by David Austin
Sloan reached for a remote and turned on one of the large monitors on the far wall. A young man with short brown hair and glasses appeared on the screen. “Sir, this is Mr. Charters. He is one of our most senior intelligence analysts in the Near East Division and spends the majority of his time working the Iran desk.”
Andrews got straight to the point, his mindset in United States Marine Corps combat mode. “Nice to meet you, Charters. What do you have for me?”
Accustomed to briefing high-level officials, Charters was not put off by the president’s abruptness. In fact, he preferred it. The senior intelligence analyst from Utah adjusted his glasses, then tapped a key on his laptop. A map of Iran filled the monitor, and Charters’ image shrunk to a small picture-in-picture box in the bottom right corner. “Good afternoon, Mr. President. Per your request, I’ve compiled a list of Iranian military facilities.” He hit another key and a group of pin icons appeared on the map. “Green indicates Army bases, the light blue, Air Force, and the dark blue are Navy.”
“And the black pins?” the president asked.
“Those belong to the IRGC and Quds Force, sir.” The airfield in Bandar Bushehr, launch point for the drone strike in Kuwait, and the base in Ahvaz, a key training and replenishment center used to plan last year’s attack in Washington, D.C., were highlighted to make them stand out among the others. In all, Charters had plotted over fifty locations on the map
“And the star?”
“That icon represents the Beit-e Rahbari Presidential Palace. The home and office of the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei.”
“Their version of the White House,” Andrews commented, as he pushed back his plush chair and walked over to the monitor to get a closer look. Turning back to the group, he addressed Hank Compton, his secretary of defense. “Put together a target list, Hank. Make it painful, but don’t weaken them to the point that their neighbors start having thoughts about invading. Let’s start by taking out the facilities in the Strait of Hormuz like Bandar Abbas, Abu Musa, and Larak and Sirri Islands. Add Kharg Island to the list as well. I’m sick and tired of the IRGC naval units harassing international shipping in and out of the Persian Gulf. I’ll leave it up to you and the joint chiefs to decide which of the army and air force bases to hit.”
Compton acknowledged the presidential order, then asked, “What about the black pins, sir? Those belonging to the IRGC and Quds Force. How many of them would you like us to attack?”
President Andrews reviewed the map a moment before turning back to Compton. Looking him directly in the eyes so there was no mistaking his order, he said, “All of them.”
CHAPTER 52
An hour and a half drive south of Kansas City lies Whiteman Air Force base, home of the 509th Bomb Wing and its B-2 Spirit stealth bombers. Looking like something out of the latest Batman movie, the matte black plane and its crew of two routinely launch missions to any point on the globe from rural Missouri. Accustomed to flying marathon sorties of twenty-four hours or longer, B-2 pilots and mission commanders schedule alternating naps to ensure they are fully alert when it comes time to release their payload on target. With tonight’s mission clocking in at a distance of sixty-seven-hundred nautical miles, the crews were looking at a flight time of more than thirty hours to complete the round trip.
The Air Force had a total of twenty B-2s in its inventory and fifteen of the planes would be in the air for this mission. Due to the considerable number of sites in the target package, each crew was tasked with hitting more than one location. To avoid flying through Russian airspace, the overall mission commander, Colonel Jose Avila, had chosen a more southerly route which would take the formation across the Mediterranean Sea. They would make landfall over Israel, then cross Jordan and Iraq before penetrating the Islamic Republic of Iran’s borders. If all went according to plan, they would exfil into the international airspace of the Arabian Sea, then fly over the Indian Ocean before pointing the Spirits’ noses west and heading for home across the African continent.
With the first leg of the mission pushing the boundaries of the B-2s operational range, they were going to need to refuel before making the run to their targets. Two KC-46A widebody tankers had rendezvoused with the ominous-looking formation over the dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea. Happy to see their flying gas stations, each of the B-2 crews took turns hooking up to the tankers’ booms. When the last of the bombers had topped off its twenty-thousand-gallon tank, its pilot broke the connection and backed away from the aerial tanker. Refueled, the formation of batwings continued on their heading through the night sky unnoticed by friend or foe.
