INTELLIGENCE FAILURE

by Jon Sedran

  Acosta leaned over the desk. “I’ve told your Prime Minister this before,” he reminded him, sounding slightly irritated.

  “Well, thank you for your time Mr. President,” Glick said, as he slowly stood up.

  “I assure you we are your partners and will continue to closely monitor the situation.”

  Glick nodded slowly, and walked out thoroughly disappointed.

  * * * *

  Returning to work at the Parchin site, Shirazi had provided the data his handlers had requested. So far things were proceeding well. The method of data transfer using his work PC and a very tiny USB device was simple and very hard to detect. After each transfer Shirazi verified the agreed to funds had been placed into to his out of country account. But he was quickly having second thoughts and beginning to lose his nerve.

  Shirazi’s cell phone rang as he walked through the parking lot of his Tehran apartment complex. “Ali, we received the latest data you sent us,” said the voice on the phone.

  He looked around nervously. “Are you sure it is safe to talk about this on my cell phone?” he asked, recognizing the voice as that of Mossad agent Scherial, known in intelligence parlance as his handler.

  “Yes, as we told you, the phone is specially set up. It cannot be tracked or intercepted.”

  Shirazi took a deep breath. “I am ready to leave Iran,” he said, “I have given you everything I can get. You promised me you would get me out and a new life and career. Plant security has been doubled since the explosion, and they watch me all the time.”

  “Ali, you have given us good data, but we still need one set of X-ray flash photos of a successful two-point implosion test with a date and time stamp on them. Then you will quickly be taken out of Iran to a new safe and secure life.”

  Shirazi sighed. “I will try.” He ended the call and slipped his phone back into its holder.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It is one-hundred thirty-five miles from Beirut to Tel Aviv and only about twenty miles from the Lebanon-Israel border to the large Israeli port city of Haifa. No direct flights are permitted between the two countries; all flights must pass through a third country. The border between Israel and Lebanon is also completely sealed to ground traffic.

  For twenty-five years Hezbollah spiritual leader Sheik Saeed Hassan al-Salim had never wavered in his desire to return to, and reclaim his Palestine. Zionist settlers had displaced his family and he had lived much of his life in a refugee camp in Lebanon. His fiery speeches and message were always the same. “The Zionist state is an illegal entity. The land was stolen from its rightful owners, the Palestinians, and it must be returned.” There would be no compromise, ever. He was well aware that to achieve his goal would require something bigger than rocket barrages. Working with like-minded associates in Iran and elsewhere, over the past three years a plan had been painstakingly crafted and put it into motion.

  At two am at a little used Iranian air force base outside Dezful, Iran, a Citation business jet landed and taxied to a stop in front of a darkened hangar. The hangar’s doors were closed and two IRGC soldiers with AK-47s stood guard in front. Al-Salim stepped from the plane and was greeted by Javadi and Namazi.

  “Welcome my friend,” Javadi offered his hand.

  “Thank you ayatollah, Allah Akbar,” replied al-Salim, as the two shook hands. Then al-Salim stepped over to Namazi and shook his hand. “Good to see you general.”

  “Good to see you,” he replied.

  Javadi motioned toward the hangar. “Let’s go have a look.”

  The men walked toward the hangar escorted by two Hezbollah bodyguards and four IRGC soldiers.

  “You are almost two hours late Saeed,” said Javadi, irritated, but feigning a slight smile.

  “A thousand apologies, I was detained with urgent business in Beirut.”

  They stopped just in front of the hangar while one of the guards unlocked the walk-through door located to the side of the large hangar door.

  “Tell me Ayatollah Javadi, how is the project progressing?” asked al-Salim.

  “You shall see for yourself.”

  The guard watched as the three men entered, then closed the door behind them and waited outside with the others. Inside the dimly lit hangar sat two green and white Shorts SD-360 twin turbo prop aircraft. It was a popular aircraft for hauling cargo short distances around the Middle-East. Inexpensive to operate, it had proven itself to be very reliability.

