Esther's Sling (29 page)

As the last word came from his mouth, a loud explosion pierced the air a couple of hundred meters behind the car. The C-4 had detonated, its chemically induced force instantly cutting through the steel pedestal that supported the large Chinese radar array. The radar toppled to the ground, its delicate framework unable to support its own weight. The array twisted and warped as it collapsed. No one would be r
epairing this particular radar.

Even better, thought the Archer, whoever was shooting at
their car had stopped. Muhjid did not need to tell the driver to take full advantage of the lull. He thought about the situation and came to the conclusion that the last remaining target, the Russian Tall King radar, would have to wait for another day. It was getting too dangerous on the base and their sedan had been identified. “Head for the exit corner.” Muhjid pointed off to his right.

The driver continued to accelerate, only now turning the car to the right, heading northeast toward a corner of the base. If they could make it, they would be half a mile south of the M20 highway. The base had a sand berm around the perimeter and the car would not be able to drive over it, but the sooner they reached a far corner of the base, the further they could run before soldiers arrived. The car traveled across the hard desert sand without problem, covering the last half mile to the nort
heast corner in under a minute.

The car came to stop just inside the corner of the berm. Muhjid told each man to get out and start toward the highway. He removed a block of the remaining C-4 explosive from the bag and placed a delay fuse into it, setting the timer for the maximum delay of two minutes. He placed the block back into the bag and placed the bag of explosives on the driver’s side floor. He got out, taking his weapon with him. As he stood up straight, he looked back toward the interior of the base and smiled – no one was following them. He turned and scurried over the berm. When he reached the other side
, he began a fast jog toward the highway. In the distance, from the direction of the town, he could hear sirens. On the base itself, sporadic gunfire could be heard.

As he neared the highway, he saw what he had been praying for: a blue Nissan pickup truck was parked on the edge of the road. It had been the last vehicle in the morning convoy to
leave As Sukhnah. He finally reached the truck and got in. The driver of the sedan was in the middle of the front bench seat. “Where’s Faraj?”

The driver looked at him. “With Allah,” he said. Faraj had been hit in the
neck and killed by the round that came through the window of the sedan. It was his fate. In the excitement of the moment, Muhjid had never noticed.

“Let’s go,” said Muhjid. He shook his head and then said a silent prayer to thank God for watching over him this day.

The pickup truck headed toward As Sukhnah. It was not limited to 100 kph. Somewhere behind them, the van had picked up all nine of the gunmen and was heading toward a spot in the desert where the men had parked their cars. They would abandon the van there and return to their families. They had succeeded in killing three Russians, only one of whom was a legitimate target. They had also killed a young Arab child who was completely innocent. But in the blast that destroyed the building, most of the men of two shifts had been caught on site. Five Iranians, twelve Syrians and, most importantly, nine Russians radar technicians had died in an instant. The timing of the explosion could not have been better. Such was the randomness of warfare.

A communiqué from al Qaeda in Iraq was posted to several Islamic websites. It read:

In obedience to the command of Allah, and in support of His religion, and to defend and avenge the oppressed in the Levant, the soldiers of the Islamic State of Iraq, in cooperation with our Islamic brothers in arms in the Levant, carried out an attack today. The action was conducted at an air base in the eastern region of the Homs Governate and operations of the infidel government in Moscow were targeted. All of the targets of the operation were completely destroyed.
The representatives of the infidel government who support the criminal regime in Damascus, are warned to leave the Levant and all Islamic lands. This operation was conducted on the morning of 14 September.

The international press quickly picked up the story. There was no doubt that the claim by the political wing of al Qaeda in Iraq was genuine – the first sentence of the communiqué had been posted ninety minutes before the attack occurred. An update added the detail after the fact.

