Exit Plan Read online

  Nadali didn’t wait for Moradi to speak. Shouting over the helicopter’s slowing turbines, the colonel reported, “We’re ready for you, sir.” He pointed to a line of jeeps, and Moradi got into the lead vehicle without saying a word.

  As Colonel Nadali climbed in the backseat, Moradi asked him, “Is there anything worth seeing at the pilot plant?”

  Nadali shook his head sharply. “No, sir, and as a matter of fact, they’re encouraging us to keep clear of the area while they make another sweep for radiation and toxicity.” He saw Moradi’s expression and continued. “When they spot-checked the first survey results, there were several errors—all underreporting.”

  Moradi’s scowl deepened. “When will they be done?”

  “They couldn’t start until it was daylight this morning. It will be late this afternoon.”

  “Wonderful,” Moradi rumbled. “I wonder how many other mistakes they’ve made.” His tone made it clear that he was sure there were more. The other jeeps were pulling away, and Nadali ordered their driver to head for the administration building.

  Nadali took the general to a conference room. Pasdaran sentries, armed with automatic weapons, flanked the door, and Nadali led the staff inside. When one of the civilians tried to go in the room, Nadali waved him back. “The scientists will brief the general in half an hour. We just have some housekeeping and organizational issues to go over.” The civilian nodded nervously and hurried away.

  As soon as the general was seated, a middle-aged major looked over at Nadali, who nodded. “The room has been swept, and is clear,” the officer reported. “The spaces on all sides of us, and above and below, are occupied by my people.” Major Hassan Rahim was Moradi’s intelligence and counterintelligence officer. He also belonged to VEVAK, the Ministry of Intelligence, but although everyone knew it, nobody ever mentioned it.

  “It was a careful sweep, Rahim? There are some clever people here,” Nadali observed.

  “Not from what I’ve seen,” Moradi countered. “What have you found, Hassan?”

  Rahim was a small officer—short, and older than would be expected for a major. There were rumors that his real rank was much higher, but changed to match the assignment. His glasses gave him a professorial look, but his gaze was hard, and his tone cold. “The centrifuges failed on their own, sir. I can find no sign of sabotage, either from foreign agents or someone inside.”

  “It’s hard to prove the absence of something,” Moradi offered.

  Rahim pulled out a notepad and flipped through the pages. “This is already one of the most secure installations in Iran. My people have enhanced those measures. We’ve been able to correlate the movements of everyone on base that day with the entrance and exit logs for each building. Dr. Sabet has helped us with scenarios for sabotage, and who would have the knowledge to perform it. Everyone on the list is being watched. Most have been questioned.”

  Moradi nodded as he took in the information. He’d expected this result. If Rahim had found anything amiss, the perpetrators would have been arrested instantly. VEVAK might have different masters than the Shah’s SAVAK, but they used the same methods.

  “Could it have been that damned computer worm again?”

  “Unlikely, sir. I had every computer on the installation checked, as well as all personal computers in the dormitories. Every CD and flash drive was also examined. There was no sign of the Stuxnet worm. As you recall, we found this worm on dozens of computers when the cyber attack was first discovered three years ago,” remarked Rahim.

  Stuxnet was a devilishly effective piece of malware that sought out and attacked the motor controllers on the centrifuges, causing them to undergo wild variations in speed. This greatly reduced an infected centrifuge’s performance, and even caused damage to the main support bearing. But even though the worm destroyed itself after completing its dirty work, numerous computers were infected as the malware worked its way from its original source to the centrifuges.

  “Have any of the staff suffered a family tragedy, or had some other personal crisis?” Moradi knew he was reaching, but he had to ask.

  Rahim shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve reviewed the local security officer’s records, and confirmed their accuracy with my own sources, as well as the reliability of the officers themselves.”

  “Thank you, Major. You’ve removed the possibility of malign influence. Unfortunately, that would have been the simpler answer.”

  The next meeting was the important one, with the physicists and engineers who had failed in their fourth attempt to create an improved centrifuge design. Iran had built a working centrifuge, but it was primitive, “first-generation” technology, and it was based on a design provided by a Pakistani nuclear scientist, A. CX Khan. Centrifuges separated two uranium isotopes from each another by spinning uranium hexafluoride gas at tens of thousands of revolutions per minute. One isotope, U-238, was marginally heavier than the other, more desirable U-235. The difference of three neutrons pushed the heavier, unwanted U-238 toward the outside. The gas near the center, slightly richer in U-235, was removed.

  But the increase was infinitesimal. Natural uranium contained less than 1% U-235 by weight. This had to be increased to about 4% to be used as reactor fuel, and to 90% for a weapon. And each centrifuge only enriched the gas by a few hundreds of a percent.

  So the centrifuges were ganged together, each one taking the product of the one before and increasing the concentration of U-235 by some tiny amount. The sixty-four-centrifuge test cascade that had torn itself apart produced a trivial increase. The buried halls at Natanz had thousands of centrifuges installed in series, but even then the product had only just exceeded 4% thus far.

