by Jeff Nesbit
But almost none of those smaller boats were to be found at the moment. Sanjar had his hands full coordinating the big ships and submarines at Bandar Abbas and couldn’t be troubled to deal with the tiny boats that were nothing more than fleas on an elephant. The Guards were undoubtedly deploying them somewhere, for some unknown purpose. It just seemed curious.
Sanjar’s Iridium phone rang at his belt. It was Bahadur. It always bothered him immensely that some in the Guards, like Bahadur, were so foolish that they didn’t realize these satellite phones were open lines to the Western intelligence community. Holding a conversation on these phones, Sanjar knew, was like telephoning the CIA and NSA directly. But he kept those opinions to himself as well. He answered his phone and reminded himself to mind his words, which would become part of intelligence community transcripts almost as he spoke the words.
“Admiral, is the fleet ready?” Bahadur asked without preamble.
“Yes, we are ready,” Sanjar responded. “We await your command.”
“Then move your ships forward. Position them behind the Kilos,” Bahadur said. “The American fleet is on the move, and they will be in your area shortly.”
“Sir, if I may?” Sanjar knew he had to be extraordinarily careful here, on many levels.
“Yes, Admiral?”
“I just wanted to be absolutely certain that this is what the Rev. Shahidi wishes. There will be casualties in a direct confrontation with the Americans.”
“Your concern is duly noted, Admiral,” Bahadur answered. “But let me ask you a question. Do you believe that you can hold the Strait, at least for a time? Can you do that?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Sanjar answered promptly, taking care that his words conveyed confidence. No matter what his private concerns might be, he did not want intelligence transcripts circulating that conveyed those concerns. “We have more than enough to keep the Americans out of the Strait in the short term. We will be victorious. We can hold the Strait.”
“Then that is all that should concern you,” Bahadur said. “You have your orders. Keep the Americans out of the Strait. Order your ships out to sea, and join the Kilos.”
After Bahadur had hung up, Sanjar turned to his second-incommand at the naval headquarters at Bandar Abbas. “It is time,” he ordered. “Move the fleet.”
“You’re certain it’s the best course of action? You don’t want to wait to see what the Americans send forward first toward the Strait?” asked his second-in-command, who shared Sanjar’s concerns. He’d tried to listen in on the recent conversation with Bahadur, but it had been impossible to discern the direction from just one side of the conversation.
“We have our orders,” Sanjar said tersely. “We must move the fleet out to sea now. We will do our best, and may God grant us victory.”
Moments later, virtually every major vessel in Iran’s navy was on its way out to sea, toward the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz.
28
ABOARD THE USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
THE GULF OF OMAN
It made no sense. Truxton had stared at the real-time intelligence communiqué for nearly three full minutes. He saw the words. He understood the words, the sentences, and the order in which they were arranged. He could see the semblance of an understandable military strategy behind them. But they still made no sense to him.
“Sir?” asked the junior officer who’d handed the communiqué to him. “Is everything all right? Is there some further clarification I can ask for?”
Truxton looked back down at the key phrase intelligence had gathered from the rear admiral of Iran’s navy: We can hold the Strait. What did that mean? That they would camp out at the narrow entrance of the Strait, daring the Americans to come in and clear the Iranian ships out? Was it a reckless dare? Was it bravado? Was it desperation?
Truxton knew Sanjar was not a stupid commander. Iran’s navy had shown some limited capability over the years. They had enough at their command, if they chose, to hold off virtually any fleet at the entrance to the Strait for a period of time. But, eventually, greater firepower would prevail. The Americans had too many fighter jets, too many frigates, too many submarines not to prevail.
So what was their aim? That was what troubled Truxton. Surely they didn’t think they could hold off the Americans, and the other UN peacekeeping forces from other parts of the world, that would shortly show up at their doorstep to join the fight?
The world would simply not stand for a permanent closure of the Strait. Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and virtually every other oil producer in the region—except Iran, of course—was screaming at the United Nations even now to keep the Strait open. Iran could close it. But for how long, and at what cost?
The Abe’s captain, Dewey Smith, stood off to one side, studying the communiqué as well. They would receive orders from the Pentagon shortly. Captain Smith wondered how Truxton would respond to the orders, which would direct them to send all of their carrier ships forward to meet the Iranian navy south of Bandar Abbas.
Truxton could override the Pentagon and naval command—but at great risk to his career. If the decision were left to just him, Smith knew he’d likely have no choice but to do exactly as Washington directed. Now Truxton would need to make that call. Some part of Smith was glad.
“Captain, what do you think?” Truxton glanced up from the intelligence communiqué.
“I think it’s pretty clear they’re sending their ships out from Bandar Abbas,” Smith said. “They’ve positioned everything they have around the world here, for a day just like this one. And now they’re on the move.”
Truxton nodded. “We’ve known that for months. They’ve pulled every big ship they have into Bandar Abbas. Virtually their entire navy is right there.”
“Waiting for us,” Smith said quietly.
“Exactly. Just waiting for us.”
