by Jeff Nesbit
Petrov glided through the doorway a moment later. He settled quickly into one of the two chairs positioned sideways across from the prime minister’s desk and waited.
“Has the Duma leadership been briefed?” Rowan asked his chief of staff.
“Yes, moments ago,” Petrov said.
“Their reaction?”
“They were pleased and not surprised. We’ve done a good job of predicting events so far. However, I think they were somewhat surprised that Iran’s strategy in the Strait worked and took the Americans by surprise.”
Rowan nodded. It was time to move on.
“We can assume the Americans will gain control of the situation shortly, and that the Israeli military forces will come to their aid,” Rowan said.
“Yes, most likely.” Petrov knew from many such conversations that it was always best to agree with Rowan.
“So it will only be a matter of time before the Americans manage to move into the Strait and take control of the situation,” Rowan said. “Which means we need to act on the Baku pipeline, right now, while the world oil economy is reeling. We must seize this opportunity, while the world’s attention is directed elsewhere. It is in Russia’s national interest. We must protect that pipeline. We must take every opportunity where oil is concerned.”
Petrov smiled. He could clearly see where Rowan was going. “We’ll need to commit some of our own military to it.”
“Of course, but they’ll largely be under NATO’s authority—to protect the pipeline.”
“The presidents of Georgia and Azerbaijan will protest immediately to the UN Security Council.”
“They’ll get nowhere. With oil supplies closed through the Strait, we have no choice but to secure every other route for oil to Russia and the West. The Security Council will agree with us. We cannot allow Russia to go without oil, and we will argue that the Baku pipeline is critical to our own national security.”
“Yes, absolutely,” Petrov said.
There had been a time, before the fall of the Soviet Union, that all oil from the rich fields just below the Caspian Sea was shipped via pipelines through Russia. But the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan pipeline changed all that and had permanently altered the balance of power in Russia and countries in the former Soviet Union like Georgia and Azerbaijan.
The Baku pipeline stretched from the landlocked Caspian Sea through Azerbaijan, Georgia, and then Turkey to the Mediterranean. While only a small fraction of the world’s oil was shipped through the BTC pipeline, it was a massive thorn in Russia’s geopolitical side.
Russia had insisted at the outset—when the pipeline was first proposed—that the BTC pipeline be constructed through Russia like every other pipeline running from the Caspian to the Mediterranean. When it became clear that this scenario wasn’t likely, Russia withdrew all of its support for the pipeline.
The United States had quietly encouraged all three countries to move forward with the pipeline, despite the Russian protests. The pipeline gave both Georgia and Azerbaijan some measure of independence from Russia, and they made no secret of it. Two different U.S. secretaries of energy had been present at dedication ceremonies when different parts of the pipeline had opened.
But both Petrov and Rowan could see that the current situation presented a unique opportunity to gain control of the pipeline. They would move military forces in, for now, to help protect the flow of oil. And if those Russian troops stayed there for a time to ensure the pipeline’s protection, then so be it.
“But we have another opportunity as well,” Rowan said. “I saw it quite clearly in the satellite pictures, and the SVR director confirms it in his report.”
“From the fight in the Persian Gulf?”
“Yes, from that fight,” Rowan said.
He leaned back in his chair. He was enjoying the fact that Russia was able to wait at the edges of these confrontations and take strategic advantage of them when it made sense to do so.
“There was a second nuclear detonation. That makes two nuclear strikes in the Middle East in less than a week—first, Israel, and now this strike against an American ship.” Rowan continued. “The hole in the side of the U.S. carrier was clearly caused by a tactical nuclear warhead from one of the new Yugos. Nothing else could create a hole that size.”
“The North Koreans built those subs for Iran,” Petrov said, eyes wide. “Which means the nuclear warhead came from them as well.”
“Its design, at the very least,” Rowan said. “But that’s all we’ll need with the Security Council and the media. In effect, North Korea was responsible for the first nuclear strike against an American military facility. The game has just changed, and we cannot miss the chance to move in behind this.”
36
ABOARD THE USS ABRAHAM LINCOLN
The nuclear power plant was in chaos. Black smoke billowed everywhere. Sailors ran through the smoke, patching everything in sight. Sirens pierced the air, drowning out the shouts.
But, despite the chaos, the sailors still managed to come to attention as the vice admiral arrived at the power plant to personally inspect the damage. The sailors were stunned. There was no need for the vice admiral to be here, personally, to see the damage. The ship’s computer system told him everything he needed to know from the highly sophisticated command and control center. He didn’t need to actually visit the power plant to know the extent of the damage.
But Truxton wasn’t your average vice admiral and fleet commander. That was crystal clear to the sailors, and it gave them considerable security to know that their commander was fighting here with them, side by side. It meant a great deal to them, in fact.
Truxton immediately sought the plant’s operations manager. “Are we functional?”
“Yes, sir,” the operations manager answered promptly. “Thanks to everything you threw up around us, the plane only managed some partial physical damage when it landed.”
