Brown, Dale - Independent 01

by Silver Tower (v1. 1)

  “I resent the implication that I am some sort of banana republic tyrant come begging before a third-rank American bureaucrat. I am the president of the Islamic Republic of Iran. I am the political and religious leader of fifteen million Muslim soldiers of God who would gladly die for Allah, and myself. Please do not insult me.”

  McDonough shrugged, thought to himself that this Iranian was even touchier than he’d expected.

  “I apologize for my remarks—”

  “I would hear the apology from the president himself.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “Why impossible?”

  McDonough sighed. “Sir, in this election year it would be ill-advised for any American politician to be seen with you. This meeting alone carries significant risk.. .. But the president does feel it’s urgent to open a dialogue with you. I happen to be the best-qualified person in the administration to talk to you about your present situation.”

  “You are also... how do you say it.. . deniable? A secretary of state must answer to the people and to Congress. A junior aide in some back-room office in the White House can easily be hidden from public view.”

  McDonough smiled in spite of himself. “You know your American politics, Monsieur le President

  This small bit of flattery went a long way, helped Alientar to save some face. “Continue, Mr. McDonough. You are impertinent but I believe we can still talk business.”

  McDonough nodded. “Well, in this case business simply involves an exchange of information. The president wants to know how you view the situation in your country.”

  “That is all?” Alientar let out a short laugh. “I dare say your point of view is more informed than mine at this point.” He turned away and stared out one of the tall columnar windows of the Governor’s House. “They thought the Ayatollah Khomeini was Jesus Christ resurrected,” Alientar said finally. “The damned outcast socialists, the bored students, the poor starving fundamentalist Muslims—it was as if they all wanted to re-create the New Testament, with Ruhollah Khomeini as Jesus and the Shah as Pilate. There were secret police and atrocities on both sides, but Iran was a flower in the desert in the days of the Shah. Khomeini was supposed to make it better, and I believe that he could have made Iran prosperous under Islam. But he began to believe the things they were saying about him. He waged war on whoever the priests and elders told him were threatening his ascent to glory. He slaughtered thousands of the Shah’s men, the only Iranians who knew how to run a government. He strangled the life out of the foreign oil companies. He made war on the Israelis, the French, the Americans, the British and then the Iraquis. He ordered the slaughter of ten thousand children in one month by sending them, unarmed, against Iraqi tanks—and he rejoiced afterward. The power, it simply drove him mad.”

  Alientar paused for a moment, then continued. “He spent millions on educating the young mullahs overseas. We were taught diplomacy, defense, finance, every facet of government; then when we returned, he tossed us aside in favor of the religious fanatics. Many of us were made military field commanders—many of us died in Iraqi bombing raids or at the hands of the Khomeini’s Revolutionary Guard.”

  “But not you. Your military successes led you back to Tehran.”

  Alientar looked surprised. “Yes. I led a successful guerrilla attack against some isolated Iraqi headquarters. My squad of old men and children had been abandoned by our Revolutionary Guard regulars; we were cornered like rats and we fought like rats and somehow were victorious. We captured some useless desert territory and a few Soviet tanks. They made me a hero and suddenly I found myself with access to the inner circle of power.”

  “Where you began to build the groundwork for a more moderate government,” McDonough added.

  Alientar looked at him. 44I cannot tell if you are baiting me or if that is what you really believe. Never mind... I was a lackey in the so- called Islamic Revolutionary Council. I kissed the feet of the psychotic fundamentalist warmongers like everyone else. But I discovered that I wras not the only one who wanted a more moderate, more profitable Islamic government. A group of us arranged for arms to be secretly shipped from several countries, including the United States, and only a fraction of those weapons ever found their w av into the hands of the Iranian army or the Revolutionary Guard. The rest were stored in secret caches in Iran and Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, waiting.

  * * *

  It was a bad day. back in 1986, when our operation was revealed during your infamous Iran-Contra scandal. We went underground when our activities were made public, survived the internal investigations, and became stronger, The Revolutionary Guard may be the flower of the Ayatollah's chivalry, but they are just as corrupt as anyone. They kept their tongues silent for a little gold—no, hear me out, McDonough/' he said as McDonough seemed about to interrupt. “You asked for information; you need background to understand it.... When Khomeini finally became too ill to function, Larijani, Khomeini’s chosen successor, inherited a sinking ship. Even the support of the Soviet Union could not save him w hen we decided to take over—"

  “Yes, my government is impressed with your ability to consolidate the rival factions in your country,” McDonough said. "Your progress has been encouraging. We know; of course, that there are still fundamentalist religious leaders and Revolutionary Guard commanders who claim you don’t represent them, but their numbers seem to be dwindling. The president is optimistic.”

  Alientar stood and began to pace the tiny office, absently studying the books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls. He stopped and opened a concealed panel above a small letter desk, revealing a very well stocked liquor cabinet with row s of shining crystal snifters and gracefully fluted decanters.