The temperature hovered in the low 60s Fahrenheit as the tractor-trailer rig crossed the Aras river from Agarak, Armenia, into Nordouz, Iran. Just over 100 meters past the bridge, the truck slowed and turned right into the dirt parking lot of the Iranian customs center. The time in Iran was 10:02 in the morning, exactly 30 minutes earlier than the time would be if the truck was still on the other side of the river in Armenia. Hamak Arsadian knew from years of experience that this was the optimal time to show up. A customs officer would get to him within an hour and that meant that he would want to wrap up quickly so that he could break for lunch and Dhuhr prayers at noon. For Arsadian that meant getting back on the road by noon so that he could make it through Tabriz before the start of rush hour.

On this morning, twelve trucks were parked as bored Iranian customs agents checked paperwork and inspected the cargo area of the trucks, always being more thorough for those drivers who were disliked or, more importantly, were too poor or naive to have placed two crisp new 100,000 Iranian rial notes on the inside of their passport. The banknotes were only worth about $10, but for the customs agents who worked the Nordouz crossing, the
weekly distribution of pooled “gratuities” were handed out based on a strict seniority system, doubling the pay of rookie officers and tripling the pay of senior officers. Of course, 25% of the take had to be forwarded on to regional headquarters in Tabriz, which, in turn, sent 25% of their take on to Tehran. Everybody participated – and therefore everybody was happy.

Arsadian knew the routine from almost 20 years of delivering goods to the cities of Iran. The businessmen of the Islamic Republic had faced many hurdles since the Revolution, including boycotts, sanctions and the bad publicity that many western companies faced if caught doing business with Iran. One result was the evolution of trade with Armenian front companies
that purchased goods in the west – often via an intermediary Russian company – and delivered them to the eager consumers of Iran via a network of trucks that plied the roadways between the warehouses of Yerevan and the major, and minor, cities of Iran. Muslim Azerbaijan’s close relations with Israel over recent years had only added fuel to the growth of this trade network between Iran and the overwhelmingly Christian nation of Armenia.

Like his father before him, Hamak Arsadian made a decent living driving this route on a weekly basis, a history that had allowed him to build a wide network of Armenian and Iranian business associates. Arsadian had made his name by being on time and avoiding the inventory
“shrinkage” that was so prevalent among many drivers. As a result, he was one of the preferred drivers for high-value items and his rates reflected this standing. The route through Nordouz meant driving along a poorly maintained secondary road that wound its way for almost 70 miles through the mountains until reaching Road 32, a four lane divided highway running into Tabriz. But the pay for making the trip was well worth the effort.

Just under an hour had passed when an Iranian customs officer approached. “Ah, Hamak,” smiled the aging officer. “As-
salamu alayka.” The officer’s teeth were rotting and his breath reflected it. Hamak involuntarily recoiled from his window and cursed his luck at drawing Abdul Hamid Sherazi.

“
Wa’ alayka s-salam, Abdul Hamid.” The Armenian’s Farsi had become quite fluent over the years of travelling the roads of Iran and engaging in the constant negotiating that was the foundation of Persian commerce. Arsadian passed his clipboard through the window and down to the officer, who began to scan the attached passport, manifest, bill of lading, invoice, certificate of origin, proof of insurance and TIR carnet. The motion of his right hand from the opened passport to his pocket was so routine that the officer did not need to think about it.

The customs officer stepped back a few feet, his head following his eyes as he scanned along the driver side of the tractor-trailer rig. He then took a couple of steps to his left and looked at the front of the tractor. “Is this a new truck?”

“New for me, but, no, not a new truck. I purchased it this week. It’s a 2009 MAN GTX. What do you think?”

“You must be doing well, Hamak. Allah has smiled upon you.”

“Praise be to him,” replied the driver. Arsadian was raised a Christian and still attended church on major holidays, but he had long learned the wisdom of adopting a Muslim attitude once he crossed the border. “My old tractor was costing me too much money in repairs, so I had no choice. At least that is what I tell my wife.” Arsadian chuckled.

