The Persian Gamble

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Bill McDermott hated being the bearer of bad news, but it couldn’t be helped.

  As he entered the Situation Room, he found President Clarke, Defense Secretary Cal Foster, CIA director Richard Stephens, each member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, including the chairman, and his own boss, General Barry Evans, the national security advisor, monitoring the progress of the mission in Tanch’oˇn in real time. Transfixed as they were, given that this was one of the most sensitive missions any of them had ever participated in, none looked at McDermott as he moved to the podium. So he cleared his throat and apologized for the interruption. “Gentlemen, we have a serious complication,” the deputy NSA began.

  “What is it?” asked an annoyed President Clarke.

  “Sir, I just took an urgent call from Asher Gilad, the head of Mossad. It seems that the Israelis have been tracking a team of Iranian intelligence operatives—all senior members of the Revolutionary Guard Corps—for the past several days. The operatives departed Tehran and have been zigzagging around the globe. At first it wasn’t clear to the Mossad where the operatives were heading or what their intentions were. Early indications suggested they were heading to Damascus or Beijing. But then they routed to Moscow, and last night they wound up in Vladivostok.”

  “So what?” asked the president, growing more irritated. “Get to the point.”

  “Well, sir, less than thirty minutes ago, the Iranians boarded a military transport flight headed for Pyongyang,” McDermott replied. “Gilad said the Israelis were able to identify the leader of the group as Alireza al-Zanjani.”

  “The deputy commander of the IRGC,” said Stephens.

  “Exactly,” McDermott confirmed. “And given that al-Zanjani has been overseeing Iran’s nuclear weapons program, Gilad believes the team was sent to North Korea to help facilitate the transportation of the warheads to the Islamic Republic. If that’s true, it probably means they expect to link up with General Yoon, who oversees the DPRK’s nuclear weapons program, as soon as they arrive.”

  At this, Secretary Foster spoke up. “Are the Israelis saying General Yoon is still in Pyongyang right now, rather than Tanch’oˇn?”

  “I can’t say that for certain, Mr. Secretary,” McDermott replied. “We haven’t told the Israelis anything about the SEAL operation currently under way. But that is precisely the question. We have confirmation from Yoon, via the Raven, that the general’s wife and mother-in-law are in Tanch’oˇn. And the Raven reports that the wife is carrying electronic documents detailing every aspect of the country’s nuclear program, including the location of every warhead and every launcher. But it is going to be extremely difficult to make sense of all the data without General Yoon. We absolutely need him—not just the documents. Yet it’s becoming increasingly possible that we’re sending American forces into grave danger, and General Yoon won’t even be there.”

  67

  Tanch’oˇn was a small city.

  With a population of only about 360,000 people, it was located in the South Hamgyong province, just a few miles from the coast. But it was a strategic city, the center of North Korean mining operations for valuable minerals and thus the site of a major port that in recent years had been significantly expanded. Marcus had learned in Berenger’s briefing that North Korean missile boats and other navy vessels were frequently found near the mouth of the Dongdae River, which flowed down from the mountains, past the city on its southern side, and emptied into the Sea of Japan.

  Marcus strained his neck to see the sonar image. On the dashboard monitor in front of Berenger, who was driving the SDV, Marcus could see that they were now well up the river and almost to the location where they would disembark. They had not been spotted yet, and there were no enemy vessels on the digital screen so far as he could see. So far, so good.

  Berenger raised his gloved right hand and signaled they had three minutes until they landed. The three Marines all confirmed they’d seen his signal and began doing a final weapons check. From the arsenal back on the base at Yokosuka, Marcus had chosen a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun as his main weapon. Equipped with a suppressor and ELCAN scope, the variant on the MP7 was preferred by SEAL Team Six because it was lighter than similar weapons used by other Special Ops units, because its barrel was shorter, and because it could hold either a twenty- or forty-round magazine rather than the more common twelve- or fifteen-round mags. In a holster strapped around his right thigh he had a Sig Sauer P226R pistol that fired 9mm bullets from a fifteen-round mag.