  The men walked through the hangar negotiating their way around carts filled with aircraft parts, toward a small set of steps leading up into the closest aircraft’s side door. Two more IRGC soldiers stood next to the aircraft. A man in white coveralls waited inside, silhouetted by a portable light hanging from a wire fastened to the cargo bay overhead support. He shined a flashlight beam down onto the steps as the three men climbed aboard. “Leave us,” Javadi instructed him. He nodded, handed his flashlight to Javadi and went down the steps.

  Javadi waited until he was out of sight. “We have used only our most loyal IRGC members for this project…and only the general and I know the entire plan.” He pointed the flashlight beam onto a gray metal rack about ten feet long and two feet across fastened with heavy nylon straps to the metal floor near the center of the cargo bay. The rack appeared to be shaped as if to hold a section of pipe about twelve inches in diameter. A small bundle of wires led from a metal box at the base of the rack along the floor and up into the cockpit. Using the flashlight they carefully made their way up to the flight deck. As they entered, the beam illuminated a six inch square black metal box that had been attached with Velcro near the center of the control panel behind the throttles. On the top of the box was a key operated switch and next to it a red-cover guarded toggle switch.

  Javadi sat down in the pilot’s seat and motioned for al-Salim to take the co-pilot’s seat. “Please sit down, my friend.”

  Al-Salim twisted his large torso while tilting his head to the side and maneuvered into the seat. Namazi stood, head bent over, behind them.

  “Our great mission to rid the world of the Zionists will soon get underway,” declared Javadi, turning toward al-Salim. He set the flashlight down on the center console and looked out the windscreen at the darkened hanger door. “Allah willing, we will soon destroy the Zionist entity.”

  Al-Salim smiled and exclaimed, “Glory to Allah, this blight on this Earth will finally be cleansed.” He clasped his hands. “How soon will the planes and the cargo be ready?”

  Javadi turned and looked over his shoulder at Namazi. “General?”

  “The planes will be ready in three weeks’ time, praise be to Allah. The two devices will be ready in six to seven weeks…Dr. Benuit tells me he needs to verify the last two test results,” replied Namazi, adding, “He assures me the old American design will work. It was used by them on Hiroshima without any testing.”

  Al-Salim nodded and smiled. Allah was great indeed, he thought. “And how will the planes get from here to the Zionist state?” he asked.

  “The racks and wire harnesses will all be removed; they were constructed to be easy to take out and re-install,” replied Namazi, adding, “Then the planes will be flown to Damascus to be used to train the two martyrdom crews you have selected for us.

  Al-Salim interrupted, “Will there not be record of these two planes being here?”

  “No,” answered Namazi, firmly. “The tail numbers have been changed and no flight plans were filed…no record exists. And the pilots used to ferry the planes here are my most trusted IRGC officers.”

  “Excellent,” replied al-Salim.

  Javadi put his hands on the control yoke. “After that, the planes will be flown empty by other ferry pilots to the Beirut Airport and put into a leased hangar. There, the partially assembled devices will be completed, loaded on board and the wires connected. While this is being done, our future martyrs will be driven to the hangar. They will receive their final briefing and take their places at the controls and, praise be to Allah, d
eal a knock-out blow to the Zionists.”

  “But how will the racks and the devices get to the hangar?” asked al-Salim.

  “It will all travel in two trucks from our warehouse to Beirut. The shipping crates have shielding to prevent detection of radiation. I have chosen the route carefully and will select the drivers and escorts. The drivers will be told they are delivering special oil drilling equipment,” Namazi explained.

  Al-Salim looked down at the black metal box on the console between them, and then back up at Javadi. “I will have the pilots ready,” he assured the others. “Commander Marid has located four men with some flying experience; four brave men ready to become martyrs. We have made arrangements with a small flying school at the Damascus airport for an instructor who is familiar with this type of plane…and will ask no questions.”

