by Greig Beck
‘Night drop?’ Alex asked.
Hammerson nodded. ‘High and dark. Twice the fun.’
Alex grinned. If a human being truly wanted to experience speed, forget about travelling in the cockpit of a jet or racing car. Just do a High Altitude Low Opening jump. All HAWCs had to perform HALOs as part of their special training; however, 35,000 feet was the absolute maximum without wearing a full pressurised suit. The air temperature was well below freezing at that height and frostbite, hypothermia and glass-eye were a possibility. Usually, though, you weren’t there long enough for any of those to occur; the real danger came from the low air pressure that could cause pulmonary or even cerebral oedema – swelling of the lungs or brain. The latter led to blackouts or hallucinations – you simply forgot why you needed to open your chute. Terminal velocity was around 200 miles per hour for a freefall, but with the low air pressure you could reach double that velocity. Hit the ground at those speeds and they’d be collecting you with a mop and bucket.
‘The new suits you’ll be using with the visors down will give you adequate environmental protection and we can rig in disposable oxygen,’ Hammerson said. ‘Drop will take around three minutes, two minutes of which are going to be pretty unpleasant, doubly so for our Israeli contingent.’ Hammerson pulled a more detailed map and photographs out of the pile on his desk.
‘Israelis? New suits?’ Alex knitted his brows.
‘Some regional collaboration – we’ll get to that. Infiltration will be approximately one mile south of the Persepolis ruins. Extraction point to be determined by you. We’ll have a surface-skimming gunship ready; by then we won’t care if anyone hears or sees us.’
Alex studied the map of Iran and the photographs of the Marv Dasht basin spread out before him – nearly 650,000 square miles of dry desert, mountains and age-old hostility. ‘Surveillance?’ he asked. Getting captured in Iran as a spy wouldn’t make for a very pleasant few days – torture and execution would ruin a good holiday every time.
‘Nothing electronic, but you can bet there’ll be a few lenses pointed skyward. The B2 will be well above that for your drop, and your suits won’t show up on the way down. On the ground… maybe.’
Alex nodded. ‘We can deal with anything on the ground.’ He paused for a moment then said, ‘We don’t need help. They’ll just slow us down.’
‘This time you might. The complex technology and hostile environment means we’ll need specialists – in astrophysics, languages and logistics.’
Alex shook his head. ‘I’ve got Sam Reid, he knows plenty about nuclear fission and the technology. And you’re telling me you want me take a language specialist? I don’t expect to be doing much talking.’
‘I know, I know, and one or both of them will probably be a Mossad torpedo. But we need to work with the Israelis on this – the last thing we want is them making a strike on Iran. Consider it a small price for being able to use their bases and resources. Besides, we think the situation may be more complex than just some sort of test burst. The Israelis have more eyes and ears in Iran than we’ll ever have. My gut feeling is you may need them. There’ll be a further briefing on the ground in Israel.’
‘Two of them, five of us. If they fall behind, they stay behind.’
‘Okay, then. Best case: seven in, seven out. But it’ll be your call on how you execute your mission objectives. Now, let’s see what we’ve got to cover your back, soldier.’
Hammerson moved the map and photos aside and turned his computer sideways so they could both see the screen. He was already logged on to the USSTRATCOM intranet, the internal secure website for the strategic command’s senior officers. The first page he opened was for research and development, where he selected ‘defensive weaponry’, then ‘arid environment body armour’.
Alex whistled. The screen showed what looked like a sand-coloured robot. The new dry-zone combat suit combined a total-cover uniform with a synthetic material base and armour plates covering the chest area, back and shoulders. Over the neck, stomach, knees and elbows it was armadillo-segmented for maximum mobility. The facial area was open, but a high-tech helmet covered the head and travelled down the side of the face to halfway along the chin. A visor could be pulled out and down from the brow brim.
‘Got to be lightweight,’ Alex said. ‘Is the plating a polymer structure?’
