by Mark Romang
Golzar’s late grandmother was legendary in Iran. She had been the university student who cut the chains locking the U.S. embassy in Tehran, leading to the hostage crisis in 1979. The same revolutionary spirit that once filled her grandmother’s body now lived in Soussan, and she felt so much pride, so much joy that she carried on the family heritage.
With any luck, the ball bearings and nails would tear into the prime minister, defense minister and the Knesset speaker, killing them all. All three men would be sitting close to each other behind the podium, naïve politicians oblivious to the hidden bombs ticking down to detonation.
She joined the other cleaning ladies and helped finish up. Their shift ended in just a few minutes at 11:30. Golzar planned to leave the Knesset building and drive her Kia directly to Gaza City. She would then enter the smuggling tunnels under the city and make her way into Egypt. A short boat ride across the Gulf of Aqaba would deposit her in Saudi Arabia, where she would find refuge and eventually work her way back into Iran.
Her journey through the tunnels might very well be the most dangerous part of her escape. The tunnels were small, humid, and dark as petroleum. There was a good chance she might succumb to heat stroke if she pushed herself to hard. But the tunnels offered her the best chance at evasion, her best chance at freedom.
Golzar followed the cleaning crew out of the Knesset chamber and back toward their supply room, each step taking her closer to a historical moment: Palestinian statehood.
She couldn’t turn back now. Operation Jezebel was under way. The world—especially the Middle East—was about to change forever.
She couldn’t be happier.
Chapter 2
White House—the next morning
Inside the Situation Room located in the West Wing, Watch Team duty officers scrambled to gather information to present the president his Morning Book—a daily brief containing the State Department’s Morning Summary, diplomatic cables and intelligence reports, as well as a copy of the National Intelligence Daily.
Urgency driven by shock and outrage filled the 5,525-square-foot conference room. Situation reports from Jerusalem streamed in without letup. And the information continued to darken by the minute. The Knesset chamber was heavily damaged by multiple bombs detonating simultaneously during the swearing in of the new government. Worse, the defense minister, Knesset speaker, state comptroller and four senior Knesset ministers were declared dead on the scene. The new Prime Minister, missing an arm and a leg, fought for his life in an ICU emergency room. And nearly two-dozen other Knesset members sustained serious injuries.
President Nathaniel Dixon, flanked by National Security advisor William Beckett and Chief of Staff Evan Caldwell, burst into the room. At six AM, eyes still heavy from interrupted sleep, President Dixon didn’t feel the need to look presidential. He wore blue jeans and jogging shoes and a buttoned-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves. No tie.
Dixon took his customary spot at the head of the long mahogany table. An aide hurriedly brought the president his morning cup of coffee and the Morning Book. In a matter of seconds the conference room filled up to capacity. Whispered conjecture, gasps, and even a few curses floated around the room.
Dixon sipped from his coffee mug and looked around the room. A scowl creased his brow. Only the vice president was missing. But he usually arrived late. The VP had to be driven to the White House from his private residence on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory.
Dixon flipped through the Morning Book out of habit, but only scanned the high points. The Knesset bombing would be the only topic discussed this morning. And he wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d taken quite a bit of heat from the media and his own staff for distancing America from Israel, even downplaying the ally status of the two nations. That decision and what America’s role with Israel going forth would certainly be reexamined.
Vice President Jack Foley and his chief of staff entered the room. The VP sat down to Dixon’s right. And the meeting began with CIA Director Jon Schaeffer taking the floor.
Schaeffer read somberly from a just received fax, detailing the latest developments from Jerusalem. “At approximately 11:27 AM, two IEDs detonated near or under the speaker’s podium in the Knesset building. Seven people have died, including Israel’s defense minister. Prime Minister Levi Dudevich is listed in critical condition and is undergoing emergency surgery at this moment. Power to head the Israeli government has been temporarily transferred to Acting Prime Minister Jonas Ginsberg until further notice. Shin Bet has announced that a person of interest is currently being questioned in connection with the attack…”
President Dixon raised a hand and waved it. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Jon, but do we have any intelligence on this person of interest?”
