Chapter 1
4 November 1979
US Embassy
Tehran, Iran
The worst day of Howard Chandler’s life started out pleasantly enough. The young Foreign Service Officer, or FSO, got into the office early and read yesterday’s Washington Post. He then took his coffee over to Eddie Cain’s office. Cain was a Miami Dolphins fan, and Chandler needed to make sure he understood how badly his Oilers were going to beat them this coming Monday.
“Knock, knock,” said Chandler as he peeked into Cain’s office.
“Hey, Howard, come on in,” replied Cain.
“You looking forward to reading all about the Dolphins’ inevitable implosion?”
“No way, pal. Our defense is stacked. It’s the second coming of the no-name defense.”
“Bah, whatever,” replied Chandler. “I’ll see your immovable object and raise you the irresistible force that is the Oilers’ run game.” There were few things in life that Howard Chandler believed in as much as he believed in running back Earl Campbell. The two had crossed paths at the University of Texas, where Chandler was getting his master’s degree in international relations and Campbell was playing halfback for the Longhorns.
“How’re you settling in? Tehran can be a bit of a culture shock as an initial assignment,” said Cain.
“It’s not bad,” replied Chandler. “It’s a lot cooler here than I expected.”
“Don’t get used to it,” laughed Cain. “You’ll have plenty to complain about when it’s a hundred and one out come July.”
“On the upside,” said Chandler, “it can’t be as swampy as a Houston summer.”
“Amen to that, and there’s no chance of a hurricane.”
Chandler looked over to a bookcase next to Cain’s desk and saw a framed photo of the man with his wife and son, who looked about three.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Chandler, “how do you and Irene make it work? I mean, I always assumed that if I started a family, I’d bring them with me.”
“For most postings, Irene and Danny would be right here with me. But with things as crazy as they are with this Islamic Revolution, we’re just playing it safe. I’m not going to lie to you, though. It’s been a rough go. She’s with her parents in Virginia, and Danny loves spending so much time with his grandparents. But it’s lonely. You never notice how much you depend on someone until they’re no longer around.”
“Man, that sounds pretty rough,” agreed Chandler. “I guess I don’t have anything to worry about for a while. I don’t even have a girl back home. I’m a total free agent.”
“Hah, I’ve seen this movie before,” said Cain. “You’re about two months from meeting the woman of your dreams out there.” He gestured towards the city outside his window. “This town is full of smart and beautiful women.”
“Hey, pal, you’re a married man,” joked Chandler.
“Yeah, I’m married, I’m not blind,” replied Cain. “Anyhow, what does Henderson have you doing today?”
“Just monkey work,” said Chandler. “Mostly entering visa applications into the new computer system.”
“Ah, yes. Just what you were hoping for when you signed up, I’m sure.”
“Eh, someone’s gotta do it," said Chandler, "might as well be me. And, hey, at least I can’t really screw it up.”
“That’s a good attitude, keep it up.”
Chandler left the office and headed off to his post at the computer. The embassy had recently installed a new computer system, which would streamline the application process and help the State Department flag suspicious or rejected applications. There was a considerable backlog, so he really needed to get a start on the day. On his way up to the computer room on the second floor of the Chancery building, he looked out a window and could see protestors milling about along the fence line.
On his way upstairs, he ran into Paul Myers, the station’s regional security officer, or RSO.
“Hey, Paul, looks like the protests are starting out early today,” said Chandler.
“Yeah,” replied Myers, “the Ayatollah has declared today National Students’ Day to commemorate some kids that were killed by the Shah’s secret police last year.”
“Are we doing anything special about it?” asked Chandler.
“There was some talk about closing the embassy, but Mr. Laingen decided against it.” Bruce Laingen was the chargé d’affaires—the officer in charge of the embassy in the absence of an ambassador. “Don’t sweat it, but stay alert. You never know when things can get sticky around here.”
“They don’t call it a ‘hardship posting’ for nothing,” said Chandler with a grin. It was unsettling to have so many people so angry at you. It didn’t help that they were just outside the walls of the compound. Chandler wasn’t too concerned, though. The embassy had been “captured” just nine months earlier, on Valentine’s Day. It had taken about three hours for the regional government to get control over the crowds. It was a frightening event, but in the end, there was only one man taken hostage and the affair was more or less over within a week’s time.
