The Persian Gamble

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  The DDI quickly explained everything the NSA and FBI and the CIA itself had learned over the past thirty-five minutes—the intercepts, the arrest of Annie Stewart, and her elaborate story of how Marcus Ryker had enlisted her to smoke out al-Zanjani. Stephens was hearing all of it for the first time, and he was stunned.

  “Ryker?” he barked. “How would he know al-Zanjani’s numbers if we didn’t?”

  “He says he got the numbers from the Raven.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “I just got off the phone with him. He’s in the comms room on the USS Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Does his story check out?”

  “It does,” said the DDI. “All of it.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Stewart?”

  “Yeah—do you believe her?”

  “I do.”

  “There’s no chance she’s working for a foreign intelligence service?”

  “Well, sir, I’d suggest our friends at the bureau hold her for a while longer and make absolutely certain. But my guess is she’ll come out clean.”

  “What about the voiceprint analysis?” Stephens asked.

  “My guys just finished it.”

  “And?”

  “It’s him,” the DDI said. “It’s al-Zanjani.”

  “They’re positive?”

  “The confidence level came in at 92.167 percent—that’s as close to certainty as we’re going to get.”

  “And what do we know about the ship the call came from?”

  “It’s an oil tanker.”

  “Not a container ship.”

  “No, sir.”

  “North Korean?”

  “Actually, sir, it’s under a Saudi flag.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Stephens. “There’s no way the Saudis are helping Iran.”

  “I agree, but you should call Prince Abdullah.”

  “I will,” Stephens said. “But first get me Foster at the NMCC. Then call Evans and McDermott. Let them know what’s going on. And set up an emergency meeting of the NSC. We need to brief the president.”

  No one had said a word.

  Not the captain. Not the XO. Not Sanchez or anyone on his team.

  Yet as Marcus came up on deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln and felt the Pacific breezes in his face and braced himself against the deafening roar of F/A-18 fighter jets streaking off into the morning sky, he didn’t need to be told. It was obvious the supercarrier was changing direction. No longer were they heading north. They and the convoy behind them were turning west.

  President Clarke entered the Situation Room at precisely 7:30 a.m.

  All the members of the National Security Council stood at attention, then took their seats when Clarke sat.

  “I understand you guys have good news,” the commander in chief began.

  “Yes, sir—the last couple of hours have involved several extraordinary breakthroughs,” National Security Advisor Barry Evans said as he began the briefing. “The short version is that the CIA and NSA have located Alireza al-Zanjani. Secretary Foster has ordered a carrier strike force to embark on a high-speed race across the East China Sea to intercept him and the warheads we believe are with him. But there are new troubling matters as well.”

  Evans summarized the events that had precipitated this meeting as McDermott passed out folders containing English translations of the phone call between Stewart and al-Zanjani, a timeline of events, and transcripts of interviews with Stewart and Ryker explaining their roles.

  Next, Director Stephens clarified that he had spoken with Prince Abdullah bin Rashid, the Saudi intelligence chief, and confirmed that the oil tanker al-Zanjani was using was not owned or operated by any Saudi company. It was, in fact, a North Korean tanker that had been repainted and reflagged in an attempt to throw the U.S. off the trail. The Saudis had provided additional confirmation that all three phone numbers were in their databases as belonging either to al-Zanjani or to his predecessor in the Revolutionary Guard Corps.

  The president was pleased and said so, but Stephens was not finished.

  “Sir, I’m afraid I also just got off the phone with Mossad director Asher Gilad,” he continued. “They have just learned from a highly trusted source that Grand Ayatollah Hossein Ansari is dying. Apparently he has stage-four pancreatic cancer and is not expected to live more than two to six months.”

  “They’re absolutely certain?” Clarke asked.

  “They are, Mr. President. They’ve even obtained a scan of the ayatollah’s medical records, current as of ten days ago. Colonel McDermott is handing out numbered copies, though I will need each of those back when this meeting is over.”

