by Larry Bond
Phillips helped Jerry rig the vest and reviewed basic procedures for the rifle. Even though he’d had the session with Ramey on Michigan, it was a lot less academic now. “Bottom line, XO, if you see us shoot, you shoot at that. If you see something that you think needs shooting, talk to us first. There may be a reason we haven’t.”
There were a few surprises. Fazel found a plastic jar with a note attached. Reading it, he smiled and opened the jar. Taking out two pills, he offered them to Shirin along with a bottle of water.
“What are these?” she asked suspiciously.
“Compliments of the ship’s doctor,” he replied. “Vitamin pills. For your pregnancy.”
Five minutes later they were walking southeast.
~ * ~
5 April 2013
1400 Local Time/1900 Zulu
The White House
He wasn’t making headway. Andy had always been stubborn. Myles wouldn’t have won the nomination without his friend’s pigheaded drive. But once made up, unmaking Andy’s mind was nearly impossible.
“Mr. President, it’s my job to give you my best advice, and in this case, it’s a warning. The Iranians are selling us a load of organic fertilizer, and the sooner we recognize that, the better off we’ll be.”
Secretary Lloyd was pacing back and forth, the length of the Oval Office. Myles could feel his frustration. They’d known each other for thirty years, and he knew Lloyd regarded himself as the practical one, and Myles as the idealist.
The president asked, “Why didn’t the Arak file change your mind?”
“Because it’s no different than the first one. If the Iranians can create one file, why not two? Others have done it to us, and we’ve done it as well. Forged documents are an established part of intelligence tradecraft.”
“So it comes down to whether you think this file is authentic or not.”
Lloyd stopped pacing to stand in front of Myles’s desk. “Sir, as secretary of state, my official judgment is that we have been deceived by a long-term Iranian disinformation campaign. Their true status is now being revealed as they prepare to test a weapon, an overt but necessary step. Not only does a test allow the bomb designers to gain critical information, it shows the world that one more nation has joined the nuclear club.”
Lloyd pressed his point. “An Israeli attack within the next few days is inevitable. The argument about whether or not the Iranians have the bomb is moot. The real question is, What do we do when the shooting starts?”
Myles shook his head. “I want to stop the shooting before it even begins. Another war in the Persian Gulf won’t solve anything.”
Lloyd spoke slowly, picking his words. “I will remind you, sir, that our intelligence people have always called an Iranian nuclear test the “starting bell” for an Israeli attack. Our people also said that because of that, the Iranians wouldn’t test the first device, but the third or fourth one. If the Iranians already have two or more nukes, then war may be the only way to stop Iran from using the bombs on Israel, or us.”
Myles’s intercom buzzed. “Dr. Kirkpatrick has arrived.”
“Thank you, Evangeline. Please send him in.”
“Reinforcements, Mr. President?”
Myles laughed grimly. “New information, Mr. Secretary.”
The national security advisor was hardly in the room before announcing, “The Israelis said, ‘Thanks, we’ll look at it carefully.’ “
“And this is Mossad’s official response?” Myles prompted.
“I spoke to Yitzhak Harel, Mossad’s number two, personally,” Kirkpatrick answered. He sounded tired, and disappointed. “He said it would be considered as part of their total intelligence picture.”
“Which is politespeak for giving more weight to the test site and the IAEA findings.”
“As they should,” Lloyd added. He turned to Kirkpatrick. “Doctor, which type of intelligence is more reliable, HUMINT or physical evidence?”
“You’re allowed to disagree with our findings if you want to, Mr. Secretary. We’re trying to find a solution that accounts for all the data. A responsible analyst—”
“Did you get any idea of their time line?” Myles interrupted. As vital as the Opal files were, getting a sense of Israeli intentions was even more important. And the last thing he needed was a fistfight between his national security advisor and the secretary of state.
Lloyd bristled. “My people will tell me, if and when the Israelis tell us.”
“By which time it will be too late,” Myles answered impatiently “They’ve already written us off. We won’t hear about it until planes are in the air.”
Kirkpatrick answered, “I asked him fiat out what their official assessment was. He said, ‘They have the bomb. We are trying to find out how many and where they are.’ After that, Harel paused for a moment, and added, ‘We must give Laskov our best estimate in less than two days,’ and then he hung up. By the way,” Kirkpatrick added, “General Laskov commands their air force.”
Myles sighed. “Good work, Ray. That’s what we needed to know. We’ve got less than two days to stop them.”
Lloyd acted surprised. “Sir, I don’t believe that’s wise. It may not even be possible.”
“More ‘official judgments,’ Andy?”
“Sir, I say again, the Israelis are going to attack, and we’d best be prepared with our own response. There’s a lot we can do behind the scenes to help them. And frankly, Mr. President, if you want a short war, with a favorable outcome for our interests, our best course is to join them.”
