Exit Plan (4 page)

The core of the IR-40 had to be redesigned, but how? Their basic understanding of reactor core design had to be improved, and quickly. For Moradi, everything had to be done quickly.

Sabet saw his expression. “General, I truly believe computer simulation is our best option. You can’t use trial and error with nuclear reactors. Mistakes could be deadly, even worse than what happened here, and their effects last for decades. Modeling the core’s behavior in a computer will improve our understanding, as well as enable us to explore different core designs. Such techniques are used in Europe and America all the time.”

But Iran had not been able to acquire the software, again because of sanctions. Theft, espionage, and black-market purchases had provided the software, but then it had to be documented, adapted, and finally completely understood. Otherwise they would have no idea whether the computer’s output was a bug or a correct result. That process had taken almost a year.

Intellectually, Moradi could accept Sabet’s explanation. Simulation was the logical course, but it reduced the struggle to develop a plutonium bomb to a roomful of computer geeks arguing over a printout. Moving ones and zeroes around on an invisible battlefield made it impossible for the general to see any progress, or any way to improve the situation.

Moradi’s frustration was clear in his tone. “We are pouring resources into both the enrichment process and the heavy-water reactor because it gives us two paths to a nuclear capability.” He sighed heavily. “Both are effectively stalled.”

“Moving forward slowly,” Sabet corrected quietly. “Sometimes it’s difficult to see, General, but even a failure can be viewed as progress. I’ve been involved in projects that had even worse setbacks. You have to take the long view.”

Moradi’s answer had an edge to it. “We don’t have an infinite amount of time, Doctor. The West, and now even Russia are aligned against us. They work to undermine not only this program, but also our government and our economy. They are hurting us, and I’m not sure how much more damage we can stand.”

Sabet nodded, agreeing with Moradi, but the general pressed his point. “Doctor, you don’t understand. The government can issue all the press releases it wants, but the sanctions do have an effect. And it’s getting worse. The situation is not static, nor is it in our favor.”

The doctor answered, “Of course, you may have access to information I don’t. Is there anything specific we need to worry about? Is there a deadline?”

Moradi shook his head. “Nothing specific. But eventually, we won’t be able to find a key material or technology, even on the black market. What do we do then?

“This is a battle, Dr. Sabet. Even without guns and trenches, the rules are the same. A short battle is better than a long one. Move slowly and your opponent has time to react. He may block your advance or even find a way to defeat you.” He gestured toward the crippled pilot plant. “And it gives your own people more time to make mistakes.”

“You approved the test schedule. . .”

“Based on their recommendations. I’m not a fool, Doctor, or a scientist. I will let the specialists practice their craft, as long as they get results. And I don’t see any.”

“Are you saying it’s fruitless to…” Sabet started to ask.

“No, Doctor, your scientists and engineers should redouble their efforts. Tell them time is limited, and precious. But if we’re blocked on two paths, it’s time to look for a third.”

“A short cut? General, we are already cutting corners.”

“A bypass, an end-around,” Moradi replied. “We’ve gotten quite good at those.”

~ * ~

General Moradi bid Dr. Sabet farewell by the Mi-17, then followed his staff onto the helicopter for the trip back to Isfahan. Their mood was upbeat, chatting happily as they belted in, pleased to be returning home after a few days away. Moradi’s own feelings were harder to define. He wasn’t as angry or frustrated as he’d expected to be, or depressed about the program’s setback. Certainly his conversation with the Supreme Leader would be unpleasant. As the helicopter took flight, he realized he’d reached a conclusion.

This wasn’t going to work.

~ * ~

Ed Randolph walked into the conference room to find it jammed, buzzing with conversation. Thankfully, government buildings were nonsmoking, but it was still stuffy. With even the janitors cleared for Top Secret, classification hadn’t been much of a barrier to attendance. And there had been rumors. He quickly walked to the front of the room, past the two briefers setting up.

He held up his arms, and the murmur quickly faded. “There are too many people in this room. If you’re not a principal or designated representative, leave. If you’re not from the WMD, Near East, Military Issues, or Science and Technology Offices, leave.” One analyst rose to protest, but Randolph forestalled him. “Yes, Clark, you’re entitled, but not yet. This is only a preliminary meeting. The Office of Transnational Threats will get their chance to review and comment on the draft product.” He raised his voice. “And the fewer discussions I hear in the halls, the better.” There were no more arguments, and people began to file out of the room. As the National Intelligence Officer for Weapons of Mass Destruction and Proliferation, Randolph had the authority to limit the meeting’s attendance.

The Chairman of the National Intelligence Council, General Duvall, appeared in the door and the stragglers made a path for him, then hurried out. Randolph checked his watch: 1500 exactly. He checked the two briefers. One was now standing at the podium while the other tended the computer. They had dealt with the general before. Randolph knew what he expected.

