PANAMA — 1989

Hayden Burke sat behind a bamboo screen. The penthouse suite’s lights were dimmed and the normal bustle associated with Panama City drifted through the night below. A hushed orange glow hung over the furniture, and the Colombian guards ensured no unwanted visitors encroached on their charge. They guarded the stairwell and elevator. They checked the wait staff and janitors. They inspected packages and mail. They tasted the food and tested the water. They did everything—except watch the roof.

Colombians had a reputation for ruthlessness and brutality. They understood how to fight their pathetic government and stymie the United States Drug Enforcement Agency.

Burke was not after heroin or cocaine. He did not crave the billions they extracted from the American economy as yuppies gleefully snorted their product through rolled up hundred-dollar bills. He came for a simple conversation—an odd meeting between professionals.

What remained of his hair was cut down to a buzz of gray and white stubs forming a fringe around his shiny pate. He chose to wear a ball cap. Many would have retired from the game—certainly he owed the United States government nothing. However, he had started playing the game 35 years earlier. It was a grand game, and he was a superb player—an elite pro.

He watched the doors open as the sunglass-bespectacled Colombians ushered their charge into the suite.

Damon Layne walked like a panther. He flipped a white Panama hat into the nearest chair and undid his jacket. Strapped about his chest were a leather shoulder rig and a diminutive Ruger .22—his assassin gun.

Burke glanced down to the Browning Hi Power lying across his lap. The thumb safety was off and his gun was cocked with a round up the pipe. The Browning’s sharp report would undoubtedly bring the Colombians, but Burke reminded himself that he had come for conversation. Retribution was someone else’s department.

Layne poured three fingers of vodka and settled into an easy chair. He generally drank to forget. It was easier than confronting the soulless killer he had become. Death and Layne were synonymous in Noriega’s Panama. He killed troublesome opposition leaders and ensured the flow of cocaine made it through the Darién Gap to the Canal Zone and then to the numerous markets in Europe and the United States.

Burke watched to make sure Layne had belted down three more tumblers of vodka before announcing his presence with a cough.

Layne reached for his .22 only to hear, “I wouldn’t if I were you, Youngster.”

Layne’s hand froze on the Ruger’s butt. Slowly he straightened in the chair. Only one man called him Youngster, but he was supposed to be dead. Layne hissed, “Burke?”

“Nice of you to remember me,” replied the older man.

“Have you come to kill me?” he wondered out loud.

“Perhaps,” murmured the older man. “But first we might talk for a bit.”

They had teamed up in Iran—a decade ago.

Cairo, Egypt, AP, January 16, 1979 – Amidst growing unrest and endless street riots, Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi and Empress Farah Diba left Iran. News of their departure led to an explosion of joy on the streets of the capital.

Tehran, Iran

Sunday, November 4, 1979

10:00 A.M. +3:30 GMT

The sun came up much as it had every other day and glistened across the snow-capped Alborz Mountain range where Mount Damavand dominated the skyline. Dawn broke across Tehran’s alabaster buildings, giving them a pale golden tone. The angry din surrounding the 28-acre American embassy compound stood in stark contrast to the natural beauty.

The six-lane thoroughfare running along the front of the embassy was clogged with burning tires, broken cars, and waving placards. The messages were clear enough: DEATH TO THE SHAH and DEATH TO CARTER. Hate was the new currency of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini’s Islamic Republic, and the student demonstrators conveniently wrote their signs in English for the American television cameras.

American diplomats cautiously watched the demonstrators. The same “students” had burst through the compound’s gates last February and briefly held a minor building. Western governments, fearing the worst, began evacuating their nationals to the Arabian Sea ports of Bandar Abbas and Chah Bahr. The demonstrators maintained a noisy and threatening daily rhythm. No one predicted what would happen.

Over the summer the remaining embassy staff fell into an uneasy truce with the roving mobs that paraded around the compound. The truce kept until October 20, when it was broken by massive demonstrations up and down the streets that burned effigies of Uncle Sam, Jimmy Carter, and Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlevi. American flags were rent, dragged, and burned. It caused President Carter to move the Midway (CV-41) Carrier Battle Group to the Indian Ocean for the second time in a year, and he placed elements of the Second Battalion, Second Marine Division on alert in the Azores. It might have meant something had he been willing to use force, but Carter’s foreign policy was adrift piloted by Secretary of State Cyrus Vance. Force was the very last thing the Carter administration intended to use. Their catch phrase was No More Vietnams.

