by Larry Bond
Peter Thorn stood motionless in Rossini’s office, staring at nothing while his mind grappled with questions that seemed to have no rational answer. Why would Taleh involve himself and his country in this slaughter? What could he possibly gain that would make the inevitable price worth paying?
DECEMBER 6
It was well past midnight.
Thorn and Rossini sat on opposite sides of a desk piled high with maps, satellite photos, transcripts of intercepted Iranian military communications, and reports published by a dozen different U.S. and foreign intelligence agencies. Some of the data came from the files pulled together earlier that year by the Maestro’s tiny team trying to track down those first rumors of Bosnian Muslim terrorists. More had been scraped up by JSOC-ILU researchers held long after normal hours and sent out to scour the Pentagon’s voluminous databases. After reading through Taleh’s E-mail to his terrorist teams, Thorn had put the entire unit on a de facto war footing.
Both men were exhausted, but neither of them was willing to break for sleep. Their growing certainty that Taleh had something else up his sleeve—something even worse than the terrorist campaign—drove them onward.
Thorn put down the fragmentary telecommunications intercept he’d been studying, pulled a map of Iran closer to him, and scrawled a hasty note on the map next to one of the Iranian Army’s garrison cities.
Rossini looked up from his own pile of papers. “Another one?”
“Yeah.” Thorn slid the intercept across to the older man. “One of our VORTEX satellites picked up part of a conversation between the commander of the 25th Parachute Brigade and one of his battalion COs. They’re going to full readiness—all leaves canceled, extra practice jumps, full equipment draw. The works.”
“Jesus.” Rossini scanned the sheet quickly and then eyeballed the map Thorn had been working on. “There’s a hell of a lot of movement going on over there, Pete.”
Thorn nodded. Although the picture of recent Iranian military activity they’d been putting together was by no means complete, it was increasingly ominous. Significant portions of more than six elite Iranian divisions were either in motion or preparing to move—somewhere. Air and naval units scattered across the Islamic Republic were also being brought to higher states of alert.
So far, no one else in the U.S. defense and intelligence communities had spotted the full scope of the Iranian maneuvers. That was understandable. Viewed in isolation, the various clues and bits of evidence meant very little. Few analysts were in a position to see all of the information gathered by America’s satellites, signals intercept stations, and spies. Lulled by Taleh’s phony U.S.-Iran détente and immobilized by the terrorist attacks at home, nobody in authority had paid much attention to the tiny warning bells going off.
“Colonel? Maestro? You got a minute?” Mike McFadden came bustling in, clearly excited.
“What’ve you got, Mike?” Thorn asked.
“This just came down the wire from Langley. It’s a summary of the latest Satcom transmission from that Afghan truck driver, ‘Stone.’” The young, red-haired analyst held out a two-page color fax with blue stripes running down one side of the cover sheet. The stripes indicated the fax contained information from a CIA agent. “He just reported the final destination for the Iranian 12th Infantry Division and most of the other convoys.”
“And?”
McFadden stabbed a finger down on the map in front of Thorn. “They’re moving to Bushehr!”
Bushehr? Thorn stared at the map. Why Bushehr?
Suddenly, the data they’d been accumulating bit by bit began falling into place with dizzying speed.
“My God,” he said softly. He turned to Rossini. “I’m going to see Sam Farrell.”
The older man looked confused. “Why?”
“To make sure he demands an immediate emergency meeting of the National Security Council.”
“To do what, exactly?”
Thorn showed his teeth in a grim, bitter smile. “To persuade the President and the NSC that we have to kill General Amir Taleh before he kills us.”
The White House
The White House Situation Room was packed to the rafters. The President and his Secretaries of State and Defense sat around a long rectangular table flanked by the Directors of the CIA and the FBI, the Attorney General, the National Security Advisor, and the uniformed Joint Chiefs of Staff. Notepads, pens, and glasses of ice water were precisely squared away in front of each man and woman at the table, along with briefing books hastily prepared for this meeting. Chairs lining the walls were filled by civilian and military aides.
