SUMMATION

by Daniel Syverson

  There was little difficulty in ordering the missiles to the field for a field exercise. Setting the mock attack against Israel was not only standard, it amused the men. Against whom else would they fire anyway? The orders would be given, and within hours, the units would be in the field, in fortified positions, fueled, simply awaiting final programming and orders to fire.

  Normally, they would wait in this position for several hours, enough time to confirm the status of each element, and then they would be retired. None but the commander, who would not even be on site until the very last moment knew that these missiles would not need to be returned, and that the soldiers would be treated to the launch of a lifetime.

  The second part, more difficult, and infinitely more lethal, was the delivery of the nuclear warheads from their secured and secret positions to the missiles in place. Here he actually had the advantage that for years the Iranians had denied their existence. As such, if there were no warheads, there was no need for procedures to secure them.

  Of course, they were secured, simply not with public procedures. Only those who knew of their existence knew of the security procedures. And the commander of this unit was close friends with his immediate commander, Colonel Rashik. The two had talked endlessly about how they would accomplish this task, who needed to be let in on the plan and who didn't, possible risks, fall back plans, and the incredibly detailed procedures required.

  Mounting a nuclear warhead is not a simple task. Normally, well established procedures, worked out long before, and rehearsed and practiced by soldiers until the exercise became rote is the standard, not just for them, but for any army. They would need to develop the step-by-step procedures for every inch of the way from removing them from the storage facility, to transport, to the actual mounting on the warheads.

  One of the senior officers working with the actual nuclear warheads that had been in on the plan came up with the simplest plan. It was beautiful in its simplicity, and all agreed it was the way to go.

  For training exercises, dummy warheads were commonly used. The real warheads would simply be repainted ahead of time, disguised as mock warheads, which could be openly transported and installed. Care had been taken to insure anyone who knew a little too much, and might notice the switch, would not be on site that day. None could see a problem with the plan, and it was adopted.

  The one final detail was programming the warheads and missiles for launch, direction, and detonation. Warhead programming was not difficult, and some of the same people, his people, could take care of that. The problem was authorization. All the launch programs required a code and biometric authorization. The original plan called for modifying the software, and that was still being worked on. The second solution, again simple, as long as the right people were available, was to simply replace the entire command section of the warhead.

  This could be accomplished enroute, inside the sealed vehicles transferring the mock warheads. This also eliminated the possibility of a hidden or secret code that could disable the warhead at the last moment. No such code on the new card. In fact, there was no option of cancellation, detonation, or self-destruction. They were designed specifically to insure that once it was launched, it was headed toward i's target, and would detonate.

  No second thoughts, no buyer's remorse, no recantation of ideals. Once fired, it was going off.

  Period.

  So very dedicated men needed to be on those triggers.

  Bottom line, all were confident that on a few hours' notice, real nuclear warheads would be transferred out of the hidden facility they were stored in, transferred to the missiles already in place in the field, along with new programming.

  On command, they would all be manually launched.

  They thought they had covered everything.

  * * *

  They had.

  * * *

  They thought they would be able to launch on command.

  * * *

  They could.

  * * *

  They thought the world would sit up and take notice when the missiles all exploded.

  * * *

  They would.

  The Chosen one was confident. He was the One. The world would never be the same.

  He couldn't have been more correct.

  Chapter 33

  Airborne on the AWACS

  Lieutenant Colonel Gabriel Rothstein was Jewish by birth, American by nationality, and U.S. Air Force by choice. He was also tired. The shift was about to have been about over until he received that call from his commander telling him refueling was on its way, and they would be on station for the next six hours minimum until a replacement AWACS could arrive to spell them. The boss and his groundside staff seemed kind of concerned about something, but they wouldn't say anything further, not even using coded transmissions.

  There hadn't been anything unusual during his shift in any way. They monitored all the air traffic in the region, including the transmissions from the controllers. Nothing was amiss. It was slow enough that he even had time to have the crew spend some extra time practicing identifying random aircraft that were, for training's sake, unmarked. They would take a craft, for which they already had identifiers, and assume they didn't. They would use all the sources at their disposal, in the air, within the military, through civilian sources, anything that might identify the craft, and try to come up with the correct identification and source. Bonus points if you could identify the pilot and/or passengers.

  They also ran constant communications checks with various automatic and manual sources. For example, there were the obvious checks on frequency changes by day, date, location, and type of service required. There were the connections for emergency channels, both receiving and coordinating the response for emergency services for aircraft in distress.

  They had automatic ties to the satellite that identified the launches of all missiles, and another that identified nuclear explosions. Another received direct information on solar flares, which could really screw with their communications, as well as give them a significant exposure to radiation.

  So far, everything was fine. Boringly fine. Six more hours. At least.

  He yawned, and went back to the open cubicle that served as his office. Deciding to kill a little time, he decided to get started on proficiency reports for his men and women. They were coming up soon, and he might as well get started.

