Quest for Honor (14 page)

Yes, it was beginning to make sense now. His new friend Simons would certainly find this interesting. But he would have to think about that later. For now, he had to play along with Heydar. “I have two immediate concerns,” Yusuf said. “First, the timetable. We have less than one month to get ready. Second, the location.” He found the spot on the map where Heydar had indicated the seizure would take place. “This appears to be about a thousand kilometers off the coast of Somalia. That is a very long distance.”

“Both of your concerns are quite valid, my friend. The training itself will be intense. That is why my men will be here, to assist you. As to the location, we have arranged for some of your friends in al-Shabaab to provide a vessel that will be quite capable of making this voyage. It is one they seized earlier this year.”

Yusuf sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and gazed at the map. The logistical challenges of such an operation were huge, but not insurmountable, for men properly trained and equipped. Very risky, of course, but their business was all about risk, was it not? Without great risk, there could not be great reward.

“I tell you this because it is possible the men will arrive here before your own orders do,” Heydar said. “I have been authorized by my superiors to give you this advance notice.”

Yusuf nodded his thanks, already thinking of the immediate, practical considerations. He would have to assign Amir to prepare for the Iranians’ arrival. Quarters would have to be prepared, and so forth. But such details were not Yusuf’s biggest concern. The target was, and the implications such a target brought with it.

“A cruise liner, you say? That is most interesting,” he said.

“Yes,” Heydar said. “Approximately seven hundred passengers, crew of one hundred seventy-five.”

Yusuf stroked his short beard thoughtfully, contemplating the tactical challenges of such an assault. “This will require a significant force of men,” he said.

“About fifty,” Heydar said.

Yusuf raised an eyebrow. “Fifty men, to control nearly nine hundred hostages? We will need at least twice that number to have a chance.”

Heydar shook his head. “If our goal was to seize the ship and its personnel and hold them for a period of time, yes,” he said. “But we will not be doing that.”

“Please explain,” Yusuf said, although he suddenly knew where this was going.

“We will attack the ship, disable it and board it. Then we will sink it.”

Yusuf stared at the man hard. “What of the passengers and crew?”

Heydar shrugged his shoulders. “If they can swim, they might have a chance.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Tehran

T
he secure conference
room deep inside the Ministry of Defense was about half-full. General Fazeed recognized nearly everybody there, and had been able to have a quick word with Admiral Ralouf when he arrived. They exchanged pleasantries, inquired about each other’s families, and of course stayed away from the topic of the meeting. The presumed topic, that is; nobody had been informed of the subject matter, only that their presence was required for a discussion of matters of strategic interest.

Not even the ubiquitous Mr. Jafari would enlighten them. He had greeted Fazeed and then Ralouf warmly. Since their meeting at the base two weeks earlier for the missile test, Fazeed had done some discreet checking on the Defense Ministry official, who turned out to be not from the Defense Ministry at all, but from VEVAK, Ministry of Intelligence and National Security. That was not a great surprise, but it was another reason for Fazeed to be cautious.

“Gentlemen, the President of the Islamic Republic.”

Fazeed faced the doorway and came to attention. Mahmoud Ahmedinejad entered the room, smiling, greeting the first men he encountered. The president was wearing his usual business attire, a light-colored linen suit, white shirt open at the neck. As always, he was bearded, but Fazeed could never tell whether it was a beard cropped very short or a few days’ growth left untended. He was not, the general had concluded long ago, an impressive individual. He was wily, shrewd, devious, and not as naïve as the West made him out to be, but he was not the kind of impressive leader his nation needed.

Then again, who was? Leadership was an elusive trait. Many desired it, many thought they had it, few did. Not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if this operation, the one he presumed they were here to discuss, failed. How many of the men in this room would survive?

“Gentlemen, the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic.”

Ayatollah Ali Khamenei entered the room, imperious and condescending, engulfed in his robes and turban, his wire-rimmed spectacles edging toward the end of his large nose. Unlike Ahmedinejad, he did not greet anyone, did not offer his hand. Khamenei took the seat at the end of the oval-shaped table, and the president sat to his right. “Please be seated, gentlemen,” Ahmedinejad said.

Fazeed sat to the Supreme Leader’s left, on the same side as the military men, all of whom were from not the regular armed forces, but the Pasdaran. That was interesting. To Fazeed’s left was Ralouf, who headed the IRGC’s Navy, then Major General Suleimani, the head of Quds Force. Opposite them were the civilians: the president, the defense minister, and then Jafari.

The president looked at Khamenei, and nodded. “You may begin, General,” Ahmedinejad said.

Suleimani stood and bowed to the men at the head of the table. “Supreme Leader, Your Excellency Mr. President, welcome. This briefing is classified as Most Secret.” Using a remote control, Suleimani dimmed the lights slightly, and a flat-screen television on the wall lit up with the seal of the Islamic Republic. “The operation is code named PERSIAN METEOR. You are familiar with the history of the project. With your permission, Excellency, I will briefly review events of the past few days.”

