Critical Error
Murray Mcdonald
Murray McDonald
Critical Error
Part One
Chapter 1
Fajr Hotel
Ahwaz, Iran
September 1st 2007
Finally, thought Sam, as a hand clamped over his mouth and the cold steel of the blade pressed into his throat, he was getting somewhere.
“You ask too many questions, my friend!” offered the knifeman. His foul breath hung heavily as he pinned Sam to the small bed.
The Arab use of the word ‘friend’ was not lost on Sam. He had heard them come for him, clumsy, poorly trained. About the only thing they had got right was the timing. At 4 a.m., Sam would have been in a deep sleep had he not expected his visitors.
Sam tried to answer but the hand remained clamped over his mouth.
“Let him speak,” came a different voice from the doorway, calm and authoritative.
The boss, thought Sam.
The knifeman removed his hand from Sam’s mouth but pushed the blade harder against his neck.
“Just trying to find my girlfriend,” choked Sam as the knife pressed on his Adam’s apple. “She went missing about a week ago,” he struggled but persevered. “Perhaps you can help me.”
“Perhaps,” offered the boss. “Can you describe her?”
The knifeman barely contained a laugh as the boss teased Sam. The hold on the knife relaxed slightly, allowing Sam to speak more freely.
“About five seven, dark hair, cute, oh and she had a CNN van and a cameraman with her. Hard to miss really.”
“Piercing green eyes, dimples in her cheeks, a tattoo on her left wrist and far too young for you?” offered the boss.
Sam nodded, although he didn’t quite agree with the too young jibe. He was only ten years older than her.
“Nope, don’t know her,” concluded the boss. “Now, who the fuck are you?” The calm friendly tone had gone. The joking was over and they were down to business. The knifeman pressed the knife harder once more. A small trickle of blood ran down Sam’s neck.
Sam had no intention of telling the boss who he was. At least, not who he really was. As far as anyone in Iran knew, Sam was the boyfriend of the missing CNN journalist, kidnapped a week earlier from the streets of Tehran. She and her cameraman had quite literally vanished. No terrorist group had claimed responsibility nor had anyone demanded a ransom. With the trail cold and the Iranians blocking every request by the US to help, Sam Baker, one of the CIA’s top operatives, had gone in as the grieving boyfriend, desperate to find his loved one.
After two days of searching, the CNN van was discovered near the city of Ahwaz, not far from the Persian Gulf. Sam immediately turned his attention to the streets of Ahwaz, showing the photo of his girlfriend to anyone who would look and listen. The photo showed the pair enjoying a meal with friends. The photo was fake but the CIA forgers defied anyone to prove it. It was one of their finest forgeries and showed the American couple enjoying a meal with Sam’s supposed uncle, the President of the United States.
As the knife cut into his skin, Sam couldn’t help but smile at how well the photo had worked. Ahwaz was surrounded by secret terrorist training camps and the likelihood of the CNN team being taken by terrorists had jumped tenfold as news spread that they were in the region. The subtlety of the link to the President had been key. Sam had touted his picture around the city and it had worked. The mention of the journalist’s tattoo was just the confirmation Sam needed. He had his men. Sam hid the small.22 caliber pistol he had pointed at the knifeman from beneath the covers.
Three hours and a bone churning ride on the floor of a pickup truck later, Sam was being led into a small barracks building. Neither the boss nor the knifeman had uttered a word since they had bundled Sam through the hotel’s main lobby in nothing more than his boxers and a vest.
Sam had counted four guards as they drove into the compound. Knifeman and Bossman made six. A further two stood guard inside the barracks. Eight men that he could account for. At least half again would be resting. A minimum of twelve in total, a little more than he had expected. Actually, it was about eight more than he had expected. Standing in a pair of boxer shorts and a vest, things couldn’t get much worse.
“Who the fuck is this?!” screamed the female journalist at the sight of Sam in his underwear.
Sam smiled at his ‘girlfriend’s’ loss of memory and at how much worse the situation had just become.
“Don’t be silly, Honey, it’s me!” he said, his eyes begging her to realize he was on her side. Bossman nodded to Knifeman and the knife was once again at Sam’s throat.
Sam noticed that the journalist and cameraman were unshackled, free to roam around the small barracks. Not exactly what he had anticipated. Not good either. A bond had been struck between captor and hostage. A bond they were unlikely to break for a stranger in his underwear. Sam prayed she would play along, recognizing a fellow American’s accent.
Sam’s ‘girlfriend’ backed away. “I have no idea who this man is!” she said definitively.
Bossman began to speak rapidly in his native tongue. Whatever he was saying, Knifeman didn’t like it and the blade grew tighter across Sam’s neck.
Sam dropped his chin despondently and shifted onto his right foot. The movement caused a slight separation between blade and skin but enough to ensure Sam’s survival. Plan A was dead. Plan B was Sam’s only option. He just had to work out what that was. Sam swung his hand up and grabbed Knifeman’s hand in a vice-like grip just as the heel of his left foot crushed down into Knifeman’s foot. Sam snapped his head back like a wrecking ball and smashed Knifeman’s nose to a pulp. The combination of actions had all been thought through precisely and executed to perfection, all in the blink of an eye. Knifeman dropped to the ground, immobile. Sam grabbed the knife and spun across the floor grabbing Bossman as he moved and placed the knife carefully across the not so cocky boss’ throat. Plan B was going to have to go with the flow.
