56

Tel Aviv, Israel

An aide slipped a message to the director of the Mossad.

He glanced at the heading, then immediately handed the note to Levi Shimon, who sat back in his chair with an astonished expression.

“What is it, Levi?” the prime minister asked.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Shimon said.

“What?”

“It’s from Mordecai. It’s everything we asked for.”

“What does it say?”

Shimon read the message in its entirety, slightly less than two pages. In it, Mordecai provided precise details—including GPS coordinates—on all the warheads’ current locations and what kind of missiles they were attached to or about to be attached to. Then he begged for mercy for himself and his family, saying he did not want to end up “like the others” and that “that’s not what I signed up for.” He concluded by warning them in no uncertain terms: “I can guarantee you the warheads are where I say they are as I speak. But I can make no guarantees where they will be even a few hours from now. Events are moving rapidly here. I fear I will soon be exposed. This will be my last communiqué. I have done all that I promised, but I cannot do any more.”

Naphtali looked around the table. Every man was as stunned and sobered as he was. Most concerning was the report of two nuclear cruise missiles on some of the five Iranian vessels just off of Israel’s shores. They’d known it was a possibility but had no direct evidence of it, nor any indication from the Americans, who had far more sophisticated means to determine if a ship was carrying nuclear material. He turned to Shimon. “Levi, I need your assessment.”

“This is deeply disturbing, Mr. Prime Minister,” Shimon said, scanning the message again. “If this is disinformation planted by the Iranians, then they have to know they are inviting a preemptive attack. But I don’t believe that. Far more likely this is the real thing. It was clearly communicated by a man under extreme stress. He’s cutting off all contact, which suggests he’s either going into hiding or thinks they’re onto him. We’re not going to get another chance like this. I think it is time to go. I don’t see that we have a choice now.”

“Any dissent?” Naphtali asked the others.

He got none. They were all in agreement.

“Then this is it, gentlemen,” Naphtali said, his voice calm and firm. “We have supported American and European diplomacy toward Iran. We’ve supported multiple rounds of international economic sanctions against Iran. We’ve encouraged our allies to take covert operations against Iran’s nuclear program, and to their credit, several of them have taken significant action. We have launched multiple covert operations of our own, some of them successful, some of them less so. I think history will show we did everything we could. We forced the Iranians to take almost three decades to build the Bomb, when it took us less than eight years. We urged the world to do more to stop Iran. We especially urged the Americans, up to and including the last few days. But there comes a time in every nation’s destiny when it must act alone for its own survival. This is one of those times. I say this with neither joy nor malice. It is simply a fact. We are out of other options, and we are out of time. We must act in defense of the Jewish people and in defense of all of humanity. The world will hate us for what we are about to do, but I for one will be able to lay my head on my pillow every night in peace until I rest with my fathers, knowing I did the right thing. I hope you will too. I hereby authorize the commencement of Operation Xerxes. May the God of Israel be with us.”

* * *

The Qaleh, Iran

“My Lord, may I say something?”

Mohsen Jazini lowered his head and did not make eye contact until he was called upon.

“Yes, of course, Mohsen,” the Mahdi said. “What is it?”

“I realize that you are not concerned about the disappearance of Tariq Khan, and of course I fully respect—and agree with—your reasons, Your Excellency,” Jazini said. “Still, until we know more, it would be safer if you were in one of the fully secure underground command centers in Tehran rather than up here.”

“You mean you would feel more secure,” the Mahdi said without expression.

“Allah is with you, without question, my Lord,” Jazini replied. “But I am concerned that we pose too great a target all together and exposed like this. It doesn’t strike me as prudent, but of course I completely defer to you, Your Excellency.”

“Isn’t the Qaleh unknown to the Zionists and the Americans?”

“Hopefully,” Jazini said. “But we thought Dr. Saddaji and Dr. Khan were too. I just don’t want us to take any chances. Moreover, I no longer think it is a good idea to bring all of the air force and missile commanders together up here on Saturday. It would take only one cruise missile and—”

“Very well,” the Mahdi said, holding up his hand for Jazini to stop. “You have a missile command center north of Tehran, do you not?”

