Dark Rising

by Greig Beck

  It was just after midnight. The door to the lab opened and shut with little more than the sound of a breath. A figure dressed in army fatigues moved in the dark to the recessed filing cabinets with a sure-footedness that came from prior knowledge of the room’s interior.

  All the cabinets were locked; not by something as simple as a flat key tumbler, but with the latest algorithm-based electronic security. Each drawer was in effect a stand-alone safe, protected by a quarter-inch of toughened steel and a ten-digit keypad.

  The figure crouched beside one of the drawers and pulled back the plastic glove on his left hand. Written on his wrist were eight numbers, which he entered into the keypad. A small red light turned green and the drawer popped open half an inch. The figure counted the folders within, stopped at a designated number and withdrew the file. He shone a pencil torch for a second on the title: Arcadian. It was the one.

  SIXTEEN

  Mostafa Hossein, the leader of the Islamic Guardian Council, watched President Moshaddam climb the podium in the UN Assembly hall. It was the first time an Iranian president had delivered an address to the world’s leaders and their representatives and he received a standing ovation as he stood at the lectern and looked out over his audience. To date, the president’s rhetoric had swung between brilliantly pragmatic to frighteningly apocalyptic, and Hossein knew that his appearance at the Assembly had been eagerly anticipated – by some for the entertainment value alone.

  Hossein nodded to several of the Middle Eastern representatives as he took his seat. Though Iran was in diplomatic conflict with many of the Western nations, Moshaddam had his international supporters and could count on them to deliver enthusiastic applause for any barb he may wish to sling at the West today.

  The president had been embarrassingly excited in the car, almost feverish. He was like a small boy who was only just managing to keep some great secret behind his lips, Hossein thought. He was calm now though – smoothing his slightly crumpled brown jacket before drawing from his pocket a wad of notes which he spread on the lectern. He shuffled them, looked up and smiled, then went back to silent reading and more shuffling. The silence in the room thickened, until it was almost a living thing filling the room with expectation and suspense.

  Moshaddam raised his arms, held forth both his open hands, closed his eyes and finally began to speak.

  ‘Distinguished heads of state, distinguished representatives, excellencies, ladies and gentlemen, praise be to Allah the merciful, the father of us all, the all-knowing and almighty God, for blessing me with this chance to speak to you here today, representing the great but humble nation of Iran before you, the international community.

  ‘The Almighty did not create humanity to make war on each other. He did not create humanity to lie, steal or cheat each other. Nor did he create humanity so it could batter, burn and bomb each other. Some nations are rich beyond belief, but they want more; they have nuclear arms, but don’t want others to have them; they profess to follow God, but allow their own people to degrade each other with unspeakable acts.’ The president lowered his hands, opened his eyes and sought out the unblinking stare of Harvey Benton, the United States’ UN representative. Moshaddam smiled slightly.

  His voice rose in volume and emotion as he continued. ‘How can any nation profess to love its fellow men while it allows its own people to murder each other in numbers the size of a small nation?

  ‘Distinguished people, I ask you, can you drink oil? Will money soothe the father of the child who has been crushed beneath a building that was destroyed by a bomb? Can you be happy amassing ever more wealth while there are nations that endure ever more poverty, suffering and misery?’

  There was total silence in the great hall. Moshaddam smiled condescendingly at Benton and leaned towards him slightly, as if daring him to challenge his words.

  ‘Who has more authority? The man who rules with the sword, or the man who leads with love and infinite wisdom? I tell you, the people of Iran choose love and wisdom. Today, most honoured dignitaries, when you sit down to your cake and sweetmeats, remember those who do not have even a single piece of bread due to the evil sanctions imposed by this gathering of nations. I have met many good and great leaders from around the globe who are living in fear, who are being strangled and bullied by a few permanent members of this very council. How can… no, why can a few nations, through the power of their wealth, their bombs and armies, decide to occupy and harvest the riches of other nations while we all sit idly by?’

