INTELLIGENCE FAILURE

by Jon Sedran

  “Fire control, if they turn on their fire control radar, you are cleared to fire on them,” directed Arietta. The captain of the Freedom also issued similar orders to his crew.

  “Admiral, intercepts indicate the Iranian ship is awaiting orders,” reported the George H.W. Bush’s on-duty linguist, adding, “Their command is asking them if our ships are in Iranian waters.”

  “Admiral, the Freedom radioed they are in the international lane and are prepared to engage, along with the Princeton, and two F-18’s from Hammer flight that are overhead,” reported Clancy.

  Morris reviewed the latest SITREP and contacted the captains of both ships by voice. “Go ahead and immediately get underway, turn to a heading away from Iranian waters. If the Iranian ship makes any aggressive move, you are cleared to sink it. The F-18’s will engage as well and they will stay with you as you depart in case any other Iranian ships show up,” she paused, and then added, “Be aware there have been unconfirmed reports of an Iranian Kilo-class sub operating close to your position…no reports of any hostile aircraft at this time.”

  Nasfi looked up as two F-18’s in full afterburner streaked by low overhead. He placed a pencil mark on the map giving it his best guess as to their present location and was trying to mark the U.S. ship’s position, when he was interrupted.

  “Look at the charts captain,” the IRGCN officer screamed at him, looking over Nasfi's shoulder, and pointing to their apparent position, “They are clearly in our waters and outside the lanes, we must stop their aggressions!” he yelled.

  As the Princeton’s one functioning engine reluctantly came back to life, Arietta directed the radioman to broadcast a message on the universal guard frequency. “Tell them we are in the international shipping lane and are leaving the area…do not interfere.”

  “This is the USS Princeton we are leaving the area…we are in the shipping lane, do not attempt to interfere,” the linguist sent out on the radio.

  “Let’s get underway, heading three-one zero,” ordered a sullen and shaken Arietta. The remaining engine struggled to push the Princeton forward as the ship slowly made a turn which would take it toward Bahrain. The Freedom again advised the Iranian ship not to interfere as they got underway escorting the crippled cruiser. Their fire control radars remained active as they departed the area.

  “Captain, it is your duty to attack the Americans,” the IRGCN officer shouted. “Where are our two ships? Where are the crews?” he demanded to know.

  Nasfi looked out again with binoculars. “The Americans would have radioed us if there were any survivors they picked up. We have one ship, they have two, one damaged and one not, and two fighter jets directly overhead,” replied Nasfi, adding, “We would not survive for ten minutes. No, we will remain on station and look for any survivors. Then return to fight another day. Let’s get the search teams on deck.”

  “Cowards!” screamed the IRGCN officer, tossing the charts to the deck and storming off.

  Sir, our command calling again,” reported the first officer.

  “Advise them we have marked the location and are getting a search for survivors underway,” directed Nasfi.

  * * * *

  Overnight the news of the naval incident in the Strait had attracted global attention. All U.S. intelligence agencies were recalling staff and preparing to cancel leaves. The President and Joint Chiefs were already requesting information to try to get a clear picture of exactly what had happened.

  Lowe had come into the office on Saturday knowing DIA would be inundated with requests for intelligence. He immediately activated the DIA’s electronic recall system to bring in key staff. When Barillas arrived he had an urgent text message waiting from Lowe requesting that he to go immediately to the general’s office.

  Lowe was watching CNN on the wall monitor from his desk when Barillas arrived. “Arron, this incident in the Strait of Hormuz could get real ugly, real fast.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the Joint Chiefs will be wanting updated intelligence on that area any minute now,” Barillas replied.

  Lowe nodded and muted the television. “Get your staff together and pull up the latest we have on Iranian military forces operating in the Strait of Hormuz and the Persian Gulf. I want all the latest on their air and naval assets and especially ship deployments. Get the latest satellite imagery from NRO too.”

  “I’ll get right on it, general.”

