Delta Force, and he had a hunch they were going to need every edge they could get when they shot their way into Amir Taleh’s den.
FBI Special Agent James Orr stared through a set of almost closed blinds at the house just across the way. He could see the terrorists moving around inside again.
After a full day of close surveillance, he was beginning to put the faces and habits of these men together. There were four of them, all told. One, a short, brown-haired Caucasian, was a dedicated smoker. He was puffing away now while watching television with the sallow-faced Middle Easterner who seemed to be used mostly as a driver by the terrorist cell. The other two were out of sight somewhere in the back of the house they were renting.
Orr grimaced. This was crazy. He had these guys. He had them and now he was being told to back off. He spoke sharply into the handheld secure phone. “Jesus Christ, Mike, I’m telling you we can take these guys without breaking a sweat. Hell, my snipers could drop two of them this second!”
Mike Flynn’s voice came over the line loud and clear. “Negative, Jim. I’m telling you just what I’ve told every other team around the country. You wait for the word. You watch those people closely, but you do not make a move on them without my direct authorisation. Is that understood?” he demanded.
Orr bit back another oath. “Understood, Mike. Out.”
Still shaking his head in disbelief, he clicked the phone off and went back to watching the enemies he was not allowed to touch.
CHAPTER 24
MOVEMENT TO THE OBJECTIVE
Iran’s submarine force sortied out of Bandar-e Abbas well after dusk on a moonless, cloudy night. Three black, seventy-meter-long shapes slid quietly past the blinking buoys that marked the main channel. One after the other, as soon as they cleared the harbor area, the diesel boats submerged and went to periscope depth.
Followed by her consorts, the lead submarine, Taregh, crept almost due south through the shallow Gulf waters. She was an ultra-quiet, Kilo-class boat, originally designed and built by the Soviets, and purchased for hard currency from the shrinking, cash-poor Russian fleet. Her forty-five-man crew was the best in the Iranian Navy.
Once he was satisfied that they were safely enroute and free of any shadowers, Taregh’s captain picked up the annunciator microphone.
“Attention to orders.”
He ignored the significant looks and whispers among his control room crew. “We have been assigned an extended exercise one which may last several weeks.
“Our mission is a simple one. We will take station in the Gulf of Oman and begin patrolling, maintaining silent status. Once on station, we will track all ships encountered, especially warships and foreign submarines. I know each man aboard will do his best. That is all.”
In truth, the captain doubted any man aboard believed they were out on only a simple practice run. For two days before they sortied, working parties had sweated around the clock loading provisions and advanced torpedoes. Backed up by hired Russian technicians, the submarine’s officers and senior ratings had run countless tests double- checking every critical propulsion, sonar, and weapons control system aboard the boat. Those extra efforts and the extraordinarily tight security around the Bandar-e Abbas Naval Base were clear evidence of something serious in the wind and water.
The reality was so daunting that the captain wished he could share it openly with his men. Right now, only he, his executive officer, and the submarine’s departmental heads knew their full orders.
Part of what he had said was true. They were heading for a box-shaped patrol area just outside the Strait of Hormuz. And they would indeed be tracking enemy warships. However, his instructions also required him to come up to listening depth at regular intervals. Once he received a specific coded radio signal, the boat’s mission would change dramatically: Taregh would sink all Western warships in its patrol zone. Its sister submarines had similar orders. Together they were expected to lay a deadly barrier across the entrance to the Persian Gulf.
The captain felt a small shiver run up his spine at the thought of actual combat. Any new submarine with untested officers and crew was like an unfired clay pot. The fire might harden it, but some pots cracked in the flames.
Then he shrugged. It would be as God willed it. In any case, all the advantages were his. Taregh was ideally suited to hide undetected in these shallow waters and she would have complete surprise. The first enemy vessel to die would know of his intentions only when a torpedo tore into its hull.
Suddenly, he was eager for the go code.
Just after midnight, the passenger ferry Chamran slipped through the channel between Lavan Island and the rugged Iranian coastline, steaming north through the darkness with its running lights off. Five miles off her port bow, two armed Boghammer speedboats belonging to the Iranian Navy cruised back and forth in a patrol pattern ready to shoo away unauthorised vessels intruding in what was now an unannounced restricted sea zone. There were more passenger ships requisitioned by the Iranian Navy at sea, some ahead of the Chamran and some behind all moving north toward Bushehr, all at fairly regular intervals.
One hundred and fifty miles above the Gulf, an American KH-12 spy satellite passed almost directly overhead and continued silently eastward. Ground controllers had used the 40,000-pound satellite’s on-board thrusters to shift it into a new orbit several days before. Using a MILSTAR satellite as a relay, the infrared photos the KH-12 took were transmitted back to the United States in real time.
It was still dark and bitterly cold outside when the lights began flicking on inside the Delta Force headquarters building.
Summoned by phone from their temporary quarters, sixteen Army and Air Force officers and senior NCOs were waiting inside the briefing room for Colonel Peter Thorn and Sergeant Major Diaz. Together they commanded the four twenty-man Delta troops, five Army helicopters, and three specially equipped C-17 transport aircraft assigned to Operation NEMESIS.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Thorn said briskly as soon as he came through the door.
He waved them down when they started to snap to attention. Inside its closed compound, Delta Force prided itself on its relative informality. Talent mattered more than rank among the outfit’s experienced professionals. They reserved the spit-and-polish show for outside visitors.
Thorn moved to the front of the room while Diaz started setting up an overhead projector. “Sorry about interrupting your beauty sleep, gentlemen. God knows from the look of some of you, you could certainly use it.”
That earned him a strained chuckle.
He didn’t waste any more time. “I just got a call from Sam Farrell. The President has activated NEMESIS.”
His commanders sat up straighter.
Thorn nodded. “We’ve run out of time. New intelligence shows that the Iranian offensive is probably now less than seventy-two hours away.” He raised his voice slightly to reach the back of the room. “Ready, Tow?”
Diaz nodded and dimmed the lights.
“These satellite photos came down the wire from the National Reconnaissance Office fifteen minutes ago,” Thorn explained.
