INTELLIGENCE FAILURE

by Jon Sedran

  The driver got out of the sedan and announced, “I am ISI Section Chief Hurami. What are you doing here?”

  “We are both with the U.S. consulate here on official business,” Jamaki replied.

  “What business? Let me see identification!” Hurami demanded.

  “We were trying to get information about illegal weapons shipments which might endanger American interests,” Jamaki replied, reaching for his ID card.

  “This man is known to us to be a criminal, why would you want any information he had,” Hurami demanded to know. Before Jamaki could answer, he ordered his men to search all three. Two men pushed Jamaki and Maddy against their car and searched all three, but did not discover the envelope with the fifty-thousand dollars in it which Mahal had stuffed down his pants.

  Hurami looked over Jamaki’s U.S. Government identification card. Then he reached into the car and retrieved Maddy’s purse. Going through it he found Maddy’s DIA identification badge and firearm. “Gil Jamaki, you are CIA.”

  “I’m a State Department Foreign Service Officer,” Jamaki replied, matter-of-factly.

  “You are the CIA station chief,” Hurami stated emphatically, adding, “And you are DIA, Madeline Teagan.”

  Maddy nodded weakly. “Yes,” she replied.

  “Mr. Jamaki, you know the rules, you are supposed to coordinate your operations with us.”

  Jamaki rolled his eyes and said nothing.

  “Why did you try to lose my two motorcycle officers?” Hurami asked.

  “We didn’t know they were ISI. We thought they were going to try to rob us,” Jamaki replied.

  Hurami smirked as he returned their belongings and identification. “Open the trunk,” he directed. Jamaki complied and Hurami looked down into the empty trunk.

  “Okay, I am going to let you go…but I am going to report this incident to my superiors and they will file an official complaint with your State Department,” advised Hurami. “Put this one in our car,” he directed his men, pointing at Mahal. “We will question him further.” Two of his men handcuffed him and shoved him into the back seat of their vehicle.

  Jamaki got back behind the wheel as Maddy took her purse back and walked around to the passenger side. She found her path blocked by one of the two motorcycle riding agents. “Please move,” she requested. The man, several inches taller than her, just stood there smiling.

  She tossed her purse into the car through the open window and then again asked him to step aside. “I don’t think so,” he said in very broken English. The other ISI men began to laugh. Jamaki very slowly reached for his gun next to the seat. The man reached up to put his hand on Maddy’s shoulder. But that was as far as he got. With two quick aikido moves she threw him to the ground. He landed flat on his back with a loud thud. The other men broke out laughing. Maddy stepped over him and got back into the car. The agent got up, dusted himself off and went back to his motorcycle. As the motorcycles and sedan and pulled away, Jamaki quickly put the car into ‘Reverse’ and they drove off.

  “What will they do to Badir?” Maddy asked.

  “It won’t be pretty. We should get you and those documents out of the country as quickly as possible,” Jamaki replied, adding, “I’ll put them into a diplomatic courier bag as soon as we get back.”

  * * * *

  At five am the next morning, on what was an unusually chilly late winter day, the crew of the Nahid headed out from Bandar Abbas and into the Strait of Hormuz. Acting on orders from above, Yavisht had reluctantly placed an IRGCN guardsman at the helm. He would regret his decision.

  A large cold mass of air rarely seen in this part of the world had pushed down into warmer moist air, creating a dense fog. It took over an hour for Yavisht and his crew to cautiously maneuver the Nahid out past the islands that dot the Iranian coastline and into their assigned patrol area in the Strait. The uncommon weather conditions had caused coastal fog normally confined to three to four miles off shore, to move out into the shipping lanes, reducing visibilities to less than one-quarter mile. Under these conditions, ships primarily rely on GPS and radar to navigate and to avoid collisions. Three miles away, the U.S. Navy Ticonderoga Class cruiser U.S.S. Princeton was heading north through the narrow Strait to join the Fifth Fleet operating in the Persian Gulf. The ship had seen a good many years of service but had been upgraded several times with newer technology. Its crew was well trained. Per procedures, they were to travel in the internationally recognized shipping lanes and avoid contact with Iranian naval vessels as they made their way into the Gulf.