  “Oh, and one more thing, I want Deputy Director Teagan to go on to Mumbai and meet with their Khüfīya Bureau Director on that possible shipment of special switches CIA learned of. I’ll contact their Director and coordinate. Can you get one of our travel staff to make the flight arrangements and then send her a secure text with the details, for me?”

  “Will do general.”

  * * * *

  “Mr. President, CNN’s headline story is calling it a confrontation between Iranian patrol boats and the U.S. navy ship Princeton,” said Alby, adding, “The Iranians are giving their side…calling it blatant aggression in Iran’s sovereign waters. They say they will retaliate with all their forces and they will mine the Strait of Hormuz.”

  Acosta was standing in the Oval Office watching the news on the T.V. “Any more hostile actions?” he asked.

  “None reported,” Alby replied.

  “And our ships?”

  “Princeton moving under own power to Bahrain for repairs,” reported the Defense Secretary. “They’re being escorted by the LCS Freedom. The fifth fleet is now at DEFCON Three.”

  “Damn it, what the hell happened?” asked Acosta, looking sternly at Simpson.

  “Sir, the entire area is a powder keg…and has been for at least two decades,” said an exasperated Simpson, adding, “Our ships and their ships operate in close proximity and the Iranians say we don’t belong there. You couldn’t ask for a more volatile combination.”

  “I know that Alex, thank you…but do we know exactly what the hell actually happened?” asked Acosta, glancing up at the T.V. news on a wall monitor.

  “The first reports from the Princeton make it sound like they deliberately rammed our ship,” said Simpson. “But, truthfully Mr. President, it doesn’t make any sense. Why ram our ship with a regular navy patrol boat? Why not fire on it and flee? Hit and run is their preferred naval tactic. Whereas a typical suicide mission would likely be a small boat filled with explosives.”

  “So, you think it might have been an accident,” asked Acosta, again looking up at one of the monitors showing news coverage of the event.

  “There have been half dozen collisions in those waters in the past fifteen years, Mr. President. It was reported foggy and, truthfully, we may never be one-hundred percent certain what happened. The patrol boat sank with all hands lost.”

  “And the second patrol boat?” asked Acosta.

  “That boat arrived a few minutes after the first engagement. Our navy was forced to fire on it and sink it when they refused to back off and looked like they were going to open fire,” replied Simpson, adding, “They put a missile into the Princeton…killed quite a few of the crew.” He reviewed his notes. “A short time later an Iranian frigate arrived on the scene. There was no exchange of fire and our ships left the area.”

  * * * *

  State Department employees worldwide were now being advised to be extra cautious, especially when travelling. The embassy staff in Islamabad had tried unsuccessfully to get Maddy on flight back to D.C. for that evening. She spent the night in accommodations on the embassy compound watching T.V. news and reviewing all available documents on Pakistan’s Engineering Research Laboratory. The next day as she was getting ready to leave for the plane trip home, a secure priority message arrived for her from DIA.

  “Could you please print it out,” she requested of one of the CIA staff.

  “Of course, the staffer replied, “No problem.”

  It was from Barillas. She read it over and showed it to Jamaki. “General Lowe wants me to go Mumbai on Monday and speak with the Khüf
īya Bureau’s Director about those fast switches that possibly went in that shipment to Iran,” she explained. She read through the new flight information and then looked at her watch. “Gil, I will be leaving tomorrow afternoon…to Mumbai…lousy connections…damn, I won’t get there until five-thirty Monday morning.”

  “Sleep on the plane,” Jamaki advised, somewhat sarcastically. “I will make arrangements for someone to take you to the airport tomorrow.”

  Maddy sent a text reply:

  Got your message. Will leave tomorrow for Mumbai. Have the new flight info.

  Hope to learn more and maybe verify the info I received.

