The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller (14 page)

W
hen the
Jamaran
went down, the nearest American naval vessel was the USS
California
. The Virginia-class submarine of Group Two had been en route to study the radioactive heat bloom when the frigate went down. A mandatory isotachophoresis sweep of the zone revealed a complete absence of aviation fuel. Lt. Jr. Grade Mark Mason had looked at previous satellite images of the
Jamaran
. The chemical analysis told him that in all likelihood the helicopter he saw in photographs taken just a day before had not been present when the ship went down. Even if the explosion had not destroyed the Toufan, the underwater pressure would have ruptured the gas tank. Some trace of the aircraft-specific fuel would have shown up. There would also be more than just trace radiation, low residual levels from the time the object had been onboard. The findings were clear: neither the helicopter nor whatever Iran had found in the Arctic appeared to be present on the frigate when it sank.

Mason assumed that the discovery had been placed aboard the helicopter, though without the kind of radiation leakage that was present at its discovery. He charted the range in all directions and found just two potential targets in the flight radius: a scientific research vessel from the University of Tehran—which was probably a listening post eavesdropping on Western Europe—and the container ship
Ghorbani.
Only the latter had room to accommodate a small helicopter. Mason had a look at satellite surveillance of the local seaways and found the ship—with a tarpaulin stretched across part of the deck. Without requisitioning a closer look, which could take hours, he concluded it was probably the Toufan
.
If nothing else, the size was just about right.

Mason sent his findings to Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt. He was pleased to see that his conclusion was confirmed by an independent analysis run over at the CIA. He grinned. The Company’s write-up came in nearly a full minute after he had sent his document to his superior and to liaison desks at the other intelligence organizations. Best of all, according to a tracking flag that appeared on all classified correspondence, it was his report that DNI director General Fletcher Clarke sent to the President of the United States.

“Let’s hear it for the boys in the bunker,” he chuckled to himself in his cubicle.

Lt. JG Heyder Namjoo followed Mason’s report with up-to-the-minute photos of the ship at sea with the helicopter still covered on deck.

Mason skyped over. “How’d you do it?”

Namjoo grinned. “The X-37B picked up encrypted Tehran-to-ship communication. Auto-video-recorded terminus. I asked for that image.”

Nice
, Mason thought.

The X-37B was the Air Force space plane that was in a low orbit over the Middle East. One of its functions was to chart all outgoing communications from hostile territory to see where they ended up. It didn’t matter as much what was being said as to whom it was being said. That was one of the ways targets were selected for drone strikes.

“Destination?” Mason asked.

“She’s slow-boating home,” Namjoo said.

“Cargo offloaded?” Mason typed.

“Possible. Or hiding it in plain sight.”

“Do we know if they have assets on the ground?”

“Likely,” Namjoo said. “Question is, would they trust any of them with radioactive materials? A lot of these guys—most of ’em, I’d bet—will turn loyalties on something like that and sell to the highest bidder.”

He had a point. One of the benefits of dealing with local resources in countries like Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya is that national loyalty was a distant second to personal financial gain. They would rather make a profit than prop up a government they didn’t particularly like in a nation they didn’t necessarily even recognize. That wasn’t as true in Iran. He had seen the debriefs of a number of Iranian operatives; they were among the intelligence documents seized in Iraq after the fall of Saddam Hussein. These agents were trained by men who had profited under the mercenary days of the Shah and were opposed to the dogmatic interests of the Ayatollah. Many of them agreed to work for Hussein and were sent back to Iran to spy.

“We can watch the container ship by satellite,” Mason said. “They’re going to need someone in Rabat.”

“They needed someone in Rabat hours ago,” Namjoo said. “And they need to do more than watch that ship.”

“What about us? We can get someone over there from our embassy in Rabat—”

“Our resources there are not only limited, they’re working in the Western Sahara right now,” Namjoo said. “I saw an email not five minutes ago.”

Namjoo was right. It was time to punt.

“You want to write it up?” Mason asked.

“Already half-written.” The other intelligence officer smiled before killing the hookup.

Mason frowned. Iranian spies weren’t the only ones who looked out for themselves. Even with the unprecedented cooperation between U.S. intelligence agencies, Mason sometimes forgot that high-level jobs were like a game of musical chairs and officers were in competition with one another for seats.

Hey, it’s national security that matters most
, he reminded himself. Though it still stung that his colleague had used the delay to one-up him. Mason went back to work, requesting priority-one surveillance of the Iranian container ship
Ghorbani
from the National Reconnaissance Office.

Having already received Namjoo’s analysis, Lt. Cmdr. Bobbitt had authorized the request within moments of receiving it.