The Enemy Within

by Larry Bond

  Several miles away, a four-engine, propeller-driven plane orbited slowly above the water.

  Lieutenant (jg) Pat Royce sat in the right seat of the Navy P-3C Orion, watching the launch through binoculars, counting the missiles. They fanned out slightly over the deep blue water of the Gulf, speeding away to the north at just under the speed of sound. Not terribly fast for a jet, Royce thought, but compared to this bus, that’s pretty zippy.

  He keyed his mike, using the intercom to be heard above the thrumming roar of the Orion’s engines. “I’ve got six good birds so far, all heading in the right direction, Dave.”

  The pilot and mission commander, Lieutenant Commander Dave McWhorter, nodded. He spoke into his own mike. “Sparks, pass the word, ‘Launch made on time, proceeding smoothly.’”

  Except for quick scans of his instruments, the P-3 pilot kept his own eyes on the skyline, ready to throw the Orion into evasive maneuvers at the first sign of trouble. So far the launch area was clear of air and surface traffic, and the Tomahawk missiles were working as advertised. But they were still attacking a hostile foreign power, close to its shores.

  McWhorter could feel the sweat beading up on his forehead. There were Iranian jet interceptors based at Bandar-e Abbas, scarcely two hundred miles east. Loitering like this to observe and report on the missile launch wasn’t terribly covert, and trouble could arrive a lot quicker than his old, lumbering turboprop could get out of it.

  Six minutes began to seem an eternity.

  As exposed as McWhorter and Royce felt two thousand feet above the surface, Commander Mark Marino felt even more so a hundred feet under it. USS Helena, a Los Angeles-class attack submarine, lived by stealth, and the explosions of water and spray above him sounded like a combination brass band and steam calliope. And in order to fire its salvo of Tomahawk cruise missiles, his boat had to steer a straight course at periscope depth at creep speed, ghosting north at no more than four or five knots. The noise also blinded many of his own sonar arrays. Not that they were much good anyway in the warm, shallow waters of the Persian Gulf.

  If any of the ultra-quiet diesel subs the Iranians had bought from the Russians were lurking close by, Marino and his whole crew could be dead before they even knew they were under attack.

  Ducking that unprofitable and unnerving thought, he scanned Helena’s control room.

  Chief Walsh, the boat’s senior fire control technician, hovered over his board, making sure that if the automated sequence went wrong, it didn’t get any worse. Not far away, Master Chief Richards, chief of the boat, manned the diving panel, working hard to keep the boat level. Each Tomahawk weighed almost two tons. With that much weight leaving the submarine’s bow every thirty seconds, Richards was kept busy trying to compensate for the rapid changes in Helena’s trim. The other officers and ratings packed into the control room were equally attentive to their duties.

  Marino allowed himself to relax minutely. Except for a slightly greater air of concentration and a tendency to speak even more softly than usual, his crew might almost have been conducting a routine peacetime drill.

  In a way, that wasn’t surprising. Once started, the launch process was virtually automatic. The sub’s navigation system gave the Tomahawks their starting point. Preloaded data packs fed in their destinations. Launch keys were turned and the fire control computers took over.

  That all sounded deceptively simple, but Marino knew the reality was fiendishly complex. It had taken Navy planners days working around the clock to lay out and punch in each missile’s flight path. Even with the space-based global positioning system—GPS—to help guide the weapons, landmarks had to be found, defenses plotted, and search plans determined, so that each Tomahawk had a near-perfect chance of reaching its target.

  He glanced at the nearest clock. Precise timing had been as critical for this operation as it was for a space shuttle launch or an amphibious invasion. To make sure the missiles’ GPS receivers could pull down enough data to get good navigational fixes, there had to be a certain minimum number of GPS satellites overhead. To guarantee the Pentagon and the White House near-instantaneous damage assessments, the missiles would strike right before a slated midmorning pass by U.S. recon satellites. That way the low morning sun would provide the contrast and shadows so useful for accurate imagery interpretation. Finally, the Tomahawk strike had to arrive between prayers. Devout Muslims prayed five times a day, and if missiles hit home during any of those periods, it would be seen as a blasphemous slap at all Islam—not just at Iran.

