Power Play (7 page)

These were headed for Iran specifically to rescue downed Israeli pilots, as the only fast fighter jet that can land and take off without requiring a runway of any kind. The brand-new, dull-gray
Lightning II
could operate anywhere, including a mountainside or a desert.

Both fighter wings, racing high above the Syrian desert, were tried and tested over the 850-mile distance to the prime Iranian nuclear sites at
Qom and Natanz, each of them situated on the eastern edge of the Zagros Mountains, both of them “dug in” deep, beneath the steep hillsides.

All thirty-two of the Israeli fighter-bombers carried the nuclear-capable Jericho IIB missile as part of its long-range heavy payload. No one has ever admitted whether the warheads were nuclear. Every Israeli pilot was aware of the difficulties they faced. Over the nuclear-enrichment plant of Natanz, they were after the mountain lair that contained a reputed three thousand centrifuges, the huge spinners that hurl the heavy isotopes to the outer edge of the uranium hunk.

This is the facility that caused almost outright war with the United Nations Security Council, whose members considered Natanz likely to be the first Iranian “factory” to develop a full-blooded nuclear explosion—an atomic bomb, that is.

The other target was located thirty miles north of the sacred Shiite city of Qom, where the late Ayatollah Khomeini studied theology, philosophy, and law for fifteen years. Qom is home to the holy gold-domed Astate Shrine and also to a brand-new batch of three thousand Russian-made centrifuges, earmarked to spin relentlessly for several years while Iran settles down to the ignoble art of universal atom-bomb production.

The government of Israel had for years watched helplessly while the world griped and moaned about this clear and wicked defiance of the nonproliferation treaties. And two irrefutable facts slowly became obvious: no one was going to do anything about it, except to apply mostly ineffective sanctions, and Iran threatened no one, except Israel,
to wipe them off the face of the earth.

Thus, the words of a nameless Israel Air Force lieutenant general were finally heeded on that historic October night in 2016:
There’s only one thing worse than attacking Iran, and that’s not to attack it.

Marc and Andre sat silently for a few moments, ruminating on their corner of Israeli history. “We flew very high over the desert,” said Marc, “and refueled from our own tankers in Iraqi airspace. Basically, it was a straight shot from there, flying south of Baghdad, directly to the Zagros Mountains.

“We did not expect to run into antiaircraft activity before we got there, and there was none. But once the Zagros Mountains began to slope east, away from us, at first light on that Thursday morning, we were ready to face heavy antiaircraft fire from the Russian missile defense system.
So we stayed at high altitude until the force split over the high peaks of the Zagros.

“My wing was to hit the Qom target, and I picked up the railroad that I knew ran up to Arak and then to the holy city. Right there I swerved north and immediately came under attack from the city defenses, which must have been newly installed because of the nuclear factory. One of my pilots was hit and crashed head-on into the mountain. But we kept going, until the underground factory was specially pinpointed on our radar.

“I loosed off my first Jericho II and saw it slam into the mountain. Still under fire, I turned tight and raced back in at supersonic speed, sending two bombs directly into the crater. I saw them both detonate, big bunker busters—looked like they split the mountain in two. My guys were pounding the same crater over and over, just as we had been instructed, and by now, even at five thousand feet, you could hardly see anything for the dust and smoke.

“Suddenly, there was an unbelievable explosion, a white-hot flash, and then a mushroom cloud like those photos of Hiroshima. The whole aircraft shook and shuddered, and I knew it was not about to get much better than that. I gave just one order:
That’s it, guys. We’re going home.

“I guessed three of our aircraft were down, but only one had hit the mountain head-on. The other two had a chance, and we had the VTOLs high over the mountains ready to come in after we’d cleared the datum.”

“How did the others get on, over at Natanz?” asked Rani.

“A bit better than Marc’s wing,” replied Andre.

“How come?”

“We think that while Natanz was for many years the prime place of Iran’s nuclear enrichment, the huge halls, which contained the centrifuges, were nearer ground level. When the Iranians constructed them, the whole world was not against them.