‘Nope, not even close. Benefit of being in the HAWCs – we get all the experimental stuff from the labs. What you see there is the result of millions of dollars of research and a lot of free education from Operation Desert Shield. In a dry environment it’ll be your new best friend; this suit material is thermally created using the latest in para-aramid synthetic fibres. I say thermally because there’s no stitching; it’s actually grown then fused together. Strength-to-weight ratio is about five to one – we use this stuff in warplanes now. Its basic design is to keep out heat, sand and dust but retain moisture. It won’t stop a bullet, but it will stop a knife thrust, unless someone like you is doing the thrusting. What will stop a bullet is the plating – what you thought was a polymer structure is actually a zirconium dioxide ceramic. This stuff ranks an 8.5 on the Mohs scale of hardness. Steel is only about a six. It’s light, won’t melt, is non-conductive and non-magnetic. Helmet is the same material and has all your communication equipment built-in.’
‘Wow, can it fly?’
Hammerson laughed. ‘Soon. That’ll be in the next gen.’ He sat quietly for a moment watching Alex before reaching for a folder and speaking again. ‘There is one more thing; the exoskeleton and para-aramids will need to be upgraded for radiation shielding. The material will be compressed to simulate the dense atomic structure of lead, with only minimal extra weight, and without the heavy metal toxicity.’
Alex nodded slowly. ‘Hmm, you think the Iranians are still leaking radiation?’
Hammerson gave a shrug. He opened the folder and lifted out a photograph. He looked stonily at the image for a few seconds before he slid it across to Alex.
A disfigured body was displayed with half its torso flattened and stretched over ten additional feet. It was spread out on a canvas sheet and displayed like the rotting carcass of a washed-up deep-sea animal. Pieces of white material and road tar were still embedded within its mass.
Alex shook his head and frowned as he slid the photograph back. ‘Radiation does that?’
Hammerson shrugged and looked down at the image. ‘We have no idea what does that. Or how that… man, came to be on American soil. What we do know is that he was a German national by the name of Rudolf Hoeckler. He was one of the leading theoretical particle physicists in the world. We’ve since learned through our intelligence networks that he passed into Iranian territory eighteen months ago, and our agents have told us they believed he was still there. It was our firm belief that Hoeckler was assisting them in their uranium enrichment program. We don’t know how he got to Colorado Springs, but he still wore his Iranian ID tags and lab coat.’
He sat back. ‘Autopsy report said he was frozen to 2.7 degrees kelvin, and had been in a vacuum – to quote the report, “predominant symptoms of someone who had been in a non-terrestrial atmosphere”.’ Hammerson raised his eyebrows, then grinned humourlessly. ‘That’s not all. The corpse was heavily irradiated and caused some secondary contamination before it was sealed in a lead casket. You see now why we’re including some heavy particle protection built into the suits.’
After a moment, Alex nodded. ‘Yes, understood.’
‘Let’s move on.’ Hammerson turned the screen back around to face himself and keyed in a few more commands. ‘As usual, I’ll let you choose your own small weaponry, but there is something new I’d suggest you consider. Say hello to the KBELT – Klystron Beam Emitted Light Technology.’
Alex could see the major’s eyes moving admiringly over the images; he knew that sometimes his superior officer missed the fieldwork. He turned the screen back to Alex again.
Welcome to the twenty-first century, thought A
lex. The shoulder-mounted rifle was all black, but a list of palettes below told him he could have it in a camouflage colour to match his terrain. No stock, held like a sawn-off pump action, with a square casing over the trigger. The barrel started to smooth and round until it ended in a moulded bulb effect at the muzzle. Hmm, too small for a hardened projectile, Alex thought. Must be another compressed gas round device.
Hammerson was staring at the screen almost lovingly as he began describing the weaponry. ‘The latest weaponised emitted-light technology. Miniaturised power pack collects electrons and packs them into the klystron tube here, which acts like a linear beam vacuum. Will deliver a one-million-joule energy pulse that will travel at close to the speed of light to your target – no jamming, no recoil, no deviation and the speed means little chance of evasion. Two settings – high and low energy pulse. High energy will cut a pencil-sized hole through anything; low energy will give you the same result as one hundred pounds of TNT – all delivered in a single, focused, explosive punch.’
‘Limitations?’
