by Larry Bond
Kangan really was a small town, little more than a fishing village. The police barracks was a jumbled one-story structure that had seen several additions, but was in need of renovation. The barracks was full of activity, and Rastkar explained, “Normally we deal with a little smuggling, some domestic cases. A manhunt is much more interesting.”
The space they’d set aside for Rahim and Dahghan was clean, if rundown. Several documents were waiting on one corner of a desk, and Rahim set down his valise and quickly skimmed them. The others waited patiently.
“Their car was seen outside town.” It was a flat statement to Dahghan.
“Yes, sir. We interviewed the two Basij soldiers who found the vehicle. It was parked just off Highway 96. It was locked, with nobody in the vehicle or nearby. There was nothing suspicious, so they noted the license plate and continued their patrol. When they returned on the next leg of their patrol, an hour later, the vehicle was gone.”
“And this was in the early evening, yesterday.”
“A short time after sunset, Major.”
Rahim sat down, looking thoughtful. Rastkar asked, “May I know what offense these people have committed? My officers have asked if they may be violent, or armed.”
The major answered, “Their specific offense is not your concern. Akbari is a Pasdaran officer, and most likely is armed. Our first priority is to find them. Once we do, it is important that they be taken alive. There are many questions I want to ask them. Your officers must not shoot them, no matter the provocation.”
“Yes, sir.” Rastkar didn’t look pleased, but he knew where Rahim’s authority came from.
“I am concerned that these people may have contacted foreign agents. They may be meeting one, or may have met one last night. It doesn’t matter if that foreigner is still with them, or if they have exchanged items or information. Whatever has happened, our first priority is to find them. Everything else will follow from that.
“Lieutenant Rastkar, were any boats out last night? Did you make any arrests near the water? Any unusual reports?”
“I’ll find out, sir.”
“Contact the local Basij commander. I want the two men who found the car to guide some of your officers to the exact spot they saw it. Search the area for any trace of activity. Move quickly. You only have a short time before sunset.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also, tell the commander that I want to see him immediately,” Rahim added. “I have other work for them. Go.” Rastkar left quickly.
“Dahghan, search the hotel room. You know what to look for.”
The agent nodded.
“How are your relations with the police? Their commander?”
“They have been very helpful, Major. I have no complaints.”
“Good. Then go over the police reports on their movements. It’s possible that someone here in Kangan was the agent they were supposed to meet. Or they may have left something in a dead drop somewhere along their route. Follow their path and investigate anyone or any place you think is worthwhile.”
The agent nodded again, taking notes.
“And take one of the police officials along with you. He may see something that you wouldn’t know is unusual, and I don’t want you getting lost. Time is critical. The faster we work, the closer they’ll be.”
A large map of Kangan covered one wall. “Where is the cell phone tower? I assume there’s only one.”
Dahghan had to ask a police sergeant, who came in and marked a spot near the center of town.
“Akbari was within thirteen kilometers of this point when his phone went dead at 0810 hours this morning. Since their car was found east of town, along the highway, we can begin our search in the eastern half of that circle.”
A police sergeant knocked. “Sir, the Basij commander is here.”
Dahghan opened the door and stood back. A small man wearing a black turban and a brown, sleeveless cloak over his white robe waited for a moment, then came in, smiling. He was only a little older then Rahim, but his white beard gave him an air of great dignity. The black turban marked him as a descendant of Mohammed.
Rahim stood.
“I am Mullah Hamid Dashani, leader of the mosque and commander of the Kangan Brigade of the Basij.”
“Thank you for coming, Mullah Dashani. I am Major Rahim, from the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security.” Shaking the cleric’s hand, Rahim bowed his head slightly, and motioned to the chair on the other side of the desk.
Sitting, Dashani smiled broadly. “You have created quite a stir, Major. My Basij are at your service. In fact, they are already mustering, in advance of your orders. I think we may even have a few new volunteers.”
Rahim sighed. “I had hoped to investigate this matter quietly.”
“This is a small town, Major. Word spreads like lightning. A helicopter? A missing Pasdaran officer? I saw the pictures of the couple when Dahghan questioned my two men from last night. Are they mixed up with smugglers? Murderers? Or are they spies?” The cleric was still smiling.
“Please, Mullah Dashani. I cannot tell you any details, for obvious reasons, but I need your help.”
The major’s manner became more serious. “And please, no more speculation. I need checkpoints set up along the coastal highway and other major roads, as well as an increase in the number of patrols along the coast highway. I will also need, dedicated teams walking all the beaches north and south of the city. They should look for signs of a recent landing, or boats in unusual places. All foreigners must be stopped and questioned.”
“We could give you several checkpoints, each manned by four men. And four-man patrols walking the beaches. And we can ask the police for more vehicles.”
