“The Iranians have ten plants capable of manufacturing weapons-grade uranium,” he said, using a laser pointer to indicate the various sites. “And an additional four where the uranium can be fitted to a warhead. The sites most crucial to their efforts are at Natanz, Esfahan, and Bushehr. And, of course, the newly discovered facility at Chalus. For a first strike to succeed, we must destroy all of them.”
“Four isn’t enough,” said a quiet voice.
“Excuse me, Danny,” said Hirsch. “You’ll have to speak louder.”
“Four isn’t enough.” General Danny Ganz, Air Force Chief of Staff and leader of the newly created Iran Command, charged with all planning and operations involving an attack on the Islamic Republic, stood from his chair. Ganz was a wiry man and restless, with a hawk’s nose and hooded brown eyes. Years of combat and conflict had etched deep wrinkles around his eyes and into his forehead.
He approached the map. “If we want to lock down Iran ’s nuclear efforts, we have to take out at least twenty, including the facility at Chalus. It won’t be easy. The targets are spread out all over the country. We’re not talking about single buildings, either. These are massive complexes. Take Natanz here in the center of the country.” Ganz rapped his knuckles against the map. “The complex is spread out over ten square kilometers. Dozens of buildings, factories, and warehouses. But size is only half the problem. Most of the crucial production facilities have been built at least twenty-five feet underground beneath layers of hardened concrete.”
“But can you do it?” demanded the prime minister.
Ganz fought to conceal his contempt. It wasn’t so long ago that the prime minister had been a vocal peacenik calling for the halt of all new settlements on the West Bank. To his mind, the PM was a turncoat, and just shy of a traitor. But then, he had the same opinion about most politicians. “Before we talk about striking the target, we have to figure out how we’re going to get there,” he went on. “From our southernmost airfields, it’s eight hundred miles to Natanz and a thousand miles to Chalus. To reach both sites, we have to overfly Jordan, Saudi Arabia, or Iraq. I don’t think we can count on the first two countries granting us permission to violate their airspace…which leaves Iraq.”
Ganz looked to the prime minister for comment.
“I’ll talk to the Americans at the appropriate moment,” said the PM.
“That moment passed a few hours ago,” commented Zvi Hirsch out of the corner of his mouth.
The prime minister ignored the jibe. He directed his question at Ganz. “What about our planes? Are they up to the task?”
“Our F-15l’s can make the return trip, but our F-16’s are another question,” said Ganz. “They’ll need refueling en route. Iran has no air force to speak of, but they do have radar. Over the past few years, they’ve made big purchases of Russian-made ground-to-air missile systems. At Natanz, for example, the missile sites are to the north, east, and south of the complex. We’ll have to accept a high casualty rate going in.”
“How high?” asked Zvi Hirsch.
“Forty percent.” Ganz crossed his arms as a rustle of outrage and disappointment rose from the others. He wanted to make sure everyone present knew the price asked of his men.
“My God,” said the prime minister.
“It’s hard to dodge missiles when you’re delivering a bomb to target,” said Ganz.
“What about a preemptive strike to soften up the air defenses?” asked Hirsch.
“Not enough planes.” Ganz cleared his voice and went on. “If we want to sufficiently degrade the targets, we’ll have to strike repeatedly. And I mean right on top of their heads. I’ll need precise GPS coordinates of the production facilities. I know what you’re all thinking. We did it before. We can do it again. I’m sorry, gentlemen. But this will not be a repeat of Opera.”
Ganz was referring to Operation Opera, the surprise airborne strike launched against the Osirak nuclear plant near Baghdad on June 7,1981. On that day, fifteen Israeli aircraft flew from Etzion Air Base across Jordan and Saudi Arabia and destroyed Saddam Hussein’s maiden nuclear effort. All returned home safely. The planes had enjoyed help from an American agent who had placed transmitters along the route, allowing the Israeli planes to fly via instruments beneath Jordanian and Saudi radar. The same agent had been at the site, painting the target with a laser for the bombs to home in on.
“Which brings up our last issue,” the general continued. “Ordnance. Assuming that we do manage to fly twenty jets a thousand miles to each target, and that at least twelve of them make it through the air defenses, what are we going to hit them with? The best we can manage is the Paveway III. The bunker buster. Two thousand pounds of explosive with a warhead that can penetrate eight feet of concrete. Granted, that’s a helluva wallop, but what if the plant’s twenty-five feet down? Or fifty? Or a hundred, even? Then what? The Paveways will cause some dust to fall from the ceiling, and that’s it.”
“There are better weapons,” suggested Hirsch with a glance at the prime minister. “Something with more bang.”
“Paveway-N’s with a B61 warhead,” said Ganz. “A nuclear-tipped bunker buster carrying a throw weight of a few kilotons. Something a tenth the size of Hiroshima. The Americans conducted a sled test last year.” A “sled test” referred to the process whereby a missile is fired into concrete to measure its destructive force. “They achieved penetration to one hundred feet. The crater was five hundred yards in circumference.”
“Just enough muscle to take out the factory,” added Hirsch, the voice of caution. “We’re not barbarians, after all.”
All eyes fell on the prime minister. He was an older man, nearly seventy, at the end of a turbulent political career. His reputation had him as a deal maker, a negotiator. His enemies questioned his principles. His friends called him an opportunist.
The PM shook his head with disgust. “It’s always been our philosophy that we cannot allow the Iranians the means to produce weapons-grade uranium. Unfortunately, they’ve passed that barrier. It’s too late to go back. I’m of two minds about a strike. My first responsibility is the people’s welfare. But I can’t risk anything that might provoke a nuclear attack on our soil. I just wish we knew their capabilities better.”
“You’re forgetting something,” said Hirsch. “We do know their capabilities. They have a bomb and they’re going to launch it.”
The PM leaned back in his chair, his hands tented over his nose and mouth. Finally, he exhaled loudly and stood. “Once in our history we gave the enemy the benefit of the doubt. We cannot afford to do so again. I want a plan of attack on my desk in twenty-four hours. I’ll call the Americans and see what I can do about securing permission to use Iraqi airspace.” He looked at Ganz. “And about the other, God help me.”
Slowly, the men in the room rose. Zvi Hirsch was the first to clap. The others joined in. One by one, they pressed to shake the prime minister’s hand. All said the same words.
“Long live Israel.”
43
At his home, Marcus von Daniken could not sleep. Lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling, listening as the habitual sounds of the night tolled the passing hours. At midnight, he heard the radiator click off. The old wooden house began to shudder, surrendering its stored heat in groans and cracks and faint, pining voices that seemed to wail forever. At two, the nightly freight passed over the Rumweg Bridge. The tracks were five kilometers away, but the air was so still that he could count the cars as they rumbled over the trestles.
A drone.
He knew that this would be the case that defined his career. He knew it because things like this did not happen often in small, cozy Switzerland, and he was proud of the fact. He imagined the unmanned aircraft cutting across the sky, bearing its nacelle of plastic explosives. He pondered the possible targets. The terrorist, Gassan, had said that Quitab wanted to take down a plane, but here in his bed, in the dark of the night, von Daniken conjured up a dozen other possibilities, ranging from a dam in the Alps to the nuclear power plant at Gösgen. A drone like that could fly anywhere.