The Enemy Within

The short, stocky NCO slipped each picture into the projector, keeping pace as Thorn ticked off the information they revealed. “Both the CIA and the DLA now estimate there are more than four front line infantry divisions closed up and in their final assembly areas near Bandar-e Bushehr. Additional formations, all of them tank and mechanised units, have been spotted moving by rail to Bandar-e Khomeini.”

He watched their reactions closely, pleased to see that every man appeared fully alert and utterly focused. “Even more important than that, KH-12 and LACROSSE radar satellite passes yesterday and early today picked up signs of significant naval movements. First, the Iranians have shut down their regularly scheduled ferry services to the offshore islands. Those ships are now sailing north toward Bushehr. Second, their entire submarine force has left Bandar-e Abbas, apparently heading for the Gulf of Oman. If we needed anything else, the NSA reports that all Iranian army, air, and naval units switched to a new set of codes and ciphers six hours ago.”

The lights came back to full brightness. Thorn stepped forward. “This is not a simple exercise or drill. They’re getting set to go and to go soon.”

Heads nodded in agreement with his assessment. The final pieces of the Iranian operation were falling into place. Switching codes and frequencies was a classic precursor to any significant military move, and no one with any economic sense moved that much shipping around on a whim.

Thorn swept his eyes over the little group of officers and senior sergeants, picking out individuals. Keenly aware that they were looking to him for direction, he kept a tight rein on his expression. Beneath the impassive mask, however, he could feel the old eagerness, the driving urge toward action, welling up inside. He could tell they felt much the same way.

Still, he had no illusions about the dangers involved in the mission ahead. Despite their intensive work over the past several days, NEMESIS was still very much an improvised, pick-up-and-go operation. If the plan started falling apart under the stress of unexpected events, it would be up to the men in this room to pick up the pieces and carry on against all odds and no matter what the cost.

Thorn focused on the commander of the NEMESIS helicopter detachment.

“Your guys ready, Scott?”

Captain Scott Finney, a compact Texan so calm other people often thought he was asleep or dead, nodded. “Yep. No sweat.”

“How about yours, Mack?”

The tall, lanky Air Force lieutenant colonel commanding their C-17 transports shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind making a few more practice runs, Pete, but we can do it without them.”

One by one, the majors and captains commanding the four Delta troops gave him the same answer. No one was very happy about cutting their planned prep time short, but no one was ready to ask for further delay now that the Iranians were poised and ready to attack.

Ordinarily, Thorn did not believe in giving pep talks especially not to men like those in this room. Most were already veterans of half a dozen special operations some of them so secret that only the barest hints had filtered out to the world beyond the Delta Force compound. Still, he wanted to impress on them his absolute conviction that NEMESIS, no matter how difficult and no matter how dangerous, was a mission with purpose a mission with a critical and achievable objective.

“One thing we know from the computer messages we’ve intercepted is that Amir Taleh is a control freak,” Thorn said firmly. “Taleh is the focus of political and military power inside Iran. He runs the Iranian armed forces pretty much as a overman show. All crucial orders pass through his headquarters. His field commanders are highly unlikely to begin an invasion without a clear directive from him personally.

“So our job is essential. If we stop Taleh, we stop this war before it starts. Everything else is secondary. Everything. Understood?”

They nodded solemnly.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Thorn said calmly. “Have your troops saddle up. We move out at 2030 hours, tonight.”

In the Persian Gulf Twenty miles outside Saudi territorial waters, an old wooden chow chugged through calm waters at a steady ten knots, relying on its auxiliary motor for power instead of its furled, lateen-rigged sails. Crates, boxes, and bales of varying sizes crowded the boat’s deck. To all outward appearances, the chow was nothing more than a simple trading vessel one of the hundreds that plied the Gulf on a daily basis. Her crew, too, appeared utterly ordinary: a mix of wiry young lads and weathered old men clad only in Tshirts and shorts against the noonday sun.