Everyone in the room, including the two predator operators, was in uniform. Most of them bristled at her presence, not because she was a woman, but rather because she was a 'spook'. Without knowing it, they were justified in their reaction – she was passing information to Mossad.
Her briefcase lining contained a highly sophisticated, undetectable ceramic grid that would automatically store all digital communications from any room. The briefcase had passed every kind of security imaginable that day. The double agent was the American-born wife of a firefighter who had died on September 11 while trying to rescue people before the Twin Towers collapsed. She had seventeen years of experience at the CIA, and the new President of the United States of America insisted that all committees share all information; hence, she was in this room on March 6, 2012.
"Ms. Tallingsworth will be pleased to note that this highly classified display is showing us Aceh Province in Indonesia," said the watch officer, Lieutenant Commander Jonas.
"I am aware that I irritate you, Lieutenant Commander. I am, however, mandated by the President of these United States to be here. We are all on the same team here, Lieutenant Commander. You have your counterpart at CIA Predator Planning, if I am not mistaken," said Tallingsworth.
"I am an old player here, Ma'am. I am truly sorry if I projected attitude in my speech or manner, Ma'am."
"That southern hospitality tone is about as much as I can take, Boy. My rank, if you had bothered to check your briefings before we met today, gives me the last word here. I'll thank you to call me Sir, from now on, or perhaps Lieutenant Colonel."
"I am sorry, Ma'am, Lieutenant Colonel, Ma'am."
"Enough, enough," added the oldest man in the room, an upper class look-alike for John Kenneth Galbraith, in a blue and white striped Seersucker suit, appropriate to the unseasonably early cherry blossoms in Washington that spring.
"We have work to do. Lieutenant Commander, what exactly are we looking at here?" queried the gentleman.
"Sir, this here is a bad guy. We have been following him for some weeks as he has traipsed across the globe, trying to escape our surveillance."
"Sorry, Sir. Just a minute."
"Sergeant, thermal, please," said the Lieutenant Commander to the technician on the level below them in the small amphitheatre.
"Sir, thermal on," said the operator.
"There, Sir and Lieutenant Colonel, is the moving red spot now getting off the ferry from Banda Aceh, in the small rural area called Pulau Weh."
"Alright, could you explain in what sense he is a bad guy?" asked Lieutenant Colonel Tallingsworth.
"It's a long story. We have to make a decision now, Ma'am, Sir. This is about where we lose 'em all the time. They come ashore in places like this and go to ground. Usually we never see them again until they surface, associated with some budding chatter about a developing event."
"Is it not in your purview to decide here, Lieutenant Commander?" asked the General.
"You are the ranking officer here today, Sir."
"Do what you think is best, Lieutenant Commander."
"Sergeant, collateral damage?"
"Sir, five hundred feet from here I see no hot-image sources. No collateral damage."
"Fire."
"Target down in seven seconds and counting. Target down, Sir."
"I am still not sure why we witnessed that exercise, Lieutenant Commander."
"If I may, Ma'am, Sir. We want to make a joint request to take advantage of the initial stages of a situation in the water off Banda Aceh," said Jonas.
"We need some details, Lieutenant Commander," said the General.
"That's where the CIA comes in, Sir, and the Lieutenant Colonel is here for that reason," said the Lieutenant Commander.
"General, we have been working with a Russian named Rostov, for some years now, in the war on drugs. He has, in his possession, a nuclear submarine, Akula class. It is, at this moment, off the coast of Banda Aceh," said Tallingsworth.
"You people are working with a Russian Mafioso."
"In a way, Sir."
"What does this have to do with the Navy, Lieutenant Commander, Lieutenant Colonel?"
"Navy has the Los Angeles class sub, USS Tucson, trailing the Russian Akula. Navy has expressed an interest in sinking her before she completes her mission, Sir."
"Lieutenant Colonel Tallingsworth, you are obtuse. What mission?"