The guard smiled broadly. “I am impressed.” He looked at the 13.6 meter Montracon box van trailer, which lacked side doors. “
A new trailer too?”

Arsadian felt his stomach muscles tighten. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head.
Just respond as you have practiced
. “Yes, it was a deal. The prior owner immigrated to the United States. To New York City I believe.”

“Ah, lucky bastard,” responded the officer. It was a spontaneous utterance that was not in keeping with the official position of Iran. As soon as the words left his mouth, he became self-conscious for the first time in many weeks. Fortunately for him, members of VEVAK, the Iranian secret police, were not particularly prevalent in this remote border crossing.

The truck driver picked up on the officer’s emotion. It made him relax. “Not so much,” joked Arsadian. “He’s driving a taxi.”

The customs officer thought about how he would gladly accept such a job for a chance to live in America, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “Hmmm,” was all that came out. He returned his mind to his work. “I see you went with a hard side.” Most of the trailers in this region had one or two canvas sides to reduce weight and make loading and unloading easier. Many trailers were open and the load simply covered in a large canvas that was tied down. This t
ype of closed box van was rare.

“This is what he had.” Arsadian shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, this lets me sleep easier while I’m delivering a load … and no leaks.”

Sherazi nodded his head slowly in agreement as he raised the clipboard up. He began to scour the manifest. “Where are you headed this trip?”

“I am delivering toilet paper to Ahvaz.”

Sherazi looked up from the manifest, which clearly listed 450 cartons of toilet paper. “Toilet paper?” His right eyebrow was raised and his right palm was turned upward in wonderment.

Arsadian smiled. “Charmin.” This was a true luxury in Iran.

“Ah, Charmin!” The customs officer was excited. Unlike the usual load of large appliances or automotive spare parts, this was something he could take home to his wife and kids. “Let’s take a look,” the officer said as he walked to the back door, not caring about Arsadian’s response. The driver quickly exited his cab and hurried to the back of the truck, always mindful of the power that Abdul Hamid Sherazi could bring to bear if made unhappy. He reached the rear doors of the trailer before the overweight officer, who had no need to ever move quickly. The Armenian lifted the right side handle from its cradle and rotated it out and to the left effortlessly. An experienced observer could tell a veteran truck driver simply by how smooth his motion was when opening the back doors. After opening the right side, he just as easily opened the left.

The cartons were stacked right to the door and came within a few inches of the ceiling. Sherazi was excited
; he had never before seen a shipment of Charmin. The printing on the cartons was clearly genuine – crisp, clear and straight from the Procter and Gamble plant in Mehoopany, Pennsylvania. Even though the same product could be purchased for less under the brand name Cushelle, wealthy Iranians wanted Charmin in their bathrooms and would pay for it.

Arsadian smiled and asked a simple question, “Ultra soft or ultra strong?”

Sherazi scratched his chin. “Soft. Soft. My wife loves it.”

Arsadian raised his left foot up and placed it onto the square steel tube that doubled as both a bumper and a step. He pivoted his weight and swung his right foot onto eight inches of the now exposed flooring of the trailer. The
Iranian was impressed at the agility of the five foot eight inch Armenian, who, he thought, couldn’t be much younger than he. Reaching upward with his right hand, Arsadian pulled out the top carton of Charmin Ultra Soft until it balanced precariously with only an inch or two of carton still overlapping the cardboard box below it. With one motion he pulled the carton out the last couple of inches and stepped off the back of the trailer’s deck, grabbing the carton with both hands as he fell over four feet down to the earth. He immediately dropped the carton to the ground and inserted his fingers under a flap to force it open. He let Sherazi enjoy the contents.

“You know, once the box is open, it has lost its value,” said Arsadian with a twinkle in his eye. “Please tell your wife that not all of us Armenians are bad guys.”

