On the other hand, this was an extremely volatile issue, and the dire consequences could certainly include war. Todd knew she needed to keep Congress on her side, and alienating the Intelligence Committee would not help her meet that goal.

“I think we should have enough information for a thorough briefing by then,” she said. “But there’s always a possibility it will take longer.”

“I would think that if something was going to happen that involved a great deal of resources,” said Zen, “a lot of resources, then consultation would have to take place before those resources were ultimately committed.”

Todd took that to mean the committee wanted to be informed before she sent the bombers in.

“I don’t know that that would be possible,” she parried.

“Possible or not, I would guess that would be the sentiment of the full committee.”

“So the volume of resources makes a difference?” said Todd.

“Well, I don’t know how one measures that,” said Zen carefully. “I do know that, personally, I draw a line somewhere. But if there were, well—to speak theoretically—if there was a sizable commitment, something so large that the press couldn’t help but notice—there are a lot of members who naturally, and rightly, would press for an explanation.”

Todd didn’t answer. Zen wasn’t necessarily demanding that she inform Congress before she attacked, but he was certainly telling her that if she didn’t, there’d be consequences. But then, she was already aware of that.

“In the meantime, I’d like to schedule that briefing from NSC or the Agency,” said Zen, meaning the National Security Council or CIA staff. “Can we say first thing in the morning?”

“I think that’s premature.”

“The afternoon?”

“I don’t know that I could commit to that.”

“An entire day.” Zen’s voice more than hinted disapproval. “That’s a long time under the circumstances. A lot may happen by then.”

“I know some on the committee thinks the intelligence services are overstaffed,” said Todd, her tone matching Zen’s. “But I’m sure you don’t share that feeling.”

Zen only smiled. They ate for a while longer, each concentrating on the food, until Todd broke the silence with a remark about the Nationals, who had unfortunately just lost five games in a row. Zen responded with some thoughts about how soon the hitting might come around. Dessert arrived in the form of a peach cobbler, but Zen took only a few bites.

Todd skipped hers completely. She had a great deal of work to do; the staff knew to save it as a midnight snack, when it would get a fresh dollop of ice cream on the side.

“Tell me one thing,” said Zen as he got ready to leave. “Was it a success?”

Todd studied him. He would make a good President, she decided; his only problem would be the wheelchair. Were people ready to vote for someone with such an obvious handicap, even if it had been “earned” while in the service?

“Good night, Senator,” she said finally. “Best to your wife.”

9

Iran

TURK SLEPT DEEPLY, HIS MIND PLUNGING SO FAR INTO its unconscious layers that he had no memory of dreams when he woke. He was disoriented for a moment, unsure where he was. Then he saw the boulders at the side of the dugout space where he’d bedded down. He rolled onto his back and saw blue sky above.

“Come on,” said Grease. He was a few feet away, hastily grabbing gear. “We have to go.”

Turk rose to a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Oh-seven-twenty. Come on. We have to move.”

“Did you wake me up?”

“Yeah. Come on.”

“What’s happened? Were we spotted?” asked Turk.

“No—they have a new mission for us. For you.”

“Huh?”

“We’re not done yet,” added Grease, walking out around the sand pile.

Turk shook out the blanket he’d slept on and folded it up. The control gear and his rifle were sitting next to him. He checked the pack, made sure everything was there, then shouldered it and went to find the others.

Gorud, the Israeli, and Captain Granderson were standing near the hood of the car, bent over a paper map. Not one of them looked anything less than disgusted.

“Here’s the pilot now,” said the Israeli. “Let’s ask him.”

“We have to get up beyond Qom without being seen,” said Granderson. “We have to be up there before midnight. They want you to launch another strike. And they won’t tell us where it is until we’re in place.”

“How can we go somewhere if we don’t know where we’re going?” asked Turk.

“Even the pilot is baffled,” said the Israeli darkly.

“It’s not his fault,” answered Gorud. He slid the map around to show Turk. “We’ll backtrack up this way, and go the long way around, across the mountains, then come down through the desert. This way, we avoid the area they hit altogether.”

“Back up a second,” said Turk. “How are we going to attack the place again? It blew up.”

“It’s another facility,” said Gorud. “They didn’t know it was there. But they’re not sharing details at the moment. This is roughly where we’re going. It’s north of Qom.”

Qom—rendered sometimes on maps as Q’um, Qum, or Ghom—was located about a hundred miles south of Tehran, and at least two hundred by air from where they were. Qom was a holy city, with hundreds of seminaries and universities. It housed a number of important sites sacred to the Shi’ite branch of Islam, and served as the general locus of several nuclear enrichment plants.

“We have to go north,” said Granderson. “Stay as far away from the crash site as possible. Then we’ll cut east. We don’t want to be stopped, if at all possible.”

“What do we do if we are?” asked Grease, peering over Turk’s shoulder.

“Deal with it, depending on the circumstances.”

WITH THE CAR AHEAD OF THE TROOP TRUCK, THEY drove northward through the desert on a barely discernible road. They risked the lack of pavement to cut an hour off their time and avoid the highway, which one of the scouts said had been heavily traveled by military and official vehicles since dawn. The scrub on the hillside gradually became greener as they drove, and soon they saw a small patchwork of narrow streams and ditches, with an occasional shallow pond.

Turk, sitting in the back passenger seat of the car, passed the time by trying to imagine what sort of people lived here and what their lives were like. Farmers of some sort, though most seemed to have given up tilling some years before. The handful of buildings they passed—always very quickly—looked abandoned.

As they wound their way down on a road that led west, they passed a high orchard whose fruit trees were fed from a shallow but wide creek along the road. Two men were inspecting the trees. Turk slid down in the seat and watched them stare as they passed.

A few minutes later they found the road blocked by a dozen goats ambling passively down the hill. The goatherd was in no hurry to move, even when the Israeli, impatient in the driver’s seat, began to use the horn. The goatherd cast an evil eye at the car and the truck behind it, slowly guiding his charges off the road.

“You think he knows we’re foreigners?” Turk asked Grease when they finally cleared the obstruction.

“I think he doesn’t like the government or the army,” said Grease. “Common out here.”

A few minutes later, as they approached the heart of the valley, Gorud spotted a pair of Iranian soldiers near the side of the road. They were about a half mile outside of a small hamlet that marked the intersection of their trail and a wider road that led to a local highway north.

“There’ll be a roadblock,” said Gorud over the team radio to Granderson and the others in the truck. “You’re escorting us away from the earthquake zone. We’re under orders from the oil ministry to report to Kerman by noon.”