by Larry Bond
“Sir, you’ve had almost nothing to eat today, and you ate sparingly yesterday as well. I suggest you get something to eat here. There is a nice café up the road. I can order us something while you make your call to Tehran.”
Dahghan’s suggestion made Rahim realized that he was indeed very hungry, and the chickpea cookies the mullah had served with tea only reminded his stomach that it was empty. He paused to think through the impact of staying in Tahari a little longer. By nature, Rahim analyzed everything, even with something as mundane as deciding when to eat. His primary concern was getting the data on the van to headquarters; a task he could do just as well from a café table as his desk. “You make a reasonable observation, Dahghan. Proceed.”
The café was only a few minutes away and while Dahghan ordered lamb stew with rice and flatbread, Rahim walked across the street for some privacy. He made the call to the headquarters in Tehran, read off the specifics on the van, and ordered that the information be disseminated widely. He emphasized, however, that the Basij, Pasdaran, and VEVAK units to the southeast were to have priority. Rahim also instructed the desk agent to issue a warning to alert the police and security services that Akbari and Naseri were probably not alone, and that their accomplices were likely well-armed and dangerous. After confirming there was nothing new from Bandar Charak, Rahim closed his cell phone and returned to the café.
Upon entering the small restaurant, his sense of smell was inundated with savory aromas and his stomach growled with anticipation. Dahghan was seated at a small table, already laden with steaming dishes. Rahim was pleased with the promptness of the waiter, and he eagerly began piling food onto his plate. He had only taken a couple of bites when his cell phone rang. Glancing at the display, he didn’t recognize the number.
“Major Rahim,” he answered.
“Major, this is Agent Sattari.”
“Yes, Agent Sattari, I’m surprised to hear from you. Is Omid still so mad at me that he won’t speak to me personally?”
“Sir, Senior Agent Omid is dead.” Sattari’s voice wavered as he spoke.
Rahim almost dropped his fork when he heard the news. Gently, he placed it on the plate; his hunger had suddenly vanished. “What happened?”
“We were investigating the Naseri raid when Omid became suspicious that the two traitors may have shown up at the house soon after the fighting. We grabbed some Basij fighters and split up to search the northwestern quarter. We received reports that led Omid to believe the couple had used different routes in and out of the city. He took his Basij and headed north of town along the road that runs in to Highway 96. I continued eastward to cover the other possible options. I received a call from him at 1834, but he didn’t respond when I answered. I proceeded quickly to his location and found him, and the four Basij fighters dead from gunshot wounds.”
“I see,” replied Rahim flatly. “What actions have you taken, Agent Sattari?”
“I’ve secured the scene and I have Pasdaran patrolling along the road and in the dunes to the east. There was no sign of the assailants, but the truck that Omid and the Basij were using is missing. There were no witnesses and we didn’t see any vehicles on the road.”
Rahim looked down at his watch, it was 1913. The traitors had nearly three-quarters of an hour head start. “You mean you didn’t see any lights, correct?”
“Yes, Major. I sent Basij patrols twenty kilometers down both ways on Highway 96. They returned moments ago and reported seeing nothing on the road.”
Rahim sighed with frustration; Sattari was young and inexperienced. He didn’t realize that his quarry was almost certainly using night-vision devices. “Any other observations?”
“Only one, sir. Whoever the murderers were, they were excellent marksmen. Agent Omid was found lying behind a Basij fighter, a single gunshot wound to the head. Two of the Basij fighters also had only one wound. Captain Akbari couldn’t have done this alone, Major. He must have had accomplices.”
“Your observation is correct, Agent Sattari. I’ve only recently issued just such a warning, as it would appear that the same criminals are responsible for the loss of a Basij patrol in Bandar Tahari.”
“What are your orders, sir?” Sattari asked. There was a note of determination in his voice.
“Have you alerted your home office yet?”
“Yes, sir. But given the circumstances I felt it was wise to call you directly.”
“I commend your initiative, Agent Sattari.” Rahim was genuinely impressed. Most agents had the bad habit of following the rigid command structure without question; this young agent had jumped the tracks when he had to. “Continue your investigation. I will leave for Bandar Charak immediately. It’ll be several hours before I can get there, and I will want a detailed report as soon as I arrive. Is that understood?”
“Clearly, Major.”
“One more thing, Agent Sattari. Have your search parties keep an eye out for a medium-sized, white panel van with Tahari plates. I suspect you will find it nearby.”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a license plate number?”
Rahim passed on the information, signed off, and slowly closed his cell phone.
“What is it?” asked Dahghan. He witnessed Rahim’s abrupt transformation and was curious, as well as concerned.
“Senior Agent Omid and four Basij were just gunned down outside of Bandar Charak. Pay our bill. We leave immediately for Bandar Charak.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man shot out of his chair and flagged the café’s owner.
