Blaze (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THE OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINSTER, JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

A
bigayil had kept him up the night before. A “predatory tigress who was volcanic in the sack” were the exact words that he used to describe her afterwards. She took that description as a flattering compliment on both her nature and her performance. As it was intended. Chaim Simmons struggled to remain calm as the flashing images of his wild night receded from his mind and the content of his morning briefing took hold. The smile from his morning afterglow died. The Prime Minister's lips tightened together and his brow furrowed as he digested the update on Iran and its lunatic leader, President Hadi Samani.

It was only a matter of time, Chaim knew, that this freak show would claim to have had an actual interaction with this Mahdi boogeyman he kept calling to return. The problem was, Chaim didn't believe for a second that Samani ever uttered a lie concerning his belief in the Mahdi, or his intentions to ignite global chaos to usher in the Mahdi's return. Chaim knew sincerity of belief when he saw it, be it benevolent or nefarious in nature.

Hadi Samani was a devout and utterly insane follower of the doctrine of the Twelfth Imam. It was his sincerity in belief and pure honesty in his vocalized intentions that the world had been missing. This was no ploy invented by the Mullahs to arouse fear in the world. This wasn't a giant blackmail scheme. No carrot in the world would tame this belief, this determination, this evil regime.
Haven't we learned anything from the Holocaust? Hitler told us exactly who he was and what he planned to do. The world ignored him until they were forced to engage him. How could the world be so blind as to make yet the same mistake?
He asked these questions to himself, but knew the answers. He did not expect any bright light to pierce the world's opinion and change their perception.

The briefing staring back at him told him that President Samani had proclaimed to the Iranian people, and to the entire Muslim world via Al Jazeera, that he had been blessed with a personal visit by the Mahdi himself. Furthermore, Samani announced that the Mahdi intimated to him that this was indeed the year that He would return and set up a worldwide Caliphate. Chaim's blood boiled. As much as he expected to wake up and read such a briefing some morning, he was still not prepared for it, nor did its thrusting reality alleviate even a twitch of its haunting implications. Experience told him to calm himself, reflect on the news, and formulate a position and a decisive strategy before discussing it with anyone—be it his staff, the media, or particularly POTUS.

He slapped experience square in the face, deliberately ignoring its wisdom, and immediately dialed to get POTUS on the line.

“Mr. President, how are you this morning?” Chaim didn't give a rat's ass how Fitz was really doing. A raving lunatic who denied the first Holocaust and was planning a second just announced his Messiah was on his way—a Messiah who according to prophecy would reign in Jerusalem after annihilating the Jewish people.

“I'm well Chaim, is something the matter? It's highly unusual for you to call without scheduling in advance. Should I be worried about something?” Fitz didn't like the sound of Simmons' voice. He was already rolling his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and thinking to himself,
Oh no, here we go with the war mongering again. Never a dull moment there in the desert. I can't believe I have to deal with this guy almost every day.

“You're damn right something is the matter. Have you gotten the latest news out of Iran? Samani has announced he's been paid a ghostly visit by the Twelfth Imam. Do you know what that means? He says the Mahdi has told him that this is the year of His return. How do you think I'm going to digest this news?” Chaim was steaming pissed. Not just at the news, but also by the ever-growing apathy he perceived coming from President Jack Fitzsimmons. Their relationship had never gained real traction since Fitz took up residence in the White House.

“Chaim, this news just hit the wires. Don't jump to any conclusions or do anything rash. We still don't really know what all this means.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about? We know exactly what this means! Samani, and Ahmadinejad before him, have been telling us for years
exactly
what this means. It means its go-time for the Iranians. It means they're moving forward with their plans to wipe Israel off the map and destroy America, the big Satan. Guess what? We're first, and I plan to do all I can to stop it.” Chaim's face burned as red as a fire truck. The tension was thick and growing thicker.

“Joint covert ops between our two countries are being executed even as we speak to seriously interrupt, delay, and potentially destroy their progress on the nuclear program. Sanctions are being advanced and intensified and diplomacy is being wielded to its fullest to neutralize the threat. There's no need to irrationally go cowboy on the world right now.” Fitz was extremely adept at not reacting to Chaim's temper. He was also adept at not fully understanding the immediacy and severity of a whole range of impending crises that faced his nation, and the world for that matter.

“Do you think that I haven't thought for years about what I would need to do when this moment arrived? Do you truly believe that we, as a nation, don't have a well-developed, and highly debated strategy to implement for this very scenario? We're not impulsive. We're students of history, particularly Jewish history, and the history of the world that has ignored the Jews and ignored the real threats made by the enemies of the Jews.”

