A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [56]
“Yes, sir, four or five of them.”
“How fast can you get to Washington?”
“I’m on the way. Do I have permission to do a little commandeering here and there?”
“Carte blanche. As soon as you’re in the air, establish communications with the Situation Room. They’ll be looking out for you.”
THE SITUATION ROOM—THE WHITE HOUSE
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
In the basement of the White House, the Situation Room was no futuristic phantasmagoria of a Hollywood intergalactic set, but a conference table ringed with brainy men. Gathered in, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the director of the CIA, the secretary of Defense, the ranking man at State, the President’s defense adviser, and numbers of indispensable aides.
In the deep of night, Jeremiah Duncan arrived with a single aide, a Marine gunner. The two-man team accounted for the commander, chief planner, bombardier, and emergency copilot.
When the President assumed his seat and nodded to Major General Duncan, the animus about the table was tempered by a reluctant respect for the old Marine. It was merely a year ago that the Joint Chiefs had pleaded with Duncan to remain in the service for just this sort of eventuality. But, and it was a big but, at this table Duncan could be a rogue.
Jeremiah’s long tenure served him well. He played his presentation, knowing the President had to give Iran a whack or terrorist activity would ooze all over the European continent.
“Gentlemen, as we know,” Duncan said, plunging right into his remarks, “we have received a break that happens once in a lifetime. A German frau has ratted on her lieutenant husband, an American rat, and the Israelis in Frankfurt had the terrorists fingered before they could get out of town. A Lear jet is missing. The Iranian government does not know what we know. We can nail them.”
“But a lightning strike without rehearsals leaves a big margin for error.”
“Moreover, Duncan, we don’t know enough about your SCARAB’s capabilities.”
“Moreover, Duncan, we are going to lose precious time getting the SCARAB to the East Coast along with your RAM team.”
“Gentlemen, Mr. President, I used my discretionary powers and commandeered a C–5 jet cargo plane from Long Beach, folded up the SCARAB, and put it aboard along with twenty-some Marines of the RAM team. We are ready to go.”
Pencils as sharp as daggers, pressed on foolscap pads, now lightened up. Assistants behind their bosses exchanged quick whispers.
“Have I got it straight? You brought your attack team and your airplane with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now there came a sincere clearing of throats and rapt attention.
“Marine Gunner O’Connell here has worked up plans for four potential raid sites in Iran. A Teheran power grid, a dam, and an oil terminal. Yet they won’t work in this situation.”
“You said there were four.”
“I’m coming to that. We learned as we went on to eliminate any plan which would require months of intelligence and massive use of resources. It defeats the rock-bottom mission of a lightning surprise attack.”
Gunner O’Connell asked for the screen to be lowered and operated a slide carousel of maps, photographs, tactics, and stat sheets.
“The genesis of this attack is to hit them in the next fifteen or twenty hours, in the middle of the night. RAM will be on its way to Iran even as Washington wakes up yawning tomorrow. Around noon Washington time, the Defense Department will report an American Lear jet is missing. A flash in the sky was seen. Some of our ships in the area are investigating. Gentlemen,” Dogbreath said, “I shit you not when I tell you the Iranians will still be squatting over their holes with their pants down.”
“What is your target, General Duncan?” the President asked.
Quinn clicked on a map of Iran. “Here,” Jeremiah said, pointing, “in the dead center of the country between the Great Salt Desert and the Persian Gulf. As you know, it is a wild, bitter, mountainous region. Quinn?”
Click, click.
“This is the area around