  And that was the problem. It was taking too long to produce even small amounts of reactor-grade material. Iran needed to move quickly from reactor-grade to weapons-grade levels, and in large quantities. They could not build just one bomb. They needed several, at least a half dozen, to have a viable nuclear weapons capability.

  Unfortunately, the Pakistani first-generation centrifuge design was inherently inefficient, and the Iranian versions didn’t even reach that low mark. That meant an improved centrifuge design was absolutely essential. But it had to work before they could begin production, and they needed to produce them in the thousands.

  ~ * ~

  Although they didn’t fill the auditorium, it was a sizable group. Moradi saw Colonel Zamanian and his staff seated together on one side, then in a separate group, the scientists and engineers, with Dr. Moham, the head of the centrifuge program, fidgeting in the front row.

  Davood Moham was young, brilliant, and outspoken. He’d been picked for the job three years ago, after the “second-generation” centrifuge design had failed. The physicist had been critical of the attempt, correctly predicting how it would fail. Now, after two major failures of his own, he was looking over his own shoulder. Only in his thirties, he looked much older, his hair thinning, and his face drawn. It looked like he hadn’t gotten a lot of fresh air.

  Dr. Rashid Sabet, the civilian who managed the entire nuclear weapons program, had flown in last night from Arak, looking for his own answers. If Moham represented youth and energy, Sabet was experience and wisdom. Even hardened war veterans knew Sabet’s reputation. The Iranian government and people treated him almost like a national treasure. In his seventies, thin and almost frail, he projected a presence almost as strong as Moradi’s, and while Sabet technically reported to the general, Moradi sometimes felt like a university student, and found himself deferring to Sabet almost automatically.

  Moradi heard the chatter die as he approached the stage. They would be scared, defensive. They knew his reputation, and some were nervously glancing toward “Major” Rahim. Frightened people were not helpful.

  Instead of heading for his own seat, the general turned and walked over to the pair, greeting Moham and Sabet warmly. Smiling and offering his hand to Moham, the general said, “Dr. Moham, I’m glad nobody was injured in the accident.” S
urprise flashed across the civilian’s face, but he quickly hid it and rose to shake the general’s hand. “I’m sure we’ll be able to recover from the setback quickly,” Moradi continued. “I’m looking forward to your recommendations.”

  “Yes.” Moham paused, unsure of how to answer. Moradi could tell that his positive tone had unsettled the physicist. That was good. Nodding to Dr. Sabet, Moradi took his place with his staff. Conversation immediately stopped, and Moham stood and announced, “Mr. Yazdi will start with a summary of the accident and what we have learned.”

  Yazdi looked like a university student, with glasses and longer-than-fashionable hair. Nervously, he walked to the podium and opened a laptop computer. He pressed a key and the auditorium’s screen came to life with a simple title, “Natanz Centrifuge Cascade Failure Reconstruction.” The corners of the screen labeled the presentation as “Top Secret.”

  “General, Dr. Sabet, this briefing will describe our investigation and findings of the accident.” The engineer pressed a key on his laptop and the next slide appeared—a time line.

  Moradi waited for the third slide before speaking up. “Is this the same material I was sent?”

  Yazdi, a little flustered, quickly nodded. “Yes, sir. We didn’t know if you’d had a chance to review it.”

  “Well, ask before you waste my time. Is there anything new in this? Any changes since you sent it to me?”

  “Ah, no, sir.”

  “Then go to the last slide,” Moradi ordered impatiently.

  Yazdi fiddled with the laptop for a moment, and a page labeled “Conclusions” appeared on the screen.

  Moradi spoke after a moment’s quiet. “Why did you stop the investigation at this point?”

  Yazdi, who was supposed to be briefing the general, seemed surprised by the question. After a moment, he answered, “Sir, we are confident that we’ve found the cause.” He pointed to the screen, quoting the text. “Voids created by improper curing allowed microfractures to form, causing carbon fiber delamination at high rotational speeds.”

  “That’s all fine,” Moradi answered. “But what steps are you taking to correct the error? Who was supervising the curing process? Why didn’t they follow proper procedure?”

  Yazdi looked hopefully at his director, and Dr. Moham rose. “General, we reviewed all the steps in production as a part of the investigation. Every procedure was followed and double-checked. An error might cause an anomaly in one or two centrifuges, but not the whole cascade. Once we knew what to look for, we found voids and microfractures in every centrifuge, even the ones that were only damaged—hence our conclusion of improper curing.”

  Moradi appeared confused, but also irritated and impatient. “And you are saying all the centrifuges were manufactured improperly? Why was such a serious error allowed to occur? Who was responsible?”

  Dr. Sabet now stood to join Moham. “General, please. There was nothing that suggested there was an error during the manufacturing process. We developed the procedure ourselves; we had to due to the sanctions. It was incorrect. But now we know better and we’ll devise a better curing process.”

  Moradi now understood, but clarity didn’t bring enlightenment. “How long?”

  Sabet looked to Moham, who didn’t answer immediately. Several expressions passed across his face, all of them thoughtful. “We only confirmed the cause late last night. It will take a few days just to develop a systematic plan.” He paused again, then estimated, “It will take at least several months.”