Ahmedinejad nodded his assent. Khamenei sat silently, hands clasped across his ample stomach, occasionally stroking his long white beard. Fazeed noticed he had pushed his glasses up. The lenses reflected the screen as the code name appeared in Farsi.

“Before updating you on the status of PERSIAN METEOR, I will brief you on two preliminary operations being conducted in conjunction with our allies.” Suleimani clicked his remote, and a map of Israel came up on the screen. Fazeed heard muffled curses from some on the civilian side. He didn’t dare turn his head to look at them.

Suleimani’s laser pointer landed on the port city of Ashkelon. “Operation KAFTOR RISING. The Hamas strike team is in place and will launch its operation tomorrow. The team commander on the ground is confident of success.”

“Is he one of our people?” Jafari asked.

“No. It was decided that this operation would be carried out entirely by one cell from the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades. Our advisors have been working with the cell in Gaza, helping prepare the strike. None of our people will be crossing the border.”

“Very good,” Ahmedinejad said. “Much better than shooting off their rockets.”

“You mean,
our
rockets,” Khamenei said with a chuckle.

“What is the source of the code name?” Ralouf asked. Fazeed had a pretty good idea, but was surprised that his old friend, a student of ancient history, did not know the answer already.

“Ashkelon was one of the five city-states ruled by the Philistines in ancient times,” Suleimani said. “Gaza was another. Some sources say the people may have called themselves the Kaftor. The Hamas leaders chose the name, recalling the glory of their ancestors.” Fazeed had been right, but he did not point out that those glorious ancestors saw their mightiest warrior, the giant Goliath, brought down by a single Jewish teenager with a slingshot. The Jews the strike team would confront in Ashkelon would be armed with weapons considerably more lethal.

“And the other operation?” Fazeed asked. He had heard rumors of increasing Quds Force activity against the Zionists, but until now had not known any particulars.

Another click, and this time the Horn of Africa was displayed. “This one is about to start the planning and training phase. The code name is ARTEMIS DAWN.” Next to Fazeed, Ralouf grunted and offered a small smile. Fazeed knew enough ancient Persian history to recognize the name, too. Artemisia of Caria was a renowned naval commander under Xerxes in the fifth century B.C., even though she was a woman. It was Artemisia who had counseled Xerxes against massing his naval forces in one great attack against the Greeks in 480. Xerxes ignored her advice and sent the entire fleet into battle at Salamis. Despite the resulting defeat, Artemisia fought bravely. To this day, many Iranian children had a poster of Artemisia and Xerxes on their bedroom walls. Many assumed Artemisia was Xerxes’ queen.

For the next fifteen minutes, Suleimani went over details of the mission. The more Fazeed heard, the more his unease grew. Training al-Qaida terrorists for a naval mission? Assaulting a cruise ship many kilometers out to sea, and then scuttling her, all to distract the Americans and British?

“This is to take place when?” the defense minister asked.

“August eighth,” Suleimani said. “The timing of the mission will become clear as we proceed in our review of PERSIAN METEOR.”

Fazeed could not help himself. “It is most risky, is it not, General, to include your own men on this mission? NATO has many naval units in those waters. What if, in spite of your men’s best efforts, something goes wrong and they are captured?”

Suleimani gave Fazeed a condescending smile. “There is always risk, General. But this unit will be composed of some of my best men. They will not fail. In any event, even if they are captured, it will quickly become irrelevant, as we shall see.”

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Ahmedinejad cleared his throat. “General Suleimani, perhaps the details of this operation could best be discussed another time. Shall we proceed to the main topic of our meeting?”

The Quds Force general bowed slightly to the president. “Of course, Excellency.” He turned to the screen and clicked the remote.

“July fifteenth. Unit One is successfully loaded on the merchant ship
Lion of Aladagh
and the ship sets sail from Bandar Abbas twelve hours later.” The screen showed the cargo vessel Fazeed and Ralouf had seen a week ago. The next photo showed a ship that could’ve been its twin. “July twentieth. Unit Two is loaded successfully on the
Star of Persia
. She sails eleven hours later. This map shows their current positions.”

Fazeed leaned forward slightly. The icon showing
Lion of Aladagh,
sailing eastward, was rounding the northernmost point of the Indonesian island of Sumatra, about to enter the Strait of Malacca, with the Malay Peninsula ahead, Singapore at its tip. Far to the west,
Star of Persia
was off the southern coast of the Arabian Peninsula, about to enter the Gulf of Aden, entrance to the Red Sea. “What are their itineraries?” the defense minister asked.

“I will defer the question to Admiral Ralouf.”

“
Star of Persia
has two ports of call,” Ralouf said. “Jeddah, on the Red Sea coast of Saudi Arabia, and Casablanca, in Morocco just past Gibraltar. From there it sails into the Atlantic. Scheduled destination is Puerto la Cruz, Venezuela.”