“Major General Farrell, is your officer ready to brief us?” The President’s familiar voice sliced through the buzz of uneasy speculation and concern. Word of Tehran’s complicity in the wave of terrorism had already swept through the administration’s upper circles like wildfire. So far, the threat of prosecution for leaking classified information had kept it away from the media. That and the realization that revealing the information prematurely would shatter an administration that had rested so much of its reputation on the mistaken assumption the terrorists they were fighting were homegrown radicals.
“Yes, sir,” Farrell nodded. He glanced at Thorn. “You’re on, Pete.”
Thorn appreciated the symmetry of Farrell’s decision to let him conduct the brief. He had played an unwitting role in Amir Taleh’s diabolically clever deception plan. Now he was being given an opportunity to make amends by punching a hole through the tissue of lies surrounding Iran’s true objective.
He rose from his chair and moved to the plain wood lectern at the front of the room. Its raised front concealed an array of buttons, knobs, and switches that gave the briefer control over the room’s computer-driven displays.
By rights the concentrated gaze of the most powerful political and military leaders in the United States should have made him nervous. Instead, he felt nothing beyond the same cold anger that had filled him since he first learned of Taleh’s treachery.
“Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Colonel Peter Thorn, and I command the JSOC’s Intelligence Liaison Unit. This briefing is based on satellite photography, signals intercepts, and on human intelligence from CIA assets inside Iran—much of it received over the past seventy-two hours,” he began in a quiet, confident voice. “By now you all know that General Amir Taleh, the Chief of Staff of Iran’s armed forces, is the prime mover of this terrorist campaign directed against us.”
Heads nodded around the table, some of them impatiently. This was old news by Washington standards. Most of them had read the intercepted dispatches proving that the terror groups operating in the United States were receiving their orders from the military high command in Tehran.
“What you do not know,” Thorn continued firmly, “is the reason we believe General Taleh has committed his country to such a risky course of action.”
He tapped a button on the lectern. The large video monitor behind him came on, showing a map of the Persian Gulf region. Blinking symbols on the display showed Iran’s armed forces in motion.
“As you can see,” Thorn said flatly, “a sizable fraction of Iran’s conventional military forces are on the move. These forces include Tehran’s most elite divisions and its most sophisticated ships and aircraft. Although the Iranians are making significant efforts to conceal the full scope of this sudden mobilization, we now know that the majority of these units are heading here—to Bandar-e Bushehr.” He touched another button, highlighting the port city.
Thorn paused briefly to let the President and his advisors take in the vast size of the Iranian buildup and then went on. “Put bluntly, Mr. President, Taleh’s open diplomatic overtures toward us and his covert terrorist campaign here have all been nothing but a smoke screen—a calculated and successful effort to conceal Iran’s true objective for as long as possible. He has been buying the time he needs to complete these massive military preparations.”
“And what exactly is this man�
��s real aim, Colonel Thorn?” the President asked. His eyes were still fixed on the outlined port of Bushehr.
Thorn answered him quietly but with absolute conviction. “General Taleh is preparing to conduct a major amphibious operation across the Persian Gulf within the next seven to ten days. He intends to invade Saudi Arabia.”
There were gasps around the crowded table and throughout the room.
“Surely that’s not possible!” the President exclaimed, clearly stunned. His eyes roamed around the Situation Room, seeking someone, anyone, who would contradict such a dire prediction.
“On the contrary, Mr. President. Such an operation is not only feasible—it is likely to succeed,” Thorn cut in decisively. He was determined not to offer any excuse for inaction or delay. “Taleh has systematically strengthened Iran’s armed forces. Their weapons are better. Their maintenance and supply units are better. Most important of all, the Iranian officer corps is more professional and more capable than at any time since the fall of the Shah. Iran is once again a major military power in the Gulf region.”