  Hwang had chosen an M4 assault rifle variant known as the MK18 CQBR carbine, complete with a night vision laser scope. With a barrel four inches shorter than the standard M4, it was ideal for close-quarters battle conditions, even when fitted with a suppressor. Hwang had used the same weapon often in Afghanistan when tasked with protecting visiting VIPs. Berenger had also insisted that Hwang carry an M79 grenade launcher. It was capable of firing 40mm grenades and was affectionately known among the SEALs as a “pirate gun” because its stumpy barrel and sawn-off stock made it look like an eighteenth-century pistol that Jack Sparrow and Captain Barbossa might have used in the Caribbean.

  Trained as a sharpshooter, Vinetti had chosen a McMillan TAC-338 bolt-action sniper rifle. It, too, was fitted with a night vision scope and a suppressor. Vinetti also carried an MK18 on his back with plenty of extra magazines in case he got into a scrape up close and more personal than he was used to.

  It was just before five in the morning—less than ninety minutes until daylight—when Berenger brought the craft to a halt and opened the hatch. Vinetti followed the commander out of the SDV. Hwang exited next, and Marcus came after him. They flexed their cramped muscles and prepared to surface.

  This was it. Marcus’s heart began pounding. The conversation in the crew’s mess had not ended the way he might have hoped, and now here they were, heading into the most dangerous mission of their lives.

  Berenger had been clear. Whatever happens, he’d said, “Do. Not. Get. Caught.”

  Just a few kilometers from where they were heading, the DPRK had a concentration camp, though they preferred to call it a “reeducation camp.” There, some six thousand prisoners were subjected to unimaginable torture, brutally hard labor, and famine-like conditions. Berenger had shown them pictures of the emaciated men and women being held there. They were barely more than skeletons.

  “Should I call the mission off?” Clarke asked.

  “How solid is the Israelis’ intel?” asked the SecDef.

  “Director Gilad gave me no reason to think it wasn’t 100 percent,” the deputy national security advisor replied.

  “If I may,” Stephens interjected, “Alireza al-Zanjani was the guy responsible for taking out a Mossad team in Athens three or four months ago. The Iranians thought they were negotiating a deal with the Pakistanis to buy nuclear warheads from Islamabad. Turns out it was a Mossad sting operation using a high-ranking Pak nuclear scientist. And when al-Zanjani realized it was an Israeli op, he personally murdered the scientist and ordered the IRGC to kill the Mossad team. Thirteen Israelis died. It was one of the worst attacks in the history of the Mossad. They’ve been hunting al-Zanjani ever since.”

  “And now al-Zanjani and his team are heading to Pyongyang?” asked the president.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To oversee the transportation of the Russian warheads to the Islamic Republic.”

  “Yes, sir; that’s what the Mossad believes.”

  “By land, sea, or air?” asked Secretary Foster.

  “They’re not sure,” McDermott admitted. “But Yoon would know. That’s why we can’t call off the mission. It’s imperative we grab him and get him out of the country so we can talk to him in depth.”

  Berenger surfaced first.

  A moment later, he signaled his men to follow.

  Ryker, Vinetti, and Hwang had been ordered to stay close to the commander, given how long it had been since any of them had been on active duty in the Corps. None of them had ever se
rved as a SEAL. Ryker and Vinetti were still good shots and still in pretty good shape, but they were no match for the younger guys around them, all at the top of their game physically and in terms of their marksmanship.

  As Marcus pulled out his regulator and peeked his head above the waterline, he found himself exerting more energy than he’d expected treading water and trying to stay in place against the river’s fast-moving current. What he saw first were massive cement embankments, a steel bridge overhead, and train tracks running north and south. They’d been instructed to let their scuba gear drop away. It was tethered to the SDV and would be gathered by a team of four men who would stay behind to guard the vessels, turn them around, and prepare their escape.