“It was only in the last three or four years before we hit them that they realized Natanz was vulnerable. And it was so damned difficult to get deeper into that mountain, they more or less started over, rebuilding at Qom. And right there they had a chance to get much deeper.

“We knew that before we started the bombers might have to go in time and time again at Qom. Marc’s the best commander in the IAF and the bravest . . . That’s why he led them. If anyone could do it, we all knew it
would be Marc. My task was much easier. Natanz was less protected. Happily, we had the maestro at Qom . . . ”

“Shut up, Andre,” said Marc, “and get us some coffee.” And then to Rani, “Don’t believe what he says. I just did what anyone in our strike force could do . . . ”

“Bullshit,” said Andre, as he headed for the in-house embassy phone. “He’s some kind of genius in that F-161—that’s why he nailed the crater with the final killer delivery. It was his fourth attack . . . and he flew past three missiles and intense antiaircraft fire to make it . . . His plane was hit twice . . . God knows how he’s still alive . . . It was a sensational piece of flying . . . Don’t listen to him. He’s a lying little fighter pilot.”

By this time all three of them were laughing, and Rani said, “Yes, I believe you, Andre. He is a lying little pilot. I once saw a picture of him with the little red ribbon pinned on his uniform. Even I never thought they gave it to him for his birthday!”

“The Medal of Courage,” muttered Andre. “Guess why.”

“Will you guys shut up?” said Marc. “This is embarrassing . . . ”

“He will. I won’t,” chuckled Rani. “I have just one more question. How did you guys get through the Russian missile defense . . . that S-300 ground-to-air missile shield? Christ, how many hundreds of semistealth cruise missiles can it track? Can’t it take on ten intruders at a time with those mobile intercept batteries?”

“We learned how to neutralize it, that’s all,” said Andre, smiling.

“Yes, but how? Even now the Russians go on about its success rate at protecting their allies.”

“Well, for a start, it’s nowhere near as good as the American systems that we have,” said Marc. “And we discovered that some years ago.”

“Yes, but how did you learn?” asked Rani again. “Was it intelligence, stuff from guys like us working in Russia?”

“Hell, no. We conducted a couple of long exercises against the Greek Air Force; spent days fighting it out with lasers above the island of Crete. We can never tell you how we did it; that’s classified. But if you check the map, you’ll see Crete is about the same distance from Tel Aviv as Tehran.

“That gave us hands-on experience of the journey, the high-altitude refuel, and the time we needed to circumvent that defense system. We demonstrated to ourselves that an 850-mile distance could be negotiated, and we could fight, beat the S-300, and still get home.”

“And I guess it worked.”

“Almost,” replied Marc. “We lost two of our best guys at Qom and four at Natanz. I’d say that plant was more prepared than Qom, because they’d been working at it for longer. Their factory was not so deep underground, but their missile men were a bit sharper. Don’t listen to this clown, Andre, telling you they had an easier mission.”

Coffee arrived, accompanied by a tray of small Russian blinis with caviar, and all three men were thoughtful.

Rani spoke first. “Do you think Iran might be preparing some terrible revenge against us?”

“Can’t say,” replied Marc. “I doubt it. We apparently scared them to death. Whatever they try, we’re ready. And if they did launch anything against us, I can tell you it would be the last thing they ever did.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Rani, “perhaps you might tell me why I’ve been summoned back to Moscow.”

“On the face of it, this might not seem so important,” said Colonel Andre, “but there are a lot of people very interested in a certain subject. And you are known to have the best contacts inside the Russian Navy.”

“Aha,” replied Rani. “So what’s new?”

“Quite a lot these days, mostly involving the continued and improving state of the Russian fleet.”

“No argument there,” added Rani. “They are on the move. For the first time in maybe three decades, they can afford to set sail.”

“However,” said Marc, “there is one specific problem that has come to light: the sinking of a Scottish fishing boat out near the Hebrides. What do you know about it?”

“Nothing, except what I heard on the BBC. And I did catch a glimpse of something on the Internet, in one of the newspapers.”