“Hold on, Colonel,” the Secretary of Defense, a quiet, scholarly man, protested. “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions prematurely? Isn’t it possible that these Iranian troop movements indicate a possible offensive against Iraq—and not against Saudi Arabia?”
“No, sir,” Thorn said. “First, Iran’s elite divisions and Air Force units are moving away from its land border with Iraq—and there are no signs of any higher alert there. Second, why would General Taleh conduct a murderous campaign of terrorism on our own soil simply to distract us from a planned attack against Baghdad?”
Silence greeted that. Although no one welcomed the thought of another war, few could doubt that Washington or its allies would strenuously object to seeing the Gulf region’s two most powerful and troublesome states again entangled in conflict. The same could not be said of Saudi Arabia. The vast oil reserves controlled by the House of Saudi were vital to the world’s developed economies and to U.S. national security.
“What about the Saudi armed forces?” an aide asked aloud. “They’re well equipped. Can they defeat this Iranian invasion on their own if we warn them in time?”
Thorn shook his head grimly. “Not a chance! Most of the Saudi troops are deployed in the north against Iraq, around Riyadh guarding the Royal Family, or as security forces for the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. Even if they could be redeployed in time, their military value would be nil.”
The military men inside the Situation Room nodded. Saudi Arabia’s armed forces had performed reasonably well during DESERT STORM—after intensive retraining by American advisors. Since then, however, the Saudis had slipped back to their older, more slipshod methods of operation. Much of their high-tech weaponry was out of commission, awaiting repair. Once ashore, Iran’s revitalized divisions could slice through the weak Saudi Army practically without breaking stride.
“If this is all true, then clearly we must deploy our own forces to the Gulf … as a deterrent,” Austin Brookes, the Secretary of State, said. He looked horribly depressed. Thorn knew that the successful rapprochement with Iran had been one of his cherished projects. The public revelation that it had been nothing more than a ruse in an undeclared war would finish the elderly man’s career as the nation’s chief diplomat. It would also rob him of any hope of future reputation. “We simply have no other choice.”
A medley of raised voices around the room contradicted Brookes. There wasn’t time to deploy a sufficient force to Saudi Arabia. Even using the prepositioned equipment stockpiled in Kuwait, it would take at least four days to put a lone mechanized brigade in the region. Additional forces would take far longer to arrive. U.S. aircraft could be on the ground at Saudi airfields in forty-eight hours—but it would take far more time to move the munitions, ground crews, and spare parts required to conduct a prolonged campaign against the revamped Iranian Air Force. Once the Iranian invasion actually began, all U.S. troop movement bets were off. The ports and airfields needed by arriving American reinforcements were bound to be among Taleh’s first targets.
“Even if we had enough time, Mr. Secretary, it would be impossible for us to conceal the signs of a major military move into Saudi Arabia,” Thorn added flatly. “And that could easily trigger the very thing we are attempting to prevent—an Iranian invasion. Taleh’s preparations are so advanced that he can launch his attack on virtually a moment’s notice.”
At Farrell’s quiet signal, he stood back from the lectern, listening as the discussion grew more and more heated, and more and more desperate. The level of rancor did not surprise him. Clearly, the President and his national security team were all too aware that they faced a political and military disaster. Command of the Saudi oil reserves would give Tehran a potential stranglehold over the global economy. Catapulted to status as the most powerful Islamic nation in the world, Iran would be free to smash its foes and reward its friends at will. Decades of diplomacy and the careful application of American military force would be erased in the blink of an eye. The West would face its ultimate nightmare: a powerful Islamic alliance dominated by one able and ambitious man, Amir Taleh.
He kept his eye on Sam Farrell. The head of the JSOC had a fine sense of timing and the ability to navigate smoothly through troubled political waters. Both men had agreed on the only possible course of action before the meeting began. And both men knew the first hurdle would come in persuading their superiors to take the high-stakes gamble needed to stop Taleh’s invasion before it got off the ground.