CV-41 steamed into another troubled ocean, as she had since her commissioning on September 10, 1945. She was the first carrier of her class and named for the most significant naval battle in the proud history of the United States Navy. For all her firepower, tradition, and force of arms, in the Gulf she was used merely as a gesture and not the certain promise of retribution. Midway was America’s most visible carrier and she was the country’s first forward-deployed ship. She was known as the sword’s edge of American policy and might. Unfortunately, the sword was dull—not due to neglect by Midway’s proud crew. The National Command Authority believed force-of-arms was a last resort, rather than another tool in a country’s diplomatic kit.

Jimmy Carter’s policy makers found it difficult to believe they had lost such a strategic ally along the southern border of the Soviet Union. Admiral Stansfield Turner, Director Central Intelligence (DCI), found the loss to be particularly damaging to his agency’s electronic surveillance capability. Until the Shah left Iran, the United States had operated listening posts in the northern Iranian Provinces of Mazandaran and Khorasan. Those posts were abandoned and the technology remained temptingly close to the Soviet border.

Ayatollah Kambiz Abbasi moved among the milling students outside American embassy in Tehran. Four bodyguards maintained a box around Abbasi as he walked in his black flowing robes. Filtering throughout the crowds were his men—former members of the Shah’s dread SAVAK (Ministry of Security). The SAVAK had been trained well by the American CIA and the Israeli MOSSAD. They knew how to inflict damage and instill terror. The revolution had inherited a potent weapon from the Shah’s arsenal.

Abbasi remained anonymous to the American intelligence community, as did most of the world’s troublemakers. In years to come, he would be identified as one of the great terrorist masterminds, and inside the CIA he would be dubbed Iran’s Director of Terrorism. It would take over a decade for American intelligence to develop a coherent dossier on Abbasi. By the time Washington came to understand the threat Abbasi posed, another democratic administration would hold power, and the recognition for what must happen would wait until the next millennium.

He pulled close to one of the student leaders—Michael Rehazi. The younger man looked into the eyes of the black bearded mullah in full knowledge that his very life could vanish in a blast of gunfire before the numerous Revolutionary Guard firing squads. Abbasi owned his soul and controlled his destiny.

“Do you know where to go?” asked the black-eyed holy man.

Rehazi nodded. “We’ll take the code room and flush them away from the embassy’s safe room.”

Abbasi looked across the rising sea of people to the forlorn stars and stripes as it fluttered for its final few moments above the sovereign territory of the United States. “Remember, we need hostages—not martyrs.” Abbasi had no desire to become a martyr anytime soon.

Rehazi smirked. All the student leaders were fluent in English. They had benefited from a marvelous education provided by the Shah. “We won’t kill anybody, but you had better make sure the army goes to full alert.”

Abbasi in turn gave the younger firebrand a knowing look. He could make out CBS and NBC camera teams at opposite corners of the American compound. The American President would not attack today. They would want to talk—to reason. The Great Satan did not understand that modern Iran was blasting towards the thirteenth century. “Don’t worry about that, just secure the building.”

Rehazi checked his Timex watch and said, “Ten minutes.”

Abbasi watched his puppet slip away into the crowd. In the days and weeks to come, Rehazi would earn his moniker as well—the Terror of Tehran.

Master Gunnery Sergeant David Stewart stood on a second floor balcony examining the increasingly hostile crowd. He commanded the pitifully small contingent of marines charged with embassy security, and bleakly wondered what Washington thought was going to happen. The President was a Navy man who had graduated from Annapolis, but the Master Gunnery Sergeant did not understand the thinking behind his orders.

These were angry people, constantly whipped into frenzy by the mullahs. He had been through three tours of Vietnam and had evacuated Americans from little-known places in Africa and Asia. His tour in Iran should have been a quiet capstone to his 20-year career, where he took the opportunity to mold young marines amidst the peacefulness of an allied country. It certainly had not turned out that way. Overnight Iran became a bubbling caldron threatening to explode across the entire Persian Gulf’s vital oil fields.

