Blaze was finishing his prep for the op at one of the Iranian safe houses he had been given access to. Everything was almost ready. As Blaze carefully planted C-4 strategically within the wooden crates purported to carry raw materials to be housed at Esfahan, he recalled the day Gallagher briefed him on this op, even though it was rather recent.
Gallagher was talking four hundred miles per minute and Blaze was trying to just settle into the atmosphere. The color brown was everywhere. Brown leather chairs. Brown leather adorning all of the couches. Light brown walls adorned with escapist images of Havana. Brown liquor settled in crystal glasses. And most prominently, robust brown cigars with long ash extensions.
These fine brown stogies rested in the hands of every gentleman that populated the Anchor’s Away Cigar Lounge, an exquisite establishment nestled conspicuously in the Midwest rust belt city of Toledo, Ohio. Gallagher had insisted that this would be the perfect venue in which to meet.
Gallagher loved Anchor’s Away, as it was his periodic escape from the intensities of his job. Under most circumstances, Gallagher was able to spend a few hours at Anchor’s Away without giving a thought to the perilous world of being America’s spymaster.
The patrons of Anchor’s Away came in all stripes and found unity amongst each other with ease. You had business owners and clock punchers. Blue-collar ruffians and white collar number crunchers. Left-wing creative types and right-wing military types. Young punks and old farts. Every race, color, and religion. All finding laughs, sharing stories, and strengthening the natural bonds of male camaraderie in the ultimate public man cave. Whether all the men sat silently puffing on their cigars while watching Family Guy or were boisterously swapping stories about fishing, broads, fighting, golf, or being over-served, Anchor’s Away rarely knew a dull moment. If one spent any time at Anchor’s Away, they would walk away with the conviction that the cigars themselves deserved the Nobel Peace Prize for all the peace and unity they had inspired.
The two men were in a private back room that had been swept for bugs and made sound proof and secure per Gallagher’s instructions.
The owner of Anchor’s Away was one Butros Rshtuni. Butros was a burly middle-aged man with a thick full beard, a roaring sense of humor, and a counter-top salesmanship that rivaled any burgeoning tobacconist. He was born in Lebanon and was half Lebanese and half Armenian. He was also a devoutly patriotic US citizen who had been assisting Gallagher and the CIA for years in all things related to Lebanon.
As a Lebanese Christian, Butros was eager to engage in what he saw as an ideological struggle that was perpetually damaging and threatening his country of origin as well as his country of adoption. This struggle, of course, being the global struggle against radical Islamism and the terror it produced. From Butros’ perspective, the least he could do was to occasionally convert a back room in his cigar lounge into a CIA safe meeting room. The most he could do was provide some free cigars and top shelf liquor when those meetings occurred.
Butros liked to gab and would talk about anything and everything to his customers as they purchased their cigar stashes. Butros was known for pontificating about his love of AC/DC, fly-fishing, and Mediterranean cuisine. He was also well known for his passionate political views, particularly, in regard to the nations from which his bloodline sprung—Lebanon and Armenia. Above all issues, he was most known for expressing his outrage at the lack of global attention given to the history of the Armenian genocide.
When not engaged in discussing those topics, Butros usually had the effect of making everyone he came in contact with laugh hysterically. His humor was legendary, his impressions impeccable, and his comedic audacity unmatched.
Blaze leaned back deep in the brown leather chair. He proceeded to puff and rotate his Perdomo Reserve Champagne Sun Grown cigar as he lit it. As he smoked, he sipped from his glass of Woodford Reserve bourbon on the rocks as he waited for a good time to put the kibosh on Gallagher’s small talk and cut to the heart of the matter.
“...and that was the least of what that son of a bitch had coming to him. Had it been earlier in my career, he would’ve suffered a thousand hells. Did I ever tell you about the time that….”
“Chuck. Zip it pal. I know you could go on and on forever detailing past glories, but we’re here to discuss how we’re going to deal with present dangers. Let’s get into it old man.”
