Drone Strike: A Dreamland Thriller (Dale Brown's Dreamland) (14 page)

5

Suburban Virginia

T
HE
TV
DRONED
ON IN THE OTHER ROO
M.
Z
EN, HOME
early and hungry, barely paid attention as he made a sandwich with leftovers from the fridge. He wheeled himself back and forth between the refrigerator and the counter island at the center of the kitchen, which was set at wheelchair height to make it easier for him to work. He was just trying to decide whether to add prosciutto to the leftover roast pork and marinated sweet peppers when the word “Iran” caught his attention. He left his sandwich and wheeled over to the family room. The late afternoon talk show had been replaced by an announcer, who according to the flashing red legend at the top of the screen was presenting “Breaking News.”

“. . . an isolated area in Iran north of the capital, Tehran. The area where the earthquake struck includes at least one known Iranian atomic research facility, raising the question of whether an accident occurred there. However, the Iranian government immediately denied there had been any human activity in the area that could have led to the earthquake . . .”

Zen listened as the reporter described the earthquake, saying that preliminary data estimated that it was in the “high fours or very low fives,” which while causing shaking would only damage very poorly built structures. This section of Iran was often subject to earthquakes, added the announcer, and it was too early for information about casualties.

“Interesting,” said Zen to himself, wheeling toward his bedroom, where he’d left his cell phone turned off. Sure enough, he’d missed a dozen calls in the last ten minutes. He scrolled through the list, then selected the number of Jenny Shapiro, one of the staff members of the Intelligence Committee.

Shapiro answered on the first ring. “Senator Stockard, have you heard the news?”

“Earthquake in Iran?”

“Atomic explosion in Iran,” said Shapiro. “More P waves than S.”

“That means something to you, I’m sure.”

Shapiro gave Zen a brief explanation of the type of shock waves generated by explosions and earthquakes. While every event had its own particular “fingerprint,” scientists generally had little difficulty differentiating between earthquakes and man-made explosions by the overall pattern of the shock waves. In this case, said Shapiro, one of the committee’s technical experts, there seemed little doubt that this was some sort of event—almost surely an accidental explosion of a nuclear device.

“Why accidental?” asked Zen.

“A couple of reasons. For one thing, the epicenter wasn’t set up as a test area, or in a known facility.” Shapiro’s Boston accent got quicker and quicker as she spoke. “But if I had to make a guess, I’d say they were putting a device together for testing elsewhere and somebody made a very big mistake.”

“Or they were helped.”

“You said that, Senator. I didn’t.”

“And we don’t know about this facility?”

“If the epicenter of the waves is where the scientists say it was—”

“What’s the word from the White House?”

“No word is the word. NSC staff say, ‘Evaluating.’ State is preparing a statement on ‘the Iranian earthquake.’ That’s what I know,” she added. “Are you going to be available for the special meeting?”

“Which is when?” Zen glanced down at the list of callers. Two were from the secretary in charge of arranging the Intelligence Committee’s meetings.

“Fifty-two minutes and counting.”

“On my way,” he said.

6

Iran

T
HE S
TARS FADED EVER SO S
LIGHTLY AS THEY WALK
ED,
as if they were pulling back from the earth. Turk’s thigh muscles burned with fatigue, but there was no time to slow or complain. He wasn’t afraid of being caught but of being left behind. The Israeli and Grease had moved at the same steady pace since they’d started, and even if he hadn’t been exhausted he would have had trouble keeping up. But he had to keep up, because the alternative was being left in Iran, and being left in Iran was unacceptable, was impossible.

Turk’s confidence wavered under the weight of his fatigue. He was back to being a pilot—competent, more than competent, in the air; nearly useless on the ground.

When they first set out for the train tracks, he thought they would arrive within minutes. To keep his brain occupied, he amused himself by picturing his arrival home, back in Las Vegas, back in Li’s arms. He felt her arms and smelled her perfume; he remembered the way they’d lain together in bed.

Now he thought of nothing and simply walked.

“Up there,” said Grease, stopping ahead and crouching.

Turk walked up to him. Grease put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him down. “Sssssh,” said the soldier.

The railroad tracks were about fifty yards away on the right, just on the other side of a hard-packed dirt road. The ground sloped gently from their position to the tracks, then fell away a little steeper. The cover was sparse, large clumps of stiff grass and clusters of low bushes.

“What are we waiting for?” asked Turk, hoarse.

“Ssssh,” said Grease, this time sternly.

The Israeli started ahead, then suddenly flattened himself.

“Come on,” hissed Grease, moving on his haunches to a nearby bush.