He had eight marines facing a mob. Thankfully, they had evacuated the kids and wives last February. This was no place for non-combatants, and he wrestled with his orders. In the event the embassy perimeter was breached, he was instructed to surrender. Surrender! Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Inchon, Chosin, Chu Lai, Que Son were not the names of places where marines had surrendered. Those were the places where marines had fought, bled, died, and defeated their enemy.

The diplomats continued to stress the need for a low-key approach to current troubles and to appear non-threatening. No one wished to provoke an incident. Obviously the people issuing such orders were not standing where he stood. The yard inside the embassy wall was littered with bricks, rocks, and broken bottles. Small fires flickered where gasoline had splattered from homemade Molotov cocktails.

Violence was in the air.

It happened quickly. The ubiquitous AK-47 materialized from crates throughout the mob. The distinctive sandalwood stock and for-end flashed across hundreds of arms, and the curved banana magazine left no doubt. Ladders landed against the fence and the roar changed to a focused growl as the students smashed through the gate and overran two of his men at the front gate.

The marines attempted a rear guard action, and they followed orders—no one died the day the embassy was overrun. Michael Rehazi led the swarming crowd down the corridors and the confusion gathered about the American diplomats as the English speakers in the mob purposely continued to order their hostages in Farsi.

Master Gunnery Sergeant David Stewart held up his hands and slowly put his unloaded M-16 rifle against the wall. The AK-47’s blued barrels waved in his direction. Grudgingly he followed his orders as rough hands spun him around and a blindfold descended over his eyes. He wondered if he would be dead before nightfall.

It was the day Jimmy Carter’s presidency finally failed.

White House

President Jimmy Carter’s Secret Service detail opened the door to the White House Situation Room. The assembled cabinet officers, military men, aides, and White House archivist stood to greet the thirty-ninth President.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stood tall in his blue air force uniform. General David Jones wondered what might come from this meeting and what the civilian leadership might request. Iran was in a far and inconvenient corner of the world. His command had worldwide responsibilities. He had inherited a demoralized and dispirited force structure suffering from the twin demons of the Vietnam hangover and the President’s general amnesty to those who ran to Canada rather than fight the Viet Cong. How could a former United States Naval Officer execute such a flawed policy?

Secretary of Defense Harold Brown assumed a professorial pose as he reviewed his military options. He decided it would be best for the uniforms to advise the President. Iran was a mess he wanted to avoid, and as he sat among Carter’s best and brightest, he wondered how they could have collectively missed the warning signs. He would make sure his memoirs reflected a studious distance from the Iranian quagmire. He certainly was not prepared to recommend the introduction of ground forces over a little dustup at the embassy.

National Security Advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski was the hard line, anti-communist Carter had brought on board to sooth the Scoop Jackson wing of his party and mollify the Republicans in the Senate. He acted as a foil to the State Department and their desire to pacify friend and foe regardless of the cost to national honor and prestige. However, Brzezinski only understood a single thread of danger in the volatile and bubbling world. He focused his rhetoric and energies on containing the Soviet Bear. The tightly wound mullahs in Tehran were beyond his comprehension.

Secretary of State Cyrus Vance stood graciously next to the diminutive Deputy Secretary of State Warren Christopher—a man who would later serve Bill Clinton in Vance’s capacity. The thrust of their foreign policy was to arbitrate problems with words, not war. In their minds the business of the military was peace. War was obsolete; by the time Christopher became Secretary of State, he would openly argue that the nation-state was equally out dated and should be replaced by a world without borders.

The troubles in Tehran did not fit neatly into the East/West paradigm that had dominated American foreign policy for 30 years. The embassy takeover was the first shots in a modern war between Islamic fundamentalism and Western civilization. It was a cultural struggle that transcended traditional boundaries and inflamed passions no one dared believe existed in the latter decades of the twentieth century.