Chandler spent the next few hours peacefully entering data into the computer. Around ten o’clock, he decided it was time for a break. He headed down to the break room on the first floor to grab some coffee. As he stood there watching the cream swirl in the blackness, he heard a shout.
“Hey, they’re coming over the walls!”
Chandler looked out the window, but he couldn’t see anything from here. To get a better look, he crossed to the other side of the building, the south-facing side where the main entrance was, and looked out the office window.
“Holy shit,” he said. There were at least half a dozen men wearing face coverings in various stages of climbing the wrought-iron barriers that surrounded the embassy grounds. He walked down the hallway to the main entrance. There he again ran into Paul Myers, who raised his radio.
“This is a recall,” said Myers. “I need all Marines to the primary post.”
“Paul,” said Chandler, “what do I do?”
“Get up to the second floor and wait for instructions.” Both men started up the stairs.
“Is there anything I can help with?” asked Chandler.
“How’s your Farsi?” asked Myers.
“Passible—I spent my junior year at Ferdowsi University in Mashhad as part of the Georgetown exchange in seventy-five.”
“All right, stick with me and translate,” said Myers. “But try to stay out of the way. The Marines and I will handle any action.” After a second, he added, “Oh, and stay away from the windows.” The two men headed to the communication vault, where they were met by several of Myers’s Marines.
“Listen up, Marines. We’ve been through this before. We’re going to get through to the authorities and we’ll get them to settle these students down. Remember the rules of engagement. We can’t shoot anybody, but they don’t know that. So we’re going to arm up to convince them that we mean business. And no tear gas on the campus, but if anyone gets in the building, we’ll gas ’em.”
Myers was interrupted by a shout. “They’re coming in through the basement windows!”
Without hesitating, Myers said, “Quinn, round everyone up and get them to the vault. Roberts and Murphy, get down to the basement and put a lid on this thing.” With his orders given, Myers picked up the phone and started dialing.
His first call was to Bruce Laingen. Laingen was over at the Iranian Foreign Ministry and not on the embassy grounds. Chandler listened as Myers filled him in on the situation, and could hear Laingen reiterating that there would be no shooting of the protestors.
Myers hung up the phone and made a second call. From the sound of it, this call was to local law enforcement. Myers was trying to explain the urgency of the situation, but it sounded to Chandler like he wasn’t getting anywhere. After a few minutes, Myers slammed the receiver down.
“Dammit, this is bullshit,” said Myers. “Let’s get to the basement before this gets any more out of hand.”
They quickly descended the stairs two at a time, getting to the basement within a minute. Once there, Chandler could sense that the scene was about to turn south.
There were several Marines holding shotguns and shouting at the intruders. One of the Marines racked his shotgun, and there was a gasp among the students.
“Hold it!” said Myers. “Let’s get everyone calmed down a notch.” He scanned the crowd, trying to find someone who looked like they were running things. “Chandler, find out who’s in charge here.”
“Who is responsible here?” asked Chandler in Farsi.
“I am,” replied a young, bearded man, also in Farsi. “We do not want to harm you. We simply want to make a declaration.”
Chandler turned to Myers. “He says they just want to make a statement and that they don’t want to hurt us.”
“I see,” replied Myers. “Tell him that they can’t do that here. We need them to clear out of here. We are prepared to defend this area. Everyone needs to go back out through the windows.”
Chandler translated. The men looked at the Marine guards and the shotguns they held. With an air of resignation, they departed through the windows they had originally broken and climbed through.
Myers’s radio crackled to life. “Boss, we’ve got more trouble,” said one of the Marines.
“What is it?” asked the RSO.
“They’re on the roof. You’d better get up here.”
“Look,” said Myers, “we need to fall back to the second floor. We’re going to cede the low ground to these creeps.”
“Roger that, sir,” replied one of the sergeants. Both Marines followed Myers and Chandler up the two flights of stairs to the second floor. Once they made it there, they could hear the students stomping on the roof. A Marine guard approached Myers.
“I just chucked a canister of CS gas in each of the heads and secured the doors with rope. But they’re going to get in for sure if we don’t get some relief soon.” The sounds of windows breaking filled the corridor.