The flight was nearing the Israeli border when the B-2 crews began going through their pre-attack checklists, ensuring targeting coordinates were loaded and green lights were showing across the board on all weapons systems. Colonel Avila, the mission commander, was in the right seat of the lead Spirit designated Hammer Zero One. He and his pilot were working through their own checklist when a female voice came through his headset.
“Good evening Hammer Zero One. Athena Six at your service. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought some friends along for the ride.”
Avila looked out the starboard window as an F-35 Lightning glided into position alongside his plane. The interior cockpit lights came on just long enough for Avila to see the pilot snap off a crisp salute before they went dark again. The sight of the F-35, and the knowledge that there were twenty-nine more of the most advanced fighters on the planet out there in the darkness to protect his bombers gave him goosebumps. So, this is what it must’ve been like. he thought.
Taking a short break from the task at hand, Avila’s thoughts wandered back to what his predecessors must have experienced in the cockpits of their B-17 Flying Fortresses on bombing raids over Nazi-occupied Europe during World War II. The massive bomber formations would be escorted by squadrons of P-51 Mustangs flying cover to protect them from the Luftwaffe’s fighters sent up to do battle in the sky. Perhaps the most famous of those Mustang pilots were the Tuskegee Airmen of the 332nd Fighter Group, the first African American aviation unit in the United States military. To distinguish themselves, the pilots of the 332nd painted the tails of their P-51s red, earning them the nickname, The Red Tails.
Forcing himself back into the moment, Avila said, “Glad to have you along for the ride, Athena Six. Hopefully you won’t be too busy tonight.”
Due to their low-observable stealth capabilities, and the fact that most of their targets in recent years had been over countries without formidable air forces or air defense capabilities, the B-2s usually flew their missions without a fighter escort. But tonight’s mission into heavily defended Iran was another matter altogether. While they could probably get in and out without being detected, the national command authority in the White House and Pentagon weren’t willing to take any chances. Hence the F-35 support. And Avila didn’t mind their company one bit.
Aside from being the most advanced supersonic fighter in the air, the F-35 performs well in an electronic warfare role. Combined with its stealth characteristics, the F-35’s ability to suppress enemy radar gives it an unparalleled capacity to penetrate deep into hostile territory. And that was the plan for tonight’s mission into Iran. To give the B-2s stealth capability a leg up on the competition, the F-35s would suppress Iranian radar installations either by electronic means or, if necessary, by destroying them with AGM-88 HARM, High-Speed Anti-Radiation missiles. Of course, they would also fulfill their primary dogfighting role and engage any of Iran’s aging fighters if their pilots were delusional enough to take to the air during the raid.
Radio chatter was at a minimum as the aerial armada entered Iranian airspace. Colonel Avila gave the order and each bomber, with its dual F-35 escort broke off and headed for their respective targets. Some flew south along the coast dropping their payloads of GPS-guided two-thousand-pound bombs on Iranian naval bases at Kharg Island, Sirri Island, Abu Musa, and the IRGC Naval Command at Bandar Abbas. Buildings
were reduced to rubble and fast-attack boats and vessels of all types were set ablaze before their shattered hulls sank below the waterline.
Two B-2s traveled to the northernmost point of the Persian Gulf to strike bases near the Iraqi and Kuwaiti borders while the remainder of the bombers penetrated deeper into the mainland. On the way in, one of the B-2s flew directly over Bahregan Airport, the location the Russians used to launch the drone strike in Kuwait and released eight of the sixteen GBU-31s it carried onboard. Thunderous explosions dug deep craters across the triangular airfield and the overpressure of the shockwaves ripped apart hangars and caused buildings to collapse in on themselves. Jagged bits of shrapnel ripped through the IRGC helicopters lined up on the ramp, the red-hot pieces of steel igniting the jet fuel in their tanks. Violent explosions blew the airframes apart and their rotor blades sagged to the ground as they were engulfed in flames. A bomb damage assessment would be conducted in the aftermath of the attack, but the crew of the B-2 knew it would be quite a while before operations would resume at this airfield.