  Hossein saw Benton catch the eye of the ambassador for Britain, who shook his head and rolled his eyes. Many other Western nation representatives wore expressions of disbelief or disdain. Hossein wasn’t surprised. He stole a quick glance at the Israeli representative. The man’s expression was stony, but his face was blood red. However, the Middle East nations, a few from South America and even some from Europe were nodding enthusiastically. And so the geopolitical lines become drawn again, thought Hossein as he stroked his long grey beard.

  The president lifted his hands in an almost beseeching manner – theatrics not lost on Benton or the other Westerners. ‘I say on behalf of all people of the Middle East: please leave our lands, we do not need you. Leave our people, they do not want you. Leave our faith, or you will answer to Allah and be judged most harshly.’

  He fell silent for some minutes, and a murmur began to ripple around the Assembly. At last, the president put his open palms on top of one another over his heart. ‘There are over six billion people in our world,’ he said, ‘and they are all equal before Allah. Do you think he would let some be free and others be subjugated? All are God’s creatures and worthy of respect. May the Almighty bless the heroic struggles of those valiant warriors of any faith who fight aggression, oppression, invasion and subjugation. For those who defend their faith, they shall talk to God before all others.’

  Moshaddam closed his eyes and spoke softly, as if in prayer. ‘Oh almighty God, all men and women are your creatures, and we beseech you to reveal the Hidden One, the Twelfth Imam, the Last Prophet, to guide us. Show us the Perfect Human who has been long promised, and let us be among his followers who strive for his cause. Make us worthy for the return of the Prophet.’

  The president’s eyes remained closed as he raised his finger and wagged it at the gathered delegates as if they were misbehaving schoolchildren. Hossein wondered if he was going too far.

  ‘The Last Prophet will return, the Hidden One, the Mahdi, and make himself known to the world of humanity. His return will be the most significant event since the coming of Mohammed, and will have dire consequences for the infidels and the apostates. His return will herald the Final Judgment and the end of history. He shall return at the head of the Forces of Righteousness to do battle with the hordes of evil in one final, apocalyptic war. When evil has been defeated once and for all, the Mahdi will rule the world for a thousand, thousand years and bring about perfect spirituality among all peoples.’

  Moshaddam opened his eyes, looked up at the spotlight high above him and smiled. He covered his heart with his hands once again, bowed and gathered his notes.

  Every representative from the Middle East was on his feet, stamping and applauding. The rest remained seated, with expressions of rancour or confusion on their faces. Not since Yasser Arafat brought a gun into the Assembly had there been such an obvious division amongst the gathered nations.

  Hossein saw Harvey Benton head quickly for the door, his phone in his hand.

  Hossein sat in the black Mercedes and watched as the Iranian president was rushed towards the waiting car. Two massive, black-suited bodyguards pushed photographers and journalists roughly out of the way to clear his path. A huge grin split Moshaddam’s face and his eyes shone with excitement. He climbed into the car and pulled Hossein in close to him so he could be heard over the flash of cameras and the shouts of the demonstrators held back from the vehicle.

  ‘My friend, they were like flies in honey. I believe Allah put the
m all under a spell as I spoke – and I know why. I felt the Divine light again. Did you see the halo appear around my head when I mentioned the Mahdi?’

  Hossein smiled but his eyes remained flat and impassive. The president was a deeply religious man, more so than any other president they had ever had, and like all good Muslims he lived his life solely by the teaching of the Qur’an. His fervour went far beyond that, however, and he was prone to seeing portents and prophecies in the most ordinary of things. It was said the president could see the names of the prophets in the curve of a hummingbird’s tongue.

  Hossein closed his eyes and sank back into the plush leather seat. He would talk to the Supreme Leader on his return. It was one thing to poke a finger in the eye of the United States; it was quite another to stand before them and talk of war.

  SEVENTEEN

  Marv Dasht Basin, Southern Iran

  The lighting inside the B2 Spirit turned a deep red and the double doors of the undercarriage slowly opened with a barely perceptible whine. The stealth craft slowed in its dash across the foreign airspace and a bone-chilling cold washed in as the speed corona caught up with the sleek dark shape.