  Deep within the ship, in the Combat Information Center, or CIC, the radar systems operator controlling the main radar systems, saw a blip on the screen and reported it to the bridge. “Radar shows an unidentified intermittent target, bearing zero eight zero degrees, heading toward us, can’t tell the speed, range two miles…getting a lot of clutter from the islands and other ships.” On the bridge the ship’s executive officer, or XO, acknowledged his report.

  “Okay, keep a sharp eye out everyone,” directed ship’s captain, Commander Paul Arietta. “Weather report says we’ll be in dense fog for a few more miles.” This was Arietta’s first cruise as captain of the Princeton. He had been in command of the ship for only four months. A seventeen-year navy veteran, he had graduated last in his class at Annapolis, and was also the shortest male in his class. He mostly brushed off the comments both distinctions drew.

  The XO looked up at the bridge radar display just as the radar systems operator called again from the CIC, “Captain, the target is there again, still intermittent, no speed,” he reported. Then his screen went dark. “Damn, primary SPY-1 radar just went down,” he informed the bridge.

  “Get the technician on it right away and switch to backup,” directed the XO.

  “Switching to backup,” replied the operator.

  “I better get down to the CIC and make sure they get right on it,” the XO informed the bridge. Arietta nodded his okay.

  Onboard the Nahid, Yavisht was having his share of difficulties. He too had only been in command for a few months. His ship was old with many systems not properly maintained due to chronic parts shortages. On most patrols the crew struggled with equipment failures, low morale, and the uncooperative and haughty IRGCN crewmembers they were forced to take along. Today, Yavisht felt particularly uneasy; it was something he couldn’t quite figure out.

  “Captain, we had a target ahead about one mile…at our two-o’clock, but it is gone now,” reported the Nahid’s radar operator.

  “Get a second man up on watch,” ordered Arietta. “Damn fog,” he mumbled to himself. “Make fifteen knots.”

  “Fifteen knots,” replied the helmsman, adjusting the throttles.

  “There it is again captain,” reported the Nahid’s first officer glancing up at the radar screen. “Looks like a large ship. Identification was there for a few seconds, probably a tanker, heading about one-eight zero degrees. I estimate fifteen knots.”

  “Okay, maintain heading,” ordered Yavisht, nervously looking down at his navigational chart.

  “Another intermittent target captain, at ten o’clock,” reported the Nahid’s first officer. “Heading three-six zero degrees…identification was there for a second, showed the U.S.S. Princeton.”

  “Keep your eyes outside everyone,” directed Yavisht.

  “They are in our waters…and maybe outside the lanes,” announced the first officer, looking at the chart and trying to plot their position.

  Yavisht got out his binoculars, peered futily into the dense fog, and then set them back down. Just then the poorly maintained radar unit went out. “Radar out again captain,” reported the Nahid’s radar operator as he flipped a few switches to try to bring the aging equipment back on line.

  The IRGCN helmsman looked back at the captain. “Are they in our waters and out of the lanes?” he demanded to know, in a loud voice.

  “Just drive the damn boat,” directed Yavisht.

  The two new
fast torpedoes they were carrying employ a principle known as cavitation, whereby tiny air bubbles are trapped in a cavity in the nose of the torpedo as it travels underwater. This reduces drag and enables the torpedo to travel at speeds of up to one-hundred twenty knots, or twice the speed of the standard U.S. Mark 48 torpedo. Its high speed required that the detonating mechanism be a completely new design. The Russians had sold Iran the basic torpedo plans, and granted them a license to produce their own version. All modern torpedoes incorporate safety features preventing the warhead from arming until the torpedo has travelled a certain distance. To expedite deployment the Iranians had installed their own detonator mechanism and put the torpedo into production with only limited testing.