“Mr. Secretary!” Kirkpatrick almost rose out of his chair, shock in his expression as well as his words. “A combined U.S. and Israeli attack—”
Myles held out a hand, cutting off the rest of Kirkpatrick’s outburst. “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes for you to say that, Andy.”
“Iran’s been a bleeding sore in the region since the Revolution— assassinations in foreign countries, exporting terrorism, attacks on Israel through Hamas and Hezbollah, helping the insurgents in Iraq. The only reason they haven’t done more is because they can’t. If Israel’s going to attack, I say help them to do a good job of it, then we can all relax.”
Myles’s temper started to show in his voice. “First you take over General Duvall’s job, now you want to replace Ray here as well? ‘Relax’ is the last thing we’ll be able to do.” The president gestured to Kirkpatrick. “Ray is right. A war between Israel and Iran is bad enough. Israeli bombs can start a war, but heaven knows how it will end, or where it will spread. And you want us in that mess? That’s not judgment, that’s emotion.”
Myles stood and walked to the windows. It was springtime in Washington, but the view didn’t calm him. “Mr. Secretary, it’s the State Department’s job to help me keep the U.S. out of trouble. Are you sure you’re being objective?”
“Mr. President, if you have lost confidence in my judgment, then it’s best if I resign. I can have—”
“No, Andy. You don’t get to take your ball and go home. We’re in a crisis, and I need you at state, but working with me. My official position is that the Iranians are not close to finishing a weapon and that if the Israelis attack, they will be making a mistake that will cost everyone dearly. Your task is to communicate our deep desire for peace throughout the region, while protecting the rights of each nation to live without fear of destruction.”
“Weasel words,” grumbled Lloyd. “It’s an impossible situation.”
“As long as nobody’s shooting, nothing’s impossible,” Myles answered.
“And I know how this town works,” the president continued. His voice became hard. “Do not repeat your opinions of either our intelligence assessments or possible courses of action outside this office. If I read about any dispute between state and the Oval Office in the days to come, I won’t fire you, not right now, but you will lose my trust and respect.”
Myles continued, “I will make sure you are included in the distribution of all relevant int
elligence and are present at all the national security council meetings. You can give the State Department’s input at those times.”
Lloyd started to speak, then stopped and nodded. He left without saying another word.
After a moment, Kirkpatrick said, “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I know you were close friends.”
“And still are, I hope,” Myles answered. “What good are friends you can’t argue with? . . . Although we’ve never been this far apart.” He sighed, but then his tone changed. “And that goes for you, too, Doctor. If this dispute appears in the media, I’ll come looking for you first. I’ve known Andy a lot longer than I’ve known you.”
Nodding, Kirkpatrick got up to leave, but Myles had one more item to discuss. “Have you read Hardy into Opal yet?”
“No, sir. I was going to see who else we could find who’s served with Guthrie. I’m a little uneasy about bringing in someone from the legislative branch—even if he is from our party.”
“I understand the complications, but let’s brief the senator into the program. I think I have a job for him.”
~ * ~
6 April 2013
0300 Local Time/0000 Zulu
3 km Northwest of Bandar Tahari
Ramey had promised lots of short breaks during the walk that night, but had still set an ambitious goal: fifteen kilometers.
As before, they were in the now-familiar diamond. They walked quietly, Shirin and Yousef sometimes speaking softly, the radio headset so silent that Jerry checked occasionally to make sure it was still working. After each break, Ramey rotated the SEALs’ positions. Jerry stayed in the center.
The road was deceptive. Probably built to support construction of a pipeline that paralleled it, it was wide enough for two cars (or more likely trucks) to pass, but it was still just graded earth. It was definitely better than walking cross-country, but the uneven surface kept him alert. Ruts from tires or rocks in the surface could make him stumble. He imagined the effects of a sprained ankle on their progress.
A fair portion of Jerry’s attention was on Shirin Naseri. She trudged along next to Yousef, who concentrated on picking the smoothest path. Jerry followed. Shirin didn’t move quickly, but she seemed to be pacing herself, and never had to wait too long for a short respite.
The moon had just come out, which helped a little with their navigation. To his night-adjusted eyes, a quarter moon seemed bright, especially on the bare, brown landscape. There were lights to the right, either from scattered buildings on the far side of the highway or occasional vehicles passing. The glow from Bandar Tahari could be seen over the ridge past the highway.
Of course, the bare ground also made them more visible, but the SEALs took extra care to limit that vulnerability. Whoever was watching the road would spot the approach of a car by the glare of its headlights, and call a warning. Everyone would go to one knee and freeze until it had passed. It seemed extreme, given that they were several hundred meters away from the highway, but it was best not to take chances. Traffic had trailed off after midnight, but never stopped completely. Highway 96 tied Iran’s Persian Gulf coast together, running all the way from Bandar Mahshahr, near the Iraq border, to Bandar Abbas.
