by Carr, Jack
After the Iran-Iraq War, and with approval from the Islamic Council, relationships were reestablished with European and American institutions of higher learning under the guise of modernizing Iran. In reality, a long-term deep penetration program was being set up. Iranian students began to once again study abroad in programs financed through government scholarships, particularly in the areas of science and medicine.
At first, Ali had been furious that the government had pulled him from his unit. By that time, he was already a member of the IRGC, preparing to avenge his father by facilitating chaos in Iraq. He was training up to replace an insurgent leader who had been killed across the border by the Americans. He was finally going to get his chance. Instead, he’d been summoned to the capital for a meeting. A week later, still dreaming of infiltrating across the Iraqi border and leading Shiite militia against the invaders, he began his studies at the University of Medical Sciences in Tehran. He was twenty-three years old.
His military file disappeared and was replaced with an exemplary academic record. They promised him that if he excelled at the university and in his intelligence training, he’d get his chance to kill more Americans than he ever would smuggling IEDs across the border. It was going to take time. Their new student needed to learn patience.
During the day, he was on a premed track with a heavy emphasis on English and German. Following classes, he would practice surveillance detection techniques taught to him by his instructors in Department 15. At night and on his days off he learned to rent cars, check into hotels, and order dinner and drinks. And he learned to kill. He was taught dead drops, surveillance and countersurveillance techniques, covert communication, and improvised weapons and explosives. His interrogation training was conducted with political prisoners from Section 209 of the Evin House of Detention in Tehran. If the brutal interrogations went too far, no one would miss them; they had already disappeared. Most important, he was taught the dark art of assassination, studying the work of the sicarios in Mexico, the Italian mob, the Russian Bratva, and the Mossad.
After a three-year accelerated program in Tehran, he applied for and was accepted into the master’s program at Saarland University. In his first year, he applied for an internship at BioDine. There was nothing out of the ordinary about an Iranian student studying in Europe and working for a European company. Thousands of Iranian students had done so since 1988. Settling into his new life, he continued to meet with his handler to develop his tradecraft on European soil. He was a precision instrument of the state, and like any tool he needed to be sharpened. Department 15 honed his edge through missions that eliminated threats to the regime. He had once killed an Iranian diplomat on his way to meet with a CIA case officer to hand over a thumb drive with documents proving Iran had systematically targeted U.S. soldiers in Iraq. The diplomat had been found floating in the Danube weeks later. No thumb drive was recovered from his body. Ali’s handler was also in place to assess and ensure that he was not being corrupted by Western ways or courted by a foreign intelligence service. He traveled freely, improving his English and German and adding proficient French to his list of talents. He was a regular at football and rugby matches, always refining his counterintelligence skills. And he continued to study the United States, its successes and failures on the battlefield and in the diplomatic and political arenas.
Know thy enemy.
Through his internship at BioDine, he was accepted into the doctoral program in physical chemistry at the University of Lausanne, Switzerland. His classmates and employer knew he was from Iran, just as were thousands of other Europeans. When he accepted full-time employment at BioDine he applied for Swiss citizenship. His record showed no military history. He’d never been arrested. He was never photographed going into and out of mosques. He was clean.
The Hashshasin had successfully infiltrated the land of their enemy.
Ali retrieved his wheeled travel bag from the carousel and worked his way into the main terminal, stopping at a Hudson News kiosk to pick up a copy of the Wall Street Journal. As the deputy director for BioDine’s Institute for Biomedical Research, he was responsible for programs run by almost six thousand scientists in seventeen facilities worldwide, including the Institute for Tropical Diseases, which focused on dengue, tuberculosis, and malaria. Eighty-six different pharmaceuticals developed through the BioDine Innovative Medicines Division were available in 186 countries, which made it one of the most profitable companies in existence. Even with that success, BioDine still received millions in research grants from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Eradicating infectious disease was a team effort.
Ali was not in the United States to treat infectious diseases, nor kill an errant traitor to the regime as he had done in Europe. He was in the United States to fulfill his destiny. Americans would die. Young American children would experience the pain he had felt. They would hear the wailing of their mothers. He was there to weaponize a virus.
Iran knew they could not defeat America in a conventional battle or through proxies using thirty-dollar IEDs and truck bombs. Removing the Great Satan from the world stage would require a long-term strategy. Much like the warriors hidden inside the Trojan horse, the attack would have to come from within. This required an indirect approach, one that could not be tied directly back to Iran. Proxies had proven extremely effective over the years, but the relatively small-scale impact of their attacks resulted in nothing more than a scratch to the United States. This attack would be different. It would be perpetrated by proxies who were citizens of the very country they sought to destroy.
COVID-19 had sped up the timeline. The religious counsel in Iran had seen the Great Satan falter. An invisible bug born out of a research lab in Wuhan, China, had devastated the world’s most powerful economy. Unemployment was at an all-time high, race riots plagued the major cities, statues were being toppled; a once-strong nation was bowing to the mob. America was on the ropes.
