Exit Plan

by Larry Bond

  “Doc, the IRGC soldiers are heading back toward our people. We’re probably going to have to engage. Pick your target, but don’t shoot unless I give the order.”

  “Understood,” replied Fazel, who sat down on the deck steadying himself.

  Ramey raised his own weapon and set his sights on the lead soldier. He toggled his radio. “Pointy, you have four IRGC closing on your position. We’ll engage and draw their fire. Don’t shoot until after we do, and only if you have a clean shot. How copy, over?”

  ~ * ~

  Lapointe whispered back his orders, confirming he had heard them correctly. He could see through his scope that the speedboat was tantalizingly close, but what he couldn’t see were the IRGC soldiers—the breakwater blocked his view.

  “XO, hold my weapon while I get into a reasonable prone position. Dr. Naseri, get behind the XO. Mr. Ramey thinks it’s going to get a little crazy here in a few seconds. XO, don’t shoot unless I say so.” Jerry handed Lapointe his weapon after he had slithered onto a large flat boulder. Jerry nestled down behind him. Once again he was to remain passive, the SEALs would do the shooting. Shirin moved behind Jerry and curled up into a ball.

  ~ * ~

  Ramey and Fazel stayed fixed on their targets as they moved. If they so much as deviated one inch from their present path, the SEALs would drop them. Just keep going, pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, Ramey thought to himself.

  ~ * ~

  The soldiers were very near. Lapointe could see three of them clearly as they got closer and closer. They seemed oblivious to the presence of the boat. That is, until one man abruptly panned his flashlight out to sea.

  ~ * ~

  The flashlight beam momentarily blinded him, but Ramey could still make out his target. “Fire!” he commanded. Both he and Fazel squeezed off two rounds each and dropped their respective targets. Lapointe waited, then fired and hit the soldier with the flashlight that was illuminating the speedboat. The last remaining man, confused and terrified, hit the deck and began firing wildly out toward the sea.

  “Move it, XO!” yelled the LPO. Jerry turned about and grabbed Shirin off the rocks. He could see the shadow of the boat and he moved as fast as he could toward it.

  “Over here, XO,” Fazel shouted, his hands outstretched. Seeing the corpsman, Jerry moved closer and literally tossed Shirin into his open arms.

  “Get in!” yelled Ramey.

  Jerry spun, ignoring Ramey’s command. “Pointy!” he shouted. He heard a bullet whiz by his head.

  “Keep your shirt on, I’m coming,” Lapointe yelled back. He was sliding down a rock, when his wounded leg got caught in a crevice. “Arrgh!” he screamed as he fell.

  “Boss, there’s reinforcements coming!” Phillips exclaimed, pointing toward the rapidly undulating flashlights on the beach.

  “XO! Move your ass, now!” shouted Ramey, still shooting.

  Jerry staggered over to Lapointe, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him to the boat. Fazel reached out, grabbed his teammate, and unceremoniously dumped him on the deck while Jerry jumped into the boat.

  “Punch it, Philly!” Ramey ordered.

  Phillips wasted no time in slamming the throttle all the way forward and the small boat leapt away from the rocks.

  As the coast began to fall away, they heard explosions over the din of the engine. Ramey looked over toward Bandar Lengeh and saw a huge fireball climbing into the dark night sky.

  “Way to go, Boss!” shouted Phillips.

  Ramey didn’t smile. He had bought them time, but would it be enough? “Keep the pedal to the metal, Philly! We aren’t out of the woods yet.”

  ~ * ~

  21

  INTERCEPT

  7 April 2013

  1800 Local Time/1500 Zulu

  Uranium Enrichment Facility, Natanz, Iran

  It was nearly dark. Moradi finished the latest report from Rahim with disappointment. The major was almost legendary within VEVAK, both feared and admired. Was that reputation misplaced, or was his failure to capture the traitors an indicator of their own strength? If they had indeed wiped out a heavily armed Pasdaran detachment lying in ambush, then they might indeed escape, or at least take more lives and further delay their capture.

  This was not good, and in normal circumstances would be a crisis of national importance, but Moradi and Rahim had worked to limit the spread of information, so far successfully. It had been difficult, and they couldn’t keep it up forever, but after tonight it wouldn’t matter.

  The latest intelligence reports were more than encouraging. Last light would be at 1845, but the planes wouldn’t come until later, in the early hours of the morning, or even just before dawn. But all indications were, it would be sometime tonight.

  They’d run drills for the last three days, with the workers hustling into shelters while Pasdaran crews hurried to their stations. Over a thousand men were dedicated to defending the facility.

  He expected the casualties to be light to moderate. The Israelis didn’t fly all this way to bomb guns and SAM launchers. A few planes would use antiradar missiles on the SAM guidance radars, but the gun crews would be relatively safe. Likewise, workers in the shelters and at home would not suffer too greatly. The greatest losses would be in the underground centrifuge halls.