  * * *

  Tomorrow's shift would be a little different.

  Chapter 34

  Arriving in Tehran

  The transport finally landed. True to their expectation, it was fast, they had full clearances waiting, and they were ahead of schedule. Also true to their expectation, they were tired, uncomfortable, hungry, and sore. The Lear was as good as transportation gets, but it's still cramped, and it's still a very long trip. But they were there. A car was waiting.

  Actually, several limos, with a jeep-like vehicle at both ends, each armed with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on a swivel. For show, or due to real concerns, the men had no idea. Nor did they care. Their bags were transferred to the limos, and they climbed in. The security appeared to be very adequate, and the men performing it came across as competent professionals. They seemed to be in good hands.

  Although they would have preferred to head straight to their hotel to freshen up, they were told that Zarin wished to see them right away, and that they were being transferred there now. They would be happy to escort them to their hotel immediately following, or so they said.

  They drove for a few minutes through a dry, colorless neighborhood. Although reasonably clean and maintained, it appeared lifeless. Soldiers in faded desert camo were posted at virtually every corner along the route, and others were seen patrolling, both on foot and in other military vehicles. Patrolling what, they wondered. With no markets, no schools, and no temples, there were few people in the area. No children playing. No vendors.

  "They're empty."

  Hans turned to his father. "Excuse me?"r />
  "They're empty. Look at them. Doors open into shadows. There's nothing visible through any of the window openings. Nobody walking around except security. They're not boarded up - they're just empty. No one around."

  "Why? What's going on?"

  "Not sure. Only thing I can think of is a buffer zone. Protection. Keep everyone away. No people, no assassins. This guy is moving up. And wants nobody interfering with it.

  "Notice the only buildings that seem open are government or military." He pointed to several as they drove past. "This guy is making a power grab. You just watch."

  The convoy slowed, then stopped beside a relative new building, very modern by local standards, that rose a half dozen stories, rivaling the few minarets in the area.

  Entering the non-descript office building, they again noticed considerable security. In addition, it seemed there were quite a few antennas mounted on the inside of the building. Granted, space may have been rented to mount cell phone antennas, but that didn't seem to account for what they saw. And he doubted there was a lot of need for local cell phone companies to compete in that neighborhood.

  They didn't ask, and explanations weren't offered. The assumption, correctly, was that antennas on the exterior would have given away important information. Information, a vital commodity in this community, was not given freely.

  They boarded the elevator, and were thrown slightly off balance when rather than climbing, it began a rapid descent.

  "Whoa, where we headed?" asked the senior Richter.

  "Down."

  That was it. No expression. Nothing further. Just 'down'. They looked at each other. The elder kind of rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders at his son. "Can't be too much further", to no one in particular.

  No one in particular answered. Actually, it was quite a bit further.

  The door opened to another world. Perhaps the same geographically, but certainly another world culturally. Subdued lighting, shaded walls, expensive rugs, furniture and paintings.

  This guy was definitely living on another level. This should have been in the penthouse suite, not buried who knew how deeply below.

  Gerhard Richter was and always had been very wealthy, surrounded by the best, but even he was impressed with what he saw. Standing in front of one of the ornate mirrors lining the hall, he looked at himself and his son. Wrinkled suits, mussed hair. Not a very impressive way to meet the owner of all this. Then he laughed. A good, hearty laugh. His son thought he had gone nuts.

  "I think I'm gonna like this guy," he told his son. A man after my own heart, he thought. He had quickly grasped the advantage Zarin was trying to obtain, not unlike something he would have done. At least they were on the same wavelength. That gave him some comfort.

  He didn't say any of this to his son, who was still looking at him, wondering about the laugh.

  "Welcome. Welcome to my home away from home. And my office." Zarin came around the corner at the end of the hall.

  "And your communications, security, and command center," added the father, "all located within a security zone buffer more than a kilometer in diameter."

  "Aaaahh, very good. Very observant. Straight to the point, no mincing words. We shall get along famously. Please follow me."

  They followed him down the hall, turning at the end, and passing through a rather large conference room, with a large, oval table capable of seating eighteen or twenty. Behind this, through open double doors was a smaller, more intimate meeting room, seating perhaps eight. Elaborate electronics were on the wall- more subtly in the large conference room, less so in the busy room beyond. Command center was right on target. At least a dozen men, each at a console with at least three, sometimes a half dozen screens. Multiple phones could be heard ringing, but again, all was in as subtle, subdued, and understated a manner as possible, given their task. This guy has class with his power, Gerhardt thought. This guy could go places.

  Finally they entered anther small conference room. A single flat screen covered about two thirds of one wall. Modern paintings were interspersed with intricate tile work from many hundreds of years before in an eclectic, but surprisingly well coordinated display merging past and present. It's safe to assume that these aren't prints, Gerhardt thought, and these other pieces, if not on loan from a museum, ought to be.

