Out of the Ashes

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Chase Williams made it a practice not to ask his Op-Center staff to work overtime or into the night. He didn’t have to; if they knew something vital to national security needed to be done they rallied and did whatever it took. However, a quick reading of time stamps on the e-mails that populated his queue that morning told him what none of his professionals would say. They’d been at it late the day before.

Brian Dawson and Williams’s logistics director, the N4, Duncan Sutherland, entered his office.

“Brian, Duncan, come on in and make me a lot smarter than I am now on what you’ve got cooking.”

“Duncan’s done all the heavy lifting, boss. I’ll let him start,” Dawson said.

Chase Williams considered the diminutive man standing next to Brian Dawson. A study in contrasts, he thought. Dawson towered over the five-foot six-inch Sutherland, but God, was he lucky to have the man with the thick British accent on Op-Center’s team.

A street urchin from Liverpool, Sutherland had lied about his age and joined the British army at fifteen. He gravitated to the British Special Air Service, the SAS, and served as liaison with the Gurkha regiment in Brunei. Williams knew perhaps more of Sutherland’s history because he had to admit to himself, the man was so different from anyone he had ever worked with before. Sutherland was married to a wealthy New York socialite and had managed, through her connections, to be transferred to the American Army. A seemingly vanilla kind of man, still several years shy of forty, Sutherland was both shrewd and intelligent, just the qualities Williams wanted, and needed, in a logistics director. Sutherland knew the British army, the American Army, and by extension, all armies. Williams knew Sutherland could finesse any system, get anything, and never failed to have the right material at the right place at the right time. That’s why he recruited him the day he qualified for his Army pension.

“Mornin’, boss,” Sutherland began, his thick Liverpool accent still part of his persona. “The boys said you want to surge JSOC into the Mideast, somewhere where they can range into Syria and maybe some of the surrounding countries. Got that about right?”

“You do, Duncan, and we need to get them there quickly.”

“Well, that’s good, then. Knowing you might not want to wait, I scrambled them last night aboard a sanitized JSOC Gulfstream — an extended range G-5. They packed out with a light-infantry load for a long-range desert patrol and an urban battle kit.” He looked at his watch. “They’ll be on the ground in Incirlik Air Force Base, Turkey, in about an hour. We have a hanger reserved for them and two de Havilland Otters standing by to take them south as needed. Brian here’s been talking with some of the tribal leaders he’s still friendly with. Here are one or two spots we can jump into for a forward operating base,” Sutherland said as he rolled out an area map to explain his plan to Williams. “We can move as soon as the gear is transferred or lay up in Incirlik until needed.”

“Hector was able to get down there and get aboard with the team,” Dawson said as the three of them poured over the map. “Major Volner has a full suite of comm gear, but Hector took along some iridium encrypted phones, so we can talk to him whenever we like, in real time.”

Williams looked from Dawson to Sutherland and back. Then he smiled broadly. “How’d you know?”

“That’s why you pay us the big bucks, boss,” Sutherland deadpanned.

“If there’s no need for them,” Dawson said with just a trace of a smile, “we can recall them anytime. And it’s good flyaway training.”

In Chantilly, Virginia, at the National Reconnaissance Office’s headquarters, Charlie Bacon was glad Laurie Phillips had reached out to him. He was, above all else, a patriot, and he knew since NRO was the U.S. intelligence agency that designed, built, and operated U.S. spy satellites and coordinated the analysis of aerial surveillance and satellite imagery from several intelligence and military agencies, NRO was the right agency to look at the suspect video Laurie had sent him. While he tried to be humble about it, he had to admit he was just the right analyst to review this video. He’d been with NRO for just short of a decade, he knew he was the best, and his bosses did, too.

Charlie had elected not to share this with his management chain, at least not yet. They hadn’t come up the hard way like he did through the imagery branch. They’d moved laterally from elsewhere in NRO and, in the case of the Senior Executive in charge of his division, from outside the office. What the hell did she know except how to screw with my budget? he found himself thinking.

Charlie had sequestered himself in the corner of the vault and reviewed the short clip Laurie had sent him a half dozen times. He reached the same conclusion each time.

“Hey, Aaron, come here!”

Aaron Bleich walked up behind Maggie Scott, who was monitoring one of the screens in the Geek Tank. Not yet thirty, Maggie had been one of Op-Center’s early hires. Five feet seven inches tall and, in her words, a “fluffy” 170 pounds, with flaming red hair and a penchant for wearing whatever the latest Goth fashion was, Scott had made her bones at Amazon before Chase Williams hired her away.

“What ya got, Maggie.”

“You know how we altered our programs to pretty much zero in on intel coming from the Middle East, right? Well, they’ve had a while to churn now and we’ve got a confluence of information. We got comm intercepts coming out of Syria about what they are going to do with those DF-21D missiles, some communications between a Navy ship in the Gulf and NRO on SIPRNET, and some feeds out of Iran. The programs tied them all together and this is what it’s pointing to. What do you think?”

Bleich studied what was displayed on the screen at Scott’s workstation.

“This looks promising. Let’s run it through the decision support program. How long will that take.”

“Dunno. Maybe thirty or forty minutes.”

“Good. Holler when it’s done and if it confirms what you suspect, we’ll take it to Roger.”

Laurie was monitoring her SIPRNET e-mail queue while she stood watch in CDC when Charlie’s message hit her screen.

Laurie sat bolt upright in her seat. Now she had it. She’d go see the captain again, but this time armed with proof!

Trevor Harward was in a foul mood as he sat at the end of the table in one of the Situation Room’s two VTC conference rooms. Some of his senior National Security Staff populated other chairs around the table for this hastily called VTC with the Central Command commander, General Albin. Harward didn’t want the president at this VTC. He wanted Albin all to himself.

“Good morning, Mr. Harward,” Albin began.

“General, know you’re mighty busy so I’ll get right to it. I’ve been reading the reports you’ve been sending us and I just don’t get why things aren’t moving faster. We’ve got a threat to your forces in theater. We all agree we need to do something about it, but things need to move!”

“I hear you, Mr. Harward, but we are redeploying our forces as fast as we can. There are a lot of moving parts to getting this done. We’re proceeding as rapidly as possible to ensure we have all the forces we need in place before we move.”

“General, we’re not attacking China, or even Iran. This is a shithole that has been turned inside out by a years-long civil war, for God’s sake. This isn’t Desert Storm, either, and while we’re at it, why is it taking so God-damned long to get Truman under way? I asked for every-six-hour updates, and your last update had the time to get under way longer than the report before that one! Are we moving backward or what?” Harward was letting his exasperation get the better of him, and finally Albin had had enough.

“Mr. Harward, respectfully, let me address Truman first. As you know, the Navy rushed the Truman strike group here, but in doing so, they drove it through one of the worst Atlantic storms of the last decade. I’ve been aboard Truman, sir. The ship’s a mess and as the Navy digs into it to fix one thing, they find other issues with the ship and the aircraft. I can put my 5th Fleet commander or the Truman strike group commander on an aircraft today and one of them can explain this to you in person with more granularity than I can.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Harward snapped.

“Sir, we have moved USS Normandy, our missile defense ship, into position to protect Truman from missile attack as it undergoes repairs. I’m confident the ship is safe for now.”

“It had better be!”

“Now, Mr. Harward, about Syria and these missiles, as you are well aware, the site the Global Hawk discovered is no longer there or else it’s been extremely well camouflaged. We have the Global Hawk flying the same route and there appears to be nothing where there previously was a missile site.”

“Nothing?”

“There’s a limit to what we can see from sixty-five thousand feet, sir. While there certainly aren’t missile batteries at that latitude and longitude, there may be a building, but one that has been well camouflaged.”

“But what about satellites? I’ve been briefed on how many satellites we have covering the region, surely we can get some sort of confirmation,” Harward groused.

“Sir, we can’t be sure with only Global Hawk or satellite imagery. They just don’t have the granularity, but based on the comms intercepts we’ve received, we believe the Syrians have moved these missiles anyway, and that they have additional missile sites we haven’t located yet. Right now our overhead assets are so scarce we don’t know whether they have additional missile sites elsewhere in the country or where they are.”

“General, they are not ten feet tall!” Harward interjected. “Get some manned aircraft over the country and get eyes on. I’d have thought you’d done that already and I wouldn’t have to fight this war for you from here in the Sit Room!”

The national security advisor was becoming agitated and General Albin paused before continuing. “Mr. Harward, this is a bit out of my wheelhouse, and I’d suggest your European Command commander would know vastly more about this. However, when the Arab Spring was churning in 2011 and NATO made the decision to attack Libya, there was intense criticism for NATO not going into Syria as well.”

“There was a reason for that, General, and I don’t need a history lesson from you on Libya. That was then and this is now. This is Syria, not Libya. It’s on my watch and yours, and we have to deal with it. Are we clear on that?”

“We are, sir, but I know Syria. That’s my job. I suspect I needn’t remind you, Mr. Harward, Russia has sold Syria the S-300 missile. That’s one of the best — if not the best — air defense missiles in the world; it’s better than our Patriot missile system. Our initial intelligence has told us the A-300 is deployed throughout the country, and in substantial numbers. Sending aircraft over Syria is just too risky a proposition. I’m not going to send my pilots on a one-way mission.”

“Yes, I know that, General. No one is asking you to do that; there are always risks in war.”

“Sir, we need to get more information on where other missile sites may be located. I’ve just got an additional Global Hawk moved into theater and another one arrives the day after tomorrow. I am increasing overhead coverage of Syria as fast as the other combatant commanders can send me more assets. Nevertheless, Mr. Harward, regardless of what we can see, we have to believe what the communications intercepts we are getting are telling us. Syria has multiple DF-21D missile sites deployed throughout there desert. It’s a huge area, sir. It may take us days to find them, no matter how many overhead assets we have. For right now we need to move more forces into the area to support Truman. One hit from one of those DF-21D missiles and my aircraft carrier will look like the Marine barracks in Beirut. I’m sure you don’t need a history lesson from me on what happened there.”

“No, General,” Harward said tightly, “I do not.”

The VTC continued, with both men standing their ground, and the National Security Staff staffers around the table were becoming more and more uncomfortable.

Laurie had printed out what Charlie Bacon had sent her, found Lieutenant Commander Watson in CDC, and laid out her case to Normandy’s ops officer. Watson absorbed what she presented and they went to see Captain Blackman on Normandy’s bridge.

“Ops O. Ms. Phillips,” Blackman began, wary that they might be approaching him on the same subject they had bothered him about in his cabin the day before.

“Captain,” Watson began. “After our meeting yesterday, Ms. Phillips decided she needed to get some additional help interpreting what the Global Hawk video was showing, so she reached out to a colleague at the NRO—”

“The NRO?” Blackman interrupted.

“Yes, Captain, the National Reconnaissance Office—”

“Neil! I know what NRO stands for,” Blackman interrupted again. Then turning to Laurie, his face hardened. “Ms. Phillips, I thought we settled this yesterday in my at-sea cabin. Did you tell anyone else you were going way outside our chain of command to ‘reach out to someone’ at NRO?”

“No, Captain, I didn’t.”

“Both of you, my at-sea cabin, now,” Blackman said as he pushed himself out of his bridge chair. He turned toward his officer of the deck. “OOD, I’ll be in my at-sea cabin for a few minutes.”

“Captain’s off the bridge,” the bos’n mate on watch chimed as the pair followed Blackman out the door at the aft end of the bridge and back to his at-sea cabin a deck below on Normandy’s port side. They entered the cabin; no one sat down. “Ms. Phillips, Mr. Watson has been with me since I took command, so he knows why we just came back to my at-sea cabin. I’ll ask you, why did we move off the bridge?”

The question threw Laurie off-guard. “Well, so it would be quieter, Captain?”

“No. How many people were on the bridge?”

Another off-guard question. “I’m not quite sure, Captain. A half dozen maybe?”

“Eight to be exact. Ms. Phillips. Now I have the class to try not to have disagreements, or to be disagreeable, in front of a crowd of people. I’m not sure you share my view.”

“But, Captain, this is important and I wanted to inform you, sir.”

“Ms. Phillips, before you ‘inform’ me, can you tell me first what you think you were doing communicating with the NRO without informing me or anyone in your chain of command?”

Blackman looked toward his operations officer. “You know about this, Mr. Watson?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you tell anyone else, Ms. Phillips?”

“No, Captain.”

“I see. We’ll deal with your flagrant disregard of professional courtesy later. To show you that, as opposed to you, I have good manners, what is it you came to so urgently tell me?”

Still off-guard a bit from the captain’s initial questions, Laurie plunged forward, going back to the original Global Hawk video received aboard Normandy. She segued seamlessly to her prior work on UAV comm links and sensors at NRO and the Center for Naval Analyses. She told the captain about Charlie Bacon’s expertise but didn’t reveal his name. Finally, she laid down the attachment Charlie had sent her on the small, gun-metal gray desk in the captain’s cabin.

Pete Blackman picked up the paper and studied it. He looked at Laurie. Then he looked at Watson.

“Well, Ms. Phillips, thank you for coming forward. This is a lot to absorb. Now, I think you told me you are on watch in CDC so I’ll let you get back to that. That will be all right now. Mr. Watson, stay behind a moment, will you?”

“Captain?” Laurie said, now completely off-guard, wanting to hear Blackman’s verdict.

“Thank you. That will be all right now.”

Laurie staggered out of Blackman’s cabin, not knowing what to do next.

Aaron Bleich stood behind Maggie Scott and looked at what their decision support software displayed on her screen. He leaned over, took control of her mouse, scrolled down, then up again, then relinquished control.

“Whew, this is something,” Bleich said.

“We going to see Roger?” she asked.

“You bet.” The pair headed for Roger McCord’s office.

The senior chief walked up behind Laurie, who sat at her watch station in CDC. She was still stunned and didn’t know what to think of the encounter in the captain’s cabin. Even three hours after the meeting she was still trying to make sense of what happened.

“Ms. Phillips?”

“Yeah, Senior Chief, what’s up?”

“Ma’am, Commander Watson requests you meet with him in his stateroom.”

“Ah, sure. Can you get someone to cover my station?”

“Already done, ma’am.”

Laurie made a beeline for Watson’s office. She was cautiously optimistic that, in spite of his reservations, her proof had carried the day with Captain Blackman.

“Commander, you wanted to see me,” Laurie said as she knocked on his open stateroom door.

“Yes. Please come in and sit down, but close that first, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Laurie sat with her hands on her knees, leaning toward Watson, her anticipation growing.

“Ms. Phillips, first of all, let me say I respect your professional ability and what I think is your wanting to do the right thing, but it’s my duty to present this to you and ask you to sign it.”

Watson slid a piece of paper across the small table in his stateroom. As Laurie began to read the paper her jaw dropped. She finished reading it and slid it back toward Watson.

“With respect, sir, are you shitting me?”

“I assure you, I’m not, Ms. Phillips. The captain drafted the language himself and had our legal officer review it. You’re to have no other communications, via e-mail or any other means, with anyone off the ship, other than your immediate family members, for the duration of Normandy’s time in a war zone.”

“But the communication with my contact at the National Reconnaissance Office was crucial. You saw, and the captain saw, that the Global Hawk had been hacked and video of the missiles in Syria wasn’t from Syria at all!” Laurie exclaimed.

“Yes, well, about that. I’m afraid the captain didn’t find your arguments and your proof compelling, and to be honest with you, Ms. Phillips, I’m afraid I didn’t, either. This is clearly the opinion of just one person in one agency, and I don’t see any reason why we should believe what he alleges.”

“Commander, I think if you’ll let me walk you through what I received from my contact at NRO, perhaps in more detail, you’ll change your point of view. You have got to do this. You have got to do the right thing!” Laurie shot back, feeling this was her last chance to convince Watson.

The ops officer sat silently for a few moments. Finally, he spoke.

“Anything else, Ms. Phillips?”

“Well, no. I do think you’ll change your point of view. Now, look at this—”

“Stop!” Watson interrupted. “My point of view, as you call it, doesn’t mean a goddamn thing on this ship, and yours means even less, Ms. Phillips!” he continued, his voice now betraying his anger. “The only, and I mean only, point of view that matters on this ship is that of Captain Peter Blackman. He’s our commanding officer. He has twenty-two years of Navy experience, seagoing experience. That makes him the most knowledgeable person on this ship, and if that weren’t enough, there’s a ream of United States Navy regulations that gives him paramount authority over everyone on this ship. That means everyone, military and civilian, embarked in Normandy.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“NO, Phillips! I heard you out, now you listen and listen good! You may be a hotshot civilian analyst and think you can run your own little show here. My officers have gone out of their way to make you feel welcome and make you feel useful, and to your credit, most everyone says you’re trying to do a good job. However, you are way out of line challenging Captain Blackman on something like this. He takes his orders from Admiral Flynn, and from a long chain of command going up to the commander in chief. So the captain showed you enormous courtesy just by letting you come up to his cabin and give your little show, and I stuck my neck out by going with you. Now we are way past the point where everyone can just chime in with their personal opinion.”

“Yes, I know, but we may be making a terrible mistake. That video—”

“Phillips, you’re not hearing me!” Watson interrupted again. Now there was real venom in his voice. “We are in a war zone! You are on a U.S. Navy warship! The captain says jump, the only question we ask is ‘how high?’ Don’t compound your problems by trying to change anyone’s mind after the decision has been made. Time to get with the program, Ms. Phillips.”

Laurie opened her mouth to speak but Watson put up his hand.

“Look, Phillips. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing or what the hell you’re talking about. You have some pet rock theory about this video. You presented it to the commanding officer. You had your day in court. He heard you out. Now we’re moving forward, and you’re moving out of my stateroom, damn it; because I’ve got little enough time to do what I need to do on this warship! Clear?”

Laurie rose without a word and stormed out of Watson’s stateroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sandee Barron took one look at Laurie as she slumped into their stateroom and knew something was wrong, really wrong.

“Laurie, what’s the matter?”

“Oh God, I’ve failed, I’ve failed miserably,” Laurie said, tears welling up in her eyes.

“What, what happened?” Sandee replied. She could see her roommate was about to lose it.

“Oh, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do,” Laurie continued, beginning to sob.

“It’s OK. It will be OK,” Sandee said as reassuringly as she could as she put her arm around Laurie. “Look, sit down, tell me what happened.”

Laurie sat, the sobs coming more freely now, and poured out her story to Sandee. The younger woman tried to be a good listener, but what Laurie was telling her wasn’t making sense. How could they not believe her? It was so unfair. She was trying to do her duty, but she was being stonewalled. At the same time, she had never felt so powerless. Laurie was pouring her heart out to her and she couldn’t do a thing about it. Finally, Laurie was finished.

“Look, Laurie, we’ll figure this out together, I promise,” Sandee said as reassuringly as possible. “How can I help?”

Laurie made no reply, her sobs now turning to sniffles. How could anyone help her?

Roger McCord had complete confidence in Aaron Bleich, but what he was telling him was so off-the-chart he had trouble getting his brain around it. But once he did, he knew they had to take it to Chase Williams. The Op-Center director responded to McCord’s call by telling him to come to his office immediately.

“Boss,” McCord began, once he and Bleich were seated in Williams’s office. “Aaron has had the Geek Tank churning to get this intel. I’ll let him lay it out to you.”

