Damascus Countdown

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  It was 3:32 p.m. local time.

  TABRIZ, IRAN

  It had been too dangerous to travel by plane or even by helicopter, and anyway the runways were now unusable, so there would have been nowhere to land. So General Mohsen Jazini arrived at the Second Tactical Air Base, about fifteen kilometers northwest of the Iranian city of Tabriz, in the back of a Red Crescent ambulance, his security detail having decided such cover was the safest—if not the only—way to get the new head of the Caliphate’s army to the base from Tehran without attracting attention or another Israeli missile strike. Fortunately their plan had worked, and the general, two of his deputies, and three bodyguards (including the driver) arrived without incident. But even from a distance, seeing the thick, black columns of smoke rising into the afternoon sky, Jazini could scarcely take in how much damage the Israelis had done to the air base. Seeing it up close and personal was horrifying.

  As he’d been briefed back in Tehran, every runway here in Tabriz was now pockmarked with enormous craters, the result of devastatingly accurate Israeli air strikes. Nearly all the F-5E and MiG-29 fighter jets on the tarmacs were ablaze, as were most of the helicopters, transport planes, and civilian airliners that shared the airfield. All but one of the hangars, and all of the administrative buildings, had been taken out by air strikes. Even the control tower had been hit. Some of the strikes had occurred as recently as that very morning. Firefighters and their equipment had come from all over the area, but it was immediately clear to Jazini that they were having little success controlling the raging infernos. Ambulances, too, were converging on the base from every direction, but the destruction was severe, and Jazini had to assume the death toll was already high and still mounting rapidly.

  Once they cleared a security checkpoint on the outer edge of the field, the general directed the driver of the ambulance to a small, one-story, nondescript concrete building on the eastern edge of the airfield. It hadn’t been fired upon and thus hadn’t been damaged in any way. After all, it didn’t look like a strategic target from the air or even up close. Rather, it looked like a two-vehicle garage that might hold maintenance equipment like tow trucks or perhaps lawn-care equipment like a few large commercial mowers.

  When they arrived and parked near one of the garage doors, a member of the detail jumped out, walked over to the door, found an electronic keypad, and punched in a ten-digit code. Jazini could see the bodyguard then look up at a small security camera mounted on the overhang of the roof. A moment later, one of the doors opened, and two armed men greeted them and waved them in.

  Jazini and all of his team except the driver quickly exited the ambulance and entered the small concrete structure. The driver then sped off and parked the ambulance with the rest of the emergency vehicles, in the unlikely but still remotely possible chance that the scene was being monitored by spy satellites.

  “General Jazini, what an honor,” said the ranking officer on site, saluting once the guests were safely inside and the door was closed and locked behind them. “I’m Colonel Sharif. Welcome to our humble abode.”

  Jazini, dressed not in his military uniform but in black slacks and a white button-down dress shirt, did not return the salute. “Colonel, I’m not here for you or for any chitchat,” said the highly decorated commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, who at the age of fifty-nine was still quite fit and trim, though his once-jet-black hair was now graying at the temples and his beard was beginning to show more salt than pepper. “I’m here to see Dr. Zandi without delay. Where is he?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sharif. “He’s three floors below us. I can take you there now.”

  “Lead on,” Jazini said as he and his entourage followed the colonel onto a lift that descended rather slowly but eventually opened up into a cavernous, warehouse-like facility, much larger than could be imagined given the far smaller outbuilding on the surface.

  To his left, the general could see nearly a dozen technicians in white lab coats huddled around a large steel table bearing one of the two remaining warheads. It looked like they were doing open-heart surgery on the weapon of mass destruction. To his right, Jazini saw a large wooden crate atop a similar steel table, surrounded by four IRGC commandos holding automatic weapons. He assumed the crate held the second of the remaining warheads, but he was about to find out for sure.

  Approaching him down the center of the facility was a somewhat-youthful-looking man about five feet six inches tall, balding, clean shaven, and wearing round spectacles. He, too, wore a white lab coat with various ID badges dangling from a thin chain around his neck. He wasn’t smiling. Rather, he looked anxious and a bit gaunt, as though he had not been eating well—or at all—over the past few days or even the past week or two. He had two security officers at his side, armed with pistols, not machine guns. The three men made their way across what appeared to be a freshly mopped floor, then stopped about a yard and a half from the general and his security detail.

  “You must be Jalal Zandi,” Jazini said, taking immediate control of the conversation.

  “I am your humble servant, General Jazini,” replied Zandi, forty-seven, neither offering his hand nor looking the general in the eye but looking down at the floor instead. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

  Jazini stepped forward, put his hand on Dr. Zandi’s shoulder, and turned to the security men around him.

  “Take good care of this man, gentlemen,” Jazini said with a laugh. “I can’t tell you how much the Zionists would love to get their hands on him. It’s your job not to let that happen.”

  When the men nodded in agreement, Jazini turned to Zandi and looked him in the eye.

  “Are you being taken care of?” he asked. “Are they getting you everything you need?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Zandi said, his hand trembling slightly. “Everything is fine.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “The warheads have been here since Thursday morning, just before the air strikes started. I got here yesterday.”