Schaeffer looked at the president and nodded. “The person being questioned is a Mossad agent.”
National Security Advisor William Beckett whistled softly. “They think it was an inside job?” he asked.
Schaeffer shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s too early to have a clear picture. But Knesset guards have a cleaning lady on videotape cleaning under the podium last night. This cleaning lady is married to the Mossad agent being questioned.”
Vice President Jack Foley sat up straighter in his chair. “It would be a blessing if it turned out to be an inside job by one of Israel’s own. A bloodbath will ensue if it turns out the bomber is a Palestinian or a Syrian.”
“What happened to the cleaning lady? Is she in custody?” Beckett asked.
Schaeffer shook his head. His long face took on a ghostly pallor. “Not yet. And preliminary reports have it that she’s not really a Jew. It is quite possible she’s an Iranian posing as a Jew.” The CIA director’s last statement elicited groans and slumped shoulders all the way around the table.
“That’s bad news, Jon,” Foley mumbled. “An Iranian spy working in Israel and married to a Mossad agent means the stakes have been raised to unseen levels.”
Schaeffer pulled at his necktie. “I’m afraid there is no good news today, Mr. Vice-President. And at the sake of sounding like a doomsayer, I expect the news to get worse before the day is over.”
“Another Knesset member has just died. That makes eight lives lost,” a Watch Duty officer called out from the second row of chairs surrounding the conference table.
“So what is America’s role to be in the aftermath?” National Security Advisor William Beckett asked the others. It was Beckett’s task to steer the conversation to its logical ending, to a place with a majority consensus. “And how active will she be in this role?”
“Other than condemning the terrorist act and expressing sympathy to Israel, we do nothing else,” President Dixon said matter-of-factly.
“With all due respect, Mr. President, we have to do more than release a token statement of condolence. This is an unprecedented act of terror. What happened earlier today is akin to bombing the Capital Building while Congress is in session,” Schaeffer said.
“It’s their problem, Jon, not ours,” the president shot back. “They brought this attack on by insisting on expanding their settlements.”
“If we do nothing to help them in this great time of need, we essentially kiss Israel goodbye as an ally, sir.”
“I concur,” Secretary of State Trina Davis said. “But for a different reason. There is a danger in taking the leash off Israel and letting them seek justice however they see fit. We need to stay involved in order to keep them from overreacting. On their own, Israel will only stir up a hornet’s nest in the Middle East.”
President Dixon shook his head adamantly. “Since I distanced America from Israel in my acceptance speech two years ago, no terror acts have occurred on U.S. soil. Islamic radicals see us in a different light now. We’re not the great enemy anymore. And I intend to keep it that way.”
“Mr. President, I respectfully disagree. Between the CIA and Homeland Security, we have stopped over a dozen terror acts from coming to fruition in the past
twelve months alone. The respite from violence we’ve enjoyed lately is because of vigilance, not because our enemy hates us less,” the CIA director contended.
Dixon stood up and began to pace around the long conference table, a habit he often performed when working out a solution to a vexing problem. At all hours of the day he could be seen strolling the White House corridors, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed in deep thought. “I’m not putting any more boots on foreign soil. And I will veto any attempts to do otherwise. Once the troops go in they never come out. We still can’t get out of Iraq and Afghanistan. And we’ve been in South Korea since 1950. We’re spread too thin as it is.” Dixon stopped pacing and looked at the CIA director. “We’re riding this one out, Jon. I’ll phone the president of Israel and express my heartfelt condolences. But that will be our only response. Understood?”
