The Last Jihad (37 page)

“Erin, the Iraqis are minutes away from launching a nuclear missile.”

“Oh my God. At Israel?”

“We’re not sure. Could be at you. Might be at us.”

The PEOC was interrupted again by the crackle of the call from NORAD.

“Crystal Palace, again this is Bravo Delta Foxtrot. Repeat, we are high, clear and awaiting orders. Please advise.”

The president took a deep breath. He looked around the room. He was out of time.

Sweat poured from his face.

Azziz checked his computer console. T-minus three minutes.
Come on,
he screamed.
Get it done.

McCoy was slipping into shock.

“Erin? What is it?” asked Dr. Mordechai as she hung up the phone.

She just looked at these three sweet old men. Her bottom lip was quivering. She tried to compose herself, tried to be strong like her mother had been at the end.

“The Iraqis…”

She couldn’t get through it.

“What? What about the Iraqis, Erin?” Sa’id pressed.

“…they’re about to launch an ICBM….”

“Oh my God,” gasped Galishnikov. “Oh my God.”

The president’s voice sounded more serene than anyone had expected.

“Secretary Trainor, order the B-52s to return to base.”

The four of them—Mordechai, Galishnikov, Sa’id and McCoy—turned to the huge video screens positioned on the wall in front of them. One was tuned to Sky News. Another to CNN. Another to BBC. Another to Israel’s Channel 2. And another to RTR in Moscow. There was still no news of a possible imminent nuclear launch. But how could there be? No one in his right mind would leak such horrifying news.

“Bravo Delta Foxtrot,” he began. “This is the President of the United States.”

Everyone in the PEOC held his breath. They instinctively stood up, though the president himself remained confined to his wheelchair.

“Yes, Mr. President,” came the static-filled reply.

“Bravo Delta Foxtrot…”

The president closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“Did not copy that, Mr. President. Please repeat.”

Precious seconds passed.

“Mr. President, did not copy that. I repeat, did not copy. Please repeat. Over.”

The president opened his eyes and looked down at a small plastic card, no bigger than a credit card, he held in his perspiring, trembling hands.

“Bravo Delta Foxtrot, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs has given you an authentic launch code?”

“Yes, sir. Waiting verification, sir.”

The First Lady took a deep breath, folded her hands and brought them to her mouth. She stared into the president’s eyes and tried to read his inscrutable expression.

“Tango, Tango, Alpha, Zulu, Seven, Niner, Foxtrot, Niner.”

Julie MacPherson gasped. Suddenly her head was throbbing. Her throat burned.

“Verifying, sir—Tango, Tango, Alpha, Zulu, Seven, Niner, Foxtrot, Niner.”

“That is correct.”

“I have verification, sir.”

“Bravo Delta Foxtrot…”

“Yes, sir.”

The White House photographer now snapped furiously, making it difficult for the president to hear. He held up his hand, and the auto-advance and flash bulbs stopped.

“You and your wingman are authorized to fire your weapons. Please acknowledge.”

“Roger that, Mr. President. Bravo Delta Foxtrot acknowledges verified orders. We are authorized to fire our weapons.”

“God be with you, airman.”

“And you, sir.”

Smoke began pouring out of the massive rocket engines.

The countdown was under way.

T-minus two minutes.

The B-2 pilots rapidly completed their final preparations.

They both double-checked their instruments, and each said a prayer. A split second later, each pulled the trigger.

Each twenty-foot, 3,500 pound, AGM-129A cruise missile and its W-80-1 nuclear warhead released cleanly and began hurtling towards their targets at supersonic speed.

There was no turning back now.

Azziz picked up the secure phone and hit speed-dial one.

“T-minus one minute, your Excellency.”

“Praise be to Allah.”

McCoy’s head snapped to attention.

Someone was whispering her name.

“
Erin
…”

It was Bennett. She ran into the medical suite, moved to his side and held his hand. She took a cloth and gently stroked the perspiration off his forehead and smiled at him as he lay trembling.

“It’s OK,” she told him. “You’re going to be OK.”

Fortunately, it was true, and Bennett knew it was by the conviction in her voice. He was tired. He needed sleep. But he would live.

“I need to tell you something…”

His voice was raspy and faint.

“Hey, hey, quiet.”

“No, no, I need to…”

“You need to rest right now, Jon. The president will kill me if you don’t.”

Bennett tried to smile, then again tried to speak.

“I need to tell you something…it’s important…”

She leaned down close to him, and felt his weak breath on her cheek.

“What is it, Jon?” she whispered back.

“…I think I found some buried treasure…and I don’t want to let it go…”

Then he squeezed her hand and locked his eyes on hers.

All systems were go.

Azziz relayed the countdown over the phone.

“T-minus fifteen…fourteen…thirteen…twelve…eleven…”

The president lowered his head.

His team waited nervously.

The White House photographer snapped a few more pictures, then stopped. All was silent and surreal. All eyes shifted to a seismograph—connected to a highly sensitive monitor, prepositioned by U.S. special forces, on the desert outside Baghdad—set up in the middle of the table. It couldn’t have been more than sixty degrees in the underground bunker, but the president could feel the perspiration beading up on his forehead.

And then it happened.

The needlelike pen inside the seismograph machine started vibrating violently.

The president turned to the video screens on the wall. His eyes locked onto the live images being fed in from spy satellites in the stratosphere and from unmanned drones hovering over the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border. And what he saw was completely beyond his comprehension.

The flashes of brilliant white light. The two massive fireballs. The howling radioactive winds, surging to one hundred and sixty miles per hour. The instant obliteration of large sections of two ancient cities. The twin signature mushroom clouds, rising mile after mile into the heavens.

In the blink of an eye—in the push of a button—it was all over.

And yet, in his heart, MacPherson knew it had really just begun.

J
OEL
C. R
OSENBERG
is a writer and communications strategist who has worked for some of the world’s most influential and provocative leaders, including Steve Forbes, Rush Limbaugh, and former Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu. A front-page Sunday
New York Times
profile called him a “force in the capital.” A political columnist for
World Magazine,
he has had his work published by
The Wall Street Journal, National Review,
and
Policy Review.
He and his wife, Lynn, have three sons and live near Washington, D.C.

www.lastjihad.com