The cleric paused, and Rahim could see him calculating. “Normally we have just one patrol on the beaches, and another on the highway. We can do what you ask for a short while, but my brigade can only muster about fifty fighters. Many of them will have to miss work while we are mobilized. Should I ask some of the other brigade commanders for assistance?”
“No, please do not. It should only be for a few days. And tell your fighters that they are not to speak of this matter.”
Dashani nodded knowingly. “I understand.”
“And we need to increase the number of boat patrols, with some in close to shore, and others farther out.”
“This can be done. I am on very good terms with the Pasdaran naval commander here. I will coordinate closely with him.”
“If your men do find this couple, they should apprehend them, but it’s important that they be taken alive. Can they do this?”
“Of course. My boys are energetic. What they lack in skill, they make up in devotion.”
“There will be no pitched battles, I promise.”
They arranged the locations of the checkpoints and communications procedures, and the mullah left, excited and eager to “send his fighters into action.”
~ * ~
4 April 2013
1700 Local Time/1400 Zulu
USS Michigan, Battle Management Center
Captain Guthrie had been expecting to get a final brief on the rescue mission, but the plan was to wait until sunset to make a go/no go decision.
Instead, Frederickson had summoned him early, and he hadn’t sounded happy.
“We started to hear increased traffic on the naval circuits earlier today. It took some time to find out if they were reacting to something specific, but there hasn’t been any mention of a specific contact or an intercept.” Frederickson sighed. “But boat patrols have stepped up their coverage by over fifty percent.”
“Any pattern?”
“Yes, sir. But it’s not one we can exploit. There are too many boats out there now.”
“What if we shorten the run—say, close to six nautical miles?”
Frederickson fought to hide his surprise. “And disobey a direct presidential order?”
“It’s merely a hypothetical question, Mr. Frederickson,” remarked
Guthrie quietly.
“Oh, well, in that case—it wouldn’t help, sir. There are way too many patrol boats. Besides, that isn’t our only problem.”
He gestured to an operator, who called up images on the briefing screen. “This is why I called you. This is the beach where the rendezvous took place.”
The UAV image showed the now-familiar beach, but Guthrie saw men in a ragged line, slowly walking over the landscape. “They’re searching for something,” he said.
Frederickson smiled grimly. “I don’t think they’re looking for seashells.”
“This is seriously not good. Why that beach?” Guthrie asked, but the answer was obvious. “Correction— Is there any way that this is not connected to our people?”
The SEAL lieutenant frowned. “There has been no activity in that area since our people left last night.”
“Other areas?”
“Nothing that we’ve seen, yet. They drove up in a couple of vehicles and began systematically searching the beach. We’ve got traffic on the road, people moving near structures, but this is the only organized activity near the shore within the UAV’s field of view.”
“Well, whoever they are, it’s obvious we can’t execute the pickup on that beach, or the secondary one down the coast.”
“They can’t stay there forever. My bet is that they’ll leave when they’ve finished their search, sunset at the latest. It’s really hard to search in the dark.”
“That’s not the real issue.” Guthrie countered. “Why are they there? Are the Iranians looking for our people? If so, how much do they know? How hard will they look?”
“Increased boat patrols, search parties?” Frederickson asked. “Less than a day after our guys landed on that beach? There is no other logical conclusion. The Iranians are looking for our people.”
“Then can we afford to have them sit tight? How safe is their hiding place?”
“Matt Ramey’s good, Skipper. I’ve walked within a few meters of his position and I didn’t spot him. But hiding’s what you do while you’re waiting for something to happen. If we can’t go in to get them, then hiding’s not the right thing to do.”
“We need a new plan,” Guthrie concluded.
“We’re improvising at this point, Skipper, but we’ll work up something.”
“I know a few things about staying covert myself. This is just like submarine warfare, but on land. The enemy has a datum, and they’re searching. The tactic is to clear datum quickly and quietly. Don’t let them get a better whiff of you, and get outside their search radius.”
Frederickson nodded. “Understood. Give me fifteen minutes with the rest of the platoon.”
~ * ~
4 April 2013
1745 Local Time/1445 Zulu
Southeast of Bandar Kangan, North of Highway 96
The call came early. They weren’t supposed to make a go/no-go decision until after sunset, and that wasn’t for another half hour. Jerry knew it had to be trouble. He took the handset from Lapointe.
It was Guthrie. “XO, we have to scrub the recovery mission. There are people carefully searching your beach, and the boat patrols have increased this afternoon. Dramatically increased. We can’t get a CRRC in to you, and even if we could, they’ll probably be waiting for us at the rendezvous site.”