‘Not many, but some things to consider. This generation of laser device requires an enormous amount of energy – that’s why it contains its own generator. Next version will have a replaceable battery and be small enough for pistol form, but it won’t be ready for this project. What it means for you is that after twenty shots it’ll need to recharge for about two minutes. Second consideration – it only spits a pulse, no beam. The lab boys found that the laser streaming tended to bloom over distance, which reduced its intensity. The pulse is effective and keeps the power-packet delivery intact.’
‘Nice, I’ll take six, and one for the farm.’ Alex was leaning forward and smiling in anticipation.
Hammerson chuckled. ‘You can have one – the trade-off is you give the lab a field report on your return. It’ll be ready in a few hours, after we camouflage-coat it. One more thing – we’re giving you some spiders. Take a look.’
Hammerson called up a video that showed a scientist placing on the ground a small steel box, roughly the size of a packet of cigarettes, with a circular black disc on one side. The camera refocused for a few seconds on an empty car about fifty feet in the distance, then returned to the box. The box stood up on eight spindly segmented legs and scuttled towards the car, covering the distance that separated them in a matter of seconds. It clambered onto one of the car’s wheels, a small red light flashed once and it detonated. After the rain of debris and smoke had cleared, nothing remained but a crater in the ground.
Hammerson cocked an eyebrow at Alex in a ‘get a kick outta that?’ look. ‘We’ve come a long way from the static claymore,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow’s mines are a combination of robotics and computerisation. Forget the technical name for these – we just call them spiders, you can see why. Easy to use, low failure rate, high-yield blasts. They can be set to detonate on physical contact or on a timer. Hell, you can program these things to set up their own ambush. Your combat suits come with two, pre-coded with a built-in signature catalogue so they can tell us from the bad guys.’
Alex could tell Hammerson loved this stuff. Both men had the greatest respect for the military research and development branch. The new materials and weaponry those guys brought to the field gave them an edge, and sometimes that was all it took.
‘Questions?’ Hammerson waited a second and then went on. ‘Okay, dust off in six hours. Gather your team. Go in fast and come out smiling, soldier. Good luck.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’
They both stood and Alex shook Hammerson’s hand. Already the excitement was boiling within him. Alex never worried for himself; he figured he was already on his second chance anyway. Every mission was simply an opportunity to push himself a little harder, to test himself just a little more. To flex muscles and senses that seemed to evolve every day. But for some of the other men on the team, it meant a death sentence.
Alex had lost good soldiers before, and he’d lose them again – that’s what they’d all signed up for. All he could do was ensure they were field ready; the rest was up to them. As for the Israelis, if they wanted to tag along, fine. He just hoped they were either very tough or very smart.
ELEVEN
Ben Gurion Airport
Zach sighed as he saw the size of the crowd in the departure lounge and gave up any thought of finding a seat. He felt shabby and moth-eaten among the herds of affluent and well-fed Israelis and returning Americans. Funny, he thought, he only ever noticed his own clothing when he went out in public.
He hoisted his backpack into a more comfortable position and took a few more steps around the lounge. He felt weighed down – every one of his pockets bulged with sweets, eye drops, nose spray, and the myriad other medications he needed to survive a long flight. There were even wads of American money his aunt had pushed in quickly as he left – she was sure it was some sort of ‘reward’ holiday he was going on.
In one of his hands he held a curling copy of Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey – his much loved travel read. In the other he tried to control all his other travel documents… unsuccessfully. They all dropped to the carpet in a sliding rush, and as he bent to retrieve them, his water bottle flew from his backpack and bounced off the back of his head to roll slowly across the floor. ‘Aiiysh,’ he whispered.
He put his hand out for the bottle just as a small hiking boot trapped it and held it. He looked up slowly. A young woman stood looking at him with her hands on her hips and one eyebrow raised. ‘Dr Shomron?’
Zach looked back down at his water, decided to ignore it and stood up. She was tall; not as tall as he, but tall for a woman. And fit – he could see the muscles in her neck, and her upper body looked athletic beneath a camel-coloured shirt. She had a military bearing.
