Jericho 3

by Paul McKellips

  The Ja‘farī council nodded it’s approval. Kazi stood and walked over to each and kissed their hands with sincere respect.

  Creech Air Force Base

  Indian Springs, Nevada

  U.S. Air Force Captain Brady Kenton and “Kate” were on their fourth day of surveillance missions over Iran. The tracking beacon on the SkitoMister had remained stationary in the Damghan warehouse since it returned from the Bourvari District.

  The CIA and the SECDEF took advantage of “Kate” being in the neighborhood and authorized that she and her combat pilot friend take photos and sign autographs over Iranian nuclear sites in Arak, Natanz and Bushehr.

  Colonel Abrams’ voice over the comms from the Tactical Operations Center jolted Kenton back to reality.

  “Okay Brady, let’s get Kate back to bed in Kandahar.”

  “Roger.”

  Kenton pulled back on the stick and turned Kate east back toward Afghanistan.

  * * *

  24

  * * *

  National Interagency Biodefense Center

  BSL-4 Facility

  Fort Detrick, Maryland

  Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines drove her Wrangler through the Fort Detrick checkpoint and into the parking lot. It had been five days since the new vaccine was injected into the latest round of four rhesus monkeys. The monkeys had already lived a full 24 hours longer than the previous 16 monkeys. Raines was prepared for more disappointment but remained cautiously optimistic. She questioned her own skill, her own ability to produce an effective vaccine. Self-doubt was a greater enemy than vaccine-resistant tularemia.

  Her eyes were shallow, and her shoulders sagged from the fatigue and weight of the world as Raines ordered her skinny latte in the atrium coffee bar surrounded by leather chairs and couches. She hated the informal living room furniture. She hated the entire atrium and the stupid little coffee bar. She hated her miserable life as a solitary tear streaked down her face as she entered the elevator without buttons.

  Raines emerged on the only floor her card and biometric scan would allow her to enter.

  Dropping her bag off in her office, she quickly checked her voice mail and emails. There was nothing, nothing of significance anyways. There was nothing new to hate.

  Raines walked slowly down to the command center. It was empty. On the TV monitors she noticed four technicians gathered around the rhesus cages in her lab.

  They’re dead, she thought to herself.

  Two of the technicians pulled away from the cages carrying four vials of blood as the other two moved in closer. They had treats in their gloves…and toys.

  Then she saw it. The monkeys were still alive.

  The two technicians moved over to the bench and placed several blood samples on slides. One of them waved through the thick glass as they noticed Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines who was now standing in anticipation.

  Moments later both technicians turned and gave thumbs-up through thick gloves.

  Tears gushed out of the colonel’s eyes as her hands covered her face.

  Dr. Groenwald walked into the command center and saw the raised thumbs and the emotion pouring out of Raines. He leaned forward and put a consoling hand upon her shoulder.

  “You did it, colonel; you absolutely did it.”

  Raines reached up and grabbed his hand without saying a word.

  “Come on, we have some calls to make,” Groenwald said as he left the command center.

  Raines and the team poured over the toxicology reports. Other than the strain of tularemia proteins cooked into the vaccine recipe itself, the toxicology was clear. No tularemia. Raines made the first call up the chain of command to General Ferguson, who in turn notified the SECDEF’s office and the CIA.

  Within six hours Raines was sitting in economy class on board an Air France flight to Paris connecting on another Air France flight to Lyon.

  Rasht

  Gilan Province, Iran

  Rasht, affectionately called the Seattle of Iran due to all the rain, was the largest Iranian city on the Caspian Sea coast. With almost 600,000 citizens, Rasht was once known as the Gate of Europe and the preferred trade route with Russia. In earlier centuries Rasht was the center of the silk industry and was buzzing with commerce from the textile workshops.

