Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  11

  THE IRONY OF FATE

  How do I know Hassan bin Laden? I asked myself. I vaguely recalled Ahmadi’s pilot telling me it was Hassan who had kidnapped me in Iran weeks ago, not that I’d ever found proof.

  I saw what appeared to be the beast I had seen in the House Chamber enter the car and slip inside the body of Hassan.

  “They killed our son, Aailia, our only son. I must make the Imperialists pay,” he said as my heart pounded erratically.

  My mind raced. This meant Hassan bin Laden, rather than Rama Rhamine, was the one responsible for Diablo 8-16. And yet, this was Rama Rhamine!

  The scene shifted again.

  I was now sitting next to Hassan in his car, traveling down a winding road. He seemed nervous, as his eyes darted to and from the rearview mirror. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. Apparently he was unable to see me. I turned my neck to see a black SUV riding Hassan’s tail. He stomped on the gas, watching the Land Cruiser race on the curvy road.

  “Slow down!” I yelled as the car behind him vanished around a curve. Hassan turned his head toward me, then frowned, as if knowing I was in the car but unsure of what to do about me. “Please, Hassan, don’t do this. The Almighty One is a God of love, not of hate. You are possessed by the devil. Rebuke him!”

  “What do you know of my faith?” he asked, a glare etched on his face.

  “Please. There is still time for you to repent,” I begged.

  “No, there’s not,” he said, pausing. “The irony of fate.”

  Jonah Soul’s face flashed before me as if he was watching, then a woman’s face. Who was she? I felt like I knew her but couldn’t place her face. Hassan’s car took off, zipping around the bends as he tried to distance himself from the SUV. He rounded the last curve, only to see several more SUVs blocking the road. Hassan sped up further. At the last moment, he yanked the wheel to the right, and the car sailed off the mountain into the air, as if in slow motion. Time stopped.

  The scene shifted.

  I saw a cross, held by an armed soldier on a white horse leading an army toward a huge dome, like a mosque. A moment later, a flash of light brighter than I’d ever seen engulfed the area. I was immediately surrounded by fire, with no way to escape. My heart was beating out of my chest, fear engulfing my soul.

  Gasp! I woke up disoriented—my head swimming with images of people being incinerated. I sat up. The clock read 2:56 a.m. I looked around the room, remembering I was at my parents’ home and in my childhood bed.

  “Great,” I said to myself, “this isn’t over.” I grabbed a pen and scratched out the dream so I wouldn’t forget, although it would forever be etched in my memory.

  “Mr. President,” I said minutes later, on the phone with the White House.

  “Yes?”

  “You told me to call you if I had any dreams. Well, I had one.”

  “It’s 3 a.m.”

  “Sorry, would you prefer I call back?”

  “Go ahead.”

  

  12

  OPERATION SMARTBIRD

  September 3

  Situation Room, the White House

  Washington, DC

  The inconspicuous black bird flew into the village of Jamaran in Upper Tehran on a cloudless and furiously hot day. Not that it mattered to Crane, who was now comfortable in air conditioning on the other side of the world in the United States. Problem was, he was exhausted, having shuttled more than 7,000 miles from an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Sea of Japan to an F-15 that had transported him back to Andrews Air Force Base, then made his way onboard Marine One, which had carried him to the White House. His back ached, his feet were killing him, and his head was pounding, partially because he had been denied one of the only things that mattered: a Starbucks white chocolate mocha, which was just now being delivered by one of the president’s associates. After taking a sip, the general sighed, everything in his tired body thanking him for something that made his skin sizzle, although it also made his heart race. But isn’t that the point? he thought to himself, remembering he’d taken his aspirin. He’d live.