Turk lost his balance as he got up. He managed to push and fall forward, half diving and half crawling into position behind Grease. Under other circumstances it might have been hilarious, but Turk was not in the mood to laugh at himself, and Grease seemed congenitally averse to humor of any kind. Neither said anything.

A hum grew in the air, vibrating stronger and stronger. Turk didn’t realize it was a train until it burst in front of him. There were no lights on either of the two diesel engines in the front, nor were there any on the two passenger cars and a half-dozen freight cars that followed, or the flatcars with trucks and tanks. The train melted into a brownish blur, leaving a film of dust floating in the air in its wake. The scent of half-burned diesel fuel was so strong Turk thought he would gag.

“They’re sending troops to cordon the area off and find out what happened,” said Grease. “There’ll be patrols.”

“Yeah.”

Turk remembered the image of the ground as it imploded. He wasn’t sure what the radioactive effects would be. Would the entire area be poisoned for years?

Was five miles far enough way to avoid the effects? A slight twinge of paranoia struck him—maybe his fatigue was due to radioactive poisoning.

Unlikely. He was just exhausted, plain and simple.

They both rose, Turk unsteadily, Grease as solid and smooth as ever. The Israeli trotted toward them.

“There’s a truck at the other side of the intersection,” he said when he reached them. “I think it is your people.”

A
FEW MINUTES L
ATER
T
URK WAS SITTING IN THE BACK
of the truck, wedged between Gorud and Grease. The other members of the team were spread out along the floorboards, sitting or leaning toward the back, watchful. The Israeli had gone up front with the driver.

Gorud had been emotionless when Turk reported that the mission was a success. Turk wondered at his own peculiar lack of elation as well—they’d just struck a tremendous blow against Iran, probably prevented a war or at least a wider conflict, and yet he didn’t feel particularly elated. He didn’t feel anything, except the aches and pains of his bruises, and the heavy weight of his eyelids.

“We’ll be there soon,” said Gorud, checking his watch. “Granderson and one of the men are already there. It should be safe until morning, or beyond.”

“Why are we waiting there?” asked Grease.

“They didn’t explain,” said Gorud as the truck bounced along the dirt road. “They just want us to stand by for further instructions.”

“We should be getting as far away as possible,” said Grease.

Turk completely agreed. There were still a few hours before dawn. They ought to use every one of them to get closer to safety.

Several plans had been drawn up for their “exfiltration.” The preferred one had been by airplane from the airport where they were supposed to meet the helicopter. But that option had apparently gone by the boards when they were shot down.

“I don’t disagree,” said Gorud. “But this is what they said. Maybe they know something we don’t.”

“Right,” sneered Grease.

A few minutes later the truck slowed to a stop. One by one they got out. Dread helped Turk down, easing him onto the ground as if he were an old man. Turk was mildly amused—until his legs went rubbery on him after a step or two. He stood stock-still for several seconds, regaining his composure.

They saw what looked like a large construction area, with bulldozed sections and piles of dirt, sand, and gravel. Captain Granderson, waiting here with one of the troopers in the car they’d “borrowed” earlier in the evening, said the area had been used by the Iranian army for maneuvers some years before. There were buildings across the road to the east. They were abandoned, but Granderson had decided to avoid them.

“We’ve been monitoring the radio,” he told Turk. “There’s been an announcement of an earthquake. But the military has been put on alert. They have aircraft all over the place.”

“Probably looking for us. We were shot down.”

“You were shot down?”

“Yeah. I managed to get it in, more out of luck than anything else. The pilot was killed.”

“Damn.”

“Did you hear anything about a MiG?” Turk asked. “I went after it with the nano-UAVs. I don’t know if I got it down.”

“I haven’t heard anything. It’s not always easy to understand what they’re saying, though.”

“What are they talking about, you think?” Grease asked, nodding toward Gorud and the Israeli. The two appeared to be arguing.

“Don’t know. Gorud doesn’t like him, though.”

“He said that?”

“You could just tell.” Granderson stared at the two men as if he could read their lips in the twilight.

“Does he trust him?” asked Grease.

“I don’t think like and trust are related,” said Granderson.

“If he didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t have let us go with him, right?” said Turk.

“He’s Mossad?” asked Grease.

“I don’t know. I think he’s actually a Russian who’s paid by Mossad,” said Granderson. “Based on what he was cursing about.”

“How do we get out of here?” Grease asked.

“At this point, go north through the mountains to the Caspian,” said Granderson, understanding the question to mean the country, not the pit where they were hiding. “We have two stash points along the way, and there should be two guys near the water waiting for us. There’s also a SEAL unit that’s a quick reaction force, more or less, that can help us once we’re farther north.” Granderson seemed almost matter of fact, but he was proposing they travel through rough mountains. “But we can’t do anything until I get the OK from the States.”