The two guards at the door of the barracks had reacted to Sam’s move but Sam was too quick. The knife was at their boss’ throat before either could raise their weapon and get a shot.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed the journalist. Her cameraman grabbed her and tried to keep her calm.
“OK, now nobody needs to die here,” said Sam. “I just want to take these nice people back to their families.”
Neither of the terrorists dropped their weapons.
The journalist burst into tears, gesticulating wildly at Sam. She looked furious at his rescuing her.
“They can’t let us go before 9.30 a.m.!” cried out the cameraman, still struggling to contain the increasingly hysterical journalist.
“Sorry?” asked Sam, incredulous at the suggestion, that after 9.30 a.m., they could quite simply walk out of the door.
“They have no intention of harming us,” explained the cameraman. “That’s why she’s panicking. You’ve put our lives in danger, not saved them!”
“This is not fucking Disneyland! Wake up guys!” shouted Sam. “We’re in fucking downtown central Terroristville! I don’t know which nutters they represent but trust me, they only mean us harm!”
“We…” the boss began but was interrupted by the journalist.
“…they are the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades.” She choked back tears as she spoke. “Palestinian fighters. They have given us an exclusive to release when we leave here which, up until you arrived, was about an hour from now!” she added angrily.
Sam couldn’t help but ask. “Why an hour from now? Why not now? Why not yesterday?”
“Because today, in less than an hour, we will bring the Israelis to their knees,” promised the boss proudly.
While
Sam was distracted by the journalist and the boss talking, the two guards worked their way closer, silently closing the gap between themselves and Sam. Sam, of course, knew exactly what they were doing and had hoped they would do exactly that.
He had heard enough and the angles were now perfect. Without a moment’s hesitation or warning, Sam drew the knife across the terrorist leader’s throat almost decapitating him and killing him instantly. The action caught everybody by surprise and as the guards began to compute what had just happened, Sam was already dispatching the knife towards the guard to his right whilst kicking the dead weight of the boss into the guard on his left.
As one guard died with a knife embedded in his chest, the other was coping with the almost headless corpse of his boss as it crashed into him. The head lolled wildly as both the guard and the boss crashed to the floor. Before they even hit the floor, Sam was on them to help ensure the guard’s skull cracked as he powered it into the floor.
The gruesomeness of the scene left the cameraman with little hope of quelling the journalist’s screams, ensuring the rest of the camp would be ready and waiting for them.
“In an hour, they would have let us go!” shouted the cameraman, furious at what had just happened.
“We have to warn Israel,” replied Sam, firmly and simply. He grabbed the guard’s gun and checked the magazine.
“How many terrorists?” demanded Sam as he ran to the window.
“There were eleven,” stammered the cameraman. “I suppose there are seven now…”
One better than he had anticipated. Maybe the day was looking up.
The door crashed open and two guards ran in. Their weapons were drawn but not having heard any shots, they had not known what to expect. Sam didn’t hesitate and shot them both as they entered the room.
“Five left,” corrected the cameraman.
With the first shots fired, no more guards would be running blindly into the room.
“Wait here!” commanded Sam as he opened a back door and disappeared.
Sam had no intention of becoming a sitting duck and instead was going on the offensive.
By the time the five guards were in position to launch an assault on the barracks, it was too late. Sam was behind them. As they charged, he simply picked them off. These were men who strapped bombs to themselves and blew up women and children. Sam had no compunction about shooting them in the back, front, head or balls. The only good terrorist, as far as he was concerned, was a dead one.
As he walked back into the barracks it was a very different scene. The journalist rushed across the room and hugged him like a long lost friend. The cameraman tried his best to join in but Sam was in no mood for celebrating. The clock was ticking. “I need a phone, is there one here?”
“The next building is a small office, there’s one in there,” offered his new best pal.
As they rushed to the next building, the journalist explained what had happened. They had been kidnapped in Tehran after inadvertently hearing one of their contacts discussing the plan to attack Israel. They didn’t know what or how the attack would happen, they just knew it was massive and they knew when. September 1st 8.00 a.m.
After what felt like hours, Sam was eventually patched through to the Head of Shin Bet, Israel’s security service. The phone rang and rang. Sam checked his watch, 9.31 a.m. local time, 8.01 a.m. Israeli time.
Chapter 2
Jerusalem, Israel
September 1st 2007
As the bus drew to a stop, the excitement and trepidation of the small crowd was palpable. Rebecca Cohen’s hand shook as she held on tightly to Joshua. Her body trembled as she fought back the tears. She always knew this day would come. For six years, she had waited for the day that her constant companion, her best friend and confidant would leave her side for the first time. She looked down into the eyes of her son and for the first time, she didn’t see his father looking back. For six years, Joshua had been her savior, her only link to the one man she had ever truly loved. If it were not for Joshua, she would most definitely have given up. His dark eyes glistened with excitement, in just the same way as his father’s had before him. A father whom Joshua would never meet. A father whom he knew about and could be proud of. A man who had died for his country, his people and his beliefs. A man Rebecca had adored and worshipped.