“Yes, we do, my Lord.”

“Then let us go there. But don’t tell the commanders about the change in plans. Give the chopper pilots the new location at the last possible moment.”

“Yes, my Lord. Very good.”

The men bowed again and were dismissed to get their personal possessions and head to the helicopter pad. Javad took the Mahdi aside and asked what he should do about the satellite phones.

“You are scheduled to get more tonight, are you not?” the Mahdi said.

“Yes, another hundred. Won’t we need them for the commanders?”

“We will. Call your contact. See if you can meet him in an hour. Then come meet us at the command center.”

* * *

Route 56, En Route to Qom, Iran

David and Captain Torres were racing for Qom.

With them in the van were five of the CIA’s most experienced paramilitary commandos. David brought them up to speed on some of the events of the last few days and what he had learned from Khan. Torres, in turn, briefed him on the kind of tools the team had with them, from electronic eavesdropping equipment to ground laser target designators. Then David’s mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It wasn’t Zalinsky. It was Javad Nouri. He quieted everyone down, waited a beat, and took the call.

“Are you alone?” Javad asked.

“Yes,” David lied.

“Change in plans.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Do you have the phones?”

David hesitated. He was tempted to lie and say yes. But what if something had happened to the shipment? What if Eva’s package had never arrived? With everything else that had happened, he had forgotten to call the hotel and confirm he had a package waiting for him.

“No, not yet.”

“What? Why not?”

“I had to make a stop in Hamadan. It got later than I thought, so I stayed overnight. But I’m on my way now.”

“How long?”

“I should be to the hotel in a half hour.”

“Fine. Call me when you have the phones, and we’ll plan a new place to meet.”

* * *

Aboard the Leviathan, Persian Gulf

Tension was high in the Combat Information Center.

Captain Yacov Yanit stepped into the blue-lit chamber and cross-checked data on multiple computer screens before him. He had just confirmed his new orders with the head of naval operations in Tel Aviv. Sonar had no contacts. So this was it. He and his men had trained hard for such a time as this. But it was hard to believe the time had actually come.

Yanit desperately needed a cigarette. Why had his wife made him promise to quit? He pulled a stick of nicotine gum from his pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. Then he turned to his XO and ordered the 1,900-ton Israeli Dolphin-class diesel submarine to periscope depth. He quickly scanned the surface in every direction. As expected, there were no ships visible, so Yanit ordered the XO to take the German-built Leviathan to the surface. They would be there for less than five minutes, but that’s all he and his crew would need to fire all eight Popeye Turbo cruise missiles.

“This is the captain. All engines full stop.”

“All engines full stop, aye.”

“Kill track 89014 with Popeye.”

“Kill track, aye.”

“Mark time to launch.”

“Mark time to launch, aye.”

“Twenty seconds to launch.”

“Twenty seconds to launch, aye.”

The CIC grew deathly quiet.

“Five seconds to time of launch—five, four, three, two, one. Fire.”

On cue, Yanit’s fire-control officer turned his ignition key from Off to Fire.

“Boosters armed. Missiles enabled. Popeye One away. Popeye Two away.”

Suddenly the entire submarine shook violently. Two cruise missiles exploded from their launch tubes with a deafening roar and rocketed into Iranian airspace. Thirty seconds later, two more missiles screamed into the heavens, carrying conventional payloads but enormous firepower into the heart of Persia. Then a third time. And a fourth.

And as rapidly as the Leviathan had come, she sank back into the ink-black waters of the Persian Gulf without a trace.

* * *

Hatzerim Air Base, Israel

Captain Avi Yaron steadied his emotions.

He wasn’t scared. He was exhilarated. But he needed to stay calm and focused and not let the spike in adrenaline cloud his judgment.

Like he had done before every training mission, he muted his radio, closed his eyes, and prayed, “Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha olam, she hehiyanu v’kiy’manu v’higi’anu la z’man ha ze.”

Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season.