“Samani is not serious about all this hocus pocus Mahdi stuff. This is just his tool to rally his people and get them to follow him. This helps him detract from their domestic problems. Samani doesn't really want the world washed in blood. It doesn't make any sense. Iran, and millions of Muslims, would be equally as effected as Israel and the West.” Fitz felt as if a rational, human application to the issue was needed.

“Samani and the Twelvers in Iran don't respond to rational, earthly fear or normal negotiations. These are not the atheists of Russia during the Cold War. They're an extreme apocalyptic death cult hell bent on the utter destruction of all Christians, Jews and non-Muslims. Think David Koresh running a country and being on the verge of having a nuke.” Chaim's face was redder than hell and his voice rose in intensity with every syllable.

“Chaim, c'mon now, do you remember Waco? It was a disaster. If Samani is Koreshian in nature, the last thing anyone should be thinking about is storming the compound. It doesn't end well.” Fitz smirked and leaned back on his chair.

“Okay then, if diplomacy and sanctions are the way to go, how come you haven't had an inch of success in pushing your Russian friend towards condemning Iran's nuclear program? Or your Chinese buddies?”

“I'm still working on my relationship with Maksim and making much progress. I think I can get him to come around on Iran very soon. You have to trust me on this. These things take time.”

“Time, huh? Like that's in great supply. How much ‘time' will it take with the Chinese?”

“That one is more difficult, but I think can change if I am successful first with Maksim.”

“I doubt it. China is not going to be swayed by you. You're their debtor. They own you. The Bible is clear ‘The borrower is slave to the lender'.”

“I don't appreciate you're arbitrary application of scripture to insult me or my country.”

“Look, I'm sorry if I seem slightly out of line here. But you need to understand the position I'm in. Israel is at risk more than any other nation.”

“Chaim, I know you're on high alert and you're frustrated, but we're still your allies, I wouldn't dismiss anything at your peril but we need to tread carefully on this news, just like all news and developments out of Iran. We have different views on how to approach this, but we have to come to a consensus.” Fitz was pleading at this point.

“Maybe, Mr. President, maybe. However, for now, I must assume that present circumstances will continue to be consistent with the narrative of my people throughout history. We're alone, and must act as such.”

Fitz never managed to have his rebuttal heard. The dial tone mocked him instead.

Chaim slammed the phone down and immediately opened up the Talmud sitting on his desk. His hands were shaking. He had not picked that book up in months. He didn't even know where to start.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CIA SAFE HOUSE SOMEWHERE NEAR ESFAHAN, IRAN

B
laze had finally snapped out of his retrospective daydreaming. He was settling into his preparation routine at the safe house Gallagher had provisioned for him about forty miles from Esfahan. He refocused his mind away from his recollection of the day Gallagher presented his mission to him at Anchor's Away cigar lounge and toward the task at hand—preparing to embed C4 explosives into wooden crates. He packed the C4 into viable, barely visible cracks and holes within the wooden crates.

He felt an extreme exhilaration simply in the preparation process. He had missed being in the field deeply. From soup to nuts, he thrived on the entire process.
This sure as hell beats watching FPS Russia on YouTube, competing twice a year in Tough Mudder, and reading Ted Bell novels just for a taste of the life.
Blaze finished the prepping of the wooden crates and headed to the bathroom to double inspect the fullness of his Persian disguise.

He really hated the way his skin felt with the damn coloring. It itched like crazy, but this was all part of the game. He took a good, hard look in the mirror and nodded.
You're all set. No one here in the Aryan land of Persia will ever suspect you're an American Mick. And a deadly spy to boot.

Next, he double-checked the vehicle he was to use as his Trojan Horse in the op. He diligently inspected the basic functions of the vehicle and concluded that all was well and ready to go.

He heard a slight chirping and promptly retrieved his encrypted sat phone from the pocket of his olive green Dickies work pants. It was Gallagher.

“Hey you Mick bastard, you all ready to go another round here or what? I've been sweatin' your involvement in this and not sure how to feel. You got me nervous boy.” Gallagher treated Blaze like a tough father would a son he loved.

“Boy? I'm quite the man, although not an artifact like you. And yes, this Mick bastard is quite fine, and in fact, quite prepared to kick some Persian ass with a good ole fashioned American boot.”

“You got the C4 planted? You inspect the vehicle? Double-check the disguise? Take inventory of your weapons?” Gallagher rapidly rattled off this series of checklist questions with no real intention of allowing Blaze to actually answer.

“Everything but the weapons. I'm about to hand-pick my tools here shortly.”

“Okay. Godspeed on this one Blaze. This is crucial to the larger goals of Operation Persian Trinity. And we're counting on you.”

“I know that. I'm all in and I'm strong and on.” Blaze assuaged Gallagher's fears with the confidence of his voice.

“Roger that. Be careful Blaze.”

