by Joseph Nagle
The Director of the NRO suddenly jumped in and informed the remaining men, “Of course, we expressed our vehement concern that Iran would reprocess the rods in order to obtain the plutonium from the enrichment process for bombs. Along with a couple of experts from the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology and the NRO, we quietly required that the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) include these men in the inspections at Bushehr. We needed to make certain that Iran was not further processing them for plutonium.”
The President eyed the Director of the NRO curiously and said, “To me, it sounds like you know of Operation Merlin.”
The Director of the NRO responded bluntly, “Yes, Mr. President, I did.”
The President looked at the Director of the NRO and didn’t know quite what to say about this, but decided that he would find those words at another time. He looked back toward Director Fundamen who was now pouring himself a much needed cup of coffee and ordered, “Dick, continue.”
Before the Director could move forward, the head of the National Security Council asked, “Dick, I have never heard of this operation, why not?”
“Need to know, Sam,” was the man’s pithy response.
“What the hell do you mean, ‘need to know’? What kind of crap is that? I am the head of the National Security Council. If anyone should know about an operation linked to Iran’s nuclear weapons capability then it is me.”
Dr. Samuel Montag was a small man that appeared physically incapable of doing anyone much physical harm, but had a reputation as a hot head. He was not afraid to go verbally toe-to-toe with anyone.
“Correction, that person would be me,” The President’s statement had an undertone of finality, “Dick, I am waiting.”
“Mr. President, LWR’s typically need to be refueled each year or so; the rods that Iran used in the reactor were to be returned to Russia.”
“‘Were to be returned,’ are you implying that the CIA had intelligence that they weren’t?”
“Yes, Mr. President, we did.”
“Thus was born Operation Merlin?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Director Fundamen, what precisely did Operation Merlin accomplish?”
He took his seat and placed onto the table the expensive porcelain cup – full of newly poured steaming black coffee – which was emblazoned with the seal of the President of the United States on its side. What he was about to tell the President, Vice President, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the head of the National Security Council was the last thing that Director Fundamen wanted to say, but he had no choice, “Operation Merlin gave the Iranian’s the blueprint to build a nuclear weapon.”
The air that circulated under the quiet buzz of the overhead ventilation system felt as if it had been instantaneously sucked from the room. The power that encircled each man vanished. Like young boys having their noses bloodied for the first time, they looked powerless, without direction, and in need of their mothers.
The Vice President looked to his leader silently begging for him to say something. The President slowly removed his rim-less glasses and carefully placed them on the table in front of him. He rubbed the bridge of his nose for some time, longer than necessary. Through his closed eyes, he wondered if he had not correctly heard the words that had escaped from the Director of the CIA’s lips.
After an excruciatingly long moment, he looked up, “Dick, did you just say that we gave Iran the bomb?”
“Yes, sir, we did. Operation Merlin’s intent was to send Iran a decoy, to give them enough of a blueprint that they would have to work on it for years to perfect.”
“I don’t fucking understand, Dick!” The normally composed General Diedrick was clearly irate, “Why in God’s fucking name would you give Iran, an Islamic Republic, the ability to build a nuclear weapon without the consent of everyone in this room? Which, might I add, you would have never received! I am absolutely confused, they are our enemy!”
“General, please calm down. You don’t understand.”
“Well make me understand because half of me would like to come around this table and shove that fucking cup down your throat, and the other half wants me to put that saucer up your ass!”
The President said nothing at the threats only staring vigorously at the Director. Sometimes a little inter-office friction can go a long way, and, quite frankly, he was thinking the exact same thing.
The small world that the men sat in was caving fast around Director Fundamen; he felt the compressing pressure upon him and took a deep breath, “Gentlemen, Operation Merlin intended to provide Iran with flawed instructions. Iran was to receive a blueprint for a TBA 480 high-voltage block. The Russian made firing set is what creates the implosion that triggers a nuclear reaction. We didn’t intend to give them the real blueprints, the one we provided purposely contained errors. This was designed to slow down the acceleration that was already occurring in their weapons program. It was supposed to take the Iranian scientists ten years or more just to find the flaw which would put their program back to square one. They were supposed to waste their time building a flawed firing set.”
“Director, I know I speak for every man in this room when I ask the question, just what in the hell happened because clearly Iran does have what you and the head of the NRO has confirmed as a nuclear bomb, correction, nuclear bombs?”
Director Fundamen looked ashamed, “Mr. President, we have had a Russian nuclear expert on our payroll since his defection years ago. His assignment was simple. He was to travel to Vienna and give the flawed plans to the Iranian representatives of the IAEA.”
General Diedrick spoke up, “If you gave them flawed instructions then why are we so worried. The nuclear-tipped Ghadr won’t be able to work, right?”
“Unfortunately, no, General, the Ghadr’s will work. There was a problem with Operation Merlin. The scientist turned on us. The man hand delivered the instructions to the Iranians by shoving them under the door of an office building they were using in Vienna and included a note on the flaw.”