“OK,” said Myers, “let’s fall back to the vault.”
“Paul,” said Liz Swift, the Chief of the Political Section and the senior official on site, “we need to destroy these guns.” She pointed at the shotguns the two Marines from the basement were carrying. Myers hesitated. “If we’re going to be overrun, the guns are going to cause more harm than good. Mr. Laingen was clear that there was to be no shooting.”
“You heard the lady,” replied Myers, “break ’em down.” The Marines hurriedly broke down the shotguns and set the component parts aside. “I need everyone in the vault, and keep the shredders and incinerator going. We need to clear as much of this material as we can.” As the staff kept up the document destruction, Chandler heard the unmistakable sounds of the crowd bursting into the lower floor of the building.
“I’m going to go calm them down,” said Myers. “Mike, I could really use your help,” he continued, looking at Michael Metrinko, one of the best Farsi speakers on the staff. “No offense, kid,” he told Chandler, “but I want the big guns for this.” The two men left and closed the door behind them.
********
Howard Chandler had never been so afraid in his life. Eddie Cain came over to Chandler. “You know,” said Cain, “we get paid the same rate during times of international crisis.” Chandler recognized the use of humor under stress. It was a tactic he often used.
“The real crisis for you,” replied Chandler, “is going to be when Earl Campbell runs for a buck fifty on your fish tomorrow.”
“Keep thinking that, buddy,” said Cain. “Campbell’s good, but that defensive line is going to bottle him up and sell him.” Before they could continue, they heard shouting from the other side of the door.
“That doesn’t sound like it’s going well,” said one of the Marines. Then there was the sound of a single gunshot, followed by silence. After what seemed like an eternity, there was a pounding on the door. From the other side of the door came the call.
“It’s me, Mike,” said Metrinko. “They’ve killed Paul. They’re going to kill me next, and they’re threatening to burn down the building. I guess they know our playbook too well.” All eyes in the vault shifted to Chief Swift.
“Open the door,” she said without flinching. The Marine nearest the door unlatched the lock and turned the handle. The door flew open as the Iranians on the other side pushed it in. One of the Iranians yelled at them in Farsi. Metrinko translated for him.
“He says for everyone to get on your knees.” The man pointed at the Marine nearest him and said something to Metrinko. “OK… if he points at one of you, you need to come out into the hall.” The Marine went first, followed by another. The man was working his way through from the front of the vault to the back. Chandler lost count of how many had been brought out before it was his turn. When pointed at, he dutifully went out into the hall.
He was surrounded by armed and angry men. They pointed their guns at him and shoved him to his knees. Once he was on the ground, they bound his hands behind his back with a strip of fabric, then took a second piece of fabric and wrapped it around his eyes, blinding him. Now helpless, he was kicked in the back and fell over on his side. There was shouting and laughter. Someone yanked him to his feet and roughly dragged him down the hall. He was disoriented from the ordeal, but he was fairly sure that they took him to the room in the southeast corner of the building. He couldn’t remember whose office this was. His handler shoved him into a chair and bound him to it. He then heard the chilling sound of a semiautomatic pistol being charged. He felt the barrel against his head.
“Marg bar Amrika!” shouted a voice. Chandler’s heart stopped as he waited for death.
Click. The laughter of several men told Chandler that he wasn’t going to die just yet.
Chapter 2
4 November 1979
Situation Room, White House
Washington, D.C.
“How exactly did this come to pass?”
President Jimmy Carter’s question was reasonable enough, and it was a question that everyone in the room knew was coming. But knowing that a question was inevitable and having a satisfactory answer are two very different things. There was a lengthy pause as the President looked around the Situation Room. Before him had gathered his national security team. Opposite Carter was Harold Brown, the Defense Secretary. To Brown’s left was CIA chief Stansfield Turner. To his right sat General David C. Jones, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Sitting next to Carter were Secretary of State Cyrus Vance to his left, and National Security Advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski to his right.
It had been two hours since the first reports of students storming the US embassy in Tehran had come in, and so far all the incoming news was bad.