  Everyone now studied the document with its accompanying English translation.

  “Well, good riddance,” the president quipped. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  “Sir, the Israelis are quite concerned.”

  “What for?” Clarke asked. “Now they don’t need to take him out themselves.”

  “Gilad said he’d just come from a meeting with the prime minister and the Security Cabinet. The assessment in Jerusalem is that the ayatollah is ready to gamble big because he has nothing to lose.”

  “So Gilad thinks that’s why the ayatollah has gone all in, buying nukes from Pyongyang.”

  “Yes, sir. Furthermore, they believe Ansari has ordered the IRGC to improve the range and accuracy of their missiles so that they can reach New York and Washington by the end of this year or early next. As soon as the warheads arrive on Iranian soil, the Israelis believe they will be fitted into the nose cones of the missiles and readied for use in time for the ayatollah to see his handiwork before he passes from this world.”

  “Are the Israelis right?” Clarke asked, a scowl spreading across his face. “Is that a reasonable assessment of the data?”

  “It could certainly explain why Tehran tried to purchase warheads from the Pakistanis earlier this year,” Stephens said. “It would also explain why the ayatollah is taking such enormous risks to buy these warheads from the North Koreans right now.”

  83

  The room fell silent.

  Everyone was processing the magnitude of what the CIA director had just told them. Finally Evans turned the briefing over to the defense secretary.

  “Mr. President, the challenge we’re facing right now is one of time,” Foster began. “The tanker al-Zanjani and his men are using appears to be headed to the port of Shanghai. Given the distances involved, we estimate it will take our carrier group at least four hours to catch up with him, and by that time it will be too late. Unless he alters course, al-Zanjani will enter Chinese territorial waters in a little over three and a half hours.”

  “Then we need to take that ship before it gets to China,” said the president. “How do we do that?”

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs took that one. “Mr. President, we have more than two hundred Navy SEAL operators pre-positioned on the Abraham Lincoln. At your command, we can load them up on a fleet of HH-60H Seahawk helicopters, reach that tanker in thirty minutes, and take it in less than ten.”

  “Are your men ready, Mr. Chairman?”

  “Always, Mr. President.”

  “What time is it there?” Clarke asked.

  “The East China Sea is thirteen hours ahead of Eastern time,” the chairman replied. “That means it is coming up on nine o’clock at night. Cloud cover is heavy, so there’s no moonlight. There’s a storm coming in from the north. But if we go soon, I think we should be okay. We’ll have the element of surprise. But there is a complication you need to consider, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Two days ago, U.S. military personnel boarded a North Korean vessel in international waters,” the chairman noted. “Now we’re talking about doing it again, on a much larger scale. Mr. President, as you’ll recall, the North Koreans recently formed a new strategic alliance with Moscow. This is a full-blown mutual defense pact. I brought translated copies if any of
you would like to read it, but the short version is this: any attack against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea will be regarded as an attack against the Russian Federation and will be met with the full retaliatory force of the Russian military. There’s little credibility to the notion that the Dear Leader has ever feared an offensive attack from South Korea, Japan, or any of the regional neighbors. When he signed this treaty with Moscow, he was specifically thinking of how best to protect himself from an offensive assault by the United States military. Boarding one commercial ship with no loss of life on either side is one thing. Dropping two hundred SEALs on a second ship is another, especially when we know al-Zanjani is on board. We won’t get away without firing a shot this time.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Chairman—that we should not stop a ship carrying nuclear weapons targeted at us?” Clarke demanded, incredulous.

  “Sir, I’m simply reminding us all that if and when we take down that oil tanker, we very well could be triggering a circumstance that could lead us into direct military conflict with Russia.”

  The president leaned back in his seat to take that thought in.

  “Given the fact that we just narrowly avoided a war with the Russians,” the chairman continued, “I thought it was worth noting.”