DCI Stansfield Turner routinely criticized his agency, the CIA, as a ship of fools. Whatever good Turner’s predecessor—George Bush—had accomplished in restoring morale and restructuring at the CIA during Gerald Ford’s final year in office, it had been shattered. Admiral Turner systematically eliminated 802 clandestine positions, reduced reliance on spies, and sold out to signal and satellite intercepts. His reckless stewardship damaged American intelligence far more than any KGB mole ever could.

Director of the National Security Agency, Vice Admiral Bobby Inman, perused Turner. Throughout the Carter presidency, Inman and Turner waged a turf war over national technical means. Inman steadfastly refused the CIA direct access to the supercomputers at Fort Meade, Maryland, and insisted the job of the CIA was to produce spies and provide analysis. It left Turner with embarrassingly few assets to generate intelligence analysis. Certainly, with what meager information he had, nothing prepared him—or the man he served—for the Tehran embassy crisis.

Vice President Walter Mondale rounded out the notables. The former Senator from Minnesota had been Hubert Humphrey’s protégé, and Humphrey had wrangled a spot for Mondale on the national ticket. Once he became Vice President, no one ever really heard from him again.

The eight-and-a-half-hour time difference between Tehran and Washington brought the meeting to order before dawn. The embassy had been seized four hours earlier and not one man present that November morning imagined it would be another 444 days before the Iran Hostage Crisis would end. Nor did anyone understand that the plot hatched by Ayatollah Kambiz Abbasi would topple the Carter presidency one year later to the day when Ronald Reagan would be elected on November 4, 1980. These people did not even know Abbasi existed—such was the disarray inside the CIA.

Cyrus Vance took the lead, because it was his embassy and ambassador under siege. He folded his hands above his notes and leaned forward to address the President:

“We’ve had an incident in Tehran overnight. We believe it is similar to the embassy takeover by leftist students last February. The situation in Iran is highly fluid, but we have no reason to believe this problem cannot be worked out in a few days.

“The primary goal of our foreign policy should be to maintain the national honor and prestige of the United States,” Vance continued, as if he were lecturing a group of freshman political science students. “After all, we are a global power, and Iran—at best—is a regional one. It is important that we as a nation take the high road in working through this problem. Naturally, the second point is the safe release of our people.” He paused as if this explained everything.

General Jones and Bobby Inman shifted uncomfortably as Vance stared across the polished table at the President. Both men realized the Secretary of State believed the United States could talk its way through any problem. Unfortunately, Vance viewed the world through a twentieth-century, Cold War prism. He lived in a world where negotiation, accommodation, and compromise were the tools used to maintain the peace.

Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini was intent on plunging cosmopolitan Iran back to the dark ages. His vision of the future included a blood-smeared world filled with mayhem and violence. Khomeini wanted nothing less than to utterly and absolutely destroy the infidel’s homeland—the United States. He was on a holy mission to secure the world for Islam through violent evangelism, and his vision was destined to spawn a multi-headed monster named terrorism.

Warren Christopher noted everyone’s discomfort and added quickly, “We are attempting to contact moderate elements in the Khomeini government.” It was a mythology that would haunt American foreign policy for decades.

Moderate Iranian elements were as elusive as the Loch Ness Monster. Most of them had already found a stone wall in front of a firing squad—such was tolerance in the new Islamic Republic.

Inman let his eyes stray across the table to Brzezinski and shuddered. He was a man uncomfortable with the President, and he wondered where this new problem would take them. The Iran Hostage Crisis would spin out of control beyond his wildest imaginings.

The National Security Advisor (NSA) remained absolutely focused on the Soviet Union. He calculated everything in terms of the East/West balance of power. No one had a clue that Khomeini might have an entirely different agenda. If they pushed the Iranians too hard, they might face a Soviet Navy with warm-water ports along the Arabian Sea and Persian Gulf. He voiced the very real concern. “Mister President, I concur.” He desperately hoped Vance and Christopher knew the names of Iranian moderates still answering their phones.

The Vice President stirred at the end of the table. He seemed surprised by Brzezinski’s agreement. Generally, the NSA opposed the Secretary of State on virtually every foreign policy point, and the President politely listened to both men.

