Seal Team Seven (36 page)

“I believe Ramazani met the Ohtori through his NLA contacts,” Aghasi continued. “The Ohtori are a . . . how is the English? A splintered fraction?”

“A faction. A splinter group.”

“Yes, a splinter group of the old Japanese Red Army. They are strange people, absolute fanatics. . . .”

Murdock had heard plenty of the religious fanaticism of the Iranian Pasdaran, but he merely nodded. “Go on.”

“Apparently, Ohtori established links with the NLA in Iraq. Both groups maintain training camps in that country. Now they are working with a splinter group within the Iranian military. Their plan was for the hijacking of the Japanese plutonium ship.”

“How does that help the NLA? Or the Ohtori, for that matter?”

“Power, of course. Political power. It provides the rebels with lever, with lever—”

“Leverage?”

“Precisely.” Aghasi's face twisted in a wan, nervous smile. “The plutonium gives Ramazani a weapon strong enough, dramatic enough to induce the rest of Iran's military to join him.”

“What weapon? An atomic bomb?”

Aghasi's eyes widened. “
Na!
” he said, momentarily lapsing back into Farsi. “No! Plutonium itself is dangerous enough. Packed in artillery shells, in a SCUD missile warhead . . .”

Murdock nodded impatiently. “I understand all of that. But is
that
what this thing is all about? A military coup? A power play by some of your officers?”

“It is more than a power play, Lieutenant. It is a first battle in the war for the soul of my people.”

“Okay. So your side gets the plutonium. Your army joins your cause and overthrows the mullahs. Then what?”

“They install a military government in Tehran, under General Ramazani. They . . . they then have the, how you say, the advantage against our enemies in the region. Iran, Iran's people, will be secure at long last.”

Murdock chewed on that for a long moment. He had the feeling that Aghasi was telling the truth as he understood it. He also had the impression, however, that Aghasi was holding quite a bit back. That bit about Iran being secure at last was a bit too pat, a bit too neat. Murdock could think of several other possible outcomes to the scenario Aghasi had just described. Iran's new rulers might decide to launch a preemptive strike on Iraq, for instance, using plutonium-loaded bombs and SCUD warheads.

The Iran-Iraq war had not been settled by the armistice of 1988. Far from it, in fact. That war had been only the most recent round in a bloody conflict of rival peoples that went back at least fifteen hundred years. Iraq had provided a safe haven for the NLA, hoping to use it one day to topple the Shi'ite regime in Tehran. From what he knew of the history of conflict in the region, Murdock doubted that the new ruling clique in Tehran would remain grateful for the help for long. If nothing else, a holy war with apostate Iraq would help unify the Iranian people and take their minds off the inevitable shortages and difficulties brought on by the change of governments.

And there was worse. Operation Blue Sky had been launched because some UN observers had discovered intelligence relating to Iraq's nascent atomic weapons program. What if Iraq was farther along toward an atomic bomb than American intelligence believed? Iran's attack using radioactive dust, possibly even the mere knowledge that they'd acquired the stuff, might be answered by a volley of Iraqi atomic warheads. Nuclear war at the head of the Persian Gulf could kill more millions, not to mention contaminating half the world's oil supply for generations to come.

“I notice,” Murdock said at last, “that you refer to ‘them' when you talk about Ramazani's coup, not ‘us.' What's your part in all of this? Why are you here?”

“I was part of it. I suppose I still am. But . . . I no longer believe.”

“What happened?”

The Iranian shrugged. “Lieutenant, I needn't remind you that my people have suffered a very great deal in the past fifteen years. I am a religious man, but I cannot honor the twisted fanatics who rule my country, who hold it trapped in an earlier century.” He brought one long finger up to his head, tapping at his temple. “These eyes have seen the effects of their, their fanaticism. My own son, my Amin, was one of thousands of Iranian children who marched singing into the Iraqi minefields and machine-gun cross fires and mustard gas. That was eight years ago. He was thirteen then. It was the mullahs who commanded that the supreme sacrifice must be made, even to the sacrifice of our firstborn in their war against the Iraqi. It was then that I decided that I would do all in my power to fight the mullahs, the dictatorship that grips my nation. But . . .”

