Quest for Honor (10 page)

Solum wasn’t done. “Once we got inside, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Things just sort of clicked.” Mark nodded ever so slightly. The kid was starting to understand. His training had been good. So many of the instructors back home were veterans now, significantly improving the quality of the training. “Colonel, I got one of the KIAs at the compound. First guy I saw when I got through the gate. Guy was running right at me, bringing up his weapon. I just reacted, brought my weapon up, squeezed off two rounds. Right in the chest.”

Mark didn’t say anything. He knew exactly what the young lieutenant was feeling right now. Something like this changed a man forever. How the man handled it from here on made all the difference.

“I never killed a man before,” Solum said softly. “Plenty of deer back home, but never a….” He looked at the older man, and in the dim light Mark could see the glint of moisture in the eyes. “I’m not sure how to think about that,” Solum said. “When we were done, I felt…well, I felt relieved. My first firefight, and I made it through. My men made it through. Is that the way I should feel about taking a human life, Colonel? I didn’t feel anything more about that man than I felt back home about a deer. I was the hunter, he was the prey.”

Mark thought back to that night in Iraq, and a talk he’d had with a man who’d survived three tours in Vietnam. “Yes,” Mark said. “You have it exactly, Ken. You’re here to do a job. You won the fight. Everybody on your team made it home safely. You removed some real dangerous characters from the war. This one goes in the win column. Like an old veteran told me many years ago, winning beats losing every time.”

Solum nodded, then looked back out into the valley. “That was a helluva thing, in the village,” he said.

“Yes, it was.” Mark tried to think of something that would help the younger man process that horror, but he couldn’t come up with anything. How could you explain that? He couldn’t, no more than he could explain what he saw in Kuwait back in ’91 after they drove the Iraqis out, things like torture chambers where naked men were strapped to bare bed springs, doused with water and then jolted with electricity.

Solum spoke again, and Mark could hear the anger in his voice. “What the fuck kind of people do those things? To kids? Sometimes I think we should just nuke the whole goddamn country.”

“We could do that, Ken, but then we’d have to nuke the next one, and the next. Where would it end?”

“I don’t know,” Solum said, his anger subsiding. “Maybe we should just do Iran. They’re behind a lot of this, aren’t they?”

Mark knew a fair amount about that, but there was little he could tell the lieutenant. He thought back to one particular highly-classified briefing at ISAF HQ a few months earlier, about a potential Israeli strike against Iran’s nuclear sites, and also increased activity by Iranian special forces throughout the region. The General felt there was a connection, and Mark was pretty sure he was right about that. But what he said was, “That kind of thing is pretty far above our pay grade, Ken.”

They were silent for another minute, and then Solum asked quietly, “Were you scared today, Colonel? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Mark looked at the young lieutenant, and saw himself a quarter-century earlier. He thought of his father, frightened and cold that night in Korea when he had to leave this kid‘s great-uncle behind to be killed by the Chinese. “Damn right I was scared, Lieutenant. But I learned a long time ago not to let fear overwhelm those other three things I mentioned. When that happens, you’re dead. Or worse yet, your men are dead.”

“Roger that, sir.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Iran

A
s a guest
of the Islamic Republic of Iran Navy, General Fazeed couldn’t very well escape from the launching ceremony and the ensuing receptions, at least not until a respectable amount of time had passed. He had to admit, though, that the new guided missile frigate,
Jamaran,
was an impressive vessel. Along with several other high-ranking officers, both in the regular military forces and his own Revolutionary Guards, he had been given a personal tour of the ship by her captain, as Admiral Sayyari, the commanding officer of the Navy, beamed and thrust his heavily-medaled chest out a little further every minute. Fazeed expected to see buttons and pins flying at any moment.

It was another hot day, but fortunately here in Bandar-Abbas the sea breeze kept things reasonably comfortable. Still, Fazeed was perspiring in his dress uniform, and he was glad when they went below into the air conditioned interior of the ship. The narrow passageways immediately gave him a feeling of claustrophobia, and he came close to barking his shins on the hatchways more than once. The first time, he felt a hand at his elbow, providing a discreet means for him to regain his balance and his dignity.

“Thank you, Rostam,” Fazeed said, nodding to his friend, Admiral Ralouf. The head of the IRGC Navy returned the nod and added a knowing smile.

“Not like your missile bases, is it?”

