of staying calm every day was immense. Nevertheless, he noted with curiosity that after running at top capacity for six months, the twin reactors were now at only 66 %. He just knew it had to do with the CD-ROM the Pakistani had given him. Something bad was happening, and it was about to get much worse. He wondered if he would survive.
Oval Office, the White House, Washington, D.C., December 17th, 2006
The National Christmas Tree lighting had gone well earlier that evening, and the press was already speculating about the forthcoming State of the Union message. Expected to be another one-term President, the Chief Executive had stunned the world with a last-minute victory over his rival, a senator from Washington State with a penchant for bribery and adultery that offended the electorate's infatuation with morality. Now, as the President looked out over the balcony towards the park, he wondered if winning was going to be worth it. Like so many other men who had sat in this office, he had entrusted foreign policy to others while he dealt with the challenge of the budgetary shambles left by an angry Congress.
The result was that he was betting the future on a military adventure that his advisors said was foolhardy. He had to make good his own failure to pay attention to the troubles of the world; this desperate venture was the best, last chance. Making a pre-New Year's resolution, he promised that if Chilly Dog came off, he would gut the National Security Council and State Department and start fresh. He sipped the bourbon in his glass slowly, exhaled, and looked out over the city once again, wondering if God listened to political deathbed wishes and confessions.