Smith had known the vice admiral for a long time. He could practically read his mind at this moment. “They want us to come after them,” he said, echoing what he knew was likely on Truxton’s mind as well.
“They do. It might as well be an engraved invitation. But why?”
“I don’t know,” Smith said, genuinely perplexed. “They must know that they can’t win a direct fight.”
“So why fight?”
“Because they have no choice.” Smith shrugged. “They have limited options right now. They could pursue other targets—like Bahrain—to show the world they aren’t going to stand by while Israel rips their heart out.”
“I suppose,” Truxton mused. “But going into Bahrain, or any other country, would make matters worse for them. We’re right here. They know we’re not going to just sit by and watch them walk through Bahrain or Dubai.”
“So they take the fight to us, the one they know they’re going to have anyway.”
Truxton glanced back at the communiqué, the unanswered question still looming large in his mind. The conversation between Sanjar and Bahadur that NSA had captured and transmitted almost as it had happened was a puzzle. Its meaning was clear. Sanjar had gotten clear orders to move his forces out into the Strait, to meet the American Navy head on. But Truxton knew—with a certainty he wouldn’t be able to articulate to DC—that there was more behind the conversation, something that all of the war planners who’d been up thirty-six hours straight at the Pentagon couldn’t know, or anticipate.
The vice admiral looked over at the phalanx of junior officers who were standing off to the side, waiting for their orders. “What’s the rest of our signal intelligence showing?” Truxton asked, the question directed at no one in particular. “Anything unusual? Any sub movement? Planes sighted anywhere on radar?”
Several of the junior officers glanced at each other. One of them finally volunteered. “Nothing, sir. No activity, other than the three Kilo subs we already know about. And no aircraft anywhere.”
“Nothing?” Truxton asked. “No air cover for the ships moving out from Bandar Abbas?”
“No, sir,” the junio
r officer responded.
“What about their speedboats? Or their Yugos? Any sign of them?”
“No, sir,” said another junior officer. “We’ve been looking, from the air and underwater. We haven’t seen anything.”
Truxton looked back at Smith. “Captain, does that strike you as odd?”
“That we aren’t seeing air cover?”
“Yes, and nothing else as well.”
Smith paused. “Yes, it does seem a little odd. They send all those ships out from Bandar Abbas without air cover?”
“Or anything else, for that matter.”
“We know they’ve got all those smaller boats in reserve,” Smith said. “Where are they?”
They both walked over to the console that displayed every movement within two hundred miles of the Abe. There was a bright array of movement in and around Bandar Abbas. But farther out, closer to the supercarrier fleet, all they saw were friendly signs of activity. There wasn’t a single piece of activity anywhere near them.
“So where’s the rest of it, Captain?” Truxton asked quietly. “Where are they hiding?”
“Trying to protect the Silkworms, maybe?” Smith waved his hand across a bank of hard targets along the southern Iranian shoreline that the Pentagon had long ago identified. Pre-set cruise missiles would shortly take out every single one of the Silkworms that had been positioned up and down the coast. The Pentagon was fairly certain they’d rounded up all of those positions over the years.
“That’s a lost cause,” Truxton explained. “Sanjar and the others know that. They can’t protect those Silkworms. They’ll try to get as many of them out as quickly as they can, but it’s a waste of time to try to protect them. No, the rest of their forces have to be somewhere else.”
“Closer to Bahrain, then?” Smith asked. “Further inside the Gulf, waiting to go after Bahrain, Qatar, or even Saudi Arabia?”
“Perhaps, but not likely. That opens them up to everything we have on the ground in Iraq.”
Smith glanced back at the map and waved his hand over the country of Iran. “There’s nowhere else they could be.”
Truxton stared hard at the southern coastline, away from Bandar Abbas and closer to Pakistan. “Any chance Pakistan has let them slip in on their western border?”
“No chance,” Smith said. “We’ve kept a close eye on the Pakistani ports. We’d know if they were staging something from there—and they’re not.”
“Then that just leaves one option, Captain.”
“Which is?”
Truxton jabbed an index finger at the mountain ranges up and down the Makran coastline. “They’re in there somewhere. They have to be.”
“But we haven’t seen any activity there, nothing to speak of,” Smith said.
“That doesn’t mean they aren’t there,” Truxton answered. “We’ve missed a lot of activity in Iran over the years—like uranium enrichment.”
There was movement at the other side of the room. Truxton and Smith both looked over.
“Sirs,” one of the junior officers called loudly, holding a new communiqué in his right hand, “we have orders from Washington. They want us to join the fight at Bandar Abbas with everything we have. They’re asking you to give the order to move.”
Truxton nodded at the junior officer, then eyed Smith. “Captain?”
“You have to issue the order.” Smith met the vice admiral’s steady gaze.
Truxton gazed off into the distance, weighing his options. He did have to issue the order, but he had some discretion. He could change the rules of engagement, on the margin. In his heart, he knew something was out there, waiting, in the darkness. He’d always trusted that still, small voice—and he’d trust it here.
“Hold a third of your ships and aircraft back, Captain,” Truxton decided finally. “We’re going to leave them here, at Abe’s side.”
