Jericho 3 (17 page)

Omid dropped his head and stared at the starlit snow covered path in front of him as they started a steep climb. The footpath grew very narrow.

“What things, Omid?”

“Things your diplomats, White House and the United Nations Security Council don’t seem to understand. You study our policy. You assume we won’t attack other countries, Europe or even the United States. You assume we would never launch bio-weapons or nuclear weapons because the world’s retaliation would destroy Iran. Perhaps you should study the regime’s theology instead of their politics.”

“Theology?”

“Our theology
is
our policy. Our theology requires destruction. It’s the only way for the Mahdi to return. So Mister Smart American Navy man…would you like to sit down and negotiate with us on theological terms? Or perhaps you think you can change our theology with sanctions?”

Camp was quiet.

The cave complex was right where Omid said it would be. Alpha Team had made good time and arrived four minutes ahead of schedule. Three members of each team cleared the caves as the rest of the team hugged the rock walls of the frozen Hindu Kush. The team quickly unrolled and climbed into their sacks for four hours of rest.

Camp couldn’t shake the despair. He reflected on his schooldays when his father assured him he could talk his way out of every fight. Camp had never even considered the notion that one could be lured into fighting an inferior opponent because that opponent had a death wish.

Camp reached over to Omid’s bed roll and touched his arm.

“Omid,” he whispered. “What makes you so sure that this – right now – is the Age of the Coming? Why not in five years, in 50 years or even 500 years?”

Omid pushed himself up on his elbows.

“Signs and technology, analysis from the Hadith and the promises of the Ulema, our religious leaders, all point to The Coming.”

“Technology? You mean nukes?”

“Partly. One intercontinental ballistic missile can only kill thousands. We don’t have unlimited missiles. But biological weapons can kill millions, and we have the technology to put them into the air you breathe and the water you drink.”

“You’re crazy, Omid. Your people are crazy. There’s no way on God’s green earth that your little Safir ICBMs are going to hit the US. Your calculations are way off.”

“We don’t need to attack
you
, Captain Campbell. You will attack
us
, and it will take only 10 minutes.”

“What the hell?”

“Imam Ali said it best…Waging war against enemies with whom war is inevitable, and if they might attack Muslims, then war is a duty of Muslims. The Holy Koran says in Albaghara 2:191-193:
And slay them wherever ye find them, and drive them out of the places whence they drove you out, for persecution of Muslims is worse than slaughter of non-believers … and fight them until persecution is no more, and religion is for Allah.
”

“Since 1979 we’ve been dealing with you when the Shah was exiled and our Embassy was attacked. Now you think we’ll just lose our patience with you in 10 minutes?”

An eerie glow from the snow and the morning light breaking into the cave covered Omid’s face. His steel brown eyes pierced Camp’s face.

“The calculations are in place. The plan has been created. It will take us eight-minutes and 53-seconds to destroy Israel.”

Camp was sick to his stomach just hearing the words spoken with calm and ease. “Why are you telling me this?”

“We’ve been telling you for years. You just don’t listen.”

Camp knew that the radicals controlling Iran had more than 1,000 missiles. They were close to achieving success in their designs for intercontinental delivery technology. If there was a secret military program, on a parallel path with the domestic energy program, then Iran could have enough enriched uranium for at least three to six nuclear bombs.

“Armageddon? Really! Just to pave the road for the Twelfth Imam?”

“You did us a great favor in Iraq. You eliminated Saddam.”

“You’re welcome.”

“For when the Islamic Messiah returns, he will set up his reign in Iraq. That’s why we were so involved in the Iraq War. Now Iraq is free and waits for the Twelfth Imam.”

Camp closed his eyes and tried to soak it all in. Nothing was logical. A suicide bomber that welcomed martyrdom was not a logical enemy. There was no diplomatic track with a suicide bomber hell-bent on mutual destruction, all in the name of God.

“Iran is a suicide bomber, Omid. How does anyone stop it?”

“There are only two answers, Camp. Reformation. Islam needs a reformation, a Martin Luther who will lead Muslims to a new way of viewing God.”

“Great, that only took about 200 years.”

“Or shoot the suicide bomber before he detonates.”

“After Iraq and Afghanistan, the Americans are sort of tired of wars, Omid. I don’t think we have any plans to shoot you first.”

“That’s because you don’t know what you’re looking at. You don’t understand that you are looking at a suicide bomber. The vest is on. The button is ready to be pushed.”