Rahim sat there stunned; his feelings mixed. Omid wasn’t a friend, but he was a talented and loyal agent who had served Iran well. His death would be one more reason to justify the elimination of the traitors Akbari and Naseri, as well as the now certain Americans.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rahim saw Dahghan head for the door. As he left the café, he hit the speed-dial number for Moradi. He would only have a little time before they would be out of range of the cell phone tower. The general answered on the second ring.
“General Moradi.”
“Sir, Major Rahim. I have little time, so I will be brief. There are Americans on our soil. They have just gunned down a senior VEVAK agent and four Basij fighters at Bandar Charak. I’m on my way now to lead the manhunt.”
“You’re sure of this, Hassan?”
“Positive. The initial report from the field clearly indicates excellent marksmanship and the likely use of night-vision devices. These are trademarks of U.S. commandos. When added to the body and the binder cover we found, there can be only one logical conclusion, sir.”
“I’ll issue an alert to all Pasdaran units. I will make it clear that the two traitors have well-armed, foreign military accomplices,” responded Moradi.
“Another thing, General. They left Bandar Charak on Highway 96. We need to establish more roadblocks along that road. We don’t know which way they went, but they have been heading consistently southeast.”
“I’ve already ordered additional security checkpoints based on your previous report, Major. But I will reemphasize that all roadblocks need to have some sort of heavy weaponry to counter this threat.”
“Thank you, sir. That should suffice. I will keep you apprised of any further developments,” Rahim replied. The general’s forethought to establish more checkpoints encouraged Rahim. The pieces were in place, the general whereabouts of the enemy were now known, it was time to spring the trap.
“May Allah guide you, Hassan,” Moradi concluded.
“Thank you, sir. I have faith that He is doing so as we speak. Good-bye.”
~ * ~
6 April 2013
1930 Local Time/1530 Zulu
Kilo-Class Submarine, Yunes, SS903
Bandar Abbas Naval Base
Commander Ebrahim Mehr rubbed his eyes and stretched, pops and crunches came from his neck and shoulders. Only three more reports to go, then he could go home and sleep for the next two days. He hated paperwork with a passion, but it was a nece
ssary evil. If he wanted to take his boat to sea, he had to ensure that all the forms and reports were done properly. His first officer had actually done most of the work, and done it well, but any captain worth his salt takes a personal interest in how well his ship performs, even when it comes to paperwork.
He grabbed the next report off the stack and looked at it. It was the boat’s maintenance and repair request. Shaking his head, he read the depressingly long list. Even though Yunes was the youngest of Iran’s three Kilo-class submarines, she was well past the point for her midlife overhaul. As with most things in life, equipment tends to break down more often with age. Still, his crew had done a fantastic job keeping the old girl running. They’d just completed a seven-day patrol in the Gulf of Oman, and it went off without a hitch. Mehr signed the request and hoped that half of the items would be approved.
A knock at his cabin door drew his attention away from the cluttered desk. A junior officer poked in his head and said, “Pardon the intrusion, Captain. But you are needed topside.”
Mehr closed his eyes and took a deep breath; he really didn’t need this distraction right now. “Lieutenant Kashani, you are the duty officer. I’m sure you can handle the situation.”
“Yes, sir. I tried,” Kashani complained. “But the man refuses to leave. He says he’s under direct orders to load the weapons he brought tonight.”
“What!? What weapons?”
“He just drove down onto the pier next to us with ten torpedoes and demanded that we help him load them.”
“But we just unloaded all our weapons this afternoon,” exclaimed Mehr, confused.
“Yes, sir. I told him that.”
“Surely they must be for Nuh.” Mehr gestured in the direction of their sister ship berthed behind them.
“No, sir. The transfer documents clearly list Yunes, hull 903, as the recipient. Here is the manifest.” Kashani handed the clipboard to his captain, who thumbed through it quickly. A sudden frown appeared on his face.
“These are all antisubmarine torpedoes,” Mehr remarked. “And this is over half again what we normally carry.”
Kashani nodded hesitantly. He was just as bewildered as his captain.
“And he wants to load them now? In the dark?”
“Yes, sir, he was very clear about that. Now you understand why you are needed topside.”
Mehr tossed the clipboard back to the lieutenant, and with one smooth motion he stood and snatched his ball cap from off its hook. “All right, Kashani, let’s go see what form of madness possesses this individual.”
The lieutenant moved out of the way as his captain headed aft toward the ladder well. Mehr leapt through the watertight door and then swiftly climbed the steps into the control room. The bridge access trunk was close by, and with little effort, Mehr scampered up the ladder to the bridge. After threading his way around some masts, he emerged from a hatch on the starboard side of the sail. Walking around the sail, Mehr returned the salute of his quarterdeck watch and strode down the brow.
On the pier was a truck and five weapons dollies, each one bearing two torpedoes. An impatient-looking lieutenant commander was pacing in front of the truck. Before Mehr could address the officer, a voice greeted him from behind.
“Good evening, Captain.”
Mehr turned and saw his squadron commander, Captain Aghassi, approaching him. He snapped to attention and rendered the proper honors. “Good evening, sir.”