Blaze spent the next hour or so meticulously planning his approach in his head and doing his best to think outside of the box. He imagined any and all potential contingencies. He knew that op plans often morphed, changed, and recreated themselves minutes into their execution. This being the case, it was vitally crucial to have an adaptable mindset, and even more necessary to have a grab bag of contingency plans to pull from at any given moment.

He traced, in his mind, the locations of the strategically placed contingency vehicles that awaited him along the southwest path out of Esfahan, towards the safe house arranged for him. He thought about various combat circumstances that could arise and what weapons would be both effective and practical. Of course, Blaze also had his sentimental favorites. These particular weapons, which acted as roadmaps to his warrior life, had an easy path into most of his arsenals. He narrowed it down to just a few.

First, he decided on one of his favorite pieces of fine German steel— the Walther P99 Limited MI-6 edition. He knew its origins stemmed from a shameless, cheesy tie-in to the James Bond film franchise, but he cared not. He grew up with an addiction to Bond films, and this particular gun had somewhat of a history of being a good luck charm for him. Many a tight spot in the heat of battle had been opened thanks to the Walther P99 MI-6. Blaze, although full of traditional Christian Protestant faith, still harbored an irrational sense of superstitious Irish luck that he admittedly applied to his attachment to this weapon. Therefore, the piece was unquestionably included as part of his arsenal for this mission.

The second piece was, in his mind, slightly under-developed, but badass nonetheless. The G.R.A.D. was a genius invention that burrowed a .22-caliber gun under a knife. It was full of practical application in times of heat, and it was fun as hell to train with. His only misgiving was that he hadn't yet gotten his hands on the prototype that combined this with a cell phone gun. Now
that
would be the trinity to use in Operation Persian Trinity. Maybe next op.

Next, he chose several M67 fragmentation hand grenades to keep him company in the event he had to lob them at some unwanted trailers following him out of the Esfahan facility. The grenades weren't mind-blowing but they did the trick and he had always found them easy to carry, quick to unleash, and deadly.

Last, but by no means least, Blaze packed the Glock 18. He accessorized his G18 with the requisite suppressor and extended mags that always proved useful in times of need. When it came time to choose the ammunition for his beloved G18, he sided with the Buckingham variety; incendiary ammo had always impressed Blaze and he never tired of employing it.

As he carefully assembled the G18 and its companion accessories for portability and concealment, he was hit with a flood of memories. He had been in a multitude of situations in the early part of his service as a Marine in which he was forced to kill with this firearm. Lately he'd only used the G18 while playing Call of Duty on his son Shane's XBOX. While playing, he often wished he could jump inside the screen and take charge himself.

By all measures, Blaze was ready to stand up and be counted. T's were crossed, I's were dotted, and the blood in his veins was pumping with an intense patriotic ferocity. The overwhelming sense of undeniable purpose that surged inside him would yield to nothing but a driven, destined satiation of his truly calling. Iran's bomb be damned. America's favorite Mick was on the job.

The morning of the op broke like that of any other day in Iran. At Esfahan, workman picked up their tasks and projects right where they had left off the night before. There was no unusual tension in the air. It was with this favorable backdrop that Blaze drove the makeshift delivery truck up the long, guarded gate of the factory of Esfahan.

Blaze had felt a cool, deliberate confidence fall over him shortly after he lifted up the mission quietly and silently in prayer. His disguise had worked out unusually well and he was satisfied with its effects. This helped add to his confidence.

In the distance, he could see several guards smoking cigarettes, talking, and laughing. It was a tad after 6:00 am in Iran and Blaze was counting on encountering employees who were still in the slack mindset of wishing the morning alarm did not come so soon. As Blaze began rolling closer to the gate he could hear the high volume of the chatter between the security guards. They barely acknowledged his truck. The guards may have been soldiers of Allah at heart, but at the gate of Esfahan, they were mere soldiers of the time clock.

As Blaze reached the gate, the guard motioned him towards the electronic ID scanner. Blaze swiped the ID as if he'd done it a thousand times before. Nothing happened. No beep.

One guard looked at the other and then back at Blaze. He told him in Farsi to swipe the card again. Blaze swiped the card as he was asked, this time slower. His heart began to beat quite a bit faster. The machine beeped. Blaze nodded his head, holding back the smile inside, and was permitted to pass through the gate.

As soon as the rear wheels of the truck passed through the gate, Blaze quickly reached his encrypted sat phone and send a text to Gallagher. “I'm in.”

Gallagher's reply came quickly. “Watching.”

Aerial back up was lying in the wait in nearby Iraq to facilitate an extraction should things get hot.

Blaze did a quick visual sweep of the area. He quickly noted all pathways, windows, and high concentration points of vehicles and personnel. Then, swiftly, he catalogued in his mind the low vertical thresholds of which he would be able to scale if needed.

