Exit Plan

by Larry Bond

  ~ * ~

  4 April 2013

  1200 Local Time/1700 Zulu

  White House Situation Room

  General Duvall rose swiftly as Joanna and her boss entered the briefing room. “Dr. Kirkpatrick, Dr. Patterson, thank you for making time to meet with us. This is Mr. Gene Cooper, the head of the Weapons Intelligence, Nonproliferation, and Arms Control Center at CIA.”

  “It was no inconvenience at all, Gordon. Truly. Please, sit down. I presume this has something to do with the file that Michigan sent us yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir. But I’ll let Gene explain,” said Duvall, as he motioned for Cooper to start.

  “Dr. Kirkpatrick, we’ve been going over the technical details in the Natanz centrifuge accident brief sent by Michigan, and we’re convinced that it’s accurate; it matches what little we have from COMINT and imagery. The file also provided a lot of background material behind the accident that makes a great deal of sense.”

  Kirkpatrick raised his hand, stopping Copper. “When you say ‘we,’ who is the ‘we’ specifically, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Sir,” interrupted Duvall. “The analytical work was done by an intelligence community working group that I had formed back in March. They work for me. I picked Gene to lead the effort.”

  “Ahh, I see. Thank you, Gordon. It’s not that I don’t trust the CIA. I’m just leery of single agency positions. I trust the results of this analytical effort reflect an intelligence community consensus?”

  “Unanimously, Dr. Kirkpatrick,” Cooper stated firmly.

  “Go on.”

  “The bottom line, sir, is we believe, with high confidence, that the uranium enrichment program has suffered yet another technical setback. In February, a prototype fifth-generation centrifuge cascade blew itself apart when some of the centrifuge rotors started delaminating while spinning at high speed. The root cause was assessed by the Iranians to be a manufacturing flaw, probably during the curing process of the carbon fiber rotors.”

  “February, you say?” Patterson observed. “Mr. Cooper, can you correlate this Iranian briefing with the recent IAEA report?”

  Cooper smiled broadly. “Yes, Dr. Patterson. Here is an imagery shot of the Pilot Fuel Enrichment Plant at Natanz taken on the third of February. Note this empty area behind this building to the west. Now, the same location three weeks later; see the pile of debris? This imagery is from 10 March; as you can see, the debris is still there. But by 13 March, two days after the inspection, the area is clean as a whistle. We have good information that these are the same centrifuges the IAEA took their samples from.”

  Patterson looked closely at the series of pictures, before handing them to Kirkpatrick. “You said a prototype cascade. How many machines?”

  “Sixty-four, ma’am.”

  “Were they being fed uranium hexafluoride?”

  “Yes, Dr. Patterson. The initial feed was at three percent enrichment,” answered Cooper.

  “How long had they been operating?”

  “A little over six days.”

  “Six days? That’s all?” pressed Patterson, surprised.

  “Yes, ma’am. The centrifuges were working on their seventh day when the accident occurred.”

  She turned to Kirkpatrick. “Sir, there is no way they could have achieved an eighty-five percent enrichment with so few machines over such a short period of time.”

  Kirkpatrick’s brow scrunched as he evaluated the data. “Gordon, is there a chance we’re being deceived by the information provided by Opal?”

  “Dr. Kirkpatrick, it is my belief that we are being deceived, but not by Opal. The data has been vetted through multiple groups, each looking at the information from a different angle. It’s been ‘Red Teamed’ and dissected by technical experts. Opal’s data appears to be accurate and authentic. The uranium enrichment path is almost certainly not going to provide the Iranians with the necessary material for a test device any time soon.”

  “What about the plutonium path then?” countered Kirkpatrick.

  “It’s nowhere near ready, either, if our information is accurate,” answered Patterson. “All indications are that the reactor has had difficulties of its own and only went critical a few months ago. That’s not nearly enough time to produce a sufficient quantity of weapons-grade Plutonium-239.”

  “Gordon, are you seriously suggesting that the test preparations are the deception? For what possible purpose?”

  “Sir, I believe the test preparations are real. Every piece of data says the Iranians are following the correct steps to conduct a test. The problem is, we can’t find anything to test!”

  “General Duvall, this makes absolutely no sense at all. Why would the Iranians do something so blatant, unless they had a device to test?” The national security advisor’s tenor showed his growing impatience with Duvall’s cryptic theory.

  “We don’t know the answer to that yet, sir. We are looking at all the possible options, to include the remote possibility that they procured a weapon from another nation. But what I can tell you, is that the Iranians’ actions are having an effect.”

  “In what way?”

  Duvall pulled a short report from his briefcase and handed it to Kirkpatrick. “As of this morning, the Israeli Air Force has grounded the 69th and 107th squadrons at Hatzerim Airbase, as well as the 119th, 201st, and 253rd squadrons at Ramon Airbase. In addition, the Saknayee Boeing 707 tankers of the 120th squadron have backed out of an exercise with the Sixth Fleet, because of ’maintenance issues.’”