  An industrialized town, Rasht had begun to fall out of favor with the religious authorities as their culture of consumerism seemed far too western for clerical comfort. With modern hotels and hundreds of tourist attractions, Rasht was becoming a favorite international tourist destination that attracted thousands of Austrians, Germans, Dutch, French, Australians and Japanese each year.

  It was also a comparatively open city that seemed to look the other way as Christian house churches sprang up with a touch of evangelical fervor, especially in the suburbs of Golsar.

  The Iranian Supreme Court had been considering the fate of Pastor Khani after the provincial court convicted him of apostasy and sentenced him to death. Even the Supreme Leader had grown agitated to learn that perhaps more than 100,000 Christians were living – and growing – in Iran.

  Rasht was getting out of control. With seven universities, a thriving media, multiple cinemas and musical concert halls, Rasht was too cosmopolitan. Modesty was at risk in Rasht.

  The helicopter carrying the SkitoMister touched down on the outskirts of Golsar and was quickly loaded onto a maintenance truck. The helicopter crew carried a fiberglass tank full of liquid and hooked it up to the SkitoMister.

  With a technician in the back, the truck drove down several specific streets in Golsar, streets that had been identified by the MISIRI, the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of the Islamic Republic of Iran, as being suitable for pesticide application.

  Captain Brady Kenton and “Kate” watched from above as the truck spent less than 20 minutes in Golsar. Three intelligence officers from Mossad, Shin Bet and Aman watched similar images they were receiving from the Ofek 9 in their Tel Aviv monitoring stations. A surveillance satellite could observe a site for only a few minutes at a time given the complexities of orbit distance and speed. But “Kate” and all of her collegial drones could loiter for hours at high altitude and send a continuous video feed of the people working on the ground. “Kate” delivered the complete pattern of life, giving critical clues of the work being done, the equipment being used and the people on the ground.

  Almost as fast as it began, the maintenance operation was over. An entire tank had been dispersed and Captain Brady Kenton watched the SkitoMister get loaded back on the helicopter for the return flight to Damghan.

  Kenton followed the chopper all the way back to the warehouse. Hovering 30,000 feet over the Damghan warehouse, Kenton became amused. A man appeared to be out in the field next to the warehouse, and he was flying a gas-powered remote-controlled airplane. “Kate” watched the man take the four-foot winged craft on high banks, barrel rolls, steep dives, and vertical climbs. The man was incredibly skilled, and it brought back memories of when US Air Force Captain Kenton was just “little Brady,” flying his airplanes and gliders in the grass fields near Lake Winnebago in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Brady grew up an experimental aviation nut. Captain Brady Kenton watched the incredible toy fly for a few more minutes before he and “Kate” needed to head back to Kandahar, Afghanistan.

  The man in the field brought his airplane in for a landing as the helicopter touched down, and the SkitoMister was rolled into the warehouse.

  Captain Kenton pulled “Kate” up and turned her east toward Afghanistan. They had only been flying a few minutes when something happened. Somewhere in the mountains between Neyshabir and Mashhad, Brady lost control of his drone. “Kate” disappeared.

  “Brady…Kate just dropped off our screen…you still got her?” Colonel Abrams asked from the TOC at Creech Air Force Base in Indian Springs, Nevada.

  Brady was frantically working his stick and resetting computer images.

  “Roger that, sir, still working it. Kate seems to h
ave lost her connection with the GPS satellite. Stand by.”

  The video feed from Kate was intermittent, but clearly she was descending and getting closer to the two mountain ranges of Binalood and Haser-Masjed. She was too close.

  “Talk to me, Captain Kenton,” Abrams yelled as he stood with greater urgency.

  “I have no controls, repeat, I have no control over Kate.”

  “What the hell? Has she been hit?”

  “Negative, sir, she is disconnected. Sir, she’s on auto-pilot. She’s landing herself.”

  Seconds later the video feed was gone. Kate laid in three pieces on the ground in the most level place she could find in the Binalood mountains of northeastern Iran.

