“Are the parts on track for delivery this week as scheduled?”
“Yes, they will be there.”
“Excellent. I’m astounded at our recent ability to increase the amount of spent fuel being retained at Bushehr. We’ve gone from 25% to 35% without the nuclear inspectors noticing. That equates to a great increase in the amount of weapons grade uranium we are able to produce. We are almost at our goal. Our top researcher, a bright young man named Azad, is working feverishly. He will be rewarded greatly.”
“Speaking of keeping off radars, you never mentioned to me the Natanz employee that betrayed you. I had to hear about that from other sources.” Koslov could not believe the story when it was told to him. The Iranians were not known for allowing prisoners to be rescued. That was one thing that Russia and Iran truly had in common.
Samani’s lowered his voice to a treacherous tone. It pained him to think of the incident. He was clearly burning with hot rage inside at the thought of the lost captive. “Yes, well, to our dismay, Arash Jafari was rescued, by what we believe was the American special forces, before we made the connection between him and the computer virus at Natanz. You can bet that our internal security at all the plants have been entirely revamped since. That can never happen again.”
“Well you better make sure that nothing of the sort occurs at Bushehr. We have too much invested in this venture.”
“I’ll see to that and you see to the quickening of our scheduled plans.”
“I’ll see what can be done. Have a good day Hadi.”
“You as well.”
Neither men truly wished either a good day. As is for most powerful men, they wished only for their interests to be advanced and secured.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC
Jack Fitzsimmons felt good for the first time in a long time. For a man who sat with great power in the Oval Office, Jack Fitzsimmons rarely felt powerful. The majority of the time he could feel his nervous stomach acids eating away at the lining of his gut as his mind raced blindly in a million different directions. Since he had taken office, he had felt as if he had not had the traction to truly implement any of his own vision or agenda. Instead, he felt as if circumstances, exterior powers, and unexpected inertia carried him to and fro haphazardly like a ship caught in an unbridled Nor’easter.
Not today though. Jack was on his second read of his briefing regarding the covert mission in Iran that he had green-lit weeks prior. His foreign spy asset was recovered without leaking any info about his activities or whom he was working with. The team that extracted him suffered only one casualty, and the Iranians were undoubtedly beside themselves. By now, Stuxnet 2.0 was systematically deconstructing their centrifuges and wreaking havoc on their nuclear ambitions. Samani and the mullahs were acting normal in public—threatening the end of Israel, condemning the big Satan, and claiming the Mahdi is with them. Nowhere in the western press, Al-Jazeera, or anywhere did any sign of turmoil surface in regard to Iran’s nuclear path. But Jack reckoned not all was so pretty behind the curtain. They had to be sweating the setbacks that they had been dealt, and one could only guess how much more time had just been purchased by the US and Israel, but some serious breathing room had likely just been accomplished.
Feeling satisfied with some success on something, Fitz took in a deep breath. With that, his expected call came through.
“Chaim! How are you this morning?”
“I’m doing well Mr. President. Very eager to hear your thoughts. I did receive and read your report.” The Prime Minister of Israel was all business with Fitz, often times as a means to disguise his inherent dislike of the man.
“Yes, I’m very satisfied with the outcome. Our men have completed several key goals of the Operation Persian Trinity mission. We’ve caused serious supply interruptions with the raw materials at Esfahan, unleashed the vicious Stuxnet 2.0 virus at Natanz, and successfully extracted our foreign spy asset from captivity at Evin. We still have some work to do at Bushehr, but we’ve already, undoubtedly, created some substantial breathing room by our efforts.”
“I’m fully aware of these successes and am pleased as well. This is a good and necessary step. But these are only steps. They’ll not alleviate the ultimate need for more direct force, and they’re only roadblocks in the Iranians eyes, not game stoppers.” Chaim tried hard to keep a tone of gentle disagreement.