Behind him sat Yonah Meir, his weapons systems officer, who tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he was ready to roll. As he had done on a thousand training missions, Avi throttled up his engines and carefully veered his F-15 out of its underground bunker, then taxied onto the tarmac and waited for clearance. Behind him, a half-dozen flight crews in Israeli-modified F-15s and F-16s also maneuvered across the Hatzerim Air Base toward the prime runway, not far from the city of Beersheva, the town where Avi had been raised. But this was no training mission. This was the real thing.

Operating under strict radio silence, the ground crew used hand signals to give him the go sign. Immediately Avi gunned his two engines and put his Strike Eagle in the air.

Rather than rocket to forty-eight thousand feet in less than a minute as he typically did, Avi—flight leader for Alpha Team—shot low and fast across the Negev Desert. Six other heavily armed fighter jets were right behind him. He prayed the Gulfstream 550 electronic warfare jet was already in place. He prayed the Israeli efforts to jam the Jordanian, Egyptian, and Saudi radars had worked. It wasn’t clear to him what the Jordanians would do if they picked up his scent. The king had given private assurances he would not interfere in this mission. But he had no doubt the Saudis and the Egyptians, now that they were on board with the Mahdi, would alert Tehran instantly if they detected Israeli planes moving through the southern route.

Weaving low through the mountains and wadis of the Sinai Peninsula, Avi reached his first critical turn and banked hard to the left. Seconds later, as he crossed into Saudi airspace, his jet hit Mach 2.5. If all went well, he would be over the Iranian nuclear facilities in Natanz in a little under an hour.

* * *

Off the Southern Coast of Iran

Two other Israeli submarines now surfaced, if only for a moment.

The first was positioned near the strategic Strait of Hormuz. The second was positioned about two hundred kilometers to the south in the Gulf of Oman.

One by one, they fired their cruise missiles as well and then slipped beneath the waves with barely a ripple.

* * *

Ramat David Air Base

Avi’s twin brother, Yossi, throttled up his F-16.

Quickly taxiing out of the hangar at the Ramat David Air Base, not far from Har Megiddo, the mountain of Armageddon, he put the pedal to the metal, climbing to fifty-seven thousand feet in less than two minutes. Behind him, eleven more F-16s—all armed to the teeth with Python-5, Sparrow, and AMRAAM missiles and two GBU-28 bunker-buster bombs—lifted off in succession and raced to catch up with him.

As leader of Beta Team, Captain Yossi Yaron led the way through the northern route. Beta Team would arc out into the Mediterranean, bypassing Lebanon, then slice back through Syria, careful not to cross into Turkish airspace at any time. They would eventually cut across the Kurdistan region of northern Iraq and then into Iran, where they would target the regime’s nuclear facilities in Qom.

The first order of business, however, was to not get caught.

Yossi had been the strike force leader in the Israeli attack against a nuclear facility under construction in Syria in the fall of 2007. At the time, he had successfully penetrated Syrian air defenses, hit his target, and slipped back out before the Syrians had even known they were there. He’d been tempted to take a victory loop over Damascus but knew if he ever wanted to fly that route again, he must maintain the strictest discipline. And there was no doubt he’d wanted to fly that route again. But the game was not quite the same this time. Since then, the Syrians had bought and installed advanced air defense systems from both the Russians and the Iranians. Israeli technicians were confident they could penetrate and confuse those systems too, and they were about to find out.

With the glistening blue Med below him, he punched a series of controls on his dashboard. This allowed him to begin invading Syrian communications and radar networks. Soon he was hopping through their signals, unscrambling and decoding and digitally analyzing them until he found and locked onto the Syrian air force’s command-and-control frequency. Now he could see what Damascus could see. A few more buttons, and Yossi was taking over the enemy’s sensors. Soon he was transmitting false images to them, causing them to see clear skies in every direction rather than the Israeli onslaught that was overtaking them.

A hundred kilometers to the east, Yossi knew, an Israeli Gulfstream 550 electronics plane was simultaneously scanning Turkish and Lebanese frequencies and jamming those as well. What’s more, they were monitoring his success—or lack thereof. If they detected a problem, they would alert him. But they hadn’t—not yet, at least. So Yossi rocked his wings, alerting his teammates that they were a go, and shot into Syria, just above the town of Al Haffah.