As Duvall sat, the analyst behind the podium smoothly launched into his brief. “Good afternoon, General. My name is Todd Allison. I’m the senior imagery analyst assigned to the Weapons Intelligence, Nonproliferation and Arms Control Center, Central Intelligence Agency. This briefing is classified Top Secret, NOFORN, and contains information from a sensitive HUMINT compartment.” To emphasize that fact, the second slide listed not only the security classification, but all the categories of intelligence involved, and the classifying authorities.

“Next slide,” Allison directed. The bold lettering, “Key Judgments,” at the top of the slide was somewhat misleading, as there was only one short bullet.

“Sir, based on all source analysis, we believe with a high degree of confidence that the Iranians are preparing to test a nuclear device—no earlier than two weeks, but possibly in no more than a month.”

Randolph watched the reactions from those in the room. Gene Cooper, Allison’s boss and the head of WINPAC, sat to one side. He was nodding of course, as was Duvall, who’d been told the reason for the sudden change in his afternoon appointments. Everyone else, the other analysts and the department heads, sat up straighter. Some pulled out notepads. A few turned to speak to their neighbors, but were quickly shushed.

“We understand this runs counter to the last three NIEs, and we’ve taken care to verify both our analysis and sources.” The NIEs, or National Intelligence Estimates, are the official positions of the U.S. intelligence community on a wide variety of issues that affect the security of the United States. It was the National Intelligence Council’s job to draft, coordinate, publish, and update them as needed, combining the data and analytic talent from the entire intelligence community. It took a lot of hard work to get the intelligence community to make up its mind about anything. Changing it was even harder.

“The first indicator was found by Ken Akamatsu at the NSA.” He motioned to the analyst minding the computer. “Ken tracks Iranian construction companies, watching for activity that doesn’t correlate with known projects, or projects that are larger than they should be.”

“Khatam al-Anbia is one of the biggest construction companies in Iran,” Akamatsu broke in and explained. “One of their divisions, ‘Hara,’ recently opened a small office in Qermezin, 250 kilometers to the west-southwest of Tehran.” A map flashed on the screen.

“Information on this came from intercepts of commercial phone traffic we obtained. The Hara division specializes in tunnel construction.”

“The second piece was a sensitive HUMINT report,” said Allison, continuing the presentation. “CIA’s National Clandestine Service provided it to us six days ago after receiving it from a friendly nation.” Randolph knew which nation, and most of the audience might guess it was Israel, but Allison didn’t need to tell them that. “This source reported that Basij units in Markazi Province were ordered to provide troops to patrol an area in the northwest part of the province until regular IRGC units could arrive and set up proper security.”

The Basij was a militia force, first formed during the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s. Consisting of young men armed with infantry weapons, it was a paramilitary arm that could serve as irregular troops, civic event organizers, or political enforcers as the occasion required. They were locally recruited and often commanded by an imam in the community they came from.

Akamatsu pressed a button and the map zoomed out. “Qermezin is in the northwest part of the province.

“Based on these two reports, and with Mr. Cooper’s approval, we asked NGA to survey the imagery of all Basij barracks in the area.” He clicked again, and a circle appeared surrounding Qermezin, then small crosses appeared inside the circle.

“These are the locations we’ve checked over the past week. We saw increased activity at these five—” Some of the crosses changed color from white to red. “This led to a wide-area search for new construction. Our initial suspicion was a new underground facility was being started—purpose, unknown. What we found was this.”

The map was replaced by a satellite image. “This is a low-resolution shot taken yesterday evening.” It showed a collection of jumbled shapes scattered across a rocky surface.

Picking up a laser pointer, Allison systematically worked his way across the image. “This framework looks like a tower with a rectangular cross section. Measuring the components assembled nearby, its final height could be as much as twenty meters.” He moved the light. “This is probably where they’re going to be erecting the tower, over what looks like drilling equipment.” Pointing to different places on the slide, Allison said, “These trailers appear to be typical construction offices, brought in to manage the work, but there are other trailers over here, almost a kilometer from the rest of the site. They aren’t big enough to house the number of workers who would be working at a job like this, nor do they provide any services like meals or a dispensary. And they’re bulldozing a berm between the trailers and the drilling site.”