  The bird had already traveled over the Iranian Parliament. It had landed on a large branch of the ash tree growing from the stylish gray rocks of the small courtyard behind Ali Ahmadi’s Iranian residence. White columns separated the windows, which were barred with brown metal. The bird’s head cocked back and forth as it scanned the outside of the modest off-white clay structure. It then circled the house, cawing loudly enough to identify itself as a crow. Nothing indicated that anyone was inside the house, other than perhaps a servant of some sort who kept the residence tidy for the leader of Iran, although there were no cameras inside verifying that conjecture. The bird waited.

  Crane took a seat closest to the president in one of the 12 black leather chairs that sat around the large brown conference table. He opened his laptop, slinging his briefcase onto the floor beside him. He looked at the other 20-or-so guest chairs that lined the two longest walls, thankful they were empty, since he had a few loose ends to tie up on his other op—the black one. The clock revealing three time zones in red—local, president, and Zulu time—sat just behind him, and the dome-like lights above kept the table fully lit.

  Within 20 minutes, six other chairs became occupied by select members of the Joint Chiefs, the Homeland Security Council representative, and acting CIA director Wesley Mayfield Masters, who had recently replaced Sam Adams, after Sam had been fired as the scapegoat for Diablo 8-16. Some of the entourage continued to lay their notebooks and pens on the desk, carefully putting their laptop computers at their seats.

  Moments passed.

  “Stand by,” said drone operator Captain Rank, breaking the silence as his voice sounded from the speaker sitting in the middle of the table, the camera showing him maneuvering the bird. Crane glanced at the blue carpet, sliding his chair back for a more comfortable position.

  Either it was now getting uncomfortably warm in the Situation Room or Crane was just hot, but either way, the general stood from his chair to lower the thermostat to 68 degrees. Sweating was not part of his image, particularly while sitting in air conditioning. At least his exhaustion had been replaced by the jitters from the espresso shots in his coffee, along with anticipation of the forthcoming mission.

  At 6:48 p.m. Iranian time, the large screen showed a black BMW 02 Series sedan pulling up to the gate. A bell sounded, then an automatic gate began to slowly slide open, followed by an entourage of other black security vehicles. Crane looked at his watch. 10:18 a.m. in DC.

  “Here we go,” said Crane as several armed men surrounded the Ahmadi compound, carrying AK-47 machine guns. The camera showed Ali Ahmadi sitting in the backseat of the small 1976 vintage car that pulled up to the front of the modest home. The back passenger door opened, and Ahmadi was escorted out of the car. With the flip of Rank’s wrist, the bird leapt from the top of the house down to a palm tree located in the front area, its head continuing to cock as if it were watching Ahmadi’s every move—which it was.

  The men in the prestigious Situation Room waited, eyes glued to the screen. Some of them opened and closed their tired eyes hard to ensure they were seeing correctly. Most had been up all night ensuring that details of this mission were accurate.

  “Any chance I can get some coffee?” asked the secretary of defense as he typed something on his laptop.

  “Good idea. Me, too,” snapped Chairman Engel, whose water bottle was empty.

  Crane hit the intercom button and asked one of the assistants to bring in a fresh pot of coffee. It appeared 10 minutes later.

  An hour passed.

  Just as the men began chatting amongst themselves, the supreme leader could be seen being escorted back into one of the other vehicles. The camera leapt from the house, soaring above as its eyes remained focused on the entourage.

&nb
sp; General Crane summoned the president. “It appears he’s headed to the airport.”

  A moment later, President Tense entered.

  “So the meeting is on,” the president said somewhat rhetorically. He sipped from his coffee cup with the presidential seal clearly visible on the side as he stood next to his chair. He was unusually comfortable for someone about to kill the leader of Iran.

  13

  Akbar Ahmadinejad – Collateral Damage

  “You still want to do this, Mr. President?” asked Crane, looking up at him while sipping his nearly empty Starbucks mocha.

  “This is not about what I want, General. Is there any intel that has contradicted the testimony of the captain of the MCC Karianna or the harbor master?” the president asked, setting down his cup and crossing his arms over his chest.