  “I learned much in the West. I learned about single-malt Scotch whiskey”—he poured himself a shot and returned to the high-backed leather seat—“and I learned about the rivalry between the East and West. I think I learned what motivates the Russians—fear of powerful neighbors, losing control of territories, having insecure borders, not having access to warm-water ports. And I believe I learned what motivates the West—worrying where the next tank of gas will come from, fear of losing markets, losing investment opportunities, losing control of the Soviets. There is a saying in the Middle East... there is no difference between Russian money and American money, but with the Russian money comes Russian troops, and with American money comes Exxon and Holiday Inn.

  “Iran is tearing itself apart, Mr. McDonough,” Alientar said matter-of-factly, as if casually describing the weather outside. “I have two choices. I can allow my country to be dismembered like a wounded hare set on by a pack of wolves, or I can align with a keeper to save us from self-destruction. I prefer the latter. I would like our keeper to be the United States of America.”

  McDonough nodded, his face showing no expression.

  Alientar went on, “If promised money, arms, and assistance from the West, I will pledge to withdraw from this Soviet-inspired war with Iraq, retreat back to our prewar boundaries and open negotiations with President Hussein of Iraq to normalize relations. If I manage to keep myself alive in the process, I will authorize an exchange of ambassadors between our countries, allow foreign oil companies access to petroleum deposits and eventually try to return Iran to its prerevolution status while retaining a moderate Muslim society and government.... It would also be in our interests to arrange that docking rights be granted to American naval vessels and aircraft, and to reestablish an American military presence in Iran. I believe the wolf with the sharpest teeth ready to swallow us is the Soviet Union, which would like nothing better than to have direct access to the Arabian Sea and the Persian Gulf and control of the Strait of Hormuz. It would be of incredible strategic value to them.” He looked squarely at McDonough. “Or to the United States.”

  “Our immediate priority,” McDonough said, “is a stable, neutral and genuinely moderate regime in Iran. Naval bases and listening posts may come later.”
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  Alientar nodded, but his expression showed skepticism. “Of course. So what will you tell the president?”

  “Tell him? Well, I believe I’ll tell him that President Alientar has promised the world. Again. I’ll offer the opinion that you are in no position to deliver anything, that you can’t even guarantee your own safe return to Iran.”

  The Iranian nearly threw the glass of whiskey to the floor. “You are an insulting—”

  “I’ll also tell him that the factions inside Iran that engineered the terrorist attacks in Washington, D.C., still exist and still influence your actions—the evidence is in your self-imposed exile. I’ll also tell him that you don’t have the power to stop the on-going Revolutionary Guard speedboat attacks on neutral shipping in the Persian Gulf. And that any substantive deal with you would be a waste of time.”

  Alientar appeared ready to go for McDonough’s throat.

  “However, sir, the president disagrees with my view in this matter. He will ask me what you have offered, and I will say that you have offered to form a stable, moderate Muslim government friendly to the West; that you have offered naval bases and air strips; that you generally feel that the United States is the lesser of two evils and you can better profit by us than by the Russians. I’ll tell him about your supposed concern for the strategic balance in the region but also make clear that above all you are looking out for number one.”

  Alientar kept seated, trying to decipher McDonough’s words.

  “Will that supply the requisite amount of humility and defiance, Mr. President?”

  Alientar managed a smile: a bright man, this McDonough.... “You are indeed insolent, McDonough, just like the rest of your kinsmen in Scotland. But you have another very annoying attribute—you seem to know what you are talking about. You are a man I can deal with— for now.”

  “That’s real good, Mr. President, because until there’s a noticeable and positive shift in the political climate in Iran, I will be your only contact with the American government. . . . For now, I’ve been authorized to deliver to you the following message: The United States views the evolving political scene in the Republic of Iran as a necessary and vital precursor to future stability in the region. Such stability is without question of major importance to the United States. Outside intervention of any kind would be seen as a destabilizing influence on this politically sensitive area, and we would view such outside actions as a potential threat to the security of the United States and her allies.” McDonough took a deep breath, needing more breath for this diplomatic jargon with its weight of hot air, which was not especially his style.... “Therefore, the United States will take such actions as it deems necessary to protect our interests in Iran, the Persian Gulf, the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea region to prevent such destabilizing influences. We ask for the full cooperation of the government of President Falah Alientar in any future conflicts where our two governments might be at risk.”

  Alientar tossed down the rest of the Scotch. “Your president has just written himself a blank check, drawn on our account.”

  “It’s a matter of public record that the president supports you and your government. I’d suggest that you nourish his support. There are others besides myself whoTl be pushing him to have nothing to do with your government until we have some assurances that you won’t become an embarrassment.”

  “And what would you have me do, Mr. McDonough? You’ve already told me that my promises mean nothing to you.”

  “Free elections, open negotiations, end actions against neutral or nonaligned shipping in the Persian Gulf....”

  “You think it is so easy,” Alientar said. “Just stop the fighting. Lay down your weapons; come out and shake hands, eh?”

  “Could be.”

  “Perhaps you are more naive than I thought, McDonough. From the time when I took control of the government my weapons have been my survival. If I lay them down... I will be destroyed, from without as well as within.”

  “Your internal fight will be your own. Washington won’t interfere. This president feels differently than past presidents—to him political unrest, even civil war, is another turn of the wheel of social evolution. Only when outside governments try to influence or intervene is action dictated.”

