by Eric Meyer
“Aye, Captain. Fifty meters it is. Chief, how are we looking?”
The Quartermaster and Chief of the Boat concentrated on the board in front of him. “Hatches are secure, we have a clear board. Ready to dive, Sir.”
“Dive. Make your depth fifty meters.”
“Fifty meters, aye.”
Talley watched them go about their business. They were competent, focused, professional, and almost casual, at least to the uninitiated. It was easy to forget the complement of Tomahawk cruise missiles they carried, which could be launched from underwater and guided to a target two and a half thousand kilometers away with pinpoint accuracy. The Tomahawks generally mounted conventional warheads, but could also carry nuclear tips when required. There were also the stores of Mk 48 torpedoes, which could be launched against enemy vessels up to a range of forty kilometers. She had a speed of twenty-five knots, and maybe a little more the Navy wasn’t making public. They were notoriously shy about giving away everything to do with their nuclear boats, for the attack sub was indeed an awesome machine of war, more so when the enemy were unaware of its capabilities. He glanced at Dawson, who was watching everything in his control room with a keen eye.
“How long to get us home, Captain?”
“We’ll be putting in to King’s Bay, Georgia. The Navy will have a Chinook standing by to transfer you back to MacDill Air Force Base. I guess you’re all looking forward to some R&R, Lieutenant. The Florida sunshine takes some beating. ”
Talley shook his head. “Our bosses keep us pretty busy, Captain. We’ll get a few days at most, and we may have to take that in Europe if they call us back to NATO Headquarters. Maybe I should consider a transfer to submarines. I used to be Navy.”
Dawson looked him up and down. He saw a man who was tall, narrow, and long-limbed, with curling, but short dark brown hair over a smooth face with intelligent, dark brown eyes that seemed to be everywhere at once; eyes that were calculating, assessing, and constantly working out the odds. His skin showed the effects of wind and weather, so he was an outdoorsman, unlike the pasty skinned submariners. Dawson guessed some people would write off Lieutenant Talley as Mister Average. Except that his build, his stance, his bearing, all hinted at an innate and barely hidden toughness, and a propensity for violence. It all added up to only one thing.
“I guess you were a Navy Seal. Coronado Base?”
“Yep, you got it.”
“Why did you transfer to a NATO unit?”
Talley smiled. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“And was it?”
He considered that question.
Kay and the kids, back home in the US. Has my career cost me my marriage, my wife and kids Probably. It's a high price to pay. But I often think of the quote, ‘all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’ Someone has to do it.
He quickly changed the subject.
“NATO has only half the resources of the US, Skipper, and a good chunk of the world to cover, so it keeps us pretty busy. I guess your long, peaceful cruises in the Virginia are more relaxing.”
Dawson stared at him. “Relaxing! You can’t be serious! We’re a nuclear-powered attack boat, and sometimes we’re ordered to carry nuclear warheads. We have to be ready at a moment’s notice to respond to threats of mass destruction any point on the globe that would make nine eleven look like a minor skirmish. It’s not as physical as what you guys do, but it sure isn’t relaxing. And the headaches take a lot of getting used to.” Then he stopped as he saw Talley’s expression. “You were kidding, right?”
Talley chuckled. “I was. Besides, at least we get plenty of fresh air.”
“Yeah, I forget what it tastes like after a month underwater.”
Talley grimaced. “You’re right. I’d sooner have people shooting at me. I’ll stay where I am.”
“Good plan, Lieutenant.”
It’s when I get back that the troubles start, Talley thought.
He watched the well-oiled machine that was a nuclear attack boat going through the complicated maneuvers of conning the ship through dangerously shallow and congested waters, as it sped toward its destination on the East Coast of the US. After a short time, he went to find his unit. They were in the galley, wolfing down chow from the impressive buffet. Maybe the air wasn’t too fresh, but the food was good. Guy looked up and nodded a greeting.
“Everything okay, Boss?”
“Everything’s fine.” He helped himself to a plate of food. “Are those prisoners comfortable? I’d like to think we deliver them in good condition. Plenty of people will want to talk to them.”