  Helena shuddered one last time.

  Marino had been counting silently to himself. He and Walsh straightened up at the same moment.

  “Last bird’s gone, sir,” the chief reported formally.

  Marino thought he heard a little relief creep into the older man’s voice. He shook his head, half to himself. Helena, several of her sister boats, and the ships of a Navy surface task group had just fired what he hoped would be the first and last shots in a war. All in just minutes. Times had certainly changed.

  He barked out a string of new orders. “Make your depth three hundred feet. Right standard rudder, steady on course zero four zero.”

  It was time to get out of here, back into deep water.

  By the time Walsh reported and Marino issued his helm orders, their last Tomahawk was twenty nautical miles downrange.

  The eighteen-foot-long cruise missile skimmed the sea surface, first steering west around the radar station on Lavan Island, then turning a little east to dodge another radar at Asaluyeh airfield. There were several paths through the Iranian radar net, and the missiles salvoed by the Helena and the other attacking ships were splitting up to use them all at staggered intervals.

  Flying at nearly five hundred knots, Tomahawk number 12 made its landfall just ten minutes after launch, flashing low over a desolate, barren landscape. It climbed steadily, threading its way through the rugged Zagros Mountains littering the southern half of Iran. Tehran lay far to the north—almost at the outer limit of its range.

  The weapon flew on, inhuman in the steadiness of its flight, the precision of its turns. Periodically, it would turn on its GPS receiver and fix its position. A conventional inertial guidance system could drift as much as half a mile over the flight time of a Tomahawk missile. The GPS unit would keep Tomahawk 12 accurate to within a few meters.

  Six hundred seventy miles and seventy-five minutes after leaving the USS Helena, the missile crossed the Qom-Tehran Highway and came within sight of the Iranian capital.

  Tehran’s skyline was already marred by thick, billowing columns of smoke. Even in broad daylight, a burning oil refinery lit the inside of one black cloud with an ugly orange-red glow. The first wave of American cruise missiles had arrived only minutes before.

  Although civil defense alarms were still sounding, the missile didn’t hear the sirens. It was busy making another navigational fix. With four satellites above its horizon, the Tomahawk’s GPS receiver established its position to within three meters—just half its own length. Still flying with impersonal, inhuman precision, it skimmed over the city, ignoring the few antiaircraft bursts beginning to pepper the air around it. The gunners were too late. Helena’s Tomahawk 12 was the trailing edge of the American attack.

  It passed over the Iranian Parliament building, already a shattered, burning ruin, and suddenly, matter-of-factly, dove down—aiming for the old Exxon building.

  After being abandoned by its American owners following the Shah’s fall, the ten-story concrete and steel structure had been taken over as headquarters for the Revolutionary Guards, the Pasdaran. Under their aegis, it also served as a center for planning terrorist raids. Members of the Pasdaran command staff routinely coordinated operations with the HizbAllah, provided its leaders with intelligence information, and supplied it with weapons and explosives.

  Now the Pasdaran was paying for their actions.

  Tomahawk 12 was the last of six cruise missiles targeted on the headquarters build
ing. One missile’s guidance unit failed in flight, sending it crashing into the side of a mountain near the southern Iranian city of Shiraz. But all four of the others screamed straight in on target, gutting the structure with thousand-pound warheads. Ripped apart by the repeated bomb blasts, the Exxon building’s upper floors teetered and then collapsed into the street. Now this last missile dispensed tiny, HE-laden bomblets over the ruined Revolutionary Guards headquarters. Their rapid-fire detonations shredded steel and glass and flesh and anything else over a fifty-meter-square area.

  White House Press Statement

  “At 3:00 A.M. eastern standard time, elements of the United States Navy launched approximately one hundred Tomahawk missiles at Iran. Their targets were the military installations, economic facilities, and official ministries used by the Iranian government to plan or facilitate terrorist attacks against the United States, most recently the murderous and unprovoked bombing on the Golden Gate Bridge. Based on initial assessments, we believe this retaliatory strike inflicted heavy damage on all intended targets. Our own forces involved in the operation suffered no losses.