“No, it is not.” That was an understatement. Ninety-five meters in length, only about eleven meters across at the beam, the ship was designed for a complement of a hundred forty sailors. Fazeed had thought the barracks his own men stayed in on the base were cramped, but they were almost luxurious by these standards. Still, the ship was spotlessly clean and obviously well-organized. When the group reached the Combat Information Center, the cabin from which the captain and his men would direct the ship during combat operations, Sayyari invited his guests to ask questions.

The first one, from a regular Air Force general, was obviously a plant; Fazeed knew the man was a close friend of Sayyari. “Captain, this is most impressive. How does your ship stack up against the Americans?”

“We are prepared to defend our nation against any aggressor, General. The Americans would find themselves in the fight of their lives if they challenged my ship.”

At the back of the group, Fazeed leaned slightly toward Ralouf and whispered, “How long would he last?”

Ralouf offered a small shrug. “Oh, perhaps twenty minutes.” From the other side of the group, Sayyari frowned at them. The rivalry between the regular forces and their IRGC counterparts, which included Fazeed and Ralouf as well as three other men in the tour group, was well-known. The regulars had the bulk of the hardware and the troops, but the Pasdaran had the most important missions, and they had the trust of the nation’s highest leadership, which was critical when it came to funding and political support. Fazeed likened it, in his private moments, to the relationship in Nazi Germany between Hitler’s SS and the
Wehrmacht.

The questions continued for several more minutes. Fazeed wondered if Ralouf was being completely fair to Sayyari and his captain. After all, this was a modern warship, armed with missiles, cannon and torpedoes. He had no reason to doubt the efficiency of the Navy’s training. The only problem was that Iran’s sailors had really not been tested in combat for many years, whereas the Americans had been conducting combat operations in the Gulf and nearby waters almost continuously for more than two decades. They also had the advantage of more than two centuries of tradition, from which today’s officers could draw inspiration. It was impossible to underestimate the value of experience and tradition, especially among the officer corps. While he had no doubt that Sayyari’s sailors would fight bravely, Fazeed held no illusions about the outcome of a conflict between Iran’s navy and America’s.

Well, with any luck at all, he thought, we will not have to find out.

The tour concluded with a polite round of applause for Sayyari and his men. The admiral invited them all to a reception at his quarters, to be followed by a formal dinner. For the next two hours, Fazeed made the rounds of the assembled officers, many of whom had brought their wives, and the conversation was lively and collegial. Morale was high among the sailors at the base. Well, why wouldn’t it be? The government had spared no expense to expand and modernize the facilities here. Even as the Westerners’ sanctions tightened their grip on the country, squeezing the civilian population, the military was well-funded.

Finally, Ralouf nodded to Fazeed from across the room and they made their apologies to their host, citing pressing business elsewhere on the base. Sayyari bade them farewell and invited them to come back anytime. He was obviously proud of his fleet and his men, and from what Fazeed had seen this day, he had a right to be. No doubt the admiral was waiting for the day when he would receive the order from Tehran to sail his fleet against his nation’s enemies. He did not know, at least as far as Fazeed could tell, that Ralouf had already received that order. Thus their departure from the dinner party for a roundabout trip by car to a distant part of the base.

It was fully dark when they arrived at the gate, and Fazeed was pleased to see that security was tight. IRGC troops manned the post and a pair of armored vehicles flanked the entrance on the inside. Fazeed knew that Ralouf had been able to appropriate this portion of the base many months ago. His forces had bases on four islands off the coast of Iran, but none of them had the infrastructure required for this particular project, especially the necessary security. Once they were waved through the checkpoint, Ralouf’s driver took them a quarter-kilometer further and then stopped.

“On foot from here, my friend,” Ralouf said.

“That’s fine, it’s a nice evening for a walk.” Leaving the car and driver behind, they set off toward the quay, where bright spotlights were lighting up a shape at one of the piers. As they approached, Fazeed recognized the outline of a nondescript cargo ship. Twice on the way there, the strolling officers were intercepted by security patrols, who demanded at gunpoint to see their credentials.

“Your men are very efficient,” Fazeed said when they were finally on their way after the second vehicle had let them pass. “My compliments.”

“Thank you, but Colonel Zadeh is in charge of security here.”

“Ah.” Fazeed nodded acknowledgement of Ralouf’s knowing look. Zadeh was the commander of the
Ansar-Ul-Mehdi
Corps, the Followers of the Twelfth Imam. This division of the IRGC provided security for the nation’s top civilian and military officials, as well as some counter-intelligence and covert operations services that not even Fazeed knew about. Having Zadeh’s troops here emphasized the facility’s importance. The general was impressed.