  "What do you think of it, Herr Richter?" Their host proudly waved his hand in the direction of the wall. "Some pieces were rather, shall we say, difficult to obtain."

  "More like impossible. I know this one. Seems it disappeared from a museum in Munich some fifteen, maybe twenty years ago-"

  "Eighteen. Very good."

  "- and that one." He pointed to a Byzantine tile mural full of symmetric designs, in which was hidden, within the intricate design, the story describing the beginning of time.

  "If I'm not mistaken, that one was at one time in the National Museum of History in Jerusalem. Let's say about a dozen years ago?"

  "Only nine. Very good, Herr Richter. You amaze me with your knowledge of the arts. I cannot seem to remember the details of the first, but the second was simply repatriated from the Zionist Jews that had stolen it from its rightful Muslim owners."

  "I very much doubt you cannot remember the details, sir. You do not strike me as someone who would forget details of that sort. But no matter. That's not why we are all here. I was simply admiring."

  "As you say." He swept his arm broadly around, waving them all to seating.

  "Please, be seated. You may speak freely here. And I do mean freely."

  They sat down. For a moment they looked at each other.

  Hans opened with "Well, how do we start?"

  Zarin and Gerhardt both looked at Hans, then each other. "Out of the mouths of babes," said the father. "As our host, perhaps you should begin."

  "Very well. Let's get down to it, then. To be succinct, who are you, and what do you know about me?"

  The elder Richter started, and where he paused, the younger picked up, regaining his composure now that they all seemed to be relaxing and dealing in such a straight forward manner. After just a few minutes, Zarin held up his hand. He knew they were for real.

  "I think I've heard enough to get started. Let me show you something I have just received, just hours ago. I think I can fill in some of the pieces."

  * * *

  And they talked. For almost two hours.

  "Gentlemen, please forgive my rudeness. Allow me to have my men return you to your hotel. Freshen up, change, whatever. In..." he looked up at the clock, "... two hours we will meet back here, and we will get down to specifics. I would allow you time to rest, but there is none. We are ready to move, and you have little time to play your part."

  * * *

  Two hours later, they sat down again, not in the meeting room, but to a sumptuous meal, served in the large conference room they had passed through earlier. Over their meal, Zarin informed them of his plans. Rather than appearing shocked, the Richter's both smiled, excitedly. This was why they were here.

  Hans had no apparent role, but his father's was very important. He would be the primary contact to the European Union. His media access would lead the way - other outlets would have no choice but to follow the news he created. He would lend credibility to the entire process. Gerhardt went to the smaller room through the double doors off the main room, and started pressing buttons on the phone. It was time for some calls to set some wheels in motion.

  Hans was troubled, though. "I'm sorry, sir, but I still don't understand. Just what is my role in all this?"

  Zarin leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together with his elbows resting on the Corinthian leather armrests. Looking straight at him, he paused.

  "I have no idea. In all honesty, I was not originally convinced of your father's intentions. I have great use for your father, but, and I mean no offense, but I see no use for you. Quite frankly, you were more of an insurance policy. I see now there was no need for that. I trust you will enjoy the rest
of your visit. I will arrange for some distractions I'm sure you'll find very entertaining. At the proper time, you may also be in attendance, perhaps to emphasize the forward planning of our group, our looking to the future."

  Hans was shocked by the bluntness of his comment, but found that he had to agree. He was feeling very uncomfortable. Why was he here? What did it all mean? He was to have been the protector. Even his father had said so. It had already been passed down. How could he be left out?

  Zarin softened somewhat. "Please don't take offense. If not for you, we probably wouldn't be sitting here now. Perhaps your role is not a significant one, but certainly you were part of making this all possible. Who knows, there may be more for you to help with. We'll see.

  "Mr. Richter!" he called out, "Is everything alright?" Gerhardt held up one finger while speaking with someone on the phone. A moment later, he hung up.

  "That was good news for us. That was Mark Heinz, CEO and one of the largest shareholders of Die Heutige Welt, 'Today's World', another communications group in Munich. I'm sure you're familiar with all the media resources they encompass. A competitor, yes, but also a friend, and more importantly, a powerful man, sympathetic to our cause. He will be on board to cover and support us as well. I didn't give him any specifics, but let him know that it will be the scoop of the decade, with more to follow up. Plus, I know personally that he's no fan of those Zionists, nor are most of his readers."

  "Wonderful, that is good news, very good news indeed."

  "But there's more. It seems our meeting is not so secret. The fact that we are here has been broadcast worldwide."

  Zarin's eyes opened wide. Holding up a hand, one of his aides rushed over. "Look into this and get back to me fast." The man bowed deeply at the waist, saying nothing, but quickly walking out of the room.