“You think we can sit here all day without being sighted?”

“If we have to.”

7

Washington, D.C.

“T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE POSITION THAT IT’S AN EARTHQUAKE
is untenable,” said Shapiro, the Senate committee aide who was an expert on, among other things, the Iranian nuclear program. “Even if they are just referring everyone to the Iranian government. Every scientist looking at the data will know it’s false. They’re not going to be quiet about it. Already someone from MIT was quoted in a Web report saying it must have been related to their nuke program.”

Zen leaned his head back, gazing at the ceiling in the closed conference room. He could think of exactly one reason why the White House wouldn’t want to confirm that it had been a nuclear accident: the explosion was the result of a U.S. operation which was still under way.

Senator Brown, the chairman of the committee, gave him a sideways glance as Shapiro finished. He seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

Not that this necessarily made the President’s silence right.

“So am I correct that the members are not comfortable with the lack of information coming from the White House?” said the chairman mildly. He of course knew he was, and waited for only the briefest moment before proceeding. “What we want is an up-to-date, no-holds-barred, closed-door briefing. Do I have that correct? I’ll set about getting one.”

Brown tapped his gavel lightly before anyone could answer. Zen rolled backward from the table, trying to make a quick escape.

He didn’t make it.

“Jeff—Zen—if you could hold on a second,” said Brown. “I just need a word.”

Zen smirked as if he was a grammar school kid caught trying to leave class via the window. He backed himself against the wall and nodded to the others as they filtered out in twos and threes.

“You want me to talk to the President,” he said to Senator Brown when they were alone.

“Exactly.”

“You don’t think that’s the chairman’s job?”

“I’ll definitely call her, but it’ll be next year before she returns the call.”

“I doubt that.”

“Will you talk to her?”

“All right. But I don’t expect her to say more to me than she’s willing to say to you or the committee as a whole.”

“We’re supposed to be informed.”

Zen nodded.

“If this is the start of a war,” added Brown, “there’ll be hell to pay. Impeachment maybe. She’s got plenty of enemies around here.”

“Maybe she’s trying to stop one.”

“Either way,” said Brown, “the result may be the same.”

8

Washington, D.C.

A
S FAR AS
P
RESIDEN
T
T
ODD WAS CONCERNED
, THERE
was no choice—she had already committed herself to destroying the Iranian bomb program. If there was another site, or even ten more sites, they had to be eliminated.

Far better to do it with the tiny and apparently undetectable Whiplash aircraft. But the B-2s and B-1s were ready. If the team inside Iran couldn’t pull this off, she’d send the bombers in. She was not about to do what her predecessor had done and leave the problem for the next shift.

An overt attack by the U.S. was sure to have dire consequences. The Iranians couldn’t strike the U.S. directly, but they would surely unleash wave upon wave of terrorists. They might also take another shot at blocking the Persian Gulf.

Todd expected Secretary of State Alistair Newhaven to use that as part of his argument against an attack. But he surprised her, telling the packed conference room in the White House basement that he thought the attack must be pressed.

“I think it’s not a matter of debate,” said Newhaven, gesturing with the back of his hand at the map on the display screen at the front of the room. “In for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying goes. The real question is what the Iranians will do. If I’m them, I push up my timeline. A lot.”

“If they’re capable,” said the Secretary of Defense Charles Lovel. “We don’t have enough data. Frankly, it’s not even clear whether they would go ahead with a test.”

“We have to assume that they have the capability,” said National Security Advisor Blitz. He studiously avoided looking at the head of the CIA, who sat glumly at the side of the table, all but wearing a dunce cap. “They have been ahead of every estimate. Consistently.”

“If they do test the bomb, they’ll have no material for another,” added Lovel. “We’ve wiped out their centrifuge arrays.”

“They’ll build more,” said Blitz. “We’ll have a twelve month to three year window.”

“I’ll take that,” said Todd. “In any event, that isn’t the issue at the moment. We’ll have time to analyze the situation further once we have more intelligence.”

She took a quick poll on a second attack, going around the room; it was unanimous. As was her custom, Todd let the others think that she was undecided until they had given their opinions; as usual, her mind was already set.

“We will continue the campaign,” she said, rising. “Covertly if possible, overtly if necessary. I expect a second strike within twenty-four hours. Our official posture, until then, will be as it has been: an earthquake. No leaks. Absolutely no leaks—lives are on the line here. And I don’t mean those of just our operatives.”

“Congress,” said Blitz. “The intelligence committee has been screaming—”

“I’ll deal with Congress,” said Todd.