  Javadi smiled broadly. “Excellent Saeed, we had just enough U-235 to build the two devices. Allah willing, everything will be ready in two months’ time.”

  “Blessed be Allah,” responded al-Salim.

  The two men slowly got out of their seats, Javadi taking hold of al-Salim’s shoulder to steady himself. “I do not have to remind you Saeed that some members of the Council of Guardians know nothing of our plan.”

  Al-Salim nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

  Javadi looked sternly at him. “General Namazi is in charge of the planes and their cargo. You must follow his instructions exactly. Our country will be able to deny involvement or any knowledge. After the Zionist entity is sweep from the face of the Earth, all our Muslim brothers will be unable to contain their joyfulness. Praise be to Allah!” Javadi began to laugh.

  The three men stepped down from the aircraft and walked a few feet over to a black-colored flying wing shaped object sitting in a corner of the hangar. Javadi’s flashlight beam shown on the top of the wing and they could see the aircraft was partially disassembled. ‘U.S. Air Force’ could be clearly seen in white letters on the wing’s top surface.

  “This is the American RQ-170 stealth drone we recovered after our Russian friends assisted us in causing it to malfunction and crash land,” said Namazi, proudly. “We have learned a lot from it.”

  Al-Salim looked over the damaged aircraft. “Good, praise be to Allah. More our forces can use against the Great Satan when the time comes.” They walked out of the hangar and across the tarmac to the waiting jet.

  “Goodbye,” said al-Salim. He turned and got back on board the aircraft and quickly departed. Javadi and Namazi got into their car and headed back to Tehran.

  * * * *

  In the DIA’s main auditorium, Maddy had spent the past hour reluctantly sitting through the required annual joint Cyber Command and NSA security briefing on cyber warfare and how the DIA could better defend itself against threats. The presenters showed how many attempted intrusions there were, successes and failures. How robust the Chinese cyber-attacks have been lately and some new Iranian cyber threats. Her mind began to wander. I’ve got to get going, she thought. I need to go to Pakistan myself and get the proof of that uranium shipment. As the briefing wrapped up she sent a short text message to Lowe asking if he was free to meet. A reply came quickly.

  “Free from 1500-1530 hours. Come by.

  LTG Lowe

  Maddy headed straight to his office as soon as the presentation ended. This has to work, she told herself.

  “Come in Maddy,” he said. “And please sit down…what’s with these rumors about you wanting to go to Pakistan?”

  “General, this may sound crazy, but I would like to follow up myself on that on that possible shipment of Pakistani highly-enriched uranium to Iran.

  Yes it does, Lowe silently agreed, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the desk. “If they did make an illegal shipment, why the hell would they keep a record of it?”

  “I believe it was authorized by the Pakistani nuclear program director at that time, and from everything I have learned about him he thought it was a good idea and really didn’t care if anyone found out. He was far too important to their program for anything to happen to him.”

  “Maddy, you have zero field experience. We have trained agents for this sort of thing…why do you want to go yourself? asked Lowe, adding, “It is very dangerous work.”

  “General, I understand, but as you say, I have no clandestine field experience. I will not get respect from this mostly male organization, unless I get some. If I can confirm this nuke transfer information, it may change a lot of minds in D.C. And besides, I will have the CIA station chief with me, and…I need a change of scenery.”

  Lowe thought for a moment. He realized she probably could use the experience. “If something happens to you, I will catch hell for letting you go,” he remarked, adding, “And this will really dent our travel budget for the year,” he said, smiling weakly. You promise me you will do this with the CIA station chief...no exceptions!”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll call the station chief, just to be sure. You have five days. And I’m approving only fifty-thousand dollars for the payment…and it better be authenticatable information.”

  “Understood, and thank you General.”

  “Have a safe trip…and good luck,” offered Lowe. Then he leaned back and said, “Oh, and one more thing, if this turns out to be another dead-end…we move on, okay?”

