by C. A. James
“Let’s get back to your story,” said McCaig. He leaned forward, engaging Zarrabian. “We got sidetracked on the definition of a terrorist. I apologize for that; it was premature and irrelevant. We could argue for a week about that and never get anywhere.”
“That is true,” said Zarrabian.
“Go back to when your mission actually started. Tell me about your training, where you were, the equipment, that sort of thing. I know you won’t reveal secret information, but tell us what you can.”
“Of course. It is hardly a secret, and you could guess most of it without my help. Our training base was in the desert. We were warned not to leave the compound and get lost because we would die before we found our way back. It is no secret that the only place in my country like this is the . . . I don’t know the English name. The Great Desert in the center of Iran.”
“The Dunes of the Jinn?” asked Christine. She and McCaig exchanged a glance.
“Yes, that would be a good English translation. There was almost no staff, just four men. They rarely spoke to us. Secrecy was extreme. Supplies and equipment, even food and water, were delivered by a truck that parked at a gate, far from our quarters. Our staff driver would wait for the truck’s driver to leave, then drive it into the compound for us to unload. They would then leave the truck outside the gate. The next day it would be gone, presumably reunited with its driver. We saw no one else, ever.
“Our instructions were given to us by two senior officers via video and email on a closed computer network. Once they gave us the mission, we were expected to be independent and use our own initiative to create a plan and requisition the materials we would need. Fortunately, my team included competent men, and my engineering skills were useful.”
“That’s pretty extreme secrecy,” said McCaig. “Did you wonder why?”
“Asking why is not my business. I guessed that America’s NSA and CIA had proved their ability to spy just about anywhere. Extreme precautions were needed for a successful mission against America.”
“Makes sense,” said McCaig. “So can I jump ahead? It sounds like they gave you the target. Using the trucks that way, as a blockade on the bridge, was that your idea?”
“Almost, Captain. The trucks were my idea. I thought we would use the trucks to block the road and have cargo we could quickly unload to complete the barrier. One of my men, Ibrahim, suggested that we could make the trucks top-heavy and overturn them, blocking the roads in an instant.”
“That sounds risky,” said McCaig. “It would leave too much to chance. How could you practice the maneuver? I doubt even your government has the funds to buy dozens of trucks for you to crash. You had four drivers, right? And each would have to practice.”
“You have no doubt seen the computer simulation games that allow you to fly airplanes, starships, and other such vehicles?”
“Of course.”
“There are several that allow you to drive simulated trucks. The best ones are for European roads and trucks. I requisitioned and received two computers and two truck-simulator game packages, complete with steering wheels, pedals, and a gearshift.”
“Seriously? That sounds incredibly boring.”
“Never underestimate the love that boys have for machinery. Particularly large, powerful machinery that allows an unremarkable boy to feel remarkably strong and manly. Apparently these games sell well.
“The simulation of European trucks is quite impressive. You can easily lose yourself and forget that it is a game. The game’s trucks are modeled very closely on real trucks. When mishandled, they crash exactly as they would in real life.”
“So you used this simulator to practice crashing?”
“Initially we used the simulators to prove that a controlled crash was possible, that with exact speed control and a precise turns, a truck could be made to overturn and stop in nearly the same position every time.”
“You said the simulated truck was European. How did you know a Mercedes truck would behave like a Mack truck?”
“We knew it wouldn’t. We compared the Mercedes, Scania, and Volvo trucks that were built into the game with each other, and they crashed quite differently. On top of that, Ibrahim, the same man who thought of using trucks, suggested that if we made the trucks’ loads very top heavy, they would overturn more easily. The game had no provision for such an unsafe load.
“We explained what we needed to our superiors, and a week later plug-in software for the game arrived, what the boys called a ‘game mod,’ that added an American-made Mack truck, including a simulation of our top-heavy load. It was quite remarkable. I am sure you saw how well it worked.”
McCaig sat back, suddenly drawn out of Zarrabian’s story and back into the real world. “Yes, I’m sure you are quite pleased with your results.”
Zarrabian and McCaig stared at each other for a few long moments. Christine interrupted their visual showdown.
“Please, Colonel, continue. I have a question: Did you practice even once with a real truck, or just rely on your simulation?”
He broke eye contact with McCaig. “Yes, we were given one Mack truck, loaded top-heavy per our specifications, and also a large—what do you call the vehicle used to pull disabled vehicles?”
“Tow truck.”
“Of course. Forgive me, I forget English words that I rarely use. We were given a large tow truck.
“We first used the Mack truck to practice our driving skills until we were competent truckers. After that, we were able to crash the Mack truck. We used the tow truck to restore it to its wheels. After the second crash, the truck was in poor shape, and the third crash disabled it completely. After that, we used the overturned truck to practice our escape moves, to be sure we could get out of the vehicle quickly when it was on its side.”
“So one driver never got to try a real crash?”
“I was the driver who did not. The others assured me that the simulation was quite accurate, so I practiced extensively on the simulator game. When it came time to perform the maneuver on the real truck, my training was perfect.”