“Chaim, I understand your position. That said, I do believe we can continue to contain the Iranian problem through constant disruption, subterfuge and targeted assassinations. No one can afford a military attack on Iran’s nuclear facilities. The risks and ramifications are too large.” Fitz’s tone was casual and unconvincing.
“I would love to believe you were onto something with your analysis, but I don’t, and you know that. We’ll give it some more time, now that it appears we have some. But our end game has not changed, as the Iranians end game has not changed. They’re charting the course of this charade. We’re simply planning necessary responses to ensure our survival. Thank you for all your work and cooperation with these missions, Jack. The people of Israel are extremely grateful.”
“You’re welcome Chaim. We’ll continue to do what we can, within reason.”
“Yes, of course. Hopefully we’ll agree with the definition of ‘reason’ as time goes on.”
With that, the call ended. Fitz shook his head with a sense of disbelief in what he viewed as the obstinate nature of the Prime Minister’s views. Fitz was never going to authorize an official US attack on Iran and would never publically support an Israeli attack on Iran. Everyone knew this. Fitz still harbored sympathy towards Israel’s enemies and resentments towards Israel, but he had to continue pursuing the disruption campaigns. Fitz thought about how different he believed the geo-political landscape would be right now if Israel simply did not exist. In his mind, they were the sticking point holding up so much movement towards progress. All from a country that was the size of Rhode Island.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
THE MCINTYRE RESIDENCE, ROMEO, MICHIGAN
It was three thirty in the afternoon and the shades were pulled down and no light was permitted to creep into Blaze’s bedroom. There were rarely sounds in the house other than the normal creeks that any house ominously makes when otherwise silence allows them to be audible. Blaze lay in his bed, empty. The bed creaked under his burden as he breathed heavy and shifted his weight. He felt as if a concrete block rested upon his chest.
Occasionally, in moments of heightened pain, Blaze would let out a loud scream of terror. He had showered twice only in the two weeks he had been secluded in his room after returning from the base in Iraq—the base where Gallagher explained the losses that had brought him to this newfound hell.
His face wore a full beard: unkempt and unruly. He wore nothing but boxer shorts and a robe and forced himself to sleep whenever God would allow him that escape. It was not even depression that had struck him, but some affliction of mind and spirit far more blunt, far more debilitating and entirely incomprehensible to understand outside of first hand experience. His flesh felt, at times, as if he was literally being poked by sharp objects that invisibly taunted him.
He thought of Job and envied Job’s faith in affliction. Blaze had no such faith in this state. Hope was a conspiracy. A will to live was an unachievable attribute. He tried to get angry but failed. It took ambition to be angry.
Occasionally, Blaze would rise to appropriate sparks of anger and punch the walls that enclosed him. These bursts were short-lived and produced no satisfaction. His soul was drained—bereft of any life. On a good day, he would manage to stumble to a chair by the window and stare out into the daylight. He’d lean his elbows on the cold, white tiles of the windowsill—hoping for hope. He tried to pray but could not. He could only muster a weak human wish. He wished that somehow the light would pene
trate the darkness that owned him. He would sit and stare and wait. But the darkness never relented. And the light proved impotent.
Moments arose at times in which Blaze mustered up some defiance. He cursed God and howled at the heavens. What have I done but try to defend my country? Why did You take her? Why did You take my boy? What have You left me to do? How much do You think I can take? How do You call Yourself a God of love? Blaze knew in his heart the answers to his cries. He knew God’s nature was pure love, but he could not see it or believe it in his agony.
Memories of Diem and Shane stung in his mind and provided both strange comfort and cruel reminders of the loss that had plagued him. His body temperature rose and he became overheated. The emotional tumult drove his bio-chemistry. He thought of the joy that Shane had when he would play guitar and make music. He was getting really good at it and was even writing some impressive originals. The day Shane shot his first rifle stuck out in Blaze’s mind as well. He had been so proud of him. He had already become a good shot. The simple things he did with his young son continued to come to mind. Playing a round of horseshoes in the back yard. Grabbing a slice of pizza for lunch. Praying at the dinner table. Lighting fireworks in the back yard.
