Mid-thirties, a career officer with a wide range of experience—a woman with the perspective of someone who’d had to fight her way into what was essentially a closed club, in reality if not in theory.
A good alter ego. A good wife, in a way.
Jennifer was the one he wanted. This would put her in more danger—she’d barely escaped the laser strike on Quicksilver.
Not a factor in his decision.
“If we can’t use CentCom, we can’t send Danny,” said Dog finally. “But we have to proceed.”
“What about the Chinese?”
“Questions, always questions,” he said with a laugh.
“Well? Are we risking World War Three here?”
Dog began to pace in front of the mammoth view screen at the front of the room. At the time the Whiplash order had been issued, the threat was largely thought to be a new radar system or a technique involving radar. The President had probably put Whiplash in motion as insurance for CentCom, intending them to augment the conventional forces. He hadn’t foreseen this development.
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But the fact that the threat turned out to actually be a directed energy weapon did not change the essential nature of the orders—something was still shooting down American planes, and he was empowered, ordered, to stop it if possible.
The orders were predicated on the threat being in Iraq, not Iran.
It wasn’t hard to guess why Magnus hadn’t volunteered to take the matter to the President. If things went wrong, and even if things went right, the mission could plausibly and legally be described as a rogue adventure by a mis-guided underling—Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian. His head could be offered up to whomever wanted it: Congress, CentCom, the Iranians.
They had to proceed with the mission. If they didn’t, more Americans would die. The laser might be refined and sold to other countries, beginning with the Chinese—who might even already have it. It might be used to threaten commercial air flights or against satellite systems.
But proceeding might very well mean the end of his career.
And the death of his lover, daughter, and friends.
“Colonel?” asked Cheshire.
“Open the channel to High Top,” Dog told the lieutenant on the com panel. Then he turned to Cheshire.
“We’re moving ahead.”
Tehran, Iran
1000
FOR ALL HIS EXPERIENCE IN COMBAT, FOR ALL HIS BRAVADO, General Sattari still felt awe as he stepped into the chamber of the Council of Guardians in the capital. He might have no respect for the robed men who sat here, he might 288
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think that the Ayatollah Khamenei was essentially a coward and a traitor to his people, but he could not forget that these men, for all their failings, were teachers with a special relationship with God. Perhaps they abused their power, perhaps they made decisions motivated by greed or expedience rather than piety—but they nonetheless contemplated the Creator with a depth of attention that he could only admire.
The marble floors, the large open room, the rich tapes-try—all reinforced the humility of his position. His steps faltered; he felt his fingers beginning to tremble and his heart pumping faster, adrenaline mixing, accentuating his nervousness. When he saw Ayatollah Khamenei sitting calmly before him, he felt his tongue grown thick. He had been wrong to proceed without his blessing; he had been wrong to underestimate the religious leader’s skill and control.
He considered saying nothing. He considered, even, running from the building.
A glance to the Chinese guards flanking the door steeled his resolve.
“You have caused us great difficulty,” said Khamenei in a voice so low Sattari practically had to stop breathing to hear.
“The difficulties are with our enemies,” Sattari said. He reminded himself he was not without leverage. Nor was his weapon unguarded—before leaving Anhik he had deployed most of his men on the highways south of the base to guard against any move by the Chinese; spies at the air bases they used would warn if any bombers or transports took off. While Sattari did not believe Khamenei would order such an attack against him—he would have done so already, rather than summoning him here—the Chinese could well choose this time to move unilaterally.
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“How does the American attack on the dog Saddam help us?” asked the Ayatollah.
“Because, your excellency, it takes their attention away from us, and at the same time weakens our enemy. Our people in Basra pray for deliverance.”
The continued suppression of Shiites in the southern Iraqi city had been the subject of many of Khamenei’s edicts, but the Ayatollah showed with a frown that he would not be so easily persuaded. Sattari felt an urge to shout at him that they must take advantage of the American preoccupation and push off the Chinese; they could rearm with American help as long as the Americans were obsessed with Iraq. American weapons were far superior to the Chinese hand-me-downs; this had been proven time and time again. And even if the Americans offered no aid, they could be used to cow the Chinese into a better arrangement.
Surely Allah was against the pagan Communists as well as the demon Christians.
Did it matter that American planes were destroyed? Did it matter that Iraqis were killed? These were good things.
Sattari remained silent.
“We were not informed that the weapon was ready to be used,” said the Ayatollah when he spoke again.
“Reports of the tests six months ago were delivered in this very hall,” said Sattari. “At that time, readiness was discussed.”
And projected as being five years away, if not more.
Sattari had helped coach the scientists on what to say, and listened carefully. The laser’s actual location had also been carefully left out of the report.
Khamenei stared at him, not bothering to point out the contradiction.
“You wish your power restored,” said the black-robed 290
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imam instead. “You feel that by these actions you will restore yourself to a position of eminence.”
“My interest is Iran, and the glory of God.”
“That does not rule out your own glory, does it?”
He thought to supply a formula from the Koran to the effect that personal glory means nothing except as it contributes to salvation, but the stirring of some of Khamenei’s cohorts in the row behind him diverted him.
“My interest is Iran, and the glory of God,” he repeated.
“So be it,” said the Ayatollah. “But I will be the judge of the success of your action.”
Sattari considered the words. Khamenei had conceded nothing—but neither did he order Sattari to stop what he was doing.
He was willing to play the game. Perhaps he detested the Chinese and the Iraqis as much as Sattari. Or perhaps he had his own plans; his face gave nothing away.
It occurred to Sattari that he might be stronger than he realized. He didn’t have to angle for power—he had it. If he could arrange for a purge of some of the more religious junior officers in the air force, he might combine them with his Kurd allies and control the northwest provinces on his own.
It was not among Sattari’s plans, but the idea did warm his chest against the coldness of the hall as he took his leave.
Incirlik
1100
THE AMERICAN’S ARABIC WAS CLEAR ENOUGH, THOUGH HE
seemed an odd bird, limbs and legs constantly in motion as he stumbled for the right phrase. Neither he nor any of the other Americans seemed to realize that Tarik spoke RAZOR’S EDGE
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English, or that he had spent several years in America. He believed that was very much for the good, especially since he had overheard his captors say several times that he must be treated with care. Certainly they had been good to him so far.