  “Captain, radar has a tanker off to starboard, heading one-eight zero degrees, fifteen knots, less than five-hundred yards. They are blocking the radar signal in that quadrant now,” reported the Princeton’s radar operator.

  “We’ll be by them shortly,” advised Arietta, watching the bridge radar display.

  After a tense minute the Princeton’s radar operator called the bridge again. “Captain, that other target is there again, maybe eight-hundred yards, bearing zero-eight zero degrees, no identification, closing on us at about seventeen knots.”

  “XO, radio our position on guard frequency. Warn them we are here,” directed Arietta.

  “Aye captain,” replied the XO. He began to transmit their location and heading on the international guard frequency to all ships in the area.

  The Nahid’s radar operator had tried, but been unable to get the radar back up as they stared into the thick grey mist.

  “I cannot see a damned thing…may Allah guide us,” the first officer mumbled.

  “Use the damn GPS to avoid the islands and the shallow water,” Yavisht barked.

  “Look the fog is lifting,” announced the first officer pointing to a slightly clearer area ahead.

  “Maintain heading two seven zero and increase speed to twenty knots,” directed Yavisht.

  “Twenty knots,” replied the helmsman, pushing the throttles forward.

  Moments later the blanket of fog peeled back revealing the Princeton passing directly in front of them from left to right. Yavisht leaped to his feet. “Full reverse, hard to starboard,” he shouted at the helmsman. We should have a few moments-just enough to avoid a collision, he prayed.

  But the IRGCN corpsman had other ideas. He slammed the throttles full forward and held the steering control with a death grip. “The infidels are in our waters!” he screamed.

  * * * *

  In Tehran, with Kaviani attending to business at the Ministry of Defense, Javadi was presiding over a meeting of the Guardian Council. The final report was getting underway.

  “As the Council requested, I conducted an assessment of the state of the American economy,” announced the Economics Minister. He glanced down at some papers, and then began, “I believe the Americans are on an unsustainable economic path that will cause them to fail just as the Soviet Union did. They must continually increase their massive debts just to maintain their economy. Their military adventures are also causing them an impossible burden. To maintain the American hegemony, they cannot afford cuts to their military budgets. Any budget cuts, or so called austerity measures, will only further weaken their military-spending dependent economy.” He turned the page on his report, “They have debts so large they can never be repaid. This issue has driven a large wedge into their politics.”

  “How long do you estimate until they reach a tipping point?” asked Ayatollah Barum.

  The minister glanced down at his report. “Perhaps a year or two…it will happen slowly at first, and then accelerate very quickly.”

  Javadi tapped his pencil on the table. “I have information that as a result of their economic situation the U.S. Fifth Fleet strength in the Persian Gulf has been greatly reduced and they have cut the number of deployed aircraft in this area as well.”

  Barum quickly spoke up, “That is good, but any resumption of the economic sanctions will cripple our economy. We might not outlast them.”

  Javadi shot back. “We must continue to resist their blatant aggression. We cannot let the Zionist entity or the Great Satin keep us from fulfilling our destiny.”

  “So long as the IAEA inspectors continue to report our compliance with the agreement, the sanctions will remain lifted,” offered Massoud, adding, “The American President has expressed a willingness to meet directly with me to discuss new trade possibilities.”

  Javadi looked around the table. “America is growing weaker by the day.” Of this he was certain. “They are overextended everywhere, and their economy is failing.”

  “Perhaps, but for now there are some positive signs Washington is willing to distance itself from the Zionist state and work with us,” replied Barum.

  Javadi leaned back in his chair and began to scroll through some screens on his phone. “America has been weakened by twelve years of continuous war and the American people do not want another conflict.” He thought for a moment. “If they push us too far, we can disrupt their supply of oil through the Strait. This will cripple the economies of the west for years to come.” The others all nodded in agreement.

  Javadi briefly read a text message and then adjourned the meeting.

  * * * *

  “Captain! Iranian patrol boat heading right at us, starboard!” shouted the Princeton’s bridge watch, pointing at the ghostly Nahid having suddenly appearing from out of the fog and now nearly upon them.