"We need to be able to find out where these people disappear to when they go to ground in Aceh Province. None of our on-sight teams has been able to get anywhere in the last three years. We are stymied, Sir."
"Clear the room, please. Lieutenant Commander, you as well."
The two technicians and the Lieutenant Commander stood up and filed out of the room at their respective exit levels. They left by two separate doors, one on the tech level, the other on the command level.
"Lieutenant Colonel, get to the point."
"We believe that they have developed a weapon, Sir."
"What kind of weapon?"
"A tsunami creating probe, Sir."
"You mean to say that they will provoke a tsunami in Aceh Province."
"If it works, we win in three ways, Sir."
"Details? But remember, I am old-school Navy, by the book."
"First, we can move the USS Ronald Reagan Battle Group close enough to launch Predators and Black Hawks with Seals on board in preparation. Second, with our people so near, we will be in position to offer humanitarian services to the area struck by the wave and, at the same time, we will have unfettered access with Black Hawk helicopters and Navy Seals to the area in question. We will be able to find out just where the bad guys are training. Third, we will get the weapon from the Russian sub by continuing the surveillance until such a time as it becomes possible to capture it."
"How many people are we talking about here?"
"We will have proof that the Russians did it, Sir."
"You did not answer my question."
"More than three hundred thousand civilians live there, Sir."
"You are a piece of work, Lieutenant Colonel. I have to bump this up the chain of command, but my suspicion is that the answer will be a go."
"We need an answer now, Sir. The Commander of the USS Tucson has a window of communication at 07:00 hours their time. That is in four minutes, Sir."
"I feel a vice on my balls, Lieutenant Colonel, and I do not like it one bit."
"Sir?"
"Go."
"Lieutenant Commander, get back in here. That's it. Please contact USS Tucson and send a message: pursue and maintain surveillance. As well, send an encrypted message to the Captain of USS Ronald Reagan: imperative to bring Carrier Group near following coordinates before 04:30 March 9, 2012. Coordinates: latitude N 1° 45' 27.1325 and longitude E 89° 1' 59.5313."
"Thank you very much, Sir. One small thing more, Sir," said Jonas.
"We need to stay here, Sir," said Tallingsworth.
"Why is that, Lieutenant Colonel?"
"We need confirmation, Sir."
"Confirmation of what?"
"The tsunami, Sir."
"You have my permission to wait for your confirmation, Lieutenant Colonel."
"Thank you and good day to you, Sir."
"I hope I never see you again, Lieutenant Colonel. Good day to you, Lieutenant Commander."
AKULA ATTACK
March 6, 2012
The space was dark and quieter than most. Silent, graying men peopled the craft. A Jack Russell terrier sat, his right eye surrounded by a black spot, under the three dimensional GPS-equipped navigational table top. On the corner of the course-plotting table, a small picture of the Mole of Kronstadt, the fortress protecting St. Petersburg, the capital of 18th century Russia, stared up from under a thick layer of yellowing tape.
"Why exactly do you need my expertise?" queried the tall, obviously Teutonic gentleman, speaking with a precision that showed his background.
"Is there a problem with your cont
ract, Klaus?"
"Not that I know of," replied Klaus, awkwardly adjusting his monocle, his left hand reaching across to his right eye.
"And I thought I was an anachronism," conjectured the seated man, his Jack Russell now seated in his lap. "Sit down, Klaus. I'll give you a little more than your 'need-to-know' permits."
"I see."
"We need to control the time of explosion of these devices when they are sitting on the bottom."
"These are very sensitive explosives, Admiral."
"We are working for cash now, Klaus, not the Rodina."
"I never worked for your Rodina, Admiral. Humor me. I do love the rituals of the past," he added once again, clumsily adjusting his monocle. "Damn this useless appendage," he added, glaring at his stroke-immobilized right arm.
"You have the expertise," the Admiral asked, voice rising to ensure that his listener understood the implied question.
"Da, da, but I noticed where we are on your GPS markers. I have no quarrel with these people, even if they are Mohammedans. Why here?"
