Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (51 page)

 
          
“Jesus,
that was close. It must’ve been that fighter jock’s lucky day, stumbling onto
us like that. ...”

 
          
“I
don’t think he lucked into us. Look at this,” McLanahan said, motioning to his
display. “We’re well within radar range of Omani air defense radars and even
Saudi Arabian F-15 fighters, but they’re not coming after us. It’s only the
Iranians—they figured out how to track a B-2 A bomber.”

 
          
“Track us?
With what? They didn’t have a
lock on us.”

 
          
“I
know, but they found us,” McLanahan said. “Somehow they figured out a way to
detect us well enough to vector a fighter in on us. Remember those fighters
suddenly shutting down their radars, even though they didn’t have a lock on us?
They did that so we wouldn’t find out we were being watched. It’s gotta have
something to do with that cluster of radars they set up.”

 
          
“If
that’s true, then we’re probably out of this fight,” Jamieson said. “The whole
B-2A program could be in jeopardy. The Pentagon won’t risk a B-2A bomber again
until they figure out how they were able to track us.”

 
          
“I
don’t think we’ll have too much time,” McLanahan said. He began composing a
report to the National Security Agency via the Air Intelligence Agency to
report on the whole incredible, frightening incident. “The Iranians have the
upper hand now—they might not rest until they get everything they want.”

RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT,
SHAMSOL
EMAREH
PALACE
,

Tehran
,
Iran

A SHORT TIME LATER

 
          
President
of the Islamic Republic Ali Akbar Nateq-Nouri was writing, pencil on paper, in
a journal—no computer, no television, no radio in his quarters anymore—when
suddenly the door to his room burst open, and General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi
stormed in and strode directly up to him.

 
          
“Come
in, the door is open,” Nateq-Nouri deadpanned.

 
          
Buzhazi
virtually dragged the President to his feet in anger. “I want the codes,” he
demanded.

 
          
“I
am well, thank you for asking, General,” the President said. “How are you?”

 
          
“I
will put a gun in your mouth and blow your addled brain apart and make it
appear as if you’ve killed yourself,” Buzhazi shouted,
“I
want—”

 
          
“How
did I get a weapon, General?”

 
          
“You
took it from a guard and—”

 
          
“All
of your precious Pasdaran troopers are at least eleven kilos heavier and six
centimeters taller than I,” Nateq-Nouri observed. “How can I possibly overpower
one of your precious ‘Guardians of Allah’ after being virtually starved to
death here in my own residence?”

 
          
“I
want the codes, Mr. President.”

 
          
“Codes?
What codes?”

 
          
Buzhazi
had had enough. He clenched a fist and swung, catching the President across the
mouth. Nateq-Nouri reeled from the blow, his eyes taking several moments to
clear and his head to stop spinning. “You know damned well which codes, Mr.
President,” the general said. “Give them to me, and I will let you live.”

 
          
“I
have no illusions that you will allow me to do anything of the kind for very
much longer,” the President said. “This proves how little you have thought
about your coup d’etat, General: you should have gotten the codes from me
first,
then
declared martial law and
had me killed. However, you still command a significant military force, so I am
confused as to exacdy why you need to arm a nuclear weapon. I assume you wish
to arm the P-700 anti-ship missile you have on board the
Khomeini?”

 
          
Buzhazi
told himself that he should not be surprised to learn that Nateq-Nouri, who had
distanced himself from the military at every turn and did everything he could
to cut its size and complexity, knew about the secret nuclear missile project.
It could not stay secret for very long. “Our nation is under attack, Mr.
President,” Buzhazi said, trying a slightly different tactic. “
Beghin
Airport
in
Kerman
Province
was assaulted just a few minutes ago. Two
Backfire bombers were destroyed, two heavily damaged, and eight crewmen are
dead, plus there are billions of rials in damage to the airport. I suspect it
is the work of the
United States
and their stealth bomber fleet.”

 
          
“Quite
possible, General,” Nateq-Nouri said. “You cannot hope to defeat the Americans.
I suspect they have been using one aircraft,
one
stealth bomber, to conduct all these attacks—Bandar Abbas, your
carrier, Chah Bahar, and now
Beghin
Airport
. I have seen the reports, General: the
American television networks have reporters at the main B-2A bomber base in the
American
republic
of
Missouri
; all of the operational stealth bombers are
still there. That means the Americans have one, possibly more of those infernal
machines out there, being operated by some secret government agency.”

 
          
“So
you agree with me!” Buzhazi said, surprised. “You agree that we are under
attack by the Americans!”

 
          
“Of
course we are, you idiot!” the President said. “This is all in retaliation for
your flying your fighters off that carrier, sinking their spy ship, and
capturing their spies.”

 
          
“So
you acknowledge that the Americans
were
spying on us.”

