by Jon Sedran
“The NSA has hacked Moussad’s cell phone…you must have read those transcripts,” Acosta advised her.
“Yes, really not much there,” Kragen replied. “He made a couple of conference calls to some of their leading clergy including Ayatollah Kaviani. He expressed concern that that we were insisting they stop all enrichment activities. All three agreed that was not acceptable to them…a large reduction, then a gradual increase, was as far as they were willing to go.”
The President leaned forward in his chair. “Okay, I’ve tasked all our intelligence agencies with assisting with verification…let’s see how it goes…the carrot and stick approach.”
Kragen nodded. “I remain hopeful, Mr. President.”
* * * *
For over a week Shirazi endured brutal interrogations at the hands of Iranian counter-intelligence officers. They beat him repeatedly when he refused to admit he was a spy for Israel. He was locked in cell for four days with little to eat or drink, hung upside-down and shocked. Finally, he was given a polygraph test and then sent home wearing a tracking bracelet on his ankle. Dazed and barely able to walk, he was left to wonder if he would ever be able to find work again or be locked away without even a trial. IRGC officers had questioned most of his friends and relatives and they were now afraid to call him.
He sat alone in his apartment watched television and played video games, afraid to even go out grocery shopping. One day he looked out the window and happened to notice a uniformed Republican Guardsman driving slowly through parking lot in an unmarked car.
Late one afternoon Shirazi’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID, but it was blank. “Hello,” he quietly answered.
“Ali, good news, the chief of counter-intelligence has concluded his investigation and you have been cleared of any wrongdoing in the explosion,” said the voice. Shirazi recognized it was the Parchin plant manager. “They have approved your return to work when the plant is fully repaired. We need skilled chemists like you.”
“They treated me like a criminal…said I was a spy,” Shirazi angrily responded. “They beat me and called me a traitor.” He started to choke up. “They said if I didn’t confess they would imprison my whole family.”
“I am sorry Ali. You know I spoke highly of you and of your loyalty when they questioned me,” the plant manager assured him.
Shirazi hesitated. “Yes…thank you,” he replied, his voice breaking up.
“Ali, perhaps I can make it up to you. You put in a request about six months ago to attend the regional chemical engineer’s conference in Amman, which will happen in two weeks. I have approved your request and the travel will be at the government’s expense. The plant won’t be back in full operation for another month anyway.”
Shirazi took a deep breath and thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, I would like that very much.”
“I will be in touch Ali, goodbye.” Shirazi set his phone down and began to sob.
* * * *
It was time for Maddy to pay a visit to NSA. She knew they had an arsenal of tools at their disposal to help her build a case that the Iranian military was running a clandestine nuclear bomb program. These included a vast array of signals intelligence gathering sites, known as SIGATs. The largest one located at the U.S. embassy complex in Baghdad, which listens in on communications in the Persian Gulf area. Time and again these sites had proven their value. During the Osama Bin Laden mission, NSA’s Kandahar Airbase facility in Afghanistan monitored the communications between Pakistani radar sites and determined when they shut down. This was instrumental in getting the helicopters in undetected, greatly contributing to the success of the mission.
She had arranged to meet with NSA Deputy Director, Benjamin (Ben) Pierson whom she knew and had worked with for over a decade.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?” Pierson asked, as Maddy entered his office.
“Ben, I need more on Iran, specifically their nuclear stuff.”
“We send DIA everything we get, we don’t hold anything back,” he stated somewhat sarcastically.
“I have a specific request I really need put through.” She handed him the completed NSA Request for Intercept form. The form header read: TOP SECRET/SCI/NF, NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY/CENTRAL SECURITY SERVICE - REQUEST FOR ELECTRONIC INTERCEPT (NSAEIF542).
Urgency: Highest Priority
Country of Interest: Iran
Target(s): (1) IRGC General Farvad Namazi, (2) Ayatollah Rashin Javadi. (3) Benuit (unknown)
Communications Types: All
Key words: Nuclear weapons, nuke(s), enrichment, U-235, device, testing, implosion, plutonium.
Pierson looked over the request. “Who is this Benuit?” he asked.
“Not sure Ben, but he is involved in their nuke program, and maybe in a big way.”
Pierson sighed. “How long do you want us to monitor them for?”
“What do you recommend?”
“Well, the Iranians recently upgraded their encryption using Russian-made software and it’s giving us fits. People think we can crack any encryption and produce clear text. Unfortunately, as you know we sometimes can only get bits and pieces and the end-user has to put it all together. Anyway, seven or eight weeks should be enough,” he said, setting the request aside.
“It’s too bad about all those leaks to the media,” Maddy threw out.
“Yes, a lot of damage was done. We’re seeing more robust encryption everywhere.”
“Hard to understand someone leaking that stuff,” said Maddy.
Pierson nodded in agreement. “Our intercept programs such as ‘XKeyscore’ and ‘Dropout Jeep’, are vital to help pull aside Iran’s veil of secrecy you believe they are using to hide their nuclear weapon ambitions,” he said, letting on, “The U.N. Building is one of our top domestic targets. We spy on diplomats and routinely intercept their communications traffic. This has given the U.S. the upper hand in many very high-level negotiations, including the Iranian nuclear agreement.”