“They’re okay. The imam is whining for diplomatic privilege, and that Latino is protesting his innocence; surprise, surprise. Who’re you going to hand them over to? CIA, or our NATO intel guys?”
“It’ll have to be CIA. MacDill is their territory, and this is their boat, so they’ll have the final word. The best we can hope for is they’ll let our NATO people sit in.”
“I guess so. When do we return to Europe?”
“Feeling homesick, Guy?” Talley grinned.
“Yeah, I miss the cold and the rain, can’t wait to get back. But seriously, we’re beholden to the Americans at MacDill. I mean, no disrespect, Boss, you’re an American, and they’re the main force behind NATO. But I’d like some sort of independence from them.”
Talley looked around the spacious, well equipped cafeteria. “I’m not sure I’d agree with you. I’ve never seen the Europeans have chow facilities like they do on the Virginia.”
“True, the food on British subs is not in this league. Just the same, I’d like to be able to call the shots. Like the prisoners, they’ll whisk them away to Guantanamo when they find there’s a terrorist link, and...”
“Terrorist?” Talley stared at him. “What are you talking about? This operation was to take down a drug pipeline.”
Guy grimaced. “You haven’t spoken to the prisoners we brought back, have you? The Latino, he’s just a creep, a thug. He was hired to run the Caicos side of the business and keep the shipments moving. It’s the other one, the Iranian imam, Rashid Fard that worries me. I had a long talk with the guy, and I get the definite impression that the trafficking operation on the Caicos is more than just a few Colombians and Iranians on the make.”
“What exactly do you mean, Guy? I don’t get it.”
“He has close links to the movers and shakers in the Iranian government. While you were in the control room, I took a look at the computer in the ship’s library. I put the name Imam Rashid Fard into the browser, and I got several hits, including several images of him with Ahmadinejad. He’s well connected. And I mean VERY well connected.”
“You mean THE Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? The clown who runs Iran?”
“Yes, him.”
“Christ, I know the Iranian government is as crooked as they come, but I can’t see them behind something so overt and criminal as this drug operation.”
“I asked him the same thing, and he just laughed it off. He said he would be protected, no matter what we think we have on him. He kept saying that, ‘no matter what’. It was strange. He got angry at one time when I pushed him hard, and threatened him with Guantanamo, and he said Arash would look after him. When I pressed him about this Arash, he clammed up.”
“What is this Arash? One of their organizations, or is it a man?”
“I don’t know. He obviously shouldn’t have let the name slip. He looked pretty nervous after he’d blurted it out, but it all adds up to something, and whatever it is, I think it’s something pretty high level. And bad, very bad.”
Talley frowned. “Like what? We need more than supposition to take back to our intel guys.”
Rovere joined them at the table, smiling broadly. Talley groaned.
“Not now, Domenico, I can’t take another quotation.”
“Be not afraid of greatness, friends. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness th
rust upon them.”
“Shakespeare again?” they groaned.
“Who else? But I think I have an idea. What are the Iranians desperate for? Vast sums of cash, dollars and euros to prop up their economy. What better than to join up with the South Americans? They help them organize their drugs shipments, and in return, the Latinos fill the state treasury with cash, and put a dagger into the heart of our young people. Simple!”
Talley mulled it over. “It’s a possibility, I grant you that, but there’s something you haven’t considered. The Iranians are desperate for another commodity, and it’s not hard currency.”
They both looked puzzled. “What would that be?” Rovere asked softly. “What could they possibly want more than the money for their regime to survive, to keep them in power?”
Talley stared at them. “Nukes.”
Their eyes narrowed; the big Iranian bogeyman, nuclear weapons that would arm the Islamic Republic and enable them to destroy their enemies in a nuclear firestorm.
“Nukes are the big item on their shopping list,” Talley continued.
Rovere grimaced, “God help us, the world’s greatest criminals join together to obtain nuclear weapons. If it’s true, they’ll keep us pretty busy.”
“There’s one thing for sure, there has to be a terrorism angle to this,” Guy pointed out. “It’s Iran’s number one export.”