He remembered the sweet support of Diem. Her loving embrace, even when she was scared. Her understanding nod, even when she had no clue as to why things were happening. Her faith in Blaze’s instincts and nature. The way she managed the house and took care of the kids without complaining. She was an amazing mother and made it all seem so effortless. The images flooded his mind. He wasn’t sure whether to indulge in them or attempt to push them away. Either way, he couldn’t stop his mind and he had no will or energy to move. He lay staring at the ceiling for hours, occasionally leaning over to urinate in a bucket by his bed.
He was proud of Dennis already. Dennis was staying at his aunt Melissa’s, Blaze’s sister-in-law. Blaze was too distraught to even keep the company of his only living son. He knew Dennis needed him. Blaze needed Dennis too. They would come together and support each other in time, but not now. Blaze needed to heal alone and Dennis would find more tangible support in his aunt. Blaze saw him briefly before retreating to his dark bedroom. He wept profusely and gave Dennis a long, strong bear hug. Dennis was notably unemotional and displayed a strength and maturity way beyond his years.
“You’re still here for a reason, Son. You’re alive for a reason.” Blaze proclaimed to Dennis.
“I know Dad. Don’t worry about me. I’m all right. You’ll be too, just wait. Mom and Shane are safe in heaven now. We’re still here for a purpose. You’ll see. God doesn’t make mistakes.”
Blaze pondered the words his son had uttered and tried to let them soak in. He wanted to believe what Dennis had said. He knew in time he would. But right now they were an empty comfort at best.
He thought of what Gallagher had told him. It had finally happened. Everyone had feared that these types of horrors would ultimately emerge. It had been known for some time now that Iran, via Hezbollah, had made real alliances and partnerships with the Mexican drug cartels, but until now, America had not felt any harm from this nefarious marriage. Hezbollah even had the balls to take responsibility and leave their card. The enemy was getting brazen and their reach was getting longer. He thought of the other victims. Other CIA families effected. He knew this couldn’t go unanswered. This couldn’t be permitted to escalate.
Blaze forced himself to think about what happened. He imagined all the details that led to these hits that Iran commissioned, Hezbollah facilitated, and the cartel fulfilled. He tried to focus his thoughts. He tried to arouse his anger in search of some motivation or purpose. He lay in bed struggling through his thoughts, darkness all around him and deep inside him.
He had not eaten in over ten hours and his stomach was beginning to growl. His cell phone had been turned off for weeks. Blaze, in a single motion, swung his body up out of his bed and grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand. He determined to go fix himself something to eat. He turned his cell phone on as he made his way into the kitchen. He couldn’t go on hiding like this. He felt his anger and purpose. His phone rang.
“It’s about time you picked up your phone.”
“Really? You’re gonna talk to me like that after what just happened to me Chuck? Really?”
“Sorry, Blaze. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…well, we’re all just really worried about you. You can understand that, right?”
“Yeah, I understand. And you should be worried. I’m not fine. Not sure I’ll ever be.”
“There’s someone you should talk to. An old spook who went through something similar. A bit eccentric, but I know he can help. Will you see him Blaze?”
“Who exactly is ‘him’?”
“Yoda.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
TEHRAN, IRAN
Zack Batt felt as if he had slipped through a wormhole. The whole scenario seemed surreal. His cover persona as a Nazi skinhead. The rhetoric flying around at the World Without Zion Conference. Just being in Iran on a consequential op a week after he was holed up in prison. Zack adapted well to the scenario but still marveled at the oddity of it. He took it all in. Pamphlets everywhere. Anti-Semitic slogans spoken as if they were profound. Zack avoided shaking his head in disgust and kept his thoughts deep inside. My grandmother would be rolling in her Jewish grave. Here I am hob knobbing with those who seek to destroy the heritage she upheld and annihilate all Jewish remnants the world over.