  At 35,000 feet, nothing below was visible to the team clinging to the thin platform at the edge of the bomb doors. All they were aware of was an empty blackness and the scream of high-altitude wind being shredded by thousands of pounds of supersonic aircraft.

  All eyes were on Alex.

  Go. Alex heard the command in his earpiece and nodded at the team. Without a second thought, he dived into the square of rushing blackness. The others followed.

  Six human missiles streaked towards the earth, arms held tight by their sides and feet only slightly splayed to create an aerodynamic lightning-bolt shape. They cut through the thin air at nearly 400 miles an hour. The scream of the wind at this velocity would have shattered their eardrums if not for the helmets and lowered visors. Alex couldn’t contain the elation he felt and almost whooped with delight. Even so, he knew this wasn’t the highest jump that had ever been achieved. In 1960, an American Air Force captain by the name of Kittinger had descended from over 100,000 feet wearing a special pressurised suit. He’d reached a speed of 700 miles per hour, and nearly lost a hand due to the failure of his pressurised suit glove. The hand had swelled to the size of a football by the time he finally made landfall.

  The sun was coming up over the horizon, and at this altitude Alex could see the curve of the globe falling away around his team. There was little cloud below them and the green and brown of the Marv Dasht Basin at the foot of the Kouh-e Rahmat, the Mountain of Mercy, was visible. Soon he made out a small patchwork of sand-coloured structures at the foot of the mountain – the ancient ruins of Persepolis. They appeared to grow directly out of a massive spur of stone, hewn by giants from the surrounding natural rock. The lights of Shiraz, some thirty miles to the south-west, twinkled among the predawn shadows.

  Technically, the HAWC team could communicate with each other via the microphones built into their helmets, but the roar of air rushing past at high speed meant that conversations were limited to single-word commands or acknowledgements. It didn’t really matter; the HAWCs only needed to be briefed once – they knew what they had to do.

  At 20,000 feet, and a word from Alex, the team split into two groups. Alex had given Hex the lead over the Red team – Irish, Rocky and Adira; while he would lead the Blue team in, comprising Sam and Zach. Normally Sam would have been the Red team leader, but Alex wanted him to cover the young Israeli scientist as well as provide him with logistical support. They would only separate for a few miles, but if one of the teams was spotted – or, worse, engaged – the other team would provide covering support or complete the mission solo.

  Sam had drawn the short straw and had jumped with Zach strapped to his chest. Not such a bad deal for Sam really, as the young scientist absorbed most of the blasting wind. At those descent speeds and without hardened stomach muscles, Zach would be cramping for days.

  Alex watched out of the corner of his eye as the Red team became dots in the distance. He didn’t dare turn his head too much; even the slightest shift while in freefall at maximum speed could cause a broad looping turn or change of direction. He thought of Adira’s courage and the blind commitment she and her countrymen displayed. As expected, the Israelis’ network had come through before the Americans’ and Adira had organised for a few members of the local Mossad cell to meet them. Alex was in awe of these agents who often lived for years among another country’s people, knowing that being found out would mean extreme torture and violent death. Even on mission completion, their successes could never be acknowledged publicly as retribution had been known to follow many years later. These networks were tough, dedicated and highly professional.

  Thinking of the spy networks brought to mind his last conversation with the Hammer and the news of the break-in at the Fort Bragg medical facility. ‘It could have been Mossad,’his superior had said. Alex knew his file was kept in the underground vault called ‘deep secure’, but exactly what the file contained even he didn’t know. Hammerson had informed him that the intruder had obtained an administration shell – Alex wasn’t identified by name, and there were no photographs. But the supposedly secure facility had been compromised, and now someone knew enough about him to target him. And if it was Mossad then that information might find its way to Adira Senesh.

