The Disciple

Grafton stared into the president’s aide’s eyes. “If just one nuke gets through and obliterates Baghdad or Doha or Kuwait City or Tel Aviv, not to mention Tehran, this administration is toast. Hundreds of thousands of people will be dead, maybe millions. Maybe tens of millions. The president will be impeached, if he doesn’t resign. You understand that?”

“I do,” Sal Molina said smoothly.

Grafton wriggled his feet. After a bit he said, “And I thought the era of gunslinging gamblers was over.”

“There’s a few left around,” Molina replied carelessly. “Like you.”

Grafton snorted. “I’m no gambler. I learned long ago that the guy who takes the first aimed shot usually wins. I can get that happy truth embroidered on a pillow if you’d like to refer to it from time to time.”

Molina ignored that comment. “Tell me something that I don’t know,” he said, “something that will make me feel better.”

“The Nationals are at home tonight and tomorrow. Go home, fix yourself a tall, frosty stiff one, and after you’ve polished it off, take your wife to a baseball game.”

Molina said a cuss word, got up and left. Grafton sat in the briefing room by himself. In his mind’s eye he could see the deserts and the cities, the towering cloud formations over the mountains, people strapping themselves into cockpits, do

Soon, he thought. It will happen soon… then all of us will live with the aftermath.

On Friday night during the wee hours I crawled out on the ridge above the executive bunker, found myself a handy shrub and got under it. The ground was still hot from the day’s heat, and thunderstorms were around. I could see flashes in the darkness, way off on the horizon.

I settled in and used my binoculars to see what I could see.

Since we were in the Abbas Abad suburb of Tehran, there was just enough light for binoculars instead of night vision goggles, which was good, because I wanted the magnification. After quickly checking the ridge to ensure that I was indeed alone, I glassed the Mosalla Prayer Grounds and the small mosque that disguised the main entrance, examined two trucks in the parking lot being unloaded by soldiers working in slow motion… examined everything within my range of vision.

Then I shifted my gaze to the other side of the ridge. Even in the middle of the hot summer, the riverbed was carrying water down from the mountains.

Finally satisfied that I was alone and no one was looking for intruders, I got out the laser designator and put it on my shoulder. Turned on the batteries and fired it up. The optical sight was a nice piece of gear, with infrared and low-light capabilities for night work.

Finally I put it down and sat staring at the scene. The air force, Grafton told me, was going to drop eight bunker-busters, each of which weighed about forty-seven hundred pounds. The bomb casings, I knew, were made from worn-out eight-inch howitzer barrels, which were extraordinarily hard steel. Then the cavity was packed full of tritonal, a mixture of TNT and aluminum powder. The aluminum alloy, if you will, caused the pressure peak to occur more quickly, and go higher, than pure TNT. In effect, the weapon was an explosive spear, accelerated to terminal velocity by gravity. Nearly two and a half tons of steel and explosive would dive deep into the earth before the bomb exploded. I wondered if they would penetrate five feet of dirt and twenty-five feet of reinforced concrete.

Apparently the air force was taking no chances. Four would hit the main elevator shaft, four the secondary exit on the back side of the ridge. Then I was supposed to check the results. The parking lot that the elevator shaft lay under would be reduced to rubble by the first bomb. So would the old ramp area that housed the secondary entrance/exit. Although I wouldn’t be able to see what had happened under the earth, Grafton wanted me to determine if the bunker-busters had landed more or less in the right place.

If they hadn’t, no doubt the air force would be back to do it again.

Before I moved, I took a last look around. Another truck carrying soldiers, perhaps a dozen, pulled into the parking lot. The soldiers slowly exited the truck, stretched then scratched, then were herded into line for a muster by their NCO.

I crawled back to where G. W. was waiting.

When I got in the car and we were moving, I asked if he had seen the soldiers.

“Yep,” he replied. “I have a sneaking suspicion they are going to patrol the area around that bunker until the bigwigs are safely tucked in.”

“I can’t imagine why,” I told him and scratched my chin.

“Because someone told them to, I imagine.”

“Grafton said the Iranian army and IRGC are to be pulled out of the city on Sunday night. Ahmadinejad is saving them for the war to come.”

“They won’t all leave,” said the optimist in residence. “You can bet on that.”

“First bomb hits, they’ll be looking for holes,” I mused. “Our job is to make sure Ahmadinejad doesn’t have second thoughts and come rabbiting out of the bunker before the bombs land.” I jerked a thumb toward the laser designator. “Grafton sent me that. There will be an armed drone overhead with Hellfire missiles. I can designate their targets.”

We discussed it and decided that with so many unknowns, we were going to have to play it by ear. “Be helpful,” I suggested, “if Joe Mottaki could score a tank for us when we see them going in.”

“Tommy, we only have eight guys. And how will we know when the bombs will arrive?”

“They’ll give me fifteen minutes’ warning over a handheld radio. There were actually two of them in those duffle bags-I’ll give you one, just in case.”

G. W. thought about it for a moment, then said, “Has it occurred to you that if one of those things misses, it might land on you?”

“Or you,” I told him. “Man, you gotta have some faith in the geeks. High tech is go

On Friday morning in Washington, when Jake Grafton arrived at his office in Langley, his assistant, Robin, told him to call the director.

Wilkins didn’t waste words. “NSA has been listening to messages. The Iranian military is going to war alert on Sunday night. Fighter and gunboat sorties have been ordered for Monday morning at dawn.”

“Has CENTCOM been notified?”

“Of course. Just thought you would like to know.”

“Now that the plan has gone operational, there’s nothing for me to do here but twiddle my thumbs,” Grafton said. “I was thinking about going to Tehran.”

“Hell no,” Wilkins said and hung up on Jake.

“Via Baghdad,” Grafton said into his dead instrument. “Then to As Sulaymaniyah, and by helicopter from there to Tehran.” He put the telephone back into its cradle and glanced at his watch. “If I get a hustle on, I might make it by Monday morning.”

He called Sal Molina at the White House. “Where did the president decide to spend Sunday night?”

“Baghdad,” Molina told him. “He also decided the veep is going to Tel Aviv.”

“Can I get a ride on Air Force One?”

“Don’t see why not. Be at Andrews in three hours.”

“You going, too?”

“Hell, no. I’m going to be in my office watching the war on CNN.”

Jake then called Callie on her cell phone. “Hey, beloved wife. I have to go to the Middle East for a few days.”

“Oh,” she said. “Are you going home to pack?”

“No. I’ll take my warbag along.” He routinely kept a packed suitcase at the office for emergencies such as these. “The underwear is clean, and I have some toothpaste left in there.”

Callie was silent for a moment, then she said, “This isn’t a routine trip, is it?”

“No,” Jake admitted.

“I want you to come back to me.”

“God bless you, Callie. I love you.”