While other crews hit targets around the country taking out infantry and armored divisions and a special forces brigade across Iran’s provinces in Khorramabad, Dezful, Emamzedah and Qom, Colonel Avila’s target package began with the Quds Force base in Ahvaz. The facility was a major training hub and logistical replenishment center for Quds operatives and other proxy organizations carrying out missions on the Islamic Republic’s behalf. It also housed a detention and interrogation center specifically designed for torturing political prisoners and opponents of the regime in Tehran.
With the pair of F-35 Lightnings suppressing air defense radar, Avila’s pilot lined up his bomb run. Approaching from the south, he opened the bomb-bay doors and released all but one of his JDAMs. The guidance packages on the GBU-31s worked perfectly and the bombs glided toward their targets. Barracks were demolished and deep craters occupied the ground where live-fire ranges and training facilities once stood. But the most spectacular sight of the run was the number of secondary explosions erupting from the logistics depot as ammunition and bomb-making materials ignited. The scene over the garrison rivaled the best fireworks show Avila had ever seen. With one bomb remaining, a special delivery of sorts, his pilot, along with Athena Six and her wingman in their F-35s, turned northeast on a heading for a special target in Tehran. Fifteen minutes later, with the coordinates locked into the guidance system, the bay doors opened one final time and the last bomb in the payload fell to earth.
In statements released to the media the next morning, the Ayatollah’s press machine mocked the attackers for the errant bomb that missed the presidential palace and landed in a nearby courtyard. But everyone inside Beit-e Rahbari knew the truth. The bomb had not missed its intended target. No, it had been a warning shot, letting the mullahs know that the United States could have killed them all in their sleep, but had chosen not to. To some inside the building, the near-death experience began to sow seeds of doubt about the path the Ayatollah had chosen for their country. Perhaps it was time to start thinking about new leadership and an easing of tensions with the West.
CHAPTER 53
“Range…fourteen hundred thirty-seven meters,” Foster said as he looked through the spotting scope. Next, he directed his attention to the flags atop the terminal building. Seeing the red, white and black stripes of the Syrian standard fluttering lazily in the gentle breeze, he added, “Looks like the wind coming off the Med is negligible.”
Perched in the same upstairs room of the farmhouse where they had spotted Tariq in the hangar, Tim Shannon reached up and made the subtle adjustment to the Nightforce optic without removing his eye from the glass. With his dope dialed in, all he could do now was get comfortable behind his McMillan TAC-338 tactical rifle chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum and wait for the target to present himself.
In the same meeting where the president had authorized the airstrike on Iran, he had approved an operation against the Russian presence in Syria. The first target, the man Shannon was waiting to put in his crosshairs, was Colonel Vadim Teplov, the GRU officer who had led the drone mission from start to finish.
The second would be the Alpha Group team headquartered at the naval base in Tartus. Joe Matthews and his band of paramilitary operations officers were staged to exact some battlefield justice on the men who had killed Greg Jacobs and the entire compliment of Agency personnel at the drone base in Jordan.
With the help of the old groundskeeper who had provided Tariq with information regarding the mysterious happenings around the heavily guarded hangar at Bassel Al-Assad International Airport, the CIA had identified which office in the main terminal belonged to Teplov. It was that window that Shannon was eyeing through his optic from the farmhouse east of the airport.
*
Vadim Teplov strode down the long hallway toward his office with the arrogant air his subordinates had come to expect and despise. But the slight tremble of his hand, just enough to rattle the cup of tea and saucer he had retrieved from the officer’s mess betrayed the fact that his nerves were shot.