“Aaron?” Williams began.

“Well, it’s like this, sir. Once you asked us to focus on the Middle East to the exclusion of almost everything else we were able to dedicate the bulk of our resources, including all of our high-performance computing assets, to what is coming out of that area. Naturally, we put the most intense focus on these Syrian missiles.”

“I appreciate that, Aaron, and I know you and your folks have been burning the midnight oil to do this.”

“Not a problem, sir. Well, I’ll just give you the bottom line up front. We are certain these missiles are not in Syria—”

“Not in Syria?” Williams interrupted. “If not there, where are they?”

“Well, we’re still working on that and expect to have an answer in a few hours. For now, the fact they are not in Syria, and that someone was able to hack into our Global Hawk downlink to make us think they are in Syria, tells us something really fishy is going on.”

“It’s a preliminary analysis, boss,” Roger McCord added, “but we wanted to bring you this much right away.”

“You did the right thing, Roger, but what about our JSOC flyaway team? We have them forward now, but are they in the right place?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” McCord replied. “My guess is that they’re probably close to where they’ll be needed if they’re needed. We’ll know soon.”

“I agree. Aaron, great job, please come in and update me as soon as you have more information. Roger,” he continued, “Brian and I talked about him going downrange with the team if things heated up. I think the kettle’s boiling. Tell him it’s time to saddle up and ask Duncan to get him to Incirlik ASAP.”

It took the nation’s intelligence agencies, all of which worked in the world of secret, top secret, and higher levels of classification, a bit of time to get and absorb the news, as it was gathered by the CIA’s Open Source Center. Nevertheless, the fact that it had come from a completely open source made it all the more stunning.

The Islamic Republic News Agency, or IRNA, the official news agency of the Islamic Republic of Iran, posted the broadcast on its Web site without fanfare at 2230 Arabia standard time on March 20:

Prince Ali al-Wandi trusted his chief engineer above all others, but he wanted to see the operation for himself. He was pleased when it took him and his pilot a second look from only two miles away to find the mostly obscured blockhouse. Once the S-92 helicopter landed and the prince got out, Jawad Makhdoom was outside to great him. The prince waved his helicopter away. “Come inside quickly,” he said to the chief engineer. “We don’t know what other prying eyes the Americans have.”

Once inside, Prince Ali looked at the large audio apparatus and computer monitor they had set up. “So you have been alternating these communications as we discussed,” the prince began.

“Yes, I have. We have six tapes and I have been playing them according to this schedule,” Makhdoom replied, moving his mouse and clicking an Excel spreadsheet on his computer desktop. “We are running the conversations you had taped that sound like Syrian army officers and other officials talking about making these missiles ready for launch. We are broadcasting this on the frequencies you gave us, the ones you said the Syrian military uses for high-level communications.”

Al-Wandi knew Makhdoom wasn’t questioning his judgment, but just needed reassurance. “Yes, it wasn’t difficult to get those frequencies or the kind of jargon their military uses. After all, you know how many of their military went over to the rebel side during their civil war. Even soldiers need to feed their families.”

“I understand, Your Excellency. Listening to them myself they sound convincing. It sounds like Syria has multiple DF-21D sites throughout their desert and a command center somewhere else, probably in Damascus, that is trying to coordinate between all the sites so when they launch the missiles, they make a coordinated attack against the American aircraft carrier.”

“You listen well, my friend. So tell me, what are the communications saying as to why they haven’t attacked already?”

“It appears the Syrians are having technical issues at several of their sites and the people in the command center are angry about it. In several cases they talk about sending technicians to the sites to fix things.”

“Good. You are hearing just what we want the Americans to hear. Yet still no action from them yet?”

“They may be taking action, but we just might not know about it yet,” Makhdoom said, trying to reassure his boss.

“You may be right. But we need to get them to move faster. Here, here are two more tapes I want you to load up, put in the queue, and start playing.”

“Mr. President, thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Jack Bradt said as he entered the Oval Office. “Trevor,” he continued, acknowledging the national security advisor.

“No, Jack, thank you for staying on top of all this. We’ve got a hell of a mess in the Gulf, don’t we?”

“Mr. President, we’ve now basically got a two-front crisis. I think we need to move and move quickly.”

“All right. I’ve been getting information from Trevor’s National Security Staff throughout the day, so pull it all together for us from your perspective, would you?”

“Certainly, Mr. President. Now that we’ve got the three-letter agencies focused intently on Syria we’re getting more and more communications intercepts. Syria, or groups working from Syrian territory, is talking about doing a coordinated DF-21D strike on U.S. assets in the area. We’re giving General Albin all the overhead assets we can as fast as we can, but … well, Mr. President, Syria is bigger than Florida, and you know how big your home state is. That’s a hell of a lot of ground to cover.”

“No, I get it.”

“And now we’ve gotten this message from the Islamic Republic News Agency about stopping the flow of oil out of the Gulf.”

“And we think they’re serious?” the president asked.

“We do, but not for the reasons they state. Iraq’s not stealing their oil, that’s just a ruse they’re using, a similar one to one they’ve tried before. We know Syria’s leader traveled to Iran and that Iran is desperate to prop up their one remaining friend in the Gulf.”

“So this is a threat against us, to prevent us from doing anything to Syria?”

“That’s our consensus assessment, Mr. President. It kind of is in line with what one of our Central Command commanders, General Mattis, said back in 2013.”

“Oh, you mean his Senate testimony?” Harward asked.

“Yes. He told the Senate the collapse of the Assad regime would be the biggest strategic setback for Iran in twenty-five years. That got a lot of people’s attention. Yet it’s as true today as it was then. Regardless of who’s running Syria, Iran needs that government to be aligned with them, maybe more so now than they ever have.”

“So they’ll do what they need to do to keep us from moving against Syria?”

“In a nutshell, yes, Mr. President. If we look at just how Iran might do this, the only logical conclusion is they’d do it by mining the Strait of Hormuz. They don’t have the naval assets to seriously threaten oil tankers transiting the Gulf, not with as many ships as we have there to provide tanker escort.”

“So what are you and the Joint Chiefs suggesting we do?”

“Mr. President, we need to move against Syria and this missile threat, and soon. Once that’s done, we need to turn our attention to Iran. If they mine the Strait of Hormuz we know how to sweep those mines. We’ve got to put our mine-countermeasures forces, our Navy MCM folks in Bahrain, on alert now. We also need to get additional MCM helos moving from Norfolk because it will take them a week to get there, and we need to bring other assets to bear to protect the minesweeping forces while they do their job.”

“All right, Jack. I understand it’s not a simple operation. Then what’s our next step?”

“I’d like to get the Joint Chiefs over here to the Situation Room as soon as possible to lay it all out for you and Mr. Harward. However, above all else, I need to emphasize the need for us to move quickly.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Laurie had slept fitfully the night before, trying to convince herself that there was some other way. She had yet to think of one. She and Sandee had been back in their stateroom for only a few minutes following their workout, when Laurie decided to ask her friend for help.

“Boy, that feels a whole lot better, doesn’t it?” Sandee asked.

“Yeah, guess if there’s any upside to you all not flying, it’s that the flight deck is always open for running.”

“Small upside,” Sandee replied, smiling. “But, hey, that changes tomorrow, finally! That part for Mustin’s radar arrives in Bahrain later today, and they want us to fly in and get it. Mustin’s helo is down so we have to make the delivery.”

“I know, I heard folks talking about it in CDC.” Now or never, Laurie thought. “Sandee, you were a good friend to listen to me yesterday. Sorry to come apart like that; it’s really not like me. God, I’m a little embarrassed I was sobbing like that.”

“Don’t be. It’s because you care and because you’re up against a brick wall. To be honest with you, I feel kind of like I’m letting you down because I can’t help. Hell, I wish there were some way, anyway, that I could.”

“Sandee, I think there is, but it involves a risk, a big risk, and I don’t know if I have the right to even ask you do to it.”

“Ask away,” Sandee replied. “Remember what I told you the other day, ‘It’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission.’”

“I’m afraid this would take that to a new level.”

“Look, we’re both trying to do the right thing here. Just spit it out, OK?”

“OK. You read the intel reports just like I do. It’s as clear as day the United States could attack Syria at any moment and, who knows, throw this entire region into a senseless war. We also have proof something is not right about this. I’m telling you, I know the intel the ship and everyone else is looking at is completely bogus.”

“I know, I know,” Sandee replied, “but you gave it your best shot with the captain. Maybe he’ll change his mind. Or maybe you could prevail on your friend at NRO to go forward up his chain of command.”

“Neither of those things is going to happen, Sandee.”

“No, I guess you’re right, but how can I help you?”

“Sandee, later today, or maybe tomorrow, you’re going to go get that part for Mustin. You’ve told me before that on one of these, I think you called them, ‘gedunk runs,’ you could take me up in the left seat of the helo as a qualified observer. Could you take me on this part pickup mission? It’s a pretty simple mission, right, and one that doesn’t require an experienced pilot in the other seat?”

“I suppose so, Laurie. Heck, yeah, I’d be happy to take you flying. It would be a good mental health break for both of us. But why now?”

“Here’s why,” Laurie replied as she reached over to her pull-down desk and grabbed the SIPRNET e-mail and attachment from Charlie Bacon as well as a navigation map of the Arabian Gulf.

“What am I looking at, Laurie? You’ve shown me all this before, but I still don’t see how I can help?”

“I’m getting to that. Do you see here on Charlie’s attachment? The DF-21D site that everyone thought was in Syria is really here in Saudi Arabia.”

“I remember when you told me that originally. I didn’t look at the map that closely, but yes, now I see that.”

“Do you see how close it is to the coast?”

“I do, yes. Why is that important?”

“If someone could fly over the site and show this was where the Global Hawk saw the DF-21Ds, that would prove they weren’t in Syria. Then, maybe we could keep this thing from spiraling out of control.”

“I suppose if that happened it would.…” Sandee stopped short, the full impact of what Laurie was suggesting hitting her like a two-by-four. “Laurie, wait a minute. Are you suggesting we fly there? You want me to overfly that site in Saudi Arabia? That’s why you wanted to fly with me?”

“Yes, Sandee.” She gave her a helpless shrug. “I know it’s asking a lot — maybe too much.”

“Laurie, I know you’re not an aviator, but do you have any idea what kind of international incident it would cause if we flew over Saudi Arabia without permission?”

“I know there would be risks, Sandee. Believe me; I had a hard time making myself ask you to do this, but there really isn’t any other way.”

“Whew. I need a minute, OK. I’m gonna hit the shower. I just need a minute,” Sandee said as she grabbed her towel and robe and made for the officers’ head.

Duncan Sutherland had worked wonders redeploying them from Incirlik Air Force Base and the JSOC team was on site at an unused airfield in western Iraq. Volner and his team had taken their operational, logistics, and communications gear from the initial Gulfstream lift into the remote strip and had all but gone to ground. They were in camouflaged tents and the only creature comfort was the generator for the comm gear. They could wait at this remote location for a week to ten days and be ready for any operational tasking. Their footprint in the western desert was small and only the most discerning satellite imagery would reveal their presence.

The assets Volner and his team were most focused on at the moment were their air assets, both manned and unmanned. They were netted to hide them from airborne surveillance. They knew their first step was to get eyes-on of the site, or sites, in Syria where the DF-21D missiles were located and then if ordered to, go in and neutralize the missiles.

They had been surged forward before, in various theaters, only to have the crises they were anticipating not evolve to a situation that required direct triage. As professionals, they viewed these situations not as a waste of time and resources, but as opportunities to rehearse their support and logistic procedures. Each time there were lessons learned, ways to do it better the next time they rolled into their kit bag.

For Brian Dawson, Hector Rodriquez, Mike Volner, and his men, this time it felt more like the real thing than on previous flyaways. As soon as Dawson made his check-in call, that feeling surged.

“Hector, Major Volner,” Dawson said. “Here’s the secure message that just came in from Op-Center. What we’re looking for isn’t in Syria; it’s in Saudi Arabia! The mission just changed. Let’s get the planning cell assembled now, and Hector, get ahold of Duncan. I want those Combat Talon aircraft on standby alert in al-Asad, Iraq, and I’ll want them there within fifteen minutes of making the call.”

Like his predecessors before him, President Wyatt Midkiff’s schedule was handled by a bevy of aides and his days were scheduled almost to the minute. There was little or no time for “pop-up” events or drop-ins by anyone, except for a select few. Chase Williams was one of those and as he entered the Oval Office at 0900 the president rose to meet him.

“Chase, your POTUS/OC Eyes Only memo this morning certainly got my attention, so I had my calendar adjusted to meet with you. Tell me more now that I’ve had a moment to absorb what your memo said.”

“Mr. President, I’m dialed in to what your national security team is doing, and I fully understand what Secretary Bradt, Mr. Putnam, and others are telling you. Believe me, armed with that intel I would be ready to move against Syria immediately.”

“And now,” Midkiff offered, “we have Iran threatening, and maybe moving forward, to mine the Strait of Hormuz.”

“I understand, Mr. President, but as I alluded to in the memo, we have intelligence the Global Hawk was spoofed, and the missile site isn’t in Syria, but in Saudi Arabia.”

“Chase, what are you saying; that can’t be!”

“It is, Mr. President. The other thing is this. All of the communications our intelligence agencies have been picking up that are ostensibly coming out of Syria threatening to strike our ships and bases in the area are false, a ruse, likely orchestrated by whoever erected this site in Saudi Arabia.”

“That’s a hell of a lot to process.”

“There’s more, Mr. President. Evidently someone on a Navy ship in the Gulf has seen the video we’ve all seen back here, the Global Hawk video that started this chain of events, and that person sent it to someone at the National Reconnaissance Office. We’re still pulling the string on who that person is, but anyway, this person at NRO is convinced the site is not in Syria but in Saudi Arabia and we’ve read what the NRO analyst has sent to the ship and it looks convincing to us.”

“Chase, I needn’t remind you, other than Israel, Saudi Arabia is our strongest ally in the region. It’s … it’s … just beyond belief they would do this.”

“You’re right, Mr. President, but when we were convinced these missiles were in Syria we admitted to ourselves Syria didn’t have complete control of her territory and a terrorist group could operate there with near impunity.”

“Yes, I know, but Saudi Arabia hasn’t had to deal with a civil war. They don’t have any issues controlling their own territory, and they certainly aren’t harboring any terrorist groups.”

“True, Mr. President, but Saudi Arabia is more than ten times the size of Syria. Most of the country is trackless desert. Other than where the oil fields are, much of that desert is someplace no one in the country ever cares about, let alone flies over or drives through. Our analysis tells us someone — we don’t know who yet — could set something like this up in Saudi Arabia for reasons that still elude us.”

“Well, Saudi Arabia is our ally. I can ask the king to send his forces to that area to resolve this. He could do that right now.”

“Mr. President, respectfully, sir, you know the Saudis have a long history of being less than candid with us about their actions.”

“Yes, I’m aware of some of that history.”

“Sir, I saw that in spades during my years as CENTCOM commander. Also now, in the wake of the United States criticizing the Saudis for suppressing their own people during the Arab Spring and their sending troops to Bahrain to squelch protests there, we have to recognize relations between our two nations may be at an all-time low. Even if the king agreed to do what you asked him, and he might not, he could slow roll you and not move out quickly enough. You also have to remember, the Saudis have their pride. Would they even admit some rogue element could erect a site like that on their soil?”

“I see your points, but I’m going to have to take this to my national security team. The stakes couldn’t be higher and we’ve got to think about protecting American sailors on our ships like Truman. I know this is more than a hunch on your part, and I realize you wouldn’t have come to me if that’s all it was, but I’m reluctant to call a halt to all the plans and forces we’ve put in motion.”

“I’m not asking you to do that, Mr. President. I understand your position completely, but I am aware the CENTCOM commander, General Albin, is still moving assets into position and there is flexibility in when he makes his move.”

“Maybe some, but not that much, Chase. You say there’s an analyst at the National Reconnaissance Office who says this site is in Saudi Arabia. This is a lot to put on what one analyst says.”

“Fair enough, Mr. President, but as you know, I’ve surged my JSOC team into western Iraq. They’re operational. Give me eighteen hours to allow the team to get eyes-on and boots on the ground where we suspect this site is in Saudi Arabia. If it is there we can stop what is about to happen with Syria.”

“You understand the logistics of getting ready to strike Syria are just too intense to completely stop, then start again. We have to keep moving forward, and eighteen hours is a long time to wait given the dire situation.”

“My team is trained and ready to go, Mr. President, and if we can pull it off in less than eighteen hours we’ll certainly do that.”

“You also know we’ve got this threat of Iran moving to mine the Strait of Hormuz.”

“I’m not asking you to hold back on anything General Albin needs to do to stop the Iranians. We all know how catastrophic that would be, especially since it would trap so many Navy ships inside the Gulf. Believe me, Mr. President, as a former CENTCOM commander, I fully appreciate his situation.”

“All right, Chase. Get your JSOC team moving to resolve this. We don’t have any time to lose.”

Sandee Barron had indulged herself with a “Hollywood shower.” She took a shower that at home was considered normal, but on a Navy ship, where every ounce of fresh water has to be distilled from salt water, was considered excessive. It was a waste of a precious asset.

Yet she needed it, just this once. As she thought about what Laurie was asking of her, the full magnitude of it hit her as hard as the hot water that pounded down from the shower head. It was nothing short of putting her life and her career on the line. How could Laurie ask her to do this? It was beyond the pale — or was it?

Sandee turned off the shower. She reflected on her first day at the Naval Academy, standing in Tecumseh Court with 1,100 other new plebes on that steamy June day in Annapolis. They all had their right hands raised as the Naval Academy superintendent swore them in as midshipmen and future Navy or Marine Corps officers. That oath now played back in her brain’s frontal lobe. In light of that, there really was no decision to make; there was only her duty and only one right thing to do. She looked at her watch, the plan forming in mind. So, let’s get this thing done.

The president was still absorbing what Chase Williams had just told him when Trevor Harward entered the Oval Office. While Williams had insisted on the right to communicate solely with the president when necessary, this was not one of those times. He knew Harward would be key to slowing down moves against Syria, so he back-briefed the national security advisor immediately after leaving the Oval Office.

It had not started out as a pleasant meeting. Harward had gone on the offensive and given Williams a half dozen reasons why the forces put in motion to neutralize Syria’s ability to use her DF-21D missiles against U.S. forces in the region had to adhere to a strict timeline. He told Williams General Albin had used another hastily deployed Global Hawk to fly over the suspected missile site in Syria at a lower altitude and that flight had revealed a covered-up and camouflaged blockhouse, a clear sign that Syria once had a missile site there but had evidently redeployed it somewhere else. Williams had listened, and listened intently, and then carefully used his three-plus decades of military experience, and especially his years as CENTCOM commander, to explain to Harward how what he was proposing to the president would in no way derail General Albin’s preparations. At the end of the meeting all the two men could agree on was they saw things differently, perhaps vastly so.

Now Harward stood in front of the president’s desk, having declined the president’s invitation to sit down. Wyatt Midkiff could tell he was seething. He let him pour out what was on his mind. Finally, his national security advisor stopped talking.