"Klaus, did you ever hear of the Charge of the Light Brigade?" questioned the Admiral, his tone betraying a growing impatience.
"Pedantic history lessons seem misplaced here, but now that you mention it, is that not Tennyson? A staunch post-1919 Russophile like you and an Anglophile as well. You surprise me more and more. And to think I took you for a Bolshevik in wolf's clothing, a mere reconstituted KGB man, cum Mafioso," concluded the ageing, aristocratic looking German.
"Yes, yes. Here's one for you: never judge a book by its cover. But anyway, it was Tennyson and they all died in the charge. The relevant part of it goes like this:
'Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.'
I had a lot of time to read during those last few years when I was the guest of her Majesty, the Queen of England, before some mutual acquaintances had me, shall we say, released for good conduct. This motley crew exists to complete the task at hand."
"One last enquiry. Placing weapons such as these on the ocean floor contravenes many statutes of UN treaties against proliferation of weapons capable of mass destruction," said Klaus.
"Enough," interrupted the Admiral. "Think of your share of ten million Euros and get on with it," concluded the man calling himself the Admiral, as he made a mental note to be sure that this Teutonic twit be put out in the last torpedo tube with the last augmented depth charge.
"Augmented charge is a misnomer. We will use a shaped charge. As you specified, I have brought specially shaped metal cones that we lined with high explosives in the tube room. These cones will be attached to the depth charges, and the charges will ignite the high explosive liners of the cone. This method can produce a jet, in this case moving downward towards the ocean floor, that will travel close to ten kilometers per second. It is what we agreed."
"What about the timers?"
"This is a geologically unstable place. The underwater pressure will crush the timers, making them useless. We will be safe because a tsunami is barely perceptible under water."
"The shaped charges are already attached and ready to go?"
"Heil Hitler," shouted Klaus, as he excused himself for being unable to perform a Nazi salute.
"You are a pig, but a competent one," said the Admiral. "Where did you learn to make these charges? This technology is not exactly your epoch, is it?"
"Mien Admiral," jousted the German, knowing how the Russian found him and all fascists, despicable, "Shaped charges have been around since, as you call it, The Great Patriotic War, but I learned it in your old republic of Kazakhstan. It is very common in oil well drilling, something at which I am somewhat of an expert. Hence, our connection through a mutual acquaintance, an oligarch for whom I made a lot of money in your new Russia," added Klaus, somewhat menacingly.
"One more thing, Admiral."
"Why do you pester me? I am short of time. We must now deposit these devices in a very exacting series on the ocean floor. Leave me."
"Recognize this person," said the German as he nonchalantly dropped a photograph onto the surface of the navigation table between them.
"You were all pigs. Never forget, I was an infant born just after Leningrad."
"I am not forgetting that little fact. That is why the young woman in the photo is a guest of our mutual acquaintance, the oligarch. She will be released when I return, in one piece."
"Leave me," shouted the Admiral, looking at the photo of his granddaughter and cursing his stupidity. The Jack Russell jumped toward the German's throat. Klaus parried, swatting the small dog onto the table and left the command deck.
The tabletop reflected the Admirals mirthless, pasty face etched with so many tiny wrinkles that he looked like a puzzle, not a person. His lined face was a maze of creases, leading, like his life, nowhere. Real turtle jowls jostled to-and-fro under his chin when he paced. In a more pronounced way than usual, his mouth snapped closed with each new breath. The Admiral felt a pang. "Sashunechka. What have I done?" he uttered, just before snapping to and calling out, "Here are the settings and approximate placement trajectories. Be certain, and I mean you personally verify that the radio detonation devices are in good working order before the explosives go into the tubes."
"Aye, Admiral," said the second officer, a retired Commander, adding uncharacteristically, "Money or not, it's for the Rodina, Sir."
He clicked his heels and conducted an about-face.
"In a way you're right, indirectly, Commander," mumbled the ranking officer. He grumbled about not trusting the Nazi to follow his orders and sighed.