The tears started to flow as the door opened. Rebecca tried desperately hard to hide them. Joshua didn’t like it when Mummy cried. His eyes saddened as he watched the tears run down her cheeks.
“It’s OK Josh, Mummy’s happy. They’re tears of joy,” she lied.
Joshua looked around. It seemed most of the mummies and even a few of the daddies were crying. Even some of his friends were crying. Was there something he didn’t know about? Was there something he should be scared of? No, his mother worshipped him and would never do anything that would upset or harm him. If she wanted him on the bus, it was because it was good for him. He disengaged from his mother’s tightening grip, gave her a final hug, a kiss on the cheek and told her he loved her.
“I love you too, my darling,” replied Rebecca as she watched her son, in his new school uniform, board the bus and run straight to the back to jump onto the backseat. Pressing his face against the window and waving wildly, he shouted ‘I love you!’
As the bus began to pull away, Rebecca’s tears flowed freely. She mouthed ‘I love you too’. The smile on his face exploded into her retina. The initial blast of the explosion took her completely by surprise. The ball of flame engulfed the bus for what seemed like hours before the shockwave hit her. The lasting image of her son waving excitedly as his body was torn to pieces would live with her forever.
Chapter 3
West Jerusalem
The Knesset
Cabinet Room
September 1st 2007
“What in the name of God was that?” shouted the Prime Minister, Chaim Goldman, as the bomb-proof room shook on its foundations.
Most of the cabinet had seen active service at some point in their lives and all instantly knew that the force of the explosion had to be massive or extremely close to have been felt so strongly in one of the most secure rooms in the country. Before anyone could respond, a second and a third shockwave hit the room in quick succession. As the doors to the Cabinet Room flew open, cabinet members drew their weapons and aimed. In the doorway, stood the Sergeant-At-Arms of the Knesset and a group of cabinet bodyguards and senior aides.
Quick to respond and before anyone was shot by accident, the Prime Minister screamed “STOP!!!”
Silence fell and order was restored.
The Prime Minister turned to the Sergeant-At-Arms, the man responsible for Knesset security.
“Avi?”
“A number of large explosions have hit the city. The Knesset is secure, Mr Prime Minister. Lockdown procedures were put in place the moment we heard the first explosion.”
With each explosion, the occupants of the ultra secure room had flinched, perfectly safe but feeling the pain of each explosion. This was happening on their watch.
As the news cameras rushed across the country, the scale of the attack unfolded. The TV screens in the Cabinet Office ran the images as phones rang and updates flooded in. Every target was the same. The monstrousness of the attack was overwhelming. Two hundred buses carrying the youngest and most vulnerable members of society had been bombed. Survivors on the buses were few and far between and those who had survived were unlikely to live a normal life. Within the hour, the death-toll was already in the thousands. The overwhelming force of the explosions on each of the buses was staggering. The death-toll of passers-by began to exceed that of the bus passengers. This was a co-ordinated attack on a massive scale, even surpassing that of 9-11.
At 8 p.m., twelve hours after the initial explosion, the Prime Minister called the meeting to order, not that any order needed to be called. The Cabinet Room was deathly silent, despite its inflated numbers. Deputies and assistants lined the walls as the Ca
binet gathered round a large conference table in the center of the room.
“David, can you please give us the update,” asked the Prime Minister, turning to his Defense Minister, David Hirsch.
As the Minister of Defense got to his feet, the cabinet door opened and the President of Israel, Ehud Rabin, entered the room, nodding to the Prime Minister and looking for an empty seat against the wall.
“Please Ehud, sit next to me,” offered the Prime Minister, motioning for an assistant to move a chair next to him. The President nodded his assent and took the seat next to Chaim.
As with many elected presidents who inherit prime ministers of a different political party, the two men had fought publicly for years and had split the allegiance of the Cabinet between them. However, this was a message to the Cabinet, from the two master politicians of Israel, that petty differences were to be set aside. Israel was to be united. The President nodded for David Hirsch to continue.
“This Morning was the first day of term for a new school year. At approximately 7.58 a.m., a primary school bus in Jerusalem exploded, killing everyone on board. By 8.06 a.m., over 200 bombs, all targeting primary school buses, had exploded across the country. Casualty figures are changing by the second but as of five minutes ago, the numbers stood at 4,237 confirmed dead and over 10,000 injured. Over 2,000 of those are critical. Despite the chaos, our infrastructure is holding its own. Hospitals have initiated emergency procedures and field hospitals have been erected. The armed forces are on high alert.”
As the Defense Secretary paused for a moment, the room remained silent. The scale of the attack began to hit home.
After a few seconds, a quiet voice came from the head of the table.
“How?” asked the President.
“We’re not entirely certain yet. The bus depots are highly secure and as such, there is no way the devices were planted before they left for the school run. The bus drivers are all security trained and armed. Suicide bombers would have been repelled and certainly would not have succeeded 200 times within ten minutes.”
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