“Mr. President,” said Secretary Vance, “as you know, the situation in Iran has been tenuous for the past several years. Right now they are on the verge of civil war. We have been working to intervene. However, we’re in a very precarious position here. The Ayatollah and his allies have rallied their people by blaming Western greed and anti-Islamic influence for all the suffering of the Persian people. Our attempts to mediate as we did between Egypt and Israel at Camp David last year have stalled because of the perception that we’re biased in favor of the Shah. Frankly, it’s by the grace of God that things haven’t devolved into open fighting in the streets. The refusal of the Shah to relent is pushing this to the breaking point. His Prime Minister, Shapour Bakhtiar, is pushing to break up the SAVAK—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted the President, “the what?”
“Sorry, sir, the Shah’s secret police. They’re the force that has been persecuting the revolutionary movement. The Shah refuses to rein them in. In fact, the Shah seems in denial about what’s happening in the streets outside his palace.”
President Carter thought back to January, ten months before. The Shah had been ready to flee Iran and let Bakhtiar take over the government. However, his agents had told him of the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini’s plans to make a triumphant return to Tehran as soon as the Shah had fled. The thought of not only losing the country but losing it to Khomeini had been too much for him. Instead, the Shah had barricaded himself in his central palace and commanded the government and military from an increasingly isolated position.
“To be honest, Mr. President,” continued Vance, “given the situation on the ground, we should be thankful that things haven’t collapsed into total civil war. I think that our diplomatic restraint is all that has kept this from—”
Dr. Brzezinski broke in: “Are you suggesting that this is somehow a foreign policy victory… something we should be proud of?” As much as everyone had known Carter’s opening question was obvious, so too did everyone understand that Brzezinski and Vance would have a fight about it. President Carter knew better than anyone, and though he knew he couldn’t prevent it (in fact, he relied upon the conflict between their two philosophies to provide him with the right path forward for his administration), he sought to at least delay the fight.
“Gentlemen, we need to cut through the nonsense. To do that, I need to understand what happened. Once I’m satisfied that we have that, I’ll leave you to work on the solution.”
“As you say, Mr. President. Mr. Vance, please... continue.” Brzezinski may as well have told Vance to roll over and beg. It was clear that he was exerting his control over the room. There was a power struggle within the administration over foreign policy. These past few months had shifted the balance of power in favor of the National Security Advisor and away from the Secretary of State.
“Right… so… as I was saying, the Ayatollah has done a fair job of boxing us out of talks by labeling us a biased negotiator. This has been effective at preventing us from supporting the Shah as robustly as we would like. Our overt support of the Shah and specifically our sending in a team of doctors to treat the Shah’s leukemia and gallstones last month is being cited as evidence against us.”
Carter sighed. “We never should have sent those doctors. If Kissinger hadn’t held SALT hostage, we wouldn’t be here now.”
Earlier in the year, the former Secretary of State to Presidents Nixon and Ford had withheld his support for the second Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty (SALT II), unless the Carter administration would send a team of doctors to save the dying Shah. Carter and Vance saw SALT II as one of the pillars of the Carter legacy, along with the Camp David Accords. Keeping SALT II on track was paramount for the administration. Even though Carter himself had wanted to keep his distance from the Shah and give Prime Minister Bakhtiar time to settle the populace down, he had acquiesced.
“I wouldn’t bet on that, Mr. President,” said Vance. “It’s true the students are using this as a trigger, but if we hadn’t saved the Shah, they would have pointed to our history of arms sales, or even the CIA’s involvement in the coup of 1953. These students are supporters of the Khomeini faction and we believe that they’re trying to push the situation to the breaking point. They’re actively pushing for a revolution.”
“That’s all good and well, Cyrus, but you haven’t answered the question,” said Carter. “How the hell did this happen? Why didn’t we see this coming? We’re the United States of America, for God’s sake!”
“Mr. President, there have been peaceful demonstrations for the past year. Student groups have protested near our embassy frequently. There were no immediate indications that this was anything other than another peaceful protest.”
“Until it was no longer peaceful?” said Brzezinski.
“That’s right. Until it wasn’t. And when the protest turned into an occupation, our Marines were operating under State Department orders to deescalate the situation, and they disarmed as to avoid civilian casualties.” At this, Brzezinski shook his head in obvious contempt. “As a direct answer to your question, Mr. President, this happened because we’re trying to keep the peace between two sides in a potential civil war that could have a drastic effect on the entire region. I need not remind anyone in this room of the effects of the OPEC embargo of seventy-three. If we have war in the region, it could get out of our control in an instant. It is imperative that we maintain a peaceful transition of power to fill in the vacuum left by the isolation of the Shah.”