“The explosion from the Yugo?”
The manager grimaced. “I won’t lie. It did some damage. We’ve got some containment issues right now.”
“How serious?”
“We need to get it under control. I’ll know shortly.”
“But you believe we can contain it?”
“Yes, sir, I do. Thanks to your order, we had enough in place to protect the plant, even with the damage from the Yugo.”
“So the plant won’t go critical?” Truxton already knew the answer to the question, courtesy of the ship’s computers, but he wanted to hear it for himself.
“It will not go critical,” the operations manager said. “We have it contained.”
Truxton nodded. He was pleased. The Abe would not sink. It was in bad shape and wouldn’t move anywhere anytime soon, but it would not sink—and that was all that mattered right now. As far as he was concerned, the mission was a success. They would deal with Bandar Abbas and the Strait of Hormuz in time.
Truxton turned back to the executive officer who had remained at his side throughout the battle. “Are the IAF Bandits close?”
“They’ve just engaged.” The executive officer smiled. “The first reports are that the IAF F-117s came up on every plane in the sky and took them all by surprise. Half of them had enough left to keep going after the remaining attack boats in the area.”
“So the threats are gone from the air and sea around us?” Truxton was mildly surprised and every bit as pleased as the ship’s executive officer.
“We believe so,” he answered.
“And the Yugos?”
“We believe the one that crashed into us was the last in the area.”
It was all good, then. The Abe was stable, and the immediate threats had been neutralized. They were not able—yet—to deal with the Strait of Hormuz. For the time being, Iran controlled the Strait. Truxton knew there were serious geopolitical, economic, and diplomatic consequences of the situation now.
But the Abe was still floating, and the American Navy’s 5th Fleet still had the opportunity to take back
control of the Strait at some point. To Truxton, nothing else mattered. Others would have to deal with the aftermath. He’d done everything he could, for now.
37
NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
The receptionist had no idea what to do with the call slip. It had been more than three decades since anyone from Iran’s Interests Section at Pakistan’s embassy in Washington had felt compelled to contact someone senior at the White House.
There were no diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Iran and no personal connection. All the receptionist knew was that someone who said he was the head of the Interests Section from Iran was on the line, asking to speak to the head of the National Security Council at the White House. It seemed bizarre.
“Give it to Dr. Wright,” the second receptionist said when she was consulted about the call. “She’ll know what to do with it.”
The receptionist nodded. The entire administration staff was thrilled the day that Susan Wright showed up at the office as the president’s deputy national security advisor and chief of staff to the NSC. She’d brought relative peace to the embattled NSC staff office, which had been in turmoil for more than a year over the consolidation of national security and homeland security staff at the White House.
Dr. Wright oozed calm, if such a thing was possible. She always had a smile and a ready laugh in almost any setting. No matter the circumstance, Dr. Wright managed to find a way to be patient. Nothing seemed to faze her. Part of it had to do with her quiet, unassuming faith. She was a peacemaker at heart and in practice.
President Camara’s NSC leadership was, by and large, dominated by retired military. The president’s national security advisor was a retired four-star general, and the previous NSC chief of staff had been a close military advisor as well.
When the NSC staff structure had been completely reorganized to recognize the plain and simple fact that homeland security and the nation’s foreign policy interests were largely cut from the same cloth, there had been some serious infighting for months as dozens of smart and talented people jockeyed for position and power.
But then Dr. Wright arrived on the scene as the new NSC chief of staff—and things began to change in subtle but important ways. Susan Wright firmly believed in chain of command, and the need for a clear management system for important policy decisions, but she also believed in seeking diverse views in a team-building environment. She wasn’t afraid to let opposing voices enter debates.
Part of the reason for her flexibility was her long career in academic life, which encouraged healthy intellectual debate. She’d somehow managed to convince two different schools at Harvard to allow her to pursue simultaneous degrees—a J.D. from law school and a Ph.D. in foreign policy. She’d managed to obtain both within four years, which was almost unheard of. No one knew how she’d managed it—and Dr. Wright never talked about it.
She’d almost immediately jumped onto the tenure track at Harvard and had secured her first large government research grant to study the role of American-styled democracy in the Middle East before she’d turned thirty. She’d always taken a special interest in Israel. Her star in academia had risen in meteoric fashion, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before she was named president of an Ivy League school.
Her colleagues at Harvard were mildly surprised when she’d chosen to take a leave of absence from her duties and research to become the president’s deputy national security advisor. But, in truth, it made perfect sense. She would undoubtedly parlay her DC experience into an even larger role in academia when she left politics in Washington.
Her job at the NSC was difficult. The national security and military superstructure in Washington was heavily dominated by men. But Dr. Wright was no shrinking violet, and she had no trouble at all going nose to nose with senior officials from the Pentagon when necessary.
The front office NSC admin staff, though, didn’t care about any of this. They were just glad to have a friendly face to talk to when they had issues they didn’t understand.