He then took a second, slower look around while his truck crept towards the wing of the facility that housed the raw materials he was purportedly delivering. Everything fit with the schematics and aerial photos.

Blaze backed the truck into the bay for unloading. He heard the shuffle and hustle of the crates being unloaded and he could see the men methodically doing their job from the side view mirror of the truck. He waived casually as workers walked by the truck. Blaze sat in the truck with the engine running for precisely twenty-two minutes until the unloading was finished. The C-4 had been burrowed within the second row of crates that were pulled from the back of the truck. The C-4 crates, were by now, nestled perfectly within the rest of the truckload inside the bay of the raw materials storage warehouse.

Blaze began to pull away from the truck when, suddenly, he saw one of the warehouse workers running out of the bay towards his truck. He was urgently waiving his arms for Blaze to stop, as if he had forgotten something. Blaze wasn't sure if he should stop, but he decided that it was best to see what the guy wanted to avoid any suspicion.

The man walked to the side window of Blaze's truck and launched into some kind of diatribe in a regional dialect of Farsi that threw Blaze off for a minute. He felt as if he was being interrogated.

Blaze was seized by a wave of panic. He froze. Blaze had taken some precautionary crash courses in Farsi before the op, but maybe he brushed through them too quickly. He was way more focused on other aspects of the op.
Note to self: don't cut corners on foreign language reviews. Particularly basic Farsi prep. Gonna take Rosetta Stone a bit more seriously next time.

“I don't know,” said Blaze in Farsi. Every time the man paused, Blaze repeated the phrase. It was all he could think to do. He tried to act as the annoyed, indifferent delivery guy.

The crates had real raw materials in them, and if they had pried open any one of them, they would have discovered the real deal.
What could this guy be freaking out about?
Blaze tried to listen more closely to pick up on some of the man's words this time, as the guy reiterated his apparent grievances. But this time, he spoke even quicker, and with an increasing sense of frustration, and anger. Blaze suspected his clear lack of understanding of the man's Farsi gave him away. The guy was on to him.

Amidst the yelling, Blaze finally recognized some of the words being shouted. The man was demanding Blaze's name and reason for being at Esfahan. Although the intensity and fragility of the moment would naturally call for a serious and calculated response, Blaze instead reacted instinctively by harkening Fletch-era Chevy Chase wise-assery. “The name is Simmons. Gene Simmons. Here to rock ‘n' roll all night and party every day.”

And with that, the party had begun.

The man angrily turned to waive over several more guards. The back up guards started toward the front of Blaze's truck at a jog—which was fortunately pointed outwards towards the exit of the facility. Then they began to run vigorously.

The yelling man's head was still turned, as he focused on recruiting back up. In the flash of an instant, a knife was jammed with full extension into the side of his neck, killing him instantly. Blaze yanked the knife application of his G.R.A.D. from the man's pulsating neck and watched his entire body unwind and flop to the ground, like a slinky falling off a balcony.

Now he had the back up guards to contend with. The party never ends.

Several dudes got within a few feet of him and were trying to apprehend him. Blaze could see the fear and confusion in their eyes. As they reached out to grab him, his hand-to-hand combat skills manifested with ease and success. The two men were quickly subdued and eating concrete.

Blaze look up and saw four more men quickly gaining ground towards him. A bit more alarming was the swarm of guards and speeding forklift trucks trailing close behind the four grunts. Blaze quickly drew his Glock 18 and shot two of the four men in the torso without effort. He reached into his backpack and grappled for an M67 frag grenade. Once he was able to get his paws securely around one, he pulled the pin and threw it about one hundred feet out. It landed within ten feet of the forklift trucks and the charging men.
Bye-bye fruits.
Blaze wiped the sweat off his brow in a brief expression of relief.

Before he could turn to begin heading back towards the truck, he felt a strong arm curl around his neck.
Damn it, I thought I got them all.
A guard had him in a strong headlock.
Always a straggler.

Blaze herked and jerked and tried to get loose to no avail as he wrestled with the straggler. Sweat and blood smeared the two men as they struggled about with neither getting a clear upper hand. Finally, the guard gained leverage and hurled Blaze off his feet and smashed him to the ground. Blaze blocked the fall with his right arm, saving his head from some serious damage.

The man pinned him down, Blaze's hands now behind his back. Vulnerable. Bound. No play in sight.

The guard pulled Blaze's hair to yank his head back and sideways, as Blaze lay on his stomach. Blaze managed to speak. “So this is how you party in Esfahan, uh? I can only imagine the gig we could have if we unleashed those centrifuges.” With a swelling, bleeding face, Blaze smiled big for his new captor.

And then with the thud of a gun butt hitting a hard, stubborn Irish head, everything went black.