Z
EN WAS A
LITTLE SURPRISED WH
EN THE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
called back so quickly, but the “invitation” to join the President for an early dinner did catch him off guard. When he hesitated before answering, the President’s chief of staff came on the line personally and told him that “Ms. Todd really wants to talk to you as soon as possible, and if you can’t make supper—”

“I can certainly get to the White House right away,” said Zen. “And I’d love to have dinner with the President. Should I bring my wife?”

“Actually, it’s supper, not dinner. And while I happen to know that the President thinks very highly of Mrs. Stockard, the invitation is for one only. Would you like us to send a car?”

“I’ll drive my van over,” said Zen. “I’m leaving now.”

C
HRISTINE
T
ODD LIKED
TO WALK AROUND THE
W
HITE
House kitchen, not because she felt the urge to cook or check on the staff, but because it was a refuge from the formal business of the rest of the house. The people doing their jobs here—chefs, cooks, assistants—could have been anywhere in the world. They were naturally circumspect and on their best behavior when she walked in, but even so, the hint of the world beyond the bubble she lived in was welcome.

She wondered how they would take the news of the cancer. Certainly they’d feel bad for her. Would they feel that she betrayed them by not mentioning it?

Maybe she should arrange to tell them first. Or not first, but very soon in the process. Personally.

It was still too theoretical to contemplate. She had too many other things to do.

“Our guest enjoys his beer,” she told the head steward as he came over to greet her. “Anchor Steam is one of his favorites, as I recall. I believe you have that.”

“We’ll look after Senator Stockard, ma’am. Not a problem.”

The President walked around the steel-topped prep island, glancing at the stove and the young cook watching the gravy.

“Very good, very good,” Todd announced. “Wonderful, actually. Thank you, everyone. It smells delightful, as usual.”

One of the chief of staff’s aides intercepted her in the hallway; he had the latest update on the Iranian situation—the strike unit was standing by in Iran, waiting for the next target. The backup set of nano-UAVs were being programmed for the attack. The intelligence agencies were scrambling for more data on the possible target—still unsure which of the two former sites it was.

The update, ironically enough, had come straight from Breanna Stockard. The President had no doubt that Zen knew nothing about the operation, at least not from Breanna.

What an interesting household
that
must be, she thought as she headed to the family dining room where Zen was already waiting.

She entered the room with her usual bustle, greeting Zen and going straight to her chair. He moved his wheelchair back as a sign of respect.

“Senator, so nice to see you. I hope I haven’t kept you long.”

“I just got here,” said Zen politely.

The residence dining room—occasionally known as the President’s Dining Room or the Private Dining Room—was one of three in the building (not counting the formal room), and when she was dining with someone, Todd chose the room depending on the tone she was trying to set. This was the most intimate, less ornate than the Family Dining Room and less work-oriented than the Oval Office Dining Room. At least that was how
she
thought of it.

“I’m glad you could make it,” said Todd, pulling out her chair. “Especially on short notice.”

“I don’t get invited to the White House very often,” said Zen. “Especially without my wife.”

“Yes.” She turned to the attendant who was waiting nearby. “Perhaps the senator would like something to drink. A beer? Maybe an Anchor Steam?”

“That’d be fine,” said Zen. “Just one, though—I’m driving.”

“I’ll try one as well, and some water,” Todd told the attendant. She turned back to Zen. “I never understood—what’s the difference between regular beer and steam beer? Or is that just something for marketing?”

Zen elaborated on the difference in brewing styles. The beer arrived before he finished.

“It’s very good,” said Todd, taking a sip. “Crisp.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t invite me over to discuss beer styles,” said Zen.

He drank heartily, very much like her husband, Todd thought.

“No, though it has been educational.”

Todd studied him. He would make a good President: sure of himself, easygoing yet intelligent, with sound judgment—usually. An excellent service record, a decorated hero, which in some ways made him virtually unassailable.

Then again, she’d seen more veterans than she could count chewed up by the political naysayers. Washington was a place where real achievements meant much less than the dirt others could throw at you.

Todd felt an urge to tell him about her condition, and what it meant, and would mean, for the future. She wanted suddenly to suggest he run for President. But she couldn’t do that. Too many questions, too many complications. And that wasn’t why she had called him here.

“My invitation came after I called on behalf of the Intelligence Committee,” prompted Zen.

“Yes.” Todd pulled herself back into business mode. “Your committee is wondering, no doubt, what’s going on in Iran.”

“Exactly.”

“You and I, Senator—occasionally we have disagreed.”

“More than occasionally,” admitted Zen.

“Even so, I consider you one of our finer senators.”

