by Larry Bond
They’d studied the satellite photos so often he knew it as well as the field at Pensacola, where he’d learned to fly. This one was a lot smaller, though. A single strip, twenty-seven-hundred-meters long, it ran almost straight east-west. There was a single taxiway from near the middle of the runway to a wide apron where aircraft parked, and sure enough, he could see a pair of Falcon 20 jets, their white paint almost sparkling in the sunshine. Other aircraft, a mix of helicopters and what looked like civilian light aircraft were parked to either side. He looked for the fueling arrangements, and spotted several fuel trucks parked by an admin or maintenance building. The control tower was a three-story affair, with few antennas on its roof. There was no sign of traffic control radar or instrument landing aids. Of course, the weather here was usually clear.
Ramey, using his own glasses, gently nudged Jerry’s shoulder and said softly, “XO, look about ten o’clock, near this end of the runway.”
Jerry hadn’t paid much attention to the runway itself. Looking to the left, at the near end, he saw an earthen mound, then spotted a ring of sandbags on top. Inside, a pair of soldiers was working with some sort of heavy weapon on a tripod.
“That’s a DShK heavy machine gun,” Ramey told him. “It’s like our .50 caliber.” Jerry felt his body go cold. Ramey continued, “This complicates things, but we can cope. While you’re getting the plane ready, I go over with a knife and slit their throats, just like in the movies.”
Jerry started checking other parts of the airfield. “Ahh, it looks like they’re setting up a machine gun at the other end of the runway, too. These weren’t on the overhead imagery we saw. This is recent. This is today.” Jerry could see where they were still carrying sandbags to the top of the mound.
“Okaaay,” Ramey answered. “So I get one, and Philly gets the other. That leaves Harry and you to carry Lapointe. Maybe Shirin carries one end so Harry’s free to move. We can make this work.” He paused. “Or maybe not. Look next to the hangar. In the shadow.”
One large hangar dominated the cluster of buildings that lay on the south side of the runway. It was big enough to take a small commercial airliner, although they couldn’t see what was inside. Parked in the shade, probably to avoid the sun as much as for concealment, were a pair of armored vehicles. Each had a flat top that led to an angled front, and a small circular turret with a gun barrel sat in the middle.
“Those aren’t tanks, are they?” Jerry asked.
“They’re armored personnel carriers, some variant of a Russian BMP. The gun on top is a 73mm. It’s not as big as a tank gun, but bad enough. They each carry half a squad of infantry.”
“Okay, so we use a Cormorant to take out the heavy stuff and distract them while we steal the plane,” Jerry suggested.
“No good,” Ramey argued. “Once that UAV starts shooting, we can give up sneaking onto the field. They’ll go to general quarters and we’re out of luck. Let’s go around and look from a different angle.”
They worked their way farther east. This entailed another half hour of creeping and dashing, then low-crawling up another hill. Now more concerned with the airfield than the aircraft, Jerry spotted trouble the instant he used his binoculars. “I see more BMPs,” Jerry reported. He almost pointed, but remembered in time to stay low.
“I see them, too,” Ramey answered. “The rest of a platoon, five altogether.”
“And there will be troops for them, as well,” Jerry concluded.
“Oh, yeah, probably setting up more emplacements all over the airfield. They’ll use the vehicles as strongpoints.” The SEAL lieutenant backed down away from his position, then rolled onto his back.
“Do the math. We took out a squad last night. This morning the airfield is alive with troops. Maybe they’re afraid we might try to steal a plane.”
“Not anymore we’re not,” Jerry answered.
“Never say die, XO. Let’s keep looking.”
~ * ~
7 April 2013
1000 Local Time/0700 Zulu
1st Regiment Headquarters, 47th Salam Brigade, Bandar Lengeh
Rahim and the others had managed to find a meal, but had returned to find no news. It really was too soon to expect any developments. But he was impatient, and set Dahghan and Sattari to work calling every barracks and headquarters between Kangan and Lengeh to make sure there was no new information. He’d learned the hard way. He wouldn’t wait for them to report.
Overflowing with nervous energy, he started to organize the chaos they’d left behind. As he sorted through the documents, he found one pile laid to the side, from the Pasdaran Navy headquarters. “Did either of you see these?”
Dahghan shook his head. “No, Major.”
They were reports from last night. None of the boats had seen any hostile vessels, of course. There were reports of a distress flare being fired, and extra boats had been called in. They’d searched the area between the Farur and Lesser Tunb Islands, starting at 2045 hours, but no further signals were received, either visually or by radio. Because of the darkness, aircraft had not been used.
That was close to where the second squad had been wiped out last night. The timing was also about right. Had the fugitives found a boat and escaped to the sea? But the patrols hadn’t found anything. And if they had been on a boat, why would they attract attention by firing flares into the air?
As soon as he asked himself the question, Rahim understood. The image of a flame rising filled his mind. It wasn’t a flare, it was a missile.