“Trevor, I don’t need to remind you I have complete confidence in your judgment. You also know that I respect the counsel of Jack Bradt and Adam Putnam, to say nothing of General Albin and the rest of our military. I know you are firmly behind the plans to move against Syria immediately—”

“And then Iran, Mr. President,” Harward interrupted. “We’ve got missiles in Syria that are clearly getting moved around like a peas under walnut shells. You also know if Iran does even a half-assed job of mining the strait we’ve got a dozen ships and somewhere north of fifteen thousand sailors trapped there. We’ve got to move, Mr. President.”

“Trevor, before we agreed to stand up Op-Center again and put Chase in charge, you told me above all else, I needed to trust him. I need to trust him on this. He’s going to either find out, or rule out, whether those missiles are in Syria.”

“As you wish, Mr. President,” Harward replied. There was an uncomfortable silence before Harward turned and left the Oval Office.

Wyatt Midkiff made no attempt to call Harward back or assuage him. He needed his national security advisor to do that himself. For now, he was putting his chips, and maybe his presidency, on Op-Center.

Sandee Barron didn’t consider herself especially “religious.” She preferred to call herself spiritual. Yet after she had showered and dressed, and knowing Laurie was on watch in CDC, she had locked the door of their stateroom, gotten on her knees, and prayed like she had never prayed before. She wanted — no, needed — God to help her do the right thing.

Still, what is the right thing? It’s beyond just putting my life and Laurie’s life on the line, to say nothing of my career. I’ll have to lie to my squadron mates, to the ship, and to everyone else for that matter.

In addition to that, what about her husband and their two daughters? What if something happened to her? Would it have been worth it? This would in no way be a victimless crime.

God hadn’t told her what to do. She had to make the decision herself.

Once Sandee decided she needed to help Laurie do what she wanted to do to prove the threatening missiles were in Saudi Arabia, not in Syria, the rest was execution. She told her immediate boss, the helo detachment officer in charge, she had been promising to take Laurie up on a familiarization flight for the longest time and that a parts pickup for Mustin was as simple a mission as there was. He had agreed. Next, she had used the information Laurie’s National Reconnaissance Office contact had sent to plan the fastest ingress/egress route to the suspected missile site. She had also spent some time on the SIPRNET Intel-Link learning all she could about Saudi radar coverage in that area. Finally, she reminded herself of her oath and told herself, firmly, the decision had been made and she wouldn’t look back. OK, Sandee, you fancy yourself the best pilot on the detachment, maybe in the entire squadron. Here’s your chance to prove it.

Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei considered himself a man of infinite patience; it was something Allah expected of him. He had made his decision with due diligence and it was, he reminded himself, in the best interests of the Islamic Republic of Iran. However, his patience had worn thin when advisor after advisor had come to Niavaran Palace to try to convince him to change his mind. Change his mind? Rescind a decision he had come to after earnest prayer and contemplation? Perhaps he ought to reconsider who he had chosen to be his advisors. He would attend to that later. For now, he had a solemn duty to do what he was about to do.

“Swampfox 248, winds are twenty-five to port, fifteen knots, gusting to twenty, you’re cleared for takeoff. Beams open. Green deck. Lift.”

Sandee Barron pulled a bit of collective, kicked the rudder pedals, and pivoted the nose of the MH-60R to the left. Once pointed directly into the wind, she pulled an armload of collective, pushed the helo’s nose over, and flew away from the ship.

“Box Top,” she began, using Normandy’s daily changing call sign, “Swampfox 248 is away, three plus one-five hours on the fuel, two souls aboard.”

“Swampfox 248, Box Top control, Roger. Your vector to Delta Whiskey is 262 for forty-four miles.”

“Roger vector, Box Top control. Swampfox 248 out.”

Sandee was on her way to Bahrain, identified by the daily changing call sign, Delta Whiskey, to pick up the critical part for Mustin’s SPY radar. “Here we go,” she said, looking to the aircraft’s left seat.

Here we go, Laurie heard herself thinking.

For Sandee, there was still time to back out. They could just get the part, take it to Mustin, then return immediately to Normandy as she said she would. Sandee’s mind was in overdrive. In the helo’s left seat, Laurie Phillips was also conflicted. Had she asked for too much?

Almost due east of where Sandee Barron piloted Swampfox 248, Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy sailors loaded mines onto dhows in the Iranian ports of Chabahar and Shahib Rajaee. Soon they would head south, bound for the Strait of Hormuz. What they did not know was that American satellites had been watching from the time the mines had been taken out of their underground bunkers and had followed them as they were taken to the mine assembly area buildings in the port areas and then to the loading docks in the ports.

At the Niavaran Palace, Grand Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei had made his decision. The mining operation was under way and he had turned that over completely to Rear Admiral Jamshid Rostami. He had given Rostami explicit instructions to mine the Strait of Hormuz as a show of strength. He wanted to show the Americans and the west what Iran could do if the United States attacked Syria.

Rostami would carry out his instructions and seed just a few mines at strategic points near the Strait of Hormuz. That harassment mining would be enough to panic Western nations and drive the price of oil to unprecedented levels. Also it would be something the Americans could clear in fairly short order. The grand ayatollah knew a mine clearance effort would take months if Iran sowed a larger portion of the more than five thousand sea mines in its inventory. That was not his game. This would be a precision operation and he counted on Rostami to carry it out flawlessly.

His mind cleared of that for the moment, Ali Hosseini Khamenei turned to his next task, ensuring the United States would not retaliate against Iran for any of her actions. What he had decided he wanted to be prepared to do needed be done with care and therefore it needed to be done professionally. He had contacted his man, a Bahrainian national, several days ago. The Bahraini had assured him he could hire just the right person to do exactly what he asked and do it just the way he wanted it done. Now that hired man, an American of Russian extraction, was holed up in his hotel suite in Silver Spring, Maryland, with his supply of sarin gas and a do-not-disturb sign affixed to his door. The man’s orders were to do nothing — yet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Laurie had ridden in the back of the MH-60R when Sandee had picked her up on Truman and delivered her to Normandy, but riding in the left seat of the MH-60R was a completely different experience. It was all but sensory overload, looking at the multiscreen display in the Seahawk’s all-glass cockpit, peering down on the crowded blue waters of the Arabian Gulf populated with all manner of dhows, coastal freighters, enormous oil tankers, and the like. She watched the broad Saudi coastline, all the while trying to make sense of the chatter over the radio.

The part pickup in Bahrain had been routine, although the Navy logistics people who loaded the part, along with several bags of mail for Mustin, wondered why the MH-60R didn’t have a crewman in the back. There were the same puzzled looks when they had made an uneventful landing on Mustin and then had Mustin’s flight deck crew unload the part and mail. Mustin’s landing safety officer had been mildly inquisitive as to why they needed fuel for the short trip back to Normandy; but they had been refueled nonetheless. As they lifted off Mustin’s deck, Laurie saw Sandee put the sun on the bird’s right side and turn north, not back south toward Normandy. She felt she had to say something.

“Sandee, I know we talked about this. I know you are doing this for all the right reasons, but if you want to head back toward Normandy, I’ll understand completely.”

“We decided, Laurie. We’re going.”

“I appreciate it, Sandee, I—”

“Laurie!” Sandee snapped. “We’re way beyond talking about this. What I need for you to do now is to be a good copilot and focus on the mission. We’re going into Indian country and I need you to help me. I can’t do this alone.”

Properly refocused, Laurie replied, “What would you like me to do?”

“Look at the right-hand display in front of you. You can see the coastline of Saudi Arabia on the left-hand side of the display, right?”

“Yes. Yes I can.”

“Fine. We’re going to head north until that way-point up here,” continued Sandee as she leaned over and pointed her gloved-finger at a spot on the display. “By that time we’ll have descended to below fifty feet. Once we hit that way-point we turn west and head directly for the latitude and longitude your friend at the National Reconnaissance Office gave us.”

“Is that this symbol here?” Laurie asked, pointing to the display.

“Yes. I put the latitude and longitude of this suspected site into the bird’s navigation system. The nav system will take us right there.”

“Got it.”

“Now, as we approach the coast, we’ll drop down to twenty feet off the deck. That’s really low and it will feel uncomfortable to you, but we’ve got to do everything we can to keep Saudi radars from picking us up. We’ll stay down at twenty feet as we cross the desert. Based on our speed and where this point is, I think we’ll reach it about twelve to fifteen minutes after we cross the coastline.”

“I think I’ve got all that.”

“I’m setting the radar altimeter to fifteen feet. If we drop below twenty feet and get down to fifteen, we’ll both hear a steady ‘beep, beep, beep’ tone in our headsets. Don’t assume I’ll react to it fast enough. You hear that beep-beep and you yell at me to pull up.”

“Got it. What else can I do?”

“Keep a sharp eye out on the left side of the aircraft. I can’t see much on that side from my seat. You’re my eyes out there.”

“I can do that. What else?”

“When we get about five miles from the site, I’ll pop up to about five hundred feet. I don’t think the Saudis monitor their desert with radar, just their coastline and their borders with other countries. As we get close to that final way-point we’ll look for this missile site. You told me you’ve read in intel reports the missile launchers have been taken down, so all we’re looking for is a building, right?”

“Yes, and a building that’s likely been camouflaged.”

“Got it. Five hundred feet is a good visual search altitude. There’s only so much you can camouflage. If there’s a building there, we’ll see it.”

“And then we look for the pads?”

“Yes, and that’s where I’ll need your help the most. You told me that your knowledge of all this tells us those missiles can’t be set up in sand, but need to be put on concrete pads. I’m guessing those pads are still there but will be way harder to see than a building. So keep a sharp eye out.”

“And once we have those located?” Laurie asked.

“Then I put our tail to the sun and use our FLIR to take a picture of what’s there,” Sandee continued, referring to their Forward Looking Infrared Imaging System. “The building and the pads will be all the proof we need that something was there. Once we do that, we’re dropping back down to the deck and getting our asses out of there!”

The two women continued north. Meanwhile, USS Normandy set flight quarters anticipating Swampfox 248’s imminent return.

At Forward Operating Base Tiger, as the JSOC team named the small strip in western Iraq, Brian Dawson gathered his planning team in the air-conditioned comms van. Around a small crowded table, he began by relating his conversation with Chase Williams.

“OK, team, listen up. Just got off the secure net with the boss. The situation with Syria is heating up and now Iran is moving to mine the Strait of Hormuz. The president gave him only eighteen hours to find this missile site in Saudi Arabia, otherwise we’ll be attacking Syria and doing who-knows-what to Iran.”

“Got that, sir,” Mike Volner said. “Is the plan we have in place still good?”

“Not quite. It looks as if this is going to have to be more than a special reconnaissance mission. We now have to give the president ironclad proof this false missile site is on Saudi Arabian soil, not in Syria. Just looking at it from the air or getting stand-off photos won’t be good enough. We’re going to have to go in and physically inspect the site. It will be a full-on sensitive site exploitation — that’s the mission. We have to be certain the missiles are at that location.”

“How about the extraction?” Volner asked. “The Black Hawks are still coming for us, right?”

“Correct. The two MH-60Ms will launch and head southeast. Just before they leave Iraqi airspace the Combat Talon birds will top them off so they have a full bag of gas.”

“And we’ll have no trouble with the Saudis detecting us?” Volner asked. He was the one leading the special reconnaissance mission, and he needed to ensure they had covered every possible contingency.

“No. Just before the two MH-60Ms cross into Saudi airspace, Aaron Bleich back at Op-Center is going to take down the Saudi military air traffic control system—”

“He’s sure he can do that?” Volner interrupted, knowing the Saudi Air Force would knock any intruders out of the sky first and ask questions later.

“He is. He’s already experimented by taking down a portion of their air traffic control system over their Red Sea port city of Jeddah. He knows he can cripple the entire system, and he knows about how long it would take the Saudis to bring the system back on line. We won’t have a lot of time for the extraction, but we’ll have enough.”

“So when do we go, sir?”

“Master Guns Moore, the boss says we go as soon as it’s dark and your team is ready to saddle up and jump.”

“We’ll meet here two hours before sunset for our prelaunch brief,” Mike Volner said. “We’ll be ready, sir.”

OK, Sandee, this is it. Let’s see what kind of aviator you really are, Sandee said to herself as she turned west, pushed the collective down, and pointed the nose of the aircraft toward the fly-to point now thirty-four miles dead ahead on the nose of her aircraft.

“Sharp eyes, Laurie. Sharp eyes.”

The bird streaked along near its redline speed of 135 knots, more than 150 miles per hour, making a beeline for the missile site.

God, please let us get in and out quick, and get this done.

Chase Williams stood in Op-Center’s command center looking at the array of large-screen displays and status boards and reminded himself why they had trained for so hard for so long. His watch team was quiet, composed, and there was no hint of concern or frenetic activity. It was business and nothing but business as they communicated with the JSOC team on the ground in Iraq, as well as with Aaron Bleich’s Geek Tank, while monitoring a half dozen feeds that kept them plugged into the activities of the military forces in the Central Command.

Williams had been on the phone with General Albin from time to time and was provided with status updates. Albin, for his part, had provided logistics support for Forward Operating Base Tiger, but it was more than that. As a former Central Command commander, Williams had experience that paralleled and even exceeded Albin’s. The general had on several occasions sought Williams’s advice on theater-specific issues, and he trusted that counsel.

“JSOC team is ready and they’re going to jump tonight,” his watch team lead began.

“Very well,” Williams replied. “Your people ready?”

“Yes, sir. Aaron and his team are standing by to neutralize the Saudi military’s air traffic control system any time.”

Williams nodded. “All their aircraft up and ready?”

“All’s green, boss. They’re ready to go. All we’re waiting for is nightfall.”

“There it is, Sandee, there it is!” Laurie Phillips exclaimed as they approached the coordinates of the missile site. It was right where Charlie Bacon had said it would be.

They had climbed to five hundred feet several minutes earlier and slowed their airspeed to eighty knots.

“Where? Where is it? I can’t see it.”

“Down there, about ten o’clock,” Laurie replied. “About two miles away. Come left just a bit to put it on your nose.”

Sandee did as Laurie asked and pressed forward, scanning ahead, slowing her airspeed further, down to sixty-five knots now.

Finally, after a tense thirty seconds, Sandee saw it.

“Yes, yes, I have it. God, it looks like they have layers of camouflage netting over it. I’m not surprised. Do you see any concrete pads yet?”

“No, but I think I will as we get closer.”

After another fifteen seconds, Sandee all but shouted, “There, there at one o’clock. I think I see one of the pads! Anything on your side yet?”

“Looking … looking … are you going to slow a bit?”

Sandee pulled back slightly on the helo’s cyclic stick, slowing the bird further. Time seemed to stand still.

“Down there, I see another pad. Right on the nose, Sandee. Can you see it?”

Several seconds of searching, time now on a slow crawl. “Yes, yes, I do!”

“This proves it, Sandee. This proves it. We were right!”

“You were right.”

“What now? Are we going to get the FLIR picture?”

“Yes, but this angle is lousy, and I’m too low. Just keep a sharp eye out, OK?” Sandee replied as she maneuvered the aircraft, setting up a small circle around the blockhouse and pads as she tried to line up for good FLIR shots. They were only doing this once. She wasn’t coming back again. She had to get it right the first time.

In the blockhouse below, Jawad Makhdoom had heard a helicopter approaching from several miles away. He knew the prince wasn’t coming to the site today. He went outside to see what it was.

Seconds later, he was back in the blockhouse and rushed up to his second in command. “It’s an American helicopter circling us!”

“Are you certain?” the man asked.

“Yes. I think it’s from their Navy. It’s matte gray and I see a star on the side of the fuselage.”

“Call the prince. Call him now!” the man exclaimed.

“Sandee, I can’t be sure, but I think I just saw someone come out of the blockhouse, and then run back in again.”

“I figured there would be someone in there. They probably weren’t going to leave those missiles just sitting out here in the desert unattended, and they probably don’t have helos flying over their building all the time, either.”

“Can I do anything?”

“This FLIR is acting a little finicky today and I’m having trouble bringing it on line. My head is going to be mostly in the cockpit while I circle the blockhouse. Just keep a sharp eye out.”

“Will do, Sandee.” I know we’re doing the right thing, but I can see Sandee is beyond nervous. Oh God, please let that FLIR work.

Minutes passed as Sandee Barron continued to circle the blockhouse and work with the FLIR.

“Sandee, I see two men coming out of the blockhouse now, and one of them looks like he’s holding some kind of long cylinder.”

“Where?” Sandee asked, popping her head up.

“What!” Sandee shouted as she saw a flash of light at her four o’clock position, a flash that came from where the two men were standing. Seconds later, a thin trail of smoke connected the two men on the ground with the helo.

“BANG!” A loud explosion rang out from the back of the helo.

“Sandee?” Laurie exclaimed.

“God, we’ve been hit!” Sandee cried out.

The sound of the explosion when the rocket-propelled grenade hit them was ear-splitting, and now the sounds coming from the tail boom of the MH-60R were deafening.

“What’s going on, Sandee?”

“We’ve been hit. I think it was an RPG!

“Master caution light. Warning lights. Tail rotor gearbox, oh shit!” Sandee yelled out.

An eternity passed in a second. Sandee Barron knew what was happening. Whatever had hit them had struck near the tail pylon of their MH-60R. Either the drive train leading to the tail rotor had been severed, or the tail rotor gearbox itself had been hit. As the tail rotor slowed down, Sandee pushed harder and harder on the left rudder pedal trying to keep the bird pointed straight ahead.

Finally, she jammed the rudder pedal to the stops. It was no use.

“I’ve lost tail rotor authority … no, wait … I’ve totally lost thrust!” shouted Sandee. All right, Sandee, you think you’re such a hot shit pilot. Get through this. Get through this. Get on the deck in one piece.

As the vibrations increased in intensity, the helo started to turn to the right more rapidly, now deprived of the antitorque normally provided by the tail rotor. No matter how many times she had practiced this in the flight simulator, the real thing was a hundred times worse. Reflexively, Sandee bottomed the collective, taking torque off the blades and entering an autorotation. This stopped some, but not all, of the helo spinning.

“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY, Swampfox 248 hit by an RPG. Crash landing in the desert,” Sandee said as she instinctively keyed her radio.

The MH-60R dropped out of the sky and plummeted toward the desert floor below. In the left seat, Laurie was gripped with fear and held on to the glare shield in front of her for dear life. As Sandee rode the mortally wounded bird toward the ground the nose of the MH-60R wandered up and down and kept drifting to the right more rapidly now that the tail rotor had completely stopped. The vibrations increased in intensity and the two women were getting bounced around in their seats. As the helo continued to head toward the desert floor looming up below, Sandee pulled the power control levers and killed the bird’s two engines, trying to take as much torque off the rotor blades as possible and stop the helicopter from spinning. The vibrations increased as Sandee fought to keep the nose from drifting farther right, but her efforts were futile.

Laurie was transfixed on the desert floor now filling their cockpit window. She wanted to help, do something, anything, rather than just sit there, but she was in a completely alien environment when the helicopter was operating normally. Now that it was plunging to the earth she was in sensory overload. She just prayed.

Sandee’s focus was now completely outside the aircraft, measuring their rate of descent by how fast the ground was coming up at them, following her procedures as best she could, and praying silently she would do this right.