“I’m sorry to spring this on you without warning, Ebrahim. I need your crew to begin loading these torpedoes immediately. In the meantime, you will come with me,” Aghassi ordered.
Surprised, Mehr hesitated for only a few seconds. “Yes, sir. I’ll get my men started at once.” Pivoting smartly, he faced his duty officer and issued a string of commands. “Lieutenant Kashani, find the first officer and inform him I’ve been called to an unexpected meeting with the squadron commander. He is to begin loading these torpedoes immediately. Have him ensure extra safety precautions are taken, as we will be loading in the dark. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Also, have him begin preparations for getting underway. Understood?”
“Yes, Captain!” exclaimed the young officer. Filled with excitement, he turned around and ran back up the gangplank.
Aghassi smiled as they walked toward the squadron building. “You’re very perceptive to assume that you’ll be ordered to sea soon, Ebrahim.”
Mehr chuckled. “With respect, sir. A blind man could see that one coming. Why else would you have me load weapons in the dark, unless I was to put to sea early in the morning. I am confused though about the loadout. Why only antisubmarine torpedoes?”
The expression on the squadron commander’s face changed abruptly. His tone as he spoke was stern. “Captain, the mission briefing you are about to attend will be politically charged, but also vital, I repeat, absolutely vital, to the security of the Islamic Republic. Do not say the mission cannot be done. Do not say there is little chance of success. In fact, my advice to you is to say as little as possible.”
The submarine captain stopped suddenly and faced his superior, a feeling of dread welling up within him. “Are you saying I can’t give my professional opinion or ask questions about this upcoming mission, sir?” Mehr asked pointedly.
Aghassi shook his head. “No, Ebrahim. You are my best submarine commanding officer, and your words will have considerable weight. I’m merely suggesting that you use as few as possible. You can say the mission will be a challenge. You can even say it will be difficult, but you cannot say it is nearly impossible.”
“Even if I believe it is?” asked Mehr, seeking clarification.
“Even if you believe it is,” replied Aghassi.
The two men finished their walk to the squadron headquarters building in silence. A guard opened the door and saluted as they entered. Aghassi led the way down the corridor to the conference room, the sounds of a heated debate spilling out into the hallway. Mehr’s feeling of apprehension grew with each step. Just what sort of mess was he getting into?
As they passed through the doorway, Mehr saw two admirals, one Pasdaran, one Artesh, or regular navy, seated at the conference table along with a few staff officers. The Pasdaran and Artesh were two separate armed forces serving the same nation. They competed for scarce funds and political power. And each service thought the other was an ineffective joke. Politically charged indeed, thought Mehr. The two admirals sat at opposite ends of the long table.
“Admirals,” said Aghassi, “may I present Commander Ebrahim Mehr, commanding officer of the Islamic Republic of Iran Navy submarine Yunes.” Pointing to his right, toward the Artesh, or regular navy admiral, he continued the introduction. “Captain Mehr, I’m sure you remember our commander of the first naval district, Rear Admiral Zand.”
“Of course. It is good to see you again, sir.”
“And you, Captain,” replied Zand haughtily. “I must compliment you on the completion of another successful patrol. Your reputation as one of our best commanders gives me great confidence that you will be able to carry out this next assignment with equal success.”
Mehr bowed politely, accepting the compliment, but also noted how the admiral was raising the expectations on a mission that was still a complete mystery to him. “Thank you, sir. I will pass on your sentiments to my crew.”
“And this,” Aghassi continued, “is Rear Admiral Varamini, commander of the Pasdaran first naval district.”
The Pasdaran admiral said nothing, but merely nodded. Mehr offered a bow in return.
Aghassi then motioned toward the chairs and said, “Please be seated.” Mehr noted with some irony that he was positioned exactly in the middle of the table.
“Captain Mehr,” Zand began, “we have been asked by our Pasdaran brethren to lend assistance in dealing with a dire threat to our country. Admiral Varamini will explain the nature of this threat and give you your orders.” The sentence concluded on an icy tone.
Varamini stood, walked over to a c
hart, and pointed to a box off the coast to the north. “Captain, we have good reason to believe that a U.S. submarine is operating in close proximity to our coastline. Its last known location was here, near Bandar Kangan on or about 4 April. It is likely heading southeast at slow speed. We want you to find and sink this submarine.”
The Pasdaran admiral offered no additional information, but simply walked back to his chair and sat down. Mehr fought to keep a poker face. That’s it? he thought. A host of questions began racing through his mind as he grappled with the enormity of his orders. The room fell into an awkward silence. Both admirals were definitely unhappy with part, or all, of the mission, which meant it had been directed from on high.
“Well, Captain, what are your thoughts?” demanded Zand.
“Finding a submarine in the Persian Gulf, sir, is a difficult challenge,” Mehr explained carefully. “The geography and physics are against the searcher; this is made even worse the closer one gets to land.”