“Ben, whatever tools you have in your bag to uncover the truth, please use them,” she paused and then added, “Rumor has it you’ve have had considerable success with some of the Republican Guard’s recently purchased servers, PCs and routers?”
“No comment,” replied Pierson, smiling.
“Thanks for your time Ben; please expedite the request…I have very bad feeling about this whole Iranian nuclear situation.”
“I’ll do my best.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The flight of four Israeli F-15’s streaked low over the moonless Arabian Desert landscape at almost five-hundred knots. To avoid radar detection the pilots were flying at less than two-hundred feet above the ground. They were Israel’s most skilled fighter pilots and had been hand-picked for this mission. The aircraft flew in a single-file formation spaced two-thousand feet apart. Maintaining strict radio silence, the position of each aircraft was monitored real-time by tracking a discrete signal transmitted by each aircraft and picked up by special receivers built into certain GPS satellites orbiting the Earth. The U.S. had given the Israelis access to this technology with the understanding they would let the U.S. know before launching any strike on targets in Iran.
In a bunker at Ramat-David airbase in northern Israel, IAF commander Major General Eitan Cohen watched the progress of the mission on a moving map display on the wall-mounted monitor. Each F-15 was displayed as a small green aircraft-shaped icon with its ground speed, altitude and heading shown next to it. Presently, all four icons were moving from left to right across the screen. The estimated time to the target for each plane was displayed at the bottom of the map. A touch of any aircraft icon would reveal details about the plane, including fuel remaining, and the aircraft’s serial number.
A short time ago at zero-two hundred hours the four F-15’s had entered Saudi airspace. Their route of flight would take them south of Jordan then east to the Saudi-Iraqi border and finally south-east to the Persian Gulf. They would have to fly
over eight-hundred miles each way. This would mean the aircraft, even with extra fuel tanks, would be operating at its maximum combat radius and would need to refuel for the return flight. On this mission each aircraft carried only two air-to-air missiles for self-defense and no air-to-ground weapons. Their orders were to avoid any contact with aircraft of other nations, and if serious problems arose, to break off the mission and return by the most practical route.
At a Saudi air-defense radar site one-hundred fifty kilometers north of Riyadh, at zero four-hundred hours, a military air defense radar operator observed what appeared to be intermittent targets moving along the northern border.
“Sir, I have an intermittent contact, maybe more than one, range three-hundred kilometers, heading one-one-zero, speed not showing, but fast, probably low, and no identification,” he reported to his supervisor.
His supervisor walked over and watched the display for a minute. “It is just ground clutter,” he assured him. “Just ignore it.” He then went over to the phone connecting him directly to Saudi air defense headquarters, spoke briefly and hung up.
Cohen touched a red circular icon on right side of the screen. All active threats near the mission planes were instantly displayed. These threats would also be visible to the pilots on their cockpit displays. Orange-colored missile symbols appeared in a dozen places along the Iranian coastline indicating active Iranian air-defense radars. Three hours earlier, an IAF ELINT aircraft, call sign ‘Sightseer’, had been given permission to transition through Saudi airspace and was on station in international airspace over the northern Persian Gulf. It was picking up the signals from Iranian air defense sites and relaying them via satellite real-time to the F-15’s and to the IAF mission commanders. If the F-15’s were going to successfully penetrate Iranian airspace the ELINT aircraft would be invaluable in jamming and confusing Iranian air defense networks.
Another hour passed, and then IAF Colonel Jacobs announced, “They are approaching the Persian Gulf coastline, so far so good,”
Cohen nodded. “Now it gets interesting.”
For the next twenty minutes, the IAF commander and his staff sat glued to the screen. They watched as the F-15’s one by one crossed the northern gulf at no more than fifty feet above the water at four-hundred eighty knots and approached to within twelve miles of the Iranian coastline.
“General, Sightseer reports no active Iranian tracking of our aircraft,” said Jacobs.
Cohen again nodded silently, his eyes never leaving the screen. “They have learned to leave their radars turned off,” he mumbled.
At twelve miles from the Iranian shoreline, the lead F-15 executed a steep climbing left two hundred-seventy degree turn. An IAF aerial tanker would be waiting at twenty-five thousand feet to refuel the fighters for the long trip back. One by one the four F-15s flew to the same point, turned and climbed, then refueled and headed for home. The ELINT aircraft returned the way it came having gathered valuable information about Iran’s air defense radar coverage and missile defense control systems.
Jacobs answered the ringing phone on the console, spoke for a few moments then hung up. “General, all the birds have finished drinking and are heading home.”
Cohen wiped a little perspiration off his brow. “I pray to God we never have to do this for real.”
* * * *
Chemist Ali Shirazi’s flight from Tehran to Amman made a brief stop in Beirut. As new passengers boarded he sat looking out the window. I’m glad they let me go to this conference, he thought. A brochure in Persian advertising the Royal Jordanian Regional Chemical Engineer’s Conference lay on the empty seat next to him.
Before letting him leave Iran to attend, Iranian counter-intelligence had briefed him thoroughly about spies operating in the region and their methods.