  “Ambulance?” the general asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Did you come in an ambulance?” Jazini repeated.

  “No, in a fire truck,” Zandi replied.

  “Have you slept much?”

  “A little,” said Zandi. “But mostly we’ve been making adjustments to the warheads. One is finished and ready for transport. The other should be ready within the hour.”

  Jazini nodded and checked his watch. “Very well. We will leave precisely at five.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Zandi. “Leave where?”

  “To the missile complex.”

  “But I thought my team and I were going to attach these warheads to missiles here, at this facility. Didn’t you bring the missiles with you?”

  “No,” said Jazini. “It’s too dangerous to do anything more here. I’m taking you and the warheads with me.”

  “And the crew, of course.”

  “Negative. You’ll have another crew waiting for you at the next location.”

  Zandi blanched.

  “Is there a problem, Dr. Zandi?” the general asked.

  “Uh, no, sir; it’s just that . . .”

  “Just that what?” Jazini pressed.

  “Well, sir, I just prefer . . .”

  “Prefer what?”

  “Having my team with me, sir,” Zandi finally explained. “We work well together. I trust them.”

  “Well, I don’t, Dr. Zandi,” the general shot back. “I believe one of them leaked the location of our other six warheads. One of them is a mole. And when I find out which one, I am going to gouge out his eyes, one by one, and cut out his tongue. And then I’ll decide what his real punishment will be.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Make sure the second warhead is ready for transport no later than 5 p.m.,” Jazini ordered. “But don’t tell anyone that they’re not going with us. That will just be our little secret. Understood?”

  �
�Yes, sir,” Zandi said quietly. “I am your humble servant.”

  “Good. Now carry on.”

  And with that, Jazini turned on his heel and walked to a small office in the back of the facility to finalize his own plans and make sure every detail was in place.

  24

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  Sitting in the front passenger seat of the van, David slipped on his headset, consisting of an earphone and small microphone, then clipped the wireless receiver to his belt. He switched on the power and made sure he was on the right frequency.

  “Check, check, check—we all good?”

  “Reading you five by five,” said the others.

  Satisfied, David grabbed an extra magazine for his MP5, double-checked his pistol and its silencer, and loaded his flak jacket with additional ammo but didn’t put it on. Rather, he put it on the floor in front of him and covered it with a blanket.

  “Everyone all set?” he asked.

  He got a thumbs-up from everyone as they all hid their weapons and gear and got their minds into the zone for the mission ahead.

  “Good. Look sharp,” David said. “Let’s do this thing.”

  David gave Torres clearance to drive up to the guard box and into the parking lot of the hospital while keeping his eyes peeled for any signs of danger. His pulse quickened, but he tried to steady his breathing by saying a prayer for himself and his team—for safety, to be sure, but also for wisdom and success. A moment later they were at the guard station. Torres rolled down the window.

  “May I help you?” the guard asked, peering into the van from behind a pair of sunglasses.

  “We’re here to give blood,” David said in flawless Farsi, leaning toward the open window to make eye contact with the guard. “We’re scheduled for a 3:45 appointment.”

  “Okay, pull through and turn right,” said the guard. “But you’d better move smartly. I’m pretty sure the blood drive ends at four.”

  “Thanks; will do,” David said.

  Torres followed the man’s directions, and they all breathed a sigh of relief. One hurdle crossed.

  “Home Plate, can you hear us?” David asked when Torres had put his window back up.

  “Roger that, Zephyr,” Zalinsky replied. “And we see you moving through lot B to the far side.”

  “Roger that,” David said, then turned to his team and gave them the one-minute warning, alerting each man to uncover his gear, put on his flak jacket, and get ready to move. He, too, finalized his preparations and then opened the glove compartment and pulled out black ski masks, which he quickly handed out.

  Forty-five seconds later, Torres backed into a parking space and scanned the grounds for anyone who might see them exit the vehicle. Several doctors were approaching along a nearby sidewalk, but they were engrossed in conversation and didn’t seem to be paying much attention to their surroundings. David instructed his men to wait for the group to pass, and the delay proved fortuitous as Torres noticed that the exit door they were about to head to didn’t have a handle on the outside. He asked one of the men in the back of the van to reach under his seat, open the compartment containing the spare tire, and pull out the iron crowbar typically used for prying off hubcaps when changing a flat. That, he said, was their new key into the building.

  David did a final scan. There were still cars coming in and out of the parking lot, an occasional ambulance driving by, and a few people walking by distant buildings. He glanced at each member of his team, checking their focus, their steadiness. Aside from David himself, the youngest member of their team was Matt Mays, the twenty-eight-year-old former Marine lieutenant who would serve as their driver and lookout, staying in the van and idling until they returned with their prize. Steve Fox, thirty-one and a former Navy SEAL, held the crowbar and was ready to “key in” to the building. Nick Crenshaw, thirty-three years old and another former SEAL, sat next to Fox, poised to move.

  Figuring things were about as good as they were going to get, David gave the order to go. He opened his door and exited the vehicle, careful to hide his MP5 machine gun under a folded blanket. Behind him, the side doors of the van swung open simultaneously, and the others did the same. On the other side of the vehicle, Torres stepped out of the driver’s-side door and was handed his gear—also wrapped in a blanket. Mays then got behind the wheel and shut all the doors.