He had a message to send.
~ * ~
18
PERSUASION
7 April 2013
0800 Local Time/0600 Zulu
Ben Gurion International Airport, Tel Aviv
The C-37 was fitted for VIP transport, and they both managed a little sleep after talking late into the night about Iran, Israel, and Jerry. There’d been no new information since his last report, and the conversation swirled in her mind.
“I keep thinking about Emily,” Joanna complained. “I know we can’t tell her a thing. Even if we told her, all she could do was worry.”
“You’re worrying enough for the two of you. He’s been in bad spots before,” Hardy reassured her. “Don’t let it distract you.”
“I understand, Lowell. Is this what you felt when you commanded Memphis?”
“Sort of. You didn’t send Jerry into this mess, but you know him, and of course you care. There are seven people on the beach, and I try to worry about all of them, even the Iranians. Go read the writeups on the SEAL team. Learn their names. Look at their faces.”
She’d fallen asleep with her tablet open to a webpage entitled “SEAL missions.”
~ * ~
One of their security detail had awakened Hardy an hour before landing, and he woke Joanna immediately. By the time they’d washed, dressed, and had some breakfast, the plane was ready to land at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv.
As they buckled in their seats, an Air Force staff sergeant handed them their message traffic. Most of it was classified. None of it shed any more light on Iran’s activities or Israel’s preparations.
The morning news summary was useful only for gauging the world’s stress level. Several nations had already taken sides, either urging Israel to act against Iranian aggression or supporting Iran’s right to develop its own nuclear capability. An interesting side discussion was underway about Israel’s own nuclear capability, which the country had never publicly admitted having. If a conventional attack failed to derail Iran’s nuclear ambitions, would Israel use its own weapons?
There were also articles on America’s role in the crisis. Some criticized the U.S. for not allying openly with Israel. The threat of a two-nation strike would surely deter Iran. Others complained about “American indifference,” and its refusal to restrain their ally. Many assumed Israeli compliance would be automatic if the U.S. gave the order.
As much as the U.S. tried to stay on the sidelines, it was already a major player
in the crisis, based on past decisions and policies. If Israel attacked Iran, they would use U.S.-made planes and many U.S.-made weapons. Even if America did nothing, the country was involved.
And the Iranians made it clear they would do their best to involve the world if the Islamic Republic was attacked. Statements came from either General Moradi himself, or a government spokesman in Iran, and they seemed to be in a competition to see who could make the wildest claims or the darkest threat. Iran would make the Strait of Hormuz an “iron barrier” to the world’s oil tankers, and would “drown Israel in its own blood.”
Iran’s rhetoric wasn’t doing a thing to calm the situation. It fit with what Jerry had told them, but the Iranians routinely trash-talked their enemies. Still, with Israel hypersensitive about its national security, and Iran dedicated to a policy of confrontation and provocation, Patterson wondered if there was any way it could end well.
The pilot’s voice interrupted her reading. “We’ll taxi to the military terminal. The tower says we will be met.”
They had to wait after the door opened while the head of their security detail met with the Israeli security personnel, performed the proper rituals of greeting, and gave the “all clear.”
Hardy and Patterson stepped out into brilliant, almost blinding sunshine. A small, compact-looking man introduced himself. “My name is Adir Ben-Rosen. I’m Dr. Harel’s assistant. He cannot meet with you until later today. In the meantime, we’ve made arrangements for your lodging.” His English was heavily accented, but understandable.
Hardy shook his hand, but did not smile. “I hope Dr. Harel understands the urgency of our visit.”
“Two presidential envoys? In normal times, the deputy director would be here to greet you, but these are not normal times, Senator. Dr. Harel is not in Tel Aviv at the moment, and neither is the director. Dr. Harel is expected back this afternoon, and will meet with you as soon as he returns.”
Ben-Rosen greeted Patterson warmly but did not shake her hand, and gestured toward the waiting cars. As they got in, Joanna whispered, “Orthodox Jew?” to her husband, and he nodded. “Likely, unless you’ve got some history with Israel you haven’t told me about.”
The half-hour drive through Tel Aviv’s center was accompanied by a fascinating description of the sights along the way and the city’s history. Neither of them had been in the city before, and Ben-Rosen recommended restaurants, museums, shops, even plays that they might want to see.
Joanna answered for them. “Tel Aviv has many things we’d love to see, but that will have to be on our next visit. Like your boss, we have a tight schedule.”
The Daniel Hotel was on the west edge of town, almost on the water. The lobby was modern and almost tropical with lush greenery and a stunning view of the Mediterranean. It was located in Herzliya, a suburb north of Tel Aviv that was also the location of Mossad’s headquarters.
They were met by the Daniel Hotel’s manager and welcomed warmly. “Rooms for you and your security staff have been arranged. Your luggage is on its way up to your room. It has a lovely view of the Mediterranean, and there is an excellent outdoor breakfast buffet.”