  The Ofek 9 sent Kate’s photograph to Tel Aviv where the three intelligence officers stared at this technological wonder in amazement. Special Agent Daniels and Agent Fallon Jessup ran down the corridors of Langley to brief the Director as phones around the world were dialed and picked up simultaneously.

  “Get me the SECDEF’s office now!” Colonel Abrams screamed as combat pilot and US Air Force Captain Brady Kenton unbuckled himself from his tan leather swivel office chair, stepped back and ejected from the virtual debris.

  * * *

  25

  * * *

  ISAF Headquarters

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  General Ferguson, US Navy Captain “Camp” Campbell and Billy Finn were positioned and waiting for the video conference call connection to the Pentagon. Whatever Secretary of Defense Pennington wanted to talk about, it must have been important because the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was joining the call as well.

  “Mister Secretary, I’m joined by Captain Campbell and retired FBI special agent Finn,” Ferguson said as the video feed came to life.

  “Jim, we’ve got a big problem, an international situation,” SECDEF Pennington began. “Our classified drone, the RQ-170 Sentinel crash landed an hour ago in northeastern Iran.”

  “Hostile fire?” Ferguson pressed.

  “We don’t think so, but we’re looking at a technological glitch with the guidance satellite as probable cause. Jim, the Israelis are going bat-shit. Their Ofek 9 has been tracking the events in Bourvari District and now this. They also got hi-res images of the crashed drone. They want some explanations.”

  “How can I help, sir?” Ferguson asked.

  “Get your team to Tel Aviv as soon as possible. Tell the Israelis everything you know. Be candid with them but keep them calm. We don’t want to trigger a damn war over this. Undersecretary Miller is working with the Knesset and the Prime Minister’s office. CIA is sending Daniels and a gal named Jessup to meet with Mossad. I need you to brief Aman and Shin Bet.”

  “Affirmative, sir, we’ll keep your office posted.”

  Camp raised his hand to make sure the call wasn’t prematurely ended.

  “Secretary Pennington?” Camp asked.

  “Yes, captain.”

  “What about the drone, sir? If the Ofek 9 could track her and photograph her that means we’ve still got a good signal on her. Are you planning to destroy the drone before the Iranians find her?”

  “That’s above your pay-grade captain. We’ve presented three options to the president, and that’ll be his call and his alone to make.”

  “Sir? What are those options?”

  Pennington seemed perturbed. Even the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs thought the Navy O-6 was out of his lane.

  “Send in a covert mission to destroy it, send over another drone to blow it up with a hellfire missile, or let it be.”

  “Sir, what’s the realistic window for any of those options?” Camp pushed.

  “This is the latest stealth technology, Captain Campbell. This is a top secret military weapon. We’ll do everything in our power to make sure that this technology is not compromised,” Pennington said.

  “But what’s the window, Mr. Secretary?”

  Pennington paused and blew a sigh of disgust and subtle irritation out of his mouth.

  “Seventy-two hours…tops.”

  Lyon International Airport

  Lyon, France

  Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines was thrilled to be out of uniform and dressed in casual attire as she exited the jet bridge and walked into the beautiful and modern terminal at Lyon. She had already cleared customs at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris and was tempted to take advantage of the duty free shops, boutiques and spas that adorned the terminal.

  Raines sported a tight pair of designer blue jeans tucked into a new pair of suede UGGs with her straight brunette hair pulled back in a pony tail. She wore an expensive white, fine gauge cotton cable sweater with a plunging neckline and just a hint of a tan t-shirt below. Raines was turning heads, and she knew it. She couldn’t afford a massive wardrobe on military O-5 pay, but she made sure every piece that made it to her closet counted. She was the queen of thrift stores, outlet malls and second chance stores. Leslie Raines was not a woman who would pay full retail for brand names and designer labels. But she sure looked like it.

  A crowd of people that had gathered beneath one of the overhead flat-panel TV screens pulled her away from any self-indulgent “duty free” ideas she may have been contemplating.