  “Though we regret any loss of life, the government of the United States earnestly hopes the Islamic Republic of Iran will draw the appropriate conclusions from this action—and immediately and unconditionally abandon its support for international terrorism.”

  Contents

  Powerful Praise for The Enemy Within and Larry Bond

  Also by Larry Bond

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE: MANEUVERS

  CHAPTER TWO: THE VEIL

  CHAPTER 3: SHARPENING THE STEEL

  CHAPTER FOUR: LEARNING CURVE

  CHAPTER FIVE: DRY RUN

  CHAPTER SIX: INFILTRATION

  CHAPTER SEVEN: FALSE COLORS

  CHAPTER 8: LOCK-ON

  CHAPTER 9: MISFIRE

  CHAPTER 10: BACKGROUND NOISE

  CHAPTER 11: DETONATION

  CHAPTER 12: PRESSURE COOKER

  CHAPTER 13: ABOMINATIONS

  CHAPTER 14: RABBIT PUNCH

  CHAPTER 15: REACTION TIME

  CHAPTER 16: OVERLOAD

  CHAPTER 17: BLACKOUT

  CHAPTER 18: DIGITAL WAR

  CHAPTER 19: BACKLASH

  CHAPTER 20: TRACKING

  CHAPTER 21: HORNET’S NEST

  CHAPTER 22: TARGET ACQUISITION

  CHAPTER 23: PREPARATIONS

  CHAPTER 24: MOVEMENT TO THE OBJECTIVE

  CHAPTER 25: NEMESIS

  CHAPTER ONE

  MANEUVERS

  FEBRUARY 6

  Near the Holy City of Qom, Iran

  A cold, bitter wind whipped across Iran’s barren central plain, whirling sand, dust, and charred bits of paper and clothing across a scene of utter devastation.

  General Amir Taleh picked his way carefully through the rubble and uncertain footing, favoring his right leg. He stopped momentarily to get his bearings. Bearings on what? he asked himself angrily. Taleh fought the urge to pick up a piece of shattered concrete and throw it.

  A slender, physically fit man, with a neatly trimmed black mustache and beard, Taleh wore a heavy winter coat over his light olive-green fatigue uniform. The only adornments on his clothing were the stars on his collar tabs indicating his rank in Iran’s Regular Army. Nothing else showed his status as Chief of Staff of the armed forces. Even now, the self-appointed guardians of his nation’s Islamic Revolution were not fond of rank and class distinctions.

  He was standing amid the burned-out wreckage of what had been the most sophisticated electronics facility in Iran. Only a ragged outline of the exterior walls remained, showing its original size. Ten thousand square meters of factory space and sophisticated equipment lay jumbled inside—with no more value now than a slum’s rubbish heap. Explosives experts picked their way carefully through the rubble, looking for unexploded bomblets, while in one corner two men with Green Crescent armbands wrestled with a body still partly buried in the debris. Police and Pasdaran guards kept civilians out, but just beyond the barrier a large knot of silent men and women waited for word of those still missing.

  Almost nothing was left of the electronics plant—one of Iran’s precious-few facilities able to fabricate and repair integrated circuits and other high-tech electronic components.

  Taleh was tired, his leg hurt, and he was coldly furious with the fools who had poked and prodded a sleeping lion into swiping back. And for what? For nothing! A few newspaper headlines and a few more graves in the Martyrs’ Cemetery. Certainly, nothing of lasting worth!

  The Iranian general scowled. He had been at the Defense Ministry when the American retaliatory strike hit yesterday. He’d only escaped death because he had been visiting one of his subordinates when the missiles arrived. One Tomahawk had hit the corner of the building containing his offices—obliterating them.

  As it was, his leg had been injured by falling debris, and many of his best staff officers were dead or in hospital. The Defense Ministry itself was a smoking ruin. Since then, Taleh had been busy, far too busy according to his leg, visiting the attack sites and assessing the damage and trying to decide what to do next.

  He turned to his aide. “How many missiles impacted here, Farhad?”

