But what was so difficult to make pure was simple to make foul—provided one could gain access. The Israelis would secretly introduce minor impurities into the bombs. Instead of being as destructive as a small sun, each nuke would become about as destructive as a broken washing machine.
Bostic read in Khan’s mind nothing but confusion and defeat. The man was beginning to believe that Bostic was supernatural. Perhaps Osmani had been so close to creating the caliphate that Iblees, the Muslim equivalent of Satan, had sent him to the human realm to try to thwart the will of Allah.
“I’m not an associate of your devil,” said Bostic. “Although if he’s dedicated to preventing the death of innocents, he’s no devil to me. Regardless, I’m afraid millions of infidels are no longer going to die at your hands. Your fantasies about men, women, and children melting in the nova of a nuclear blast will never come true.”
Bostic raised a gun and pointed it at Khan’s skull. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said, waiting several additional seconds to let Khan contemplate what was about to happen. Finally, he sent three rounds through Khan’s brain, pulverizing an organ that had been filled with nothing but ugliness.
Craig Bostic let out a sigh of relief. At last he was no longer exposed to the putrid thoughts spraying from this wrinkled three-pound mass of cells, now as inert as the giant prune it resembled.
46
Bostic and his team drove in silence through the night, preparing for the end of their mission, two hours distant. They would drive an hour outside of Tehran and then spend another hour twisting up an unmarked path in the Alborz Mountains on four high-powered dirt bikes they had stowed in the back of the pickup.
Considering how close to Tehran Osmani’s hideout was, he had done well. His fortress was on top of a heavily wooded mountain ledge, invisible from the air and accessible only from below. Sensors and hidden cameras protected all approaches to his lair for miles, and he had planted mines that he could trigger remotely should he detect unwanted guests approaching.
Parties that evaded these more remote sensors would be greeted by trip wires and other booby traps closer in. If these were somehow avoided, there was a steel fence around his reinforced dwelling that could be electrified.
The money and effort that had gone into creating something so well hidden, and so impregnable, was impressive. The entire signals intelligence apparatus of the United States had failed to learn Osmani’s whereabouts, nor had numerous men on the ground, Americans or hired Iranian agents.
Not that knowing Osmani’s location would have helped prior to the arrival of Bostic’s team. Intelligence had made it clear that Iran’s nuclear arsenal was in the hands of Osmani loyalists, who would send nukes flying to targets in the US and Israel should Osmani be caught or killed. This put the Jihadist in an untouchable bubble, a safe space, that the most sensitive college freshman would envy.
With this as background, the mission objectives of Bostic’s team had been absurd. Find and nullify those Osmani loyalists able to trigger Iran’s nukes. Find and nullify Hakim Osmani. Find a way to disable Iran’s entire nuclear arsenal.
As Bostic had become acclimated to his abilities at the farm, he had begun to believe even these objectives were achievable. But he never could have imagined that they would be more than achievable, they would be simple. So quick and easy to accomplish that they weren’t even much of a challenge, assuming, of course, that the coming raid went off as flawlessly as they expected.
Mind reading was the ultimate cheat in the game of espionage. In every game. It turned deadly missions behind enemy lines into errands as dangerous as buying a carton of milk in a Beverly Hills grocery store.
In one sense it was exhilarating to be able to accomplish so much, so effortlessly, but in another, mind reading made things too easy. Bostic wasn’t sure he liked it, since it added a constant source of irritation enough to drive one to insanity, and subtracted any adrenaline rush or sense of excitement.
Superman could stop an armed robbery with ease, no adrenaline or wits necessary. When he did so his limits weren’t tested in the least, and he didn’t need courage or bravery.
In short, invulnerability could be boring.
And when it came to the current mission, Bostic would rather have his powers than those of the man of steel. Strength, flight, and speed were nice. X-ray vision was good, too. You could use it to see inside a safe. But if you could read the mind of the man controlling the safe, you didn’t need to see inside. You could know everything you would find, along with the purpose and history of each item.
Bostic had no idea that an ability that seemed like a nice parlor trick would turn him into a superhero and make him absolutely unstoppable, like a god. More powerful than any man who ever lived.
They had arrived three days earlier in Tehran and settled into a shelter an Iranian agent had provided for them. And then Bostic got to work. Within hours he had found a concealed position near the Iranian parliament building downtown, where Iran’s two-hundred and ninety legislative representatives met. If one wanted a place to start looking for duplicity, moles, hidden leaders contemplating coups, or dirty laundry of any kind, a large group of high-ranking politicians was the place to start.
Bostic also paid a visit to the Sa’dabad Complex, eleven miles from downtown, which was adjacent to the residence used by Iran’s president. The complex was a veritable royal park, with natural forests, streams, museums, galleries and numerous residences, including a White House, not that dissimilar to the one Timothy Cochran now inhabited in Washington DC, although the complex also sported a Black House and a Green House.