  Clarke looked to Stephens, who said nothing. Nor did Evans or the other officials around the table.

  McDermott waited several moments, certain someone would weigh in. When they didn’t, he cleared his throat. “Sir, may I?” he asked the president.

  Clarke gave him the floor.

  “Sir, the chairman is absolutely right to remind us of this new treaty and its potential implications. But let us remember several other facts. First, it’s a very new treaty. Unused. Untested. And negotiated by a man who isn’t even alive anymore. This treaty was President Luganov’s baby, and I’m not sure we can assume President Petrovsky is prepared to honor it, especially if you inform him that the North Koreans were selling Russian weapons to Iran—weapons that I’m not convinced Petrovsky even knew were transferred to Pyongyang in the first place. You’ll recall that according to the Raven, Luganov kept Petrovsky completely in the dark about both the treaty and the warhead transfer.”

  “Good point, Colonel,” Clarke said. “Go on.”

  “My second point is that the North Koreans could hardly invoke their treaty with Russia since they don’t even claim this ship as their own.”

  “Come again?”

  “The ship is flagged as a Saudi oil tanker,” McDermott noted. “So if we seized it, wouldn’t our issue be with Riyadh, not Pyongyang?”

  At this, Clarke smiled. “Quite right.”

  “Third, Mr. President, it’s highly unlikely Petrovsky would use our seizure of what is effectively an Iranian-crewed ship transporting Iranian-purchased nuclear warheads to Iranian shores as a pretext to launch World War III,” McDermott concluded. “The man just backed down from an imminent invasion of three NATO countries in Europe. He’s dealing with the assassinations of three top Russian leaders. He’s trying to consolidate his power in the Kremlin. And for the time being, anyway, we seem to have convinced him that Marcus Ryker had nothing to do with the assassinations and that we have no connection whatsoever to Oleg Kraskin. So do we really believe he’s going to put all the rest of his chips on this Persian gamble?”

  Clarke suddenly stood. Everyone else in the room followed suit.

  “Let him try,” said the president. “The people of the United States, and our most faithful and trusted allies in the Middle East, are facing an extraordinary and unprecedented threat by the mullahs in Tehran. We are not going to ignore it. We are going to fulfill our constitutional responsibilities and defend ourselves, come what may. Mr. Secretary, Mr. Chairman, by the power vested in me as commander in chief, I hereby authorize you to use all means necessary to intercept this oil tanker, seize however many warheads they have on board, and bring those warheads safely back to the U.S. for inspection and dismantlement. What’s more, I want you to capture Alireza al-Zanjani and take him into custody—alive and, if possible, unharmed.”

  Foster looked as perplexed as McDermott felt. They all did.

  “Mr. President?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Clarke continued. “I want al-Zanjani treated as an enemy combatant, not a criminal. And believe me, gentlemen, I would love nothing more than to order his execution. Give me that chance. I implore you. But first things first. I want him brought to Gitmo. I want him interrogated using the harshest methods permissible under the Geneva Convention. I want to know everything he knows. What precisely is the state of the ayatollah’s health? And what exactly is the ayatollah’s plan to rain fire and fury on the people of the United States? After all, what was it that Sun Tzu wrote? ‘The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy’s not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him; not on the chance of his not attacking, but rather on the fact that we have made our position unassailable’?”

  McDermott could see the discomfort in the eyes of the SecDef and the chairman. The president had just significantly complicated the mission. But they assured the commander in chief they would do their best to carry out his wishes.

  “I know you will,” said the president. “Now, let’s say a prayer that God will show favor to our forces tonight.”

  84

  THE USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN, EAST CHINA SEA

  “You don’t have to do this, Ryker.”

  Marcus was tying the laces of his maritime assault boots when he looked up to find Sanchez standing in the doorway.

  “You’ve already done enough,” said the SEAL Team Six commander. “Why don’t you sit this one out? When we get back, I promise to introduce you to your pal al-Zanjani. Then we’ll celebrate with a cold beer.”