Now the moment of truth, just feet above the desert floor, Sandee pulled the nose of the aircraft up progressively, first about ten degrees above the horizon, then fifteen degrees, and ultimately to thirty degrees up as she slowed the MH-60R’s progress over the ground to near zero. At the last moment, she rocked the nose forward so the helo was level and yanked the collective up into her armpit, slowing their rapid rate of descent as much as she could.

Still it wasn’t enough. The bird hit hard. The landing gear struts stroked all the way but the G-forces on the aircraft were too great and the landing gear collapsed unevenly and the helicopter started to tilt to the right. Laurie just hung on. Once the helo had tilted far enough, the rotor blades hit and started chewing up the desert floor, shaking the helicopter violently. Finally, all motion stopped.

Jawad Makhdoom couldn’t believe what they had just seen. He had called the prince as his number two man had suggested, and Ali, without hesitation, had told him to grab the rocket-propelled grenade launcher they kept at the blockhouse to deal with this threat. “Shoot the American spy helicopter out of the sky!” the prince had ordered. They had trained with the RPG and taken a few practice shots months ago, but Makhdoom was surprised by his good fortune to have actually hit the bird with one shot.

However, there was no plan for what to do next. He didn’t know if the people in the helicopter were dead or alive, but he did know Ali al-Wandi was on the way to their site. He knew he had better get answers before the prince arrived.

Hasan Khosa was standing watch in the Geek Tank cell. He picked up the transmission, then played back his tape to hear it again. Then he called out, “Aaron, I need you.”

“Whatcha got, Hasan?” Bleich asked as he walked up behind Khosa. If Bleich had one member of his Geek Tank who he counted on the most, it was Khosa. Just twenty-eight years old and a former wunderkind at eBay, Hasan Khosa was rail thin and barely 140 pounds dripping wet, with shaggy black hair and a wardrobe that might charitably be called early Goodwill. He was second-generation Pakistani and deeply devoted to his immigrant parents, who had sacrificed to send him to Columbia University. He was easygoing and prided himself in doing whatever Bleich asked him to do faster and better than his boss asked for.

“Got this from the DIA net,” Khosa began, referring to the Defense Intelligence Agency. “There’s been a Mayday call from a U.S. military aircraft in the Gulf. I’m putting the latitude and longitude of the report on my screen now. Here, have a look.”

As Bleich looked at the screen in front of him and did some quick mental math, he realized instantly the lat and long on Khosa’s screen matched the location of the suspected missile site in Saudi Arabia.

“Great work, Hasan, I’ll get Roger in here ASAP. He needs to see this!”

The MH-60R sat there, tilted almost thirty degrees to the right, its huge rotor blades dug into the sand and serving as a prop to keep the aircraft from tumbling completely over on its side. Only a few indicators powered by the aircraft’s battery were still alive. An eerie silence settled over the helicopter and its two occupants.

I’m alive — by God, I’m alive! Laurie thought as she looked over in the right seat and saw Sandee moving her head from side to side and heard her moaning.

As the commander of a military aircraft, beginning with the sound of the RPG hitting her bird, Sandee Barron had experienced the classic range of emotions that accompanied such events. First disbelief, then actions based on training and on instincts, then bargaining with God, more actions, concern she had somehow screwed up, more actions, and finally, fear. We’re on the ground and I’m alive, but is Laurie?

“Laurie? Are you OK?” Sandee asked. Somehow her neck wouldn’t turn to the left, so all she could do was to ask it out loud.

“Yes, I think so.”

“We’ve got to get out of this bird, now. We may have ruptured the fuel tanks and this thing could go up like a torch any minute.”

Jawad Makhdoom didn’t fancy himself a hero. He proceeded cautiously. He had gathered all of his crew from the blockhouse and armed them with the rifles and pistols they kept there for security. Now he had them walking with him as he cautiously approached the crashed helicopter.

He struggled with his decision. He knew the prince would want to know precisely what was going on, but he didn’t want to become a casualty doing it. He knew all too well American helicopters had a penchant for carrying SEALs or other special operators and even a crashed helicopter might disgorge a half dozen armed and angry men at any moment. For now, his team remained huddled behind a sand dune about fifty yards from the downed bird.

As Sandee continued to assess the situation, her most intense focus was on getting Laurie out of the aircraft and then getting out herself.

“Laurie, I know it’s uphill, but can you open your door? Just push it hard, unstrap and then drop onto the ground. My door is stuck and I’ll need you to come around to my side of the bird and pull it open from the outside. I can’t get any leverage on it sitting in my seat and my right arm is pretty bunged up, I can hardly move it. Hurry, I see a bunch of men, and they look like they’re armed, behind that sand dune at my three o’clock.”

Laurie did as she instructed and soon was on the ground. Meanwhile, Sandee unholstered the pistol she was armed with and put it in her left hand.

Laurie came around to right side of the bird, twisted the door handle, put two hands on it, and pulled with all her might. It opened!

“Great, Laurie, you did it,” Sandee said. “Here, before I get unstrapped and drop out, take this,” she continued, handing Laurie her pistol while warily eyeing the men behind the dune. “You probably have some experience with these from your Marine Corps days.”

“Just a bit,” Laurie replied. “Here, let me help you get unstrapped and get out.”

Laurie leaned in and began helping Sandee. Suddenly, Sandee cried out.

“Ouch! Oh shit. I think my right arm is broken.”

“Are you sure?”

“Here, grab my left arm and let me lean against you and I can drop out,” Sandee said, grimacing with pain.

As gingerly as she could, Laurie helped Sandee out of the aircraft. She could see she was in tremendous pain and her right arm hung limp at her side. “Here,” Laurie said. “Let’s move toward that small dune over there. It’s far enough from the helo and it will provide us some cover if those guys start shooting.”

Once behind the dune and at least momentarily safe, Sandee had a moment to collect her thoughts. They were not good thoughts. I’ve lied to my detachment OIC, I’ve lied to my fellow pilots, I’ve lied to the ship, and I’ve almost gotten us killed. I’ve destroyed a $30 million helicopter and we’re in the Saudi desert and we’re screwed, Sandee told herself. Now I just have to get us the hell out of here.

She keyed her PRC-90 survival radio and made the call she knew she had to make.

As Roger McCord and Aaron Bleich walked up to Chase Williams in the command center, the Op-Center director could tell that something was wrong.

“What’s up?” Williams asked.

“Boss, looks like the mission’s changed.”

“How so?” Williams had been focused on the JSOC team’s preps and hadn’t been dialed into anything the Geek Tank had been doing for the last few minutes.

“Well, boss, Aaron’s team picked up a DIA feed that a U.S. military aircraft in the Gulf made a mayday call. Then they picked up an indication a U.S. Navy ship in the Gulf, USS Normandy, had declared their helo overdue. Not only that, but there’s a U.S. military aircraft emergency crash beacon going off at that location. And, well, the coordinates track to where we think this missile site is located in Saudi Arabia.”

“Wow. So we think some Navy helo stumbled on the site that our JSOC team is about to investigate?”

“I’m not sure ‘stumbled’ is the right word, boss,” McCord replied. “There’s nothing out there but sand and it makes no sense that a U.S. Navy helo would just drive thirty-five miles into the Saudi desert.”

“We know if the crew is still alive?”

“Unknown, boss. You want to call General Albin and see what he knows?”

“Good idea, Roger. In the meantime, get ahold of Brian and the JSOC team. You’re right. Our mission has changed — or maybe just gotten bigger.”

Jawad Makhdoom looked through his binoculars, alternately looking at the helo, waiting for heavily armed Americans to emerge, and looking at the two figures who had taken cover behind the small sand dune. His men sat with him, armed and ready, but ready to do what, they didn’t know yet. Besides, they were technicians, not infantrymen.

He turned toward his number two and handed him the binoculars.

“Here, have a look, and tell me if those two pilots aren’t women.”

The man grabbed the binoculars and stared at the two huddled figures.

“By Allah’s will, they are. And one of them looks wounded.”

“Let’s move toward them. We can find out everything we need to know before the prince arrives.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Brian Dawson huddled with Hector Rodriquez, Mike Volner, and Charles Moore. He had briefed them right after talking with Chase Williams and Roger McCord.

“And we still don’t know what that Navy helo was doing there?” Volner asked.

“No clue at all,” Dawson replied. “However, in a way, they did our job for us. About ten minutes after the mayday call, the Navy pilot on the ground there made an emergency radio call asking for help. As part of that transmission she said she was certain they had found the missile site that was supposedly in Syria there in Saudi Arabia.”

“Did you say ‘she’?” Hector Rodriquez asked.

“Evidently two ‘shes,’” Dawson replied. “The other person in the aircraft was a female CNA analyst from Normandy. At least that’s how they IDed themselves.”

“This is stranger than fiction,” Moore added.

“Tell me about it, Master Guns,” Dawson replied. “Now, I’ve talked with Op-Center. There are a lot of moving parts to what’s going on around us, but for right now, our mission is to go extract these two ladies ASAP and confirm the missile site. Here’s what I’m thinking.”

The men formed a small circle around Dawson as he brought up a display on his iPad and began to lay out their plan.

Jawad Makhdoom finally came to the conclusion he was not dealing with a squad of SEALs, but only two Americans, and two women to boot. He cautiously led his team toward the enemy. He knew how long it would take the prince to make the trip from Riyadh in his Sikorsky S-92. He wanted to take control of these two unwanted visitors before Ali al-Wandi arrived. He wanted to be in charge.

“Laurie, it looks like they’re coming to get us and they’re all armed.”

“I know; I can see them.”

“I don’t have the kind of combat experience you have. Plus I can’t do shit with my arm the way it is. What do you want to do?”

“You made the distress call on your emergency radio, right? I gotta think help is on the way. If we can just hold them off a little bit, I think we can get ourselves pulled out of here somehow.”

“I agree, but I don’t have any extra ammo on me; it’s all in the helo. What you have in that clip is all we’ve got.”

“Then that will have to do. If this is all the ammo I’ve got, I have to wait till they get closer to start firing. Maybe I can hold them off.”

Major Mike Volner and Master Guns Moore led their small squad up the ramp of the CH-130H Combat Talon II aircraft. Volner was proud of the fact it had only been fifteen minutes since Dawson had initially huddled them together to tell them their mission had changed. Most of what a Tier One JSOC element did was tied up in their well-practiced tactics, techniques, and procedures. They knew what to do. A change in mission was no more difficult than an orchestra conductor passing around a new set of sheet music. With American lives at risk, the mission might be more dangerous and possibly more complex than a pure special reconnaissance mission, but that meant little in the calculus of these men. They were ready. Once buckled into their troop seats, Volner turned to Moore.

“Master Guns, the good news is all the planning we did for our original mission translates pretty well to this one. The only exception is the fact now we can’t wait for nightfall.”

“Got that, sir; the boys are ready.”

“Good. We still don’t have comms with the Americans on the ground so we don’t know if they’re injured or if they’re in enemy hands. We’re going to do a low altitude jump about six miles from the site. Our planners think that with the blowing sand this time of year that will get us on the ground undetected. Then we hump it over to the site, and while we’re doing that, we’ll send the Raven over it to collect as much intel as we can.”

“Got it, sir. Op-Center gonna mess with the Saudi air traffic control before we cross the border?”

“Negative. They want to save that for the helo extraction. They figure if we go in low enough and follow the route the Combat Talon pilots have laid out we can sneak in pretty much undetected.”

“How much time are they giving us on the deck before the extract birds arrive?”

“That’s our call. Once we get eyes on the site we can call for extract. With refueling and all they’ll be about an hour and a half out.”

“That’s a lot of time waiting on the deck, sir. It could create problems.”

Volner grinned at his team chief. “And that, Master Guns, is why they pay us the big bucks.”

The dhows were loaded with a total of about eighty mines and then pushed out of port and headed toward the Strait of Hormuz. The nondescript vessels blended in with the hundreds of others like them in the Gulf as they made their way south.

The grand ayatollah had spoken with his naval commander, Rear Admiral Sayyari, and ordered him to have his naval vessels escort the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy dhows toward the strait. Sayyari had bristled at the order. “Grand Ayatollah, our navy is mighty and we can certainly complete this mission, but should we?”

“Why do you question this, Sayyari?”

“Grand Ayatollah, the West, and especially the Americans, know our Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps forces often operate independently from the rest of our military.”

“Yes, but what is that to us, and to this mission?”

“Just this: If the Revolutionary Guard vessels go alone and the Americans or others decide to retaliate, we will have deniability that our nation was involved at all. However, if our navy escorts them, then it is an act with national intent. Imam, it is an act that only you yourself could order,” the admiral had replied.

The grand ayatollah had paused, but only for a moment. “I understand your concerns, Sayyari, and it is not the way of a righteous, sovereign nation. I do not intend to cower behind some false front and say we don’t have control of our Revolutionary Guard Corps naval vessels. The world must know, just as it knew in early 2013 when you took your 24th Flotilla to the Pacific and visited China, we are a powerful nation. We are not to be bullied. We gave the world a reason why we are mining the Strait. It is the Islamic Republic of Iran, not just the Revolutionary Guard, that stands by our Syrian allies. We will not make believe someone else, who we don’t control, is taking that action.” Ali Hosseini Khamenei paused. “Will there be anything else, Admiral?”

“No, Grand Ayatollah, nothing else. It will be done.”

It didn’t take the president long to assimilate the information from his advisors and to issue orders to his national security team. He now sat in the Oval Office with Trevor Harward.

“Mr. President, we’ve seen a hell of a lot of change in the last twenty-four hours, haven’t we?”

“Almost more than any of us can absorb, Trevor, both good and bad.”

“Yes, sir, but on the good side of the equation, we now are all but certain that Syria is not going to move against us and we are not going to attack them. And that is a great relief.”

“It is. We came damn close to doing just that.”

“I know we did, Mr. President,” Harward replied. “Chase Williams’s counsel was spot on. We owe him and his organization a great deal.”

“Did you listen in on my call to President Shaaban of Syria. I hope I handled it properly. We didn’t want to come across as overly apologetic.”

“No, sir, I think you handled that well. We were misled. You conveyed that without surrendering our right to protect our forces in international waters. Also I think putting Secretary of State Green on an airplane to Syria as early as you did will go a long way toward mending that fence.”

“I’d be a damned sight better off if we knew why this ruse got pulled in the first place. When we actually get inside that blockhouse where we think the missiles are and get our two people out of Saudi Arabia, I’ll breathe a lot easier.”

“I know, Mr. President, Chase has briefed me on their operation to rescue them.” Harward paused to look at this watch. “His JSOC team will be on target soon. We’ll know more shortly, but until then, there’s nothing we can do but focus on what the Iranians might be doing.”

“Tell me again why we don’t have our forces stop the Iranians from mining the Strait of Hormuz.”

“They haven’t done anything yet, Mr. President. If we blasted those Islamic Revolutionary Guard dhows in their ports, Iran would just say they were conducting an exercise.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good enough answer, Trevor.”

“That’s the Central Command commander’s assessment, Mr. President. Would you like me to set up another VTC with him?”

“Yes, but not yet. One thing at a time; let’s hold off until Chase’s people are on the ground and we have some resolution in Saudi Arabia.”

For a moment, it didn’t look like it was going to happen. Laurie had waited until the Saudis were within forty yards of their position before she took her first shot. That got their attention. The fact that at least one of the two women was armed caused Jawad Makhdoom to change his strategy. Caution was now the watchword and he deployed his men in a large circle around the women, preventing any chance of escape as well as dividing their attention.

Laurie had fired several more times. She never scored a hit, but the men now advanced more cautiously. The fact that she didn’t hit them frustrated her. Every Marine a rifleman was the mantra she had lived by in the Corps. However, it had been years since she had fired a weapon, and at the range she was dealing with, a rifle was the weapon of choice, not a pistol. The armed men crawled and dashed toward the two women as one or the other of them provided covering fire. Laurie rose again to fire but all she heard was click. She was out of ammo, and she thought they knew it.

The CH-130H Combat Talon II streaked across the desert floor at one hundred feet at its top speed of three hundred miles per hour. The terrain-following radar kept the SPECOPS aircraft off the deck, but it was a rough ride. Volner and his team were alternately pushed into their seats or lifted into their restraints. They had just crossed into Saudi airspace and were trying to stay under the prying eyes of the Saudi’s radar warning system.

Volner was on the aircraft’s internal comm system and heard the pilot tell him they were ten minutes out. He turned to the sixteen men, eight strapped to each side of the aircraft’s cabin just forward of the tail ramp, and keyed his KY-152 team radio. “Ten minutes. Ten minutes!”

Each man held up ten fingers, indicating they knew and understood.

Jawad Makhdoom was no hero. He was anything but heroic. However, he was close enough to where Laurie and Sandee crouched behind the sand dune to see Laurie rise and aim her pistol without firing. He had also seen the panicked look on her face. He stood, raised his right arm, moved it in an emphatic circle, and as he did, charged the small dune. His men followed suit.

It wasn’t a fight; it was little more than a scuffle. Seven armed men against two unarmed women, one of whom had a broken arm. Soon Laurie and Sandee were bound, gagged, and being marched at gunpoint toward the blockhouse.

My God, Laurie thought as she felt the muzzle of a rifle dig into her back, what have you done now?

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Mike Volner’s men lined up in two files of eight, both facing the rear of the Combat Talon II C-130H. On command they clipped their static lines to the wire cable that ran down each side of the aircraft. The C-130H had climbed to nine hundred feet, as low as they dared to safely make the jump with their modified, low-altitude parachutes.

“Check equipment!” shouted the Combat Talon jumpmaster above the din of the aircraft’s four Allison T-56-A-15 turboprop engines. Each man checked the man in front of him.

The top door and lower cargo ramp at the rear of the C-130H yawned open. As they did, the howling wind competed with the bird’s engines to envelop them in ear-splitting noise. The sixteen men inched forward toward the end of the ramp, awaiting the jump order.

“GET READY!” the jumpmaster shouted. Then he yelled, “GREEN LIGHT! GO! GO! GO!”

The two files of jumpers raced toward the open bay of the aircraft and leapt into space, each jumper in a tight body position. In the wake of the Combat Talon, two strings of parachutes blossomed above the desert floor below.

Inside the blockhouse, Jawad Makhdoom and one of his men, the only other man who spoke English reasonably well, were trying to extract information from their two captives. “I will ask you again. Why were you flying over our desert?” Makhdoom barked at Sandee Barron. He was sitting just inches away from where she was bound in a straight backed chair.

“I told you already. We got lost on a flight back to USS Ship.”

“What is the name of this ship,” shouted the other man. “What ship is it?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Sandee replied, determined to hold her ground. “As you can see from my flight suit, I am a U.S. Navy pilot and our country is allied with yours. In the spirit of friendship and our alliance, I demand you contact the American embassy.”

Sandee had determined the “name, rank, and serial number” answer prescribed in the U.S. Code of Conduct wasn’t the right response for this situation. She would give them something, but not everything.

“You demand! You had no right to fly over our country,” Makhdoom shouted, and as he did he slapped Sandee, hard, across her face.

“And you had no right to shoot us out of the sky!” Sandee shot back.

“We have every right. This is our country; now tell us what we want to know. Why were you flying over us?”

“Are you a Saudi soldier? Do you serve in the Saudi armed forces? If so, I demand to speak with your commanding officer.”