“But?”

The man sagged, and Murdock was aware of something behind those tired, tired eyes, a profound weariness. “I found myself working with fanatics once again, Lieutenant. It seems that I cannot escape them.”

“Who? The Ohtori?”

He nodded. “Yes. These are men who . . . I don't entirely understand this, but I have heard that they believe they will be turned into stars if they die. The Prophet promises the faithful who die in
jihad
a place in paradise, but these men are, are monsters. You have a saying in your language, the ends justificate the . . . the . . . ”

“The ends justify the means.”

“Precisely so, yes. For these men, any act, no matter how terrible, is justified if it makes success for them in the end. The Ohtori leader who engineered the capture of this sailing vessel was ready to kill everyone aboard, to order my men to abuse the women, even to torture them if it would advance his cause. I spent a great deal of time last night wondering about this, wondering if I was fighting on the right side. On the side of Allah.”

“And what did you decide?”

Again an eloquent shrug. “Nothing, Lieutenant, save that there are no easy answers to be found. And then I began to wonder if I was worthy of the martyrdom promised by Allah. That he did not permit me to die this night is, perhaps, an expression of his will.”

Murdock pushed back from the table. “Colonel, I don't know about Allah, but I'd say that there's been enough martyrdom for one day.”

“
Ensha'allah
.”

Murdock knew that phrase, which could be heard in various related forms throughout the Islamic world.
As God wills
.

“Tell me, Colonel. What sort of radio schedule were you keeping aboard this vessel? How often were you supposed to check in?”

Aghasi pursed his lips. “There was no schedule, Lieutenant. We were ordered to maintain radio silence. Unless, of course, we came under attack. Then we were to call on a frequency of 440 megahertz, and a patrol boat would close to render assistance.”

“And did you get that message off?”

“No, Lieutenant. Your attack was too swift.”

Murdock stood. “Thank you, Colonel. You have been most helpful.”

“What will become of me?”

“We'll arrange to fly you to one of our ships. Don't worry. You'll be well treated.” As he spoke, though, Murdock's mind was racing ahead. If what this Pasdaran colonel had said was true, a startling opportunity existed for the Americans . . .
if
they could get their act together in time. Leaving Aghasi in Garcia's care, Murdock hurried from the cabin.

He needed to make another radio call to Prairie Home and, through them, to the Pentagon.

“What is the single element that screws us up time and time again in this sort of op?” Captain Coburn demanded. He looked around the table, moving from face to face. “Intelligence! Or rather, the lack of
reliable
intelligence. I remind you that the last time we tried to go into Iran, during Operation Eagle's Claw, in 1980, we had no intelligence assets on the ground in that country at all.”

“This is hardly a similar situation, Captain Coburn,” Admiral Kerrigan said. “Besides, it was mechanical failure that doomed Eagle's Claw, that and the collision of a helicopter with an Air Force transport.”

“You're talking through your brass hat, Admiral, and you know it,” Brian Hadley said, grinning. “I was at Langley in '80, and I remember. The Company had been out of Iran ever since the Shah got booted out, and we were desperate to have some eyes and ears on the ground. If some young Navy officer had come up with an idea to walk into Tehran and tell us what was going on, I'd have fallen down and kissed his Corfams.”

“Hmpf! Has anyone considered that Murdock might be hotdogging this thing?” Admiral Kerrigan demanded. “Good God, Captain, this whole idea reeks of romanticized John Wayne shit! Spies and traitors and the proverbial cavalry coming over the hill just in the proverbial nick of time!”

“Maybe so, Admiral,” Captain Mason admitted from the other side of the table. “But the cavalry, as you put it . . . or in this case, the II MEF, is going in whether we approve Murdock's plan or not. And it
does
give us a hell of a lot better chance to pull this off.”