Ben-Rosen was ready to leave, pleading a pressing schedule, but both Hardy and Patterson forestalled him. “You still haven’t told us when we’ll be able to meet with Dr. Harel,” she reminded him.
The assistant held up his smartphone. “I’m very sorry. I’d been hoping for an update on the deputy director’s arrival while we were driving to the hotel, but it hasn’t arrived. I’ll be back at my office in fifteen minutes, and I will send you a schedule as soon as it’s ready.”
Ben-Rosen hurried off, and Patterson and Hardy headed for the elevators.
~ * ~
7 April 2013
0215 Washington, D.C. Time/0715 Zulu/0915 Tel Aviv Time/
1015 Tehran Time
Daniel Hotel, Herzliya, Israel
Still unpacking, they’d turned on the TV as soon as they’d gotten into the room and found a news channel.
CNN had picked up the live feed from FARS about five minutes after the press conference began. English subtitles scrolled across the screen, but the Israeli news service relaying the CNN broadcast had added their own Hebrew subtitles. The two lines of text partially covered what was not a high-fidelity image.
Patterson recognized General Moradi at once. What else could he possibly say? she wondered.
Now, he stood in front of a battery of cameras and reporters, patiently answering questions. The press conference, according to FARS, the official Iranian news agency, was taking place at a hospital in Deyyer, a town on the Persian Gulf coast, where an unidentified body had washed ashore.
Without even thinking about it, she sat down and called to Lowell. “You need to see this.”
The questions, all from Iranian reporters, were prearranged setups. “When did you find the body? What injuries had it sustained? Have you identified it?”
Moradi was careful with the last question. “We do not know the individual’s identity or nationality. He was wearing an American-made watch, and his uniform is American issue.”
“What do you intend to do next?”
“We are sending his fingerprints and a copy of the autopsy report to the Red Cross in Geneva, to be passed on to the United States so they can determine if this man is one of their service members. He must have a family, and I’m sure they would like to know what has happened to him.”
Behind her, Lowell muttered cynically, “What a considerate guy.” She shushed him.
“There are also questions that must be answered about how he came to be in our territory. Certainly we cannot release a body to anyone until this mystery is solved.”
“What if he is not American?” a reporter asked.
“If the Americans do not claim him, then in several days we will post all the information: fingerprints, photographs, and the autopsy report, on the Internet so that others can examine it, and perhaps tell us who he is. Again, our first consideration is his bereaved family members, and understanding the circumstances of his death.”
Moradi continued, “We have a sketch of his features.” He paused and looked to one side, and a hospital worker held up two poster-sized drawings of a young man, one with a beard and one without.
“It’s Higgs,” she confirmed. She felt a pain in her chest. “I recognize him from the briefing.” She tried to remember what it said about his family.
“Lovely,” Hardy said grimly. “We can get the body back and explain why we were there, or disown him.”
“We can’t do that,” she protested.
“We won’t,” he answered, “but until we get Jerry and company get out of Iran, we can’t answer questions. And thanks to the kindness of General Moradi, Higgs’s family may have just gotten word that he’s dead. How long will it take for the news media to swoop in on them? Suddenly, I want to bomb Tehran.”
The secure phone rang, and Hardy answered. “Yes, Dr. Kirkpatrick, we saw it, too. I can’t predict how the Israelis will react, but it doesn’t reflect well on U.S. capabilities.”
Hardy listened for a minute, then answered, “The best way to fix it is to get Jerry and his people out, then have our own news conference, with an Iranian nuclear engineer and a boatload of files about a weapons program the Iranians say doesn’t exist.”
~ * ~
7 April 2013
1500 Local Time/1300 Zulu
Daniel Hotel, Herzliya, Israel
They’d had an excellent lunch, Hardy had called his congressional office, and they’d had a brisk exchange of e-mails with Kirkpatrick confirming that the body Moradi described was indeed Lieutenant Vernon Higgs. They’d reviewed possible scenarios, and researched some finer points of the Israeli governmental structure.
And Ben-Rosen had finally called, at 1500, to explain that the doctor had been delayed en route. They were waiting for a new ETA and would have the schedule quickly after that. He asked for their forgiveness, and patience. The hotel
had a pool, a spa, and offered guided tours of the historic parts of the city. Perhaps they could refresh themselves while they waited.
Hardy almost slammed the phone in the receiver when he hung up.
Joanna fumed. “They’re trying to distract us. They think we’re so self-indulgent we’ll happily wait while they prepare their attack.”
“I wonder how many times it’s worked,” Hardy mused. “So let’s relax. Want to take a walk on the beach?” He put his finger to his lips.
The outside temperature was seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, with a light breeze. The Mediterranean could have been an oil painting. It was hard to be angry or impatient in a setting like that, and Patterson felt a little of her tension fade. She looped her arm through his and slowed to his pace.