The Persian Gamble

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  The commander explained that from Sado it was a 531-mile journey to their intended destination, the city of Tanch’oˇn, North Korea. Marcus quickly did the math. Given that the Michigan’s top speed was about twenty-five knots—about twenty-nine miles per hour—it was going to take them no fewer than eighteen hours to get to the North Korean coastline. Factoring in the rest of this briefing and their flight to Sado, they’d be lucky to get to Tanch’oˇn by four the following morning, and possibly not even until five. Sunrise in early October was just before 6:30 a.m., and Marcus now understood why the SEAL commander was so eager to get moving.

  “Before we leave, however, we need to finalize our intel package,” Berenger said. “That means I need to ask you a few more questions, Mr. Kraskin.”

  “Whatever you need, Captain.”

  “When was your last communication with General Yoon?”

  “About two and a half hours ago.”

  “In flight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Using the secure communications package Mr. Vinetti showed you?”

  “Correct.”

  “Was General Yoon en route to Tanch’oˇn?”

  “At that point, no—not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “He said he had sent his wife by bus and that she should be arriving at her mother’s by early afternoon.”

  “But why not him?”

  “He said there were complications.”

  “What kind of complications?”

  “He said a team of Iranian officials is arriving by 9 a.m. tomorrow morning to help with the transfer of the weapons. General Yoon was not expecting them for several more days. But they changed their plans and decided to come early.”

  “So what changed?”

  “He did not say.”

  “When will the general leave Pyongyang?”

  “The moment his wife arrives in Tanch’oˇn, she will call him. The plan is that she will tell him her mother is dying and may not make it through the night. She will beg him to come help her. The general will then procure a military plane to take him to Tanch’oˇn, promising his superiors that he will be back well before the Iranians are set to arrive. But he indicated there are many variables that could change before then.”

  Berenger noted it was less than five hundred kilometers from Pyongyang to Tanch’oˇn. Depending on what kind of aircraft the general used, it would take him an hour or possibly less to reach Tanch’oˇn. This even further compounded their time crunch.

  “Okay, look, gentlemen—we can’t get to Tanch’oˇn until at least 0500 to 0530 tomorrow morning,” Berenger said. That was even later than Marcus had figured. “Assuming the general needs to be back in Pyongyang no later than 0800, he’ll need to be wheels up no later than 0630. That means he’ll need to be leaving for the airfield by 0530—0600 at the latest. That’s an awfully narrow window of time to find him and get him and his wife and mother-in-law out of the city. At this point, we are running the risk of missing them entirely.”

  The commander turned back to Oleg. “Will the general be traveling with a security detail?”

  “He said it should be just him and his driver,” Oleg said.

  “Will they be armed?”

  “Yes. They will both have their personal sidearms.”

  “And he’ll have the documents with him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too dangerous. But he said he’s created a thumb drive of everything he thinks we should see. He’s sending it with his wife, sewn into the lining of her jacket. Even if he’s delayed or somehow prevented from coming, so long as we find her, we’ll have what we need. But if his wife is stopped or questioned by anyone, she won’t be able to say anything because she doesn’t know what she has.”

  “She knows they’re about to flee the country, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Fine. When will you be in contact with him next?”

  “At this point, he said he will only contact me again if he cannot leave Pyongyang. Otherwise, he will not have access to our secure channel while he’s traveling or when he gets to Tanch’oˇn.”

  “Does he have a mobile phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have the number?”

  “Yes, but he begged me not to use it.” Oleg wrote the number down on a piece of paper and handed it to Berenger.

  “Good,” said the commander. “Anything else from the general?”

  “No, sir. That’s it.”

  “All right—thank you, Mr. Kraskin. This is incredibly valuable. That’s it. Any final questions?”

  Hwang had several, from what kind of vehicles they would use to get to the apartment building and where they would secure them, to the layout of the apartment complex itself and what kind of security they could expect. Berenger promised he’d provide them all a detailed tactical briefing on the operation once they were on board the Michigan and under way.

  Then the commander dropped a bomb.