An unblemished hand, exquisitely soft and beautiful, and invisible to the human eye, stroked the side of President Dixon’s head. The hand belonged to Lucifer, who had been watching and listening intently to the meeting since it first began. For the past 150 years the enemy of God and man spent the bulk of his time in Washington D.C., influencing legislators, undermining America’s freedoms, and whittling away the nation’s Christian beliefs and stubborn adherence to the U.S. Constitution. It had been tough going at first, but now the tide was turning more and more in his favor. Of all the presidents he’d influenced over the years, Dixon was the easiest to sway. His moral compass always pointed south. “Don’t let them bully you, my pet. You are the smartest person in this room by far. The others have no choice but to bow to your superior intellect and authority,” Lucifer whispered into Dixon’s ear as he continued to stroke the president’s head.
Lucifer turned his regal head when he noticed a new arrival to the Situation Room. Drakon, his top general, drifted through the anti-eavesdropping wall and sidled up to him. Lucifer appraised his second in command with suspicion. At a height of nine-feet, Drakon stood nearly as tall as Lucifer. Dark eyes as black as onyx stones peered out from underneath a reddish-blonde mane that dipped low on his forehead. Symmetrically perfect muscles rippled on Drakon’s frame whenever he moved, and tucked away behind his v-shaped back were wings that stretched to twenty feet when fully unfurled. Only the countless battle scars inflicted by Michael and his vast heavenly army marred his great beauty. “Why are you here, Drakon? Why have you left the battle lines?”
“I have learned of developments, events I knew you would find interesting, Master,” Drakon said, his voice melodic and powerful, yet undetectable to the humans sitting close by. “I wanted to report them to you face to face.”
“You have my attention, Drakon.”
Drakon nodded. “A few weeks ago I sent out scouts to observe the Maddix child. The scouts returned today with their assessment.”
Lucifer felt excitement stir within him. “And what did the scouts have to say?”
“They believe the child has reached the age of accountability.”
“Are they sure?”
“Yes, they have no doubts. The boy feels guilt whenever he disobeys his parents.”
Lucifer grinned slyly. “Then it’s time. Go and kill the child at once.”
“Consider it done, Master. How would you like me to do it?”
“It doesn’t really matter how you kill him. All that matters is that the child dies. He cannot be allowed to confess his sins to God. If he does the Rapture will take place immediately. And we don’t want that, do we, Drakon?”
“No, Master. I will take the child’s life within the next few days or less,” Drakon promised.
“It would behoove you to commit the crime while the child’s father is not around. Andrew Maddix is a formidable adversary not to be taken lightly. Just ask the demon you replaced how resilient he can be,” Lucifer said, remembering how Maddix neutralized an entire demon platoon, including his top general.
“I will keep your warning in mind, Master,” Drakon said just before departing through the wall as if it didn’t exist.
Chapter 3
Santa Fe, New Mexico—two hours later
The old man walked purposefully, weaving his way among the dirty tents and battered shopping carts making up the homeless camp. Though bent over, he walked fast and strong, unaffected by the high altitude or the chilly mountain air. His scuffed boots crunched the red dirt and scattered pebbles lying on the hilltop, but did not slip.
Looking like he hadn’t bathed in weeks, long frizzy hair tumbled out from underneath the old timer’s beat up cowboy hat. Faded jeans, a threadbare hoodie, and small duffel slung over one shoulder completed his hobo look.
The old man stopped at a blue tent situated near the edge of the campsite. Bending his knees as far as he dared, he squatted down and peered inside the tent. He studied the occupant sleeping inside; wanting to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. Satisfied he had the correct person; the old man quietly unzipped the tent flaps and crawled inside.
The old man sat down and crossed his legs. He studied the sleeping man, his intense hawk-like eyes taking in everything, including the empty Jack Daniels bottle and half-empty Wild Turkey bottle lying beside the man’s sleeping bag. He shook his head sadly and marveled at how the sleeping man had let himself go so quickly. But he understood why it happened. Poor choices wreck lives every minute of the day.
The old man extended a leg and poked the sleeping man. A groan and a flop answered the prod. The old man nudged the sleeping man’s ribs again. This time the younger man bolted up. He stared at the old man, his olive eyes ablaze with menace. “Who are you? What are you doing in my tent?”