Sherazi bent over and pulled out a four roll package of Charmin. He was giddy. He squeezed the package and in very broken English said, “Please to squeeze the Charmin, mister Whippy.” It was the best his mind could remember from the days of his youth under the Shah when American products were still advertised on Iranian TV. He was like a young kid at his own birthday party.

Sherazi was grateful and he showed it. The usual 45 minute processing timeline only took him about 25 minutes. He returned to Arsadian with the standard paperwork. The driver was smoking a cigarette in his cab and listening to a CD of Armenian singer
Arsen Grigoryan. Arsadian quickly turned down his system. “Drive safely, my friend,” said the officer as he handed the clipboard up to Arsadian. The admonishment had particular import in Iran, where the death rate per mile driven was about 20 times greater than in the United States or Europe – a reflection of the national obsession with ignoring traffic laws and signals.

Among the paperwork delivered to the Armenian by Sherazi was the Green
Jawaz, the official form under Iranian law that proved that all required customs duties had been paid by the importer, and the CMR, the international consignment note that needed to be kept by Arsadian while he had a loaded truck inside Iran. With these documents, Arsadian was free to travel the roads of Iran.

“Thank you.”

“Khuda hafiz. I will see you soon. Be careful on the roads.” The guard turned away from the truck, unaware of its hidden cargo and the importance of that cargo to the future of his country.

Arsadian started his eight cylinder diesel engine. He reached over to his CD/satellite radio/navigation system and, using the middle three fingers on his right hand, simultaneously pushed the “INFO”, “CD” and “AUX” buttons along the bottom of the unit. On the unit’s display, a red circle appeared in the lower left corner. He then pressed the “NAVI” and “MAP”
buttons simultaneously. The red circle turned green. After 5 seconds, the circle turned off. For the next several minutes the truck’s satellite GPS antenna broadcast a simple three digit code along with the GPS coordinates of the vehicle.

The signal was picked-up by Iridium 91, a commercial satellite in low earth polar orbit and one of 66 operating in the Iridium constellation. The satellite interpreted the truck’s unique identifier code and routed a new signal to the Iridium satellite in orbit approximately 30 degrees to the east of Iridium 91. This satellite, in turn, routed the signal to the Iridium ground station in Beijing, which processed the signal and sent it via the
Internet to Iridium’s Satellite Network Operations Center in Landsdowne, Virginia. After passing through the system’s commercial servers, the signal was routed via the internet to the servers of Fleet Management Solutions in California. Their servers quickly recognized the customer and forwarded the information to the servers of Yerevan Freight Forwarding, the company set up by Hamak Arsadian for his trucking operations – a company with only himself, his wife and his brother as employees. The company servers were maintained by an outsourced IT firm in Indonesia. As the information hit their servers, a small bit of recently inserted software code recognized the customer and forwarded the information to a server in the Netherlands, which published the information to a non-descript website.

In the Olympus bunker outside Tel Aviv, a young Israeli soldier clapped his hands as he watched the progress of a tractor-trailer rig that was just leaving the Nordouz Customs Center. Next to the dot on the map which moved as information was updated via the Iridium GPS network, a pop up balloon contained a short message: “321
.” This was the simple code that meant that Arsadian had passed through customs and not been compromised. The soldier picked up the phone next to his screen, dialed 5-7-1 and waited for Amit Margolis to pick up.

“Yes,” said Amit curtly. The stress of what was being initiated was building very rapidly.

“The driver has cleared and is on his way to Point Kabob.”

“Thank you.” Amit hung up the phone and turned to General David Schechter. “We ar
e green light. God be with us.”

“Stay calm, Amit,” responded the veteran of multiple military operations. “We are still a long way from the point of no return. But, yes, God be with us.” The general’s desk was next to Amit’s. It was an arrangement that the experienced officer insisted on. He wanted all information freely shared between the senior decision makers of this operation. He picked up the phone and issued the command to execute the mission of Task Force Camel. On his computer, the date said
Thursday, October 3.