  Alientar stood and retrieved his coat. “What assurances do I have, McDonough, that your government will act to protect Iran from foreign interference?”

  “None. But you understand the workings of the American government better than most in the Middle East. The president wants to strengthen ties with Iran and keep Soviet influence in the region to a minimum. In an election year like this, open commitments to you will be few if any. But if we’re pushed to protect our interests in the Persian Gulf, we will act. You can take that one to the bank, sir. And you know about banks, they’re the ones with stuff that makes the world go round.”

  CHAPTER 2

  May 1992

  OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA

  The crack of the bat reverberated through the stadium like a shot from a high-powered rifle. It was one of those unmistakable, instantly recognizable sounds—a good, solid, snapping thwack that even those who didn’t follow baseball knew meant “home run.” The left fielder did not even bother looking up for the ball, merely hung his head in disbelief, spit on the turf and punched a fist into his glove as he watched four men orbit the bases and stomp on home plate. Twenty thousand fans in the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum groaned as Reggie Jackson, manager of the Oakland A’s, headed for the mound to give the pitcher the hook and put in the fourth A’s reliever of the game.

  “It’s about time Jackson took that guy out,” veteran battleship commander Captain Matthew Page, age fifty, said, his face a deep crimson. “Three innings, five earned runs. Great. Just great.” He took a gulp of beer.

  His wife shook her head at him. “Matt, your blood pressure. .. .”

  “My blood pressure would be a damn sight better if Jackson would learn how to tell when a reliever is starting to miss the strike zone. Kelly has a split-finger, a curve, and a slider. In the sixth inning he came out and pitched ninety percent split-fingers. His one slider went straight in the dirt. The man was in trouble. In the seventh he shook his right arm before he went into his motion and everyone was surprised when he walked two guys and allowed two base hits. Now Wade Boggs... God, isn’t that guy ever going to retire?... Nails a half-assed curve for a grand slam. I would’ve had a guy warming up in the bullpen the minute I saw—”

  Captain Page’s daughter, Ann, reached over to her right and picked up the wall phone in the U.S. Navy’s officer’s Coliseum skybox and handed the receiver to her father.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s for you.” The other navy commanders and their families in the skybox strained to listen. “It’s Reggie Jackson. He wants you to be quiet and stop annoying your family.”

  Captain Page’s ears reddened beneath his sandy salt-and-pepper hair.

  “You’re right about his blood pressure, Mother,” Ann said, tweaking one of the battleship commander’s ears. “He looks like he’s ready to pop any second.”

  Amanda Page couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “Very damn funny, missy,” Page said, but he allowed a smile through the gruffness. He leaned over his daughter. “Big deal, Spaceman—oh, I’m sorry, Spaceperson. Well, you’re not so fancy your old man can’t still pop you one.”

  Ann held up her fists in mock-defense as the other navy men cheered her on. As the action on the field resumed, however, her father ruled himself the winner and ordered Ann to get him another beer.

  On her way back from the skybox wet bar, sixteen-ounce beer in hand, Ann caught a glimpse of her mother gloomily leaning on the concourse railing.

  “Mom? Everything okay?”

  “Of course, sure, dear,” Amanda Page said, the tone of her voice denying the words.

  Ann moved closer to her mother, who was staring out beyond the Coliseum Auditorium and across to San Francisco Bay
and the hazy San Francisco skyline. Ann followed her gaze. One of the hundreds of towers, cranes, buildings, and other structures along the waterfront, Ann knew, was the massive gray steel superstructure of the USS California, secured at the Oakland-Alameda Naval Station. The fifty-eight-thousand-ton Iowa-class nuclear-powered battleship was the main escort ship in the fifteen-ship carrier battle group of the USS Nimitz, which would pass under the Golden Gate Bridge in four days to begin an eight-month cruise to the Indian Ocean.

  Ann touched her mother’s arm. “You still have three days with him....”

  Amanda shook her head. “He’s already gone, Ann. He’s been gone for a week now.”

  She turned to her daughter. “Can’t you see it? You’ve been home for a week now. He may be on terra firma but his mind, his heart, has been on the bridge of the California for days. That skybox is the ship’s wardroom. Officer’s country. He’s listening to the game on Armed Forces Radio or on the TV rebroadcast from Manila, surrounded by his senior officers.” She managed a strained laugh. “I don’t know why it should bother me so. After all, I’ve been a navy wife for twenty-one years. This is your father’s twelfth cruise. It’s just... well, all that news about Iran, the counterrevolution business, the Persian Gulf—”

  “Dad isn’t going to the Persian Gulf, he’s going to the Philippines.”

  “I don’t think so,” Amanda said quietly. “I overheard a conversation last week. I think they might be sending the Nimitz to the Persian Gulf.”

  “If all these rumors were true, Mom, the Persian Gulf would be clogged with U.S. ships. You can’t make yourself crazy over Officer’s Wives Club gossip.”

  “That’s not it.” She paused, looking for the words. “It’s just that ... it’s different this time. It’s not only your father leaving... it’s you,too....”

  “Me? Mom, I haven’t been home in eleven years. You’ve been by yourself—”