The Fourth War (37 page)

Craning his neck over his shoulder he kept the target in sight. Bold. Beautiful. A bright line of lights in the dark. This was it. He would do it. The battle was won. “Yeah, baby!” he screamed as the adrenaline crashed through his body. He felt a crushing rush of well-being. Death, with all its mystery, didn't seem a bad thing to him now. He glanced at his airspeed. Mach 1.1…1.3. He lined up on the convoy and screamed once again.

He was twelve seconds from impact. Twelve seconds to live.

With a crackle of static, his radio burst to life. “Shane, this is Peter! You have got to abort! Abort the mission, Colonel Bradley. Return to base
now!
”

Bradley stared at the radio. He didn't believe it was true. He stared out the cockpit, suddenly disoriented and confused. He heard Peter's voice again, even more urgent than before.
“Shane, if you hear me, please, I beg you, abort.”

It had to be a trick! He didn't believe it.

He stared at the convoy that filled his windscreen, aiming for the middle truck in the line. The terrain screamed by him almost dreamlike, he was so fast and so low.

The truck filled his windscreen when he heard Peter again.
“Shane!”
his friend cried.
“Turn that aircraft around!”

 

Peter laid his head on the old plywood desk in Lyangar's run-down control tower. Twenty minutes had passed since he had made the radio calls. He had not heard from Bradley. He felt sick and dejected and lonely and tired.

Then a soldier grabbed his shoulders and he lifted his head. The sergeant pointed to the east, where the sky was less dark. Dawn would soon be breaking and the sky was growing light there.

Peter looked, then he saw it. The MiG had lined up on the runway and was descending to land.

Shin Bet Headquarters Compound
Tel Aviv, Israel
Three Days Later

The two men sat around a small conference table inside the inner vault, the most secure area in the headquarters building. The table between them was small and round and the room was nearly bare; white walls with no windows, simple furniture and folding chairs. The air was tense, even strained, but their friendship went back many years; they had been through worse things than this and they would get through this too. Dressed in an open-collared white shirt, General Petate sat upright, with one leg crossed on his knee. The Israeli prime minister leaned forward and scowled, but the Shin Bet director met his eyes with no apology. He would answer his questions but he wouldn't express any regrets.

The Israeli leader could fire him, have him court martialed, or strung up and flogged.

But Petate knew that he wouldn't.

He had done the right thing.

The prime minister sat back and stared in disbelief. “Let me get this straight,” he muttered. “You sent the Soviet fighters we captured from Syria to deceive the United States, using the Su-27s to keep the B-2 from destroying the warheads. Then you sent a team of nuclear technicians to the cavern at Tirich Mir, flying them in our Pumas before al Qaeda got there? And you
secretly stripped every warhead of its uranium core!
”

Petate nodded proudly. “Yes, sir. Every one. The war-heads are empty. They are now no more dangerous than a drained can of gas.”

“And the terrorists don't know?” the prime minister demanded skeptically.

“They have no idea,” Petate said. “As far as they know, they have twenty-four operational nuclear warheads.”

“Where are the uranium cores now?”

“We used the Pumas to transport them to our destroyer, the
Bethlehem.
They are on their way home now, moving through the Suez Canal.”

The PM leaned angrily across the table and pointed a thick finger at Petate. “But why!?” he demanded. “Why not just destroy the warheads? And you'd better think before you answer, and your answer had better be good.”

The general leaned forward impatiently. “Think about it, Benjamin,” he answered with a stern smile. “Put aside your emotions for a moment and think this thing through! Right now, as we sit here, fat, full, and plump, al Qaeda and their brothers believe they have a bunch of nuclear bombs—bombs they hope to use on us and the West, against you and me and every ally we have.

“How much time, how much effort, how much money and work have al Qaeda and the others dedicated to getting their hands on the bomb? And now that they think that they have them, they will quit trying to get more. Why spend any more money and more effort, and why waste precious time, trying to get or develop a weapon
which they think they now have?
All of their efforts to get nuclear materials will come to a halt. Indeed, we have already seen a reduction in activity in and around Iran's nuclear facilities. And we know more will follow. This will set them back years!

“And now that they believe they have these weapons, they will plan the first attack. But they will take their sweet time, using the infinite patience they have, knowing they will have to be excruciatingly careful, for both we and the United States will be on the highest alert. Then, once they have finally determined their first target, once they have worked so meticulously to put the warhead in place, once they send the command to detonate it, it will be
poof!
Nothing there! A little smoke, a tiny bang, and that's all they will get!

“So yes, at some point they will figure this out. It might be a year, probably longer, I hope it might be five or six, but sometime in the future they will realize they've been duped. But that is time, Mr. Minister, which we buy ourselves. It is time they can't hurt us, and
that's
worth a lot.”

The PM nodded slowly while he pulled on his short beard.

“And there's more,” Petate added with a satisfied smile, his face showing an eagerness the prime minister had not seen before.

The PM sat forward. “What is it?” he demanded.