Harold Brown took it all in like a sponge and weighed his options. Politically, there was no benefit to opposing Vance and siding with the Joint Chiefs—this was still an anti-war administration and much of the President’s staff viewed the military with suspicion. Vance had a steel grip on American foreign policy, and Brown understood his role was to spend valuable research and development funds on weapons no one really wished to deploy.

It was an administration marking time.

The hawk-nosed NSA continued. “We cannot afford to antagonize the Khomeini government. The Soviet Union and Iran share a common border east of the Caspian Sea, and if we tilt the Iranian regime towards the Soviets, the consequences could be totally unpredictable.”

General David Jones piped up in agreement. “Sir, the strategic implications cannot be overstated.” One of his aides projected a current Iranian map on the screen at the end of the room. The country stretched the length of the upper Gulf from the Caspian Sea on its northern border to the Arabian Sea on its southern coast. “Of primary importance is the possibility of a Russian base at Bandar Abbas.” A pointer snaked down the screen to highlight the General’s comments. Bandar Abbas sat astride the Strait of Hormuz, and a tremendous amount of oil bound for the industrialized world flowed through that narrow choke point. “We would give the Russians carte blanche authority to strangle the supply of oil flowing out of the region. It would cripple the Western economies.”

No one completed the thought and voiced the hated three-letter word: WAR.

“Sir, it appears the real power in Iran rests with Khomeini. Be that as it may, America and Iran have a long-standing relationship. We have friends we can talk to. The Iranian people will not welcome the Soviets inside their borders. I am certain we can defuse the situation in a few days,” added Warren Christopher.

Bobby Inman shook his head harshly.

“You disagree, Admiral?” asked the President.

“Wholeheartedly,” declared Vice Admiral Inman. “What General Jones and Mister Brzezinski are saying is that we face a credible threat—the Soviet Union. Mark my words, Mister President; they will attempt to exploit our position, vis-à-vis Iran. Strategically, the Soviets want warm-water ports on the Indian Ocean, and conceivably; they might consider moving through Iran to the Arabian Sea. We have signal intercepts to suggest the Soviets would favor a move through their southern territory into Iran.

“Furthermore, I cannot agree with the notion that we are dealing with moderates in the Khomeini Regime. We have television footage from Iran over the last several weeks. These people hate us. With all due respect to Secretary Vance,” continued Inman, “these are not leftist students making a statement. Our marines were overrun by an armed mob. This is quite different from last February.”

“Are you suggesting the seizure of our embassy is the policy of the Iranian government? Do you think it is as simple as: they hate us?” snapped Vance. “I would suggest you leave the intelligence and signal analysis to the professionals at State.”

Admiral Inman responded just as forcefully. “I think you have to consider the possibility. We’ve had daily riots outside the embassy, and the Iranians have done nothing to deter the practice.” He paused as he weighed Secretary Vance before adding, “The Islamic clerics appear to favor the current mob violence.”

Vance rolled his eyes. “Admiral Inman, I respectfully suggest you stick to signals and intercepts. It is not the stated policy of the Iranian government to overrun our embassy. That would be tantamount to war, and we are not going to war with Iran.”

“The Iranians say it is the spontaneous will of the people,” replied Christopher defending his boss.

Inman shook his head and muttered, “Will of the people—just like all those firing squads they have running around. Do you want to claim that too is the will of the people? I wonder what the poor buggers getting shot think about your will of the people!”

The firing squads performed executions on an almost daily basis in an effort to purge the Islamic Republic of seditious, decadent, and Western influences. It was a murderous prelude to a far greater problem.

President Carter turned to Admiral Stansfield Turner, his fellow Naval Academy classmate. “What do your annalists say about the moderates in Iran?”

The DCI had no idea about moderates, hardliners, or mullahs. He had converted the CIA into a team of accountants interested in the number of tanks, planes, and ships he could count with overhead satellites. From raw numbers he believed he could divine policy and intent. Turner’s purposeful decimation of critical espionage networks had effectively lobotomized the American ability to understand what was happening in Iran. “We’ve seen no indication that the Soviets are threatening Iran currently,” he answered blandly.