  Marcus swam behind Berenger to the base of the embankment on the southern side of the river and grabbed hold of a rusty steel ladder. The moment he scrambled onto the train bridge itself, he was tempted to catch his breath and take a survey of his surroundings. But Berenger was already running flat out for the other side. Marcus had to sprint to catch up, with Vinetti, Hwang, and the rest of the men following suit.

  Beyond the northern side of the bridge, the tracks began to arc to the right, heading east toward the coast and the port. But a few hundred yards later, Donny Callaghan peeled off the tracks and grabbed a pair of bolt cutters from his backpack. He cut a section out of a chain-link fence topped by razor wire and dropped down onto an asphalt road on the edge of the city.

  Working in their favor was that North Korea lacked the electrical power to keep the lights of even small cities on at night. There were streetlamps every few yards, but they were dark. No homes had lights on, nor did commercial enterprises. The moon was full, and that was a problem, but other than that, Tanch’oˇn was—so far—a ghost town.

  Once the first platoon—Red Team, led by Callaghan—hunkered down in the shadow of a large warehouse, Marcus and his colleagues among them, Berenger sent Sanchez and the rest of Blue Team to “requisition” some vehicles. Satellite reconnaissance done over the past few days indicated the apartment complex parking lots where Blue Team could find what was needed.

  Sure enough, five minutes later, four vehicles pulled up to the Red Team’s location, headlights off. The first was a Pyeonghwa Paso 990, a somewhat-new minivan built by a North Korean company. It was hardly attractive but comfortably accommodated six men. The second was marked as a Sungri-58. Essentially a cargo truck with an open, flat bed, it looked like something out of the 1940s or ’50s, though one of the men said the owner’s manual they’d found in the glove compartment indicated it was actually a 1978 model. It was noisier and looked like a gas guzzler, but it could carry two men in the cab and six on the back, so it was ideal. The third was a Russian-built 4×4 known as a UAZ-469. It was ugly as sin and painted olive drab, but it took care of four men, so it certainly served its purpose. The last was a minibus of some kind, a brand Marcus had never heard of. Still, it appeared to be in decent working order and could comfortably carry up to eight, if need be.

  Berenger commandeered the Russian 4×4 and assigned Marcus to be the driver. Berenger would be the navigator, sitting in the front passenger seat. Vinetti and Hwang would sit in the rear seats, weapons at the ready in case a firefight broke out earlier than expected. The rest of the men found spots in the other three vehicles, and as per the plan, they headed off in four different directions.

  The problem was it was now 5:19.

  68

  “Take a left, Ryker,” Berenger ordered. “And slow it down.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The apartment complex they were headed to was on the other side of the city, but the streets were as empty as they were dark, and the drive didn’t take long. By 5:31, Marcus had parked on a street parallel with the target building, a block away. He put it in park but left the engine running. If all went according to plan, he would not be returning to this vehicle, so it needed to be ready for the men who would drive it back to the river.

  Sixty seconds later, two other drivers confirmed their positions over the secure radio link. They had both parked in nearby alleyways, as had been predetermined by Berenger based on his study of the satellite imagery. But there was still one more vehicle on the way.

  “Sierra One, this is Charlie Bravo—what’s your ETA?” Berenger asked over his whisper mic.

  “Sierra One arriving now, Charlie Bravo,” came the reply.

  The minibus pulled up to the target building and entered the parking garage. There they would turn the vehicle around and leave it by the stairwell on the south end of the building. This would be the getaway vehicle Berenger and his squad would use once they had safely linked up with General Yoon and his wife and mother-in-law and everyone was ready to depart.

  A moment later came an update. “Sierra One on scene—ready to move on your command.”

  “Roger that, Sierra One. Move now,” Berenger ordered. “I repeat, move now.”

  The commander then turned to Vinetti. “You ready?”

  Vinetti nodded.

  “Time to go.”

  Berenger ordered the rest of his men to move to their assigned positions.

  But just as Marcus was about to slip out the driver’s-side door, the commander grabbed his arm. Lights were coming toward them. It was a truck of some kind, apparently not visible to any of the snipers in their perches. Each man in the 4×4 slid down in his seat, feigned sleep, and froze in position after making certain their weapons were not in sight.

