“Then I apologize,” Samson said quickly but, in McLanahan’s estimation, not sincerely. “But I reemphasize my point: We go all out, we play to win, but we do this by the book. Agreed?”
The fair-haired, blue-eyed young man was silent for a moment.
Samson was just thinking that this was someone he could work with, a fellow crewdog who would work on the “inside,” give a fresh perspective to the White House brain trust …
… until McLanahan’s features suddenly turned dark, and his blue eyes narrowed into dark cobalt pits, and he stepped closer to the big three-star general and said in a low voice, “You’re right, Generaclass="underline" we’ll do this by the book—my book. This is not an Air Force operation, and this is not your operation, it’s my operation, is that clear?” Samson was too stunned by the guy’s sudden change in demeanor to respond.
“General Samson, this team was picked for one reason only: to protect the lives of the agents on the ground that are following the orders of their leaders in the White House,” McLanahan went on. “if we fail, men and women die—some of them my friends. If they die, they are not just forgotten—it will be as if they never existed. I was given this opportunity to form a team to help them survive, and that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
Jamieson was watching General Samson as the big three-star tightened his jaw muscles, but instead of exploding, he nodded, jabbed a finger in McLanahan’s direction, and said calmly, “Fine, Mr. McLanahan. You do your thing. When you need Eighth Air Force’s help to bail your ass out, just call.” He nodded at Jamieson, turned, and walked away.
McLanahan’s eyes followed Samson as he departed; then he turned to Jamieson and asked, “Anything to add before we get started, Colonel?”
“Yes: I think you’re an asshole, Mr. McLanahan,” Jamieson replied matter-of-factly.
“Thank you, Colonel,” McLanahan said. “It’s nice to be working with you, too.”
IN THE GULF OF OMAN ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN 19 APRIL 1997, 0612 HOURS LOCAL
It was General Buzhazi’s first look at the aircraft carrier Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini since the thing had been towed into port two years earlier, and frankly, it didn’t look that much better—the crews had cleaned it up greatly, but now it seemed more cluttered, more disorganized. Two years earlier it had been in mothballs in a Russian shipyard in Nikolayev, Ukraine, abandoned and heavily cannibalized for scrap steel, wiring, even light bulbs and screws—it had even been set on fire by shipyard protesters. After being brought to Bandar Abbas, it had been towed down to Chah Bahar and used briefly as a floating prison for work crews, where it had been even further abused by the inmates during that construction “jihad.” Then, it had been the biggest, ugliest ship Buzhazi had ever seen in his life—and Iran was paying the People’s Republic of China $500,000 per month to use it!
Now it had over three dozen combat aircraft on board and three thousand men working on it. Iran was still paying only a half a million dollars a month to use it, but now China was paying Iran millions per month for training, billeting, and installing new, modern equipment.
“Welcome aboard the pride of the Islamic Republic’s attack fleet, sir,” Pasdaran Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli said effusively, as Buzhazi stepped off the Mil-8 helicopter that had flown Buzhazi from Bandar Abbas out to the carrier. Akbar Tufayli was one of Buzhazi’s young, energetic “lions” in the Pasdaran-i-Engelab.
When the Pasdaran had been an independent, elite military force during the War of Liberation with Iraq in the 1980s, Buzhazi expected that Tufayli had had grand ideas about his future as a major commander, given his political and family connections, but when the Pasdaran had been integrated into the regular Iranian army, all of Tufayli’s chances for greatness had been reduced.
Because of this, Tufayli sought out the highest-visibility positions, the ones no one else wanted to touch; then he would lie, cheat, steal, whine, beg, and murder his way to success. He thought of himself as bold and fearless, when in fact he was stupid, rash, and always looking for a scapegoat.
Well, he’d certainly picked the biggest, most highly visible position now: commander of the Middle East’s first aircraft carrier. With a new, fat emergency budget following the GCC attack on Abu Musa Island, and lots of favorable attention from the mullahs, Tufayli was in a pretty good position to move up the Pasdaran chain of command. Being the first sometimes got men the glory, but most often it was a no-win situation. Tufayli’s future, as they say, was his to destroy.
“Thank you, Admiral Buzhazi said. “I wanted to see for myself if all is in readiness—including the ‘special’ shipment …”
“It is indeed, sir—I have my best men on it,” Tufayli said. “I will show you right away.” Dodging running men and jet aircraft engine blast, Tufayli led the way across the steel non-slip deck, over countless hoses, ropes, cables, chain, to the huge island superstructure and the hatch that would take them below. Buzhazi noted with some amusement that the huge white flag with the hammer and sickle of the Soviet navy was still barely visible on the flat side of the superstructure just above the hatch—Allah help us, he thought, if we don’t even have enough paint to cover that properly, what kind of shape can this tub be in when it comes time to take it into combat? The aircraft hangar deck was so choked with planes, men, aircraft-moving equipment, tools, spare engines and fabricated steel parts, and thousands of unrecognizable odds and ends that the flag contingent could hardly pass through.
Here, Chinese maintenance officers worked side by side with Iranian officers, but only Iranians worked on the planes themselves—the Chinese maintenance workers crowded around and watched. All but two of the Khomeini’s twenty-four fighters and all but two of the ship’s sixteen helicopters were parked down here, all in various stages of repair—none of them looked as though they could fly right now if needed. Security was tightened considerably as they moved forward to the double-walled steel bulkhead that separated the hangar from the missile bay forward.
The next compartment forward was just as high and wide as the hangar deck, and almost as long, but unlike the hangar deck, there was plenty of room to move around, and it was blissfully quiet, almost somber, as befitting the kind of weapons fitted here. “Here we are, sir,” Tufayli announced proudly. “This compartment is the reason that, even without its Sukhoi-33 fighters, the Khomeini would still be one of the most devastating warships on the planet.”
There before them, in two rows of six, stood the steel launch canisters of the Khomeini’s P-700 Granit medium-range attack missiles. Each canister was six feet in diameter and thirty-six feet long, stretching far above, all the way to the flight deck.
Cranes and hoisting devices were strung everywhere on deck to move the 11,000-pound missiles in the compartment. “We have no reloads now, sir,” Tufayli said. “but when we have enough missiles to allow for reloads, they will be stored in a shielded magazine in the area by the bulkheads fore and aft. All the carrier’s missiles, including the P-700s, are transferred through the hatch on the port-side—we have the proper equipment to allow under-way missile transfers, although most transfers will probably be at dockside. Missiles are transferred from the magazine via the cranes to be loaded in the launch canisters.”
Tufayli motioned to the weapons officer. A warning light began to flash, and one of the launch canisters began to lower itself down to the deck, like a giant sequoia slowly falling to the forest floor. Once on the deck, the top part of the canister swiveled open toward the side of the ship, revealing the missile inside.
It looked like a long, thin, winged needle, with a narrow cylindrical body, short, narrow, steeply angled wings, and small aft wings. A small air intake could be seen on top of the missile. On the aft end, two long cylindrical detachable booster motors were mounted nearly flush with the engine exhaust tailpipe.