“Alright, you high-strung bastard. Fine. Here’s what’s on the table. We’re finally launching Operation Persian Trinity. We’ve already commissioned the Father at Natanz, have a meeting lined up for the Holy Ghost to spook the freaks at Bushehr, and you my friend are the Son that will shock and awe the scientists and uranium shepherds at Esfahan.” Chuck really thought he was clever at naming this op and its participants.
Blaze rolled his eyes at the contrived delivery. “Esfahan uh? Iran…always a challenge. I guess a disguise will be in order? What else is involved?”
“You’ll get all of that, your encrypted sat phone, and all the necessary weapons and assets for the op soon.”
Blaze nodded. “Right, so what’s my job on this?”
“Despite years of multi-national warnings and the surprise Israeli hit on the plant warehouse in 2011, Esfahan is still churning. Right now, we need to buy us more time to tweak the improved Stuxnet worm before we unleash it at Natanz. To that end, we’ll first stunt the supply chain of raw materials being funneled through Esfahan so that Natantz is starved of the materials it needs to feed the centrifuges for uranium enrichment. The stunt mechanism is going to be good ‘ole fashioned C-4 buried in crates full of raw materials delivered by your fine Irish self. Although, we plan on making you over to look more like the Prince of Persia than the owner of Murphy’s Pub.”
“So I take it I’m a delivery guy. How soon will the truck be ready for me once I get into Iran?”
“The truck is already there. A safe house is set up as well. Various vehicles and motorcycles will be strategically placed for your acquisition. You’ll find them in tight alleyways as you’re traveling southwest out of Esfahan. This should help to facilitate your clean getaway to the safe house should hell follow you.”
Blaze nodded, as he constructed the op’s storyboard in his head.
Gallagher exhaled a large, bellowing cloud of cigar smoke and leaned back with a pensive, almost worried, look on his face. He then looked Blaze square in the eye and asked, “Are you sure you’re ready for this? It’s been quite some time you know…”
Blaze was ready. His flesh practically screamed with agony from civilian boredom. The withdrawal he experienced during his brief time away from the field had been torture.
“Hell yeah. More ready than I’ve ever been. My time off did nothing but grow my hunger and fan the internal warrior flame. My personal training regiment has continued and I’m sharper and more prepared than ever.”
Gallagher smiled a subtle devious grin of faint fatherly pride, took a sip of his Crown Royal on the rocks and barked back with a militant tone. “Roger that. Now, back to my stories….”
Gallagher’s stories, although highly relevant, seemed worlds away, as Blaze continued prepping his mind and soul for yet another new adventurous and dangerous op.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINSTER, JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
Abigayil had kept him up the night before. A “predatory tigress who was volcanic in the sack” were the exact words that he used to describe her afterwards. She took that description as a flattering compliment on both her nature and her performance. As it was intended. Chaim Simmons struggled to remain calm as the flashing images of his wild night receded from his mind and the content of his morning briefing took hold. The smile from his morning afterglow died. The Prime Minister’s lips tightened together and his brow furrowed as he digested the update on Iran and its lunatic leader, President Hadi Samani.
It was only a matter of t
ime, Chaim knew, that this freak show would claim to have had an actual interaction with this Mahdi boogeyman he kept calling to return. The problem was, Chaim didn’t believe for a second that Samani ever uttered a lie concerning his belief in the Mahdi, or his intentions to ignite global chaos to usher in the Mahdi’s return. Chaim knew sincerity of belief when he saw it, be it benevolent or nefarious in nature.