“Director Fundamen, it would appear that your Trojan horse failed.”
“Yes, Mr. President. That would seem to be the case.” The Director didn’t have any other words for the moment.
With the marks of obvious concern the President of the United States rose to his feet. He leaned over the table placing both hands firmly upon it and spoke, “Gentlemen, it appears that this declaration of war upon us by Iran is much more serious than we first imagined.”
With the same precision and firm grasp of power that helped the President into office, he was now clearly acting as the country’s Commander-in-Chief, “General take us to DEFCON 3, put the 6th fleet on alert and move the 5th further into the Persian Gulf toward Bushehr. General, where is the 7th fleet currently?”
“Sir, the majority of the 7th has been conducting exercises on the western side of Australia. I suggest that we call off the training and move them further north toward Mumbai, I can have authorization from their Prime Minister for permission to be in their waters and within the hour.”
“Yes, yes. Do that, General, make it happen.”
The President looked to the rest of the men, “We are facing war and may need to counter the declaration of Iran with one of our own. The public will need to be carefully informed, and I am not yet prepared to do that. The hysteria that the threat of nuclear war will create will ripple through the country like wild fire, we cannot let this happen. I do not want any loss of civilian life due to a panic. By God I aim to ensure that this does not go nuclear, nothing of Merlin leaves this room, the public cannot know! That is a direct order!”
All of the men nodded.
General Diedrick jumped to his feet, and shouted, “Yes, sir!” He burst through the closed door of the Situation Room. The hallway outside was still filled with every official and staff member that had been excused carrying confused looks upon their faces.
“Colonel Nosal!” the General shouted for
his aide.
“Right here, sir.”
“Colonel, get me to the Pentagon now!”
The President turned toward his heads of the NRO and CIA, “Gentlemen, I will deal with you two later. I suggest that you stay within shouting distance of the White House."
Chapter Thirty-Five
Denver University
Denver, Colorado
The sun was sinking fast toward the peaks of the Rocky Mountain Range to the West, the direction Michael drove, and glared directly into his eyes. Interstate 70 was always busy, no matter the time of day. Today was the same as always, but drivers were a bit more cautious when the sun hung low in the sky taking its aim at their faces. Soon it would sink behind the mountain tops, and Michael could take off his dark shades – a driving staple for any true Coloradoan – and the traffic would speed up. It felt good to be traveling by car and no longer sitting on a plane.
In his car, his mind was sharply tuned in to his memories of Syria and on the book that he now possessed. His father had become so excited when he heard that Michael had had it. Michael, however, became more confused, more concerned. His father’s words seemed to come straight from a fantasy: how does a two-thousand year old biblical story fit into present day politics and armed conflicts? The very idea of an esoteric society pulling the strings of mankind was outright ludicrous.
But the book outlined so many things that had happened, and things that were about to happen. The Ayatollah’s death was written in the pages of the book before it had occurred and seemed to offer some validation of its validity. The next name on the list was the Pope’s.
“Dad, I hope you can help,” Michael whispered out loud.
At the intersection of Evans Avenue and University Boulevard, and near his father’s office at Denver University (DU), Michael was waiting to turn left, the oncoming traffic seemed endless. The light went from green to yellow and then turned red. As he was turning left, a couple of cars ran the red light forcing Michael to take evasive action. Counter-steering as only a trained professional can, and slamming on the gas, in a whirl of smoke laced spinning tires and loud screeches, Michael was able to fishtail the car just enough to avoid having his backend flattened by the oncoming cars.
“What the hell is wrong with you damn idiot, Denver drivers?” Michael shouted at his closed car window. He was not really yet cognizant that no one in particular could hear his diatribe and continued screaming, “You fucking morons won’t pull out into an intersection to make a left, but a red light means four more of you can go! Just one time I would love to get my hands on one of you bastards!”
Steaming, he pulled through the intersection and made an immediate right into a small parking lot where his father’s office overlooked the intersection. He parked the car and took one long heavy breath. The extended sigh was necessary to cool him off from his bout of road rage, but also needed in preparation to see his father.
“Okay, Michael, do not argue with your father,” he said to himself. It was a quick reminder that he was here on business. This was not going to be a family reunion.
Outside of his father’s officer door, he stared at the plaque, “Dr. Michael J. Sterling Sr. – Professor of Middle Eastern Studies and Religious History.”
A voice drifted trough the closed door, “Come in, Michael.”
Michael pushed the door open; his father was standing before him with an intertwining look of both nervous anguish and uneasy pleasure. The man was a near carbon copy of Michael: an older version. The resemblance was uncanny.
“How did you know I was outside of your door?”
“I heard the squealing of spinning tires, horns blaring, and no crash; you are the only guy I know that would hit the gas instead of the brakes when about to be in an accident.” He didn’t tell his son that he had been perched unmovable - like a sentry - in his office window for the better part of the past hour and had been staring onto the street, watching for his son’s arrival.