Makhdoom paused a moment, not knowing how to answer this, then hit her hard across the mouth. “My commanding officer will be here very soon,” he spat, and hit her again.

The Saudis were not trained interrogators and clumsy in their demands, but Jawad Makhdoom wanted to extract as much information as he could before Ali al-Wandi arrived, and the prince could only be minutes away. Makhdoom knew Sandee’s right arm was broken. He grabbed her just above the right elbow and squeezed. “Tell me!” he shouted. The pain nearly overwhelmed her, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. A thin rivulet of blood ran down her chin and onto her flight suit.

“Hey, leave her alone. Are you out of your mind, you asshole?” Laurie shouted, trying to draw attention away from Sandee as best she could. “We are Americans.”

Makhdoom jumped up from his chair facing Sandee and leaped at Laurie. “Shut up, you woman!” he shouted as he slapped her hard, knocking her, and the chair she was bound to, onto the floor.

The other men laughed, but from her position on the floor Laurie shot back, “Oh, big man, big man!”

The enraged Makhdoom began kicking her chair, sending Laurie lurching along the concrete floor of the blockhouse. The abuse continued, but they were getting nothing from either of their captives, and Jawad Makhdoom became more worried. The prince would not be pleased.

“Feet dry, en route, over,” Volner radioed to the Combat Talon II as it banked sharply back to the west and dropped down to one hundred feet.

“Copy, feet dry, and en route. Good luck, out.”

Volner’s team quickly assembled, buried their chutes and set out in an extended patrol formation. They carried a light combat load of about forty pounds per man. They moved quickly at an easy jog-trot. There was no need for conversation.

“Team’s all up,” Moore said, moving up to Volner’s elbow. Neither man was breathing hard. “Point man has us nine clicks from the target.”

“Roger that, Master Guns,” Volner replied. “I have a good iridium uplink with Op-Center control. No indications our jump was detected.”

“I didn’t figure it would be, sir. This blowing sand makes it hard to see more than a few miles.”

“But we can still run to the sound of the guns, right, Master Guns?”

“You got that right, sir,” Moore replied, mirroring his team commander’s tight smile.

By any standard, Ilya Gorbonov was not an attractive man, at least not now. In fact, on seeing him, most people looked away quickly, not wanting to stare. That was just the way he wanted it, or the way it had to be. Gorbonov was born and raised in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, and was third-generation Russian mob, with “was” the operative word. He had maintained a quiet profile in his neighborhood, serving as a mid- and low-level functionary, not yet a soldier in the organization. He was moving up the ranks, but not as fast as he would have liked. He was ambitious; he wanted more.

But Gorbonov’s rise was stopped, abruptly, when he beat his girlfriend, Maria Domeshev, one too many times, sending her to the hospital with a broken jaw. Unfortunately for Ilya, Maria was the daughter of Leonti Domeshev, a powerful and dangerous Russian mob boss. Knowing the father’s promise that he would kill him slowly was no idle threat, the thirty-four-year-old Gorbonov left town. When he slipped out of Brighton Beach, he was six feet tall, trim, blond, dark complected, and fit. Women, including Maria, had found him attractive. He traveled by bus and put as much distance between himself and Domeshev as possible.

In Salem, Oregon, he had found a plastic surgeon whose practice was failing and who, for the right amount of cash, was willing to transfigure him into a stooped, late-middle-aged man, looking easily like he was in his fifties. Gorbonov now sported unruly black hair, an overgrown beard, and was pushing 220 pounds. Thanks to his surgeries, his skin looked like leather and he had the old-aged shuffle of a man who had been ridden hard and put away wet.

Ilya had not been able to flee Brooklyn with much money, and he had spent much of it on his surgeries. He needed to make a living in the only way he knew how. A former contact in Brooklyn’s tight-knit Lebanese community agreed to keep discreet contact with him via e-mail. Gorbonov had done business with him before, and he had paid him well. That same man contacted him via e-mail when Ali Hosseini Khamenei was looking for a “professional to take care of some necessary business.”

Now living in a small, remote town in Tennessee, Gorbonov had carried out the first part of his instructions. He had checked into a hotel in Silver Spring, Maryland, and there he babysat a supply of sarin gas. He had not asked the Lebanese intermediary how he obtained the sarin he had had delivered to him. He suspected it came from a supply of sarin Syrian officers defecting from Assad’s army had sold on the black market. Gorbonov had also bought a franchise selling costume jewelry from carts in some of the major shopping malls in the greater Washington, D.C., area. Now he waited, but his patience was wearing thin. The Lebanese in Ali Hosseini Khamenei’s employ had paid him a large sum up front, but he wanted his final payday.

At Forward Operating Base Tiger, two MH-60M helos lifted in a tsunami of swirling sand. They would head southeast toward the far southeastern corner of Iraq, rendezvous with the Combat Talon II aircraft, and refuel. There they would wait on high alert for the order to dash across the border into Saudi Arabia to pick up Mike Volner and his team, and, hopefully, the two American captives.

Prince Ali al-Wandi’s helicopter kicked up its own tsunami of sand as it landed close to the blockhouse. Jawad Makhdoom was outside to greet him.

“Have you found out why they were here yet?” the prince barked at his chief engineer.

“Not yet, but we know they are from the U.S. Navy. They have admitted they flew off a ship in the Gulf, but they won’t tell us why they flew over us.”

“But what do they say?”

“They say they were lost.”

“Do you believe them?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

As the prince entered the blockhouse he was seething. How could his brilliant plan have come so undone? The United States had not attacked Syria, nor did it appear that it would. Worse, now some Americans had discovered this site. Had they radioed anyone about it? He needed to know this and he needed to know it now.

Al-Wandi burst into the building. He saw the two women bound in their chairs with their faces bloodied and swollen. Their hair and flight suits were soaked with sweat and blood. One, he had been told, had been knocked to the ground and kicked around and was drifting in and out of consciousness. He walked up to Sandee and stood towering over her.

“So you are the pilot in command?”

“Yes, I’m the command pilot,” Sandee replied. She was clearly in pain, but her eyes flashed with hatred.

“Why were you here, flying over our country?”

“I told your bullies, we were lost. Now, I demand you release us and take us to the nearest American consulate.”

“You demand?”

“Yes.”

Now the prince was enraged. His men had done little to soften these women up, other than stupidly beating them senseless and making them thoroughly angry. That wouldn’t get him what he wanted.

He stepped away from Sandee and looked around the blockhouse, taking a moment to compose himself. Then he walked up to Sandee and began again.

“So, as the command pilot, you make the decisions?”

“I do.” Sandee replied, determined to shield Laurie as much as possible.

“So this other woman is your responsibility?”

“Yes,” Sandee replied, but now a bit off balance as to where al-Wandi was going with this.

“I see. I ask you again, why were you here, flying over Saudi Arabian sovereign territory? I know your military has rules against that.”

“I told you, we were lost.”

“Don’t lie to me!” al-Wandi shouted as he slapped Sandee across her face. She shook it off; her eyes were still defiant.

Al-Wandi looked toward Jawad Makhdoom. “Do you see that board over there? Bring it here, along with some of the bindings you are using on these two women. Then bring me two or three blankets from the living area and put them all down on the floor right here.” He again turned back to Sandee.

“So, command pilot. My wives no longer interest me and I haven’t been with a woman for far too long. You say your friend is your responsibility. Let’s see if you really mean that.” Turning toward Makhdoom, he continued. “Once you have the board, bindings, and blankets down on the floor, strip that other one and tie her down. Then leave the three of us alone. This … this … command pilot is the only one who will watch me satisfy myself.”

Master Guns Moore looked through his Fujinon 16x40 S1640 stabilized binoculars as the JSOC team crouched on a large sand dune about a half mile from the blockhouse. They were on a slight rise with good visibility of the site.

“That’s definitely a U.S. Navy helicopter, sir,” Moore began. “Can’t make out the tail numbers yet, but it’s a Navy Seahawk. I don’t know how anyone survived that crash. Guess we’ll find out once we get down there. That other helo is most certainly an executive bird.”

“See any other activity?” Volner asked.

“No, sir, just the crashed helo, the executive helo, and the blockhouse. The executive bird must have brought someone here and they’re probably inside.”

“Can you see if there’s a pilot in the executive bird?”

“Not from this angle, sir.”

“All right.” Volner keyed his 152 intersquad radio. “OK, fellas. We’ll angle around to the right and come up from behind the helicopter, and set up a sniper overwatch when we’re about four hundred meters out. If there is someone in that bird, we’ll detain him. If he sees us or makes a move — kill him. Then we move on the blockhouse. We need to bring our two Americans out alive, so hostage protocols are in effect.” He was answered by a series of squelch breaks. “Let’s get it done.”

Standing on the wide bridge of USS Ponce, Commodore Joe Armao was focused on his mission: preparing to clear the mines U.S. intelligence had told them the Iranians were about to sow near the approaches of the Strait of Hormuz. Armao was a twenty-four-year Navy veteran and had been training for this his entire professional career. Now, as the Navy’s forward-deployed Mine-Countermeasures Squadron commander, Armao was ready to do his job. Ponce was a ship that was almost as old as he was. She was decommissioned, laid up, and later brought back into naval service to be the Navy’s only Afloat Forward Staging Base. She was his flagship and he loved her. Since July 2012, Ponce had been moored pier side in Manama, Bahrain. She put to sea only occasionally, waiting for missions worth the significant cost and effort of bringing her back to life. The Navy no longer officially referred to ships as “she,” but Armao was of a time when they did, and he was not about to change now.

Now she had that mission, and Armao was the mission commander — the squadron commodore. Three enormous MH-53E Sea Dragon helicopters sat on Ponce’s flight deck. Behind the flagship steamed six small mine-countermeasure ships. Armao called them his ducklings. The skyline of Manama receded in the distance as the little flotilla made best speed toward the Strait of Hormuz. Speed was of the essence. Mines laid in the water near the Strait of Hormuz would completely stop shipping in and out of the Gulf.

The first MH-60M Pave Hawk slipped back from the C-130H Combat Talon II, its belly full of fuel, as the second helo pushed closer, its long fueling probe inching closer and closer to the Combat Talon II’s towed refueling basket cone. A combination of the downdraft from the Combat Talon’s four engines, the updrafts from the desert floor three thousand feet below, and the helo’s rotor wash made for a bumpy ride. It was a complex but well-practiced piece of airmanship. Once refueled, the helos and the C-130H would continue to orbit north of the Saudi Arabian border, waiting for the go order and for Op-Center’s Geek Tank to take down the Saudi air traffic control system. Then the two helos would begin their eighty-five-mile dash to where Volner and his team were working to extract the two American hostages. Meanwhile, the special operations Pave Hawks and the Talons would maintain an on-call orbit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mike Volner’s team had made their way to the blockhouse without incident and on the way had surprised the prince’s pilot. They bound him with nylon cuffs, gagged him, and stashed him out of sight in the back of the executive helicopter. To the west, the sun was just setting over the Saudi Arabian desert. One element of the team had arrayed themselves along a shallow dune line to serve as a security element and blocking force. Two snipers had the area under their muzzles. Volner and the assault element were now pressed against the outside wall of the blockhouse. The lead assaulter carefully put a small linear breaching charge on the door while a teammate held on the door with his M-4 rifle. The third man in the stack, also camped over his M-4, had two flash-bang grenades at the ready. Volner nodded to the breacher as the line of assaulters flattened up against the wall.

“Fire in the hole,” he said in a low, conversational voice and pulled the plunger on the Nonel firing system.

WHAM! The door handle was cleanly defeated and the door hung by a single hinge. Then the number two man kicked the door aside and went in. The rest of the assault team, save for Volner, poured through the door like a ballet troop rushing on stage. Volner, as the ground-force commander, would remain in a control position outside while his team lead would run the fight inside — but there was no fight. The assault element quickly took charge of those inside without firing a shot.

The prince, the chief engineer, and his half dozen men were quickly overwhelmed by Volner’s squad. It was over in forty seconds. What the Saudis could not know was the two Americans they held may have saved their lives. Without them, the JSOC team would shot anyone who was armed or even near a gun.

“Clear!” The lead assaulter called out from the rear of the blockhouse.

“Clear!” Moore repeated. “Building secure.”

“Building secure,” Volner echoed over the 152 net. “Security element, collapse in and hold on the target area.” After the security element leader rogered up, Volner moved to the door of the blockhouse. “Coming in,” he called to his team inside.

“Coming in,” Moore yelled back. Only then did Volner enter the building.

The Saudis, including the prince, who was half dressed, were all seated against a wall, their hands bound behind them with snap cuffs. All had bags over their heads. One of the assaulters was carefully helping Laurie back into her flight suit. The team medic was tending to Sandee. The sensitive site search team was about their tasks, collecting computer hard drives and documents, and photographing everything.

“Team lead,” Volner called.

“Right here, sir.”

“Get these guys into that back room. Then bring the fat, half-dressed one outside and put him on his knees.”

“Roger that, sir.”

With a gun to his head, the prince’s helo pilot identified the man kneeling by the blockhouse as Prince Ali al-Wandi, the deputy minister for energy for the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Volner stepped over to his communicator, who had a satellite antenna rigged to his PRC-147 radio and a secure channel with Op-Center.

“Major Volner, here.”

“Major, Brian Dawson. You hear me all right?”

“Five by five, Colonel,” Volner replied, referring to Dawson’s military rank.

“OK, Mike, give me a status.”

“Sir, we are secure with two live pilots and seven EPOWs — if you want to call them enemy POWs. No friendly casualties, but one of the pilots needs medical attention. This looks like the Syrian site recorded by the Global Hawk. We’re processing the site now and will have data transmission to you in five mikes. Oh, and we have a senior member of the Saudi Oil Ministry and a member of the royal family in tow.”

“You what!”

“Stand by, Colonel, and see for yourself.”

Within minutes, Op-Center was receiving imagery of the site and head shots of the captured Saudis. There were two of the prince, one head shot and one of a half dressed, very overweight Arab with a bag over his head. Moments later, Dawson was back on the net.

“You still with me, Mike?”

“Right here, sir.”

“OK, we’re about to take down the Saudi military’s air traffic control system and send the helos at best dash speed. Probably take them less than thirty mikes to get to your posit.”

While the MH-60Ms streaked across the desert to the site, Volner and his team found DF-21D missile mockups and launchers inside the blockhouse. All were recorded digitally and uplinked back to Op-Center. They set charges on the crashed Navy helicopter.

Brian Dawson came back on the net just as Volner and his team were finishing their site exploitation. “Mike, I have your extraction birds about twenty minutes out.”

“Roger that, Colonel, we’ve rigged the wrecked helo with explosives for command detonation, and we’ve swept the site. What about our fat prince and his friends?”

“Question them, but don’t hurt them. We have most of what we need.”

Per their standard field interrogation, the team separated and politely questioned their captives — in English. The prince refused to speak at all, Jawad Makhdoom babbled on about doing what he was told, and the Northrup Grumman engineer spilled his guts. The technicians spoke among themselves in rapid, heated Arabic. Two on the team, ostensibly on guard duty, stood in the background and said nothing. Both spoke fluent Arabic and Dari. They learned a great deal about the site and the instructions given to these men by the prince through the chief engineer. When the extraction helos were a minute out, the captives were freed and told to start walking west. The team marked a landing zone some hundred meters from the blockhouse. Before he left, Volner turned to where the prince was still seated by the blockhouse. He dropped to one knee and spoke in his ear.

“Listen, you fat sack of shit,” he said in a low voice. “My orders are to leave you here unharmed. Otherwise, it would be a bullet to the back of the head, after I castrated you. Now that broken helo over there is going to explode about five minutes after we lift off. If you and your helo are still here, then you go up with it. I hope you don’t make it. And by the way, your American contractor told us everything, and I mean everything, about your little operation here. I guess you didn’t pay him enough to buy his loyalty.”

Volner turned and followed his team to the LZ. A short while after they were collected by the Pave Hawks, a sharp explosion consumed what was left of the wrecked Navy MH-60R. Jawad Makhdoom watched from the cover of some desert scrub and contemplated what to do next. His technicians looked to him for direction, but he had none. Then a Sikorsky S-92 swooped low overhead with a fat man in the copilot’s seat wearing a set of headphones and very little else.

Night had fallen in the Arabian Gulf as Ponce and her ducklings made their way toward the Strait of Hormuz. “Evening, Commodore,” Ponce’s commanding officer, Captain Jackson Bowling, said as Joe Armao appeared on Ponce’s starboard bridge wing. Bowling was sporting a light windbreaker, a Ponce ball cap, and was holding a mug of steaming coffee.

“Hello, Captain, beautiful night to be at sea.”

“Amen to that, Commodore. How’d your conference call with the head-shed go?”

“Like always, lots of gratuitous advice.”

The two men were simpatico — of an accord. They were sailors at sea doing what they loved to do and potentially going into harm’s way.

Ponce was operated jointly by Navy officers and sailors and government civilian mariners from the Military Sealift Command. As the ship’s captain Bowling had all the challenges of operating a Navy ship at sea with the additional task of molding Navy officers and sailors and his complement of civilian mariners into a cohesive team. Ponce’s captain was a former mustang, an enlisted Navy sailor who had then moved into the officer ranks. This assignment was a difficult one and one that would not lead to a promotion for him. Yet he had taken the job for one reason. He loved being at sea.

“Yeah, I figured that,” Bowling replied. “A lot of folks ashore are wanting to tell you how to do your job. Any change from what we were originally briefed on back in Bahrain?”

“No, not much,” Armao began, looking around to ensure they were still alone on the bridge wing. “Pretty straight-stick mine countermeasures operation and one we’ve practiced many times. The intel folks are saying it looks like the Iranians loaded up somewhere between eighty to one hundred mines, tops, on their dhows and there were damn few moored acoustic mines in the lot. Looks like we’ll be dealing primarily with shallow-moored contact mines.”

“Not rocket science, huh?”

‘No, not really, Jackson, but you know the biz, so it will be slow going and there are always risks in this game. If we go about it methodically with the assets we have, we may even be done before the other Sea Dragon helicopters they’re flying in from Norfolk get here.”

“Sounds like a plan, Joe. Anything more, anything you’re allowed to tell me, that is, as to why this was such a pissant effort by the Iranians? I mean, they have way north of five thousand mines, including some pretty sophisticated stuff. This is little more than a nuisance.”

“Well, we’ll see how we do clearing these bad boys before we declare victory and say it was only harassment mining. With what we’ve learned so far, and believe me, the intelligence community has been in overdrive on this, Iran is desperate to have us lay off Syria. Back when they were laying these mines, we were making it pretty clear we were going to go into Syria. So the dhows dumped the mines. My best guess is this mining effort was a ‘look what we can do if you mess with us’ ploy by the Iranians. I figure by now the diplomats are working overtime to sort this out.”

“Meanwhile, we got a mission,” Bowling replied. “I figure I’ll have you in the vicinity by daybreak. We can start our clearing operations at first light.”

“Chase, that’s good news indeed,” Wyatt Midkiff said as Chase Williams called him with his initial report.

“Thank you, Mr. President, now that we’ve actually put eyes-on those DF-21D fakes in that blockhouse, and have imagery, I suspect we’re ready to completely stand down against Syria.” The cryptic reports from the downed pilots about the fake site were one thing, but the documented evidence collected by the JSOC team was the clincher.

