FATAL eMPULSE (30 page)

He strained to hear the first shot from the house to warn him the fight was on. He could take two, maybe three soldiers in that first few bursts, but the others would be alerted and start scrambling for cover. Then it would be harder to pick them off.

In a cross fire with those at the house, they might be able to overwhelm the patrol. He clicked off his safety and inserted his trigger finger into the well, waiting for the first shot to ring out.

Instead, he heard a woman’s voice. Shakeela stepped outside and shyly spoke with the soldier, her face chastely focused on the ground in front of her, her demeanor one of submissiveness.

The soldier rested the rifle on his shoulder, looking back at his team jauntily. Men all over the world seemed to respond pretty much the same way to beautiful women—felony stupid. Was that soldier about to find out just out fast Shakeela could cut his throat with one slash of the knife she kept hidden under her clothing?

He watched them talking back and forth, but he couldn’t hear their conversation. The soldier nodded before turning away. As he approached his companions, the man made a remark that drew laughter from the others. Men would be men.

Gerrit relaxed as the soldiers gathered and began to climb back on the transport, the driver firing up the engine. They crept around the front of the farmhouse in second gear before driving away, a few men laughing as they looked back at Shakeela still standing in the doorway.

Gerrit flicked the safety back on, slowly raising himself, and walked back to the farmhouse. If only those men knew how close they came to death.

March 3
Evin Prison, Tehran, Iran

H
e gave up everything he knew—and still they continued his torture. There was not a place on his body that did not hurt. Sleep deprived, dehydrated, he wished for death. It became clear that he would not be able to talk or buy his way out of this jam.

A guard with green fatigues and black steel-toed combat boots marched him out of his cell and back to the interrogation room. Groaning with pain, he felt himself roughly strapped to a chair, unable to move, even if he wanted to. Since the interrogations began, he tried to remain absolutely motionless, every move he made bringing bolts of searing pain to his mangled body. He no longer knew whether it was day or night or how many days he’d been confined.

It seemed like a lifetime.

More footsteps rang out on the concrete floor. The door opened, but he did not bother to look at his visitor. Instead, he sat still. It only took a moment for his visitor to appear.

Atash Hassan.

A wicked smile crossed Hassan’s face. “You do not look well, my friend.”

Glaring back at Hassan, he did not answer.

“You might wonder why I had you brought back here for more interrogation.” The Iranian leaned close to his face. “It is because you are a liar. We cannot trust liars.”

Leaning back, Hassan seemed to expect him to say something.

He would not give that little devil any satisfaction. He just continued to glare.

“Ah, did you lose your ability to speak? Maybe I can bring my man back in here until you can talk—or stop breathing.”

He thought better about keeping silent. Maybe he could buy a little time from more torture if he appeared to cooperate. “What do you want me to say, Hassan? I’ve given you everything. What more do you want?”

Hassan folded his arms, giving the prisoner a look of disdain. “I want a name that is locked away in your brain.”

“And then what…you kill me?”

A look of hate crossed Hassan’s face. “There are worse things than death.”

He looked into his tormentor’s eyes and knew the man spoke the truth.

“Just tell me what you want.”

“I want your contact in the White House.”

“And if I give you that contact?”

“Then you will feel no more pain.”

Lowering his head, he felt pain searing into his chest and spine. “You win, Hassan.” And he gave up the name.

Hassan nodded, got up, and walked to the door.

“So long, my friend. I always keep my promises.”

A guard entered with a long hypodermic needle.

Several hours later, Atash Hassan strutted toward the mansion, tucked away in the Elburz Mountains high above the Caspian Sea. Atash smiled, recalling the prison he just left, knowing it was the last time he’d have to see that liar’s face. For once, he knew the man had just spoken the truth. And now, Hassan had a way to gain access to the Great Satan’s leader. Minutes after leaving the prisoner—for the last time—he boarded a helicopter that whisked him away from the smells and depression of the Evin Prison in northern Tehran to this mountain hideaway he confiscated from an anti-government dissident years ago. The previous owner wound up in the belly of Evin, never to be heard from again. And Hassan wound up with this place of beauty.