“Thank you, Secretary Vance. I appreciate your candor. I think we all agree that peace in the region is preferable to the alternative and that we need to work to ensure that this situation doesn’t spiral out of control. What are we looking at here? What are our options?”
“I think we really can’t define that until we understand what the students want. What are their demands?” said Vance.
“Nonsense,” said Dr. Brzezinski. “Mr. President, these are American citizens we’re talking about. Members of our foreign service and our military. It hardly matters what the demands of these terrorists are. If we’re to seriously engage with them, and give them anything in exchange for the hostages, all we will have done is to encourage every other angry group in the region to take hostages of their own.”
“Now, Zbig, it’s not black and white,” said Vance.
Brzezinski cut him short. “Cy, we’ve heard your position. Your thinking is that we need to negotiate with the terrorists and find out what they want so we can understand what we can give them. I reject this outright for the obvious reason I’ve already stated: capitulating to their demands will encourage further hostage-taking or even bolder attacks on our interests in the region. It’s clear that we must take firm and decisive action. And any firm diplomatic action must be accompanied by a military option, and the will to use force. The old saying is as true as it ever has been: ‘how they see you is how they perceive you.’” This last was met with furrowed brows, but everyone at the table had heard enough old Polish wisdom to allow Brzezinski to continue unabated.
“Mr. President, by all means, we must engage in a dialogue with these pirates. However, the result should not be some deal for them, but rather a plan on how to deal with them. My recommendation would be to work with State to find out as much as we can about these students. Let Mr. Turner work with his people in the Agency to get as much information as we can on the ground, and Dr. Brown and I will work together with the Joint Chiefs to get a real workable solution to this problem.”
“I see,” said the President. “Harry, Stan? Where do you stand on this?”
“From the Agency’s perspective, Dr. Brzezinski is right,” said Director Stansfield Turner. “Our mission is to support any executive response, be it diplomatic or military. I’ve already been in touch with our section leads for Iran, and we have assets in play. We’ll be working with Defense and the Joint Chiefs regarding the military situation on the ground, and we will funnel anything we can garner regarding the political situation to State. At the end of the day, Mr. President, we’re here to gather intelligence, and that’s precisely what we’re doing.”
When Turner finished, Secretary Brown spoke up. “As Director Turner mentioned, right now we don’t have the intelligence needed to create a plan of action. My recommendation is to move a carrier battle group to the area and start warming up our air bases in Southern Europe so that once we have some intel, we’ll be able to act quickly. We have Nimitz in the Mediterranean and we can transition her to the coast of Iran.
“We could pull in the USS Coral Sea as well. They’re in the western Pacific. We could deploy either or both battle groups to the area without drawing much attention,” said Secretary Brown.
“Any attention will be bad at this stage,” said Secretary Vance. “State will need all the maneuvering room we can get, and sailing thousands of sailors and hundreds of aircraft off the coast of Iran could destroy any hope we have of establishing our peaceful intentions.”
Dr. Brzezinski interjected, “Cy, our intentions are to protect our people and our interests in the region—”
Vance didn’t let him finish. “Zbig, we can’t do that if we don’t have any diplomatic options because we’ve spooked these rebels into a corner. You’ve laid out how you want military options in case diplomacy doesn’t work, and you’re already looking at military actions that will ensure that it doesn’t. Mr. President, we have got to keep this under control, and we cannot escalate the situation by antagonizing our adversaries at this early stage.”
“Enough.” The President shut down the discussion. “I have a sense of where things are. I understand that there are many forces at work here, and that we will have to take great care in how we move forward. At this point we’re keeping all options on the table, but we will not be making any overt moves that may interfere with our ability to handle this situation diplomatically. Cy, we will proceed with talks to understand what options State can come up with. Zbig, I need to be ready for the possibility that we cannot resolve this through talks. I need you to work with Harry and the Joint Chiefs to put together some military options. Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all.”
And with that, the men at the table rose and left the room, each saying, “Thank you, Mr. President.”
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