  “Shit, hard to port!” yelled Arietta. “Sound collision, brace for shock!”

  The helmsman turned the Princeton hard to port, sending several crewmembers tumbling to the deck.

  “Why don’t they turn Goddamn it?” Arietta yelled. The Nahid was now less than one-hundred feet from the Princeton and on a direct collision course.

  The IRGCN corpsman at the Nahid’s controls had fury in his eyes. Two crew members were desperately trying to wrestle him down as Yavisht raced forward to yank the throttles into reverse. “Sound collision!” he yelled. By now several crewmembers had come up on deck and there was terror on their faces. Barely a second before impact two crewmen tried to dive overboard, but it was too late. The Nahid slammed into the starboard side of the Princeton amidships. The impact caused the Nahid’s two new fast torpedoes to be driven forward in their launching tubes. The tubes themselves were torn loose from their deck mounts and with the torpedoes still partially inside them, flew forward striking the side of the cruiser. Both warheads detonated simultaneously upon impact resulting in an enormous blast.

  Onboard the Princeton, four crewmembers who had been leaning over the railing watching the bizarre scene unfold directly below them, were sent into eternity. Several of the bridge crew including Arietta, were thrown to the deck.

  “Sound general quarters…all stop! Damage control teams report to stations!” Arietta shouted from his sprawled position. The ship shuddered but its momentum would carry it forward for another half mile.

  The twin explosions blew the bow off the Nahid and put a fifteen foot gash in the side of the Princeton near the water line. The blast buckled the Princeton’s hull and cracked the superstructure. The cruiser quickly began to take on water. What remained of the Nahid rolled onto its side and immediately sank.

  Arietta picked himself up off the deck. “Jesus, that was no accident it was a suicide attack! Get the damage control teams going!” he yelled.

  The Princeton’s crew quickly went into action. A thick river of oil was pouring out the gaping hole in the ship’s side and fires were raging two decks below. On the bridge enunciator console display, icons were turning from red to green, as watertight doors closed throughout the ship.

  “All stations report status!” Arietta ordered, “Contact fleet, flash priority, advise them we have been rammed by an explosive-filled Iranian boat…we are taking on water and are on fire!”

  The Princeton slowly came to a stop.
Warming temperatures had begun to clear away the fog and low clouds which had a few minutes earlier reduced the visibility to near zero.

  “Sir, fleet acknowledges our distress call,” advised the XO. “They are sending aircraft and directing one of our closest ships to assist. The Freedom is about…”

  The communications officer inadvertently cut him off. “Captain, “Sir, Admiral Morris is on the secure radio!” he yelled above the noise of the horns.

  “Tell her to standby, Goddamn it!”

  Onboard the fifth fleet’s flagship, the carrier George H.W. Bush, Vice Admiral Pamela Morris re-read the message and passed it along the ship’s captain.

  “Let’s get some F-18’s there,” she directed as she contacted the Pentagon and the Chief of Naval Operations.

  “Captain, fleet advises the LCS Freedom is on its way,” reported the Princeton’s XO. “They’re forty-two miles south of us and they should be here in about an hour.”

  Arietta had arrived at the most logical conclusion; it was a suicide attack. He also correctly surmised there was likely at least one more Iranian patrol boat in the area.

  He picked up the secure comm. “Admiral, we were rammed by an Iranian patrol boat which blew up on impact; we believe it was a suicide attack. They made no effort to turn away and the blast was large. They hit us amidships on the starboard side. We have major damage and out of control fires. We will send more details, but right now we have to keep the ship from sinking.”

  “Understand,” replied Morris.

  “Captain, we have a gaping hole on the starboard side and are taking on water! Fires are out of control on decks three and four!” reported the damage control officer, adding, “We have number two switchboard room flooded and also damaged fire control systems. Initial report shows twenty-one casualties. Main SPY-1 radar, forward gun, and the AEGIS system are all off-line.”