  Unfortunately, there was no way to quickly shut down the centrifuges in an emergency. Nonessential staff would be evacuated during an air raid, but the machines had to be tended. Spinning at tens of thousands of revolutions per minute on magnetic bearings, it took hours to slow and stop them, and that was only after the cascades had been flushed with nitrogen gas.

  The workers had emergency suits that they could put on when an alert sounded, but uranium hexafluoride gas was both toxic and corrosive. It would take a big bomb to penetrate the layers of earth and reinforced concrete that protected the halls, but that same protection would then contain the blast. A powerful explosion would send the delicately balanced centrifuges caroming off each other, spraying the lethal gas everywhere. He was sure the Israelis would use more than one bomb. In fact, he was expecting the halls to be so ruined that the only sensible course would be to cover them with even more earth and leave them as poisonous, radioactive tombs.

  Moradi had decided to stay in his office in the main administration building until the alert sounded. After that, he would hurry to the command bunker with the others. It was possible that the Israelis would attack without the air defense system even detecting their approach. While their planes were not stealthy, he’d received briefings on the electronic techniques they had used elsewhere, and if the planes flew low enough, they could simply fly under the radar beams. Iran lacked the airborne radar aircraft that could track low flyers.

  There was a risk that he could be a casualty himself, even with adequate warning, if the Israelis chose to hit the bunker. It was a logical target, and he could certainly find an excuse to be elsewhere, even away from the base entirely. But this was his plan, and he would risk his life along with the rest. He had brought this on himself; he would let Allah decide his fate. Whether he lived or died, his plan would succeed when the bombs fell.

  ~ * ~

  7 April 2013

  1130 Local Time/1630 Zulu

  Oval Office, The White House

  Saudi Ambassador Mutaib bin Khalid was wearing traditional Arab dress— the long white thobe with a dark bisht, or mantle, over it and of course, the white headdress. President Myles immediately wondered what message the ambassador was trying to send. Young for the post, in his mid-forties, and clean-shaven, Khalid was usually seen around Washington in fashionably tailored suits. Then Myles remembered that Arabs wore the bisht on formal occasions.

  The request for a meeting had described the matter as “urgent and important,” and Myles had treated it as such. In addition to Secretary of State Andy Lloyd, who would be present for any such visit, James Springfield, the Secretary of Defense, was also waiting to hear the ambassador’s message. Aside f
rom them, the only other person in the room was Chief of Staff Alvarez.

  After Khalid greeted the four, Myles sat and invited the ambassador to join him. The center of the Oval Office was furnished with two long couches facing each other across a coffee table, where a tray with tea and coffee had been placed. Myles had taken a seat on one of the couches, leaving more than enough room for the ambassador. There was also an overstuffed wing chair at each end of the couch; the ambassador took one of these, facing the president.

  After the others had taken their seats, Alvarez served coffee and tea while the president and ambassador exchanged courtesies and shared their concerns about the crisis. Myles thought he was offering a noncommittal pleasantry when he said, “I’m sure our two countries, working together, can be a powerful influence to preserve peace in the region.”

  Khalid quickly put down his coffee cup and said, with some intensity, “If that peace ignores a great danger, then peace is of no value, and may do harm.”

  Myles and the others were surprised, but when the president started to answer, Khalid spoke first.

  “My apologies, Mr. President, but I’ve been watching a lot of American news broadcasts lately. Rarely has a disagreement between two countries’ intelligence arms become so public. Actual news has been supplemented with many so-called experts and analysts explaining different aspects of the crisis. How much damage can Iran do with a nuclear weapon? How will they deploy it? What is Israel so worried about?”

  He smiled. “I don’t have to tell you why Israel is so hypersensitive. While we may not agree with the Jewish nation on many things, we understand their situation. A few nuclear weapons, delivered by ballistic missiles or terrorists, could destroy it. Such an attack would be a great victory for Iran, not only removing its greatest enemy, but giving the country a claim of being the most powerful nation in the Islamic world.”

  He paused for a moment, and when it was clear he was waiting for some response, Myles replied, “That is a nightmare we all wish to avoid, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Khalid nodded. “Yes. That would be bad enough, both for American interests and, I must admit, for the entire region. Have you thought about what would come after that? What will Iran do if its greatest enemy is destroyed? How would Iran use its new power? The Shiite leadership of Iran has made no secret of their hatred for the House of Saud. While our numbers are three times Israel’s, a few weapons could also do our country great damage. In fact, we are not sure that Iran might not choose us as its first victim, aiming for Riyadh or Jeddah, or the greatest nightmare of all— Mecca.”

  The ambassador saw the surprise in their faces, and he reminded them, “What happens to the House of Saud if we fail in our duty as guardians of the holy city? Twelver Shia Islam is based on the return of the Twelfth Imam, who they believe is in occultation. He is prophesized to return in a time of chaos, which according to some writings, it is their solemn duty to create.”