  “Mr. Kraskin, I’m going to need to ask you to stay here on base.”

  “What for?” Oleg asked.

  “I need you to monitor your communications channel so you can provide us with any updates or changes, and you can’t do that effectively from two hundred meters beneath the Sea of Japan.”

  “But General Yoon expects to see me when he arrives in Tanch’oˇn,” Oleg protested. “That was part of the deal.”

  “And you’ll do everything necessary to convince him that’s still going to be the case,” said the commander.

  “But it’s not.”

  “No, it’s not. Look, Mr. Kraskin, aside from your year and a half in the Russian army, you have no military training,” Berenger said. “That’s not going to be sufficient for this mission. What’s more, you’re not an American citizen, and you’re not cleared to be on board an Ohio-class nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarine. But don’t you worry. My staff will take care of you. They’ll see to it that you’re billeted in officers’ quarters, that you’re fed well, and that you have access to the best and most secure communications system the U.S. government can provide to a senior advisor to a Russian czar.”

  “Former advisor,” Oleg said.

  “Whatever.”

  Then Marcus intervened. “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s unacceptable.”

  “Say again?”

  “The scenario you just laid out won’t work for us,” Marcus said. “Mr. Kraskin gave General Yoon his word that he would be there to take possession of all the intel the general will be bringing and personally escort him and his family to freedom. And my friend here is the only one of us who has ever met the general.”

  “Don’t worry,” Berenger said. “We know what he looks like. We have pictures.”

  “That’s not the point, commander.”

  “Look, Mr. Ryker, this isn’t a Socratic dialogue. I’m already taking a serious risk having you, Mr. Vinetti, and Dr. Hwang on this mission. You’re not SEALs. But at least you’re former Marines, and you’ve all been in combat. Mr. Kraskin isn’t and hasn’t, and he’s not coming on the mission, and that’s final.”

  “Says who?” said Marcus, on his feet now and bristling.

  Berenger smiled and nearly laughed. “Says the commander in chief of the United States. That’s who.”

  63

  SOMEWHERE UNDER THE SEA OF JAPAN

  Marcus had never set foot on a nuclear-powered submarine.

  He found the sheer enormity of the Michigan, combined with its devastating firepower, simultaneously terrifying and reassuring.

  Some 560 feet long and weighing more than 18,000 metric tons when fully submerged, the Ohio-class boomer had been commissioned on September 11, 1982, more than two years after first departing the shipyard in Groton, Connecticut. It was built to carry and launch ballistic missiles with nuclear warheads capable of annihilating entire enemy cities. When the Cold War ended and tensions with Russia cooled for a time, the Michigan’s nuclear ar
senal was removed. The sub was retrofitted to be able to launch Tomahawk cruise missiles equipped with 1,000-pound nonnuclear warheads and capable of reaching enemy targets at subsonic but still devastating speeds.

  As Marcus followed his colleagues through the narrow corridors past crew members at their posts, the irony wasn’t lost on him. In its first three decades in service, during some of the most tension-filled years of the Cold War, not a single missile had ever been fired from the Michigan. In the last decade, however, hundreds of Tomahawks had been fired at dozens of targets in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, and elsewhere, and he knew full well that if this mission failed, the chance of war breaking out between the U.S. and North Korea or Iran or Russia or all three would be sky-high.

  Eventually they reached the crew’s mess. Though hardly spacious, it was nevertheless the largest room on the ship. There were six metal tables and straight-back metal chairs to seat thirty-six men. There was no ceiling. Instead, large pipes and miles of thick electrical cords could be seen overhead, snaking between several rows of fluorescent lights hung from steel beams. There were a few microwave ovens, a large clock on one wall, various plaques and awards mounted on others, and a bulletin board with all kinds of notices tacked to it. On the front wall was a large flat-screen television next to a popcorn machine —for movie nights, Marcus assumed.

  The captain of the Michigan welcomed them aboard and introduced his XO, who promised to make their brief stay as comfortable as possible. They answered a few questions about the location of various facilities, then headed back to the control room. At that point, Berenger began his own briefing by introducing the three Marines to his men. Two immediately stood out to Marcus.

