The Enemy Within

by Larry Bond

  Finally, he shook his head. Something about the set of his shoulders told Thorn that he had made up his mind.

  The President turned to Thorn and Farrell. “All right, gentlemen,” he said hoarsely. “Draw up your plan for a Delta Force raid on Tehran! But I want to see it before I make a final decision.”

  Before Thorn could protest any further delay, Farrell caught his eye and shook his head slightly. He sat back. The general seemed satisfied by what they had accomplished. Presumably, the older man knew enough about the way this White House worked to be confident the President would approve their final plan.

  Thorn just hoped the JSOC commander’s confidence was justified. They were already pushing the outer edge of the time envelope for planning, organizing, and carrying out a large-scale commando attack.

  He paid little attention to the meeting’s closing formalities. His mind was already far, far away—wrestling with the challenge of inserting a strike force deep into the heart of an enemy country.

  A tiny, ill-dressed man stopped him on the way out the door. Thorn recognized Jefferson T. Corbell, the administration’s political guru, from news photos.

  The small Georgian snorted. “Well, I guess you and General Farrell won your point, Colonel. You mind telling me just who you think will lead this suicide mission?”

  Thorn did not hesitate. “I will, Mr. Corbell.”

  CHAPTER 23

  PREPARATIONS

  DECEMBER 7

  Bushehr airfield

  (D MINUS 8)

  General Shahrough Akhavi looked up from his cargo manifests as another C-130 Hercules touched down on Bushehr’s short main runway. The short, stout logistician turned toward the taller Air Force colonel at his side. “There are the last of your missiles, Imad.”

  “Thank you, General.” The colonel smiled and nodded toward the airport perimeter. “Now, with God’s blessing and some hard work, my men and I will have all of our batteries in position by nightfall.”

  Akhavi followed the younger man’s nod, squinting into the sunlight sparkling off the blue Gulf waters. There, silhouetted against the ships crowding Bushehr’s waterfront, he could just make out the low, tracked shape of an SA-6 SAM launcher. Soldiers and technicians were busy piling sandbags around the vehicle and stringing camouflage netting over it. More men were occupied elsewhere around the field, digging in towed anti-aircraft guns and building missile and ammunition storage bunkers.

  The logistician breathed a little easier. Each load of military supplies ferried in by coast freighter, train, truck, or aircraft had made the little port city a more inviting target for a preemptive strike. Now, as General Taleh’s plans took final shape, Bushehr’s own defenses were at last being strengthened.

  Operation NEMESIS planning cell,

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Colonel Peter Thorn was practically hip-deep in maps, satellite photographs of Tehran, and intelligence reports when one of the senior sergeants assigned to his planning cell looked in the door of his temporary office. “Sir, Major General Farrell is on secure line one.”

  “Thanks, Hal.” Thorn dumped the pile of papers in his hand to one side and grabbed the phone. The JSOC commander was still in Washington, shepherding events there while he ran things at this end. “Thorn here.”

  Farrell didn’t waste any time. “NEMESIS is a go, Pete. The President signed off this morning after seeing your preliminary ops plan. He also confirmed you as mission commander.”

  Thorn relaxed slightly. NEMESIS was his plan to kill Taleh. “Thank you, sir.”

  Farrell snorted. “You ought to thank me. I’ve had Bill Henderson and the other guys in my face ever since they heard the news.”

  “Sorry about that,” Thorn said without much real remorse. He wasn’t surprised by his peers’ reaction. In the normal course of events, Henderson or one of the other Delta Force squadron commanders would have been selected to lead the raiding force.

  Certainly, no one would have expected command to fall to a staff officer—even one who was a Delta veteran with a sterling combat record. But he had been prepared to pull every string and use every chit accumulated over his career to wangle this assignment. In the end, Farrell had agreed to give him the job for two very good reasons. First, he knew the territory and Taleh’s mind and personality better than any other officer in the U.S. Army. Second, the NEMESIS force would, of necessity, be a mixed outfit—one hastily drawn from the existing Delta Force squadrons. Given the limited time available, that was the only way to create a team with the needed language and combat skills. Besides, if NEMESIS failed to stop Taleh’s planned invasion, Farrell’s other officers would have more than enough bloody work for their own skilled hands.