           
“You give yourself very little
credit, General—or perhaps you are even more stupid than even I gave you credit
for,” Nateq-Nouri said with a wry smile. “The Americans assisted the Gulf
Cooperative Council in that raid against
Abu
Musa
Island
. You countered by launching that infernal
carrier. The Americans respond by flying their little stealth contraption from
the spy ship to spy on us—silly, really, because it would have been far simpler
to go out into the Gulf of Oman with a rowboat and a radio and report on what
we were doing!—and you sink their ship and capture all the spies. Sinking their
ship was a colossal mistake, but the Americans would have forgotten about it if
only you hadn’t captured those men. After all, it was a spy ship masquerading
as a civilian vessel—if
America
’s allies in the Gulf knew that a civilian
rescue vessel in their waters was really a spy ship, they would have been very
upset. The
United States
would have gladly forfeited that ship in
the hope that no one would find out it really was a spy ship.

 
          
“If
you had released those men immediately, we would not be in this mess,” the
President went on. “We would have had an agreement in place that would have
removed the threat of an American carrier invasion force sitting off our shores
forever. We would have had increased foreign investment, because the military
pressure would have been relieved. Instead, you started a shooting war with the
Americans. You are angry about
Beghin
Airport
and a couple of useless Backfire bombers?
Wait until the cruise missiles and laser- guided bombs start falling on
Tehran
.”

 
          
“The
only way to stop that from happening, Mr. President, is force against force,”
Buzhazi said angrily. “Sink one of their carriers, and the American people will
not allow Martindale to continue this secret bombing campaign against us.”

 
          
“You
are so naive, General,” Nateq-Nouri said sadly, shaking his head. “All that
might have been true thirty years ago, when Americans were fighting and dying
in the jungles of
Vietnam
and the people wanted peace at any price. No longer—not with this
American President. He will choose to fight. He will call for jihad against
Iran
, and he will rally the people and the
military behind him.”

 
          
“And
what about your own people, Mr. President?” Buzhazi asked. “If we allow the
Americans to roam our skies, kill our soldiers, and destroy our bases at will,
what will your people think?”

           
“Unlike you and the religious
leaders of our country, Buzhazi, the Iranian people want peace, not war,”
Nateq-Nouri said. “I know our people, General, you and the mullahs do not. The
treaty with
America
and the GCC to prohibit land-attack warships and aircraft carriers from
the Gulf was our best hope for peace. The American stealth bombers never would
have crossed into our airspace unless that was the only hope to destroy our
forces.”

 
          
“Now
who is the naive one, Mr. President?” Buzhazi interjected. “Who is to say this
is the first time the stealth bombers have been flying over
Iran
? Perhaps they are assisting the Kurdish
rebels hiding in
Iraq
, or assisting the Armenians in disrupting our northern borders.”

           
“You may create any fantasy that
your paranoid mind wishes, General, but the truth is,
our
government has influenced events around our borders and in
other countries all around the world far more than the
United States
. Yes, we have had to deal with the American
CIA in our midst for years, supporting various antigovernment factions, and
they have been just as disruptive as the Shah’s terror squads ever were. But
since the revolution, our history has been decided mostly by our own efforts,
not by the
United States
or the Shah.

 
          
“Peace
could have been ours, General. Abu Musa could have been ours to share with the
United Arab Emirates
—with our oil technology and their funding,
we both could have been rich. The money we have spent on that monstrosity you
dared name after the Imam Khomeini and on all these Russian fighters and
bombers and cruise missiles could have been used to complete the oil terminal
at Chah Bahar, and we would not be at the mercy of Iraq, the GCC, or the West
when we ship oil through the Shatt al Arab Waterway or the Persian Gulf.
Instead, you chose war, a war we cannot win except by sacrificing ourselves. I
will not assist you in following this course, General. Fight and die on your
own terms.”

 
          
In
response, General Buzhazi pulled out an automatic pistol, cocked it, stepped
around to President Nateq-Nouri’s right side, and aimed it at his temple. The
President of Iran closed his eyes and waited for the bullet to enter his
brain....

 
          
“It
would be so easy, Mr. President.”

 
          
“Then
do it, General,” Nateq-Nouri said. “If you have the courage to face the wrath
of the Ayatollah Khamenei and the Leadership Council, who commanded that I be
protected, do it. I am prepared to die. Are you prepared to live?”

 
          
“Prepared
or not, you will be dead, and I will be alive,” Buzhazi said. “You know I will
get the codes to the nuclear and chemical arsenals eventually—you cannot stop
it.”

 
          
“It
seems as if you have everything well in order,” Nateq-Nouri said, with mock
approval. “Carry out your plan, then. Kill me. Then explain to the Imam how all
this was a suicide, or an accident. See how long you will be commanding your
troops then.”