“I thought you were calling in reference to another matter.”
“Elizaveta Bobkova?”
“No…”
“She and her men have diplomatic cover,” Ryan said. “But I understand she might be asking to stay.”
“Is that so?” Yermilov said, almost a gasp.
“Did you think I was calling about Ukraine?” Ryan said dismissively, as if Yermilov’s troop movements were little more than a fly on his nose. “Honestly, my people advised me that Russia might try and invade Ukraine because the Kremlin believes I have my hands full here with domestic matters. I told them you knew me better than that. There was no possible way you would invade, at least any further than you already have. I told them your troop movements simply had to be a bluff. That you and I had discussed this and that you knew I would take drastic action at any further advance, no matter the rationale. And that we both agreed any such action would be tying that untieable knot of war that your predecessor Khrushchev spoke of so eloquently. In any case, we can talk about Ukraine at a later time. This matter with the missiles is larger than that. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Yermilov said, stunned, on the ropes. “What shall we… Do you suggest we contact Tehran?”
“As you are aware, the United States has no diplomatic relations with Iran,” Ryan said. “But even if we did, I’m not certain how deeply Tehran is involved. This is likely the work of a dissident group, but it is too soon to say. Beyond that, I fear time is of the essence. I’d hoped you have some method of destroying the Gorgons remotely.”
“I must ask, Mr. President,” Yermilov said. “How did you come upon this information?”
Ryan chuckled despite the circumstances. “That’s classified, but I’m sure you have ways of checking the truth of the matter without tipping our hand with Tehran. Now I must ask you, Nikita, are you able to transmit a self-destruct code to your missiles?”
There was silence on the line while Yermilov muted the call. If Ryan’s plan was working, the Russian president was hearing of the plot to destroy a satellite from members of his own intelligence community right about now.
Yermilov came back on the line a full ninety seconds later. “I am afraid the remote destruction of the missiles is not an option, Mr. President.”
Ryan sighed. “Not an option or not possible?”
“As you put it,” Yermilov said, “that is classified.”
“Understood,” Ryan said. “Thank you for taking my call.”
“What will you do from this point?” Yermilov asked.
“That remains to be seen,” Ryan said. “We’ll speak again very soon.” He gave one last chuckle. “Hopefully not about Ukraine.”
“Yes,” Yermilov said. “Hopefully.”
Ryan ended the call and looked up at General Paul and Mary Pat. “I don’t like it, but MUDFLAP is a go.”
The chairman tapped a key on the phone on the table in front of him and spoke into the tiny boom mic on his headset. “MUDFLAP is a go.”
At the same time, DNI Foley made a call to her asset in Iran, using a more cryptic phrase. “Is this Peperouk Pizza? I’d like to make an order if you can deliver in thirty minutes.”
“Wrong number,” the voice said in English. “This is Navid Auto Repair.”
“Okay,” Foley said. “Sorry to bother you.”
She replaced the handset and turned to Ryan.
“Here we go,” she said, giving him a thumbs-up.
62
Jack Junior and the others followed in the Hilux while Yazdani drove his own car to Mashhad Airbase south of the city. They parked in Toroq Forest Park a kilometer away until Jack received the go signal from Mary Pat.
Yazdani went in without so much as a backward glance, intent on saving his son. He’d assured them he was well respected in the missile defense facility. Years of war with Iraq had necessitated the bulk of any antiballistic missile system to guard against incursion from the west with most protecting Tehran. Few in power expected any attack to come from the east, so the area was lightly defended.
At Ryan’s urging, Dovzhenko had made a call to his immediate supervisor at the embassy in Tehran, briefing him of a plot between Major Sassani, Reza Kazem, and General Alov to destroy a satellite in low earth orbit. He had been unable to make contact earlier due to the obvious security issues related to an investigation of a prominent GRU general who surely had spies everywhere. Dovzhenko was, he explained, only looking out for the good name of the SVR — and his supervisor — by separating himself from normal channels. At this point, he told his boss, he would attempt to find out where the missiles were, but he suspected American assets were somehow on scene.
“You think your supervisor believed you?” Ysabel asked while they waited for Yazdani to come back out.
Dovzhenko shrugged. “I think so. If not, they will send someone to shoot me anytime now.”
“This is a foolish plan,” Ysabel said. “You are going to get him killed.”
Dovzhenko put a hand on her shoulder. “It was not his plan,” he said. “I am good with it. Really.”
“Well I’m not,” Ysabel said.
Yazdani’s compact sedan rounded the corner and pulled up alongside the Toyota, driver’s window to driver’s window.
He handed the flashlight/USB drive to Dovzhenko, who passed it over the seat to Jack.
“It is uploaded.”
“No problems?” Ryan asked.
“No problems.”
Ryan dialed the number to Foley’s prepaid burner phone on the mobile Yazdani had given him.
“Is this the person who called about the pizza?”
His use of the word “person” conveyed that the malware had been uploaded. Reference to a “lady” would have meant it had not happened.
“Now I will go get my son,” Yazdani said. “And you will keep your end of the bargain.”
“Absolutely,” Ryan said. “Go get him. I need to wait for word that the missiles have been destroyed.”
“That was not our agreement,” Yazdani said. “You are to help us get across.”
“And we will,” Ryan said. “As soon as I hear back.”
“And what if something goes wrong?” Yazdani said, eyes flashing. “Is your promise to my son only binding if your aircraft hits the target?”
“No,” Jack said. “But plans will change. If we have to, you can meet my contacts south of Islam Qala and they will see to it you both get across.”
Yazdani spat something in Persian and sped off.
“What did he say?”
“You do not want to know,” Ysabel said. “But it has to do with your balls and a very hot fire.”
“Shit,” Ryan said. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“It’s not very ladylike,” Ysabel said, “but I have to admit that I thought it many times myself over the years while I was waiting for you to call.”
“Raptors heading west, Mr. President,” the chairman of the joint chiefs said. “At roughly Mach 1.8 they’ll be over target in eight minutes.”
Bob Burgess clenched both fists and set them on the table. “With any luck at all, the stealth tech and the asset’s malware will make the birds completely invisible.”
“These are two of the best pilots in two of the most advanced airplanes in the world,” General Paul said.
“What about Russian Verba or other man-portable antiaircraft defense systems?” Mary Pat asked.
“They would have to know we’re there,” General Paul said. “Honestly, with the F-22 I doubt we even needed the malware to blind their system. I think we’re good.”
The chairman nodded to his aide, who pulled up the pilot’s frequency. There was momentary static and then the pilots’ chatter came across crystal clear over the speakers in the Situation Room.