As the helicopter landed, he saw his granddaughter break free from Atash’s daughter and run toward him, arms outstretched.
Pader Buzorg!
Grandfather! The child was fearless and seemed impervious to the helicopter’s loud whine. She had only eyes for him.

He rushed toward her and scooped her in his arms. She hugged him, excitedly. She felt like a little ball of energy, wiggling and giggling. He clutched her to him, savoring the moment. This was what he fought for in this twisted, wicked world. She and the family was what kept him going.

Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered her to the ground, holding her hand until he reached his daughter’s side. For a moment, he watched them walk toward one of the gardens to play, and then he turned and walked toward the main house.

The war must continue.

Before he entered this sanctuary—a three-story dwelling created from quarried stones brought from the valley floor—he saw his chief security officer step outside. He motioned for the man to come near, lowering his voice. “Our friend…are you sure there is no way to track him to Tehran?”

The security chief—a burly, heavyset man—shook his shaved head. “No one knows. Used only people I could trust. They know I will kill them if they talk.”

Atash eyed the man. “Good. Now see that I won’t be disturbed. Is my visitor waiting?”

A sneer crossed the chief’s face. “The Russian is waiting—drinking and eating everything in sight. What a pig!”

“A useful pig.” Atash left his man and entered the house, finding Ivan Yegorov sitting by the fireplace, a plate of food balanced on his lap. The Russian had just stuffed his mouth with a chelo kebab of lamb and vegetables. A heaping serving of steamed basmati rice added to the fragrance of the meal. The aroma and taste would be lost on this man. His security chief was right—Yegorov was a pig.

Atash tried not to show his disgust as he sat across from the Russian and watched the man stuff his face. “Everything has been set in place. Our Syrian friends are ready to move when we give the word.”

Yegorov nodded, his mouth too full to respond. It took several moments before he could speak without food falling out. “And our friend from the United States? Richard Dunsmuir. Have you been in contact?”

Impassively, Atash watched Yegorov take another bite. “He seems to have lost himself. The police in America are looking for him.” Never letting on that he was the one who warned Dunsmuir to flee. Or that he found out Dunsmuir’s true name—Brandimir Kisyov.

Nodding, Yegorov eyed him. “That is what I am told. The FBI searched his office and homes. They will probably freeze his accounts. Do you know why?”

“You know as well as I that they found out about the plans you bought. By now, they must know your country acquired them.”

Yegorov grinned. “Now, Americans can sweat a little. They worry we might use it against them.”

“Is that not what you intend? To use it against them?” Atash studied the other man closely. “This changes nothing. We are still on target, no?”

“Yes, on target. And Mother Russia will decide when and where to use this against them in Syria. Till that time—they sweat and worry. I like!”

It was Atash’s turn to smile at how little control the Russians really had over Iran.
My Russian pig, if only you knew what is about to happen.

March 4
Damascus, Syria

G
errit heard the shower turn off as he gazed out the window, looking across the grounds of the Ebla Cham Palace Hotel. The bathroom door opened, and he turned to see Shakeela enter the bedroom wearing a mauve bathrobe and a white towel wrapped around her head.

“I feel almost human again,” she said. “It feels good to be free of that hijab.”

“It makes you very alluring,” he said, watching her cross the room.

“Why don’t you try wearing one for a while and see how alluring you feel?”

“I’ll pass. Besides, I can’t find one in my color.”

“How about a burka? They come in black—your favorite.”

He grinned and waved his hand. “I think—”

Someone knocked on their door. He quickly crossed the room, hand at the small of his back where he’d tucked a black Smith & Wesson M&P .40 caliber handgun, one of Frank’s gifts he received earlier today.

Slowly opening the door, he saw Alena and Max. Opening the door wider, he saw Alena glance at Shakeela—wearing a robe—and shot him a quick look. Max pushed past before Gerrit and closed the door.

“Aren’t we cozy,” Max said, obviously sensing discomfort in the room. “Okay, more of Frank’s equipment came through today. We’ve scouted the place where they’re keeping Scott Henderson. It’s a tough place to set up, but Frank’s contacts located a residence almost directly across from our target. We can watch the place from the second floor.”