Talley mulled it over all the way back to King’s Bay.
Arash, who is he, or what does it mean? Nothing good, that's certain.
He went ashore with his unit escorting the two prisoners, and found a phone to report to Admiral Brooks in Brussels. The fiery NATFOR chief was quiet for a few moments after he’d given a brief report. When he did speak, his reaction was not exactly what he’d expected.
“You haven’t discussed this with anyone else, Lieutenant?”
“No, Sir. Only within the unit, and the two prisoners, obviously.”
“Good. This name, Arash, does it mean anything to you?”
"No, Sir. Have you heard it before?”
Brooks hesitated for a couple of seconds. “Don’t mention that name to anyone, Talley, no one! Not even God, clear? I’ll arrange for someone to debrief you when you get back to MacDill. We’ll talk some more later.”
“Yes, Sir, but I wondered…”
“No, don’t even wonder, Talley. Not another word, between any of you. Not until you’re debriefed at MacDill. That’s all.”
They flew to MacDill in a Chinook, and he thought about his conversation with Brooks the whole way.
What is it about the name Arash that seemed to spook him? Well, if it's important for me to know, they’ll soon tell me. After all, this is a military operation, and ‘need to know’ is more than just a buzz phrase.
Then he put it out of his mind. Going back to the States meant he was closer to the kids, and closer to the battle that was coming with his ex-wife. He thought briefly about giving up his military career to spend time with James and Joshua, his two sons. And then he thought about what they may be facing, a rogue Iranian nation with nuclear warheads, perhaps pointed at the US.
I have to keep going, and maybe when the boys are older, they’ll understand. Maybe.
He was still working it all out when they started their descent.
The moment their wheels touched down on the concrete of the helipad, a Navy Hummer with MP markings screeched to a halt right next to them. A petty officer jumped out of the passenger seat and came across to the Chinook. He was an MP, a naval military cop.
“Lieutenant Talley?” His voice was as hard as his expression, tough, no-nonsense.
He nodded, “Yeah, that’s me.”
“You’re to come with us, Sir. Just you.”
He watched the last of his men climb out the door of the Chinook. The twin turboshafts roared as the pilot throttled up and flew the heavy craft back up into the sky. Its nose dipped as it headed due south, and it was soon lost in the heat haze. Then it dawned on him.
Fard and Rodrigo! I didn’t see them leave the helo.
He looked at the cop. “Where are you taking my prisoners?”
“Prisoners, Sir? I don’t know anything about that.”
Talley looked around. There was only his unit standing on the tarmac. The Chinook had spirited the two prisoners away, as if they’d never existed.
Chapter Two
He was seated in a windowless room, with only the hum of the air conditioning for company. The table was bolted to the floor, gray, steel-framed, and steel-topped. The three chairs were also steel, except they were not bolted to the floor. The walls were gray too, with no adornment, no posters, no signs, and no warnings. Not even ‘no smoking’. There was only one way into the room, through a solid-looking gray painted door, a steel door. When he’d walked in, they closed it, and he’d heard the key turning as they locked him in. It was a room without a soul, a room designed to demonstrate to a man his impotence, his weakness, and his vulnerability to the ‘system’. A room designed to leech out a man’s will to resist, to protest. Whoever had designed it was an expert in interrogation techniques. How to break a man, using only a simple, locked room to demonstrate the futility of resistance to the men with power, the men who held the key to this room. He closed his eyes and tried to doze, but the forbidding place made even this simple act difficult. He opened them when he heard the key turning in the lock, and the door opened. Two men walked in. They could have come from the same mold. White shirts, button-down collars and ties, dark pants. They both sported buzz cuts, metal rim glasses, and were clean-shaven. And mean. Their cold eyes glinted behind the lenses of their glasses. They were the backroom boys, the analysts, not field operatives. CIA, Langley. They carried no briefcases, no pads or clipboards, nothing. He understood immediately; the room was bugged. It would be video monitored as well, of course.
Spare nothing in the quest to explore a man’s soul.