“He says he’s the head of the Interests Section of Iran,” the receptionist said. She clutched the phone slip in her hand.
Dr. Wright swiveled her chair away from her computer monitor and held out her hand. “Let me see the name,” she asked calmly.
The receptionist gladly handed over the phone slip. “He’s on hold.”
Susan recognized the name. He was, in fact, the head of Iran’s Interests Section, which represented Iran’s interests from the embassy of Pakistan in Washington. It was as close to an Iranian ambassador in Washington as you could get.
Susan thought for a moment. The call really needed to go to the State Department. It made no sense for her to take it. But she also knew that, if she referred him to State, he might bounce around there for a few calls. She decided to take it and worry about the consequences later.
“Okay, tell him I’ll be with him in just a second,” Susan said.
The receptionist breathed a sigh of relief and left the office quickly.
Susan turned back to her work on the computer screen, minimized the windows to her work, and waited. The intercom buzzed a moment later, and the receptionist told her which line to pick up.
She picked up the line. “This is Dr. Wright. How can I help you?”
“Oh, wonderful, Dr. Wright,” said the caller. “We were hoping to speak to someone at your level.” The caller paused, clearly uncomfortable.
“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked again.
“I would like to know if you would be willing to speak with Ali Zhubin,” the caller said finally. “He would like to speak to you. It is urgent. You do know of Major General Zhubin?”
Susan closed her eyes. This was a diplomatic nightmare. She had no business, at all, even thinking about taking such a call. It was, without question, more appropriate for the folks at State. But she’d never shied away from difficult calls, and she wasn’t about to start now—not with the American Navy in the middle of a confrontation with Iran’s navy near Bandar Abbas. She could at least hear what Zhubin had to say, then pass on that news to others.
“Yes, I know of General Zhubin,” Susan answered. In fact, she’d met him on two occasions, at academic conferences. Zhubin was a general and the commander of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards, but he’d also studied at Tehran University and had some academic credentials.
“And would you be willing to speak to him? I can connect him, if that is acceptable.”
Susan hesitated just a moment more. “I will speak to him,” she said finally, fully cognizant that the conversation would become a transcript circulated through intelligence circles—on both sides of the ocean—within a matter of minutes.
There was a brief pause, a series of clicking noises on the other end, and then Zhubin came on the line. “Dr. Wright, how nice to speak to you again!” he said exuberantly. “It has been, what, three years since we last saw each other?”
It had been exactly three years. They’d exchanged words briefly at a conference in Geneva. At the time, he had not yet taken over the Guards. And she was at the conference representing a United Nations working group. But he’d remembered the meeting, and so did she.
“Yes, three years. So, what have you been up to since then?” she asked, laughing lightly. “Anything you’d care to share with me?”
Zhubin chuckled. “Ah, Dr. Wright, perhaps we can share stories at a later date. But, today, I have a pressing matter I wish to discuss—one I wanted to convey with a personal call.”
Susan sat forward in her chair and pulled a notepad toward her. She knew she’d have the benefit of transcripts at her disposal following the call, but it gave her comfort to jot notes as she talked. “All right, General, what is it?”
“As you know,” Zhubin said, “we have just achieved a great and important victory over your American Navy in the Gulf of Oman—”
“General Zhubin,” Susan
interrupted, “please spare me the histrionics. There was no great victory. Two suicide missions came at the Abraham Lincoln and did not achieve a thing. We both know that.”
“You may characterize it as you wish,” Zhubin responded, “but the fact remains that your 5th Fleet has stalled in the Gulf and cannot advance. Your carrier, the Abraham Lincoln, is dead in the water. I believe any reasonable observer would call that a great victory.”
“General, we will make sure that the Strait is open for passage shortly,” she said forcefully. “We both know that it’s only a matter of time.”
“Perhaps. But I have additional information I wish to convey. That is why I am calling today—to convey that information.”
“Which is?”
“You are aware that there are many more targets in the Gulf region, beyond the military targets. I wanted to make sure that you are aware of this.”
Iran had made veiled threats for years regarding taking out various oil production facilities in the region in retaliation against any military action by Israel. But taking out those facilities might likely do more damage to Iran than others. Iran was a net importer of refined gasoline, and shutting down the Strait of Hormuz would do serious damage to Iran’s economy. Compounding that with a slowdown in oil production—from Iran and others—could do irreparable damage.
“Yes, General, I am aware of the range of possibilities. But OPEC is prepared to pick up whatever slack occurs if Iran stops producing oil. You know that as well as I.”
“I am aware of OPEC’s position. But OPEC does not make sovereign decisions for Iran. And OPEC also cannot protect Bahrain, Kuwait, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Oman, or even Saudi Arabia. We alone control access to facilities from those countries—now and into the foreseeable future.”
Susan took a deep breath. They were headed into very dangerous waters. “General, I want to make sure I do not misunderstand what you are saying. And I want to repeat what I said earlier. It is only a matter of time before our 5th Fleet re-opens passage through the Strait of Hormuz.”