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“They claimed that the bombers would be vulnerable when they opened their bomb doors.”
“And our air force detected nothing.”
“Correct.”
“Wonderful,” Najar said in a sour tone. “Twenty-seven million dollars for a missile system that doesn’t work.”
Ashani’s doubts were beginning to grow. He knew the science behind the stealth bombers, and they should have in fact left themselves open to detection for five to ten seconds while they dropped their payload. More worrisome, though, was the time of the bombing. Ashani had no knowledge of the Americans ever using one of the valuable stealth bombers in a daylight operation. Why would the Americans expose their billion-dollar planes during a daylight bombing run? The answer for Ashani was that they wouldn’t.
“There is a pilot,” Amatullah announced, “who made a positive identification of an Israeli plane in the area. My people are debriefing him at this very moment.”
Najar slowly turned his head and looked at the president. “I heard your comments on TV earlier this evening, and I saw your pilot interviewed. I am not sure I believe him.”
“You are a born skeptic,” Amatullah countered.
“Have you not listened to anything General Dadress has told us? The Air Force detected nothing. They think the stealth bombers flew at their operational ceiling of fifty thousand feet. Commercial air traffic flies at thirty to thirty-five thousand feet. Your pilot must have very good eyes to see a plane from such a distance.”
“Fifty thousand feet is an estimate by radar operators who failed to do their jobs. At this point I am more than happy to take the eyewitness account of a veteran pilot.”
“Really.” Najar turned to Dadress. “General, how many stealth bombers do the Israelis have?”
“None that we know of.”
“And if the Americans had given them some, do you think they would paint big white and blue Stars of David on the wings?”
“No.”
Najar nodded and waited to see if Amatullah had anything further to add.
“You may quibble over the specifics of how it happened, but it is obvious to everyone that it was the Jews and the Americans who were behind this.”
“Even so, this council would appreciate it if during a national crisis you would consult us before you rushed to get in front of the cameras.”
Amatullah looked past Najar to the Supreme Leader. “My apologies.”
Ayatollah Nassiri acknowledged the apology with the faintest of nods. In a soft voice he asked Najar, “How many perished?”
Najar turned to Golam Mosheni, the man in charge of the country’s nuclear program and in a much louder voice asked, “How many?”
Mosheni was a large man, probably only a few pounds shy of 300. His forehead was glistening with sweat. “Sixty-seven scientists and technicians. We were fortunate that they struck during lunch. Twenty-three scientists and technicians were on their break when the bombs fell.”
“Fortunate.” Amatullah repeated in a whimsical tone. “I’m not sure I would use that word to describe anything that you are associated with.”
There it was, Ashani thought. Amatullah had chosen his scapegoat. He had been a champion of Mosheni for years, touting him as the man who held the hopes of the future of Iran. In addition to running the nuclear program, it appeared that the diminutive president expected him to stop foreign incursions into their airspace.
“It could have been worse,” Mosheni replied in a weak effort to defend himself.
Amatullah clasped his hands in his lap. His short legs barely touched the floor. “Our nuclear program has been destroyed, we have a toxic hole in the middle of our second largest city, and the West is laughing at us. Please tell us how it could have been worse?” He unclasped his hands and threw them up in the air. “I would love for you to explain to us how it could have been worse.”
Mosheni’s face grew flushed. He kept his mouth closed and refused to speak. His discomfort and embarrassment was obvious.
“Has the radioactive fallout been contained?” Najar asked.
“Yes.”
“The rest of the facility?”
“The equipment can be salvaged, but it will have to be moved to a different location.”