“America won’t do it,” Camp said shaking his head at the insanity.

“Then perhaps Jericho 3,” Omid said in a hushed whisper.

“Israel? If your president keeps threatening Israel, you may give them no other choice. The Jericho 3 is their newest missile and I’m sure they’re pointed at every hot spot in Iran this very minute.”

“Is that
your
logic or
our
theology? Israel would not attack our people. They would drop their Jericho missiles on our nuclear sites and weapons factories. It would delay the Age of the Coming. It would delay the Shoeib.”

“Who?”

“The prophets said the role of the Shoeib is to be the deputy, the one who prepares the way for the Mahdi. He is the mythical figure in centuries-old Hadiths, Shoeib-ebne Saleh, and he is the Islamic commander who attacks Israel in the Age of the Coming to set the stage for the reappearance of the Twelfth Imam. The Hadith says that the preparers will come from Yemen, Lebanon and Iran. The annihilation of the Zionist regime and the conquering of Beitol Moghadas are of the most important events that must happen in the Age of the Coming.”

“Beitol what?”

“Beitol Moghadas. It’s our word for Jerusalem.”

“Is President Ahmadinejad a Twelver?”

Omid nodded. “You heard him speak of the aura he witnessed when he spoke at the United Nations General Assembly. He is not quick to admit it, but we know, we all know, that he is part of the Hojjatieh Society, and he is a close follower, maybe even protected by, the most dangerous hardliner in Iran, Ayatollah Yazdi of Qom.”

“So Ahmadinejad is a Twelver, but that’s hardly shocking,” Camp said as he pulled his blanket up. “He’s a certifiable nut job, denies the Holocaust and advocates the annihilation of Israel. One missile on Tel Aviv, and his precious Tehran will be a smoldering pile of rubble.”

“There’s your logic again, Captain Campbell. It won’t be one missile; it will be one thousand within 8-minutes and 53-seconds. Your first missiles – Israel’s first missiles - will fall on Iran…10 minutes after we have fired everything we’ve got.”

Camp’s fingers started to tremble in spite of the cold.

“The suicide bomber accepts death, if he can kill the enemy as well,” Omid said.

“Do all Muslims believe this? Do they all want this?”

“Many Muslims are Twelvers, but only some believe the apocalypse will trigger the Mahdi’s return. Many Islamic countries are content to wait in peace for the Mahdi’s return. And many Muslim governments are afraid of Ahmadinejad too. They know what he believes. They know what he wants. They know what this self-proclaimed deputy of the Twelfth Imam is willing to do.”

“Do you want to stop him, Omid?”

“Did some Germans want to stop Hitler? Let’s just say we do enough to slow him down every now and then. Sometimes a mysterious man on a motorcycle pulls up next to the car carrying a nuclear scientist. Within seconds a magnetic bomb is placed on the car and detonates 30-seconds later as the motorcycle disappears down an alley.”

“You do that?”

“No…but sometimes we don’t see it when others do it.”

“Mossad?” Omid wouldn’t answer. “Why don’t you just assassinate him?” Camp asked.

“He is not the only one within the many factions fighting for power in Iran. If not Ahmadinejad, then there will be others. He may not ultimately be the one who gets to press the button on the suicide vest that sends nuclear fire raining down on the heads of the Zionists…but someone will.”

Omid closed his eyes and laid back down as Camp rolled over to catch a few hours of sleep.

Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania

L
ieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines had been driving for nearly an hour on old Highway 30, passing through Stonybrook and finally past the Smoketown Airport into Bird-in-Hand. The headlights on her Wrangler illuminated the reflective letters on the mailbox which read SEABURY CAMPBELL, SR. Even though it was a few minutes shy of 4:00am, the farmhouse kitchen lights were on as were the lights in the barn for the morning milking. Camp’s two sisters and their husbands kept the dairy farm going while Seabury supervised from his porch swing.

Ruth waved at the approaching headlights coming down the gravel driveway as she flipped four strips of bacon and fried two eggs over easy for Seabury. Leslie tapped on the door glass and walked in on her own.

“Good morning Ruth. Good morning Seabury.”

“Hello Leslie, how’s my favorite colonel doing?” Seabury asked as he got up and kissed Raines on the cheek.

“I’m doing great, and you sound great!”

Ruth placed a plate of bacon and eggs with white toast and a heaping slab of butter in front of Seabury.