  “Forget it, sir,” Marcus replied. “I don’t want a freebie. I’m going to earn that beer.”

  “You sure?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Fine—finish gearing up and meet us upstairs in two. The choppers are already spooling up for launch. You’re in the lead bird, the seat right behind mine.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Sanchez headed off down the corridor and Marcus went over everything one more time. Helmet, protective goggles, and NVGs—check. Radio gear and water—check. Flak jacket fitted with steel plates front and back—check. Extra magazines and fragmentation grenades—check. Sig Sauer pistol in its holster, MK-3 Navy knife in its sheath—check. Gloves and kneepads—check. And his MP7, locked and loaded—check.

  The first Seahawk lifted off the deck just after 11 p.m. local time.

  Flying without lights, Sanchez, Marcus, eight more SEALs, and the crew of four—including two machine gunners, one at each door—banked left and headed east-northeast at maximum power. Nine additional Seahawks carrying ten operators each followed close behind.

  No one was talking. It would have been impossible to hear one another over the roar of the two 1,900 horsepower GE engines and the whipping winds from the two open side doors. Marcus closed his eyes and prayed for the success of the operation and the safety of his teammates. He wasn’t anxious. He wasn’t scared. His anger over the death of Vinetti had tempered, and a counterintuitive sense of calm came over him.

  They’d all been well fed, well equipped, and well briefed. They had spent the last hour studying every nook and cranny of the tanker they were about to seize. They had meticulously reviewed what each man would be responsible for when they landed. They’d memorized pictures of al-Zanjani, read his file, and learned about as much as there was to know about him, from the four-inch scar running down the left side of his face and the nine-inch scar down the back of his right leg, to the fact that he was missing the thumb and forefinger on his left hand, the result of a mishap with a grenade more than a decade ago.

  The night sky was spectacular. They’d been told there were thick clouds and heavy winds where they were headed, even a rather serious storm descending from the Yellow Se
a between China and the Korean Peninsula. But where they were flying just then there were no clouds to be seen, no lights from any ship, just a million dazzling stars spread like diamonds on a black velvet canvas.

  The darker the night, the brighter the stars;

  The deeper the grief, the closer is God.

  The words of the Russian poem, often attributed to Dostoyevsky, bubbled up from his subconscious. How true they had been in his own life, Marcus thought. After the deaths of Elena and Lars, he had hit rock bottom, yet strangely enough—even with all that had happened in recent weeks—he could feel himself resurfacing, and for this he was grateful. Yes, he thought, that was the word. He wasn’t happy. Not yet. He wasn’t peaceful, not entirely. But he was grateful for his life and the evidence of God’s grace, and for now that was enough.

  Bill McDermott took his seat in the Situation Room.

  He was not there to brief, just to watch, and he stared as a technician made last-minute adjustments to a control panel. A moment later, the lights had dimmed and they were receiving live video, audio, and data feeds straight from the NMCC.

  “Two minutes,” said the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  McDermott tensed. His mouth was bone-dry. His hands were clammy. Self-conscious, he wiped them on his trousers and kept them under the conference table. His eyes scanned the incoming data and video feeds. He found himself riveted on one of the small flat screens on the far wall. It displayed a live radar feed coming from the E-2 Hawkeye tactical airborne early warning aircraft operating in the theater far above the Seahawks. He could see the green blips representing the American choppers fanning out in multiple directions. They were preparing for their final assault. But all McDermott could think about was how Marcus Ryker was on the lead bird.

  They’d certainly had their differences. McDermott was still not completely convinced Ryker shouldn’t have been hauled in and tried for treason, not granted a presidential pardon. But at this point it was impossible not to acknowledge, at least to himself, how much the country owed Ryker. The man had been willing to take enormous risks—first to prevent war in Europe, now to prevent war in the Middle East. Yet McDermott had second-guessed him every step of the way.