“My name is Caleb Brennan, and I come to you with a business opportunity,” the old man replied.
“You’re not Caleb Brennan. You’re too old and you don’t have a handlebar mustache.”
“You don’t recognize me because I’m in disguise. The government is watching me.”
“This campsite is full of crazy people. The people in the brown tent in the middle of the campsite are the nuttiest. Go talk to them about your conspiracy theories. You’ll fit right in.”
The old man took off his battered Stetson. He then removed his Albert Einstein wig, revealing reddish-blonde hair buzzed short in the military tradition. “I shaved off my handlebar mustache this morning. Like I said, the FBI is always watching me. I really am your old SEAL instructor, Caleb Brennan.”
The younger man rubbed his eyes and stared at his visitor for a long moment. “What do you want with me, Caleb?”
“I told you, Coleton, I come with a business opportunity.”
“Look at how I live. Do you really think I care about money?”
“I also offer you a chance to redeem yourself. I know how you betrayed Andrew Maddix. I’m giving you a chance to right a wrong.”
“Why would you want to do this for me?”
Brennan shook his head. “Maybe because I don’t like to think you wasted my time at Coronado Beach. I poured myself into you, molded and shaped you into an elite soldier, a Navy SEAL. Somewhere deep inside you, Petty Officer Coleton Webb still exists. You just have to stop feeling sorry for yourself and dig down deep and find him.”
“I locked him up and threw away the key. He’s never coming out again,” Webb said.
“Andrew needs you.”
Webb shook his head stubbornly. He dragged a hand through his long blonde hair. “Andrew is really smart. It’s been five years since he disappeared. If he’s made it this long he’s not going to get caught. Besides, look at me. I’m in no shape to do anything.”
“What if I told you an assassin is stalking Andrew?”
Webb looked away. “I betrayed Mad Dog. Find someone else.”
“There is no one else with your skillset. And no one else with so little to lose and so much to gain.”
Webb held out his left hand for Brennan to see. An ugly scar marred the palm. “Every time I see this scar it reminds me what a loser I am. I stole the Eden sword fr
om Maddix, my best friend, and tried to sell it. I’m a traitor.”
“I know Andrew well enough to know he forgave you a long time ago,” Brennan said gently.
Webb shook his head. “Maybe he has forgiven me. But there’s another reason.”
“What’s that?”
Webb looked up at Brennan. His olive eyes flared. “Plain and simple fear. I’ve seen the spirit realm, something humans aren’t supposed to see. And I’ve fought demons. If I help Andrew I’m afraid I’ll get sucked back into that world. It’s a mind-bending place I never want to go back to.”
“I’m not asking you to do any of that, Coleton,” Brennan said, suddenly hopeful he was making headway.
“Then what is it you want from me?”
“I want you to shadow this assassin, make things difficult for him, and slow him down. Disable him if you have to. His name is Nikko Castellanos, and he’s a dangerous man. He was once an Army Ranger, and he also worked for the CIA in their paramilitary division. Now he works for Henrik Skymolt, a billionaire real estate mogul and militant atheist.”
Webb rubbed the scar on his palm, a disfigurement branded into the skin by the flaming Eden sword. “How do you know this guy is trying to kill Mad Dog?” he asked, referring to Andrew Maddix by his military call sign.
“Castellanos came by my house recently. He asked all kinds of questions about Andrew. He even offered me thousands of dollars for information that may help him find Andrew.”
Webb shrugged. “I’m sure there’s a sizeable reward out for Mad Dog’s capture. Maybe he just wants to cash in on it.”
Brennan shook his head. “I have an old SEAL buddy who went on to become a spook. He’s retired now from the CIA, but I still keep in touch with him. I asked him to do a background check on Nikko Castellanos for me. My friend says Castellanos is ex-CIA, a terrorist hunter who had the green light to kill any terrorist considered to pose an imminent threat to America.”