The mission in Kuwait had been an abject disaster. He had failed to kill the king of Jordan on the final sortie of the operation and the Americans had shot down the Reaper, denying the aeronautical engineers in Moscow the opportunity to study and reverse engineer the drone for their own program. President Polovkin was furious, and with the ferocity of the subsequent backlash against any Russian presence in the Middle East, Teplov was shocked he hadn’t been ordered home to answer for his failure.
Closing the office door behind him, Teplov set the cup and saucer on his desk then collapsed into the plush leather chair. His right hand reached for the drawer where he kept a bottle of vodka but the GRU colonel hesitated. Not now, Vadim, he told himself, knowing he would need to keep a clear head in the days to come.
The best way to keep his masters in the Kremlin from putting a bullet in his head was to redirect their anger. Place the blame on someone else. But who? Kalugin and his Alpha men would be a good place to start. They had cocked up the snatch and grab of the NSA analyst in Brussels, then, on the heels of that fiasco, had been caught with their pants down right here in Latakia. Losing his team and the traitorous Syrian intelligence officer they were interrogating to the Americans’ assault on the safe house had to have consequences. Surely there would be a price to pay, he thought. But would Kalugin’s failures be enough to overshadow his own? That was the sixty-four-thousand-ruble question.
If not, his only other option was to run. For several years Teplov had been working on an early retirement plan in the event he got wind Moscow was looking to retire him permanently. His ill-gotten 401K had been funded by siphoning off operational funds and stashing the money in numbered accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands. While the total dollar amount in the combined accounts was substantial, Teplov was still short of the number he had in mind that would allow him to live the rest of his days in relative comfort. But, if he managed the funds properly, and didn’t live an extravagant life of luxury, what he had accumulated up to this point should be enough. It had to be. Because he knew he was as good as dead once set foot back on Russian soil.
Deciding now was the time to make his move, he pushed the chair back from the desk and crossed the room. Punching a sixteen-digit code into the keypad, he opened the safe and withdrew a laptop and a smartphone. He closed the safe’s door, then returned to his desk and took a sip of the piping-hot tea while he waited for the computer to boot up.
Yes, he thought. Now is as good a time as any. He logged into the laptop and connected to the Internet using the phone’s mobile hotspot and a high-end commercial VPN to keep his online activities hidden from his own intelligence apparatus. Feeling good about his decision, the soon to be ex-GRU colonel began implementing his exit strategy.
*
The office door opened, and Tim Shannon’s breathing slowed as his target came into view. With a teacup and saucer in one hand, he watched Teplov cross
the room, set the cup on the desk, then crumple into the chair.
Having positively identified his target, Shannon radioed back to the operations center on the sixth floor of the headquarters building at Langley. Director Sloan was joined in one of the ops center’s small conference rooms by Katherine Clark the deputy director of operations, Harold Lee, the chief of the counterterrorism center, and the chief of the special activities division, Carl Douglas.
“I’ve got PID on the target. Am I cleared to engage?”
Ending a life was not an act Lawrence Sloan took lightly. Especially when it was the life of an officer belonging to a rival service. Over the years, many of the civilized world’s intelligence organizations had refrained from targeting each other’s members for assassination. Fearing it would trigger an all-out war between the services, an open season on spies was not a scenario any of them desired. So, a gentleman’s agreement of sorts had been put in place. Spies would be targeted for compromise or arrest, but the various organizations would go out of their way to avoid killing each other’s officers. But in this case, Sloan felt the sanction was warranted and didn’t think the Russians would retaliate. In fact, they may even thank him for saving them trouble of having to do it themselves.
Shannon, on the other hand, had no such qualms about ridding the world of people like Teplov. He had seen the footage of the carnage. The broken bodies of innocent people killed or maimed while worshiping at their local mosques. These weren’t terrorists hellbent on attacking the West. Instead, they were your average moderate Muslims attending one of the five daily prayers as prescribed by their religion. No different than people back home going to church on Sundays. When Shannon was handed a target package on someone like the man in his crosshairs, he often thought of the quote attributed to the ruthless Soviet ruler, Joseph Stalin, “Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.” In a matter of minutes, the world was going to have one less problem.