  Fox moved the fastest and used the crowbar to open the back exit in a single fluid motion. Crenshaw followed close behind, while David and Torres brought up the rear. Inside, they fortunately found no one in their way, so the four men donned their ski masks and broke into their respective teams. David and Fox moved left, heading up the closest stairwell as quickly and quietly as they could. Torres and Crenshaw moved to the right, headed for the opposite stairwell.

  As planned, David took the lead up the stairs, with Fox providing cover at his six. When they got halfway between the fourth and fifth floors, they stopped, crouched down, and strained to listen for any signs of trouble. David clipped a shoulder strap on his MP5 and swung it over onto his back, then pulled out his silencer-equipped pistol and flicked off the safety. Fox followed suit as they reached the fifth floor.

  “Alpha One to Bravo One,” David whispered. “Do you read?”

  “Five by five, Alpha One,” came Torres’s reply.

  “You in position?”

  “Sixty seconds,” Torres said.

  “Roger that.”

  David reached back, and on cue Fox handed him a fiber-optic camera snake. David switched it on, crept up to the fifth-floor stairwell door, and slowly slid it underneath, careful not to make a sound. Fox moved up as well and held the palm-size monitor so both of them could see it. As Zalinsky had promised, the hall was hopping with incoming injured patients and all manner of medical personnel. What was strange, however, was that as David rotated the snake, he could find no sign of anyone guarding this exit. Perplexed and anxious, he continued scanning the hall for any sign of an armed guard on this side of the floor but found none.

  “Bravo One to Alpha One, we’re in position,” Torres radioed. “We’ve scanned the hall. Our guard is in position. We can see two more in front of Javad’s room.”

  “Roger that, Bravo One,” David whispered. “But we can’t find our guard.”

  “Say again?”

  “Repeat, our guard is not in position. We don’t know where he is. Home Plate, do you have eyes on our guard?”

  “Negative, Alpha One, but we’ll keep looking.”

  David tensed. He had no intention of bursting through this door and getting shot in the back because he hadn’t done his homework. They had to find this guard—and fast. In the meantime, David pulled a small black box out of his pocket and magnetically attached it to the exit door. Then he erected a small antenna connected to the box and turned on the power switch to let the unit warm up.

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  Eva Fischer had just found a lengthy and intriguing phone call between the Twelfth Imam and Pakistani president Iskander Farooq and was beginning to translate it into English when the pager on her desk started going off. Eva grabbed the pager and checked the incoming code; when she saw it read 911, her heart skipped a beat. She had asked the NSA Ops Center to alert her if Javad Nouri made or received any phone calls over the course of the next hour and to allow her to listen in on the call in real time by dialing a secure, dedicated extension.

  Jumping to her feet, she grabbed her phone and hit 6203. Instantly she was patched through to the live feed and was stunned to hear Ahmed Darazi’s voice in midsentence.

  “. . . any longer, so he ordered them to come get you now,” the Iranian president was saying.

  “That’s very kind of him,” Nouri replied. “I’ll ask the nurses to pack my bag and pull together some of my medications. How soon until they arrive?”

  “They’re already on their way,” Darazi said. “They should be there any moment.”

  “Great. And you’ll both meet me there?” Nouri asked. />
  “In a few hours, inshallah, once I finish up my work here,” Darazi said. “I can’t say for certain when he’ll come over, but he is anxious to talk to you and get your answers to his questions.”

  “I’m ready,” Nouri replied.

  “Good. Now remember, my team will take care of everything,” Darazi assured him. “So just relax, and I’ll see you soon.”

  With that, the two men said good-bye and hung up.

  A panic-induced jolt of adrenaline spread instantly through Eva’s system. She hung up the phone, then picked up again and speed-dialed Tom Murray at the Global Operations Center.

  “Tom, it’s Eva,” she said the moment he answered. “We have a huge problem.”

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Murray and Zalinsky and the rest of the Global Operations Center listened on speakerphone as Eva Fischer relayed to them the essence of the call she had just listened to. Zalinsky quickly scanned the enormous flat-screen monitors on the wall in front of them. One displayed live images from the Predator drone hovering several miles above the hospital. Another displayed the thermal imaging feed from the Predator. Yet another screen carried the live feed from the KH-12 spy satellite now in geosynchronous orbit over Tehran, and it was this one that caught Zalinsky’s eye.

  “Screen three—zoom that out a bit,” Zalinsky ordered the watch commander.

  A split second later, everyone in the room saw what Zalinsky had seen. A three-vehicle motorcade—what appeared to be an ambulance sandwiched between two SUVs—was approaching the hospital grounds from the east. They were out of time.

  “Alpha One, this is Bravo One, awaiting your command,” Torres said.

  “Bravo One, hold your position,” David replied. “Do not move—I repeat, do not move—until I find this other guard.”

  “With all due respect, sir, we can’t wait,” Torres pushed back. “We cannot hold this position much longer. Not secure. We need to move now.”