Hadi Samani was a devout and utterly insane follower of the doctrine of the Twelfth Imam. It was his sincerity in belief and pure honesty in his vocalized intentions that the world had been missing. This was no ploy invented by the Mullahs to arouse fear in the world. This wasn’t a giant blackmail scheme. No carrot in the world would tame this belief, this determination, this evil regime. Haven’t we learned anything from the Holocaust? Hitler told us exactly who he was and what he planned to do. The world ignored him until they were forced to engage him. How could the world be so blind as to make yet the same mistake? He asked these questions to himself, but knew the answers. He did not expect any bright light to pierce the world’s opinion and change their perception.
The briefing staring back at him told him that President Samani had proclaimed to the Iranian people, and to the entire Muslim world via Al Jazeera, that he had been blessed with a personal visit by the Mahdi himself. Furthermore, Samani announced that the Mahdi intimated to him that this was indeed the year that He would return and set up a worldwide Caliphate. Chaim’s blood boiled. As much as he expected to wake up and read such a briefing some morning, he was still not prepared for it, nor did its thrusting reality alleviate even a twitch of its haunting implications. Experience told him to calm himself, reflect on the news, and formulate a position and a decisive strategy before discussing it with anyone—be it his staff, the media, or particularly POTUS.
He slapped experience square in the face, deliberately ignoring its wisdom, and immediately dialed to get POTUS on the line.
“Mr. President, how are you this morning?” Chaim didn’t give a rat’s ass how Fitz was really doing. A raving lunatic who denied the first Holocaust and was planning a second just announced his Messiah was on his way—a Messiah who according to prophecy would reign in Jerusalem after annihilating the Jewish people.
“I’m well Chaim, is something the matter? It’s highly unusual for you to call without scheduling in advance. Should I be worried about something?” Fitz didn’t like the sound of Simmons’ voice. He was already rolling his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and thinking to himself, Oh no, here we go with the war mongering again. Never a dull moment there in the desert. I can’t believe I have to deal with this guy almost every day.
“You’re damn right something is the matter. Have you gotten the latest news out of Iran? Samani has announced he’s been paid a ghostly visit by the Twelfth Imam. Do you know what that means? He says the Mahdi has told him that this is the year of His return. How do you think I’m going to digest this news?” Chaim was steaming pissed. Not just at the news, but also by the ever-growing apathy he perceived coming from President Jack Fitzsimmons. Their relationship had never gained real traction since Fitz took up residence in the White House.
“Chaim, this news just hit the wires. Don’t jump to any conclusions or do anything rash. We still don’t really know what all this means.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about? We know exactly what this means! Samani, and Ahmadinejad before him, have been telling us for years exactly what this means. It means its go-time for the Iranians. It means they’re moving forward with their plans to wipe Israel off the map and destroy America, the big Satan. Guess what? We’re first, and I plan to do all I can to stop it.” Chaim’s face burned as red as a fire truck. The tension was thick and growing thicker.
“Joint covert ops between our two countries are being executed even as we speak to seriously interrupt, delay, and potentially destroy their progress on the nuclear program. Sanctions are being advanced and intensified and diplomacy is being wielded to its fullest to neutralize the threat. There’s no need to irrationally go cowboy on the world right now.” Fitz was extremely adept at not reacting to Chaim’s temper. He was also adept at not fully understanding the immediacy and severity of a whole range of impending crises that faced his nation, and the world for that matter.
“Do you think that I haven’t thought for years about what I would need to do when this moment arrived? Do you truly believe that we, as a nation, don’t have a well-developed, and highly debated strategy to implement for this very scenario? We’re not impulsive. We’re students of history, particularly Jewish history, and the history of the world that has ignored the Jews and ignored the real threats made by the enemies of the Jews.”
“Samani is not serious about all this hocus pocus Mahdi stuff. This is just his tool to rally his people and get them to follow him. This helps him detract from their domestic problems. Samani doesn’t really want the world washed in blood. It doesn’t make any sense. Iran, and millions of Muslims, would be equally as effected as Israel and the West.” Fitz felt as if a rational, human application to the issue was needed.