They were within about fifty meters of the quay when they had to pass through another security checkpoint, and they were joined here by a man in civilian clothes and a hard hat, who nevertheless saluted Ralouf. “Admiral, it is good to see you, sir.”

Ralouf returned the salute and then shook the man’s hand. “And you, Captain Nariman. May I introduce my colleague, General Fazeed?” More salutes and another handshake.

“This way, gentlemen,” Nariman said. The captain led the way to the bustling quay. Fazeed noticed immediately that he and Ralouf were the only men in uniform.

“My friend, the
Lion of Aladagh
,” Ralouf said, sweeping his hand forward. The ship was a nondescript freighter, by Fazeed’s estimation, but it appeared in fine shape, freshly painted and now almost crawling with sailors.

“I must say, she does not appear out of the ordinary,” Fazeed said, and then he realized he may have unintentionally given offense to her captain. “My apologies, Captain Nariman. I am sure she is a fine vessel.”

“No apologies are necessary, General,” Nariman said with a proud smile. “I understand completely.”

“She was chosen specifically because she is rather ordinary,” Ralouf said.

“Of course,” Fazeed agreed. He knew the mission parameters well enough to know that discretion was of the utmost concern. “Captain, I was most intrigued by what the admiral told me of your, ah, delivery system. Did you have any problems with the installation?”

“No, sir. The Russian engineers we hired were most helpful. They designed it, after all.”

“Ah, of course. When will the other ship depart?”

“
Star of Persia
will sail five days from tomorrow,” Ralouf said. “By then, Nariman and his ship will be rounding the tip of India.”

Fazeed recalled the timetable, so carefully planned for so long. “You sail tomorrow, Captain?”

Nariman checked his watch. “In about ten hours, General, about two hours after our cargo is secured aboard.”

Fazeed’s heart beat a little faster at the mention of the “cargo”. It was what he had come here to see. The tour of the new frigate was just a pleasant diversion.

“The transfer of your special cargo is about to begin,” Ralouf said. “Your people delivered it here last night in excellent condition.”

“Is Major Paria here?” Fazeed asked. Paria was the specialist he had chosen to go on the mission. No one knew more about its operation than he did. If all went according to plan, Paria’s name would be hallowed by his countrymen for generations to come. If it didn’t…well, it would. It would have to.

“Waiting for you in the warehouse,” Ralouf said. “Shall we, Captain?”

“Certainly,” Nariman said. “Follow me, please, gentlemen.”

An hour later, Fazeed shook hands with Nariman and Paria one last time. He took one final look at the cargo, enclosed now in its special shielding, designed to look as much as possible like a typical, everyday maritime cargo container. Loading the cargo onto the ship at night was designed to foil the American spy satellites as much as possible, but still they would take great pains to disguise the true intent of their task. Fazeed had been allowed to see it, though, before the final hatch was closed. Paria had even said it was perfectly fine for the general to touch it, but Fazeed couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. None of them could, really. Paria and his men would have to do so when it was safely stowed in the hold of the ship, of course, but that would be something Fazeed would not have to participate in.

On the ride back to his guest quarters, the admiral and general were both silent. Fazeed’s thoughts were more troubled than he thought they would be at this point. Throughout the months of planning, the preparation of the two special cargoes for their shipment to Bandar-Abbas, he had gone about his work with his typical strong sense of duty. Yet there were times, late at night usually, when he wondered about the mission. He always pushed those doubts aside, but they came back. One of these days, perhaps very soon, he would be forced to confront them.

Fazeed bade his comrade farewell when they reached his stop, at the rather sumptuous home the Navy provided for visiting flag-rank officers. Ralouf would be returning to the IRGC section of the base to oversee the final preparations for sailing. It would be a long night for his old friend, but Fazeed had done more than a few of those himself. The two officers shook hands and then embraced.

“Rostam, thank you for the tour. It was most enlightening.”

“You’re welcome. Please pass my gratitude along to your men at your base. They were first-rate in preparing the cargo.”

“I will be happy to.” Fazeed paused, the doubts once more burbling up inside. Did Rostam share them in any way? He had known Ralouf for years, but they had not yet discussed certain aspects of PERSIAN METEOR. Fazeed felt a sudden strong urge to talk to his old friend, to unburden himself. But now was not the time.

“Is there something else, Arash?” In the dim light from the porch of the house, Fazeed thought he saw Ralouf’s eyes narrowing, but perhaps there was something more there.

“No. May the blessings of Allah be upon your men tonight, and on their voyage.”

Ralouf hesitated. “They will need them. We all will.”