  Kirkpatrick looked solemn as he read the report’s key judgments. Patterson didn’t understand the significance of the NIC chairman’s statement.

  “Forgive me, General. But what does this mean?” Patterson asked.

  “Dr. Patterson, these squadrons are composed of F-15I and F-16I tactical aircraft. They are the only aircraft in the Israeli inventory that can, with in-flight refueling, reach Iranian targets.”

  “Oh my,” she said.

  Duvall leaned forward, his face showing intense concern. “Sir, we need more of the information that Opal possesses to help us nail down this problem.”

  “I’d like to accommodate you, Gordon. But that isn’t possible right now. Opal and company left their hiding place an hour ago and are out of touch for the next several hours, at least,” replied Kirkpatrick. “Furthermore, the young lady who is the true source of the information is reluctant to provide more until she and her husband are out of Iran. It seems they’re afraid we’ll leave them high and dry once we get the information.”

  “Then let’s ask her for just one more file,” suggested Patterson. “Have Captain Guthrie ask her to give us a report on the status of the Arak reactor. The file inventory list says she has one, and if it’s in line with what we know, odds are General Duvall’s assertion is correct, and we can warn the Israelis.”

  “They’ll want to see the proof themselves,” warned Kirkpatrick. “Are we ready to release this kind of information?”

  “Normally, I’d be very reluctant to provide such sensitive data to anyone but the Brits,” admitted Duvall. “But given the circumstances, I think it’s in our best interest to share this with the Israelis. But that may not be my boss’s position.”

  “Very well,” Kirkpatrick replied as he stood up. “I’ll make the recommendation to the president, after I discuss this with the director of national intelligence.”

  “Dr. Kirkpatrick, General Duvall, I’d also like to request that you consider bringing my husband in on this.”

  “Senator Hardy? Why, Joanna?” Kirkpatrick actually looked surprised by her request.

  “Lieutenant Commander Mitchell, the senior officer of the group that is stranded, served under my husband on Memphis. Lowell also knows Captain Guthrie reasonably well, and he is well versed in covert submarine operations. He’s also on the Senate Armed Services Committee, which gives you a knowledgeable point of contact on the Hill.”

  Kirkpatrick thought it over for a moment, and then loo
ked at Duvall.

  “I have no objections to reading Senator Hardy in,” Duvall remarked.

  “Alright, Joanna, I’ll raise this with the president as well. But I make no promises.”

  ~ * ~

  5 April 2013

  0330 Local Time/0030 Zulu

  Three Kilometers North Northwest of Akhtar

  Phillips and Lapointe burst through the door, their weapons at the ready. Ramey followed right behind them. Only after a hasty inspection to ensure the building was abandoned were Jerry and the others allowed to stumble in. Fazel shut the door and anchored it against the howling wind with an empty cabinet.

  The shamal had hit them a little under an hour earlier with twenty-five-mile-per-hour sustained winds, driving rain, and a ten-degree drop in temperature. While the shamal was on the mild side, everyone was thoroughly soaked, chilled to the bone, and covered with sand.

  Phillips was the first one to get his mouth cleared. “Okay,” he gasped, as he spit some sand out of his mouth. “That officially sucked!”

  “I haven’t been this miserable since Hell Week,” agreed Lapointe. His reference to the fifth week of the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, or BUDS, is the standard metric by which SEALs compare the relative unpleasantness of a situation. If it’s “like” or “worse” than Hell Week, it’s really, really bad.

  “I don’t know, Pointy,” Phillips argued. “I’ve been cold, wet, and sandy before, but never sandblasted! Hey, maybe I should suggest adding a driving wind to Hell Week.”

  “You’re a sadistic bastard. You know that, Philly?”

  “Can it, you two,” Ramey barked. “Since you’re so full of energy, Phillips, you can take the first watch.”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Phillips coolly. Jerry noticed Lapointe’s jaw tighten.

  “Doc, report. How’s our favorite spy?”

  “She’s really cold, Boss,” replied the corpsman.

  “We all are, Harry,” observed Ramey. His voice was cynical, uncaring.

  “No, sir, I mean she’s dangerously cold,” Fazel repeated more sternly. “Her body temperature is low, and she’s showing symptoms of mild hypothermia.”

  “What can you do about it?” injected Jerry. Ramey’s head snapped around at the sound of his voice.

  “We need to get her out of those wet clothes and under some warm blankets. I’ve already asked her husband to strip her down as much as possible.”

  “I bet that didn’t go over well,” Jerry noted with a little sarcasm.

  Fazel snickered. “No. It didn’t. But I think I got my point across.”

  “What else can we do, Doc?” asked Ramey impatiently.

  “I’ll start making dinner or breakfast, or whatever, and get her some hot tea, but we need to get her off this concrete slab. Any insulating material that you can scrounge up would be really helpful.”

  “I think I can handle that,” Jerry volunteered. “You guys have more important issues to deal with.”