  There was a third reason, of course—one he and the general left unspoken. Helen Gray. Both men knew this mission would be the most difficult and dangerous operation ever mounted by the Delta Force. Much could go wrong in the blink of an eye. And both men instinctively knew the on-scene commander might need the driving force of a very personal and very compelling passion to push NEMESIS through to victory. Peter Thorn had that fiery drive for vengeance. He wanted Amir Taleh dead more than any other man alive.

  “Are you getting the data you need on the Iranian HQ?” Farrell asked.

  Thorn’s mind came rapidly back to the present. “Yes, sir. The CIA and NSA assessments agree with our own. Taleh and his staff are definitely working out of the old Pasdaran building near Khorasan Square.”

  Fragments of intercepted telephone conversations, satellite photographs showing upgraded defenses, and gossip the CIA’s agents inside Tehran had picked up from local residents all confirmed Amir Taleh’s presence there. With their primary target locked in, Thorn’s planners had kicked their work into high gear.

  “You have enough to build your HQ mock-up?”

  The Delta Force always tried to run its assault teams through detailed mock-ups of their targets before any major operation. In the Delta Bible, elaborate, full-scale dress rehearsals were essential to reducing both confusion and casualties.

  “Yes, sir,” Thorn answered. “I have the construction crews out working now. We’re using satellite photos for details on the outer defenses. We were even able to dig up a set of floor plans for the interior.”

  Farrell whistled appreciatively. “How the hell did you manage that?”

  “Before the Revolution, the Shah’s secret police used the building as a prison. Apparently, our mission there tried to keep an eye on SAVAK excesses,” Thorn explained. “Captain Pappas found the blueprints in an old Army Intelligence file.”

  “Outstanding.” Farrell cleared his throat. “Look, Pete, I don’t want to rush you, but you know the time pressure we’re under. I need to know when you and your assault force can be ready to go.”

  Thorn glanced at the massive piles of paper still heaped throughout his office while he considered his reply. To lay out the detailed plans for NEMESIS, he’d commandeered talented officers and NCOs from Delta’s intelligence, operations, logistics, and administration staff directorates. They had already been working nearly around the clock for more than twenty-four hours. The planning cell was making enormous strides—adding real substance to the skeletal outline Farrell had laid before the NSC yesterday. But there was still a lot of hard work and hard training left to be done.

  “We need at least a week to prep,” he said finally.

  “That’s cutting it mighty close, Pete,” Farrell warned quietly. “A week is well inside the early window for the Iranian invasion.”

  “Can’t be helped, sir. I won’t send my troops into Iran unprepared,” Thorn said stubbornly. They were already moving faster than was really wise. Previous Delta Force operations, even those of less inherent danger and complexity, had often required more than a month of planning and preparation. “Besides, having this CIA contact inside Tehran is critical to the mission, and Langley tells me he can’t possibly be in position for at least another three days.”

&
nbsp; Neither he nor the head of the JSOC were happy about having to rely on the Afghan truck driver code-named Stone. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to infiltrate anybody else into the Iranian capital. Stone’s CIA controllers regarded him as a man of the utmost integrity and reliability. Thorn just hoped like hell they were right for once.

  “On the other hand,” he continued, “we should have thirty-six to forty-eight hours’ notice of any imminent Iranian move now that we know what to look for. If Taleh puts his plan in gear sooner than expected, we’ll saddle up and go right away.”

  “Fair enough,” Farrell said. “I’ll try to keep the President and the JCS off your backs for as long as possible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “One last thing, Pete.” The general’s tone changed, becoming less official and more personal. “What’s the latest word on Helen?”