“Even though the Iranian ships are at Bandar Abbas?”
“Yes,” Truxton said with finality. “We’re going to see what else shows up to join the fight. Because, Captain, we both know there’s something else out there, even if we can’t see it yet.”
29
BAQA’A, JORDAN
Dr. Thompson glanced at her GPS Garmin running watch, a present from her husband this past Christmas. She couldn’t believe it was almost five in the afternoon. The day had just disappeared. She’d been running from clinic to clinic all day. She hadn’t even stopped for lunch. She was, even now, fondly remembering her morning coffee and bagel.
So much had happened since Aida. She couldn’t help but wonder if the events in East Jerusalem had, somehow, been connected to everything she’d heard about since. But she also realized she might never know the truth. Plus, she had her responsibilities in the many refugee camps. There was never time to rest, much less reflect.
Elizabeth loved her mornings. It was the only part of her day that she had to herself. It had been that way for years, from her days as a student at Baylor Medical School in Houston, Texas, until now. Once she got up from the table each morning, after having her first cup of coffee, she spent the rest of every single day in full service to others, seven days a week.
Dr. Thompson had driven herself hard in the service of others for as long as she could remember. From the time she’d become a Christian at the age of twelve by reading the Bible from cover to cover to see for herself what it was about, she’d decided to give her life in service to others. She didn’t rest each day until every single task she’d set for herself was completed. And every task was always about someone else—never herself.
But that sort of single-minded service to others was why the volunteers and staff in her global health NGO—World Without Borders—loved her. They would all follow Elizabeth to the ends of the earth. They trusted her instincts and, more importantly, her heart.
It was impossible not to see Elizabeth’s faith in blazing glory. She never talked about her faith. She lived it—in every act of compassion, every medical intervention with a refugee, every kind word to a stranger, every diagnosis of a new HIV patient.
Once World Without Borders had been nothing more than a good summer internship idea for students at Rice, Baylor, and several University of Texas campuses. WWB was modestly funded and sent undergraduates to various underdeveloped countries each summer as volunteers to clinics created there by the Baylor Medical School and other Western entities.
But from the moment she’d graduated from medical school at Baylor, Elizabeth had set about becoming both a doctor and a global public health leader. She’d worked relentlessly to establish herself as someone who could simultaneously treat patients and create a compassionate, well-funded global health NGO that could deliver novel medical treatment in third-world countries.
One of her early breakthroughs had been the ability to deliver all of the necessary components of a mobile medical clinic in a backpack. The Lab in a Backpack could handle everything from the diagnosis of HIV, malaria, and TB to the delivery of vaccines anywhere in the world, no matter how remote the location. The cheap, but effective, backpack could go anywhere.
When the Gates Foundation scaled the program up at $50 million, World Without Borders was born. Running WWB was now Dr. Thompson’s full-time job. It operated in thirty countries around the world, delivering low-cost medical care everywhere from clinics in Uganda to Palestinian refugee camps in Jordan, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem.
Elizabeth’s husband, Jon, shared her passion and heart for service to others. A senior finance official at the World Bank, he traveled nearly as much as she did and had a knack for creative solutions in underdeveloped nations. They would often meet in different parts of the world for a few days, then go their separate ways.
Elizabeth knew that, one day, she would also find time for a family. But not just yet. There was too much she wanted to accomplish before starting a family.
She’d just arrived at Baqa’a. The largest Palestinian refugee camp in Jordan, it had almost twice the population of
any of the other refugee camps in the country. Hard numbers for refugees were difficult to come by in Jordan. The government hated to count them, because that simple act inevitably led to Jordanian citizenship, but Elizabeth knew there were easily one hundred thousand refugees in Baqa’a.
WWB now operated in dozens of the Palestinian refugee camps—even in Gaza, where the raw, systemic violence was unrelenting. The fact that Elizabeth rarely traveled with an entourage and never with any semblance of a security detail made the staff and volunteers of WWB exceedingly nervous. But Elizabeth was one of those rare individuals who genuinely believed that her life was in God’s hands—and she lived each day in recognition of that belief.
Her husband had tried on more than one occasion to convince her to travel with at least a personal bodyguard or two, but to no avail. She always answered that she didn’t walk alone, no matter where she was in the world. And no security detail could absolutely guarantee her safety—not in the parts of the world where she and WWB operated.
The truth was that Elizabeth had earned respect almost everywhere she went—respect of the Palestinian leaders in the refugee camps, respect of officials at ministries of health in African nations, and respect of leaders in developed nations such as Israel and the United States. She could walk freely in crowded streets or hallways of power.
Baqa’a, though, was different than most Palestinian refugee camps. Elizabeth actually felt safe in Baqa’a. It was a lot like Aida in that respect. It operated almost the way a city would in a free, united Palestinian state. It had a camp TV station, of sorts, that people could watch on YouTube. People wrote local news stories about the camp that they posted online. They talked of soccer around the world, raised families in relative peace, and traveled to other parts of the country with ease.