  “No. The MCC Karianna has been confirmed by several sources to be the ship that brought the nuke from Dubai into Los Angeles and that harbored Rama Rhamine. The harbor master remembers Rama as Dr. Josh Floyd. Neither of them appears connected,” said acting CIA director Wesley Masters, leaning his head forward toward Crane, who was sitting across from him and next to the president at the distant end of the table. The others were seated at the opposite end.

  “The bomb was hidden in plain sight,” said the president with a look of angst. “We should have caught it, General,” the president admonished Crane. “Damn it,” he grated, closing his eyes and frowning.

  “Except the Federal Maritime Commission was shut down when this occurred,” responded Crane defensively as Wesley nodded. The president opened his eyes.

  “Just because the FMC operates essential customs and border protection doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have caught it,” Tense retorted, shaking his head.

  “Port Los Angeles was getting overwhelmed because of the shutdown and the trade tariffs imposed by Crumpler,” Wesley weighed in, “which increased shipments, creating a double whammy. Hindsight is always clearer than dealing with the reality of the situation. Kirstjen Nielsen should have caught it, sir,” he added, referring to the director of Homeland.

  “Crumpler fired her,” said Crane. “First Lady Marína was interim—”

  “I know,” President Tense interrupted. “Marína was the director of Homeland, unofficially of course.”

  “Sam should have caught it,” Wesley opined. “Had he let me follow up on Hassan bin Laden—”

  “Everyone knows this is former president Crumplers mess—even the democrats don’t blame you . . .” said Crane.

  Again, the president interrupted. “I get it, gentlemen. Speaking of Hassan, where the hell is he, General?”

  Tired of hearing the same repetitive question, Crane kept his eyes on the screen.

  Tense continued, “Mason Thomas had a dream suggesting that not only is Hassan bin Laden alive, but he and Rama Rhamine are one and the same. As much as I have my doubts about dreams, that makes more sense than anything else I have heard.”

  “You mean the prophet of doom? I had a dream I hit the lottery,” said Wesley, “but I didn’t go purchase a ticket.” The president half smiled.

  “We believe he’s dead, sir,” Crane finally responded.

  “Believe? Come on, Chesty. I want proof that that loser is buried in his underground condo, gentlemen, or it’s your butts,” the president told them with a bit of rage, something not typically seen from the former vice president. “The Democrats may not have blamed me for the Diable 8-16 detonation, but if another bomb goes off on our soil—” He paused. “So we’re certain about this, not almost certain?” he said as he moved back to the task at hand.

  “Yes, sir, at least that the supreme leader of Iran, Ali Ahmadi, is responsible for that nuke getting into the hands of Rama,” said Crane. “Or whoever he is.”

  The president took another deep breath, his expression intense but deliberate. He closed his eyes. Crane didn’t respond. He knew the president had enough information to make a decision, particularly since Congress had given him the authority to kill the leader of the most dangerous rogue nation on the planet—at least in their opinion, since they hadn’t authorized the “Rose” for a mysterious political reason only explained by those same politicians. And despite the “coincidence” that Pak-un was going to die after Tense had accused him of being involved. Crane knew Tense would deny any involvement in the black-op assassination, like former president Crumpler, telling the Democrats what idiots they were to think he’d had anything to do with it.

  “Smartbird is a go,” the president finally said, interrupting Crane’s thoughts.

  “The little birdie is on the way,” said Rank as they watched the bird fly ahead to the airport.

  “Let’s just pray this really does avoid a nuclear war rather than start one,” the president said. Fifteen minutes later, the car carrying Supreme Leader Ahmadi appeared, followed by another entourage, snapping Tense’s thoughts back to the moment.

  

  “Who the hell is that?” asked one of the members of the Joint Chiefs as a bearded man wearing glasses, a black turban, black jacket, and gray shirt got out of one of the black vehicles.

  “It looks like Akbar Ahmadinejad,” said Wesley.

  “Is it?” asked President Tense, his eyes locked on the man.

