“Hopefully,” Jazini said. “But we thought Dr. Saddaji and Dr. Khan were too. I just don’t want us to take any chances. Moreover, I no longer think it is a good idea to bring all of the air force and missile commanders together up here on Saturday. It would take only one cruise missile and—”
“Very well,” the Mahdi said, holding up his hand for Jazini to stop. “You have a missile command center north of Tehran, do you not?”
“Yes, we do, my Lord.”
“Then let us go there. But don’t tell the commanders about the change in plans. Give the chopper pilots the new location at the last possible moment.”
“Yes, my Lord. Very good.”
The men bowed again and were dismissed to get their personal possessions and head to the helicopter pad. Javad took the Mahdi aside and asked what he should do about the satellite phones.
“You are scheduled to get more tonight, are you not?” the Mahdi said.
“Yes, another hundred. Won’t we need them for the commanders?”
“We will. Call your contact. See if you can meet him in an hour. Then come meet us at the command center.”
David and Captain Torres were racing for Qom.
With them in the van were five of the CIA’s most experienced paramilitary commandos. David brought them up to speed on some of the events of the last few days and what he had learned from Khan. Torres, in turn, briefed him on the kind of tools the team had with them, from electronic eavesdropping equipment to ground laser target designators. Then David’s mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It wasn’t Zalinsky. It was Javad Nouri. He quieted everyone down, waited a beat, and took the call.
“Are you alone?” Javad asked.
“Yes,” David lied.
“Change in plans.”
“Whatever you need.”
“Do you have the phones?”
David hesitated. He was tempted to lie and say yes. But what if something had happened to the shipment? What if Eva’s package had never arrived? With everything else that had happened, he had forgotten to call the hotel and confirm he had a package waiting for him.
“No, not yet.”
“What? Why not?”
“I had to make a stop in Hamadan. It got later than I thought, so I stayed overnight. But I’m on my way now.”
“How long?”
“I should be to the hotel in a half hour.”
“Fine. Call me when you have the phones, and we’ll plan a new place to meet.”
Tension was high in the Combat Information Center.
Captain Yacov Yanit stepped into the blue-lit chamber and cross-checked data on multiple computer screens before him. He had just confirmed his new orders with the head of naval operations in Tel Aviv. Sonar had no contacts. So this was it. He and his men had trained hard for such a time as this. But it was hard to believe the time had actually come.
Yanit desperately needed a cigarette. Why had his wife made him promise to quit? He pulled a stick of nicotine gum from his pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. Then he turned to his XO and ordered the 1,900-ton Israeli Dolphin-class diesel submarine to periscope depth. He quickly scanned the surface in every direction. As expected, there were no ships visible, so Yanit ordered the XO to take the German-built Leviathan to the surface. They would be there for less than five minutes, but that’s all he and his crew would need to fire all eight Popeye Turbo cruise missiles.
“This is the captain. All engines full stop.”
“All engines full stop, aye.”
“Kill track 89014 with Popeye.”
“Kill track, aye.”
“Mark time to launch.”
“Mark time to launch, aye.”
“Twenty seconds to launch.”
“Twenty seconds to launch, aye.”
The CIC grew deathly quiet.
“Five seconds to time of launch—five, four, three, two, one. Fire.”
On cue, Yanit’s fire-control officer turned his ignition key from Off to Fire.
“Boosters armed. Missiles enabled. Popeye One away. Popeye Two away.”
Suddenly the entire submarine shook violently. Two cruise missiles exploded from their launch tubes with a deafening roar and rocketed into Iranian airspace. Thirty seconds later, two more missiles screamed into the heavens, carrying conventional payloads but enormous firepower into the heart of Persia. Then a third time. And a fourth.
And as rapidly as the Leviathan had come, she sank back into the ink-black waters of the Persian Gulf without a trace.
Captain Avi Yaron steadied his emotions.
He wasn’t scared. He was exhilarated. But he needed to stay calm and focused and not let the spike in adrenaline cloud his judgment.
Like he had done before every training mission, he muted his radio, closed his eyes, and prayed, “Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha olam, she hehiyanu v’kiy’manu v’higi’anu la z’man ha ze.”
Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season.
Behind him sat Yonah Meir, his weapons systems officer, who tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he was ready to roll. As he had done on a thousand training missions, Avi throttled up his engines and carefully veered his F-15 out of its underground bunker, then taxied onto the tarmac and waited for clearance. Behind him, a half-dozen flight crews in Israeli-modified F-15s and F-16s also maneuvered across the Hatzerim Air Base toward the prime runway, not far from the city of Beersheva, the town where Avi had been raised. But this was no training mission. This was the real thing.
Operating under strict radio silence, the ground crew used hand signals to give him the go sign. Immediately Avi gunned his two engines and put his Strike Eagle in the air.
Rather than rocket to forty-eight thousand feet in less than a minute as he typically did, Avi — flight leader for Alpha Team — shot low and fast across the Negev Desert. Six other heavily armed fighter jets were right behind him. He prayed the Gulfstream 550 electronic warfare jet was already in place. He prayed the Israeli efforts to jam the Jordanian, Egyptian, and Saudi radars had worked. It wasn’t clear to him what the Jordanians would do if they picked up his scent. The king had given private assurances he would not interfere in this mission. But he had no doubt the Saudis and the Egyptians, now that they were on board with the Mahdi, would alert Tehran instantly if they detected Israeli planes moving through the southern route.
Weaving low through the mountains and wadis of the Sinai Peninsula, Avi reached his first critical turn and banked hard to the left. Seconds later, as he crossed into Saudi airspace, his jet hit Mach 2.5. If all went well, he would be over the Iranian nuclear facilities in Natanz in a little under an hour.
Two other Israeli submarines now surfaced, if only for a moment.
The first was positioned near the strategic Strait of Hormuz. The second was positioned about two hundred kilometers to the south in the Gulf of Oman.
One by one, they fired their cruise missiles as well and then slipped beneath the waves with barely a ripple.
Avi’s twin brother, Yossi, throttled up his F-16.
Quickly taxiing out of the hangar at the Ramat David Air Base, not far from Har Megiddo, the mountain of Armageddon, he put the pedal to the metal, climbing to fifty-seven thousand feet in less than two minutes. Behind him, eleven more F-16s — all armed to the teeth with Python-5, Sparrow, and AMRAAM missiles and two GBU-28 bunker-buster bombs — lifted off in succession and raced to catch up with him.