“I, for one, resent the implication that my people are showboating a mission,” Coburn said evenly. “These men are pros, Admiral. There are no ‘hot dogs' in my command.”

“Perhaps that was too strong a word, Captain,” Kerrigan said. “But how are we supposed to coordinate a plan that your men keep changing in the field?”

Coburn grinned. “Are you suggesting, sir, that one lieutenant in a sailboat is about to upset something as big as Operation Deadly Weapon?”

“At this point, Captain, I'm not sure there's
anything
your people can't do . . . or screw up if they put half a mind to it.” He said it with a wry half smile, and the other officers in the briefing room laughed.

Coburn felt himself relax a little. He'd been expecting a far bloodier battle with the MIDEASTFOR liaison, but Kerrigan's constant opposition to NAVSPECWAR operations appeared to have eased somewhat since the last time he'd been in this room. Obviously he still didn't like the special forces concept, but he at least was willing to work with the idea and had agreed that Deadly Weapon would lead off with NAVSPECWAR people. He seemed most concerned now with the possibility that intelligence data routed back from Murdock's team might force a last-second change in the U.S. Marine amphibious operations about to commence in the Gulf.

Today's planning session had actually been called by Brian Hadley, who was scheduled to meet with the President's National Security Advisor later that evening. He'd wanted an assessment by members of the Navy Special Warfare community about whether or not the idea radioed back by Murdock had a chance of working.

Except for Kerrigan and his people, of course, everyone in the room had thought Murdock's plan a wizard idea. And Kerrigan's opinion carried little weight here. Everyone knew he was down on the special-ops people, and he was consulted on the matter only because Deadly Weapon would fall under MIDEASTFOR's provenance.

But the SEALs were going to be a part of this, no matter what Kerrigan had to say.

“I suppose what I object to most,” Kerrigan went on, “is this sense of making things up as we go along. Modern war can't be fought that way.”

“On the contrary, Admiral,” Hadley said. “Vietnam demanded flexible, adaptive battle plans, and every military option since has demonstrated the need for more flexibility, not less. We've got to know what we're getting into over there.”

“I would have thought that the SEAL-Marine joint recon force was adequate to our needs.”

“Maybe so,” Coburn said. “I damn well hope you're right. But it seems to me that young Murdock is going to be the right man in the right place at the right time, and we'd be fools to yank him out now. This is too good an opportunity to throw away.”

A rippling murmur of approval made its way about the table. Coburn had been as surprised as anyone else in Little Creek by Murdock's radio message, some eighteen hours ago, suggesting this last-minute change to Deadly Weapon. The former hostages, the Iranian prisoner, and all of the SEALs save four had been ferried by helicopter back to the
Nassau
.

But as of the last report, Murdock and three of his men were still aboard the
Beluga
, sailing in company with the Iranian squadron toward the port of Bandar Abbas.

It was expected that they would actually enter Bandar Abbas in another—he looked at his watch—eighteen hours now.

Just hours ahead of the planned Marine invasion of Iran.

“But how reliable is Murdock's information, do you think?” a captain on Kerrigan's staff wanted to know as the murmur died down. “His report says he got all of this from that captured Iranian colonel. Couldn't all of this be some kind of elaborate setup?”

“Up at Langley,” Hadley said, “they're rating this one as a B-3.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It's how the CIA weights the reliability of data acquired from various sources. The letter gauges the reliability of the source, while the number reflects Langley's guess as to how accurate the information might be. B means usually reliable. That's not a put-down of your man, Captain Coburn. I don't think anyone ever gets tagged with an A, meaning absolute reliability. The 3 means the information is possibly accurate. It's not confirmed by other sources, so it's not a 1, and it's not possible to call something this fuzzy
probably
true, so we can't give it a 2. The point, gentlemen, is that we have here a reliable source giving us intelligence that quite possibly is accurate. We cannot afford to simply ignore what he says.”