FATAL eMPULSE Read online

  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.

  Chapter 44

  March 4

  Damascus, Syria

  Gerrit 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.”

  “Even one plane could cause major damage to my country,” Max said.

  “And to my president,” Gerrit said. “It must be tied into President Chambers’s visit to Israel in a few weeks.”

  Max nodded. “That is about how much time we have to figure this out. But where do we start?”

  “I have a few suggestions.” Gerrit paused. “First, we need to find out where that technology is housed—which plane they intend to use.”

  Max pulled out an aerial photo of the Damascus airport, pointing to a southeastern quadrant of the airstrip. “It has to be one of the An-26s assigned to the 29th Brigade right here.”

  “I agree. That would be the logical spot based upon the data we’ve collected so far. Secondly, we need to keep Scott Henderson in our sights. Wherever he goes, at least a couple of us need to be on his tail.”

  Alena shook her head. “That is going to stretch us thin. Basically, it will be a two-person surveillance.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Gerrit said. “This is what we have to work with. Thirdly, we need to keep tabs on the Syrian intelligence officer Raed al-Azmah. Max, you still have his place wired for sound?”

  Max nodded. “We do. My guys can cover that end if you want.”

  “Good. Have them set up as soon as possible. Lastly—”

  “I thought you had only a couple of suggestions.” Max grinned.

  “Lastly,” Gerrit said, ignoring the joke, “we need to get a fix on Brandimir, Hassan, and Yegorov. Find out where they are right now, and make sure we are alerted if any of them ever come back into Syria. We still don’t have a fix on Brandimir. He seems to have dropped out of sight.”

  Shakeela touched his shoulder. “I can handle that. I’ll get Frank’s permission to have my people in the CIA do a search. Maybe NSA has picked up some chatter. I still have the alerts in place for Brandimir under his aliases and real name.”

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  “Good, let’s make things happen.”

  Chapter 45

  March 4

  A caravan of white Toyota minivans, with blue UN markings on the hoods and side doors, swept past with their flags waving in the wind. The caravan seemed to be heading toward downtown, the same direction Gerrit and Shakeela were now headed. Military vehicles sandwiched the cluster of UN vehicles front and back.

  “They think the Syrian Army can protect them.” Gerrit watched the last car disappear ahead. “But I think they’re going to find out that no one can really offer protection. It is like one big free-for-all: whoever has guns starts firing, much like Lebanon a few years back.”

  He heard the rat-tat-tat-tat of an automatic weapon nearby, as if the gunmen tried to signal to the passing caravan that no one controlled these streets. He drove as quickly as he could out of the area. Catching a stray sniper bullet would certainly put a crimp in their plans.

  Shakeela stared out the window toward where the shots were heard. “It seems the United Nations is powerless to do anything. They’re waiting for the U.S. to step in again. I hope we stay out of this conflict.”

  Gerrit agreed. “It’s a lose-lose situation here. If al-Assad stays in power, Syria will continue to act as facilitator for Iran, allowing Hezbollah, Hamas, and the other terrorists groups to use its borders and backing to spread their hate throughout the Middle East.”

  “And if al-Assad loses power?”

  “Then the Muslim Brotherhood wins, muscling power from less-powerful political groups and working with Iran’s fanatical leadership to spread jihad. I get so tired of the killing and the people who justify all this. Iran wins—either way. Only the civilians, the innocent ones, lose.”

  As he expressed these thoughts, Gerrit thought of his observations in Iraq and Afghanistan. War never seemed to solve anything, except to keep evil in abeyance if the good guys won. And if the bad guys won—more wars to be waged. Never ending. Never resolved. One vicious cycle. Some blamed it on
ideology. Others blamed it on things like oil and greed.

  Maybe Alena was right about this world. That good and evil will struggle until the end time. One last battle that will end all wars.

  “We never talked about it, Shakeela, but does your religion cause any problems with the work you do? You know, tracking down fanatical Muslims?” He glanced over and saw her smiling.

  “You think I’m a Muslim?”

  “Like I said.” Gerrit hesitated. “We never talked about it.”

  “There is one type of person who Muslims hate more than Christians, Jews, and other nonbelievers—those who have renounced Islam.”

  Puzzled, he glanced at her, waiting for clarification. “You fall in that category?”

  She nodded. “I turned away from Islam and became a Christian several years ago.”

  “Wow. That’s a big change.” Gerrit tried to process what she was telling him. When they worked in Iran, he had no clue she was even interested in religion. “So, why didn’t you tell that to Max the other day when he was hammering you about the Muslim faith?”

  “I felt he might not believe me. It’s not like I wear my faith on my sleeve for everyone to see.”

  “Isn’t that what Christians do? Preach to everyone they come in contact with about hell and damnation. Isn’t that part of how you earn your way into heaven? Good works?”

  “For a smart man, you can really come up with some pretty stupid remarks.” Shakeela looked out the window as another Army caravan swept past, horns blaring. “It’s not about works. It is about a free gift from God to anyone who chooses to accept His Son as Lord and Savior. None of us are worthy. None of us can do enough good works to earn our way to heaven.”

  Gerrit watched the last of the caravan turn off at the next exit. “You ought to chat it up with Alena. The two of you may have more in common than you think.”

  “Is she a believer?”

  Gerrit looked at her quizzically. “A believer? Yeah, I guess you could say that. She and Joe have been trying to convert me ever since we met.”