  Maddy settled in for another night at the embassy compound. The switches and the documents may be the confirmation I’ve needed, she hoped.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It had only taken the ISI interrogators a few hours to get the truth out of Badir Mahal. They took him to the Islamabad prison where they strip searched him and immediately found the envelope with the fifty-thousand dollars in it. When he refused to disclose the information he had obviously been paid for, they tied up his wrists and ankles and dragged him naked to a secluded cell. Next they hung him from the ceiling and threw a bucket of water over him. A car battery and a set of jumper cables got him to cooperate.

  He was released after two days but his money was not returned. Bitter and angry he returned home with a plan to get even. He still had the information on his contact person in Iran from when he had been involved in the Pakistani nuclear program. He proceeded to tell the contact a story about how he had been tortured by the ISI while American agents watched. He told him how they had tried to learn about some allegedly stolen nuclear material and the altered records, but he had resisted and told them nothing. He mentioned the names of the two American agents. The contact thanked him and told him he would pass the information along.

  * * * *

  Throughout Iran news of the incident filled television screens. The state-controlled Islamic Republic News Agency or IRNA ran 24-hour coverage with patriotic music playing in the background. Videos showed Iranian naval vessels in action and the Grand Ayatollah and General Namazi watching Republican Guard troops pass in review. As is routine, the reports were carefully crafted to suit the nation’s current political climate, “Praise Allah, our valiant sailors have sank a large American ship that entered our waters in an aggressive attempt to intimidate the Republic of Iran.” Only the briefest of mention was made of the two Iranian patrol boats now rusting on the seabed.

  Javadi and Namazi arrived in late afternoon at Benuit’s office in the Ministry of Energy’s building. Javadi had requested the meeting to discuss the progress of their special project. As the two men entered Benuit’s office he got up from his chair and motioned toward a small table. “Please gentlemen, sit down and I will bring you up to date,” he said, adding, “Can I get either of you something to drink?”

  Namazi just shook his head. Javadi mumbled, “No”. Kaviani is old and weak, Javadi thought, as he sat down and looked around the office. I cannot believe he just agreed with Moussad to allow the U.N. to pretend to investigate the deliberate sinking of two of our ships in our waters.

  Benuit took a seat at the table. “First, I must tell you the U-235 we had in storage had to be re-machined to make it work and we lost some material in the process.

  Namazi gave Benuit an icy stare. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “The yields will be considerably less than I originally calculated,” replied Benuit.

  “How much less?” growled Namazi.

  “Based on my calculations I would say the yield will be six to eight kilotons each.” More like three to five, if we are lucky, he told himself.

  “That will destroy a city, yes?” asked Javadi, quickly losing patience.

  “Yes it will,” replied Benuit, trying to sound optimistic under the circumstances.

  “Then build the damn things; you are behind schedule,” directed Namazi abruptly. “The Americans have attacked our naval ships in our own waters. We need them now,” he announced loudly.

  A grim-faced Javadi looked down at the table and then at Benuit. “Anything else?” he asked, clearly irritated. Benuit responded about the progress he was making and suggested they meet at Oghab-Three in two days, so he could show them first hand.

  “Make the arrangements,” Javadi directed, as they got up to leave.

  * * * *

  The sun had just come up when the dark blue SUV pulled up to the airport curb in Mumbai. Out stepped a short dark-skinned man sporting a goatee. “Hello, Director Teagan, welcome to Mumbai, I am Sacha Bhatt I am here at the request of Director Chopras.” His English near-perfect.

  “How did you recognize me?” asked Maddy. It was all she could do to drag herself from the plane to the curb. She was exhausted and had been unable to sleep at all on the flights.

  “I am in the business of recognizing people,” he replied, smiling slightly. “Would you like me to stop and get us some coffee?”

  “Oh my God, yes…please…that sounds great and please call me Maddy…everyone does.”

  “Okay, Maddy, get in…it’s not a long drive.” He put her bag in the back then pulled out into traffic and headed through the city.

  “Thank you for coming to pick me up.”

  “You’re welcome…there is a place just ahead with excellent coffee,”

  “Beautiful city,” said Maddy looking out the window and trying to sound pleasant.

  “Some areas are nice,” he agreed.

