with precision guidance and multiple reentry vehicles – nearly impossible to knock down. The Shahab-3 program, with enough missiles, enough firepower, and the reach to carpet bomb every square inch of Israel. The Ghadr-110, the Ashoura, the Sejjil, and the Bina systems, all of which can reach us, thousands of individual projectiles and warheads. And, while it hardly seems pressing at this moment, they are still working on the Simorgh satellite-launched missile, which is in testing and which we can expect to see operational with a year. Once that system is in place…”
Shavitz sighed. The rest of the room was silent.
“What about our shelter system?”
Shavitz nodded. “Sure. Assuming the Iranians are bluffing and they don’t have any nuclear weapons, we can say with confidence that should they launch a major attack against us, some percentage of our people would make it to the shelters in time, some of the shelters would hold, and afterwards, a handful of survivors would crawl out alive. But don’t think for a minute that they would rebuild. They would be traumatized and helpless, wandering across a blasted moonscape. What would Hezbollah do then? Or the Turks? Or the Syrians? Or the Saudis? Rush in to bring aid and comfort to the last remnants of Israeli society? I really don’t think so.”
Yonatan took a deep breath. “Are there any other options at all?”
Shavitz shrugged. “Just one. The idea the Americans have floated. Send in a small commando team to discover if the nuclear weapons are even real, and to determine their locations. Then the American forces come in and precision strike those locations, possibly with our participation, possibly not. If the Americans make a limited, precise attack, and destroy only the nuclear weapons, the Iranians may hesitate to respond.”
This was an idea Yonatan hated. He hated it because of all the fruitless loss of life – the loss of highly trained and valuable agents – that had already come from previous infiltrations into Iran. He hated it because he would be forced to wait while the agents disappeared, with no idea if they might resurface and whether they would know anything when they did. Yonatan did not like the prospect of waiting – not when the clock was ticking and the Iranians could launch their own massive attack at any time.
Yonatan especially hated this idea because it appeared to have come from inside the White House of Susan Hopkins. Hopkins had no idea of the reality of Israel’s situation, and she did not seem to care. She was like a parrot with a reluctant owner, who had only taught the poor bird one phrase.
The Palestinians. The Palestinians. The Palestinians.
“What are the odds that such a mission would succeed?” Yonatan said.
Shavitz shook his head. “Very, very slim. But attempting it would probably please the Americans, and demonstrate to them the restraint we are showing. If we made the whole thing time-limited, perhaps forty-eight hours, we might not have anything to lose.”
“Can we afford that much time?”
“If we closely monitor the Iranians for any sign of a first strike, and immediately launch our own strike at forty-eight hours, we should be okay.”
“And if the agents are killed or captured?”
“An American team, with perhaps one Israeli guide who has significant Iranian experience. The Israeli will be a deep cover operative with no identity. If anything goes wrong, we simply deny involvement.”
Shavitz paused for a long moment. “I already have the perfect operative in mind.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
12:10 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Joint Base Andrews
Prince George’s County, Maryland
The small blue jet with the US Department of State logo on the side moved slowly onto the taxiway and made a sharp right turn. Already cleared for takeoff, it quickly accelerated down the runway, left the ground, and climbed steeply into the clouds. Within another moment, it angled sharply left toward the Atlantic Ocean.
Inside the plane, Luke and his team easily fell back into old habits – they used the front four passenger seats as their meeting area. They stowed their luggage and their gear in the seats at the back.
They were leaving later than he had intended. The holdup was because Luke had gone to see Gunner at school. He had promised his son that he would never leave without telling him face-to-face, and sharing as much as he could about where he was going. Gunner had asked for that, and Luke had agreed.
They had met in a small room provided to them by the principal’s assistant – it was a place where they stored musical instruments, mostly old wind instruments, many of them gathering rust, by the looks of things.
Gunner had handled it pretty well, all things considered.
“Where are you going?” he said.
Luke shook his head. “It’s classified, Monster. If I tell you…”
“Then I tell someone, and that person tells someone.”
“I don’t think you would tell anyone. But just knowing would put you at risk.”
He looked at the boy, who was more than a little long-faced.
“Are you worried?” Luke said.
Gunner shook his head. “No. I think you can probably take care of yourself.”
Now, on the plane, Luke smiled to himself. Funny kid. He had been through a lot, and somehow hadn’t lost his sense of humor.
Luke glanced around at his team. In the seat next to him sat big Ed Newsam, in khaki cargo pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Steely-eyed, huge, as eternal as a mountain. Ed was older now, certainly. There were lines on his face, especially around the eyes, that hadn’t been there before. And his hair wasn’t as jet black as it used to be – there were a few gray and white strands running around loose in there.
Ed had left the FBI Hostage Rescue Team for this gig. The FBI was moving Ed up the ranks – more seniority, more responsibility, more sitting at a desk, and a lot less time in the field. To hear Ed tell it, he was switching because he wanted to see some action again. But that didn’t stop him from holding out for more money. It didn’t matter. Luke had been ready to make the SRT budget cry out in agony if that’s what it took to get Ed back on board.
Across from Luke and to the left, facing him, was Mark Swann. He stretched his long legs out into the aisle as usual, an old pair of ripped jeans and a pair of red Chuck Taylor sneakers there for anyone to trip over. Swann had changed, of course. Barely surviving his time as a prisoner of ISIS had made him more serious – he no longer joked about the danger of missions. Luke was glad that he had come back at all – there was a period of time when it seemed like Swann might become a recluse, and never emerge from his penthouse condo overlooking the beach again.
Then there was Trudy Wellington. She sat directly across from Luke. She had curly brown hair again, and hadn’t aged at all. That made sense. Despite everything she had seen and done – her time as an analyst with the original SRT, her relationship with Don Morris, her escape from prison and her time in hiding – she was still only thirty-two years old. She was slim and as attractive as ever in a green sweater and blue jeans. At some point, she had done away with the big, round, red-rimmed owlish glasses she used to hide behind. Now her pretty blue eyes were front and center.
Those eyes were staring hard at Luke. They didn’t look friendly.
What did she know about his relationship with Susan? Was she angry about it? Why would she be?
“Do you know what you’re doing, man?” Ed Newsam said. He said it good-naturedly enough, but there was an edge, an undercurrent to it.
“You mean, with this mission?”
Ed shrugged. “Sure. Start with that.”
Luke glanced out his window as he spoke. It was a bright day, but the sun was already behind them. In a little while, as they moved further east, the sky would begin to darken. It gave him the sense of events surging out ahead – a familiar