"Sasha. The only person in the whole world that matters to me and I have placed you in jeopardy," he said to no one in particular, his fingers tapping 'Dubinushka', a melodious song from the streets of the early Russian Revolution.
ACEH PROVINCE, INDONESIA
March 2012
Gema, only 14-year-old daughter of widower Suprarman, felt under the chicken roost again. This time, she leaned down as well and looked with her moist, dark eyes. Unusual, there are no eggs today. Her white, whole body-covering gown, which left only her face exposed, caught on a nail under the coop. She praised Allah for having helped her keep the lower part of her gown from being soiled by the dirt on the floor. No eggs in hand, Gema left the chicken coop.
Her next task, just before her morning prayers, was to milk the one cow that the family possessed. For the first time in her life, the cow did not produce any milk. What will father think? The smell of her father preparing rice and chili peppers, her favorite breakfast, calmed her somewhat. "Allah Akbar," she added under her breath, fearing of the possibility of her father's wrath and his reed switch.
Empty-handed, she left the animal enclosure under their house and climbed the stairs to the front porch. By the time she arrived, her father was already deep into his morning ritual. When she walked through the front door, she faced him, as he faced the door and Mecca. He was a conservative man, but permitted her to pray near him. She settled down behind him by about one meter. As she passed by him, she remarked proudly, once again, the redness of his prayer-bruised forehead, a testimony to his devoutness.
"Prayer brings peace, child," he said.
After he finished the rhythm of his prayers, he said, "Child, you are late today. Your ablutions seem to be incomplete, sweetness of my life."
Gema tried to explain to her father that she did not have time for the ritual cleansing, known as ablutions, earlier in the morning. "Father, I ..."
His right hand rising, he said, "Ablutions and then the calm sureness that comes from the completion of the seven positions ... ah! Sometimes I realize that my lack of a son has perhaps clouded my judgment. Perhaps you are not able to follow my lead and find the true way to Allah after all, my child. We will give praise be to Allah after your ablutions."
She left the house and went outside to the hand operated water
pump. Her feet went under the cold water easily. She washed and went back inside. Her father silently watched, humbled by the perfection of her movements and recitations. "Ah! Would that you were a boy," he sighed. "What seems to be the problem with our animals today, or do you need the reminder of the switch due to sloth?"
"No. Father, I arose at the same time as usual. There are no eggs this day and the cow was dry as well."
"Come, my sweetness, let us verify your conjectures. Our animals have never before deprived us."
As he preceded her down the stairs of their traditional Aceh Province home, he looked up when he heard a sound … a deep rumble, and the swish of water as might be heard on a beach. A vague memory of an experience in his childhood suddenly haunted him, yet he could not put his finger on the memory until he heard the sound. "Heart of my heart, come to your father. Hold me and pray to Allah." The father suddenly remembered the death of his parents when he was but four years old.
"No eggs, no eggs, no milk, no milk. The water–" muttered her father.
"What are you saying father? I can't hear you properly."
"The water–" he said aloud. They turned toward a growling sound, eyes bulged, and mouths dropped open. The wave was fifteen meters tall.
KEFIRA’S CHILDHOOD - KIBBUTZ NA’AN
1990S
Kefira recognized the look that she saw in their eyes because it was the same stare she awoke to every morning as she looked in the mirror in the communal bathroom. Mossad had brought her fellow students together in one of the oldest settlements in Israel, Kibbutz Na'an. Normal daily life had occupied the first few years of their time in Kibbutz Na'an. Though they all knew that they were somehow special, not just because their teachers told them so on every occasion possible, but because they were isolated from the other young people as much as possible. It was more than the fact that all of their parents had died at the hands of terrorists, both inside and outside Israel.
After a couple of years, students in their classes started disappearing. The rumor mill circulated all kinds of fantasies, until one day two people in military uniforms came into the class carrying an ancient looking spear. They marched to the front of the room, carrying the spear held high.
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