Zack ferried around the conference floor at the World Without Zionism Conference searching for his digital Persian pen pal, Hamid. He struggled to be in the moment because he still harbored an extremely heavy heart. After completing a very successful mission at Evin Prison side by side with his old warrior pal Blaze McIntyre, Zack couldn’t help but feel an intense sorrowful drag on his spirit because of what happened to Blaze’s dear wife and oldest son. This empathetic grief swirled nonstop in the core of his heart and the back of his mind. It took everything within him to try to block it out so he could focus on the undercover task at hand. If he knew Blaze, and he was pretty damn sure he did after all they had been through together, then Blaze had already purged himself of the initial shock and was hastily planning strategic revenge for whoever was involved with the hit on his family. Zack had already vowed to assist in any way possible. His bond with Blaze was deep, and it was his desire to continue to fight side by side with him no matter the mission and no matter the arena. For a matter of national security or for a personal vendetta—which in this case would likely be both.
Zack had dressed the part with blue jeans, Doc Marten boots, and suspenders. Boots and braces in full effect. He wore a white power tee shirt that he had ordered off the Internet that had made him cringe when he had slipped it on. He was indeed Doug Schmidt, an American White Power Skinhead from head to toe.
As he walked the conference floor, he engaged in a good amount of people watching and was trying to take in the bizarre scene the best he could. For the most part, it was Iranian Muslim extremists and Twelvers yucking it up as they readied themselves to hear about a future Islamic utopian world order that had 86’d America and Israel. But there were some slightly unusual suspects present that had caught Zack’s eye. He noticed good ol’ David Duke making his now expected annual appearance at the event. Nothing like whack-a-doo American KKK members linking arms with Iranian hate mongers for the world to see. It was amazing to Zack that such a person even existed in modern America, let alone one who was so brazenly open and evangelistic about his twisted views of hate.
He also noticed several other self-identified members of other fringe white supremacist groups from the US. There were several high-ranking members of the Aryan Brotherhood floating around the conference doing their best to make strange allies in a strange land. Zack had encountered many Brotherhood members in prison. Sometimes he won those fights, and sometime he lost, but h
e never backed down, and he was often the one who started them.
Also in attendance was a leading member of the White Order of Thule. This was a strange elitist white supremacist clique that embraced pre-Christian European paganism. The group had disappeared and reappeared at various times since its original inception in the mid-1990’s. The latest incarnation that had proved to have some nominal staying power was headquartered in the U.K. The fellow Zack had spotted was clearly a Brit and from that contingency. This strand of hate got its fuel from a belief and focus on Wotanism. Wotanism is a religious affiliation with the indigenous faiths of the Pre-Christian European world that is centered in an affinity and association with the ancient European warrior culture. They rallied around a rejection of what they saw as a Jewish-influenced Christian culture and instead they embraced folklore and mysticism passed down by their Nordic ancestors. When all was said and done, it was yet another Nazi focal point that was positioned to worship all things Aryan and reject all else. As far as Zack was concerned, it was yet another fear-driven, hate-laden sub group of white fascists who would latch onto any ideology that seemed to justify their hate. On top of that, like most white power groups, the White Order of Thule co-opted the skinhead aesthetic and further defiled what was originally a wholly non-racist sensibility. How the skinhead lifestyle had somehow been birthed from black Jamaican immigrants to Britain only to be somehow claimed by these boneheads was beyond Zack’s comprehension. As far as Zack could remember, he never saw any images of ancient Nordic warriors with shaved heads; they looked more like Fabio.
Zack also observed the contingency of attendants who were members of the Golden Dawn party. This was a Greek nationalist group shrouded in fascism, Nazi praise, and blatant racism. They held up Greek dictator Loannis Metaxas as an iconic figure. Metaxas reigned during World War II. Since their advancements in Greek parliament, which resulted in them gaining twenty-one seats in the 2012 national elections, the Golden Dawn party had consistently achieved membership growth within Greece and extending globally. They even had a burgeoning office in New York. Now, they were linking arms with the Islamo fascists of Iran.
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