Bostic’s trip to read the mind of President Zarif wasn’t even necessary, as he had gotten everything he needed from Iran’s parliamentarians, but he had done it for good measure.
There was a theory called six degrees of separation, which stated that every person was six or fewer links away from every other person in the world. This meant that a random person could be introduced to another random person anywhere on Earth by a friend of a friend of a friend, and so on, with a maximum of six friends in the chain.
In the case of finding those engaged in crime, bribery, treason, or for that matter, finding any bad actor that one could imagine, in hiding or otherwise, one couldn’t do any better than starting the chain with a body of professional politicians. In this case, all the evils of the world were usually only a few links away. In many cases they were resident in the politicians themselves.
Zero degrees of separation.
Bostic had no trouble finding men in Tehran that one or more legislators suspected of being loyal to Osmani, reading them, obtaining further leads, and reading additional minds, until he quickly found everything he was after.
In two days he had turned the impossible into the laughably simple.
He had been on previous missions in Iran one thousandth as challenging, but these had brought a constant rush of adrenaline. They had forced him to pick his way through the ultimate figurative minefield, requiring his full attention at all times. Who was your friend and who was your enemy? Was there anyone you could trust? Was there an ambush waiting around the next corner? Did the terrorist you just captured have a hidden knife with your name on it?
To stay alive you had to be at your most alert, most aware. You had to exercise intuition, listen to your gut, play detective.
Not anymore. At least not for him.
Bostic’s musings were interrupted as the pickup he was in completed the first leg of the journey. The soldier at the wheel, Nick Daniels, pulled it carefully off the road and drove deep into a wooded ravine, hiding the pickup the best he could behind a cluster of trees and thick vegetation. He then turned off the lights, plunging them into darkness.
Each of the four men slipped on night-vision goggles. Only a few years earlier this technology had been bulky and somewhat unwieldy, but recent advances had turned these contraptions into something as sleek and light as the goggles used by Olympic swimmers.
Bostic could feel his adrenaline level rising already. This was more like it. If he hit a felled tree or misjudged a turn on a dirt bike, no mind-reading skill in the world would save him from the consequences.
47
The four commandos slowly and steadily zigzagged up the slope, having to stop at obstacles on several occasions and carry their bikes over them. The bikes had been modified and advanced noise-canceling technology applied to reduce their acoustic signatures, but the men still stopped two miles from Osmani’s stronghold and continued on foot.
Bostic could have called in a drone strike, but in a case like this he needed to be certain Osmani had been taken out. Besides, the aftermath of a more up-close-and-personal action would leave a lot of generals and intelligence officers in Iran scratching their heads, marveling at the capabilities and reach of the American military, since those in the know would recognize the signature of a Navy SEAL mission when they saw it.
“Ready?” said Bostic to the three men beside him, and each indicated their readiness in turn.
“I’ll take point,” he continued. “Potomac will take the rear. I’m not reading anyone between here and Osmani’s fortress, but let’s operate with maximum quiet, as though the enemy might be near, just for good practice. Telepathy channel only from here.”
Everyone acknowledged the order and they began their climb to Osmani’s stronghold, slipping quietly through the terrain as a dense colony of bats winged overhead, made eerily visible by their night-vision technology.
Bostic had reconned Osmani’s stronghold the night before. Everything he read from Osmani’s mind and the minds of his guards had been sent to his comrades through their implants. While they would follow Bostic as a matter of routine, stepping precisely where he stepped, each could navigate to their destination without tripping any sensors or being seen by any cameras. Their internal PDAs were just as capable as Bostic’s was in taking the information he had provided and using it to plot a flawless approach.
They made it to the top without incident, which would have been impossible for any team without Bostic on it. Another case in which a mind reader could outdo the legendary Superman himself. Without mind reading, Clark Kent would never have learned Osmani’s location in the first place, nor managed to make it there without tripping any alarms.
Given the compound’s reliance on electronics and cameras to warn them of any approach, there were only two bodyguards patrolling the grounds, each with automatic weapons and night-vision goggles of their own.
Bostic read pertinent information from both guards and had his PDA send a text message from one to the other, making it appear to have come from the correct address.
Found something unusual, read the message in Farsi. You have to see this. I’m at the south end of the complex, just inside the first outcropping of trees.
Bostic informed his teammates over their telepathic channels that the message had been sent.
“Daniels and I are in place,” sent Larry Potomac through the implants. “Let us know when he takes the bait.”
“Roger that,” replied Bostic.
There was always the chance the guard wouldn’t bite, or would text something back, but they had planned for both of these possibilities. Bostic read the bogey’s mind. It was a breach of protocol for him to leave his post for even a few seconds, but his curiosity was getting the better of him.
The man checked the computers and monitors once again, verifying that there was zero activity, even from a stray animal that might have tripped a sensor, and decided he could leave for just a few minutes.
“He’s on his way,” reported Bostic to the entire group.
“We’re ready for him,” transmitted Potomac. “Daniels and I have taken up positions behind flanking trees.”