“Samani and the Twelvers in Iran don’t respond to rational, earthly fear or normal negotiations. These are not the atheists of Russia during the Cold War. They’re an extreme apocalyptic death cult hell bent on the utter destruction of all Christians, Jews and non-Muslims. Think David Koresh running a country and being on the verge of having a nuke.” Chaim’s face was redder than hell and his voice rose in intensity with every syllable.
“Chaim, c’mon now, do you remember Waco? It was a disaster. If Samani is Koreshian in nature, the last thing anyone should be thinking about is storming the compound. It doesn’t end well.” Fitz smirked and leaned back on his chair.
“Okay then, if diplomacy and sanctions are the way to go, how come you haven’t had an inch of success in pushing your Russian friend towards condemning Iran’s nuclear program? Or your Chinese buddies?”
“I’m still working on my relationship with Maksim and making much progress. I think I can get him to come around on Iran very soon. You have to trust me on this. These things take time.”
“Time, huh? Like that’s in great supply. How much ‘time’ will it take with the Chinese?”
“That one is more difficult, but I think can change if I am successful first with Maksim.”
“I doubt it. China is not going to be swayed by you. You’re their debtor. They own you. The Bible is clear ‘The borrower is slave to the lender’.”
“I don’t appreciate you’re arbitrary application of scripture to insult me or my country.”
“Look, I’m sorry if I seem slightly out of line here. But you need to understand the position I’m in. Israel is at risk more than any other nation.”
“Chaim, I know you’re on high alert and you’re frustrated, but we’re still your allies, I wouldn’t dismiss anything at your peril but we need to tread carefully on this news, just like all news and developments out of Iran. We have different views on how to approach this, but we have to come to a consensus.” Fitz was pleading at this point.
“Maybe, Mr. President, maybe. However, for now, I must assume that present circumstances will continue to be consistent with the narrative of my people throughout history. We’re alone, and must act as such.”
Fitz never managed to have his rebuttal heard. The dial tone mocked him instead.
Chaim slammed the phone down and immediately opened up the Talmud sitting on his desk. His hands were shaking. He had not picked that book up in months. He didn’t even know where to start.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CIA SAFE HOUSE SOMEWHERE NEAR ESFAHAN, IRAN
Blaze had finally snapped out of his retrospective daydreaming. He was settling into his preparation routine at the safe house Gallagher had provisioned for him about forty miles from Esfahan. He refocused his mind away from his recollection of the day Gallagher presented h
is mission to him at Anchor’s Away cigar lounge and toward the task at hand—preparing to embed C4 explosives into wooden crates. He packed the C4 into viable, barely visible cracks and holes within the wooden crates.
He felt an extreme exhilaration simply in the preparation process. He had missed being in the field deeply. From soup to nuts, he thrived on the entire process. This sure as hell beats watching FPS Russia on YouTube, competing twice a year in Tough Mudder, and reading Ted Bell novels just for a taste of the life. Blaze finished the prepping of the wooden crates and headed to the bathroom to double inspect the fullness of his Persian disguise.
He really hated the way his skin felt with the damn coloring. It itched like crazy, but this was all part of the game. He took a good, hard look in the mirror and nodded. You’re all set. No one here in the Aryan land of Persia will ever suspect you’re an American Mick. And a deadly spy to boot.
Next, he double-checked the vehicle he was to use as his Trojan Horse in the op. He diligently inspected the basic functions of the vehicle and concluded that all was well and ready to go.
He heard a slight chirping and promptly retrieved his encrypted sat phone from the pocket of his olive green Dickies work pants. It was Gallagher.
“Hey you Mick bastard, you all ready to go another round here or what? I’ve been sweatin’ your involvement in this and not sure how to feel. You got me nervous boy.” Gallagher treated Blaze like a tough father would a son he loved.
“Boy? I’m quite the man, although not an artifact like you. And yes, this Mick bastard is quite fine, and in fact, quite prepared to kick some Persian ass with a good ole fashioned American boot.”
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