“And the other ship?”

“Singapore, then Tokyo, Japan. From there, eastward across the Pacific, scheduled to end its voyage in Manzanillo, Mexico.”

Ahmedinejad raised a hand. “Admiral, refresh my memory, please. What is the purpose of these intermediate stops? Why not sail directly to their true destinations?”

“The ships are registered with our own Islamic Republic of Iran Shipping Lines. It is highly unusual for this line to send ships across these waters. It was our conclusion that to enhance security, we should include routine ports of call on the itineraries.”

“I see. And their scheduled destinations?”

“Our people in Venezuela and Mexico have made all the proper arrangements, including news releases to the local media that will be published on August seventh, heralding their scheduled arrival several days later. It will be the start of a new era in trade relations between our country and theirs,” Ralouf said. “I should say, General Suleimani’s people, in conjunction with my own.” The admiral nodded at the Quds Force general.

“Very good.” The president nodded at Suleimani to continue, but Fazeed cleared his throat to get their attention. Ralouf might have been inclined to be diplomatic; Fazeed was not.

“You have a question, General Fazeed?” Suleimani asked.

Fazeed brushed aside his irritated tone. Inter-service rivalries were petty when the stakes were this big. “Yes, as to the ports of call. What are the chances that the ships will be searched by local security forces? Is that not fairly common?” It would be impossible to hide the ships’ most important cargo even from a cursory inspection, or so Fazeed assumed.

“Actually, no,” Ralouf said. “Port security in almost every port in the world is surprisingly lax, except on rare occasions when threat levels are high. When we devised the itineraries, we deliberately chose ports in nations that are not only receptive to trade with us, but rather unremarkable when it comes to their security measures, with the possible exception of Singapore, although we expect no problems there.”

With an annoyed glance at Fazeed, Ahmedinejad said, “I am satisfied, General. Please proceed.”

“The two vessels will be in the open ocean when they divert from their scheduled courses,” Suleimani said. One click of his remote brought up the Atlantic, with the route of
Star of Persia
moving westward from Morocco, then angling to the northwest. Another click showed the Pacific, with
Lion of Aladagh
describing a parabolic route from Japan through the northern latitudes and then swinging down toward North America.

“If both ships remain on schedule, they should be on station no later than August eighth. We are allowing a few days to account for weather or other unforeseen circumstances, such as mechanical problems.”

Ralouf spoke up, anticipating the next question. “Both ships are in excellent condition, and their crews are our best men. Although nobody can predict the weather for certain, we anticipate no problems meeting the timetable.”

Khamenei stroked his beard. “It is, perhaps, a pity that we could not have this done on September the eleventh. It would be fitting, would it not?”

“Ten years to the day since the first attacks,” Ahmedinejad said.

Jafari spoke for the first time. “The Americans would be on high alert that day. It was decided to not take that risk. As it is, August ninth is the anniversary of their nuclear attack on Nagasaki, Japan, in 1945. There will be several demonstrations around the country, with our propaganda teams providing assistance. Another distraction for their leadership.”

The Supreme Leader nodded. “I understand completely. In any event, PERSIAN METEOR will be much more, shall we say, effective, than what was accomplished by our late friend Osama, may he be with Allah in Paradise.” Some of the other men murmured assent.

Suleimani brought up a new slide, showing a map of the continental United States, with one pulsing dot off each coast. “On X-Day,
Star of Persia
is here, approximately thirty-eight degrees north latitude, sixty-three degrees west longitude, about eleven hundred kilometers off the coast of Delaware. Washington D.C. is a little over a hundred kilometers further inland. In the Pacific,
Lion of Aladagh
is about eleven hundred kilometers west of San Francisco, at thirty-seven degrees north latitude, one hundred thirty-two degrees west longitude.”

“How precise do those coordinates have to be?” Jafari asked.

Suleimani nodded to Fazeed for the answer. “Not very precise, but relatively close,” he said. “The strikes are designed to detonate about eight hundred kilometers inland. For the best possible result, our scientists determined the warheads should explode at an altitude of about four hundred kilometers.”

“Can your missiles achieve this, General?” Ahmedinejad asked.

“Yes, Excellency,” Fazeed said.

“And the weapons, they will be large enough?”

“They are the largest we have available to us now, approximately four hundred kilotons as measured in destructive power. By comparison, Excellency, the weapons the Americans used in 1945 to incinerate Hiroshima and Nagasaki were only about twenty kilotons each.”

Khamenei shifted in his seat, stroking his beard. “It seems to me these weapons would be more useful striking actual targets on the ground, would they not? I have seen pictures of the Japanese cities. Surely weapons twenty times more powerful would decimate even the largest American cities. General, I defer to your expertise, and forgive an old man for being somewhat forgetful, but why explode them so high above the ground?”