Jerry’s heart sank. Automatically, he answered, “Understood, sir. Do you have a recommendation?”
“Get out of there. Head northwest to Bushehr and find a boat. It’s Frederickson’s recommendation and I agree. Put Lieutenant Ramey on and I’ll give him the details.”
Jerry had turned the handset so that Ramey and Lapointe, both now close by, could hear. The others had seen his face and heard his tone. He passed the handset to Ramey and said to the rest, “The recovery mission’s scrubbed. They’re looking for us.”
Shirin gasped and spoke quickly to her husband. His shocked expression matched hers, and they tried to ask questions, but Phillips and Fazel both motioned for silence while the lieutenant quickly made notes. He signed off, almost matter-of-factly.
“Mr. SEAL, Jerry said they were looking for us. Is it true?” Fear was wrapped around Shirin’s question.
Ramey nodded. “This afternoon, more patrol boats came out, and there’s a search party working the beach where we met. Only an idiot would think otherwise.”
He let that sink in, then said, “They won’t find anything, but they will expand their search tomorrow. It’s what I’d do. I’d also watch that beach. That plan is gone. We’ll head toward Bushehr and find a boat.”
“Bushehr is over a hundred kilometers from here,” she protested.
“Almost one eighty, according to the map. We’ll cut north, away from the water for a while, then overland until we can find transport. For the moment, we walk.”
“Stay off the roads?” Shirin asked.
“They’ve seen the car. They have its license number, and they’ll be watching the highway. We’d never make it past the first roadblock. We’ll have to steal something once we’re past Kangan.”
Yousef spoke softly but urgently to Shirin. She replied, and the conversation almost became an argument. Fazel listened, but did not translate. Finally, she seemed to remember that he could understand them, and spoke in English. “It might be better if we went to Bandar Charak. My uncle lives there. If we get to him, he will help us.”
“How trustworthy is your uncle?” Jerry asked.
“He is the one who passed my information on to the Americans. He’s opposed the government since the Revolution, and is a member of the Mujahedeen-e-Khalq, in your language the People’s Mujahedeen Organization of Iran. My uncle was going to send us out with a smuggler, but something went wrong. Then he arranged this meeting with you.”
“Which hasn’t worked out so well, either,” Ramey finished. He folded a map. “Bandar Charak is half again as far, in the other direction, and it’s near some medium-sized Pasdaran bases, but on the other hand Bushehr has the largest naval base in this part of the gulf. . . and it’s always good to know somebody in a strange town.” Ramey went silent as he weighed the possible enemy forces and the terrain, choosing their destination.
“All right, we head southeast. Pointy, call our friends back and tell them there’s been a change in destination. We’ll need a new route. Philly, this is as good a place as any to bury the swim gear. Doc, put dinner together. We should eat before we start out. We are gone at last light.”
“One other thing,” Ramey added. “The twenty-four-hour weather report has a storm coming in from the northwest sometime tomorrow morning. The forecast called it ‘a typical spring shamal pattern.’”
Yousef understood the word, and spoke urgently. Jerry didn’t. “A shamal?” he asked.
“Sandstorm,” Fazel explained. He nodded toward Yousef. “The captain thinks we should wait here until it passes.” The corpsman’s tone was full of contempt.
“They can’t search in a sandstorm,” Jerry reasoned.
~ * ~
10
COLD, WET, AND SANDY
4 April 2013
1900 Local Time/1600 Zulu
Southeast of Bandar Kangan, North of Highway 96
Ramey, Lapointe, and Phillips dug like rabid badgers. With the scrubbing of the second CRRC mission, the SEALs had to dig a hole big enough to bury all their scuba gear; and there was a lot of it. Jerry initially tried to help while Fazel stood guard, but he soon found himself more of a hindrance, getting in the way of the three human backhoes.
“I still can’t believe that idiot had his cell phone on,” grumbled Ramey, as his spade bit into the sand. “They gotta have a good idea of where we are by now.”
“Not necessarily, Matt,” added Lapointe. “All they’ll get is the tower his phone was linked into. That could be five to eight miles away. That’s a lot of territory to cover, and a fair chunk of it is rugged terrain. They’ll search the easy stuff first.”
“Pointy’s right, Boss,” Phillips chimed in. “Ka
ngan probably only has one cell phone tower, but once they match that with the Basij report on the car, they’ll be all over this place like a swarm of bees.”
“Which means we need to get the hell out of Dodge, and soon,” concluded Ramey, throwing his shovel on the cave floor. “This will have to do. Grab the gear, tanks first, Philly.”
Phillips and Lapointe leapt out of the four-foot-square, three-foot-deep hole and started handing Ramey the air tanks, followed by the fins, masks, rubber hoods, and gloves.