Inman bristled at the notion. The listening posts in Khorasan Province, on the Soviet border, had been closed for ten months. Jimmy Carter should have left Turner to sail carrier battle groups around the Mediterranean. It was something he understood—the business of espionage could not be run like a spit-and-polish warship in peacetime. There were distasteful people one had to deal with in order to understand intent. But that was a politically untenable position for his democratic administration.

Senator Frank Church had led a witch-hunt through the CIA’s clandestine activities during Vietnam. The committee declassified scores of documents best left buried, and publicly crucified the CIA. No effort was spared as the Church committee fashioned a link between Nixon and the republicans and every excess, every failure, and every shady deal over the previous 20 years. The damage was immense, but still salvageable—until Stansfield Turner became DCI.

“And what about the moderate elements in the Iranian Government?” pressed President Carter. After eight months of avoiding firing squads and seeking a way out of Khomeini’s torturous regime, the still-breathing moderate elements had found their way to a safe exile in France—a bullet between the eyes had moderated the rest.

“I think they’re our best bet, Mister President,” replied Turner. “I mean we certainly don’t want to go to war in the Persian Gulf.” No one understood that Ayatollah Khomeini’s power derived not from a reasonable, pragmatic approach, but from radical, Islamic fundamentalism. Khomeini was a modern-day mystic rooted to an unyielding and fanatical worldview totally alien to Western observers. He had no intention of dealing with the Carter administration.

Stansfield Turner was clueless.

Khomeini embarked on a holy mission.

“General Jones, what assets do we have in the Persian Gulf?” asked President Carter.

Where are the carriers?

It always came to the gray ships sailing at the edge of American diplomacy.

The JCS Chairman sensed the direction of the conversation. He had precious little he could offer the President. The American force structure was not deployed or equipped to handle Iran—they were supposed to be an ally, not an enemy. An aide handed him the current force deployment for the Middle East and Indian Ocean. “We have the Midway Battle Group cruising the Indian Ocean outside the Gulf of Oman.” He thumbed through a couple of pages and added, “There is also the NATO airbase at Incirlik, Turkey. Iran has a narrow frontage to the Northwest.”

Cyrus Vance moved quickly to head off any discussion of attempting to use American forces out of Turkey. “I doubt the Turkish government would give us permission to fly missions against a neighboring country, sir.” He had no intention of even asking Turkey unless the President directly ordered him, and Vance was fairly certain he could derail any thoughts along those lines. They needed time to talk and reason.

“Mister President, we can’t sacrifice our security in the eastern Mediterranean. Turkey is the cornerstone of our security against the Black Sea Fleet,” explained Brzezinski quickly.

Mondale marveled at the spectacle of Vance and Brzezinski singing the same tune.

Jimmy Carter had spent seven years in the navy after graduating from Annapolis. Vice Admiral Bobby Inman wondered if the President had learned anything during his time in service. The President nodded thoughtfully. “What can we do to augment the Midway?”

Jones was ready for the President’s question. “The Kitty Hawk Battle Group is in the western Pacific, and the Nimitz Battle Group is in the south Atlantic. Either one of these carrier groups could sail to the Indian Ocean. The real problem, Mister President, is that we have only strategic options for this part of the world, not tactical ones.”

Jimmy Carter came to a decision. “Secretary Vance, I want you to start working the phones and get our embassy back.” He pressed his lips together and said firmly, “General Jones, send orders to have the Kitty Hawk and the Nimitz join the Midway.” Finally he turned to Brzezinski and said, “Zbig, I want you to work on a military option. We might need it later on.”

Ayatollah Khomeini knew better than Jimmy Carter that the American President had no intention of doing much more than flying the flag. Khomeini was not interested in gestures.

There was no military option.

Everyone nodded and the meeting broke up. No one had bothered to even ask Walter Mondale the time of day, much less his opinion.

Brzezinski caught up with Bobby Inman and said, “Admiral, do you have a moment.”

Inman raised an eyebrow and checked around the room. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

“The listening posts along the Soviet border?” asked Brzezinski.

Inman nodded curtly.

“Are we doing anything about the problem?”

Inman flashed Brzezinski an encouraging smile and said, “The matter is being attended to.” He was tired of these people.

Douglas De Bono / DouglasDeBono.Com Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota E-Mail readermail@DouglasDeBono.Com