  The truck turned out to be a street cleaner. It passed without incident, and Marcus began to breathe again.

  Vinetti raced up the darkened stairwell using only his night vision goggles.

  He was late. He should already be up on the roof. He knew it and wanted to explain his delay, but Berenger had been clear. Radio silence was the name of the game unless someone started shooting at him. That wasn’t the case. But breaking into the back door of the apartment building to which he’d been assigned, he’d nearly been caught by a cleaning crew that was finishing the night shift and preparing to go home.

  Now he was taking the stairs two at a time. The teams were counting on him to provide surveillance and overwatch protection in his sector, and he had to deliver.

  By the time he reached the twelfth floor, Vinetti was winded. He was discouraged and surprised; he’d thought he was in better shape than this. His shooting skills hadn’t atrophied. He’d been going to the shooting range in the basement of the embassy in Moscow two to three times a week. But he wasn’t running as much as he used to, and it showed.

  Stopping for a moment to catch his breath, Vinetti took off his backpack and removed the first of two booby traps from the pack. He gingerly set the first one and its explosive charge into place on one of the steps leading up to the roof. The second he attached to the roof door itself after he’d already gone through it and locked it shut. These were not large or sophisticated devices. But they just might slow down a platoon of DPRK soldiers if it came to that.

  Now out on the roof amid a stiffening wind that was going to make shooting problematic, Vinetti took a moment to get his bearings. He could see Sanchez and the other members of the Blue Team on four nearby roofs. Each man was in position, weapons at his side, using night vision binoculars to look for signs of trouble. Vinetti pulled the rest of his equipment out of his backpack. He quickly sorted through all the ropes, belays, rigging plates, webbing slings, carabiners, a harness, and other gear and scrambled to get everything set up, tied down, triple-checked, and ready to go.

  Satisfied he’d done everything he’d been asked, he found a position by the edge of the roof, overlooking the target building. He pulled out his ammo box, opened it, and set it beside him. Then he picked up his sniper rifle and waited for Berenger’s call.

  Berenger checked his watch.

  Marcus checked his own as well.

  At precisely 5:35, Berenger radioed his snipers—Sanchez, his Blue Team, and Vinetti—each of whom were positioned on the roofs of the five
closest buildings surrounding their target, giving each of them a commanding view of developments and the ability to provide covering fire for their escape if the need arose.

  “Angel One, do you have eyes?”

  There was a pause, a hiss of static, and then the reply. “Angel One, I have eyes.”

  “Status?”

  “All clear. I repeat, all clear.”

  “Angel Two?”

  “Roger that—I have eyes. All clear.”

  The last voice to come over the radio was Vinetti’s. “Charlie Bravo, this is Angel Five. I have eyes, but we may have company.”

  “What are you seeing, Angel Five?”

  “Three vehicles, headlights on, coming from the southwest.”

  “Distance?”

  “Just over a mile.”

  “Roger that, Angel Five,” Berenger said. “We’re going in. Keep us posted.”

  Marcus glanced in his side mirror.

  The street cleaner was gone. The street was empty in both directions.

  Berenger finally nodded and gave the go sign, and the three men bolted from the 4×4 and raced down the same alley Vinetti had disappeared into. When they got to the end, Marcus could see their target building ahead and slightly to the left. He pressed close to the wall on the right side of the alley while Berenger hugged the left side and took a quick peek down his side of the street. “Clear,” he whispered.

  Marcus did the same and saw no people, no moving vehicles, no lights or movement of any kind. “Clear,” he whispered back. Hwang was walking backward, weapon up, making sure they were not ambushed from behind.

  “Clear,” he whispered as he reached his teammates.

  Berenger dropped his weapon to his side and walked briskly across the street. The moon was blocked by the buildings, most of them eight to twelve stories high. If anyone was up at this hour and watching from a window, at most they would see a shadowy figure moving across the street, not a face, barely a profile, and certainly not the barrel of a suppressed submachine gun.