“I’m flattered.”

“We’re wondering what’s going on in Iran ourselves.”

Zen raised his eyebrow.

“Of course, there are situations when we—when I—cannot tell everyone precisely all that I
suspect
about things that go on in the world,” said Todd, using her most offhanded tone. “I’m always faced with the question: will what I say jeopardize other people?”

Zen nodded. “I imagine it must be difficult to make that call. I think I may have even said something like that to the committee earlier.”

“Are you here personally?” she asked. “Or as the representative of the committee?”

“Both, I guess.”

“What is it that you
personally
want to know, Senator?” asked Todd.

Zen had pushed his wheelchair sideways—the table was a little higher than what would have been comfortable. He leaned his right elbow on it, finger to his lips, thinking.

“I would not want any information that would jeopardize anyone’s lives,” he told her.

“That’s good, because you won’t get any.”

“What I would want to know is that the administration is aware of the implications.”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m told that the signature of the earthquake is not the sort of signature that one sees in earthquakes.”

“Interesting.” Todd reached for her beer and took another very small sip.

“I think that news is going to be public knowledge pretty soon,” added Zen.

“Well, it is a fact that the area contains a number of nuclear research centers,” said Todd, choosing her words as carefully as he had.

Zen glanced toward the door. The steward was approaching with their dinners.

“Meat loaf,” said Todd. “One of your favorites.”

“It is,” said Zen, sounding a little surprised.

“You must have mentioned it somewhere,” said Todd. “The staff doesn’t miss much.”

“I bet they don’t.”

“I like it, too,” she confessed. “Especially the gravy. But it’s very fattening.”

They ate in silence for a while.

“Very good meat loaf,” said Zen.

“I think a full and candid report is in order for your committee,” said the President. “As soon as it can be arranged.”

“How long, do you think, before that can happen?”

“It may be twenty-four hours,” said Todd.

“That’s quite a while,” said Zen. “There are a lot of historical precedents with much shorter time spans.”

“Hmmm.”

The Constitution gave Congress the power to declare war, of course, but the operation was far short of that. Current law called for the President to “consult” with Congress about the use of force, but even that was a gray area here. The previous administration, and the two before that, hadn’t felt the need to inform Congress of
every
covert operation being undertaken, and in fact had even been rather “loose” when talking about specific programs.

On the other hand, this was an extremely volatile issue, and the dire consequences could certainly include war. Todd knew she needed to keep Congress on her side, and alienating the Intelligence Committee would not help her meet that goal.

“I think we should have enough information for a thorough briefing by then,” she said. “But there’s always a possibility it will take longer.”

“I would think that if something was going to happen that involved a great deal of resources,” said Zen, “a lot of resources, then consultation would have to take place before those resources were ultimately committed.”

Todd took that to mean the committee wanted to be informed before she sent the bombers in.

“I don’t know that that would be possible,” she parried.

“Possible or not, I would guess that would be the sentiment of the full committee.”

“So the volume of resources makes a difference?” said Todd.

“Well, I don’t know how one measures that,” said Zen carefully. “I do know that, personally, I draw a line somewhere. But if there were, well—to speak theoretically—if there was a sizable commitment, something so large that the press couldn’t help but notice—there are a lot of members who naturally, and rightly, would press for an explanation.”

Todd didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t necessarily demanding that she inform Congress before she attacked, but he was certainly telling her that if she didn’t, there’d be consequences. But then, she was already aware of that.

“In the meantime, I’d like to schedule that briefing from NSC or the Agency,” said Zen, meaning the National Security Council or CIA staff. “Can we say first thing in the morning?”

“I think that’s premature.”

“The afternoon?”

“I don’t know that I could commit to that.”

“An entire day.” Zen’s voice more than hinted disapproval. “That’s a long time under the circumstances. A lot may happen by then.”

“I know some on the committee thinks the intelligence services are overstaffed,” said Todd, her tone matching Zen’s. “But I’m sure you don’t share that feeling.”

Zen only smiled. They ate for a while longer, each concentrating on the food, until Todd broke the silence with a remark about the Nationals, who had unfortunately just lost five games in a row. Zen responded with some thoughts about how soon the hitting might come around. Dessert arrived in the form of a peach cobbler, but Zen took only a few bites.

Todd skipped hers completely. She had a great deal of work to do; the staff knew to save it as a midnight snack, when it would get a fresh dollop of ice cream on the side.

“Tell me one thing,” said Zen as he got ready to leave. “Was it a success?”

Todd studied him. He
would
make a good President, she decided; his only problem would be the wheelchair. Were people ready to vote for someone with such an obvious handicap, even if it had been “earned” while in the service?