“I’m in his mind,” sent Bostic. “I’ll let you know if he detects you somehow.”
“He won’t,” replied Potomac with absolute conviction.
The guard journeyed quickly to where his comrade’s message had specified. “Bijan,” he called out to his friend softly as he stepped inside the tree-line. “What have you found?”
Daniels slipped soundlessly away from his concealed position and emerged swiftly behind the guard, drawing a razor-edged knife across the man’s throat with a single savage motion, lowering him carefully to the ground and avoiding the gusher of blood he had created.
He reported his success to the team and they repeated the same exercise with the second guard, who was felled minutes later.
Bostic decided that in carrying out this exercise, he and his men had been about as challenged as grizzly bears cheerfully waiting in a stream for hapless salmon to leap into their mouths. Or hapless guards in any event.
Bostic felt a tinge of guilt. These men never had a chance. He had no problem with hunters who used a bow to bring down a deer, and who planned to eat what they killed. But mind reading was like using a laser-sighted sniper rifle on a deer who was stuck in molasses. Hardly sporting.
The stronghold was now unprotected, at least by men, and Bostic knew the combination required to get inside the residence and the password required to disarm the alarms.
They entered the main structure without a sound. Osmani and eight additional men were inside, all asleep until their shifts rolled around.
“Anyone up?” transmitted Isaac Torres.
Bostic shook his head. “Like babies dosed with sedatives,” he replied.
Bostic transmitted the location of the eight men within the premises and his team made short work of them. Each of the eight were now sleeping even more soundly, but doing so with severed jugulars and in pools of their own blood.
Finally, the entire team reached Osmani’s sleeping quarters and entered silently.
Bostic had read the night before that the man slept with a gun under his pillow and one on his nightstand. He monitored Osmani’s mind to be sure he wasn’t awakening and gently removed both weapons.
Bostic nodded to his teammates, who each removed their goggles as he flipped on the light. “Rise and shine, shithead!” he barked in Farsi.
Osmani bolted awake, immediately having the presence of mind to reach under his pillow. When he found nothing but mattress there his hand darted to his nightstand, which was now equally unhelpful. He shouted for his guards as his eyes adjusted to the light.
Bostic noted absently that this was one of the more impressive reactions to being startled awake he had seen. “Your men aren’t coming,” he said casually. “It’s just you and us.”
“Who are you?” whispered Osmani, his eyes wide.
“I’m getting that question a lot lately,” said Bostic. “I’m a pissed off Westerner who wants you dead.”
Bostic shook his head. “Here’s the thing, Hakim,” he added in contempt, “Tel Aviv and New York are two of my favorite cities. I’d hate for them to be turned into ashes. Not to mention the millions of innocent people who live there.”
“You’re a fool,” spat Osmani. “I have moles within Iran’s nuclear command and control. Lay a finger on me and the nukes you’re worried about fly right now. If you don’t believe me, I can prove it to you.”
“Oh no,” said Bostic, “we believe you. In fact, I just finished a chat with one of your moles around midnight, just before we came here to kill you. A man named Rasoul Khan. He thinks you’re a giant asshole. He couldn’t wait to screw you over.” He shook his head sadly. “You really aren’t the judge of character you think you are.”
Osmani was reeling from the mention of Khan, but his face took on a new resolve. “Khan is only one of my moles. I have others.”
Bostic sighed. “Yes, we know. Three o
thers, in fact. But these three are already screwing virgins in heaven, I’m afraid.”
Osmani looked ill, his world turned upside down in moments. “I have powerful followers in the Iranian government and elsewhere,” he barked as ominously as he could. “Kill me and they will make sure your death is not an easy one.”
“Yeah,” said Bostic. “I’ve heard that one before too. Not so long ago.”
He put three bullets through Osmani’s brain, matching what he had done to Khan. “I guess I’m willing to take my chances,” he whispered, standing over the Jihadi leader as the man’s white sheets began to turn red.
48
President Cochran couldn’t sleep, so rather than disturb his wife he padded into the Oval Office to get some work done, ignoring the ever-present Secret Service agents who shadowed him as he did.
He was riding a natural high that was amazing. Seal Team Six-and-a-half had succeeded beyond all possible expectations. His gamble had paid off in a huge way.
Now he had been intimately involved with stopping the slaughter of little girls in a stadium and in preventing an unpreventable coup and nuclear strike by Iran. And, lest he forget, helping to ensure that Iran’s entire arsenal would soon be rendered inert.
As great as this felt, it was killing him that he couldn’t publicize these triumphs. He was a glory hound like any politician, and he had never been the type to make anonymous donations to charities. When he donated, he wanted the credit for it. Credit, bold successes, and the building of an unassailable legacy were the currencies of his realm.
Oh well. His decisions had saved millions of lives, and being unable to shout this from the rafters only detracted from the warm glow he now felt by a smidgen. Some day his legacy would be known. Some day the true story would be written.
MindWar (Nick Hall Book 3) Page 27