  Moham warmed to the plan as it took shape in his mind. “We’ll investigate every part of the process. It’s most likely the epoxy resin chemistry, but it could be the temperature, or even something mechanical like vibration or rotation during the curing process.” Moham’s tone was earnest, full of dedication. “We can’t tell right now. I wouldn’t even hazard a guess. But we’ll find it, General. I’m sure we can make this process work.”

  “But you can’t predict how long it will take to find a solution,” Moradi answered.

  “I won’t even guess until we’ve narrowed down the possibilities. As I said, at least several months—and first we have to rebuild the lab, or set up a new one.” He paused, realizing what kind of news he was delivering. When he continued, the physicist’s tone was less animated, but more earnest.

  “Were in unexplored territory, sir.” Dr. Moham gave a small smile. “The technical challenge is what attracted me to this position. This is new technology. It can’t be rushed. If we had access to high-quality steels, this would be much less expensive, in both time and money.”

  “Don’t wish for what we can’t have,” Moradi growled. Improved centrifuge designs required maraging steel, a high-strength, high-temperature alloy that could be used in guided missiles, jet engines, and enrichment centrifuges, as well as dozens of peaceful applications. But Iran couldn’t make it. Iranian metallurgy wasn’t up to the task, and would not be for the foreseeable future. And they couldn’t buy it abroad. The sanctions did have some effect.

  So they tried end-arounds and substitutes. Moradi often thought of the Germans, late in World War II. Denied strategic metals and petroleum, they developed processes to turn coal into gasoline, and built fighters out of wood. But it was always harder and took longer. Engines didn’t work as well using substitute gasoline. And some of the fighters crashed.

  And sometimes, the centrifuges failed. And failed again. And again.

  Moradi let Colonel Nadali run the rest of the meeting. The test facility had to be rebuilt and materials for the new test program obtained. As they hammered out plans, the general studied them, half-listening, wondering if it was all wasted motion.

  He had handpicked these men for the most important task in Iran, just as the Supreme Leader, Grand Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, had chosen him. Had he made a mistake? The Supreme Leader had given his personal assurance that Moradi could call on any resource the country had. Surely with the entire nation behind them, they could construct a nuclear device.

  Or could they? Fifty-five years after the first atomic bomb was built, knowing the design and bringing it into existence were two different things. And while Iran was a large country, it was not very wealthy—despite its petroleum resources—and the world was arrayed against them.

  Moradi expected that. It was part of, almost required by, the Revolution and what it represented. Iran stood alone, and wanted to stand alone. She had been invaded, occupied, and manipulated by other nations since Darius had been beaten by Alexander the Great. She was surrounded by ethnic enemies like Iraq and Saudi Arabia, or historic ones like Russia, and was now ringed by American bases in Turkey, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan.

  He could feel the pressure as a physical thing, a wall trapping them, or a net being drawn tighter. America talked openly of “containing” Iran, using the Cold War tactic of encircling an enemy nation and strangling it. Sanctions, spies, alliances, wars, all were part of an American plan to destroy the Revolution and replace it with another one of their puppets. He sometimes imagined what it would be like if Iran could trade freely, healing the wounds they still carried from the war with Iraq. What would Iran look like then? What would the Islamic Republic be able to do?

  Nuclear weapons would elevate Iran among the world’s nations, demanding respect, commanding leadership in the region and the Islamic world. Pakistan had the bomb, but the fractured and crippled government could not use it except as a counter to India’s weapons. Iran could use it to break the sanctions, a demonstration of national will in the face of any opposition. ... If they could ever get it built.

  Moradi watched the meeting break up. Nadali had them motivated and almost rushing out the door, eager to get back to work. Moham led the charge, and Moradi and his staff found themselves alone in the auditorium. The colonel started organizing the trip back to their headquarters in Isfahan. There was nothing more to do here, but Moradi interrupted him. “Colonel, I’d like to speak to Dr. Sabet privately. Have Major Rahim set up security again.�
�� Rahim had been listening, and with a nod from Nadali, rushed off.

  Moradi and the elderly scientist took their time, and when they finally returned to Nadali’s temporary office, the sentries were posted, and Rahim reported the area was secure. Nadali ushered the two men in, Moradi following the older man. The general had said a “private meeting,” so Nadali stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  Someone had left two cups of tea on the desk, and Sabet picked one up, sitting across from the empty desk. It was a subtle acknowledgment of his position. Moradi had been given charge of the nuclear program, but Sabet was the guiding intellect. The general respected the scientist’s experience and achievements, his piety, and his dedication to the Revolution, but he lacked Moradi’s sense of urgency, and to Moradi’s mind, pushing was how the big jobs got done.

  The general sat down behind the desk, and sipped his tea quietly, almost afraid to ask the next question. “What is the news from up north?”

  Sabet said, “No more bad news; a little good news. They have almost finished debugging the simulation. It can model the thermal and hydraulic performance of a malfunctioning reactor.”