SUMMATION (25 page)

           They scurried off with a new sense of urgency. No
question that for more than one, this was the first time they truly, deeply,
believed in what they were doing, and in who he was.

           He called his adjutant over.

           "I am going to rest, shower, and change
before our guests arrive. Let me know as soon as they have landed, and bring
them directly here." He was smart. He would be rested, showered, and
operating on his home turf. The notification would give him about a half hour
to prepare. He would be looking and feeling his best.

           They would be jet-lagged and exhausted. Needing
a shower, needing a shave, needing a change of clothes. Even though they were
on his private jet, they would still be tired. No shower, perhaps a quick shave
- at best they would be presentable, but certainly not rested. It would give
him a strong psychological advantage. Of course, it could play against him as
well, with them considering him a rude host, but this did not really concern
him. The need to present a powerful image was paramount.

           His staff had all gone. He shut the door to his
office. His driver and security team were waiting. Word of the document had
raced ahead of him, and the new deference and respect was obvious, even from
those who had supported him all along. He rode silently home, nodding to each
in turn as he passed them through opened doors, but not speaking. Finally,
alone, he turned on the hot shower, undressed and stepped in. He let the
stinging streams have their way, as he leaned with both hands against the wall,
letting his head rest in between. Steam filled the shower, and then the room. He
stayed this way for nearly forty minutes before lathering up and completing his
shower. He dried off and climbed into bed, alone, naked. He checked his clock.

           Picking up the phone, he notified the staffer
answering that he wished to be awakened in exactly four hours. Exactly four
hours. He knew it would happen, to the moment. That would give him enough time
for a quick refreshing shower, and time to dress. His limo and a security
detachment would meet him outside so he could return to his office and meet
them.

           For the few that actually had the opportunity to
meet him there, he found they were always impressed. Again, the psychological
advantage. Perhaps when this was all over, he wouldn't need those advantages. He
laid down, thinking about that. But only briefly, as he was out in seconds.

* * *

           As he slept, those around him raced to complete
the tasks assigned. Time was suddenly critical. Everyone was called in. Some
awakened, some called back from days off. All needed to be available, and certainly
all wanted to be. No one wanted to miss what was coming next. Everyone wanted to
be able to tell their children and their children's children how
they
were there when it happened, how
they
had had the ear of the Chosen One.

           Although the inner circle knew of most of the
plans and organization their new leader had planned, only a very few, very
trusted knew of the plan's initiation. The first action taken would be so
dramatic, so mind boggling in its audacity and finality that the world would be
rocked back on its heels, putting him in the position to walk in.

           Colonel Rashik was one of the very few who knew
the plan. To him went the honor of setting off the entire event. He and his
men, most of only knew fragments of the plan, were finalizing preparations.

           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.

           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.

           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?"

           "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."