Alena and Max sat on the bed while Shakeela stood near the window, drying her hair with the towel. Gerrit took a chair next to her, turning toward the two on the bed. “Is it secure enough?”

“About as good as it comes. The family—friends of some friend of a contact—suddenly needed to take a trip to Paris, compliments of money Frank sent our way. We will have the place to ourselves for several weeks.”

“I am sure the family would love a trip to Paris, given everything that’s happening here in Damascus. Heck, I’d love a trip there.”

Shakeela looked down at him. “Don’t be so sure, Gerrit. Remember, Paris is where this whole thing began—Brandimir and Hassan at The Louvre.”

“Yeah, you CIA types have rough duty—Paris, The Louvre, Baku by the sea. And I get Syria.”

She smiled. “We will always have Iran.”

Gerrit shot a look at Alena who seemed unmoved by the comment. Then he returned his attention to Max. “So, we have eyes on the scientist—providing we don’t run into any more Syrian Army patrols or stumble across the rebels. What about the plane? We need to determine which plane they intend to use and where their technology is housed.”

Max nodded. “Tell me a little more about this design the scientist stole from your government.”

Gerrit stretched out his legs for a little comfort. “I’m surprised you don’t know more about this. Your people used it to hit Dayr az Zawr and a couple of other sites in Syria a few years back.”

“It was a need-to-know,” Max said, “and I never needed to know until now. Can we get on with the lesson, Professor?”

“Okay, I hope I don’t bore you.” Gerrit folded his hands. “This system uses electronic warfare systems from two unique programs: a network-centric collaborative targeting system, NCCT, which I’ll call The Hunter; and another system called Senior Suter, which I’ll dub the The Killer
.
Each of these prototypes fell under a highly classified program called Big Safari.”

Max shook his head. “The Hunter. The Killer. You Americans do like to simplify things.”

“Well, how is this for complicating things, Max. The Hunter allows a network of sensors to zero in on the location of enemy targets with a minimum of human manipulations. Once this information is gleaned, The Hunter turns it over to The Killer.”

“Okay,” Shakeela interjected, “so The Hunter locates the enemy’s network. How does The Killer work?”

“What I term as an eMPULSE weapon,” Gerrit said. “The Senior Suter program—”

“The Killer?” Max asked.

“Right. Try to stay with me, Max. I know it’s complicated.”

Max gave him a hard look but kept his mouth closed.

“The Killer allows our operators to penetrate enemy computer networks and communication systems that control air-defense systems. Our operators can do this before the enemy realizes we’ve hacked into their system—screwing up their defense systems in a big way.”

Gerrit looked around the room. No one seemed to have glazed eyes yet. He continued. “The Killer program seeks out the actual antennas the enemy uses to send out transmissions or beacons. This is highly classified, but I am guessing that Suter can reduce these targets—from NCCT-generated targets of significant size—down to just a matter of a few feet. The Killer goes to work—shooting electronic javelins into the enemy’s electronic eye sockets, their antennas and prohibiting them from seeing a picture of the battlefield.”

Alena raised her hand. “May I speak, Professor?”

Gerrit nodded.

“Is this like EMPs, Electromagnetic Pulse bombs we hear about that threaten to wipe out all electronics?”

“Actually, that is good point. Let me make a distinction between EMPs and what The Killer does.” He shifted in the chair, drawing his legs closer. “Instead of the EMP-type jamming programs, The Killer sends specific algorithms and malware deep into the heart of the enemy’s vulnerable system. The Killer’s corrupting signals can leap from one system to another until they reach the very core of the enemy’s communication links, blinding them and creating fake targets and messages. Meanwhile, our missiles and aircraft can smash through their system, undetected, and strike targets at will.”

Max stood, his whole body rigid. “
Ech
! Hassan and his people intend to turn the tables and use the same technology to hit us?”

“That’s the prevailing thought,” Gerrit said. “I still wonder why they’re only using one aircraft for this. If I was going to hit Israel—or the United States—I’d hit them with everything I had in my arsenal. Not just one plane.”