“That’s correct. Jack Bradt is talking with General Albin as we speak. You pulled us back from the brink on this one, Chase. I’m also cheered your JSOC team has rescued our two American captives. I’ll be anxious to hear from you once your extraction helos have them and your team out of Saudi territory.”

“The extract team is outbound as we speak, and I’ll call you immediately when they’re clear of Saudi airspace.”

“Excellent. I understand your team got some information from the Saudis they interrogated as to why they did all this in the first place.”

“They did, Mr. President. I understand that you have some of the story in that regard. I may ask to brief you again in person, assuming we get any significant additional information.”

“Thank you, Chase.”

“Anything else I can help you with at the moment, Mr. President? I know General Albin’s got a big task ahead clearing those mines in the Strait of Hormuz.”

“No, thank you. I think we’re good for now. I’m told the mine-clearing operations should be fairly straightforward. Iran has even reached out to us via the Swiss and is telling us rogue Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy elements dumped those mines in the water.”

“You don’t believe that, do you, Mr. President? Our communications people have compelling evidence this is not the case.”

“No, Chase, I don’t believe that for a minute, but the fact they’re apologizing is a good thing. With the Iranians you never know, but maybe this will allow us to begin a broader dialogue. They even volunteered to send their navy to retrieve the mines, but we turned them down. They don’t have the capability or the capacity to clear mines quickly. I want our Navy ships to be able to move freely in and out of the Gulf. I don’t like having a carrier strike group trapped in there. It’s good for the Iranians and the world to see us do this.”

“I understand, Mr. President. I’ll let you know when I have more information for you.”

The two MH-60M helos streaked low and fast across the desert. There was no time to waste leaving Saudi territory and Saudi airspace as it was unknown how long it would take the Saudi military air traffic control system to get back up and running after Aaron Bleich and his team had taken it down.

Volner conferenced with his two Arabic speakers and they pieced together much of al-Wandi’s plan. This information, along with the ramblings of Jawad Makhdoom and the Northrup Grumman engineer, were passed by secure comm link to Op-Center. All this made it quickly up the chain and diplomatic fences between the United States and Saudi Arabia were already in the process of being mended.

It was several hours before dawn and Joe Armao’s forces were reviewing their hunting and clearing plans. Armao had asked the 5th Fleet commander for an escort ship to accompany his scantily armed mine-countermeasures force as they moved into the Strait of Hormuz and close to Iranian waters. Mustin was detached from the main body of the fleet in the northern Gulf to accompany them. At that moment, the Arleigh Burke—class destroyer was streaking south at thirty knots from her position to join the MCM flotilla.

Ilya Gorbonov was in a foul mood. He was getting weary of living in a hotel, and he hated Washington and especially the D.C. traffic. He needed to visit his costume jewelry carts, however, from time to time so when he made his final delivery of sarin gas to each cart, disguised as a box of costume jewelry, the salespeople he had hired to manage the carts would be accustomed to him coming by.

He had been to his carts at Union Station, the Pentagon City Mall, the Crystal City Underground, and White Flint Mall, and now he trudged up to his cart in Tysons Corner’s large food court. “Hello, Allison.”

“Hello, Mr. Wilson,” she replied, using the name Gorbonov had selected for his new identity.

“So how is business today?”

“Good, Mr. Wilson. It’s spring break, so this place is swarming with high school kids and with visitors from out of town. This stuff is cheap enough that it sells pretty well.”

“That’s good, Allison, and how are your night classes at George Mason going?”

“Oh, they’re going OK; thanks for asking. I’ll have my associate’s degree by the end of June and then go on for my bachelor’s degree.”

“Well, keep up the good work, Allison. And remember, no matter how many degrees you have, life is all about selling. What you’re learning here will stand you in good stead even after you have your PhD.”

As Gorbonov trudged away, Allison reflected on what a nice man he was.

Gorbonov, now known as Mr. Wilson to all his young employees, knew some of these young people would die horribly. Exactly who died would depend on who was working at the time the explosive device he would rig to the canister of sarin gas he delivered to each cart went off. It troubled him little.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Grand Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei had summoned Iran’s president, Sarosh Madani, to the Niavaran Palace shortly after morning prayers. There was a great deal they needed to talk about.

“Grand Ayatollah, good morning, and may Allah’s blessings be on you.”

“And with you also, President Madani. Please, sit. There is much we need to discuss.”

Sarosh Madani was on guard, as he always was in the grand ayatollah’s presence. Now in his second year as Iran’s elected president, Madani was already wearying of being a mere puppet to Khamenei. He was a veteran Iranian politician, and had anticipated the grand ayatollah’s meddling in everything he did. Yet, somehow he hadn’t thought it would be this bad.

“This has been a great victory for our nation, President Madani, don’t you think so?” Khamenei asked. “We have honored our pledge to Hafez Shaaban and the Americans have not attacked Syria. Our ally is now secure and will continue to help us achieve our long-term goals in the region.”

If those long-term goals include remaining an international pariah and having Iran’s citizens continue to suffer because of Western economic sanctions, then your goals are being more than met, Grand Ayatollah. Madani thought all this, but dared not say it.

“Yes, Grand Ayatollah, that is certainly a good thing.”

“Now the Americans are going to meekly sweep the mines our Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy forces sowed near the Strait of Hormuz. I think the West now has the message not to trifle with us.”

This mining fiasco had enraged Madani. He was not even consulted before Khamenei had ordered Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy forces to mine the Strait of Hormuz and had browbeat Admiral Sayyari to have Iranian navy corvettes escort the mine-laying dhows. This alone destroyed any chance of the Iranian regime having plausible deniability. And then saying that the Revolutionary Guards had done this on their own. What was behind that? Was Khamenei that stupid he thought the Americans would believe that?

“Grand Ayatollah, yes, I think you, we, have more than made a statement to the United States and the West. Once the Americans finish sweeping these mines we will have accomplished what we set out to do, and then we, too, will be able to ship our oil to market.” Madani couldn’t help but glance around Niavaran Palace where Khamenei continued live in near-Western luxury no matter how much or how little of Iran’s oil made it through the strait.

“President Madani. I know you have been in office only a short time, so I must remind you this is also a matter of ensuring the West, and especially the Americans, respect the Islamic Republic of Iran and the great Persian nation. Anything less is unacceptable.”

“Yes, I understand that, Grand Ayatollah.”

“Then you also understand that we sometimes must insist on that respect and take action if it is not given. We must also demand the West respect our right to develop nuclear capabilities. Yet the West, led by the Americans, has put economic sanctions in place and has tried to make us yield by crushing our economy, but they have failed.”

So you say, thought Madani. You aren’t an average Iranian whose standard of living has been set back by a decade.

“So we are allowing the Americans to sweep these mines,” the grand ayatollah continued as he raised a finger to call for attention to his point. “The Revolutionary Guard Corps put them in the water and we will allow the Americans to remove them, so long as they respect our territorial waters and our laws as they do so.”

“Yes, Grand Ayatollah, I have heard those announcements from the Islamic Republic News Agency.” Just one more thing you didn’t consult me on, you idiot. Have you no idea how zealously the Americans guard their rights regarding freedom of navigation?

“Good, but what you might not know, since you are young, President Madani, is that for decades the United States has been harassing us about our supposed illegal maritime claims and our sea boundaries. I needn’t remind you of the claims the great Persian nation has had for centuries, since what is now America was still wilderness.”

Now you are lecturing me, old man. What is it you are planning?

“I see, Grand Ayatollah. So you have warned the Americans and I hope they will heed your warnings.”

“If they do not, I have told Admiral Sayyari, whose ships are now shadowing the American mine-clearing forces, to enforce our territorial claims and our maritime boundaries. He has been instructed not to allow the Americans to enter our territorial waters without permission.”

“Grand Ayatollah, I believe we need to make sure the West, and especially the Americans, respects the Islamic Republic of Iran. Yet we may not wish to anger the Americans more than we have, at least not right now. May I suggest that since we now have our victory, we not press them further. Should they decide to retaliate we could suffer greatly.”

“President Madani, these matters are not your concern. If the Americans dare to attack us I have already put events into motion that will cause them to be more concerned with their own affairs and less with ours.”

Madani knew this could only be a terrorist strike against America. “But Grand Ayatollah,” Madani said, trying to keep his voice even, “there are risks to this, especially now. Perhaps we should rethink this?”

“Again, President Madani, this is not your concern,” Khamenei said. He rose to suggest that the meeting was over. “Now, I am sure you have many important matters of state to attend to. May Allah’s blessings be with you as you go about them.”

Sarosh Madani left the grand ayatollah’s office more worried than he had ever been in his life.

Seven hundred miles south of where the grand ayatollah and President Madani were having their conversation, Commodore Joe Armao’s forces had already been at work for several hours. They were preparing to sweep the mines the Iranian dhows had dumped in the approaches of the Strait of Hormuz. This would not be high-tech, sophisticated work, but some of the most blue collar of all the tasks performed by the U.S. Navy. It would be backbreaking work that involved hauling on lines and working in concert with heavy mechanical devices. Armao knew he would need to balance the need to clear these mines quickly and reopen the strait against the toll it would take on his men and women.

Ponce’s captain, Jackson Bowling, saw Joe Armao working his way up to the starboard wing of the bridge.

“Commodore on the bridge,” he called to his bridge crew.

“As you were,” Armao said. “We about set, Captain?”

“Yes, sir, I hold us on station and in a good position for you to control the operation.”

“Perfect. Thank you. We had good overhead imagery of where the Iranian dhows laid their mines so we think we know where most of these mines are planted. There’s no danger to your ship if we operate right here. We don’t have to worry about any tanker traffic while we do our job.”

“No, I guess not,” Bowling replied. “That Notice to Mariners 5th Fleet issued stopped ship traffic cold.”

“Here’s an update with the latest mine-laying intelligence,” Armao continued, opening the navigation chart he had folded up under his arm so Bowling could see the chart with its overlays. “We’ve got the bulk of them right here in a more or less straight line, beginning at the eastern tip of Quesm Island. The mines then string south past Larak Island and all the way down to the vicinity of Ras al-Khaimah near the northern tip of the United Arab Emirates.”

“Looks like just the way we anticipated they’d do it,” Bowling said. “And just the way we’ve always trained on how we’d clear them.”

“But with far fewer mines than we ever thought, so that’s a break.”

“That’s good. My surface-search watch team is keeping an eye on that Iranian Bayandor-class corvette that’s steaming right over the horizon near Larak Island. You’ve assigned Mustin to keep an eye on her, too?”

“I have. Mustin’s here, about five miles southwest of Larak,” Armao replied as he stabbed the map with his forefinger. “She’ll be in position to take action should that corvette move our way.”

“Pretty old ship though, isn’t it?”

“It is. Actually it’s an old U.S. Navy PF-103 class corvette we gave Iran back when the Shah was in power. Now it’s been armed with C-802 antiship missiles and a reasonably capable 76-mm Fajr-27 gun. They could do some damage.” Armao paused a moment to frame his thoughts. “However, with Mustin accompanying us, we should be in good shape. Still, we’re not that far from the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy bases. They could send a swarm of fast boats out here pretty damn quick.”

Bowling nodded in agreement and understanding. “I think we’ll be all right. 5th Fleet has their intel folks keeping an eye on those bases and we’ll get enough early warning if something’s up. Our ace in the hole is the high-energy laser the Office of Naval Research put on Ponce a few years ago. We tested it last year on some unmanned surface vessels and it burned right through them. Turned ’em into toast. I think we’ll win any dustup.”

The two men ducked reflexively as one of MH-53E Sea Dragon helicopters approached Ponce’s flight deck to refuel. The Sea Dragons had been airborne since before dawn using their AN/AQS-24 mine detection sonar to confirm the Iranian mines were where the initial intelligence said they would be. That task was still under way, but the location of enough mines had already been confirmed to enable the Avenger-class mine-countermeasure ships to begin clearing operations. One Sea Dragon, the one now refueling, would be fitted with the Mk 103 Mod 2 mechanical mine sweeping system to begin sweeping the moored mines.

Armao’s attention lingered on the Iranian corvette and the C-802 cruise missiles she carried. “That Iranian corvette is no match for Mustin,” he concluded. “Let’s hope she’s not stupid enough to try anything.”

They stood on the wing of the bridge in companionable silence before Bowling spoke. “So, Commodore, now that we’re a half day into it, any guesses as to how long this operation is going to take?”

“If we keep up progress like this, I think we can get traffic moving through the strait in maybe two days and then finish up by clearing the mines closer to the coast in three or four days after that. I figure we’re here a week, tops.”

As he spoke, Armao directed Bowling’s attention to the chart. They were beginning their mine-countermeasure efforts in the center of the navigation channel on the Arabian Gulf approaches to the Strait of Hormuz. Once those mines were cleared and at least a narrow ship channel was restored, they would press out north and south and clear those mines closer to Quesm Island and in the vicinity of Ras al-Khaimah, respectively.

“That’s good news,” Bowling replied, smiling. “My wife’s birthday is next month, and I need to do some shopping in the gold souk in Bahrain.”

Aboard the Bayandor-class corvette Naghidi, Lieutenant Qaisar Ghorbani was not smiling. His was the only Iranian warship between Iran and the American ships. He nervously paced Naghidi’s narrow bridge as he steamed his ship east and west north of Larak Island as ordered. Only two months into his first sea command, Ghorbani was still trying to figure out what he was doing, and more to the point, what he might be asked to do. His commodore, based in Bandar Abbas, had relayed Admiral Sayyari’s vague orders to “ensure the Americans respect the Islamic Republic of Iran’s territorial waters.”

Ghorbani had history with Admiral Sayyari. He had been Admiral Sayyari’s aide in early 2013 when the admiral had taken the Iranian navy’s 24th Flotilla to the Pacific and the historic naval visit to China. Ghorbani had done everything the admiral had asked, even some things, terrible things, he was now ashamed of and regretted. Now he was known as Sayyari’s golden boy, and the powerful admiral had used his considerable influence to get Ghorbani an at-sea command. A good many more qualified officers had been passed over so that Ghorbani could command the Naghidi. He had very little time at sea and had never heard a shot fired in anger. Now he was supposed to take action if an American ship strayed into waters Iran considered their own.

As he paced the bridge, he nervously fingered the script he was to use to demand that American ships leave Iranian waters. Ghorbani had read the scripted text over and over until he nearly had it memorized. He prayed to Allah that he would never have to use it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Commodore Joe Armao was again on the Ponce’s starboard bridge wing where the ship’s captain sat in his bridge chair surveying the mine-clearing operation.

“Afternoon, Commodore. Quite a little operation you have going here. Fifth Fleet commander must be pleased. How’d the call with him go?”

“Reasonably well, thanks. There’s obviously some relief we’ve cleared the main navigation channel and ships are flowing in and out of the Gulf, but I think he expected more to have been done after three-plus days at it.”

“Well, you have to understand that he’s an aviator, and what they know about mine countermeasures would fit in a thimble.”

“You’re spot on there. He did direct us to start to go after the shallower mines up near Quesm Island, as well as in the vicinity of Ras al-Khaimah, and try to get it all done in the next two to three days.”

“Doable from your perspective?”

“It is, as long as that Iranian corvette doesn’t give us any trouble. He’s stayed on station around Larak Island for the past three days. I don’t know what his orders are other than to shadow us and report on what we’re doing. Still, having it there is annoying. You never know what these Iranians might do.”

“We’ll find out soon enough. You sending one of the Avengers up there to work?”

“Two, actually—Scout and Ardent. Mustin’s going to escort them into shallower water and keep an eye on that corvette.”

“Good idea. I’ll just enjoy it here from the cheap seats.”

Aboard Naghidi, Lieutenant Ghorbani was no less nervous than he was when he first arrived on station, but now he was bored. Listening to the radio chatter from the American ships and aircraft as they slowly and meticulously cleared mines was like watching paint dry. What was he really doing here? Surely Naghidi was there only as a show of force. The day before he had watched the first tanker steam cautiously through the strait’s main navigation channel and now he was seeing one after another sail past. Clearly whatever Iran’s leaders wanted to accomplish with this nonsense was not working. He was brought back to the present when one of his seamen approached.

“Captain, the lookout reports the American destroyer and two smaller vessels are moving north toward us!”

“Where? How far off are they?” Ghorbani asked, grabbing his binoculars.

“There, right on the horizon,” the seaman replied, pointing in the direction of the American vessels.

“Very well. Sound battle stations. I want us ready to engage and defend ourselves as necessary. Have the communications officer meet me up here.”

“Yes, Captain,” the seaman replied.

Was what Ghorbani feared about to happen? Was he going to have to carry out his orders?

USS Mustin led the ducklings, Scout and Ardent, slowly toward Larak Island. Commander Jennifer Sullivan had already brought her ship to general quarters. Nearing the end of her thirty-month command tour, this was Sullivan’s third time in the Gulf as commanding officer of Mustin, and she knew these waters well. She also knew her mission: Don’t show any hostile intent toward the Iranian corvette, but ensure Scout, Ardent, and Mustin were not threatened. Before leaving Bahrain, the 5th Fleet lawyer and operations officer had come aboard Mustin and briefed her wardroom on Iran’s maritime claims. They were not the same as those recognized by other maritime nations. Sullivan wasn’t looking for trouble, but if she were challenged by the Iranian navy she knew what was authorized in the way of force and what wasn’t. Her ROE, rules of engagement, were clear. She just hoped the Iranian commanding officers’ were, too.

Lieutenant Ghorbani had left Naghidi’s bridge, gone to his stateroom, and locked the door. He rolled out his prayer carpet and prayed to Allah to deliver him from what he feared was about to happen. He was not a coward, but he knew he was outgunned and outclassed by Mustin, to say nothing of the armed Seahawk helicopter she carried. Now, back on the bridge of his ship, his white uniform blouse was wet with perspiration. He was beyond fear. In his hand, he held the papers his commodore had given him. Numbly, he prepared to carry out his orders. Though they were still about five miles from Naghidi, Mustin and the other two vessels had finally entered waters Iran claimed as its own. Reluctantly, he keyed the microphone and read from his script.

“American naval vessel entering the territorial waters of the Islamic Republic of Iran, identify yourself.”

Aboard Mustin, Commander Jennifer Sullivan was ready. “Iranian naval vessel, this is USS Ship. We are conducting innocent passage through your waters and our mission is to remove hazards to navigation. We mean no harm to the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

Ghorbani froze. His communications officer, who stood next to him, pointed to the phrase on the page he was supposed to read next.

“American naval vessel, you are illegally trespassing in the territorial waters of the Islamic Republic of Iran. You will turn your vessel around and leave our waters immediately.”

Sullivan was ready with her reply. “Iranian naval vessel, this is USS Ship. We are conducting innocent passage through your waters and mean no harm to the territorial integrity of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

Aboard Naghidi, all eyes were on Ghorbani, but he did nothing. “Captain,” his communications officer pleaded as he pointed to the piece of paper he held in front of Ghorbani. “Here is what the admiral ordered. We must fire a warning shot across the American ship’s bow.”