The two men, father and son, stood in the middle of the elder’s office, surrounded by the clutter of stacks of books, and stared at each other. Dr. Sterling Sr. was holding the recent essay by Christopher Hitchens, god is not Great, in his hand. Neither said a word.
The silence became unsettling, Michael was about to open his mouth when his father dropped the book and rushed to his son. Grasping him firmly he caressed the wound on his son’s face, “Son, I have missed you,” the tears welled in his eyes. “I can’t stand the way we’ve been. Son, about what you do…”
Michael pushed himself away, “Dad, I don’t want to talk about this. I did come here to argue about my job!”
“Michael, listen to me, you have it wrong. What I want to say to you is that, even if I don’t agree with some of your choices, I want you to know that I accept them.”
Michael wasn’t sure if he believed him, “Really? Why the sudden change in your ideology? You hate the government.”
“My beliefs have not changed and I do not hate our government, I just dislike the way some men choose to govern us. But that doesn’t matter. They way we have been, the things that I miss… Michael, there is nothing stronger than the love a father has for his son,” the tears were streaming now, his father’s voice was shaking, “and I cannot go my life without having you in it. You have made your choices, and I have been wrong to punish you for them, to punish you for my beliefs. You are a good man, Michael, and I trust your judgment. This world has some real problems and if anyone can help I know that you can.”
Michael didn’t know what to say other than what was really on his mind, “I’ve missed you, too, Dad.”
“Now,” his father stood straighter, wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his tweed coat, and carefully looked his son up and down, and asked, “What’s going on? You look like you’ve been mugged, how did this happen?”
Michael’s appearance was the furthest thing from his mind and just shrugged his shoulders as if defeated, “What do you want me to say, Dad?”
“So it is true, you were in Syria weren’t you? You were in that Mosque?”
Michael said nothing.
His father trembled with the emotion that a parent feels knowing that their child had faced death, it is indescribable in any fashion other than it consumes the body. He felt as if his ability to stand was starting to dwindle, but remained upright.
Michael saw his father go white, “Dad, I can’t tell you about it, but I am okay.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything, I am just glad you are here and in one piece.”
His father looked at him with deep consternation; Michael knew the question that his father wanted to ask.
“Dad, I didn’t have anything to do with the Ayatollah, you need to know that. I am not sure what transpired in Iran, but it wasn’t me.”
The elder man stared at his son for a few moments and contemplated before saying, “Michael, like I just said, I trust you; I trust what you are doing. I just hope that the US doesn’t attack Iran now that they’ve declared war on us.”
“What are you talking about, Dad? They’ve declared War? When did this happen?”
“You don’t know?” His father looked a bit confused but quickly understood, “You were on the plane, how would you have known? They declared war on us son, they want the US to hand over the person responsible for the Ayatollah’s death, and apparently we have less than forty-eight hours to comply. I guess they think it’s you, Michael.”
Shit it’s already happening, thought Michael, “Dad, I really didn’t have anything to do with that, I have no clue what’s happening, but the attack in Syria and the Ayatollah must be connected and I aim to find out how.”
The elder Dr. Sterling put a hand on his son’s shoulder, “Look at me, Michael,” Michael lifted his eyes and met his father’s. “I know you didn’t do it, now show me the book.”
“Thanks for believing me, Dad.”
Slowly, Michael lifted his shirt and pulled the book from where he had tucked it in at the s
mall of his back. His father could hardly believe what he was looking at. Until now, he only knew of its existence through his research. Most in the academic community mocked his publications that spoke of it; it has been some time since he last published anything relating to The Hand of Christ.
He cleared a place on the table nearest his desk. It had become dark outside and his father compensated by turning on the table’s low wattage lamp. Michael placed the book on the table underneath its glow. The cover was facing up; the large Roman numeral “I” embossed into the leather stared at the two men.
Michael Sr. stared at the book like a six-year-old that just woke up and raced to the Christmas tree seeing his very first dirt bike underneath it. He reached to touch it, but quickly withdrew his hand before doing so.
“Michael, go over to my book case, the second drawer from the bottom. Open it; get me the cotton gloves that are in it.”
Obediently, Michael did what he was told while his father hovered over the top of the book.
Handing the gloves to his father, the elder man donned them; he wanted to protect the ancient book from the invisible oils and dirt particles that were on every person’s hands.
“Dad, that thing has been through a battle, four flights, and has been next to my skin for the last nine hours. I don’t think touching it will do any more harm than already has been done.”
His Dad looked at him like he had just committed the ultimate sin, and glared, “No reason to make it worse.”
Michael watched his father open the book slowly. He turned the pages with excruciating care. Each turn of each page caused the man’s entire disposition to shift; he looked as if he had just found the Holy Grail.
“Michael, do you know what this is?”
“The Hand of Christ?”
“Yes, the Hand of Christ, but it is more. If this is real, it is definitive proof that Jesus did not die on the cross.”
“What do you mean if it is real?”
