campaign against the revamped Iranian Air Force. Once the Iranian invasion actually began, all U.S. troop movement bets were off. The ports and airfields needed by arriving American reinforcements were bound to be among Taleh’s first targets.
“Even if we had enough time, Mr. Secretary, it would be impossible for us to conceal the signs of a major military move into Saudi Arabia,” Thorn added flatly. “And that could easily trigger the very thing we are attempting to prevent an Iranian invasion. Taleh’s preparations are so advanced that he can launch his attack on virtually a moment’s notice.”
At Farrell’s quiet signal, he stood back from the lectern, listening as the discussion grew more and more heated, and more and more desperate. The level of rancor did not surprise him. Clearly, the President and his national security team were all too aware that they faced a political and military disaster. Command of the Saudi oil reserves would give Tehran a potential stranglehold over the global economy. Catapulted to status as the most powerful Islamic nation in the world, Iran would be free to smash its foes and reward its friends at will. Decades of diplomacy and the careful application of American military force would be erased in the blink of an eye. The West would face its ultimate nightmare: a powerful Islamic alliance dominated by one able and ambitious man, Amir Taleh.
He kept his eye on Sam Farrell. The head of the JSOC had a fine sense of timing and the ability to navigate smoothly through troubled political waters. Both men had agreed on the only possible course of action before the meeting began.
And both men knew the first hurdle would come in persuading their superiors to take the high-stakes gamble needed to stop Taleh’s invasion before it got off the ground.
After the futile wrangling had lasted for several minutes, he caught a tiny nod of Farrell’s head. Thorn mentally crossed his fingers. It was time to pitch his plan.
“We have only one viable option, Mr. President,” he broke in suddenly.
“We must launch a special forces operation aimed at destroying the Iranian high command before Taleh and his generals can strike. Taleh is the focus of political and military power inside Iran. He is also the mind controlling the terror offensive in our own nation. Kill him and the Iranians will be disorganised even vulnerable.”
Heads swung his way. Most of the men and women around the table were clearly astonished by his abrupt suggestion. A few, those with a better understanding of Iranian politics, looked thoughtful.
“If we’re lucky,” Thorn continued forcefully, “eliminating Iran’s top military leaders will force them to abandon their invasion plans. Even at worst, it should sow enough confusion to buy us the time we need to strengthen Saudi Arabia’s defences.”
Austin Brookes stared at him, clearly appalled by his proposal. “You cannot be serious, Colonel!” The Secretary of State turned to the President. “Surely, sir, no responsible government can support a plan to assassinate its foreign rivals? Our own laws clearly prohibit killing rival heads of state. Such conduct would be infamous!”
Infamous conduct! Thorn thought angrily. What the hell did Brookes consider the murder of American women and children? Still on the rising crest of his anger, he rode roughshod over the older man’s objections.
“Taleh is not Iran’s official head of state. He’s a military leader and a legitimate target in time of war. And that, Mr. Secretary, is exactly what we’re facing here a war.”
Brookes sat back, pale and clearly flustered at being contradicted so abruptly by someone so much his junior.
No one around the table jumped to the Secretary of State’s defence. Thorn realised suddenly that most of the senior people in this administration were old hands at reading the prevailing winds. They could sense the growing sentiment in favor of eliminating Amir Taleh. It was the only course of action that offered any hope of avoiding the catastrophe he had so vividly conjured.
The Chief of Naval Operations spoke up strongly. “The colonel is dead right, Mr. President. We have to wipe out this General Taleh and his top aides.”
Then he shook his head. “But he’s wrong about the means, Mr. President. Putting Delta Force troops on the ground inside Tehran is far too dangerous. Too many things could go wrong. Too many American lives would be at risk.” The admiral leaned forward so that the room lights gleamed off his balding pate. “We hold a decisive technological superiority over Iran. I suggest we play to our strengths, not to our weaknesses. I say we leave the job of crippling their high command to a massive, time-on-target, Tomahawk attack, followed by air strikes using precision-guided munitions.”
The Air Force’s Chief of Staff nodded his agreement with the admiral’s proposal. “We can put together a strike package that should blow the hell out of this Taleh’s headquarters within seventy-two hours, Mr. President.”
To Thorn’s relief, Sam Farrell intervened. In a clash of brass on brass, the JSOC chief’s general’s stars carried more weight than the eagles on his own shoulders.
“Blowing apart a building is not the same thing as killing a man, sir,” Farrell said. He turned to the others grouped around the table.
“During DESERT STORM, we used hundreds of Tomahawks and laser-guided bombs in an effort to kill Saddam Hussein. We failed.”
They nodded their understanding. America’s air war and lightning land campaign against Iraq’s dictator had driven his forces out of Kuwait. But it had not killed him or driven him from power.
“No, sir.” The head of the JSOC shook his head grimly.
“The only way we can be sure we’ve eliminated Taleh and his top aides is to root them out on the ground up close and personal. Anything short of certainty means risking the loss of the Saudi oil fields to invasion.”
Farrell turned his gaze on the President. “My troops have trained hard for just this kind of mission, sir. They know the risks. They can do the job. Just say the word, and we’ll start moving!”
The President nodded slowly, looking far older than his years. While his top aides sat fidgeting, he studied the blinking symbols on the electronic map in silence, apparently hunting for other, less risky options. That was understandable. If the Delta Force failed, the repercussions and resulting casualties would tear his administration apart. But the risks of inaction were even more appalling.
Finally, he shook his head. Something about the set of his shoulders told Thorn that he had made up his mind.
The President turned to Thorn and Farrell. “All right, gentlemen,” he said hoarsely. “Draw up your plan for a Delta Force raid on Tehran! But I want to see it before I make a final decision.”
Before Thorn could protest any further delay, Farrell caught his eye and shook his head slightly. He sat back. The general seemed satisfied by what they had accomplished. Presumably, the older man knew enough about the way this White House worked to be confident the President would approve their final plan.
Thorn just hoped the JSOC commander’s confidence was justified. They were already pushing the outer edge of the time envelope for planning, organising, and carrying out a large-scale commando attack.
He paid little attention to the meeting’s closing formalities. His mind was already far, far away wrestling with the challenge of inserting a strike force deep into the heart of an enemy country.
A medley of raised voices around the room contradicted door. Thorn recognised Jefferson T. Corbell, the administration’s political guru, from news photos. The small Georgian snorted. “Well, I guess you and General Farrell won your point, Colonel. You mind telling me just who you think will lead this suicide mission?”
Thorn did not hesitate. “I will, Mr. Corbell.”
CHAPTER 23
PREPARATIONS
General Shahrough Akhavi looked up from his cargo manifests as another C-130 Hercules touched down on Bushehr’s short main runway. The short, stout logistician turned toward the taller Air Force colonel at his side.
