Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

The helo had been keeping tabs on Davar and Ghasem. Since Professor Murad had been implicated in writing a blasphemous book, the security forces had been keeping tabs on them. Then someone shot back. Who?

“Who shot down the helicopter?” al-Rashid asked the general in charge of the Revolutionary Guard as she tossed the handful of spent cartridges on his desk.

“We are not sure,” he answered, paling slightly behind his frizzy beard. He had always had a problem discussing business with a woman, but Ahmadinejad had made it clear that he had no choice. Still, the whole situation rankled. Justifying himself to a woman!

“I saw a report that the Ghobadi girl was seen talking to the American spy, Tommy Carmellini. Where was he when the chopper was shot down?”

“I do not know,” the general said starchily. “We were not tailing Carmellini that evening.”

“Why not?” Hazra al-Rashid demanded. “Did you not see my written orders that Carmellini was to be followed around the clock?”

“Pfff,” said the general. “We have not the men for an operation of that size.”

Hazra had not sat down; she was still standing in front of the desk. Now she leaned forward, toward the general, putting her fists on the desk to support her weight. “You will obey my orders, General, or I’ll be looking at the color of your insides. And the president can name a new man to your post, since you’ll be in no condition to continue serving. Do you understand me? Around the clock.”

The general was no wallflower. He hadn’t gotten to the top of this gang of thugs and fanatics by taking crap from anyone. He stood now and, with his fists on the desk, leaned toward Hazra. “Don’t threaten me, whore. Remember your place.” His voice was rising. “This is an Islamic nation. I will not-”

Hazra had thrown open the office door by then, and four men came shooting through. She pointed at the general. “Take him to Evin Prison. Ward two-oh-nine. I’ll be there in an hour.”

The general was shouting and struggling with the four men when she walked out of the room.

Ahmad Fassihi was a secret Marxist. Also, although he was outwardly a Muslim, he believed in most of the tenets of Zoroastrianism and, through some mysterious mental process, had managed to mesh Marxism with this ancient religion. He liked Marxism because of its emphasis on providing the necessities of life for everyone; he knew little about the old German’s views on religion, the “opiate of the masses,” and cared less. The teachings of the prophet Zoroaster, however, spoke directly to his soul. Zoroaster spoke of the one universal and transcendental God, preached that life is a temporary state in which mortals must actively participate in the battle between truth and falsehood and taught that good thoughts, good words and good deeds are necessary to ensure happiness. Had he but known it, he was close to the beliefs of the late Israr Murad, but unlike the philosopher, he had never really devoted much thought to politics or religion.

Like people everywhere, Ahmad Fassihi ignored political and religious tenets about which he knew little, or with which he disagreed. Ahmad Fassihi was, in his heart of hearts, a practical man.

Since he had been wise enough to avoid the MEK, his natural political home, Ahmad Fassihi was still alive in postrevolutionary Iran. Yet, believing as he did, he was a Russian spy, and had been one for twenty years. He received no money for his efforts, nor had he ever asked for any. Passing Irani an military secrets to the Communists was a good deed, a stand that a moral man must make in the battle against evil. After the collapse of Communism, screwing the Islamic fundamentalists became his goal, and his activities continued as before. However, as promotions and increasing responsibilities came his way due to his engineering talents and hard work, the value of the intelligence he passed increased.

This morning Hazra al-Rashid appeared in his office with a secret envelope, one that was numbered and that he had to sign for as she stood watching across the desk. Fassihi waited until the black cloud that was al-Rashid had departed and the door to his office was firmly closed before he opened the envelope and stared at the single sheet of paper that it contained. At the top of the page in Arabic script were the words targets for the jihad missiles. Under the heading appeared twelve positions defined by latitude and longitude. He had no idea what places the numbers represented, nor was he curious enough to consult an atlas and find out.

His job, as head of the Iranian missile program, was to get the guidance systems of the twelve Jihad missiles previously designated by the president reprogrammed to these targets.

This target list, Ahmad Fassihi thought, was a document the Russians would like to have. He was far too careful to copy it on the old Xerox machine down the hallway-the MOIS routinely checked the drum to see what had been copied. Instead, he used a sheet of paper from a notebook to write down everything that was on the secret paper, including the title. He triple-checked the numbers to ensure he had copied them correctly, then folded and refolded the sheet into the smallest square possible and inserted it into a small cavity in the heel of his shoe.

That done, he replaced the secret paper in its important envelope and set off to give new instructions to the department that sent technicians to service the missile guidance systems.

The copy in his shoe he would place in a secret drop, one serviced by his Russian handler. With that small act, he would help the forces of truth overcome the forces of falsehood and evil.

Ahmad Fassihi felt good about himself.

The ready room of VFA-196, the Savage Horde, aboard USS United States, was packed, with an officer in every seat. The doors to the space were locked when the squadron commanding officer, Commander Harvey “the Fly” Burgholzer, walked to the podium and surveyed the crowd. Instantly the conversations stopped.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, this is a classified meeting. The information you hear in this ready room is classified Top Secret and will not be discussed with or repeated to anyone outside of this space.”

His audience, the officers of his squadron, well knew what classified information was, so Burgholzer continued. “One of the items of classified information is the name of our guest.” He nodded toward a man seated beside the executive officer, or XO. This man was wearing a khaki shirt and khaki trousers but had no rank insignia or name tag, which meant he was a civilian. “Let’s give Rear Admiral Jake Grafton a rousing Savage welcome.”

As Grafton got out of his chair and made his way to the podium, carrying a small wooden box, the officers let out a tremendous, “Helloooo Asshole!”

Grafton set his box on the podium and grinned at his audience. “Thank you, thank you. It’s good to be back where I am appreciated. Now, one question.” He leaned an elbow on the podium and looked expectantly at the squadron skipper. “Why ‘the Fly’?”

Almost as one, the junior officers roared, “He’s the Fly in the Wine.”

When the laughing ceased, Grafton got serious. “Folks, I want to reiterate, everything said in this room is classified. As you know, loose lips sink ships, and loose lips will destroy a naval career.” He glanced at the faces in his audience. Apparently satisfied, he muttered, “ ’Nuff said.”

He opened the box and pulled out two instruments. One was merely a black box, about six inches square, and the other was an instrument with a faceplate on it that obviously was intended to be installed in the instrument panel of an airplane. He held up the instrument bearing the faceplate. “This cockpit instrument probably looks familiar,” he said. “It’s driven by an early version of the ALQ-199, the ALQ- 198.” He held up the black box for them to see, then put it back on the podium. “With your help, we are going to give this thing to the Iranians.”