The Last Air Force One

by Jeff Kirkham

  He might have enjoyed seeing his family but he never requested it. Afshin feared interrupting the work, worried they might pull him off the intensely gratifying process of designing and building an entirely novel type of nuclear weapon. Nobody had ever exploded a dirty bomb before and the technical requirements for the explosive, and the radioactive shielding, ran deep into the speculative.

  Afshin’s father had served in the Iran-Iraq War, and his mother was a nomadic Iranian exposed to “Yellow Rain” during the war. His mother died of bone cancer, and his father was revered by their town as a war hero, though it only seemed to matter during patriotic holidays.

  Afshin had no assistants and almost no supervision. His food and support were provided by government people who appeared occasionally to make sure his tools ran properly and that he was alive and well. When he needed a new end mill or, on the rare occasion when he wanted a pornographic magazine, he placed the order. Nobody bothered him about the pornography, even though it was technically illegal in Iran. The Lebanese porno magazines simply showed up in the bottom of the next box of tooling and raw materials. But the work was almost always more satisfying than the porn, and he took little time off to masturbate.

  One day, after five years of laboring over the Russian surplus strontium-90 thermal generator he had been provided as a source for radioactive material, Afshin looked down at his stainless steel workbench and beheld a completed, highly sophisticated dirty bomb. It was no larger than the mini-refrigerator where he kept his sodas, and it weighed just under ninety kilos. The radiation pouring off the casing measured barely more than exposure to the sun in the upper atmosphere.

  Two days after completing his bomb, Afshin heard the buzz of a small aircraft taxiing outside. The sounds of small aircraft were commonplace, since his workshop and living quarters were located in an airplane hangar. But this airplane approached his building, which heralded the coming of his boss, Calculator Man.

  By now, Afshin knew the professor’s name: Ostãd Mumtãz Shahin Nazari. Professor Nazari had visited Afshin many times over the last years, receiving updates on progress and vetting Afshin’s data and material requests. Afshin assumed the professor held some rank in the science or military ministry, though Iranian state government interested Afshin about as much as women’s perfume which, was to say, not at all.

  This visit was different from previous visits. For one thing, the bomb was complete. For another, Professor Nazari appeared to be dying. Afshin didn’t ask, but he guessed that cancer was consuming his supervisor. So, for two reasons, Afshin’s life was about to change, and that stressed him to distraction.

  “Salaam aleikum,” The professor greeted him and took his hand. Afshin looked downward in a show of respect.

  “Salaam, Professor, I am finished.” Afshin continued to gaze at the concrete, uncomfortable with looking directly at other peoples’ faces.

  “Yes, my young friend, you are.” The professor released Afshin’s hand and shuffled to the work table. “It is beautiful. Allahu Akbar.”

  Afshin felt his face flush red with pleasure. Indeed, the device was beautiful and it was gratifying for the professor to say so. Afshin had nothing to say, so he remained silent.

  “Are you prepared to test it?” the professor asked, caressing the aluminum casing.

  “Yes, Jenaab.” Afshin applied the honorific, pleased to have his work acknowledged.

  “Afshin, I feel I must tell you, what we are about to do is more than a test. It is a victory for Islam. We shall detonate the device on the Wahabis and their American pipeline. As we kill the pipeline, we kill the link between the Americans and the Saudis, and we force Persia to finally take a stand. Our government has lost the will to act and, like during the war with Iraq, they hold back their love of God, afraid of the West. The Saudis push their Wahabist agenda across the globe, building schools and mosques in every corner of Islam: Afghanistan, Pakistan, Russia, and even America itself. They are the true enemy, but our government refuses to strike. With this bomb, we shall force the ayatollahs to take up the sword Allah has given them. Then the Persian Empire can resume its rightful place. Will you give your life to that cause?”

  Afshin understood every word. He was a genius, after all. At the same time, he could care less about religion or the Persian Empire. What he cared about, above all else, was seeing the device tested. He couldn’t continue living without seeing the bomb detonate. If he died in the process, that concerned him very little.

  “Yes, Jenaab,” Afshin answered.

  “Good, my son. I do consider you my son.” The professor smiled. “I must also tell you this. The Guardian Council has not authorized this detonation. We will move forward without approval. My own time is at an end and I am afraid that, without me, our leaders will endlessly dither. We know the righteous path, you and I, and we must act for our country’s future. Do you agree, pesar?”

  “Yes, Jenaab,” Afshin said for the third time.

  “Very well. Please bring the device to my airplane.”

  Afshin lifted the bomb with a small electric winch hanging from the metal rafters and lowered it onto a pallet truck. They wheeled the bomb out the large door of the hangar, the dying man resting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. The bomb rolled across the tarmac toward the waiting Cessna.

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  About the Authors

  Jeff Kirkham spent almost 29 years as a Green Beret (18ZVW7/W8), with years "boots on the ground" in Afghanistan and Iraq as a member of a counter terrorist direct action unit.

  Somehow, he has managed to study 6 foreign languages, earn a Bachelor's of Science, write 3 books (a 4th book is in editing), earn multiple registered patents (one of which is the RATS Tourniquet), and manage his passion project; ReadyMan. Oh, and he's a father of two rambunctious little boys.

  The joke around the office is that if a Neanderthal, James Bond, and Q had a baby, it would be Jeff.

  Jason Ross has been a hunter, fisherman, shooter and preparedness aficionado since childhood and has spent tens of thousands of hours roughing it in the great American outdoors. He's an accomplished big game hunter, fly fisherman, an Ironman triathlete, SCUBA instructor, and frequent business mentor to U.S. military veterans. He retired from a career in entrepreneurialism at forty-one years of age after founding and selling several successful business ventures.

  After being raised by his dad as a metal fabricator, machinist and mechanic, Jason has dedicated twenty years to mastering preparedness tech such as gardening, composting, shooting, small squad tactics, solar power and animal husbandry. Today, Jason splits his time between international humanitarian work, the homeless community and his wife and seven children.

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  The Last Air Force One,

  by Jeff Kirkham, Fmr. Army Green Beret

  & Jason Ross

  © copyright 2018

 

 

 
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