  The breaking news was broadcast in French, a language she knew precious little about. But the subtitle of the news story screamed at her in Latin: Francisella tularensis.

  The television images were from a city on the Caspian Sea coast of Iran, a thriving somewhat modern-looking town called Rasht. Raines saw images of Iranian medics carrying sheet-covered bodies out of their homes. The number featured in the on-screen graphic was 42. She didn’t need to be fluent in French in order to understand that 42 people were dead.

  Raines pulled out her cell phone and took a wild chance of connecting with Camp on his Afghan cell.

  He answered.

  “Hey, I know this number,” Camp answered.

  “Camp, I just got off my flight here in Lyon.”

  “France?”

  “Yes, I’m standing here looking at some breaking news coming out of Iran, looks like it’s a story about tularemia. Do you know anything?”

  “On this telephone line I can’t really say anything, Les. But let’s just say whatever you’re thinking is probably correct, and it’s probably worse than you think.”

  “Are you driving? I hear cars.”

  “Yes ma’am, on the way to the airport.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Can’t say that either, darling. How long will you be in Lyon?”

  “Two weeks, maybe four months. Who knows. Wanna come visit?”

  Camp smiled and thought about the last time they had been to France together, a fancy restaurant in Marseille.

  “Les, remember that restaurant in France?”

  “The Sofitel Marseille Vieux Port hotel, at Les Trois Forts restaurant with Chef Dominique Frerard.”

  Camp was stunned.

  “Good God, woman, how do you remember that kind of stuff?”

  “Because I am a woman, and I pay attention to details, Mister SEAL. What did I drink that night, Camp? Or do you not pay attention to details?”

  Camp did not hesitate.

  “There we were, in the south of France along the Mediterranean, a romantic dinner with twelve of our closest SEAL friends and CIA spooks, and Raines orders an Italian Pinot Gris.”

  Now Raines was shocked.

  “You remembered,” she said softly, almost romantically as bodies from the tularemia poisoning were being carried out of more houses in Rasht on the TV screen in front of her.

  “I remember every detail, Les…especially when it’s important…see you soon?”

  Raines heard the line click off. She folded her phone and held it close to her heart as her thoughts filled with tularemia. The Iranians weren’t bluffing, and Raines knew it.

  * * *

  26

  * * *

  Palmachim Airbase

  Rishon LeZio
n, Israel

  The C-17 carrying Ferguson, Camp and Billy Finn from Kabul to Kuwait and into Israel landed and taxied to a stop on the tarmac closest to the military terminal.

  The faces of Camp and Finn were glued to the small portal windows in the back of the military transport as they tried to get glimpses of the famous Palmachim Base.

  Palmachim Air Force Base was an Israeli military facility and spaceport located near the cities of Rishon LeZion and Yavne on the Mediterranean Sea, named after Kibbutz Palmachim on the Mediterranean shore.

  The base was home to several Israeli Air Force helicopter and UAV unmanned drone squadrons, and served as the rocket launch site for the Arrow missile. The Israelis used Palmachim to launch the Shavit space launch vehicle into retrograde orbit by launching over the Mediterranean. It was their primary spaceport. The strategic location allowed rocket debris to fall harmlessly into the sea, and away from Israel’s regional enemies that might have wanted access to their technology. Palmachim was also used to test ballistic missiles, including the Jericho 3.

  Ferguson, Camp and Finn were escorted to a black Mercedes for the ride to Tel Aviv. The Israeli Defense Agency asked that the initial meeting be held at Shabak’s Non-Arab Affairs Department offices in Tel Aviv. Shabak, or Shin Bet as the Americans referred to it, was responsible for internal security, but their missions often took them around the globe. Shin Bet served Israel as almost a mirror image of the FBI and Homeland Security in America. Special Agent Chaim Yariv was the lead investigator with Shin Bet, which made Billy Finn feel like he was back in the game.