~ * ~
Highway 96, Just North of Bandar Tahari
Corporal Molavi had drawn three new men for the patrol. Men? None was older than nineteen. One of them was still trying to raise a beard, and Molavi’s five-year-old nephew could follow instructions better.
They were covering a twenty-five-kilometer section of Highway 96, ten kilometers on each side of Bandar Tahari, as well as the city itself. The highway ran nearly a kilometer north of the city, between two large ridges; with little light it required boots on the ground to be patrolled properly. The Tahari Basij Brigade did not have enough vehicles for the increased number of patrols, so they were using a panel van loaned by Private Salani’s employer. Local business support of the Basij was considered an act of piety, and with Salani mobilized, there was nobody to drive it, anyway.
The van only had room for two in front, the corporal and Private Salani, who drove. The other two privates had to ride in the back. Salani’s employer ran a cleaning service, but even with most of the cleaning equipment left behind, the privates were uncomfortable in the windowless van. Molavi wasn’t too concerned about the privates’ comfort; but they were useless in the back.
“Here’s a good spot.” The corporal pointed to the left. “Pull off there.” He could hear Salani sigh as he slowed and turned off the pavement. The ground was hard-packed and smooth, and led up to a cement factory. Molavi had him drive about a hundred meters north, until the surface was too rough for a civilian vehicle.
The van sat in a relatively flat area between two high dunes. The land rose sharply to the north, and the dunes were fingers of higher ground shaped by erosion and wind into north-south ridges. The bare ground was graced with a few dark green shrubs, but there wasn’t enough greenery in sight for a decent garden, even if it had all been brought together in one spot.
Molavi pounded on the metal partition between the cab and the rear of the van. “Out! Wake up back there!”
Salani seemed reluctant to get out of his seat. “Qassem, we did this just thirty minutes ago. Isn’t this too soon?”
“It’s ‘Corporal,’ to you, Private, and unless we’re out of the car, searching the ground, we’re not patrolling, we’re just driving. Now get moving.” Molavi grabbed his rifle, an Iranian-made copy of the AK-47, dubbed the KLF. It had a folding stock, which allowed him to carry it in the confines of the cab. The three other members of the patrol were similarly equipped.
The rear doors of the van swung open as Molavi approached, and two privates slowly emerged from its depths. “Get your butts out here!” the corporal roared. “Are you two sharing a goat back there? No, wait. You wouldn’t know what to do. And where are your weapons?”
The taller of the two, Private Jebeli, answered, still stretching. “We had to get out of the back, first.”
“As useless as you two are with a rifle, you’re more useless without them, if such a thing is possible. Move!”
While the two quickly fetched their weapons from the back of the van, Molavi harangued them. “A weekend on the range and a green headband doesn’t make you soldiers. Listen to what I tell you. I was getting shot at by Kurds while your father was teaching you how to wipe your ass.
“We are searching for smugglers, spies—people who are breaking the law. Nighttime is when they are out and up to no good. They will not wait while you lazily retrieve your weapon. When we pull to a stop, you will boil out of the back, alert, armed, and looking for trouble.”
He surveyed the three and sighed. “By now, any lawbreakers nearby have left, but we are still going to search the area for evidence of illegal activity: footprints, tire tracks, evidence of digging, unusual trash.”
He handed Private Jafari, the other militiaman riding in the back, a pair of binoculars. “Your turn.” Molavi pointed to a large dune to the west. “Get up there and see what you can see. Report any movement off the highway, no matter how innocent it looks. Stay there and watch until I come and get you.”
The skinny private nodded and trotted off. “You two,” he ordered, “we are going to systematically search the area.” He gestured with his arm. “Salani to the left, Jebeli near the road, and I’ll take the center. Go.”
They started quartering the ground. Molavi didn’t expect to find anything, of course, but that was when you were most likely to actually find something: a cache of weapons, drugs, or maybe those two fugitives they had been warned to look for.
Molavi divided his time between searching his own sector while watching the other two privates. He was sure they could screw up walking. They had flashlights, but were under orders not to use them. It ruined their night vision, and besides, with the moon out, there was enough illumination for a simple search.
They’d been looking for about ten minutes when Jafari, up on the dune, ca
lled out, “Corporal, I see something!” Molavi turned to see the private on his knees waving to him. “There’s something out there.” The private pointed to the west, the far side of the dune.
“Get down, you moron!” Molavi took off at a trot, but he turned his head and called to the other two as he ran. “Keep searching your sectors.”
~ * ~