Christine looked around. The yellow-orange evening sunlight that had penetrated the old curtains was now gone entirely, and the only light was from a small battery-powered camping lantern that looked about the same vintage as the house.
“Guys, maybe it’s time for a break. It’s evening. I thought this visit might last an hour, but I think we’re going to be here for much longer. Maybe even all night.”
McCaig got up and yawned. Zarrabian leaned back on his steel folding chair, put his hands behind his head, and stretched.
“Colonel, what do you do for food here?” asked Christine.
“I purchased some supplies when I arrived, but they are almost gone. I am afraid I cannot feed you.”
“We’ll go buy something. Is there a town?”
“Not you, Ms. Garrett. You have appeared on television and might be recognized. This is not San Francisco or New York where such things are common. Captain McCaig must go.”
“No problem,” said McCaig. “Just make me a list.”
“Except that you must change your clothes, Captain. You will stand out among the farmers like a bull in a herd of sheep.”
A few minutes later, McCaig had exchanged his clothes for some that Zarrabian supplied: a long-sleeved blue-collar shirt, slightly wrinkled and threadbare around the cuffs, blue jeans, and high-top work boots. The boots were a bit tight but tolerable. He caught sight of himself in the bedroom’s mirror and was startled to see his father reflected back at him.
Christine handed him a small wad of money.
“Why, it’s payday!” said McCaig. “Me an’ the boys are goin’ for a beer!”
“Captain,” said Zarrabian, “I suggest you bypass the first town. It has only five hundred residents and one small grocery store. If you drive seven miles north you’ll reach Patterson. It is large enough that nobody will notice you.”
“OK, I’ll do that.”
�
�One more thing,” added Zarrabian. He handed a baseball cap to McCaig. McCaig put it on.
“Now your transformation is complete.”
Two hours later, Christine, McCaig, and Zarrabian sat on the floor around pizzas, salads, garlic bread, and a six-pack of cold sodas that were dripping with humidity in the evening warmth.
“Dig in,” said McCaig. “I got a veggie combo, a pepperoni, and a meat-lover’s special. I slipped the guy an extra couple of bucks to get extra garlic butter on the bread. It’ll keep the vampires away for sure.”
“Vampires?” asked Zarrabian.
“Never mind,” he replied. “Stupid folklore about garlic. I also got a couple bags of groceries and a case of bottled water.”
They were all silent for a few moments while they piled their plates with pizza, salad, and bread. Christine watched Zarrabian as he took his first bite of pizza. He closed his eyes for a moment, motionless, savoring the pizza. His eyes opened and looked into hers. She smiled back.
“Been a while, eh?” she asked.
“Yes. Thank you,” said Zarrabian. “It seems a lifetime ago. I have not had cooked food for quite some time.”
“A lifetime ago?” said McCaig. “More like another life entirely.”
“Indeed,” he replied.
They ate in silence. Twenty minutes later only two lonely slices remained in the pizza boxes, and they were surrounded by crushed soda cans, empty salad bowls, and paper plates full of pizza crusts.
“Shall we continue your story?” asked Christine.
Zarrabian wiped his mouth with a napkin, crumpled it, and gave it a little toss into one of the empty pizza boxes. “This brought back many memories of good meals shared with my fellow engineering students at Berkeley. No matter what happens in the next few hours and days, I thank you for sharing this meal with me. Please, let us continue.”
“I think we covered your training and planning pretty well, right?” asked McCaig.
“There was one important detail I want to mention,” he replied. “You recall discussing how my superiors gave me the mission, the target, but that my team and I were responsible for the plan?”
“Yes.”
“We changed the target.”
“You mean you weren’t supposed to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“Our original mission was to attack the Oakland-San Francisco Bay Bridge. We were given rough guidance that they wanted to blow the decks off one span of both the lower and upper levels so that both east- and westbound traffic would be halted for months. The economic damage would be severe.
“But our superiors also emphasized that we would have to be very flexible. Once our mission started, we would get no support. We were to use our own initiative to solve problems. We decided that even though the Golden Gate Bridge carries less traffic and would cause less economic harm to the region, it would be a far greater symbolic loss. And we realized than merely destroying the roadway would be temporary, because it could be repaired. We decided instead to attempt to destroy the bridge entirely.”
“Wow,” said Christine.
“Holy crap,” said McCaig. “Just what every boss wants: employees with initiative.”
They were silent for a few moments, taking in these new details. Then McCaig continued.
“Tell us about coming to America. In detail.”
“First let me ask you something. From your questions and the looks you give each other, it is clear that you have information you have not shared with me. What is it?”
Christine answered. “Colonel, you are right, we have learned a few things. Could you indulge us for a few more minutes? I would like to hear your story as you know it now. Then we will share what we have learned.”
“And you swear to me that you will not withhold anything?”
McCaig and Christine looked at each other briefly. He nodded.
“We swear,” she said. “So how did you get into the United States? How did you smuggle all those explosives in?”