“I will determine if and when we fire!” Ghorbani said. He was petrified. He looked down toward Naghidi’s poorly maintained 76-mm Fajr-27 gun. Can my gun crew even fire in the right direction? I have never taken them to sea and trained them. No one had told me to do that, and I’ve always worried that something bad might happen if I ever had them fire the gun. It might even blow up, and then where would my career be?

Ghorbani scanned his paper for the right phrase. “American naval vessel, you are illegally trespassing in the territorial waters of the Islamic Republic of Iran. You will turn your vessel around and leave our waters immediately. I say this again. American naval vessel, you are illegally trespassing in the territorial waters of the Islamic Republic of Iran. You will turn your vessel around and leave our waters immediately.”

“Captain!” his communications officer pleaded. “If we are going to use our gun then we at least have to light off our fire-control radar and train it toward the American ship.”

Ghorbani was sweating more profusely now and kept removing his ill-fitting battle helmet and mopping his brow with his sodden handkerchief. He knew he looked ridiculous, battle helmet and starched whites. He considered the communications officer for a moment. The man was at least ten years older than he was and had served in the Iranian navy since he was a naval cadet. He had to trust someone.

“Yes, yes, go ahead and do it!”

Sullivan was warily eyeing Naghidi when her ops officer called her from Mustin’s Combat Direction Center.

“Captain, Ops. The Iranian’s lighting us up with his fire-control radar.”

“Roger, Ops.”

Ghorbani was near panic. Now he shocked his communications officer when he snatched the microphone out of his hand and shouted into it, “American ship. Stop and turn around now or I will be forced to fire on you. Make no mistake; you will not violate the territorial waters of the Islamic Republic of Iran!”

Mustin’s motto, emblazoned on the ship’s crest, was Toujours L’Audace, “Always Be Bold,” and Commander Jennifer Sullivan did not intend to become the first Mustin commanding officer to soil that crest. Mustin continued to plow ahead and Sullivan pointed her bow directly at the Iranian ship, presenting a bow-on aspect, the smallest target should the Iranian vessel, now less than three miles away, carry out its threat. She had spent enough time in the Gulf to know sometimes the Iranians were long on bluster and short on action, but she was taking no chances.

She called her ducklings on the UHF radio. “Scout and Ardent, fall into my wake in loose trail. Remain at general quarters and prepare to take evasive action.”

Sullivan mashed the button on her control panel that connected her to Mustin’s CDC. “TAO, light her up!” she commanded. Her tactical action officer in Mustin’s Combat Direction Center did the rest. Around CDC, officers and sailors went through their well-rehearsed procedures, engaging the fire-control radars for Mustin’s RIM-66 Standard medium-range antisurface missiles as well for her five-inch Mk 45 Mod 4 gun.

Inside Mustin’s Mk 41 Vertical Launching System, six RIM-66 missiles spun up, while on her bow, her five-inch gun moved imperceptibly in Naghidi’s direction.

Sullivan punched another button on her radio panel. “Papa Tango, this is Yankee Oscar. I need to speak with Alpha Bravo now!”

Within seconds, Commodore Joe Armao was on the line. “What you got, Captain? We’ve been listening to the VHF nets and your conversation with the Iranian ship.”

“Roger, Commodore. My rules of engagement tell me I can engage this guy if he fires at me or at Scout or Ardent, but you’re the mission commander, sir. You can override me.”

“No override, Captain. Follow your ROE. Alpha Bravo, out.”

Sullivan slowed her approach toward the Iranian ship from ten to five knots. She needed time and she somehow knew her opposite number aboard the Iranian corvette also needed time. They were now firmly in Iranian territorial waters. It’s not an issue of who blinks, she told herself, but I have no choice but to protect my ship.

Aboard Naghidi, Ghorbani’s communications officer, still at his side, picked up the phone, listened for only a few seconds, then slammed the receiver down and said, “Captain, the Americans are lighting us up with their fire-control radar!”

Ghorbani stood frozen. Time stood still. All eyes were on him.

“Captain!” the communications officer pleaded. “We have our orders … from the admiral!”

The word “admiral,” knowing the man was referring to his patron, triggered something in Ghorbani. He looked directly at the communications officer, deepened his voice as much as he could, and commanded, “Fire a shot across the American’s bow.”

The order went from the communications officer, to Naghidi’s combat center, to the gun officer on the bow, to his lead gun crewman. There was a frenzy of activity as his gun crew trained the gun on Mustin.

On Naghidi’s bridge, Ghorbani became agitated when he saw nothing happening. “Fire, fire, fire!” he shouted. The order was passed again. Seconds passed. Still nothing. “Fire, by all that is holy, fire, fire, fire!” Ghorbani shouted at the top of his lungs.

Suddenly, a shot rang out and a puff of smoke followed closely behind the 76-mm projectile. Fifteen seconds later, another shot and another puff of smoke. Another twenty seconds, another shot. The panicked gun crew, hearing the order to fire passed multiple times, tried to comply with what they thought their captain’s wishes were.

Aboard Mustin, Commander Sullivan had her bridge glasses trained on the Iranian ship. She saw the smoke from Naghidi’s gun and the splash from the fall of shot of the first shell, well to starboard. Sullivan was considering her options when she saw the second puff of smoke.

“Take him with guns,” Sullivan commanded.

Naghidi was presenting its beam to Mustin as Mustin’s five-inch Mk 45 Mod 4 gun began to spit seventy-pound shells at the Iranian ship. The first round took the corvette amidships. The Mk 45 Mod 4 gun can deliver five-inch projectiles at its maximum rate of twenty rounds per minute. In that first minute, fifteen rounds hit Naghidi. In three minutes, it was racked with explosions and reduced to a smoking hulk.

“Cease fire,” Sullivan commanded. “Officer of the Deck, steam ahead and look for survivors. Order Scout and Ardent to do the same thing. Get the RIB ready for survivor pickup.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Then an eerie silence fell over Mustin’s bridge. It had been a one-sided fight and everyone knew it. They also knew there would be few survivors.

The engagement and Mustin’s sinking of Naghidi made international news for several days. This battle was linked to Iran’s closing of the Strait of Hormuz, and ultimately, a justified action on the part of the United States to keep the waterway open. However, at sea there was work to be done. Mustin, Scout, and Ardent had recovered almost two dozen Iranian sailors. Medics aboard those three ships, as well as doctors aboard Ponce and Truman, did what they could for those critically injured. As these sailors were released from medical care they were flown to Bandar Abbas and turned over to Iranian authorities. The rescued crewmen were treated with great courtesy and respect. Less than twenty-four hours after the incident, IRNA, the Islamic Republic News Agency, had broadcast a report, saying, “The captain of the Naghidi acted completely without authority and in contravention to the peaceful intentions of the Islamic Republic of Iran.” Commodore Joe Armao had the remaining Iranian mines cleared within three more days and Ponce steamed back to Bahrain with her mine-countermeasures ships. The Truman strike group and other U.S. Navy ships steamed out of the Arabian Gulf and into the Gulf of Oman.

Brian Dawson entered Chase Williams’s office with Roger McCord and Aaron Bleich in tow. The N3 was usually an island of calm, but as soon as he walked in, Chase Williams could see the urgency in his body language.

“Morning, boss,” Dawson began. “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”

“No problem, Brian. I’m assuming this has something to do with the shootout in the Gulf.”

“It does,” he replied. “Roger and Aaron and my folks have talked this over and we’re anticipating a reaction — probably a strong one — from the Iranians after this dustup. We’ve already asked General Albin’s people to loop us in with all the SIGINT they get from Iran,” Dawson continued, referring to signals intelligence Central Command would collect from multiple sources monitoring Iran.

“I agree. That sounds like the prudent thing to do.”

“That’s not all, boss. We’re also watching our forces in and around the Gulf. General Albin’s still got a lot of combat power concentrated there and while no one has said anything officially, we think the U.S. might retaliate for this mining of the Strait of Hormuz. We don’t know if or when or how yet, but if that happens, then the next move the Iranians make could be something that ups the ante even more.”

“Roger, I assume you and Aaron and his team are sharpening their focus on what the Iranians might do to retaliate.”

“We are,” McCord replied. “Intel community is in overdrive on this and we’re mining all their feeds, and Aaron and the crew are already working their anticipatory intelligence algorithms. We’re not certain precisely what we’re looking for, but I’m pretty confident we’re doing everything we can.”

“Good,” Williams replied. “Aaron, you and your team need anything, just let us know.”

“Got that, sir. We’re good for now, but if we do I’m sure Ms. Sullivan has an open checkbook,” Bleich replied with a wry smile.

“Good luck with that,” Williams replied, “but I’ll be sure to let her know.” His team was working on all cylinders and his gut told him they might need to pull a rabbit out of the hat.

Laurie Phillips and Sandee Barron had been flown to Truman, where they were treated for their injuries. Both were then brought back to Washington for debriefings and follow-on medical attention. As a serving naval officer, Sandee was still bound by the constraints of her service. Laurie, a government contractor, had similar though less binding restrictions. Their experience and collective information was of interest to a number of agencies as well as the United States Navy. Individually and together, they endured a series of debriefings. Some were amiable and sought information about the events in Saudi Arabia. Others were along the lines of an inquisition as to why they were where they were, and what regulations and conventions they had broken in making the journey.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

President Wyatt Midkiff sat in the Oval Office considering what had happened over the past month. He had reason to be satisfied, but he also had reason to be concerned, gravely concerned.

Yet another war in the Mideast had been averted, but only by the narrowest of margins. He was happy Chase Williams and his Op-Center team had been there to assist during a time of crisis. More than that, they had been able to respond rapidly and execute their mission without mishap — a mission that changed in midstream. The president was still receiving congratulations from the heads of state of allies and partners for not only averting war in the Mideast, but for opening the Strait of Hormuz so quickly. The price of oil was back down to precrisis levels and financial markets had begun to stabilize.

Over the past week he had attended a seemingly endless series of meetings with his National Security Staff. Now Trevor Harward entered his office for yet another of their scheduled meetings, this one between just the two of them.

“Mr. President.”

“Trevor,” Midkiff said to his national security advisor as they moved to the conversational area in front of the president’s desk, “we know why we’re here so let’s get to it. Please have a seat.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Midkiff waited expectantly, so Harward plunged ahead. “Sir, we’ve had our meetings, and General Albin has had a chance to position his forces where he feels he needs them. The 5th Fleet commander has the Truman and Vinson carrier strike groups both ready and steaming in the Gulf of Oman. We’ve stepped up our monitoring of the Iranian networks, and we are confident they are not at a heightened state of alert.”

“So you are saying we’re ready to move forward.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Midkiff had conferred with two former presidents, one from each of the two parties, and asked them for their counsel. He had also spent time with several individuals who were both career politicians and personal friends. Yet he was as conflicted as he had ever been in his life, and he still couldn’t decide. After a long moment, he turned to his national security advisor.

“Trevor, I still need some time.”

“Mr. President?”

“I said I need more time.”

Harward paused for a few seconds, then rose. “Yes, Mr. President.” He left the Oval Office without another word.

Rear Admiral Jack “Stinger” Smith, the commander of Naval Air Forces Atlantic, sat quietly in his office. He, too, was conflicted. He had a decision to make, and it was one that troubled him. He had read the report multiple times, and had consulted with his senior staff, but the decision was his and his alone to make. There was a sharp knock on his door. “Enter,” he barked as he rose to stand behind the podium that had been placed next to his desk. Lieutenant Sandee Barron and her commanding officer, Commander Rick Kennedy, walked quietly in. Both were attired in their Service Dress Blue uniforms.

“Commander Kennedy and Lieutenant Barron reporting as ordered, Admiral,” Kennedy said.

Admiral Smith, who loved his pilots only slightly less than he did his twin granddaughters, did not put them at their ease. Both Kennedy and Barron read this as not a good sign.

“Lieutenant Barron, please step forward.” She did. Then, without preamble, the admiral began reading from the script his legal officer had prepared.

“Lieutenant Barron, you are standing before me, the commander of Naval Air Forces Atlantic. I am the first flag officer in your chain of command. Do you understand why you are here?”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Do you understand that these are not legal proceedings and that a potential court-martial case is being brought against you for numerous violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice?” He looked up at her for confirmation.

“Yes, Admiral.”

“You are appearing here for one reason only, and that is for me to determine if you are to retain the privilege of wearing your naval aviator’s wings.”

“I understand, Admiral.”

“Commander Kennedy, what can you tell me about this lieutenant?”

Commander Rick Kennedy had anticipated the question and was ready. Kennedy spoke for ten minutes, often passionately, about Sandee Barron’s fine qualities as a naval aviator. He, without qualification, said that she was the best pilot in the squadron and that she had a bright future in naval aviation. He ended by describing in some detail her remarkable feat of airmanship in getting Swampfox 248 on the deck after the RPG had taken out its tail rotor, describing for the admiral, who was not a helicopter pilot, the extreme difficulty of maintaining control of a helicopter in that situation. Finally, he was done.

“Will there be anything else, Commander?” Smith asked as his eyes narrowed. Kennedy was not making this easy on him, nor had he expected him to.

“No, sir, Admiral, only that I’d be proud to have Lieutenant Barron keep flying with the Swampfoxes.”

“I respect that feat of airmanship, Skipper, as well as your inventory of Lieutenant Barron’s fine qualities. However, the fact remains, she would not have been shot down if she hadn’t broken every rule in the book. Furthermore, she violated the trust of her nation and her Navy in doing so.” Then he spoke directly to Barron. “Lieutenant, regardless of how any legal proceedings turn out, you’re done flying in this admiral’s Navy. I take no pleasure in this, but I want you to remove your wings from your uniform and hand them to your skipper.”

Sandee hadn’t expected this to turn out well, but the admiral’s final pronouncement made it reality. I can fly that helo and the box it came in — I know it, the skipper knows it, and I’ll just bet the admiral knows it — but if he says I’m done, I’m done. Her hands were shaking as she reached inside her blue coat and pulled the two backings that held her wings to her uniform. With that done, she handed her wings to Kennedy.

Smith reached across the podium, his palm up. “Give them to me, skipper.” Kennedy did as he was told.

“Now, I’d advise you to exercise a bit more leadership in your squadron so your pilots don’t pull any dumb-ass stunts like this again. Next time, I’ll have your wings as well.” Smith looked from Kennedy to Barron and back. He was in pain, and both pilots knew it. “I want you both to get out of my office.”

Kennedy and Barron left Smith’s office and stood in the long hallway outside the command spaces. Sandee’s emotions ran from rage to disappointment to disillusionment to frustration — and sadness. She truly loved flying and she loved military aviation. Now it was gone. Above all, she had let people down including her squadron mates and her commanding officer.

“Skipper, I am so sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t think this through better. I let you down and now your career is on the line.” She bowed her head. “I wish to hell I had this to do all over again. If I did, I wouldn’t have let you down.”

“You stopped a war, Sandee, and no one can take that away from you. I’d fly with you any day, and you can take that to the bank.”

“Thank you, skipper.” On an impulse, she hugged him, something she had never done with any male in uniform — until now. Now she had to go home and tell her husband and her girls her career was over. Once that was done, she had one more call to make.

Ilya Gorbonov had been in the extended-stay hotel for almost a month, and he was getting tired of it. He couldn’t let the maids clean his room because they might get curious and open one of the fake boxes of costume jewelry and discover the sarin gas and explosive timers he had rigged for delivery to his carts.

Gorbonov wasn’t a neat man, not by a long shot, and now he was living in complete squalor with the stench of old pizza, beer, and dirty laundry permeating the room. He wanted his payday. He desperately wanted to get back to Tennessee so he could spend time with the woman who serviced him. He paid her well, and now he would be able to keep that up for a long time.

They weren’t telling him anything, other than he was not to communicate with them. To hell with that! He typed an angry e-mail to his Lebanese contact in Ali Hosseini Khamenei’s employ demanding to know when he would be given the go-ahead to execute his mission.

When Sandee Barron had called Laurie Phillips at home the evening after her dressing-down by Admiral Smith it was a difficult conversation for both of them. They had briefly discussed career options for Sandee, who had already decided she’d not stay in the Navy if she couldn’t fly. Laurie had offered to help her with a job search in the Washington, D.C., area. Sandee and her husband currently made their home in Mayport, Florida, an area with limited job prospects for her. Sandee’s husband was a consultant with KPMG, and he enjoyed good career mobility. They agreed to talk again soon and to meet in D.C. as soon as feasible to discuss career possibilities.

What Laurie didn’t tell Sandee as she reviewed her career options with her was that she, too, was making a career move. She would tell her later, when the time was right. For Laurie, there was no formal hearing in front of a senior person or anything like it. She had come into work three days ago and found a sealed white envelope with her name typed on the front on her desk. She had opened it and found a short letter on Center for Naval Analyses letterhead:

It was cold, final, but not totally unexpected. She read the letter quickly, only once, folded it, and put in her desk drawer. Then she quietly left the office. She’d return after working hours for her personal things. Her ongoing work would fit into a single file box, which she would leave on the desk.

The mood was considerably better at Op-Center. Duncan Sutherland had worked his usual magic getting Volner, his team, and all their equipment back to the United States. Following the debriefings, Chase Williams had told his JSOC team to take some well-deserved time off.

Williams believed that victories should be celebrated, so he had reserved the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency’s atrium cafeteria for a quiet, late-afternoon celebration. He and Anne Sullivan served as bartenders while the caterer they had engaged served heavy hors d’oeuvres. Both Williams and Sullivan looked on their staff with a mixture of pride and ownership. After everyone had wine, a beer, or a cocktail — Sullivan prided herself on her killer mojitos, heavy on the rum — Williams released Sullivan from her duties to mingle with the others, something she rarely did. Aaron Bleich and some of his Geek Tank misfits, as they called themselves, were becoming uncharacteristically gregarious. He didn’t want to break this up with a long speech, but he wanted to say something to capture the moment and celebrate their first major success.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Brian Dawson boomed. “Gather around, would you? The boss wants to have a word.” There was almost instant silence as the staff queued up in front of the bar and Chase Williams walked in front of it.

“You all have made me enormously proud, and more importantly, you have taken an important step in knowing how critically dependent we all are on each other. You’ve shown me, and this administration, how you can bring your diverse talents together in a common effort. We’ve accomplished a great deal in a short time, and I’m proud to serve with each and every one of you.”

The senior staff knew Williams was a big fan of the writer Daniel Pink; in fact, he had given his department heads a copy of Pink’s book A Whole New Mind as Christmas gifts. So they anticipated what he would say next.

“They say that people come to work and, more importantly, keep coming to work at the same place for three reasons: for autonomy, for mastery, and for a sense of purpose. I think you would all agree that no organization in government has more autonomy than Op-Center, and as you’ve all just demonstrated, along with our JSOC team, you all are masters at your craft.” He paused for a moment. “Now, with this success behind us, I hope you all feel, and feel deeply, a sense of accomplishment and purpose. No one else could have done what you all have just done. Thank you and well done.”

With that, Chase Williams came to attention, raised his right hand, and rendered a crisp salute.

The staff broke out in spontaneous applause. Williams glanced over his shoulder to where Anne Sullivan had stepped back behind the bar.

“Ms. Sullivan, would you like to add anything?”

“Yes, sir, I would.” She raised her voice to be heard and said, “The bar is still open, so why are all these cowboys just standing there?”

