Chapter 11
Chapter 11: Stompa
Desert One, July 22nd, 1980:
Converting the Evening Light refueling base into America’s fortress in Iran was moving smoothly. Skirmishes with local rebels were infrequent and one-sided. The bulk of the Iranian military was tied up in Tehran, securing it for the invasion they knew was coming. Movement in and out of the city was now impossible for non-military or government personnel.
Colonel Chuck Beckwith stood outside in the hot morning air. While the sun beat down, a light breeze kept him cool enough to be comfortable. He was awaiting an arrival at the helipad, though who exactly was arriving was kept top secret. General Vaught knew, but he wasn’t telling. Rumour had it that the president himself was coming to inspect the base.
In the distance, he saw a helicopter approach. It flew low, stirring the desert sand with the wash from its rotors. It was a large helicopter, a Chinook double-rotor cargo transport. It spun around as it landed, its rear cargo door/ramp facing Beckwith. As the door opened, a small team of Marines exited. Following them was a young Iranian man, who looked to be in his early 20s at the latest.
“Who are you?” asked Beckwith, shouting over the din of the rotors.
“I am Reza Pahlavi!” the young man said. Behind him came 6 older Iranian men, carrying a casket. “I am shahanshah now.”
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Walter Mondale waited alone in the presidential limousine. He inspected his watch for the seventh time. Carter was late. Walter fiddled with his pen, clicking it open and closed. Open and closed. He’d already disassembled and reassembled the pen, taken it apart down to its basic components: the case, the cartridge, the spring, the button. Twice. Walter furrowed his brow and held his hand to his head. He glanced out the window, and finally saw Carter exit the hotel.
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Beckwith reached to retrieve a cigarette from his pocket when a young private sprinted over to him. “Colonel! In the comms tent! You have to see this right away!”
“What is it?” Beckwith asked as he attempted to light his cigarette.
“It’s the Iranians! Government’s interrupted the local broadcast, and you aren’t going to believe what’s going on!”
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“Sorry I’m late,” said the president as he entered the car, “had to discuss a fairly last minute change of plans.”
“Is that so?” Walter asked.
“I had arranged a meeting with somebody, but as it turns out she’s busy.” Carter replied.
“With who?”
“Hadn’t I told you, Walt? I had a meeting scheduled with Jodie Foster.”
“You mean the actress? What the hell for?”
“She says that somebody’s been mailing her letters threatening me. She’s very concerned; she says he’s been doing this for months now.”
“Isn’t that a matter for the Secret Service?” asked Mondale.
“Normally yes, but if Reagan’s going to be attacking me on national security, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get people seeing me taking my own security seriously. I had hoped it would help my credibility, but it looks like she’ll be busy until after the election.”
“Did she say what’s come up?”
“She’s going to be in Tunisia, filming the movie they’re making of that CIA hoax script.”
“Argo?” Walter suggested.
“That was it. She’s been cast in Argo, Tony Mendez himself too, if what I hear is true.”
“Well, hopefully it’s just some crazed lunatic sending her these letters, and he’s too far gone to actually go out and do anything.”
“I hope so too, Walt.”
There was a long, uncomfortable pause.
“So, Phil Crane, huh?” Carter said.
“I guess the deal with Ford fell through at the last minute,” Walter said, “I heard he picked Crane less than 24 hours before his acceptance speech.”
“He’s doubling down on the economy. Crane’s a student of Goldwater, and Reagan wants to give his supply-side economics credibility.”
“You mean voodoo economics?” Mondale asked jokingly, “isn’t that what Bush called them?”
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that remark is what cost him a spot on Reagan’s ticket.”
“You think he would have picked Bush?”
“His foreign policy credentials are beyond question, he would have been a natural pick if Reagan wanted to challenge me on that.”
“You think he can’t win on foreign policy? Jim, we’re walking into the third foreign war in 30 years, the op to capture Khomeini was a complete mess, and now this War on Terror business?” Walter asked.
“The people always rally around the president in times of war. No incumbent has ever lost a re-election bid during a war, and Reagan knows that. He’s going to focus on the one front where he has every advantage: the economy.”
“What do you think your odds are, Jim? I hear opinions every day from every Tom, Dick and Harry, but I’m interested in what you think.”
“If this election is about foreign policy, my intuition says that no matter who wins, it’s going to be a desperate, messy, drag-down brawl. We’ll go all 12 rounds, and unless one of us gets a decisive edge, it’s going to be too close to call.” Carter replied.
“And if he can make the election about the economy?” Mondale asked.
Carter thought about it.
“Then he’ll destroy me.”
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Beckwith entered the communications tent. A large group of soldiers was crowding around the TV. He made his way through the crowd, until he got to the front. Then he saw it.
Five men wearing dark military garb knelt on the ground, bags over their heads. Their arms and legs were bound, and behind them stood armed guards.
“What are they saying?” Beckwith asked the interpreter standing near the TV.
“These are captured American assassins. We have twelve more in our custody.”
A guard removed the bag from the middle captive’s head. It was Blue Leader.
“Mother of God…”
“Tell them the truth,” the translator said.
“Tell them the truth!” the guard yelled, this time in broken English, as he held a revolver to Blue Leader’s head.
“We didn’t come here to capture Khomeini,” Blue Leader said reluctantly, “the plan was always to kill him. The Ayatollah was unarmed and we killed him in cold blood.”
“Oh… this is not good.” Beckwith said under his breath.
An announcer began speaking again on the TV. “These captives are unlawful combatants, and unless America withdraws its forces from Iran within a week,” the translator said, “they will be executed as criminals.”
The guard began to put the bag back on Blue Leader’s head when he began to thrash and yell. “It’s all lies! Don’t believe a word of it! Just like the embassy! They lie!” he said, before the guards threw him to the ground, kicking him and beating him into submission; the broadcast quickly cutting away.
“Everybody, please leave the room now,” Beckwith announced, “I need to use the phone.”
The soldiers quickly filed from the room, leaving Beckwith alone.
“Nimitz,” Beckwith said over the phone, “I need a direct line to command. The situation’s developed. And after that, I need you to send a message to Walter Reed, to a patient there named Marcinko. Tell him to catch the first flight to Istanbul. He’s not done his mission yet.”
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“People, working every night and day
Never give yourself no time
Got too many bills to pay
Slow down, nothing’s gonna disappear
If you give yourself some room
To move to the music you hear”
-Serena Ryder
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