“As you can see, Leslie, Seabury is quite faithful to the Mediterranean diet that Dr. Blauw prescribed.” Ruth’s sarcasm was not lost on Sea Bee.

“I’m not changing my life for this damn disease. I’m exercising more, but I’m going to eat what I always eat. For the love of God, I’m a farmer.”

Ruth put another slab of butter in the frying pan as it quickly sizzled to life. “Farmers grow and harvest Mediterranean fruits and vegetables too, Sea Bee. How do you like your eggs cooked, Leslie?”

“Oh, well I wasn’t planning on –“

Ruth broke two eggs into the pan. Raines knew that resistance was futile.

“How about sunny side up,” Raines said as she took a seat at the table across from Sea Bee.

“How old are you, Leslie?”

“Seabury Campbell! That’s rude. You know better than to ask a woman her age,” Ruth scolded as she dropped some bacon into the cast-iron skillet.

“That’s fine. I’m 39, but I’m feeling more like 59 since the injury. Takes a long time to recover and get back into shape.”

“You know, Junior is 41. You two are close in age.”

Leslie blushed and lowered her eyes as Ruth put a cup of coffee in front of her.

“You like cream, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where do your parents live?” Ruth asked as she pulled a fancy plate out of the cupboard and rolled the eggs and bacon onto the plate.

“Well…that’s a complicated story, Ruth. My father was killed in Vietnam when I was only two months old. He never saw me. He and my mother were not married when I was born. She was very young. They were both young. When my mother got the news, she cried for a few days than drove over to Lester’s house.”

“Lester?” Ruth asked as she put another slab of butter in the frying pan and cracked two more eggs for herself.

“Lester was my dad’s name, hence I got Leslie. Lester’s parents didn’t even know their son’s girlfriend was pregnant. My mother handed me over to my grandmother, said ‘good luck’ and walked out the door. She never returned.”

“That’s horrible, Leslie. Did you ever try to find her?”

“No…I’ve never even been curious. If she didn’t want me then, well, I guess I don’t want her now. But I was blessed with an incredible childhood. My grandparents are my heroes. They gave me more love than a human being deserves.”

“Are they still living?” Sea Bee asked as he added more butter to his toast.

“As a matter of fact they are. They still live in the same house they were married in, up in New Hampshire. My grandfather Karl just turned 90 years old. The man is amazing, and he still goes to work five days a week, eight hours a day. My grandmother is 89 years old. Lydia is slowing down a bit now, but she still keeps Karl fed and in line.”

Ruth smiled and nodded her approval and understanding.

“Karl sounds like he might be World War II era. Did he serve?” Sea Bee asked.

“That’s a story! He had been working in a hospital as an orderly after he and Lydia married. When he was drafted, they put him through training as a medic. I guess they figured medic-by-orderly osmosis or something. December of 1944, Karl was sent to the Ardennes Forest on the German-Belgium border.”

“Oh my, was he in the Battle of the Bulge?”

“He was, Seabury. He and the rest of the American divisions were so green, so new. They hadn’t seen any combat yet.”

Seabury grabbed Ruth’s hand and explained.

“Hitler chose the Ardennes Forest and purposefully left it soft, hoping to draw the Americans and British in,” Seabury recounted from his World War II history. “Then he sent in more than 250,000 men and hundreds of Panzers. It was a blood-bath.”

“Was Karl wounded, Leslie?” Ruth asked.

“Worse than that, Ruth, he was captured by the Germans and spent five months in prisoner of war camps. At first, he was taken to Stalag 9B at Bad Orb, Germany. But 350 of them were pulled out from the thousands of other POWs. If you were Jewish or even looked ethnic, you were given special treatment.”

“Is Karl Jewish?” Ruth asked.

“No, but he had a longer nose, a darker complexion, and the Germans decided he was ethnic enough.”

“Hell, I’ve got a schnoz bigger than an Amish buggy. Guess I’m Jewish, too.”

“Karl and his 350 buddies were put on railroad boxcars in the middle of winter and sent on a week-long journey with no sanitation, food or water to Berga-an-der-Elster, a little village maybe 50 miles south of Leipzig. Berga was a slave-labor camp that was full to capacity at 400 men, but with more than 1,000 it was unthinkable. They worked 12-hour shifts, slept two to a bed in lice-infested bunks, and were fed starvation rations as they dug tunnels into a mountainside for German munitions.”