  Khalid stood suddenly and removed an envelope from his robes. “My pardon for this long explanation, but it will help you understand our actions in the next few days.” He handed the envelope to Myles and said carefully, “Under the existing Status of Forces agreement, in times of national emergency, we are allowed to close our air bases to American aircraft operations. We are declaring such an emergency. While your planes are not required to vacate their bases or leave Saudi Arabia, they may not fly from those bases until further notice. This includes all types of aircraft.”

  Shocked, the president and his two secretaries looked at the ambassador, and then each other. SECDEF Springfield finally gathered his thoughts and said, “Mr. Ambassador, planes from those bases support both our nations’ interests. The information from our E-3 Sentry and RC-135 intelligence aircraft is shared with your government. Your air force trains at those bases. And in a time of crisis, like this one, our warplanes are ready to assist in your defense.”

  “Our own air force will deal with the current situation, Mr. Secretary, and we expect this interruption to last only a few days, maybe just one.” He smiled. “Perhaps your mechanics can use the time to get caught up on their maintenance.

  “Letters identical to this one are being given to your ambassador in Riyadh, the commander of U.S. Central Command, and the commanders of the five air bases involved. No further takeoffs or landings will be allowed except for those aircraft currently aloft, and of course, humanitarian missions, which must be approved by my government.”

  Myles, still shocked, understood the purpose of the Saudi action. “Without U.S. air presence, Israeli planes could operate over Saudi airspace without our knowledge. I’m surprised, Mr. Ambassador, that you would allow them passage.”

  “Do not read too much into our agreement with the Israelis. We may have found common cause with them on this particular issue, but that has more to do with the Iranian genius for creating enemies than our love for the Jews.”

  Khalid bowed. “Peace and Allah’s blessings be upon you.” The ambassador turned to leave, and Alvarez followed him out.

  The instant the door closed behind them, the president’s phone buzzed. Answering, Myles listened for a minute, then said, “All right, Ray, we’ll be there in five minutes.”

  ~ * ~

  7 April 2013

  1150 Local Time/1650 Zulu

  Situation Room, The White House

  President Myles’s arrival created a ten-second pause in the commotion, but even Ray Kirkpatrick barely hesitated in his conversation. All the workstations on one side of the room were manned, and staff poured into and out of the room, bringing or taking away messages or assisting the operators. Myles noticed that the rank of the staff was slowly increasing. Officers replaced some enlisted personnel, and senior officers replaced the junior ones.

  Nodding toward the president and the two secretaries, Kirkpatrick spoke encouragingly into the phone, “I understand, General, but turn them around as quickly as possible. We need those planes back in the air.”

  The national security advisor spoke quickly to an Air Force colonel, who hurried away, then turned to the three officials.

  “The Saudis have caught us completely unprepared. We’re going to get one E-3 and one RC-135 out of Saudi airspace to Iraq, but there won’t be any support at Tallil or Baghdad. It will take hours to get more planes and people from Tinker in Oklahoma. I’m sorry, but I don’t know just how long yet.

  “At least twelve hours,” Springfield said gloomily.

  “By which time it will be too late,” Myles concluded. “When is sunset at Natanz, Ray?”

  “In Iran? About 1830 local time. It’s dark over there now,” Kirkpatrick answered.

  “Then they could go at any time,” Myles said resolutely.

  “But, sir, the Israelis told Dr. Patterson they wouldn’t go today,” Springfield reminded him.

  Myles chuckled quietly. “That was before we pissed them off. Still, you’re probably right. But all bets are off at the stroke of midnight Greenwich Mean Time.”

  “I’m working with CENTCOM to use E-2 Hawkeyes from USS Reagan to take the E-3’s place, but that means tying her strike group to the western half of the gulf. People might be able to take advantage of that. By the way, the Saudis are parking trucks and other large vehicles on the runways and taxiways at all five of their bases. We can’t sneak anyone out.”

  “What do we know about the Israelis?” Myles asked.

  Kirkpatrick invited them to take seats, and he gestured to a naval officer. “Commander Kennedy has been continuously updating the Israeli status, based on what little we know.”

  Kennedy was a big man, filling out his dress blues. The aviator wings were almost lost on his uniform jacket. He pressed a key on his laptop and the big screen lit up with a map of the area.

  “Even when we know where to look, the Israelis aren’t giving away much. ‘There’s been a complete communications blackout for several days, and they’ve timed aircraft movements to avoid our satellite passes. Our attaches have been bar
red from visiting any of the air bases or IAF headquarters. Normally, we’d at least get rumors from the local media, but they’ve put a lid on that as well. Our best bet is to look at their mission planning.”

  A line appeared, running from southern Israel almost due south into Saudi Arabian airspace. Once past the southern tip of Jordan, the line turned east-southeast across the Saudi Arabian peninsula, passing just south of Iraq and Kuwait. When it crossed the Saudi coastline over the gulf, it turned northeast, straight toward Natanz.

  “This is our estimate of the Israelis’ flight path. Until the Saudis made their announcement a short time ago, we had to consider three possible routes: north, then east across Turkey; straight east across Iraq; or south and east across Saudi. Now we know who they’ve gotten in bed with.”