  “Stand by,” said Crane as his eyebrows narrowed. “Captain Rank, I need facial recognition on the men getting out of that vehicle,” he instructed, leaning into the mic that sat in the middle of the table, his eyes simultaneously on the screen.

  “Yes, sir,” said Rank, repositioning the “flying eye” on the faces of the men. The camera took pictures of three men.

  “We’re running the images through facial recognition now,” Rank said.

  A short pause followed.

  “What do you want to do if it’s him, Mr. President?” Engel inquired.

  The president didn’t respond, his arms folded across his chest.

  “It’s the president of Iran, Akbar Ahmadinejad,” Captain Rank informed them. “We have positive ID. It’s him.”

  “Operation Smartbird is a go. I repeat, it is a go,” Tense said, standing up and turning around, holding his elbow in one hand, chin in the other. General Crane gave orders to Rank, who was looking intently into a second camera, his face on the screen.

  Crane stood up.

  “Are we certain about this, sir?” asked Rank. “I’m not questioning anyone’s judgment, but it is my hand on the device. I don’t like taking pot shots from the sofa if we’re thinking this might start WWIII.”

  Crane looked at the president, who nodded, still showing no reaction to the news.

  “Light ’em up,” Crane directed, disregarding Rank’s apprehension.

  The black bird slowly made its way toward the jet, flying under it and clinging to the wheel basin. It attached itself to the landing gear, as if it had found its nest.

  “Done, sir,” said Captain Rank.

  “How long?” asked the president.

  “It will reach the Caspian Sea inside of an hour, sir,” Rank answered.

  “And you are certain the bomb is undetectable?” asked the president.

  “The only way anyone will know the US blew this jet out of the sky is if one of us in this room leaks it, sir,” said Crane. “Or if Captain Rank mentions it.”

  “Mentions what, sir?” asked Rank.

  

  14

  Ninja

  September 3

  Tehran, Iran

  A buxom nurse wearing black pants, a white tunic, a black hijab, and a red stethoscope cracked the door, placing her foot in its path and prohibiting it from closing. Ignoring the 50-or-so Iranians waiting patiently in the black and gray chairs linked together in groups of three, she announced another name from her clipboard.

  “Rihanna Zeva?” Rihanna looked quickly at h
er watch; she had been waiting just over an hour. As she stood, she noticed saliva leaking from the mouth of one of the men. A handful of colorfully and conservatively dressed Iranian women were now giving her the stink eye, not that she cared. Rihanna was used to the judgment she received in Iran, which just increased her resolve to do everything possible to flout the dress code. Of course, a woman wearing white leather boots that extended beyond her knees on her athletic, 5’6” frame, with cut-off denim shorts and a white T-shirt topped with an embellished denim jacket, was not something anyone in Iran saw, ever, accept on Rihanna Zeva, otherwise known as the Ninja.

  “The doctor will be with you shortly,” the nurse said, escorting Rihanna to one of the small rooms that lined the hallway. Rihanna entered and sat down on the examination bed. She put her hand on her right shoulder, just over her breast, to see if the pain was gone. It wasn’t, but it was better than before. She took off her jacket. Her eyes twitched, likely because of her anxiety.

  The doctor entered moments later.

  “What do you mean, it’s gone?” Rihanna asked, in response to Dr. Noroozpur’s initial comments.

  “You had nine broken ribs, which is why your chest felt like a loaf of bread with sticks in it.”

  “Old news. Kiyani told me. What does laying titanium plates across ribs have to do with cancer?”

  The doctor sat down and swiveled his chair toward the computer sitting on the counter.

  “While he was securing your bones, I asked Dr. Kiyani to take another biopsy, which he did. I just got the results. I can’t explain it, but according to the pathologist, there is no sign of any cancer in your pancreas.”

  “That’s not funny. Someone’s made a mistake. The last thing I need to hear is ‘Oops, our bad, you’ve got three weeks before you wake up dead,’ ” Rihanna snarked, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.