Strike where and when your enemy is vulnerable.
Ali passed through the crowds that reminded him more of his home country than of the United States. Even the smells were reminiscent of his native Iran. America was becoming more like the Middle East every day. Good. That would only play into what was to follow.
He waited patiently in a taxi line with his suit coat over his arm, pulling his small roller bag behind him, briefcase in hand, taking note of any familiar faces from his stroll through the airport, just as his trainers in Iran had taught him. He glanced at people’s shoes over the top of his Android device. It was easy for a tail to reverse a jacket or throw on a hat and sunglasses; changing shoes required more time.
He had a scheduled tour of the BioDine research facility in Cambridge at the end of the week. There he would sit down with the team to bring them up to speed on new company policies and initiatives in person. That night he planned to catch a soccer game; the New England Revolution was playing D.C. United. It would also serve as a venue to identify possible surveillance. It was hard for authorities to fake being fans of such an un-American sport.
The following day he would set in motion a chain of events that would bring America to her knees.
CHAPTER 6
Camp David
Catoctin Mountain Park, Maryland
IT WASN’T REECE’S FIRST time in a Super Huey. The CIA had used them in Iraq to ferry personnel to and from outstations to the Green Zone and to Baghdad International Airport. During the height of the war, flying over Route Irish was considerably safer than making the twenty-minute mad dash from the embassy on the banks of the Tigris to the freedom bird that would fly one home; even up-armored vehicles were not immune to the devastating power of the EFP.
The Agency maintained a fleet of innocuous planes and helicopters stateside, one of which was now carrying Reece to his destination. Painted to blend in with normal civilian air traffic, they were flown and maintained by front companies to provide some semblance of distance from America’s premier spy organization. The rhythmic whir
of the blades never failed to bring Reece back to his SEAL days in Iraq and Afghanistan. He always wondered how some operators could sleep while packed into a helo speeding toward target. As a combat leader, Reece took the time to focus, knowing that whatever plan they had submitted to higher command authority for approval was about to become the first casualty of a dynamic battle space. The enemy always got a vote. He was getting a similar feeling now.
As the Huey maneuvered its way north, Reece took a breath and admired the beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains below. He was almost finished with his training at the Farm. Even though he had no intention of ever working as a case officer as his father had, these days the paramilitary officers of the Clandestine Service went through training at Camp Peary, Virginia, alongside the operations officers and collection management officers. This gave the Agency and the recruit more career options and fostered the relationships necessary to navigate the halls at Langley. His Clandestine Service Trainee class consisted mostly of graduate students proficient in a second or even multiple languages. There were also a select few his age, plucked from the military’s most elite special operations units.
His class had commenced in D.C. practicing SDRs. These surveillance detection routes, both in vehicles and on foot, would be a part of every training scenario. Reece knew this was a skill he needed to refine. He was much more comfortable in paramilitary specific training—the shooting and driving portions that the students affectionately called “crash and bang.” They went through two weeks of almost exactly the same static line jump training as the three weeks Reece had endured at Fort Benning, Georgia, as a newly minted frogman. Reece remembered his fellow jump students joking that the Army had managed to cram two days of training into three weeks; at least the CIA had successfully reduced it two weeks. They had a week of maritime training, unarmed combat, medical training, and a SERE/POW scenario that Reece hated even more than the first one he’d gone through at what was affectionately called “camp slappy” almost twenty-years earlier. And they were taught the basics of espionage: disguises, working in alias, dead drops, and how to assess and recruit based on vulnerabilities and motivations. They were being turned into spies.
The president of the United States has requested a meeting.
His supervisor had called Reece into his office and, without even offering him a seat, relayed the information as if it were a common occurrence.
Reece thought requested was a strange word to use. Then again, who turns down a request from the president?
Reece knew something of the new president’s background but had not studied him in depth, having been preoccupied since his return from a personal mission in the wilds of Siberia. He had followed the politics of the recent election because it was difficult to avoid, especially when one’s girlfriend was a prominent cable news contributor. After mourning the passing of so many friends and teammates, it disgusted him to watch politicians offer hollow promises to the masses in a bid to continue their hold on power, most forgetting they were employees of the people as soon as they reclaimed their thrones.
The helicopter banked to starboard as it made its approach, settling in through the trees and onto a helipad of bright green AstroTurf on the grounds of what was officially known as Naval Support Facility Thurmont. Situated just over sixty miles from D.C. and located near the border of Maryland and Pennsylvania in Catoctin Mountain Park, the two-hundred-acre retreat had been an escape for presidents and their families since World War II.
Reece heard the familiar sound of the engines going to idle. He unhooked his seat belt and removed his headset as someone he assumed to be a Secret Service agent ran toward the bird and slid open the door.
“Welcome to Camp David, Commander,” the man shouted over the still turning rotors. “Follow me.”