“I can not say for certain. Again, it was extreme secrecy. My team was taken aboard a helicopter at night with darkened windows. We never saw the pilots. We flew for several hours, but since we had no cell phones or wristwatches, it was hard to know exactly how long or in what direction. We guessed that we landed somewhere such as Syria or perhaps Egypt, but for all I know it was Russia or Pakistan. When we emerged, we were inside a large hangar. There was no light coming in so it was probably still night. They fed us a light meal, told us to urinate, and then explained that we were to be smuggled into America in some cargo, and that it would be very claustrophobic. There were large shipping crates with their tops off, padded for a man to lie down, and air holes cut in the sides so we could breathe. We were put into the crates and then given an injection that put us to sleep.
“When we awoke, we were in an abandoned warehouse in California near the city of Stockton. There were cots, bedding, a refrigerator, and food. Outside we found four Mack trucks, loaded with our specified top-heavy load, and the white Ford van. Our explosives and weapons were in crates. We found a bag with enough cash to ensure we could carry out our mission.”
“Damn,” said Christine. She looked at McCaig. “It’s true.”
McCaig shook his head. “How can it be?”
Zarrabian looked back and forth between the two of them. “Is this the point where you share your knowledge with me?”
“Yes, Colonel,” said Christine. “But if you will bear with me for just one more question.”
He nodded.
“Tell me again about the lunar eclipse. You remember, the one you mentioned when you were on my boat.”
“What is to tell?” he asked. “I saw it.”
“It obviously made an impression on you. It must have been very beautiful,” said Christine.
“I can only repeat what I already said. The moon was very dark and blood red, rising over the sand dune. It struck me as a metaphor for my mission: in the shadows and bloody.”
“And you’re sure it was rising? It wasn’t setting?”
“No, Ms. Garrett. How could I mistake a rising moon for a setting moon?”
“Of course.” Christine’s brow furrowed. She hesitated. “It’s just that—”
“Colonel,” interrupted McCaig, “I’ll be blunt. That training camp where you and your men prepared? The one you said was in Iran’s Great Desert?”
“Yes?”
“It was in Arizona. In America.”
Zarrabian raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smirk. “Surely you are joking, Captain. That is absurd.”
“I know. Ridiculous. Yet true.”
“You are not joking? You actually believe this?”
“Colonel, if the story you just told us is true, we know it with certainty. The lunar eclipse, again, you’re sure of that?”
“Of course.”
“That it was rising?”
“Captain, please, how many times must you ask? Yes, I am sure.”
“Have you ever heard of Mount Hamilton and the Lick Observatory?”
“Of course. It used to be managed by the UC Berkeley astronomy department. Some friends and I from the Engineering department made a trip to Mount Hamilton one weekend to see the huge telescope. It is a magnificent work of mechanical engineering and lens grinding. Amazing precision.”
“Indeed. We stopped there on our journey this morning, and were given a tour by an old astronomer, a fellow named Wirtanen—”
“The same man who gave us a tour!” interjected Zarrabian. “He must be quite old by now.”
“Yes, but still very active. I learned today that Christine, Ms. Garrett here, grew up on Mount Hamilton. She has many friends up there, including Mr. Wirtanen. He was kind enough to explain the timing of the lunar eclipse to us—who could see it and where. He was one hundred percent certain about the timing. The only place in the world where a person could have seen the moon in full eclipse while it was rising was in the USA, Canada,
or Mexico. And the only place where you could see it rising over a sand dune was in Arizona.”
Zarrabian stood abruptly and began pacing back and forth across the room, hands clasped behind his back. Christine and McCaig watched him and exchanged glances. After a few laps, Zarrabian stopped abruptly in front of them.
“I cannot deny that the facts as you present them lead to this conclusion. That my team trained here, in America. But other facts make this impossible. Surely you see this? It makes no sense. Iran could not possible create a military camp in the middle of the United States of America, surrounded by barbed wire and supplied with weapons, vehicles, and explosives. In a rural area such as the Arizona desert, large deliveries, explosions, and gunfire would be noticed. Your deserts are open to the public. Hikers, dune buggy drivers, motorcyclists, and bicyclists would have seen the camp. It is simply not possible. It would have been discovered.”
“Colonel Zarrabian,” said Christine, “we know this is hard to—”
“Please!” he interrupted. “Leave me for a time. I must think.”
“Of course,” said McCaig. He and Christine stood up. “We’ll give you a few minutes to yourself. We’ll be outside.”
Christine added, “Remember, Colonel. You are the one who told Captain McCaig that something was wrong and asked him to investigate.”
Zarrabian nodded. He resumed his pacing.
The half moon overhead provided enough light to see an old tractor trail that ran between two walnut orchards. Christine and McCaig strolled slowly in the warm night air.
“Pretty intense,” said McCaig after a few minutes.
“Uh huh,” Christine replied.
“What’s our next move?”
“This seems pretty good. He needs some time. We threw a lot at him.” She saw him nod silently out of the corner of her eye. They strolled on in silence.
Ten minutes later they came across a huge old barn. It was hard to tell the color in the pale moonlight, but Christine supposed it was a faded red, like most old barns. Its two-story structure had a classic Dutch-style roof—wide at the top floor and angling down steeply on the sides. They walked wordlessly up to the huge, gaping door, wide enough, she supposed, to permit a tractor or combine to park inside.