Duvall spoke for the first time. “And you think they’ll hold instrumentation for monitoring an underground nuclear test.” His tone was flat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Allison answered, “The layout closely matches test sites we’ve seen in India, Pakistan, and North Korea. Khatam al-Anbia is owned and operated by the IRGC, the Pasdaran, who also control the Basij, and the nuclear program. There’s nothing out there to drill for that we know of, neither water nor oil, and they’re not close to any settled location. In addition to being sparsely populated, it’s also very mountainous.” He pointed to a wavy line that began at the work site and extended off the edge of the photo. “We traced this ‘road,’ if you want to call it that, back to the nearest paved highway. They just bulldozed any obstacles out of the way, and have made no effort to improve it. This implies that whatever they’re doing, it’s not a permanent installation.

“This area was last photographed several years ago, so there’s no way to say when work started, but based on my experience, it all looks recent, and it also looks like they’re in a hurry.”

“And the time line?” Duvall asked.

Akamatsu pressed a key and a diagram appeared on the screen. Allison answered, “Typical underground test bores are drilled down to a depth of three-hundred-plus meters. Allowing for time to set up the drilling equipment and drill to that depth, then place a device and instrumentation in the hole, they could be ready in as little as two weeks. Four is more likely. I’m making two assumptions: First, they will make the shaft deep enough to fully contain the blast; they don’t want anything going into the atmosphere that we could collect. The second assumption, and biggest variable, is the size of the device.”

Allison shrugged. “The bigger the boom, the deeper the hole they have to drill. They can’t make it too small. They don’t have the technology, yet. And they won’t make it too big, because they don’t have that much material. My estimate is in the twenty- to thirty-kiloton range.” He nodded to his partner, who turned off the projector, and Allison sat down.

The chairman looked to the side. “Gene, your people have done good work.”

Cooper smiled. “Thank you, sir. Todd really pulled it all together. But we had a lot of help from the nuke folks and NSA and NGA as well.”

“And that’s why I’ve asked Dr. Mizrahi to join us,” Duvall answered. He turned to the NIO for Science and Technology. “Maurice. Do you or your people have any additional dots we could connect to this?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but we’ll begin a complete review immediately.”

“Do it quickly, but quietly, Maurice,” Duvall instructed. “Too many people with clearances have reporters on their speed-dialers.” His tone mixed frustration with contempt.

Duvall stood and walked to the front of the room and addressed the entire group. “We may have the ‘whether’ and ‘when’ to one of the biggest intelligence questions of this decade. The only problem is, it goes against everything we’ve been saying. Everybody here understands how thoroughly we have to nail this down. I’ve asked Dr. Mizrahi here because his office has the in-depth technical expertise, but I will be asking other NIOs, like Military Issues or South Asia to follow the thread that Todd Allison has described.

“Look for information that confirms or refutes this analysis, and ways for us to improve our knowledge. My intention is to have an intelligence community brief on this for the president within forty-eight hours. Our next meeting on this topic will be at eleven hundred tomorrow. Do your best work, everyone.”

The meeting broke up quietly. Randolph was pleased, but wondered how long their restraint would last. He walked with the general back to his office, just a short distance. Once Randolph’s door was closed, Duvall sat and took the china coffee cup Randolph offered.

“Here are my recommendations for retasking satellites and aircraft.” Randolph didn’t wait to be told what to do.

Duvall said, “Thanks,” studied the document, and smiled. “This will keep everyone busy. I’ll send it up the chain.”

Randolph asked, “I wonder what the Israelis will do with this.” The same agreement that allowed the U.S. to receive Israeli intelligence data required that the fruits of that data be shared with the Israelis.

“Shoot, Ed, I don’t know what we’re going to do with it.” Duvall replied. “This is counter to everything we know about the Iranian program. That’s why everybody was so shocked in there.”

Randolph nodded. The U.S. had devoted considerable effort to tracking the Iranians’ nuclear progress, and he’d seen plenty of both “technical intelligence,” meaning satellite photos and communication intercepts, and “human intelligence,” meaning agents on the ground. It all said that an Iranian bomb was years away. Now everything they knew was suspect.

“I’ll review what we’ve got and look for holes or hidden assumptions,” Randolph promised the general.

“See you at eleven tomorrow.”

~ * ~

They tried to eat together at least a few times a week. Between Shirin’s long hours in the lab and Yousef’s air defense duties, it was often hurried, with a return to work for one or both of them, or a solitary meal while the other worked through the evening hours. And sometimes, rarely, they both had the evening free.

Married only a few years, separations made evenings together all the sweeter. Shirin was out of her first trimester, and her appetite had partially returned. The meal was simple—kebabs, vegetables, and Lavash bread—and the maid had used a southern recipe, reminding Shirin of home. They avoided shoptalk, sticking to office gossip and plans for the baby’s arrival. They discussed plans to visit Shirin’s mother in a few weeks.

After dinner, over Shirin’s protests, Yousef insisted on an evening walk. “It’s mild enough with a coat, and the baby needs the exercise.”