She still hadn’t moved, or blinked, but continued looking at him as though he had broken a law and she was about to arrest him.
Suddenly he remembered the contents of the letter he’d been given. My assistant, of course – Adira something. He stuck out his hand. ‘Yes, yes, that’s me. Zachariah Shomron. But please call me Zach.’ He tried to smile, but still felt a little nervous and awkward.
He’d had assistants before – usually awestruck or intense young students – but this woman looked like no assistant he had ever encountered. She grasped his hand firmly, sandwiching his knuckles between strong, callused fingers.
‘Dr Shomron, I am Adira Senesh, and we need to get a few things clarified. Please follow me.’ She still hadn’t smiled; she dropped his hand and led him through the airport.
‘Uh, we only have twenty minutes until departure,’ Zach said while making a show of looking at the large-faced watch on his skinny wrist.
She didn’t turn around. ‘They’ll wait for us.’
He’s more of a boy than I expected. Achhh, I hate babysitting jobs, Adira thought as she looked up into a lens beside a door with no markings and no handle. In a moment it buzzed open and she led the young man in, nodding to a seated, severe old woman who glanced up briefly, and then motioned to one of three doors.
Inside there were two chairs and a table – that was it. Adira pointed at one of the chairs and the young man sat down with eyes wide behind his spectacles. She looked at him again. He’s nervous – good. She could hear his feet tapping, and his fingers steepled, flexed and danced on the table in front of them.
‘You are Dr Zachariah Ben Shomron.’ She paused for a moment and leaned forward. ‘You are twenty-four years old, have doctorates in gravitational astrophysics, particle physics, quantum and pure mathematics. You have written numerous papers on black holes, strange particles and cosmic dark matter. You are currently a tenured professor at Tel Aviv University…’ Adira recited by heart another few minutes of detail about his life, some of it not on public record, which left the young man in no doubt about her command and influence. She knew when people heard the minutiae of their life being revealed by someone they didn’t know it usually created a sense of exposure, anxiety and helplessness,
which made them open and receptive to authority.
The professor cleared his throat and asked quietly, ‘You’re not really my assistant, are you?’
Adira smiled without humour and sat forward even further. ‘To anyone who asks… yes I am, and I’m also a Middle Eastern linguistics specialist.’ Her smile evaporated. ‘But really, Professor, you will be assisting me. My underlying role is to ensure that Israel’s interests are protected and defended. I am about to describe our primary objectives to you, Dr Shomron, and you will not say anything to anyone, or go anywhere, or do anything, without first checking with me.’
Adira stared into the young man’s face for several seconds before speaking evenly. ‘Be without any doubt, on this mission, you report to me.’
Zachariah looked pale. ‘This is a mission?’
TWELVE
Ancient Arak – Middle Iranian Province of Markazi
Ahmad Al Janaddi exhaled the sweet-smelling smoke of his cigarette into the stinging dry morning air. He stood at the entrance to a camouflaged tunnel cut into the side of the mountain from where he could look out over the ancient city of Arak. Arak was an old city even at the time of Mohammed, built upon the ruins of an even earlier town called Daskerah, which in turn had been built on the settlement of Dolf Abad. The ruins of Dolf Abad were still accessible via the many ancient caves in the region; caves the excavation teams had since made good use of. The tunnel mouth Al Janaddi stood in had been carved to look like one of the hundreds of natural openings throughout the mountainous region.
One hundred and eighty miles south of Tehran and nearly 300 miles north-west of Persepolis, this region had always been considered military high ground. Rising over 5000 feet above sea level, it marked the beginning of where the dry desert turned to the bitterly cold and mountainous Markazi Province.
The ancient land was riddled with caves. Some, like the holy Shah Zand Cave, contained writing and symbols from the very first Persians. Some were even older than that – Al Janaddi had seen the carved script of the pre-Persian Elamics and Zoroastrians decorating the deeper cavern walls, as well as some inscriptions from languages older than recorded history. Legend had it they were the utterances of the very angels themselves. To this day, no scholar had been able to decipher them. Al Janaddi had stood before those words and wondered whether the men who wrote them thought they too could change the world.