Petate shifted in his seat. “When my Shin Bet technicians took the nuclear cores from inside the warheads, they replaced the missing components with miniature tracking devices. Because of this, we are currently tracking the movement and location of the warheads by using our satellites. We can watch the movements of the warheads! Do you understand what that means!? Of the twenty-four warheads, we have a bead on all but five, which we know have been moved to an underground facility outside of Khorugh. Now, think of that, sir! Think of what that provides us! With these transmitters in place, we can monitor and track each of the terrorist cells. Over the next two weeks we will gather more information on terrorist operations than we have over the past fifteen years. We are already building a list of safe houses and contacts, where they cross the borders, what nations give them safe harbor and aid.” Petate slapped the table as he talked, the emotion building inside. “Do you understand how important this information could be?” he cried. “Can you imagine what the Americans will give us for information like this!? The potential is astounding. There is no other way to say it, this is a paradigm shift.”

The PM sat back and though his eyes had softened, he still forced a scowl. “And what am I to tell the Americans?” he demanded. “What do you propose I say to our friends?”

Petate looked at him blankly. “I'd suggest you tell them the truth.”

The PM swore bitterly. “How!” he exclaimed.

“Sir, they already understand part of what happened anyway. I had to tell them something to keep Colonel Bradley from destroying the convoy before it got to Khorugh.”

The general paused and fell silent. How much did he want to say? Did he dare tell the minister how close it had been? He pressed his lips together. He would hold the details for now. “There are a few holes Dr. Washington doesn't understand,” he concluded. “And the Americans will come to us for answers; but I think, if we're careful, we can work this through.”

“Come to us for answers! That's a bit understated, don't you think! We shot down their bomber! That's three billion dollars right there. And one of their crewmen was killed. What am I supposed to say about that!”

“It was never our intention for anyone to get injured,” Petate explained. “We expected the crew to eject and we had our Pumas in position to pick them up when they did.

“But yes, that aside, the Americans will demand some answers from us. And I wouldn't try to play with them or take them for fools. We don't have to spill our guts or hang out our entire load of laundry, but we have to give them enough to keep them on our side. I concede this might be a problem, but not one we can't overcome; for I suspect, Mr. Prime Minister, that when the Americans see the treasure of information we could give them they will forgive and forget. Then we all will move on.”

The prime minister hesitated. “They may forgive us, but they have long memories.”

Petate cocked his head. “We owe them, they owe us. We do what has to be done. And I promise you, Benjamin, if the roles were reversed, they would have done the same thing.”

The prime minister looked away. He knew it was true. “Why didn't you tell me?” he whispered, his eyes shifting to the floor.

“Because this is why you pay me. You pay me to do things so you don't have to know. You pay me to protect you. I was doing my job.”

The prime minister sat back and held a deep breath in his chest. “I hate this,” he muttered as he let the breath go.

“I understand, Mr. Prime Minister. But it will always be easier if you let me do my job.”

The men fell into silence. The prime minister stared at the general and drummed his fingers on the bare table. He started to speak, then fell silent, then lifted his eyes again. “You manipulated the Americans to fight a battle that didn't need to be fought?” he said.

“No!” Petate answered. “That's simply not true. We manipulated them to
fight harder,
but the battle has always been there! We are in this together. Surely they understand that by now.”

Arlington National Cemetery
Washington, D.C.

The day dawned cold and dreary, with a band of dark clouds hanging in the low morning light. The grass around the freshly dug grave was wet and long and tiny drops of dew glistened from the tip of each blade. The six-man color guard waited by the grave, their uniforms crisp and pressed, their short-cropped hair bristling from under their caps. The sergeant gave his men one final inspection, wanting them to look perfect before the mourners appeared, then, satisfied, he moved to the end of the line and stood at attention himself. Seconds later the sergeant heard the soft clop of hooves coming up the narrow strip of asphalt that wound through the national cemetery. Glancing to his right, he saw the horses drawing a black carriage with a single bronze casket on its flat and sideless bed. Seeing the casket, he took a deep breath. “Ten-
hut!
” he whispered, and his soldiers drew themselves tight. They looked straight ahead, avoiding the mourners' eyes.

As the wagon approached the fresh grave, the sergeant caught a glimpse of the casket and the Medal of Honor that had been placed on the flag.

 

Colonel Bradley walked near the end of the funeral procession wearing his formal dark blue uniform while Peter, in a dark suit, walked wearily at his side. The two men stood near the back of the small crowd; this service was for Tia's family, and they didn't want to draw attention to themselves.

There was a short prayer, then a song, then the chaplain's final words. The flag was folder reverently and presented to Tia's mother while taps played mournfully, then the casket was slowly lowered into the wet ground.

Bradley turned away from the grave and wiped a hand across his face. “She was good,” he said proudly. “She was as strong and dedicated as anyone I've ever known. She stood up to the enemy. That's all we could ask. And she even liked poker. You would have liked her, Peter, you were two of a kind.”

Peter stared at the grave and nodded solemnly. The two men stood in silence a few minutes, then started walking away.

Approaching an intersection in the path, Peter stopped and gazed around the cemetery. “Too many good men are buried here,” he said sadly.

Bradley's lips tightened. “Yes, this is sacred ground.”

Peter pointed to a row of trees on his right. “My father's buried up there, on the other side of that hill.”

“I know,” Bradley answered. “He was another good man.”

Peter stared a moment, frozen where he stood. “I wish I had been there. I wish I could have told him good-bye.”

“You can still tell him.”

Peter's face remained expressionless and he didn't move. Bradley nudged him on the elbow. “Come on, Peter,” he said.

Peter hesitated, then nodded and the two men walked up the hill.