  Donny Callaghan, a huge man with closely cropped red hair and a bushy red beard, was from south Boston. His father had been a three-star Army general and West Point grad, but Donny—the rebel—had opted for the Navy and had been a SEAL for nine years. Callaghan would serve as Red Team leader—the team to which Marcus had been assigned—responsible for securing the apartment complex in Tanch’oˇn, making contact with the general and his family, and getting them securely back to the Michigan.

  Héctor Sanchez hailed from San Diego. He did not come from a military family. His father had been a migrant worker of Mexican heritage who had insisted all eight of his children become hard workers and proud of their new country. Unable to afford college, the youngest son—though at six feet four inches by far the tallest and most physically fit among the siblings—had joined the Navy. Sanchez had just celebrated his seventh year in the SEALs. One of the best snipers in any branch of the military, Sanchez would serve as leader of Blue Team, which would be divided in two parts. One would hold and secure their landing site in Tanch’oˇn. The other, consisting of more snipers, would take up positions on the roofs of apartment complexes adjacent to the target building and provide both surveillance of the entire area and covering fire upon Red Team’s egress, should that become necessary.

  While there were three Asians on Red Team and two on Blue, Marcus was surprised that none of them were Korean. Three were Chinese Americans. One was Filipino. The other was Vietnamese. None of them spoke Korean. That made Peter Hwang the only team member who looked the part and could speak the language.

  Once the introductions were complete, Berenger sketched out the plan—the exact location where they’d be landing, the routes they’d be taking from their landing site to the apartment complex, and how they’d obtain the vehicles they needed. He also described every piece of equipment they’d be using and the precise location where each man would be positioned. Then he walked them all through a slew of “known unknowns.” It was this last part that most consumed Marcus’s attention—all of theirs, really—as Berenger conceded that he couldn’t remember a mission with less concrete intelligence going in than this one.

  He showed them satellite photos of the coast of Tanch’oˇn, the Dongdae River flowing along the south side of the city, the city itself, and several shots of the apartment complex and the neighborhood around it. There were no HUMINT assets on the ground. Nor could they fly drones over the city. The only Korean Americans the analysts at the CIA and DIA had been able to find who had ever been to Tanch’oˇn were eighty years or older and hadn’t been there since childhood.

  After two and a half hours, the briefing finally ended.

  For the next fifteen hours or so, they were on their own.

  A few of the guys found bunks to get some shut-eye. Most stayed in the mess to fire up the popcorn machine and watch a Jason Bourne movie marathon. Vinetti and Hwang joined them. Marcus did not.

  After hitting the head, Marcus changed into shorts and a T-shirt and went for a run. The XO had told them that seventeen laps around the upper level of the missile compartment equaled a mile. Marcus did five miles, then moved to the sub’s makeshift gym to lift weights and do a few hundred sit-ups and pull-ups. He’d been off his routine for weeks, and despite the cramped quarters, it felt good to be back at it.

  When finished, he took a brief shower, changed into sweats, and found an empty bunk near the back of the sub where he closed the curtain to give himself a bit of privacy and pulled out his Bible. It had been more than a week since he read it last. Nevertheless, it being the ninth of the month, he opened to Proverbs chapter 7. He didn’t get past verse 1.

  My son, keep my words

  And treasure my commandments within you.

  Marcus desperately wanted to be a man who kept and treasured God’s Word. He wanted not just to serve God but to please him. He longed for the favor of God, especially now. But he was deeply frustrated with himself of late. He wasn’t spending much time in prayer and spending even less in the Word. And what of Oleg? Had he even talked to this man about what it meant to know God personally, to really be forgiven by Christ of his sins? He could see the immense burden Oleg was carrying for the life he’d led before and for the decisions he’d made in recent days. Yet Marcus hadn’t once told him what he knew, that there was a way to be free of every sin he would ever commit—past, present, or future. Why not?