  Captain Farhad Kazemi’s answer was immediate and precise. “Seven, sir, out of the one hundred and five we have accounted for.” He added softly, “Seven technicians are known to be dead and twenty-two more were seriously injured. Another eight are still missing.”

  The tall, wiry officer was Taleh’s constant companion. Almost three inches taller than the general, his youthful, unlined face stood in direct contrast to the older man’s own war-hardened visage. Like Taleh, he was dressed in olive fatigues, the standard dress of the Iranian Army, but Kazemi was armed, carrying a holstered Russian Tokarev pistol at his side.

  For more than seven years, Kazemi had been Taleh’s secretary, bodyguard, and sounding board. As the long war with Iraq limped to its bloody, futile close, the general had saved him from a trumped-up charge before Iran’s Revolutionary Courts, securing his absolute loyalty in the process. He was one of the few men Taleh could afford to relax with. As much as any general could relax with a captain, that is.

  Taleh let some of his pent-up anger out. “Seven missiles out of one hundred and five. An afterthought! And look at this! Billions of rials lost, and more than a dozen irreplaceable men killed! Abilities so painfully built up, bit by bit, reduced to so much junk.”

  He strode to where a nervous civilian stood waiting, deferential almost to the point of cowering. Dust and dark, dried bloodstains covered the man’s clothing, and his face showed the signs of strain and a night without sleep. Before the American attack, Hossein Arjomand had been the plant’s assistant director. With his superior still missing and presumed dead, the engineer probably feared he would be the one held accountable by Taleh’s notoriously unforgiving regime.

  “I … I just learned of your arrival, sir.” Arjomand swallowed convulsively. “How may I assist you?”

  Taleh waved his hand at the man, as if to motion him away, then stopped. He should at least try to get an idea of the situation. “How long to rebuild?” he demanded.

  The engineer turned pale. “At least a year, General, maybe more. International sanctions will not prevent us from obtaining the materials we need, of course, but it will cost more and take much longer.” He paused, then continued with his head lowered. “But I have lost so many people. How can I replace them?”

  Drawing a breath, he started to list his losses in detail, but Taleh stopped him impatiently. “Save that for your own ministry. Tell me this. This plant produced electronic components vital to our armed forces. Missile guidance units, radars. Can they be made elsewhere?”

  “Not as many. Not a tenth as many, General.”

  Taleh nodded, then abruptly turned away with Kazemi in tow.

  As they walked, the capt
ain noted the near-instant response of two tough-looking men in his field of view. They turned, still keeping a lookout ahead and to the sides, and trotted toward the American-built Huey helicopter. If the general had ever seen any irony in trusting his life to a machine made by the Great Satan, it had long since passed.

  Once clear of the rubble, Taleh strode purposefully toward the aircraft, its engines now turning over. Shouting to be heard over the whine, he asked, “How many more sites?”

  “Two, General, a chemical plant and an aircraft repair facility.”

  “Skip them. The story will be the same as the three we’ve already seen today and the ones last night as well. We’ll go back to Tehran. I have to prepare for the Defense Council meeting later this week. And I’ll want to meet with my staff after prayers this afternoon.”

  Kazemi nodded and once again checked around them. This time he saw all six bodyguards, their German-made assault rifles at the ready, fanned out around the helicopter, all alert for any signs of trouble. These men, too, had been with Taleh a long time. His rank and position entitled him to have an escort, but he eschewed the customary Pasdaran detail. They might be ideologically correct, but the Revolutionary Guards were lousy soldiers, and one thing the general could not stand was a lousy soldier. Instead, he used his own detachment of Iranian Special Forces soldiers. All the men wearing the green berets were hardened veterans, and Taleh had seen combat with each and every one.

  His care had paid off. The general had survived countless battles against the Iraqis and at least two attempts on his life—one by political rivals and one by leftist guerrillas.

  The two officers climbed aboard, and the bodyguards, still moving by the numbers, ran to join them. Once the last pair of Special Forces soldiers scrambled inside the troop compartment, the pilot lifted off, using full torque to get the Huey moving as quickly as possible.