  They made a quick stop for coffee and then drove for another forty-five minutes before coming to the entrance ramp to an underground parking garage. Bhatt stopped and inserted his identification badge into the reader. The gate quickly swung up and they went in and parked.

  “I’ll take your bag,” Bhatt offered, as they got out.

  “Thank you.”

  A guard glanced at Bhatt’s badge and then opened the building door for them.

  “The Director’s office is down the hall. We must first go through the security checkpoint. We will have to show them identification, and I will need to sign you in.”

  “Okay,” said Maddy, digging into her purse for her DIA identification. They passed through security and then walked down the hall to the Director’s office suite.

  “Please wait here, the Director will be right with you,” said Bhatt, setting her bag down and leaving.

  Maddy nodded and looked around at the office decorations. A large carved ivory tusk in a glass case caught her eye.

  “Hello, Director,” said a voice coming from the rear office.

  “Hello,” replied Maddy, slightly startled, as a tall thin man with a dark well-groomed beard, in his early fifties stepped out into the outer office.

  “I am Director Chopras…I noticed were looking at the ivory tusk.”

  “Yes, it is…um, very nice!”

  “Trade in the ivory is illegal. It was confiscated by customs, and I managed to then acquire it.”

  “I see, very nice.”

  “Are you surprised so many of us speak English?” Chopras threw out.

  “No, not at all...I’m Deputy Director Teagan, but everyone calls me Maddy.”

  “We were an English colony for many years,” offered Chopras.

  “Yes, I know,” Maddy acknowledged, sounding somewhat sympathetic.

  Chopras stood for a few moments, seemingly admiring Maddy and her manner of dress. “Maddy, we are going to go for a short walk to another part of the facility…your bag will be safe here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We are going to an area few see.” They left the office and started down the hall. “Our operatives must keep their identities secret.”

  “I understand completely, we do the same.” She accompanied Chopras down a flight of stairs, through a long corridor, finally stopping at a closed door. Chopras knocked twice, then inserted a key and turned the lock. As he opened the door Maddy could see a man sitti
ng at a small table smoking a cigarette. A pall of blue-grey smoke hung in the air.

  “This is Hal, said Chopras, adding, “Not his real name of course.”

  “Hello,” offered Hal.

  Maddy pulled out a chair. “I’m Maddy with the U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency, I understand you have some information about a possible shipment of Krytron tubes from Pakistan to Iran?”

  Hal put out his cigarette in an ashtray, which made Maddy very happy. “Yes, I had occasion to meet with an arms buyer with whom I have had previous contacts. He was shipping some military hardware to Iran. I came upon some men at an airport warehouse who had opened a crate not yet sealed by customs. I asked them what they were doing. They dropped an item onto the ground when I startled them. It appeared to me to be a Krytron tube. I have some knowledge in this area and I know their characteristics and the primary use for these fast switches, which is in nuclear bombs.”

  “Any idea how many were in the shipment?” asked Maddy.

  “Perhaps five or six, not sure,” replied Hal, glancing up at Chopras.

  Maddy looked up at Chopras. “They signed that nuclear agreement so why would they need those switches?

  Chopras silently shook his head.

  “Director, could I get the shipping manifest and customs documents for that shipment?”

  “Yes, I will send it electronically, by secure means,” Chopras replied.

  “I can assure you those switches are not on the manifest,” said Hal.

  “I understand…well, thank you,” said Maddy, hesitating for a moment. ”Director, can I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course,” replied Chopras lighting a cigarette and taking a seat at the table.

  “Privately.”

  “Hal, please excuse us.”

  “Thank you again Hal,” said Maddy, as he got up and left the office.

  Maddy waited for the door to close. “While I was in Pakistan I got a hold of some inventory sheets from the Engineering Research Laboratories,” she said, digging through her purse for some notes. “They appear to show about one-hundred twenty kilograms of highly enriched uranium disappeared from their inventory about fifteen years ago. I would like to ask my director for permission to forward them to you after we look at them, if you be willing to check them out?”