Reece grabbed his pack and hopped from the bird, instinctively ducking his head as he followed his greeter toward a waiting golf cart, where another Secret Service agent waited at the wheel. He heard the whine of the rotors behind him as the pilot increased their speed before pulling up on the collective and rising back into the clouds.
“Frank Sharp, Secret Service,” the man in slacks and a light jacket said, extending his hand.
“James Reece.”
“We know.” Sharp smiled. “This is Agent Neely.”
“Commander.” Neely nodded.
Reece looked around, taking in the moss-green hangar nestled among the trees, his eyes coming to rest on a flagpole with the Stars and Stripes gently moving in the breeze.
“Is it what you expected?” Sharp asked.
“Guess I didn’t really think much about it.”
“It’s got a nice campground-type feel, but as you can imagine, it’s a tad more secure than the average campground.”
“I bet.”
“Sir, I have to ask, are you armed?”
“Pistol and blade.”
“I’ll have to ask you to transfer them to your bag and leave it with us. You’ll be meeting with the president alone.”
Normally being disarmed made Reece extremely nervous, but this was anything but a normal situation.
“Of course,” Reece responded, removing his holster and weapon from the appendix carry position. He wanted to ask additional questions but held his tongue.
“Is that the XL?” Sharp asked, admiring Reece’s weapon of choice.
“Yeah, I’ve been running it for a few months with the red dot and I have to say, I’m a fan.”
“I’ve had my eye on one but ‘the missus’ thinks I have too many already. I’ve refrained from telling her she has a closet full of shoes that cost more and all look the same.”
“Wise man,” Reece acknowledged, as he unclipped the AMTAC Northman blade from his pocket.
“Mind if I wand you?” Sharp asked.
“Go right ahead,” Reece said, raising his arms to allow the metal detector access. “I’ve been switching up between the XL and the 320 X-Compact. Both solid setups.”
The wand gave a slight beep at his eyelets on his boots, at his belt, his watch, and his sunglasses.
“Thank you. Hop in. It’s a quick ride.”
“Where are we going?”
“Aspen.”
“What’s that?” Reece asked.
“The president’s cabin.”
CHAPTER 7
THE GOLF CART WOUND its way through the woods on gravel trails. It felt surreal to be on paths that held so much history. It wasn’t that long ago that the establishment wanted Reece dead, sending special operators and contractors to kill him. Now he was about to have a one-on-one meeting with the man who currently led that establishment.
They came to a halt at a cabin with the same green exterior as the hangar, a sign designating it as “Aspen.” A single golf cart was parked just steps away from the front door. Reece couldn’t help but smile as he read a small plaque on its front: Golf Cart One.
Sharp noticed and said, “That always gets a few laughs. Forty-Three had it christened during his first term.”
The Secret Service agent led Reece to the entrance and knocked three times. “Mr. President. Commander Reece is here.” He turned to Reece. “President Christensen will be with you shortly. We’ll be close.”
“Thank you,” Reece said as his escorts moved off down the path, leaving the former SEAL alone.
Reece heard the knob turn and a second later was face-to-face with the leader of the free world. He suppressed his military tendency to come to attention.
“Commander Reece, thank you for coming. I’m Alec Christensen.”
“Pleasure, sir.”
“Come in. I’m told the trees have eyes,” he said, with a disarming smile.
Reece entered a room that reminded him more of his grandparents’ house than a retreat befitting the commander in chief.
“I know, it’s in dire need of an upgrade. Probably going to do it myself to save the taxpayers some money. Have you ever been to Camp David?”
“No, sir. But I th
ink you knew that.”
“I’d also be remiss if I did not thank you for your service to the nation. Had you not saved President Grimes in Odessa, I might not even be in this position.”
“It was Senior Chief Freddy Strain, sir. He saved the president,” Reece said, remembering his friend and teammate killed by a sniper on a rooftop half a world away, a sniper who was still out there.
“The country will never forget him, Commander.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I want to show you something,” he said, leading the way to the outside patio of the upper terrace, a location that offered sweeping views of the expansive property.
“Are you a student of history, Commander Reece?”
“I like to think so, Mr. President,” Reece replied, looking down on the pool below.
“Beyond those trees,” the president pointed, “is Holly Cabin. FDR and Churchill planned the D-Day invasion over cigars and highballs from that very porch. In fact, the only reason this place exists is because Roosevelt’s staff was worried that his presidential yacht was going to be sunk by a German U-boat. He was on the USS Sequoia so often they called it ‘the Floating White House.’ Quite an appealing target for the Nazi war machine. In ’42 the National Park Service was tasked with procuring him a more secluded location that was still close to D.C., so they found this old Works Progress Administration site from the thirties. FDR dubbed it ‘Shangri-La’ after the Tibetan paradise described in the James Hilton novel. Eisenhower thought that was a bit pretentious and renamed it in honor of his grandson, David. It’s been Camp David ever since.”