More applause, this time for Sullivan, as the staff surged toward the bar.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The predawn silence was broken as the first Tomahawk missile emerged from Normandy’s bank of vertical launchers. Dozens more came out of the launchers of the other cruisers, destroyers, and submarines steaming with the Truman and Vinson carrier strike groups. The first wave of these precision missiles targeted the underground bunkers where the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy stored their mines near the Islamic Republic of Iran naval bases at Bandar Beheshti, Bandar Abbas, and Jask.

The second wave of Tomahawks, launched only minutes after the first, headed toward the railways and roads connecting these bunkers to mine assembly area buildings in the port areas. They also hit the buildings themselves, large structures where the batteries, sensors, and firing circuits of the most sophisticated mines were stored and where the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy made the final assembly of their mines before loading them on the nondescript dhows that planted them. The Tomahawks also hit the roads leading from the assembly buildings to the port areas as well as the docks where satellite imagery had shown mines being loaded onto dhows.

Immediately after these two waves of strikes, analysts at the CENTCOM Command Center at Al Udeid Air Base, Qatar, scrutinized imagery from a variety of sensors to determine battle damage assessment of the targets singled out for attack. They then compiled a short list of targets for reattack. Ninety minutes later, a third and final wave of Tomahawks roared from their launchers and finished the job. Iran’s mine inventory and mine-laying capability had been destroyed.

The command center at Op-Center was normally manned by three-to-five watchstanders in the daytime and two in the evening. More staff could be called in if events or current intelligence warranted. Chase Williams had just turned in when his watch captain called him at the Watergate.

“Sir, turn on CNN, and I think you’ll want to get in here right away.”

The early morning news shows were just beginning their broadcasts when the announcement intoned, “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an important address from the president of the United States.”

Wyatt Midkiff sat behind his desk in the Oval Office with a single sheet of paper in his hand. He had finally given the order Trevor Harward had urged him to give. He had no regrets, but he did not know what would happen next.

“My fellow Americans. Early this morning, at my direction, United States Navy ships conducted a coordinated attack on mine bunkers, mine assembly areas, and mine transport railways and roads near several naval bases of the Islamic Republic of Iran Navy. These attacks were in retaliation for the Iranian navy mining the Strait of Hormuz in contravention to all norms of international law and freedom of navigation. Iran has long maintained they could and would close this important waterway should they choose to do so. They recently demonstrated that intent. While they may still have that intention, they no longer have the means to do so.

“The Iranian navy and their associated Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy forces were responsible for these mining operations, and we concentrated our attacks specifically — and surgically — on this mine-laying capability. We regret any unintended harm done to the long-suffering people of Iran as collateral damage from these attacks and will work with the International Red Cross and the Red Crescent organizations to provide relief and medical supplies to those civilian victims of these attacks.

“I congratulate our brave Navy men and women on this successful operation. May God bless the men and women of our armed forces and may God bless the United States of America.”

With that, the camera faded out in the Oval Office, and on all the networks, the talking heads took over. As U.S. networks were broadcasting the president’s address, Al Jazeera was broadcasting live video of grieving and weeping Iranian adults carrying horribly burned and mangled children to Bandar Abbas’s Khalij e Fars hospital.

Chase Williams reached Op-Center thirty-five minutes after being called by his watch team. Other senior staff soon followed. After a summary briefing by his watch captain, he had asked to not be disturbed while he kept up with the news on the multiple nets he monitored. By noon he was ready. He asked his N2 and N3 come to his office.

“You wanted to see us, boss?” Brian Dawson asked as he stood in the doorway of Williams’s office.

“Brian, Roger, come in and give me an assessment.”

With that, his intelligence director and operations director repeated much of what he already knew. They also added their personal appraisal of the strike and what it meant going forward. Their assessment was not unlike his own.

“All right. Thank you, both.”

“Also, boss,” McCord replied, “as we briefed you two weeks ago, Aaron and his team have been running their anticipatory intelligence looking for what Iran might do. Now that we’ve attacked Iran he’s going to focus in even tighter on communications coming out of the Iranian military command and even the Niavaran Palace. The algorithms he’s run so far suggest Iran is going to retaliate. We’re just not sure where yet.”

“Got it, Roger, thanks. Keep the press on. Brian, let’s ensure the command center is manned appropriately to monitor the situation. Other than North Korea, Iran’s probably the most unpredictable nation on the planet. Like both of you, I don’t think Iran can let this go without a response. We need to be prepared for just about anything.”

“Got it, boss.”

Turning to his intelligence director, Williams continued.

“Roger, several weeks ago we had a conversation about having your Geek Tank start to look at bit more inward, more domestically. That got overtaken by events. I think we need to ramp that up immediately, don’t you agree?”

“Sure do.”

“OK, fellas, we’ve a nation to protect. Let’s get to it.”

In the Niavaran Palace, Grand Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei had spent the morning getting reports from his naval commanders about the damage done to Iran’s mine bunkers and buildings as well as to the port areas of the three Iranian naval bases. Other advisors briefed him regarding casualties to Iranian citizens. One of his staff had a rebroadcast of the American president’s address earlier that day piped into Khamenei’s office. Nothing was lost in the dubbed translation. He watched it without comment and seemingly without emotion.

Now he was alone. He picked up the phone and called the Lebanese agent in his employ.

Aaron Bleich was on edge and paced around the Geek Tank watching his eclectic band work. They combed the airways with their algorithms and decision-support software, sifting data and generating screen displays. The trouble was, he didn’t know what he was looking for. He had scrambled to reprogram their systems for domestic anomalies, but he still didn’t know what to look for. Later that afternoon, Maggie Scott and Hasan Khosa approached him.

“Aaron, we’re looking at some strange stuff and trying to make sense of it. Can you take a look at it?”

“Sure. Where?” Bleich asked.

“Maggie’s machine,” Khosa replied. “This way.”

The Lebanese had e-mailed Ilya Gorbonov at 1500 Washington, D.C., time, right before the start of the rush hour. The e-mail said simply, “Deliver your equipment to the prearranged locations and set it to activate at noon tomorrow, Washington, D.C., time.”

Finally, Ilya rejoiced. Then he felt something approaching panic. It was rush hour. He had to drive to multiple spots and get this all delivered before closing time in the malls where his carts were.

Couldn’t this idiot tell time? What was he supposed to do, fly to these places? He started slamming the keys on his laptop. Once he hit SEND, he pulled out his Northern Virginia map and started tracing out what he thought would be the best route to reach each of these malls given the area’s soon-to-be-gridlocked afternoon traffic. His efforts were interrupted when his e-mail binged. His contact had replied sooner than he had anticipated.

He began to mutter and then curse as he read this e-mail. Who did this asshole think he was, ordering him around like some coolie and not the professional he was? He typed furiously, his fingers flying over the keys, and then hit SEND. Ilya leaped up and started pacing around the room. He didn’t need to be treated like this. He would do it, but he would do it his way.

Less than three minutes later, his e-mail binged again. Ilya read it and began banging his fist on the desk in rage. He slammed his laptop closed and went to the closet to begin loading the boxes labeled “costume jewelry” into his SUV, still debating what route he should follow to make his deliveries without getting stuck in Washington’s late-afternoon traffic.

The meeting had begun with just Bleich, Scott, and Khosa in Roger McCord’s office. Then McCord had asked Brian Dawson to come in with James Wright, his domestic crisis manager. After much spirited discussion, Brian Dawson tried to sum it up.

“OK, first of all, Aaron, Maggie, and Hasan, outstanding job. This would have eluded most electronic search teams. We clearly need to take this to the boss, but just so I get it right and we’re of an accord, would you sum it all up, Aaron?”

Bleich looked to Roger McCord, but McCord just nodded, so Bleich spoke, “Well, it’s like this. We’ve had a stream of e-mails going back and forth from a foreign entity and someone here in Washington. They’re talking around what they are doing, but our system parameters are strongly suggesting they are planning an attack somewhere in the Washington, D.C., area.”

“And these attacks are supposed to happen soon?”

“Yes, sir,” Bleich replied. “Noon tomorrow.”

“Your team thinks these attacks are going to be mainly against civilians, right? Not on any instruments of national power, or on the government or the military? And this is all somehow connected to the attacks on Iran?”

“From the looks of it, yes, sir,” Bleich replied. “They’re talking about trying to achieve maximum casualties.”

“Are we’re still trying to source the location of this e-mail account?” McCord asked.

“That’s right,” Bleich replied. “So far, the process of elimination is pointing to somewhere outside of the District, and not west or south into Virginia, so we’re thinking somewhere in Maryland, most likely.”

“I see. Is your decision-support software suggesting anything regarding where they are going to try to get mass civilian casualties?”

“We’re still working it, but nothing yet.”

“All right, I think we have enough to take this to the boss now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Chase Williams had called the FBI director in the early afternoon following his team’s report. He offered to send James Wright, his domestic crisis manager, along with his intelligence director and part of his team, including Aaron Bleich, to the Hoover Building to brief him in person. The FBI director had listened to Williams, thanked him, but declined a personal briefing. He promised he would look into the matter.

When Bleich and the Geek Tank called Williams later in the afternoon and told him they had tracked the e-mail account to a six-block-square area in Silver Spring, Maryland, Williams had again called the FBI director. He urged him to have the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group position themselves to be ready to act once the exact location was nailed. Once again, the director thanked him and told him he had contacted the attorney general and they would respond appropriately. When Williams again called him late that afternoon, he was told the director had gone to see the attorney general. Chase Williams knew and trusted both men. He had done all he could, but he couldn’t go home. He had headed to where Bleich and his team were doing their analysis and remained there all night.

Ilya Gorbonov had not returned to his hotel room until almost 2230, drained from dashing around the Capitol Beltway to deliver his sarin gas to the selected locations. He had chosen well, he reminded himself. He also smiled when he thought of the money. He was being paid a fixed fee, as well as a bonus for each dead American. The Americans were very good at counting their dead, which would make his accounting that much easier. This cheered him. What didn’t cheer him was the $260 parking ticket. He had placed the box in his cart in Union Station, his last stop, only beating the mall’s closing time by five minutes. He had parked in a fire zone right in front of the station. A parking ticket — just you wait!

He had set the explosive timers to go off precisely at noon when the malls would be full of regular shoppers, and the food courts would be full of people on their lunch breaks. He had told his salespeople at each cart that the boxes were not to be touched until April 15, Income Tax Day. That was when the new company he had purchased this jewelry from was going to have a Tax Day promotion. He assured them all there would be a nice bonus if they moved a lot of this jewelry on Tax Day.

His Lebanese contact had promised to transfer the money to his offshore bank account electronically the next morning. He was to remain in his hotel until then, at which time he was free to leave Washington forever. Gorbonov had his one bag packed, his SUV gassed up, and had paid his hotel bill in full in cash. He was ready to leave.

Chase Williams was back in his office by 0900, having shaved and showered in the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency’s gym. His patience with the FBI director was wearing thin. He called the director’s office, got his EA, and was told the director was with the attorney general and could not be reached.

At precisely noon, eastern daylight time, there was a loud explosion in carts selling costume jewelry in Union Station, the Pentagon City Mall, the Crystal City Underground, the White Flint Mall, and the Tysons Corner’s food court.

As the sarin gas cloud filled the air, people began to drop to the ground, choking with severe asphyxia as their breathing muscles ceased functioning. First dozens, then hundreds more, dropped to the tiled mall floors, clutching their throats. Death came quickly after that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Chase Williams had pulled his senior staff together immediately after the sarin gas attacks and had charged them with one mission: Find out who had conducted this attack on America. He had his suspicions, but he wanted to let Roger McCord, Aaron Bleich, and his Geek Tank find the answer.

At 0900 that morning the FBI Critical Incident Response Group team had finally gone to where the suspicious e-mails had emanated from, the hotel Op-Center’s intelligence algorithms had nailed as the precise location. All indications pointed to just one person, a Mr. Wilson, who had been a long-term guest. However, Mr. Wilson was gone when they got there and they had no leads as to his whereabouts. They had interviewed salespeople who had not been at work at the time of the explosions and had learned that Mr. Wilson had delivered a special box of costume jewelry to each cart the evening before the explosions.

Bleich and the Geek Tank did not disappoint. Anticipating the U.S. attack on Iran’s mine-laying capabilities would elicit a response, they focused their intelligence gathering and their sensitive search engines on the Iranian high command and that led them to where they thought it might — directly to the Niavaran Palace.

While Chase Williams followed his “POTUS/OC Eyes Only” memo up with a personal visit to the president hours later, the memo said it all. “Mr. President, over the last four days, using the analysis feeds your intelligence community has continued to so generously share, we have determined the reason for, and the source of, these sarin gas attacks on America. This order was issued directly from the Niavaran Palace by Grand Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei. The grand ayatollah used an intermediary, but there is no doubt he ordered this deadly attack on our citizens immediately after our attack on Iran’s mine-laying capabilities.”

During his visit with the president Williams was careful not to criticize the president or his national security advisor for ordering the attacks on Iran’s mine-laying capabilities. It should have been clear to them those attacks would have elicited the deadly response they did, but that was in the past and revisiting it would serve no purpose now. Nor was it Williams’s place to ask the president what he intended to do armed with the intelligence he had just given him. That would all be taken care of in due course. The president asked Chase Williams to maintain 24/7 intelligence on one specific target.

Thirty-six hours later, cruisers, destroyers, and submarines steaming with the Truman and Vinson carrier strike groups launched a massive barrage of Tomahawk missiles toward the Islamic Republic of Iran. Dozens of missiles emerged from their launch tubes and headed downrange, but this time instead of hitting multiple targets, those missiles all had the same geographic coordinates dialed into their guidance systems. The coordinates were those of the Niavaran Palace in Central Tehran.

The timing of the attacks was precise. Aaron Bleich’s people had provided a direct feed into the CENTCOM Command Center in Al Udeid Air Base, Qatar. Bleich and his team had determined Grand Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Hosseini Khamenei had just retired for the evening. The strikes were launched moments later. When the dust had settled the entire Niavaran Palace complex was little more than a smoking, smoldering hole.

However, Bleich’s team had provided more. They had learned the Iranians mine-laying operation had not been — as the Iranians had alleged — a rogue operation by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy. Rather, it had been a coordinated operation with regular Iranian navy ships escorting the mine-laying dhows.

Hours after the devastating attack on the Niavaran Palace complex, the cruisers, destroyers, and submarines steaming with the Truman and Vinson carrier strike groups fired more of their Tomahawk missiles. The first wave of these precision missiles targeted the air defense facilities and Iranian military air bases, cratering their runways and making aircraft takeoffs impossible. The second wave headed north toward the Islamic Republic of Iran naval bases at Bandar Abbas, Jask, Bandar Beheshti, Kharg Island, Qeshm, and Larak Island. A total of nine ships, five from the Truman and Vinson carrier strike groups, and four others, rushed to the Gulf of Oman from station off the Horn of Africa, producing the biggest U.S. Navy Tomahawk barrage since Desert Storm.

Missiles were still coming out of their launchers when the first F/A-18E and F/A-18F Super Hornet strike fighters roared off the catapults on Truman and Vinson bound for those same ports. Their mission was to turn the Iranian navy into scrap metal. They singled out Bandar Abbas for special attention and destruction as it was home to the Islamic Republic of Iran naval headquarters as well as the base for its three Russian-built Kilo class submarines.

The initial Tomahawk barrage was so effective that there was almost no air defense. What little remained was handled by F/A-18G Growler electronic jamming aircraft accompanying the strike. The F/A-18E/F Super Hornets were now free to rake the ports and ships with their SLAM-ER Standoff Land Attack Missiles, their AGM-154 JSOW Joint Standoff Weapons, and their AGM-84 Harpoon antiship missiles. The Truman and Vinson carrier strikers returned to refuel, rearm, and reattack. The devastation was both appalling and complete. By nightfall, there was little evidence the Islamic Republic of Iran navy had ever existed.

The president’s Oval Office address was shorter than the one he had given eight days earlier. He was brief, almost cryptic, in telling the nation the attacks on America and its citizens had been avenged and the “coward who had ordered the sarin gas attack had been found and eliminated.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Almost fifteen hundred Americans had died in the sarin gas attacks, and President Wyatt Midkiff had been overwhelmed with trying to restore calm and reassure the nation.

Chase Williams had thought long and hard before requesting a meeting with the president. He wanted to give him time to deal with and get through the worst domestic crisis in the United States since the NFL attacks. Williams had prided himself throughout his career on never speaking badly of a colleague, but too many people had died. This could have been prevented. He had done his best to work through the FBI director and the attorney general. It was simply unacceptable. As Williams entered the Oval Office he noticed Wyatt Midkiff looked years older. This crisis had drained him. “Mr. President.”

“Chase, come in. You’re a sight for sore eyes. Please sit.”

The two men sat in the president’s conversational area.

“Now what’s on your mind, Chase?”

“Mr. President, I’ll get right to the point. I think Op-Center should take a stronger role in dealing with potential terrorist attacks on our soil, and here’s why.”

Wyatt Midkiff listened intently as Chase Williams went through his detailed analysis and rationale.

Sandee Barron had prevailed on her husband to take a few days off from work to look after their two daughters so she could fly to Washington, D.C., to spend a few days with Laurie Phillips.

Laurie had told her about her termination at the Center for Naval Analyses and Sandee had formerly resigned her commission, so they were both officially unemployed. Washington was arguably the most recession-proof city in America. They both decided they would look for work here, and Sandee’s husband had already secured a promise from KPMG they would transfer him to Northern Virginia when the time came. They had agreed to meet for beers at Clyde’s in Georgetown, one of Sandee’s old haunts from her Naval Academy days. Laurie knew the bar as well.

They sat in a booth talking about job prospects and a million other things. Sandee was staying with Laurie and they had arrived by taxi. They intended to cab it back once they closed down Clyde’s, or were thrown out. The beer flowed freely.

Neither were heavy drinkers but this occasion was unique. Immediately, they fell into a conversational world of their own. They talked of the crash, the capture and interrogation by the prince and his men, and their abrupt career terminations. All this brought them closer, closer than sisters. It was talk, more beer, and more talk. They were so engaged they failed to notice the large man who was watching them from the bar until he appeared at the end of their booth. They looked up together, mildly annoyed at the interruption.

“Ms. Phillips, Ms. Barron, good evening.”

“How do you know our names?” Laurie asked.

“Oh, I know a great deal about you two, as does my employer.”

Now on guard, Sandee replied, holding up her left hand, “Hey, I’m married, see? And you’re not my friend’s type.”

“Forgive me, ladies; it was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I understand that you are both looking for work, and I have something that might interest you,” Brian Dawson replied. “Mind if I sit down?”

Sandee and Laurie were surprised enough by Dawson knowing their names they sat in stunned silence as he pulled a chair up to the end of their booth.

“Have either of you ladies heard of an organization called the National Crisis Management Center?”

Silence.

“I didn’t think so. I can’t tell you much here in a restaurant, we need a secure space for that, but I can tell you the gentlemen who snatched you out of Saudi Arabia belonged to our JSOC cell. We operate internationally, and now, domestically, and we like to recruit people who don’t mind throwing the rule book away when it’s absolutely necessary. You two seem like our kind of people. Interested in learning more?”

Laurie and Sandee just gaped at Dawson, then at each other.