“Thank you for waiting, Lieutenant Talley,” the first man said softly. He was a little older, maybe in his late thirties. His shoulders were slightly stooped; too long behind a desk. Talley waited. Protest would be pointless. They controlled him; they were all aware of that simple reality, and the room reinforced it if he ever forgot. The man looked up and into his eyes.
“Tell us about your last mission.”
“Who are you? CIA?”
The other man nodded. “The Director sent us down here straight away, as soon as we got word of the Iranian. Now, tell us about your mission.”
I don’t like the way this is going. They seem to assume that CIA is some part of my chain of command. They're wrong.
“What are you, counterintelligence?”
The man looked irritated. “I guess there’s no reason for you not to know. Yes. Our brief is specifically the Mideast. Tell us about your mission.”
“I want your names. I don’t work for you. I’m with NATO.”
“Either you start talking, Lieutenant, or we get up and leave. We won’t be back until tomorrow, or maybe the day after that. It’ll be a long wait. We’ve told you everything we’re authorized to tell you. Now we need to hear what went down in the Caicos. And before you ask, we’ve been authorized by your new boss Vice Admiral Brooks to conduct this debrief. If you want to call him, we’ll facilitate that call. But only him, you talk to Brooks, no one else.”
He thought for a few seconds, deciding they were on the level.
Besides, the US is part of NATO, so these guys aren’t exactly the enemy.
He told them everything, and they listened without pause until he got to the part about Rashid Fard, and his impression that the imam was holding something back.
“Like what? Go on, Lieutenant, what was your impression?”
He held up his hands, palm up. “I honestly don’t know. Their operation on Caicos, I guess.”
“What do you know about Arash the Archer?”
“The Archer? That’s the first I’ve heard about Arash being an Archer. What is he, some
kind of a terrorist, a missile shooter maybe?”
There was no reply, and they shifted the conversation back to Fard.
I'm certain they know more about Arash than they care to tell me. The Archer? What's that all about?
“Did he have blood on his robes?”
“Fard, blood? No, he wasn’t hurt, not that I could see.”
Both men nodded. They didn’t smile. “Uh, huh. Go on, Lieutenant.”
Talley had the uncomfortable feeling there was something they weren’t telling him, something big, some undercurrent that would put a different twist to what happened over there in the Turks and Caicos. Something that had the CIA worried, as well as his own people at NATO. He told them the story, right up to where his prisoners were whisked away south in the bird that had flown them from King’s Bay. They made no comment, just kept nodding. Finally, he’d had enough.
“Look, why don’t you guys level with me? What the hell’s going down? We completed the operation as ordered. If there’re any more questions, you need to talk to my people at NATO headquarters. That’s in Belgium, if you didn’t know. The address is Boulevard Leopold III, 1110 Brussels.”
“Uh, huh.” They ignored his protest completely. “Tell us about the boy.”
“What boy?”
“They found a young man, about fourteen or fifteen years old, in the rubble of that compound. An Iranian kid, did you see him?”
“No.”
“You sure? None of your guys roughed him up, or anything like that?”
"What the hell is this?"
One of them nodded. “Thought not.”
“Tell me about this kid. What’s the story?”
They looked at each other. Finally, the younger man started to explain.
“Here’s the deal, Talley. They found the body of a boy. It showed evidence of repeated anal rapes, and other sexual, er, assaults. I guess that’s the best way to put it.”
Talley shuddered. “We saw nothing like that.”
“No. It seems this kid was strangled, not killed in the assault. They say it looked kind of like some sex game between two homosexual males. After your explosives destroyed the place, his body was pretty mangled, but a couple of guys from the Iranian Mission in Cockburn Town rushed over early in the morning to search the place. The coroner was already on scene, that’s how we know about the rape, but the Iranians are screaming the Americans killed him. Apparently, this kid was well connected, or his family was, to Ahmadinejad’s government. I guess you can imagine that when his parents wake up to discover their golden boy was found dead, and after a raid they presume to be American, they’ll go ape. The Great Satan murders innocent Iranians again, and the shit’s going to hit the fan like you wouldn’t believe.”