As leader of Beta Team, Captain Yossi Yaron led the way through the northern route. Beta Team would arc out into the Mediterranean, bypassing Lebanon, then slice back through Syria, careful not to cross into Turkish airspace at any time. They would eventually cut across the Kurdistan region of northern Iraq and then into Iran, where they would target the regime’s nuclear facilities in Qom.
The first order of business, however, was to not get caught.
Yossi had been the strike force leader in the Israeli attack against a nuclear facility under construction in Syria in the fall of 2007. At the time, he had successfully penetrated Syrian air defenses, hit his target, and slipped back out before the Syrians had even known they were there. He’d been tempted to take a victory loop over Damascus but knew if he ever wanted to fly that route again, he must maintain the strictest discipline. And there was no doubt he’d wanted to fly that route again. But the game was not quite the same this time. Since then, the Syrians had bought and installed advanced air defense systems from both the Russians and the Iranians. Israeli technicians were confident they could penetrate and confuse those systems too, and they were about to find out.
With the glistening blue Med below him, he punched a series of controls on his dashboard. This allowed him to begin invading Syrian communications and radar networks. Soon he was hopping through their signals, unscrambling and decoding and digitally analyzing them until he found and locked onto the Syrian air force’s command-and-control frequency. Now he could see what Damascus could see. A few more buttons, and Yossi was taking over the enemy’s sensors. Soon he was transmitting false images to them, causing them to see clear skies in every direction rather than the Israeli onslaught that was overtaking them.
A hundred kilometers to the east, Yossi knew, an Israeli Gulfstream 550 electronics plane was simultaneously scanning Turkish and Lebanese frequencies and jamming those as well. What’s more, they were monitoring his success — or lack thereof. If they detected a problem, they would alert him. But they hadn’t — not yet, at least. So Yossi rocked his wings, alerting his teammates that they were a go, and shot into Syria, just above the town of Al Haffah.
57
David and his team finally reached the Qom International Hotel.
The modern, three-story, steel-and-glass building was far more impressive than the Delvar in Khorramabad, but they had no time right now to enjoy it or any of its business-class amenities. While Captain Torres and his men stayed out in the parking lot, David sprinted for the lobby, checked in, asked if a package had arrived for him, and waited for the clerk to find it.
His phone rang. It was Birjandi.
“Hello?”
“Reza, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” David said. “Is everything okay?”
“No, something has happened,” Birjandi said. “I can feel it in my spirit.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’ve been praying and fasting for you, for Najjar, for the country. And something just happened, about an hour ago. I wish I could say I’d had a dream or a vision, but I haven’t. It’s just an instinct.”
“What do you think it is?”
There was a long pause. Then Birjandi said, “I think the war just started.”
Naphtali took a deep breath.
He glanced at the various digital clocks mounted on the conference room wall, noting the times in key capitals around the world. It was 3:34 a.m. in Washington, 10:34 a.m. in Jerusalem, and just after noon in Tehran. Naphtali had stalled long enough. It had been nearly an hour since he’d given the go order. The first Israeli planes were now in Iranian airspace. They would soon be hitting their targets. If he didn’t call now, the president was going to hear the news from the CIA or the Pentagon, not from him directly. US — Israeli relations were going to be difficult enough from this point forward. He couldn’t make them worse by not giving Israel’s closest ally a heads-up of what was coming.
He picked up the secure phone in the conference room and asked the Defense Ministry operator to put him through to the White House.
A military helicopter landed in the parking lot.
Flanked by six heavily armed Revolutionary Guards, Jalal Zandi was rushed outside wearing a flak jacket and a helmet and carrying his laptop. There he presented his identification and answered several questions to convince the pilot and security crew on the chopper that he was who he said he was. Then he was loaded into the chopper, the door closed, the parking lot was cleared, and they lifted off and headed north.
“I’ve heard nothing like that,” David said.
“Well, perhaps I am wrong,” Birjandi said.
“Is this it?” asked the young clerk, carrying a large DHL box.
“Look, I’ll see what I can find out and let you know,” David told Birjandi. “But right now I have to go.”
“I understand, my friend. May the Lord be with you.”
“He is,” David said. “He finally is.”
“What do you mean?” Birjandi asked, a sudden air of hope in his voice.
“I can’t really talk right now,” David replied, “but I want you to know that your prayers and your counsel have meant a great deal to me. I am with you, on all of it. I believe now. And I’m so grateful.”
He hung up, wishing he could tell Birjandi more about how he’d given his life to Christ — and wishing even more that he could ask the man his many and growing questions. For now, however, he turned his attention to the clerk and the box. It was severely beat up, dented in places and actually ripped in others. The whole thing looked like it had been run over by the delivery truck. But it was definitely addressed to Reza Tabrizi and was marked as being shipped from Munich, though David knew full well it had just come from Langley. He had no idea how Eva had pulled that off, nor did he have the luxury to care.
“Yeah, this looks like mine, but what happened to it?” he asked, feigning annoyance.
“I don’t know,” the clerk said. “That’s just how it came.”
“What if I want to file a complaint?”
“I don’t know, sir. You’ll need to take that up with DHL. Just sign here to say you received it.”
David protested slightly, then signed, took his package and his room key, and headed back to the van. There he handed the box to Torres, pulled out his phone, and dialed Javad, who picked up on the first ring.
“I’m at the hotel,” he said. “The box arrived.”
“You have it?” Javad asked.
“It’s in my hands,” David said. “Where should I meet you?”
“What better place?” Javad said. “I’ll meet you in front of the Jamkaran Mosque in ten minutes.”
“Done.”
It was not ideal; it was public, and it would be crowded. But they didn’t have any other choice. David hung up the phone and quickly told the others his plan. First he told them he was going to take a cab to the world-famous mosque. Torres and his team should follow close behind. It was midday on a Thursday; there shouldn’t be much traffic.
But what he told the paramilitary team next caught all of them off guard. It was a high-stakes gamble. It could get him killed. It could get them all killed. But if it worked…
Four F-15s lifted off from the Tel Nof Air Base near Rehovot.
They blazed west over the Med, then banked sharply to the south. Within seconds, they had the Iranian-flagged Jamaran missile frigate and her sister ship, the Sabalan frigate, on radar. Both were now 450 kilometers from the Tel Aviv shoreline, flanked by three Iranian destroyers.