  And what of Nick and Pete? They certainly knew about Marcus’s faith. They knew how central it was to his life. The three of them had discussed the gospel many times over many years. They also knew how imperfect he really was. Marcus had never tried to hide his flaws from them. But he’d also tried to convince them that everyone was a sinner and that everyone needed a Savior. Yet he’d gotten nowhere. Hwang had once been a devout Catholic but had lapsed in recent years. Vinetti had never expressed any interest in spiritual things. Didn’t Marcus need to try to engage them again? They were, after all, just hours from going into harm’s way.

  What kind of Christian was he? What kind of friend?

  64

  SHAHID MOTAHHARI MOSQUE, TEHRAN, IRAN

  “Allahu akbar.”

  The haunting call to prayer sounded from the minaret and wafted over the city of Tehran. The armored car carrying Grand Ayatollah Hossein Ansari pulled up under a portico and came to a complete stop. Flanked by bodyguards, Ansari slowly emerged from the backseat and quietly entered the mosque.

  The facility had been cleared of everyone but his security detail, one of the many perks of being the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Ansari padded over to the right side of the vestibule, where he found a row of basins and faucets. There he began his ritual cleansings, washing first his right hand and arm three times, then repeating the procedure for his left hand and arm. Then he washed his mouth three times, followed by his nose and the rest of his face, neck, and beard, three times each. When this was complete, he removed his turban and ran his dripping hands over what was left of his thin gray hair, turning then to wash behind and inside his ears. Finally he removed his sandals and washed his right foot three times, then the left, and then dried himself with a small cotton towel.

  Putting his turban back on but leaving his sandals off, the aging cleric made his way into the domed sanctuary and knelt on the thick an
d ornate carpet. His body was racked with pain. This was plain to anyone who knew or saw him. What wasn’t known to anyone but his wife, his chief of staff, his personal physician, and the country’s chief oncologist was that Ansari had recently been diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer. The prognosis was not good. If he continued to refuse surgery and chemotherapy, which he had steadfastly done so far, he would be dead in as little as two months, and no longer than six.

  He was ready to leave this earth. Ansari had little doubt paradise awaited him. No Muslim had lived a more exemplary life, he reassured himself. He just didn’t want to enter eternity alone. And thus, facedown on the carpet, his regular prayers completed, Ansari now beseeched his god with the deepest longing of his heart.

  “In the name of Allah, the gracious, the merciful,” he whispered in Arabic, the holy language of the Prophet. “I seek refuge with Allah from Satan, the accursed. O Lord, increase my knowledge. Glory to Allah. All praise belongs to Allah. Allah is the greatest. Glory to my Lord, the Most High. My spirit and heart are prostrate for you.”

  A sharp pain shot through his abdomen. He winced and gritted his teeth, determined not to let his bodyguards hear him groan.

  “O Lord, you have commanded me to fight those who do not believe in you or in the Last Day, those who do not consider unlawful what Allah and his messenger have made unlawful and who do not adopt the religion of truth from those who were given the Scripture,” he continued. “You commanded me to fight against the disbelievers and the hypocrites and to be harsh toward them. You have declared in the Holy Qur’an that the only refuge of such infidels is the damnable fires of hell.”

  This time burning pains gripped his lower back. Ansari pressed on.

  “O Lord, you know the number of my days, so in your mercy grant me the strength—and the courage—to bring your enemies to justice,” the cleric pleaded. “Grant me the tools and the time to make your enemies burn in the atomic fires. My aides assure me that if I am prepared to spend the necessary resources, they can have these incoming Russian warheads mounted on vastly improved missiles—able to reach Tel Aviv, Washington, and New York—in just six to seven months. Five if you help us. They assure me neither the wicked Americans nor the filthy Zionists have the ability to shoot these missiles down, not if we launch them simultaneously with 200,000 Hezbollah missiles from southern Lebanon. O Allah, the great and awesome one, in your loving-kindness grant me this dying wish. And in so doing, I pray you will hasten the coming of the promised one, the until-now hidden one—His Excellency Imam al-Mahdi, peace be upon him—to reestablish the Caliphate and, at last, bring about the End of Days.”