  The room seemed to darken around Thorn. “I talked to one of the surgeons at Walter Reed this morning. She’s still in intensive care and still fighting off the infection. But, as best they can tell, she can’t move anything below her waist. They just don’t know yet whether the nerve damage is temporary … or permanent. He couldn’t give me much more than that.”

  “I am sorry, Pete,” Farrell said sadly. “Louisa’s flying up here tonight. She plans to stay near the hospital and keep an eye on Helen for you.”

  Grateful beyond words, Thorn was conscious of mumbling his thanks, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be there himself—waiting by Helen’s bedside to comfort her, to stroke her hair, to tell her again that he loved her.

  The general seemed to read his mind. “Helen will understand, Pete. She has a soldier’s heart. She’ll know that this mission must come first. There’s too much at stake.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thorn said slowly.

  Farrell’s next words were in deadly earnest. “This is gonna be a rough one, Pete. Don’t screw up and get yourself killed.”

  “No, sir.”

  DECEMBER 8

  Special operations headquarters, Tehran

  (D MINUS 7)

  General Amir Taleh stood with his arms folded near the front of the chair-filled subterranean room, watching the men he had summoned assemble.

  His audience was a distinguished one. It included not only the full Defense Council and staff but senior officers from each of the armed forces. Significantly, it also included the remnants of the Pasdaran command structure and many of his most powerful political enemies. All had been summoned with only a few hours’ notice after morning prayers and whisked here by limousine, helicopter, and military aircraft.

  Taleh had invited his enemies to his headquarters for two reasons: First, Kazemi’s reports made it clear that their opposition to his declared policy of détente with America was growing stronger with every passing day. Assassination was no longer his sole concern. Some in the Pasdaran were moving closer to open revolt—particularly as many of the Army’s best troops were moved further from Tehran. By asking them here, to his visible center of power, he was invoking the oldest traditions of Persian hospitality. For the duration of this meeting at least, he was their host and they were his honored guests. None of the various factions would move against him or each other under those conditions. More important, though, these men needed to be here. This was the time for truth-telling. A time to drop the mask that had so enraged them.

  One worry still nagged at him. He turned to Kazemi. “Has there been any further word from Halovic’s team?”

  The young captain shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing since we received their December 4 situation report.”

  Taleh nodded. It was as he had feared when he first heard the American news reports crowing about the destruction of a neo-Nazi terrorist cell near Washington, D.C. The Bosnian and his men were undoubtedly out of action. He sighed. That was unfortunate. He had grown fond of Halovic over the past months. Like Kazemi, the Bosnian had been a perfect weapon. “And we are sure that the Americans took no prisoners, Farhad?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kazemi replied with satisfaction. “Their broadcasts make it clear that Halovic and his men fought to the last—even as their house burned down around them. The Americans are still stumbling around like lost sheep.”

  “Good.” Taleh shrugged off the Bosnian’s death. Casualties were to be expected in any war and he had seen many brave men die to less purpose. Besides, his other special operations teams were still at large, undetected, and conducting terrorist attacks to keep the United States in a state of confused panic.

  Colonel Najmabadi, his chief intelligence officer, stepped closer and whispered, “Sir, I believe we are ready to begin. All of those invited have arrived.”

  Taleh nodded briskly. “Very well.” He stepped forward.

  The gentle hum of whispered conversation hushed abruptly as heads turned in his direction. He was pleased to see more fear and uncertainty on their faces than open hostility. His grip on power was still firm enough.

  “I am glad to see you, my friends,” Taleh began smoothly. He showed his teeth in a thin smile. “Much as I regret it, I cannot waste much time on the ordinary pleasantries. Time presses in on us.”

  The mullahs and Pasdaran leaders stirred uneasily, clearly wondering what justified such urgency.

  Taleh went on without pause, ignoring their unease. “This should be considered an operational briefing by all military officers present.”