  Alex didn’t have time to worry about that now. Ground was coming up fast – it was nearly showtime. A chute was usually deployed anywhere between 5000 and 2000 feet. In a HALO jump, the covert low opening meant that no canopy plume would be deployed until below 1000 feet – you hit hard, but you were visible and therefore vulnerable for less time. With the extra weight, Sam would feel it the most – unless, of course, he used Zach as a cushion. Alex smiled; he knew exactly what Sam would do.

  Impact. Alex heard the grunts over his comm unit. At the velocity they were travelling, the chute gave an average-sized body a lot of jolt when it was slowed by eight-tenths of its drop speed in a few dozen feet. However, that was nothing compared to the impact on landing. At twenty-five feet per second, even with the best bent-knee drop and roll, there were a lot of sore bones the next day. Alex counted off the grunts. Good, he thought, all down.

  Sam unhooked a groggy Zach from his harness and half-dragged him to cover, while Alex quickly buried all the parachutes in the soft sand. An outcrop of rocks gave them some protection so they could communicate with the Red team who was now several miles to their direct north. All down, no broken bones. Good start, thought Alex.

  He looked over at Zach who had his visor up and was throwing up onto the sand.

  The Red team were burying their chutes when two blips of light flickered at them from out of the semi-darkness. The HAWCs flattened to the ground and drew their weapons, but Adira held up her hand and responded with a triple flicker from her own torch. Two men dressed in the robes and head shawls of desert tribesmen walked towards the group. One kept his eyes on the large Americans while the other spoke in hurried Hebrew to Adira. It was obvious to the watching HAWCs that she carried some rank by the way they treated her with military deference.

  ‘They called her “Seren”. I think that means captain. Hey, she outranks us,’ Lagudi said, straining to overhear.

  ‘Not in our fucking army,’ Irish said.

  Adira seemed to be asking numerous questions, and the men gestured in turn towards the north and the surrounding countryside. With a final few words, the men saluted Adira, nodded to the HAWCs and tracked back out into the dry and abrasive landscape.

  Adira pulled her sidearms from her backpack – two Israeli-designed Baraks. Hex raised his eyebrows, recognising the pistols and approving. Alex had offered her a handgun, but Hex could see why she had declined. The Baraks were blunt and businesslike, with double-action trigger, polymer square frame and rounded barrel; fast, durable and accurate weapons that gave the power punch of a magnum without the weight.

/>   Adira strapped both holsters on so the gun barrels pointed down towards her groin, creating a ‘V’ shape at her front that gave her rapid access and no side flaring. She slapped both pistols and practised her draw – fast. She looked very comfortable with the weapons.

  ‘Marry me,’ said Lagudi with open admiration.

  Adira ignored him, walked quickly back to the HAWCs and gestured out into the surrounding country. ‘There is a lot of activity in the area – we were right to think we were expected. There are numerous small teams of Takavaran-Iranian Special Forces – very tough and highly trained. We need to avoid them at all costs.’

  O’Riordan rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to dismiss the threat. Adira spoke directly to him. ‘We must not engage with these Iranian forces or we -’

  ‘Ah, for Chrissake, lady, I’m sure they give you Jewish guys a run for your money, but if you haven’t noticed yet, we ain’t you. They said the same fuckin’ thing about them elite Iraqi forces, and our standard ground troops bent’ em back in a day.’

  Adira stepped forward, her flat hand coming up towards Irish’s sneering face. ‘You are a stupid man,’ she said.

  Irish, probably wary of the last time her hand had come up, blocked her as if it was a strike, then punched his other hand hard into her chest.

  Adira went down, but not onto her back as Irish was probably expecting. She corkscrewed her body on the way to the ground, giving momentum to her legs, which swung around and knocked Irish off his feet. The second he hit the ground, she was kneeling on his chest, a finger and thumb pressed to each side of his windpipe. ‘Stupid men die here,’ she hissed into his ear.

  Hex tapped her on top of her helmet. ‘Let him up.’

  O’Riordan bounced to his feet, his face as red as his hair. He went to step back into Adira but Hex grabbed him by the collar. ‘Don’t make me report this to the captain.’