brought prestige that would enhance Iran's position as a regional power. It had worked for Israel. He also admired the Israelis. The sleepy Persian Gulf port of Bushehr made an ideal site for the first plant. The Bushehr peninsula was a solid, isolated block of rock, standing out along the generally flat, barren, central Persian Gulf coast. Nature had intended it to be an island, but ages ago silt had filled in the narrow channel, and a road built on an elevated embankment led to the town. Power lines from the nuclear plant would run alongside the road and up through the mountains, supplying the great inland city of Shiraz with cheap, abundant electricity.
In 1979 the Islamic Revolution came; the Ayatollahs threw the Shah out of the country, and the foreign engineers and construction crews departed soon afterward. The Ayatollahs may have been fanatical, but they weren't crazy. They remembered what had happened to Saddam's ambitious Osirak nuclear power plant, smashed into rubble by a few Israeli bombs. The Shah's nuclear dreams were abandoned, and intelligence officers in the West nicknamed the site 'Dead Dog.' With the passing years, war came and went. And oil continued to flow. But the Shah was right; it would not flow forever. A new generation of Iranian technocrats rose into positions of power, and they rediscovered the Shah's vision. Russia offered nuclear reactors on advantageous barter-trade terms. Nuclear technology brought prestige, enhancing Iran's position as a regional power. It had worked for Israel.
Iranian Army Officer Training School, March 1991
The young officers in the cadet program were a privileged elite; they were permitted to watch the Gulf War and its aftermath on CNN. Those who understood a little English translated for the rest who spoke Farsi, but the images spoke for themselves. It was a gut-wrenching experience to watch the destruction in four days of the hated Iraqi army which had defied the mobilized might of the Islamic Republic for eight grinding, bloody years of attrition warfare. Every young man in the room had lost friends or relatives in battle against Saddam's Revolutionary Guards' armored divisions…and now Saddam's armor evaporated like snowflakes in the hot desert sun.
It was a bitter joy they found in the humiliation of their enemy. For the victory which should have been
Sub-Lieutenant Gholam Hassanzadeh did not have to wait long. Before the Islamic Revolution, he had studied physics at Teheran University for a year. He spoke good English and fluent Arabic. His first assignment was debriefing a plane-load of Iraqi nuclear technicians who had escaped to Iran after their prototype isotope-separation plant was reduced to rubble by U.S. BGM-109 Tomahawk missiles. They would be working for the Islamic Republic of Iran now. The technicians, all educated men and good Muslims, had little love for Saddam. They had escaped only minutes ahead of the Mukhabarat secret police that Saddam had dispatched to execute them, to keep them from telling the Americans what they knew.
Gholam took an instant liking to these men, uprooted from homes and families by the winds of war. Their accommodations were harsh, little better than prison barracks, but Gholam had grown up in a culture where hospitality toward the stranger was not only a religious obligation, but a fine art. He did what little he could to make their exile more comfortable. They reciprocated with a torrent of information. His reports were read with growing interest by top Government officials. One caught their special interest. In it he outlined a plan for an Iranian nuclear deterrent force. Gholam swiftly made captain, and then major. In a few years, he was given the leadership of the team that managed secret nuclear labs that were building a true Islamic bomb.
International Hotel, Bushehr, Iran, August 8th, 2006
The humidity was near 100 percent, and the temperature was about the same as body heat. He half expected it would cool off after sunset, but then remembered he was in the Persian Gulf and that it was August. An air-conditioner sat mockingly in the hotel room's window, but salt fog had corroded it into junk years ago. He hated this place almost as much as the local people hated him — he was a symbol of the West, the Infidel, the Enemy. Hans Ulrich, Senior Technical Inspector for the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), dreamed about the alpine glaciers of his native Switzerland as he sat unhappily in the stifling room that passed for luxury accommodations in Bushehr.
Tomorrow he would complete the solemn, high-tech ritual of placing inspection seals on meticulously weighed and measured fuel rods of the Bushehr #1 Reactor Unit, a Russian VVER-440. He hated working around Russian reactors. He knew, of course, that this one was a pressurized water type, a safer, more modern design than that horrible graphite pile of crap at Chernobyl. Still, it was a sloppy piece of work by his standards, and that offended every neuron in the finely machined clockwork of his Swiss brain. In a few hours of work, he would accumulate almost an entire year's permissible radiation exposure. Then he would face the struggle of getting back to IAEA headquarters in Vienna with a quarter ton of inspection equipment from a country where every official, cab driver, and schoolchild regarded him as an enemy spy. As Ulrich continued to sweat, he went back to writing out his report in longhand. He would have used his laptop data slate, but it had gone into thermal shutdown an hour before, and was useless to him now. He hated trusting his thoughts to a sweat-stained notepad, but it would have to do for now.
As he sweated, he took a swallow of warm orange juice and sat back. He was thinking about the sealed cases of uranium cores that he had seen in the plant's secure storage area. He had been here just six months earlier to certify the refueling of the #2 reactor, and the spent fuel rods from that operation were still in their containers. When he asked why they had not been shipped out for reprocessing, he was told that the tons of rod assemblies from the first refueling had been held over to save on costs. In that way only one shipload would be required. While technically not a violation of the rules, it was not good management. As much as 75 kg/165 lb of weapons-grade plutonium might be mixed in with the witches' brew of radioactive isotopes in those cases. Until they were safely at a certified reprocessing facility, raw material for at least a dozen nuclear weapons lay in Iranian hands.
USS Abraham
At least once a week, an elderly F-14 equipped with a TARPS reconnaissance pod made a low-level run from the carrier around the Persian Gulf's north coast, keeping carefully outside Iranian air space. If anything nasty was happening onshore, the NRO's imaging and radar satellites would pick it up almost immediately. Nevertheless, it was good training for the naval aviators and the ES-3A Shadow crews farther out in the Gulf, who expectantly monitored the electromagnetic spectrum, hoping the Iranian radars would light off some new frequency or pulse modulation. Thanks to some trick of the Gulf's freakish aerial refraction, this week's imagery was particularly good.
As he studied the fine detail in high magnification on the workstation, Lieutenant JG Jeff Harris, a photographic intelligence analyst assigned to the carrier's air wing, saw something odd about a new pair of oil platforms under construction off Bushehr. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he opened a new window on the screen and called up precise 3-D renderings of typical Persian Gulf drilling and production platforms and then rotated the images for side-by-side comparison. Something was definitely different. The steel lattice at the center of each platform was much too light to support the massive structure of a drill rig. Staring for a few moments, he