  That drew muttered exclamations. The terms he was using were usually reserved for times of war or crisis.

  “By now, you are all familiar with the exercise currently under way,” Taleh said.

  Heads nodded irritably throughout the room. Code-named PERSIAN HAMMER, the exercise had been authorized as a test of Iran’s ability to coordinate the movements of its ground, air, and sea forces at short notice. As part of the exercise, all military leaves had been canceled, and security had been greatly tightened around all ports, airfields, and military installations. Many of those present had condemned the endeavor as a foolish waste of desperately needed resources.

  Taleh smiled again, a fighting grin this time. “What I can tell you now, my friends, is that the real name of this operation is not PERSIAN HAMMER, but SCIMITAR.” He saw their puzzled expressions and delivered his bombshell. “In precisely seven days, at 0600 hours local time, the armed forces of the Islamic Republic of Iran will begin landing in Saudi Arabia by sea and air. They will conduct an offensive that will change the course of world history …”

  As he outlined his long-held plans, Taleh saw members of the Defense Council, politicians and mullahs alike, rising to their feet in shock, ready to protest this wild, insane move. He continued speaking forcefully, glaring at them to sit and listen. Such was their fear of him that they sat.

  Taleh smiled again, relishing the moment. He had saved his biggest surprise for the last. “Best of all, the Americans are in no position to intervene against us. The seeds of violence we have sown through our carefully orchestrated terror campaign are now bringing forth their own fruit. Our great adversary is tearing itself apart. By the time Washington awakes to its peril, it will be far, far too late.”

  More astonished exclamations greeted his latest revelation. Most of the men inside the room had followed the news of death and destruction in America with mounting delight. Only a handful had any idea that the terrorists had been trained and armed in Iran.

  Taleh ignored their amazement, intent on his own great vision. “When SCIMITAR is complete, Iran will hold the balance of world power. We will command the respect of all who yearn for Islam throughout the world! We will begin the long march back to greatness—the long march back to a united Faith strong enough to subdue the infidel!”

  He stopped speaking as the new Pasdaran commander rose abruptly. He was young, in his forties, and he brought zeal but no real skill to his job. A jet-black beard and mustache hid a soft face, but he was known to be one of Taleh’s bitterest surviving enemies. Much would depend on his reaction.

/>   The Pasdaran general suddenly raised his arms over his head and cried out aloud, “I praise you, Amir Taleh! You have made the Great Satan suffer as I have only dreamed! You are a worthy commander—a true leader of the Faithful! You are a man of God! A man of vision!”

  Others took up the cry. In moments the entire audience was on its feet, chanting his praises. Taleh tried to remain calm, but his exhilaration would not let him.

  Nothing could stop Iran now.

  DECEMBER 9

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  The sound of automatic-weapons fire rattled through the Delta House of Horrors, rising in volume as more and more troopers opened up on suspected targets. Sharp thuds punctuated the noise as smoke grenades went off to cover movement down staircases and into enemy-held rooms. White smoke drifted lazily out through the building’s open windows.

  Peter Thorn and Sergeant Major Roberto “TOW” Diaz stood near the front steps, observing the rehearsal closely. The short, dark-haired noncom held a stopwatch in his hand.

  They were watching the lead elements of each handpicked assault team show off their paces. Where possible, sections of the House of Horrors had been altered to mimic portions of Taleh’s operations headquarters. Using the existing building for training was a stopgap expedient at best, but it would have to do for now. The construction crews feverishly erecting mock-ups of the buildings around Tehran’s Khorasan Square were still at least two days away from finishing their work.

  Thorn nodded in satisfaction as the first Delta Force troopers fell back out through open doors and windows. They had a strange, wild look about them. Like him, anyone with lighter colored hair had dyed it black. And all of the men assigned to the NEMESIS force were letting their beards and mustaches grow. Roughly half of them wore Iranian uniforms. The rest were still waiting for the seamstresses to finish sewing.