“Royal Navy Intelligence believes that fishing trawler was dragged under by a cruising Russian submarine.”

“In the Hebrides!”

“Exactly. It seems to us half the world wants to know what the hell it was doing there, which is proving a bit tricky since no one saw it, no one heard it, and the Russians are saying they haven’t the slightest idea what everyone’s talking about.”

“Sounds like a certainty,” said Rani. “How did you guys hear?”

“Urgent communiqué direct from HQ. The Americans are already
involved. Fort Meade is on the case, practically an open line to London. It’s just that it’s been so long since the US Navy was chasing submarines through the GIUK Gap.”

“And occasionally sinking them, from what I understand,” added Rani.

“Precisely so.”

“And now it may be starting again. London thinks that submarine was in British territorial waters. It must have been spying on something. The Americans are trying to get SOSUS up and running again, and they are furious the Russkies might be watching them while their guard’s down.”

“Wouldn’t be like Uncle Sam to stop paying attention.”

“No, but there’s a big fucking difference between paying attention and being on high alert. The Yankees do not like what they’re hearing.

“You have been asked here to participate in the discussion. And of course to help us come up with a plan to get inside the Russian Navy’s high command, find out precisely what they are up to.”

“Okay,” said Rani Ben Adan. “I do have a very useful Russian Naval officer, and, curiously, he is convinced they’re currently up to something serious. He has a lot of clues, but no hard facts. But he’s good, very good. And we pay him well. I’ll get to him soonest. I suppose no one’s got much idea what precisely it is we’re looking for, submarine-wise?”

“Not really,” said Marc. “But since the Northern Fleet’s pretty well frozen in right now, it probably came from the Black Sea. Right now it’s probably chugging home through the Med, and then, on the surface, up through the Bosporus.

“Apparently, it hauled a twenty-five-hundred-ton trawler backward to the bottom of the North Atlantic, so I’d say we’re trying to find a very big Russian nuclear boat, probably one of those twin-shafted Oscar IIs, eighteen thousand tons dived. They’re a northern boat, but they’ve been in the Med, and a couple of them were in the Black Sea a year ago.”

“And what do we do if we find it?” asked Andre. “Check with the captain about whether he’s been running day trips around the Western Isles?”

“Well,” said Marc, “the Americans could say they formally logged the boat through the Strait of Gibraltar and that it’s the only underwater boat on this planet that could possibly have been involved with the trawler incident.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were them,” said Rani. “Because that may be precisely what the Russians want to hear.”

 

Angus Moncrief had worked on the waterfront all of his life. He was forty-eight years old, and he had risen to the significant local position of harbormaster, which made him undisputed master of the busy fishing port of Kyle of Lochalsh, across the channel from the Isle of Skye.

Angus had his own harbor launch, provided by the community, and it enabled him to move easily around the great highland lochs that surrounded his thriving little parish. Moorings, hurricane buoys, jetty space for fishing boats, visiting yachts, tugs, and, occasionally, Royal Navy ships were his stock in trade.

No ship’s master or commander either entered or left the harbor of Kyle of Lochalsh without being carefully recorded in Angus Moncrief’s monthly logbook. He and his wife, Mary, lived in a sturdy four-bedroom nineteenth-century town house overlooking the harbor, and his office was four hundred yards away, down on the dock.

There had been a deep sense of local continuity for fifteen years, since he was first appointed harbormaster, in succession to his grandfather Rory Moncrief, who had held the office for many years until after World War II
and was still remembered by many locals. Angus was perhaps not as popular as his grandpa, being a very serious, somewhat stern Scotsman. He was a teetotaler and wary of those who took a dram of highland malt whisky, especially sea captains.

But he was an excellent keeper of the commercial harbor of Lochalsh, very quick with weather reports, a maestro with the ship-to-shore radios or cell phones, helpful to visiting ships and to local fishermen whatever the problem. He had excellent relations with the Royal Navy and was swift to send out a tug to anyone in difficulties. In his many years working on the waterfront, he understood every pitch and yaw of every possible vessel.