A short stocky man made his way down the aisle, stopping next to Shirazi. He wrestled his bag into the overhead bin and then asked in Persian, “Is anybody sitting here?”
“No, no, go ahead,” Shirazi responded, looking up slightly startled, not realizing he had left the conference brochure on the seat next to him.
“Thank you. I see you are headed for the chemical conference,” he said, picking up the brochure from the seat.
“Oh yes, I’m sorry,” said Shirazi, as the man handed him back the brochure and sat down.
Shirazi glanced over the man as, “Please fasten your seatbelts,” was announced over the planes speakers in four languages, while the flight attendant stood in the aisle and conducted the mandatory passenger safety briefing. He wore a baggy brown suit, appeared to be in his early fifties and slightly balding and overweight. He spoke Persian with a thick Middle-eastern accent.
The man smiled at Shirazi and offered his hand. “I am Reman Scherial…I am a chemist…for thirty years.”
Shirazi shook his hand. “I am Ali Shirazi…are you are going to the conference too?”
“Yes, then I have to get back to bid on a big project.”
“I see, what type of chemistry do you specialize in?”
“Mostly explosives used for shaped charges in oil well perforation.”
“That is my area too!” Shirazi exclaimed. Or at least it was, he reminded himself.
Scherial nodded his approval. “Great, who do you work for? I am the co-owner of Mediterranean Drill Masters,” he said, pulling out a business card from his jacket pocket and handing it to him.
Shirazi took it and hesitated, then stammered, “I work for the Iranian government.”
“I see…your country has huge oil and gas reserves, you are very lucky indeed.”
Again Shirazi hesitated, “Yes,” was all he could think of.
“So, you work on shaped charges too…I love the physics behind them.” Scherial inquired.
My God, he thought, if he only knew the shaped charges I work on. But he had been warned to say nothing about the project and to report any attempts by foreign agents to approach him.
“Yes, some,” he reluctantly offered.
“I would like very much to do business in your country Ali, but unfortunately we also have an office in Tel Aviv, so your country won’t allow us in to do business.
Scherial shook his head and chuckled slightly. “Your government really hates the Israelis.”
“Well, not all of us hate the Israelis,” Shirazi assured him. “We just want to see the Palestinians treated fairly.”
Scherial smiled slightly. “The Israelis I speak with say they want to be friends with Iran, but the Iranian government keeps saying Israel must be wiped off the map.”
“I do not believe this…people can learn to get along,” Shirazi insisted. “It is only a few of our older clerics saying these things.”
As the short flight progressed he turned to look out the window thinking, I hate our religious rulers. They are constantly denying to the world the program I work on exists. It will not improve lives, only destroy them.
The flight soon arrived in Amman and the two men grabbed their bags from the overhead, deplaned and walked together toward the baggage area and ground transportation.
Shirazi sighed. “I have no checked bags…you know we are really a peaceful people. We do not want to wipe anybody of the map. We want to see a just peace…but it is true some in our government have issues.”
“I have no other bags either…and I completely understand,” Scherial responded, “Sometimes people need to encourage their leaders to change.”
Shirazi nodded slowly. “Yes, but it seems to take forever…anyway, are you taking a cab to the hotel?” he asked.
“No, I am meeting someone,” Scherial replied.
A cab pulled to the curb as the men walked out of the terminal. The driver got out, took Shirazi’s bag and placed it in the trunk, and then opened the back door for him. “Maybe we will see each other at the conference and have lunch,” Scherial suggested as Shirazi got into the cab.
“Yes, okay…that would be good,” he replied, as the cab door closed. The driver got b
ack in and quickly pulled away.
Scherial stood and watched as the cab went out of view and then walked to an empty area. He discretely glanced around while getting out his cell phone and placing a secure call. The voice on the other end answered correctly and Scherial spoke, “He was on the flight and I made contact. I will arrange to meet him for lunch tomorrow. I am very optimistic.” He ended the call and put his cell phone away. Then he walked over to a car that had just pulled up to the curb and got in.
* * * *
“Maddy’s phone rang as she pulled into her driveway. It was almost seven pm and she was exhausted from another long day of briefings.
“Hello Maddy,” the voice was unmistakably her ex’s.
“Hi Mark,” was all Maddy could muster.
“You sound tired Maddy,” Mark offered.
“I miss you Mark…and the kids too.” The words just seemed to come out of her mouth by themselves.
“I miss you too Maddy…dinner tonight?”
“It’s almost eight o’clock, and it’s not my birthday,” she said, chuckling a little.
“Raymond’s Chowder Place in Alexandra is open ‘till ten pm,” Mark suggested.
“It does sound good, and I’m starving.”
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”
“Okay Mark, I’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Situated three -hundred miles south of Tehran in an arid mountainous region, is the small Iranian farming community of Najafabad. Five miles north of the town nestled up against a barren mountainside, sits a small array of what appear to be mostly run-down buildings. The site of a long-abandoned uranium mining operation, long shafts had been bored deep into the side of the mountain. A small lake had formed over the years alongside of a pile of mine tailings; the water colored a bilious green from the minerals in it. The area was dangerous and had been fenced off to keep the curious away.