The idea of an aggressive country like Iran, run by a group of religious zealots, getting its hands on nuclear weapons that were even more lethal than the ones dropped on Japan filled him with dread. And the more he thought about Farhed Alizadeh and the incident on the Contessa, the more he was plagued by questions.
They were still screaming for his attention as he ran his team thirty-five miles around the island that morning. Even after they had stretched and he had reminded his men about the importance of hydration, electrolyte replacement, bringing extra shoes, and race tactics, he kept asking himself what the Iranians were up to.
He’d learned not to shy away from things that nagged him. They always came around to bite him in the ass. So despite the fact that he had a number of things to do that afternoon to prepare for the race in Morocco, he arranged to meet Ed Wolfson in a coffee shop near the U.S. embassy.
After they sat down, he said, “I hate being made to feel responsible for an outcome that I don’t really understand.”
“Likewise, I’m sure. What’s on your mind?”
“What do you know about Farhed Alizadeh’s mission on the Contessa?” Crocker asked.
“Enough to tell you that from my perspective the whole thing was planned ahead of time. More precisely, the crew member who disappeared was working for the Iranians. The whole pirating incident was staged.”
“Do you know what was in the barrels?”
“I do, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
Crocker nodded.
“High-strength aluminum alloy. Component parts for L-2 centrifuges manufactured by Scomi Precision Engineering in Malaysia. High-speed triggers made in China.”
“So Iran really is trying to build nuclear weapons.”
Wolfson folded his hands on the table and said, “Correct. And they’ve been playing a double game. Holding talks to stall the international community and playing up to China, which is secretly supplying them with parts, while working pedal-to-the-floor to build a bomb.”
“How close are they?”
“That depends on who you talk to.”
“What do you think?” Crocker asked.
“Most experts agree that they lack two things: some of the high-tech parts needed to build one, and enough enriched uranium.”
“Hence the high-speed triggers and parts in the barrels on the Contessa.”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Four
It isn’t the mountain ahead that wears you out; it’s the grain of sand in your shoe.
– Robert W. Service
It took approximately two days for Seal Team Six to reach southern Morocco. First they flew ten hours to Gatwick Airport in London, then after a three-hour layover caught a charter to Ouarzazate, Morocco, known as the door of the desert-a quiet, dusty Berber town of fifty thousand built around a central street. Back in the early ’60s it had served as the location for the desert scenes in Lawrence of Arabia.
African traders had been using it as a crossroads for centuries. For many modern Europeans, it was a holiday destination and a launching point for excursions into the Sahara. Features included palm groves and kasbahs, earthen structures with high walls and tiny windows.
They chose an old man with a white wisp of beard to escort them to the hotel. As they drove through the dusty, sleepy streets, Akil, the handsome, single Egyptian American on the team, regaled them with stories of his sexual adventures with a beautiful blond runner from Norway whom he had met on a trip to Patagonia.
“She kept me up all night. Couldn’t get enough.”
“Of what?” Ritchie asked. “The bullshit stories you were feeding her?”
“Don’t expect that to happen here,” Crocker said. “The few female entrants registered for this event will be too exhausted to do anything but ask you to massage their feet. So will you.”
Akiclass="underline" “Envy is a green-eyed monster.”
Mancini: “Maybe one day when you drop the BS you’ll find a woman you love who loves you back.”
Ritchie: “Unlikely.”
Cal sat in the back, plugged into his iPod.
“What are you listening to?” Davis asked.
“Gotye.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know ‘Somebody That I Used to Know?’ ”
“Never heard of it.”
Cal passed his earbuds to Davis.
Crocker said, “Instead of dicking around and playing music, you guys might want to start thinking about the race.”
Akiclass="underline" “After what we went through last time in the Himalayas, this will be a piece of cake.”
“You think so? We’re looking at running the equivalent of five and a half marathons in hundred-and-twenty-degree heat. And we have to carry everything we need, except water, in rucksacks on our backs.”
“That’s why it’s considered the toughest footrace on the planet,” Mancini added.
“I’ll take the heat over the freezing cold anytime,” Akil said.
Ritchie: “And you’ll probably be the first one to pussy out.”
“I never backed out of fucking anything.”
“We’ll see how long you last.”
They stayed at a hotel inside the medina with a view of the valley and nearby reservoir. After a dinner of Berber spiced chicken and goat-cheese fritters, they sat in the lounge on the roof, sipped local bottled beer, and went over the plans for the race.
Crocker had put Mancini in charge of procuring and shipping all equipment and supplies. Besides running shoes big enough to comfortably accommodate swollen feet, shorts, tees, Adidas Explorer sunglasses, Cobbers, Skins compression vests, RailRiders Adventure shirts with front pockets, CW-X three-quarter-length compression tights, Injinji bamboo liners and SmartWool cushioned socks, Inov-8 390 boots, Sandbaggers gaiters, Buff headbands, RaidLight trekking poles, PHD Minimus sleeping bags, Platypus hot water bag with lid, ProLite 3 sleeping mat, titanium Esbit Wing Stove combination 900-milliliter cooking pot, titanium spork, disposable lighters with disco lights, toilet paper, alcohol hand gel, iPod, Suunto watches with heart-rate monitors, scarves, and hats, each man had to carry a rucksack packed with 14,000 calories of food-M &Ms, instant noodles, expedition meals, muesli, Honey Stinger Gel-extra clothing, gaffer’s tape, antivenom pump, compass, sunscreen, head torch with spare battery, disinfectant, Endurolytes, electrolytes, knives, safety pins, signaling mirror, space blanket, rehydration sachets, and whistle.
The backpacks were lightweight OMM 32-liter models. Also RaidLight pouches for their front belts that were big enough to hold snacks, lip salve, sunscreen. RaidLight bottle holders for each shoulder. Crocker preferred the CamelBak Podium bottles over the RaidLights because they were easier to suck water out of.
And there were medical kits-including lots of painkillers (Solpadeine, Diclofenac, Tramadol), zinc oxide, sterile padding, tape, needles, syringes, erythromycin for infections.
Everything was in order, except that two cases of the Datrex 3600-calorie survival food bars were past their expiration date.
Mancini was irate. “I’ll make ’em send back our money.”
Crocker said, “Don’t worry. We’ve got plenty of MREs, Clif Bars, and beef jerky. Besides, most ultramarathon organizers bring sponsored supplies like gels and energy bars.”
“Last time we use that supplier.”
“Let’s focus on the race.”
The next morning after breakfast, the six SEALs packed into a bus with registrants from the UK, Australia, Israel, New Zealand, and France for a five-hour drive into the desert. When they arrived at the staging area in the early afternoon, all they could see out the window were endless sand dunes, a vivid blue sky, and the brilliant sun. A painted sign read in English: ANY IDIOT CAN RUN A MARATHON, BUT IT TAKES A SPECIAL KIND OF IDIOT TO RUN THE MARATHON DES SABLES.