After the futile wrangling had lasted for several minutes, he caught a tiny nod of Farrell’s head. Thorn mentally crossed his fingers. It was time to pitch his plan.
“We have only one viable option, Mr. President,” he broke in suddenly. “We must launch a special forces operation aimed at destroying the Iranian high command before Taleh and his generals can strike. Taleh is the focus of political and military power inside Iran. He is also the mind controlling the terror offensive in our own nation. Kill him and the Iranians will be disorganized—even vulnerable.”
Heads swung his way. Most of the men and women around the table were clearly astonished by his abrupt suggestion. A few, those with a better understanding of Iranian politics, looked thoughtful.
“If we’re lucky,” Thorn continued forcefully, “eliminating Iran’s top military leaders will force them to abandon their invasion plans. Even at worst, it should sow enough confusion to buy us the time we need to strengthen Saudi Arabia’s defenses.”
Austin Brookes stared at him, clearly appalled by his proposal. “You cannot be serious, Colonel!” The Secretary of State turned to the President. “Surely, sir, no responsible government can support a plan to assassinate its foreign rivals? Our own laws clearly prohibit killing rival heads of state. Such conduct would be infamous!”
Infamous conduct! Thorn thought angrily. What the hell did Brookes consider the murder of American women and children? Still on the rising crest of his anger, he rode roughshod over the older man’s objections. “Taleh is not Iran’s official head of state. He’s a military leader—and a legitimate target in time of war. And that, Mr. Secretary, is exactly what we’re facing here—a war.”
Brookes sat back, pale and clearly flustered at being contradicted so abruptly by someone so much his junior.
No one around the table jumped to the Secretary of State’s defense. Thorn realized suddenly that most of the senior people in this administration were old hands at reading the prevailing winds. They could sense the growing sentiment in favor of eliminating Amir Taleh. It was the only course of action that offered any hope of avoiding the catastrophe he had so vividly conjured.
The Chief of Naval Operations spoke up strongly. “The colonel is dead right, Mr. President. We have to wipe out this General Taleh and his top aides.”
Then he shook his head. “But he’s wrong about the means, Mr. President. Putting Delta Force troops on the ground inside Tehran is far too dan
gerous. Too many things could go wrong. Too many American lives would be at risk.” The admiral leaned forward so that the room lights gleamed off his balding pate. “We hold a decisive technological superiority over Iran. I suggest we play to our strengths, not to our weaknesses. I say we leave the job of crippling their high command to a massive, time-on-target, Tomahawk attack, followed by air strikes using precision-guided munitions.”
The Air Force’s Chief of Staff nodded his agreement with the admiral’s proposal. “We can put together a strike package that should blow the hell out of this Taleh’s headquarters within seventy-two hours, Mr. President.”
To Thorn’s relief, Sam Farrell intervened. In a clash of brass on brass, the JSOC chief’s general’s stars carried more weight than the eagles on his own shoulders.
“Blowing apart a building is not the same thing as killing a man, sir,” Farrell said. He turned to the others grouped around the table. “During DESERT STORM, we used hundreds of Tomahawks and laser-guided bombs in an effort to kill Saddam Hussein. We failed.”
They nodded their understanding. America’s air war and lightning land campaign against Iraq’s dictator had driven his forces out of Kuwait. But it had not killed him or driven him from power.
“No, sir.” The head of the JSOC shook his head grimly. “The only way we can be sure we’ve eliminated Taleh and his top aides is to root them out on the ground—up close and personal. Anything short of certainty means risking the loss of the Saudi oil fields to invasion.”
Farrell turned his gaze on the President. “My troops have trained hard for just this kind of mission, sir. They know the risks. They can do the job. Just say the word, and we’ll start moving!”
The President nodded slowly, looking far older than his years. While his top aides sat fidgeting, he studied the blinking symbols on the electronic map in silence, apparently hunting for other, less risky options. That was understandable. If the Delta Force failed, the repercussions and resulting casualties would tear his administration apart. But the risks of inaction were even more appalling.