  He started walking toward the back of the building, when Lapointe called over, “Hey, XO, I think I saw some cardboard boxes in the back left-hand corner.” Jerry thanked him and started rummaging through the junk. The building looked like it had been used for shipping, and was filled with all kinds of miscellaneous packing material. He found the boxes Lapointe had referred to and started breaking them down. Jerry also found a canvas covering and some twine. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lapointe and Ramey having a quiet, but animated conversation. Neither looked very happy.

  Jerry stacked the flattened boxes, along with something that looked like rough packing paper, into the canvas and tied the corners together with the twine. It wasn’t fancy, but it would keep both Naseri and Akbari off the cold floor. As he tugged it toward the Iranian couple, Fazel came over and helped him carry it. The corpsman was impressed. “Great work, XO. This will do nicely.”

  “Well, it isn’t a Sealy Posturepedic mattress. But it should do the job.”

  Yousef had picked Shirin up off the floor, partly to make sure she stayed covered, but also because she was still shivering so hard it was questionable that she could even stand. Jerry and Fazel positioned the makeshift bedding in the center of the building, and Yousef gently put her down. Shirin’s face, still darkened by the sand, showed a weak smile. It was all she could offer as a thank-you. Fazel reassured her that she would start feeling warmer soon, then suggested that Yousef should snuggle up close to her and transfer some of his body heat to her.

  ~ * ~

  After their meal, Jerry sat down with Ramey and Lapointe. The two had been poring over a map and taking stock of their situation. Ramey appeared to be calmer, but Jerry detected concern in Lapointe’s voice.

  “Boss, we could be stuck here for days if this storm is really bad. And we’re almost out of MREs and water. We’ll have to start foraging soon.”

  “I know, Pointy. I know. We really should leave and move on tonight, but I doubt Doc will support it. Dr. Naseri probably can’t handle another night out in the open with that kind of weather.”

  “How long does a spring shamal normally last?” asked Jerry. He’d heard about the summer storms that could go on for days, sometimes for an entire week.

  Ramey let loose with a deep sigh. “The spring storms aren’t as intense as the summer ones. Typically a spring shamal can be as short as several hours, or as long as a day. Maybe a day and a half.”

  “This one is on the weak side, XO. Not that anyone here would likely agree with that after the hour we spent in it.” Lapointe’s wry smile told Jerry that he was back to his old self. “But if I had to guess, twelve hours. Eighteen tops.”

  “More worst-case planning then?”

  “Exactly,” said Lapointe, as he touched his nose with his index finger and pointed in Jerry’s direction. “And it don’t look too good, if you ask me.”

  “What Petty Officer Lapointe is trying to say, XO, is that we are running short of provisions and we’ll need to start looking for food and water as well as trying to evade capture.” Ramey was still a bit snippy, but he had definitely improved.

  “This shouldn’t be a problem, gentlemen,” Jerry said nonchalantly. Both SEALs looked confused; convinced that he just didn’t understand the dilemma they were in.

  “Once the weather clears, we contact Michigan and have them send in one of the Cormorant UAVs with supplies and any gear you think we might need. Since they’re stealthy, it should have no problem avoiding Iranian early warning radars.” But as Jerry started to describe how this aerial resupply theoretically would go down, he ran into an assumption that he hadn’t thought of initially.

  “The only trick is that Michigan will have to stay at periscope depth and guide the UAV to us. If the patrol boat activity is still heavy, this could seriously complicate matters.”

  Now it was Lapointe’s turn to look cocky. “Michigan won’t have to, XO. I have the portable remote control terminal in my pack. I can guide the UAV straight to us and then send it back on a different preprogrammed course. All Michigan has to do is launch and then retrieve the UAV. We just have to be careful how long we use the terminal. It uses a low power, frequency-hopping signal, but it is an omnidirectional transmission and is more detectable than the 117 SATCOM radio.”

  “Okay. We’ll contact Michigan tonight and give them our shopping list, which needs to include more blankets and a SCAR for the XO, as well as food and water. We can arrange a drop location once we have a better idea of how long it will take for the weather to clear,” concluded Ramey. “Now, I strongly suggest you guys get some rest. I’ll take the first watch with Doc.”

  ~ * ~

  As Jerry laid down his head on a pile of boxes, he realized just how exhausted he really was. In that fuzzy state between consciousness and sleep, Jerry looked at the Iranian couple. Both were sound asleep, with Yousef holding Shirin close to keep her warm and to reassure her that, for now, everything was all right. As Jerry finally drifted off, his last thought was,
I miss you, too, Emily.

  ~ * ~

  11

  UNEXPECTED REUNION

  28 September 2009 0745 Local Time

  Naval Postgraduate School

  Monterey, California

  It was the first day of class, and he was going to be late. Jerry grumbled to himself as he walked as fast as he could, given the deep mist. The day had not started out well. It had been a very long weekend, with late nights on both Saturday and Sunday to unpack his household goods, and he had overslept. Then there was the fog. Jerry had been warned about Monterey’s bumper crop of fog days, but this was ridiculous. Visibility was a quarter mile at the very best, usually less, and it made the commute painfully slow. He was fortunate to find a parking spot along the fence line, but he still had a short hike to the nearest gate.