  Maddy sighed loudly, “Okay, we move on,” she agreed, as she got up and headed out of the office.

  * * * *

  General Walid Aboud of the Syria Army command could only sit by helplessly day after day and watch his country being torn apart by endless civil war. There were so many warring factions it was difficult to know who the enemy was. At Syrian military headquarters in Damascus Aboud stood up behind his desk and greeted Namazi, “Good morning General,” he said, offering his hand. “I am glad you could make it on such short notice.”

  “Good morning general,” replied Namazi.

  “Please sit, general,” Aboud said, motioning with his hand. “Coffee?”

  “No thank you.”

  Aboud sat down behind his desk and began to explain his predicament, “For three years we have unable to dislodge the terrorist forces from Aleppo and we are fighting pitched battles all around Damascus.” He turned his PC monitor so Namazi could see a map displaying the area. “We are also dealing with Daesh. I am certain we will prevail over these terrorist groups but we need more arms and assistance to end this quickly. I asked you here because the Americans, and their puppet the King of Jordan, are sending more and more terrorists across our border to attack civilians.” He glanced at the screen. “Of course, the Americans are bombing Daesh positions, as are we. But, the Americans want to destroy our country and install yet another puppet regime. He wagged his finger at Namazi and said, “I tell you we will never capitulate…and we have solid backing from our Russian friends.”

  “And how can we further assist you?” asked Namazi, flatly.

  “We greatly appreciate everything your country has done for us in fighting these terrorists, but we need more…we need more ground troops.”

  “How many more?”

  “At least three-thousand, for at least one year. With more troops we can defeat the terrorists the Americans and Saudis are arming. Can you believe it general…the Americans are arming al Qaida, their sworn enemy?”

  “Nothing surprises me where the Zionists are involved,” replied Namazi.

  “They have bombed our last three shipments of Russian SA-300 missiles destined for our Hezbollah allies in Lebanon,” reported Aboud, adding, “They have spies everywhere.”

  “Yes, we have shot several,” said Namazi, smiling.

  “We could use those three-thousand to assist with operations to the north and on the Golan Heights,” Aboud replied, adding, “Our Russian allies have agreed to replace the destroyed missiles and to train our air defense forces to use them. We will transfer some to Lebanon…this time without detection by the Zionists.”

  “Your
request is very reasonable, especially in light of the American interference in your internal affairs,” said Namazi. “Iraq has given us permission to use their airspace, so as soon as the Guardian Council approves it, we will send troops to you.”

  Aboud pushed his chair back and stood up. “Thank you general,” he said, adding, “Sheik al-Salim wants to meet with us here next week to discuss his organization’s military hardware needs.”

  Namazi nodded.

  “I will escort you out,” said Aboud, motioning toward the door.

  * * * *

  “General, the American Defense Intelligence Agency has requested permission to allow their Deputy Director to make an official three-day trip here,” the Pakistani ISI protocol officer informed the agency’s Director General.

  “What for?’ asked Singh.

  “They say she wants to interview an informant about some materials which may have been sent to Iran several years ago.”

  “What kind of materials?” asked Singh, knowing the answer before he asked.

  “Nuclear materials,” replied the protocol officer.

  “That shit again?” Singh said caustically, shaking his head. “She?”

  “Yes, Director, Madeline Teagan. Their acting Deputy Director.”

  Singh rolled his eyes. “And did they tell us the name of the informant?”

  “It is not here, general. The request just describes a person of interest…I checked with their CIA station chief and he said he didn’t have the name.”

  “He is lying…and why send their Deputy Director?” Singh asked, not really expecting an answer. He thought for a few moments. “I suppose if I say no, I’ll start another diplomatic skirmish. The last one about their damn drone strikes still hasn’t died down.” He tapped his pencil on the desk. “Okay, fine, tell them yes…but she better not be a real pain in the ass.”