Against the Odds

 

 

“There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.”

– Paulo Coelho

 

The King David Hotel, Jerusalem

 

Moshe Cohen and his daughter, Rachel, sat near the huppah as their family friends, Miriam and Itzhak, acknowledged their vows under the wedding canopy. As they exchanged rings, Moshe’s mind was elsewhere. He was the director of Mossad, soon to retire, troubled by top-secret information that, if used by an enemy, would wipe Israel off the map and into the sea. Moshe sat slumped in his chair, tight-lipped, his eyes half closed. He had to do something to stop them.

His thoughts went back to another time in Israel’s young history when he was only twenty years old and a soldier in the Israeli Defense Force. The prime minister at the time, Menachem Begin, ordered a surprise air strike against an Iraqi Nuclear Reactor designed to make nuclear weapons to destroy Israel. Saddam Hussein, president of Iraq, claimed the nuclear plant was meant to be used for scientific research but evidence provided by Mossad proved otherwise and Israeli F-16s took to the sky. It was the world’s first airstrike against a nuclear plant. Perhaps it was time for another against Iran.

Toward the end of the ceremony, Moshe’s eyes snapped open as the groom stomped on a wrapped wine glass, reminding Miriam and Itzhak that life holds sorrow as well as joy. Shouts of Mazel Tov filled the air as the guests rushed toward the radiant couple to share hugs and kisses. After an evening of eating, drinking, and dancing the Hora, most of the guests left. Moshe’s wife, Shayna, stayed to chat with him and Rachel for a few minutes, then said goodnight and went to their room in the hotel.

Moshe was already a bit drunk. He was unsteady on his feet, his speech slurred, his eyes red and watery, and his face creased from years of worry as he reflected on the newlyweds. They were now husband and wife and at the beginning of their new lives. Their military service now behind them, they had a place to live in Jerusalem. But it was their future Moshe was concerned about. Would Israel continue to be there for them? He sat with his daughter at a small, round table near the bar, sipped his martini, and made laid-back conversation.

“Tell me, Rachela,” he said, looking into her deep brown eyes. “How’s David?”

“He’s doing fine, Papa. We’ll celebrate our first anniversary in two weeks.”

“You don’t mind he lives in California?” Moshe asked after a few more sips.

“No. It’s only temporary, and besides, he has his close friends, Sam and Soroya, to socialize with. We knew what we were getting into—me in Israel and David in the U.S.—but we just didn’t want to wait any longer before we got married. Now that he works for American Airlines and flies international, we see each other often, and we call or text every day. I can’t wait to join him in three months in Santa Monica when I’m out of the Israeli Air Force.”

“Yeah, Samuel and Soroya, I remember them. An American Jew and an Iranian Muslim girl. It shows how liberal Jews are.”

“No, it shows how liberal Sam Goodman and Soroya are. It’s not like the old days, Papa. They set their differences aside as soon as they fell in love. If you remember, she’s smart, only thirty-two, and beautiful. Plus, she’s a chemical engineer and Sam is proud of her.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Moshe said, heaving a deep sigh. “I’m proud of you, too, flying F-16s. It wasn’t easy getting through that training program. You’re a credit to Israel and to our family and a good human being—a mensch. But I have to tell you, I’m worried. And scared, too.”

Rachel reached across the table, gathered her father’s hand in hers, and looked into his tired eyes. “Is it your heart? Did the doctor tell you something new?”

Moshe looked down at his knees and shook his head. “It’s not my heart. I wish it were only that.” His lips tightened. “We have a major problem in Israel, and the schmucks in America are making it worse.”

“What is it, the Iran agreement? I agree with Netanyahu. It was a bad deal.”

“It was a terrible deal, but it’s more than that. Maybe I had too much to drink.” He paused, feeling a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but it may be the end of Israel.”

“No,” she said, dismissing him almost immediately. “We’ve been hearing that since we became a nation in 1948. Israel will go on. It’s strong. Trust me, I know. Maybe the UN will intercede.”

“The UN? Never! They’re anti-Israel. I had high hopes for the UN in the beginning until politics took over. A two-state proposal would destroy Israel. The Palestinians in Gaza to the east and a Palestinian State to the west with no Jews allowed in either—that’s ethnic cleansing! Let Jordan give land to the Palestinians if they want their own country. Most of Jordan’s citizens are already Palestinians.”

Exasperated, Moshe walked to the bar, ordered another martini, and placed it on the white tablecloth in front of him. His hand trembled as he brought the drink to his lips.

“What is it? Papa, I’ve never seen you so drained. Your hands are shaking. No more drinks! Talk to me.”

Moshe squeezed Rachel’s hand, his eyebrows knitted in a frown. “I have something to tell you in confidence. You must tell no one except David.” He inhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “Our agents have discovered an Iranian facility where they’re enriching weapons-grade uranium, and they are very close to producing nuclear weapons. The plant is deep underground so we can’t bomb it with the ordnance and planes we have. What scares me is that the words of the Ayatollah are still ringing in my ears. He said, ‘Israel is a one-bomb country,’ meaning it will only take one nuclear bomb to wipe it off the map.” With their eyes focused on each other, Moshe added, “We must not allow Iran to have nuclear weapons under any circumstances.”

Rachel heaved a deep sigh. “Maybe we’re a tiny country, but we’re smart and strong. We built a thriving nation out of sand. God didn’t even give us a drop of oil. What can we do to stop them?”

Moshe chugged the last of his martini. “Maybe this is one time we should consider a preemptive strike. You’re right, our country is small. In one place, it’s only nine miles wide. From there I could walk across Israel in a few hours. If Iran drops only that one bomb, many of our eight million Israelis will die.” Moshe tapped his fist several times on the table. “We can’t let that happen, and we can no longer trust our existence to the whims of others living thousands of miles away. We have to act on our own behalf as we’ve always done.” He hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “The countries surrounding us hate Jews. They don’t let us live in peace. Now the Iranians want to destroy us.”

Rachel sat stunned, her eyes widened. She pulled her father’s hand toward her and kissed it. “The whole world doesn’t hate us. We’re the strength the world counts on in the Middle East.”

Moshe gazed into Rachel’s warm brown eyes, pressed his lips together, and sighed. “Rachel, I love you but don’t be so trusting. The Iranians are laughing at us, especially after that nonsense agreement. It’s Chamberlain all over again. Americans and others now have a false sense of security, and that’s dangerous for them and for us! The problems are complex. Obama is no friend of Israel and no match for Putin and other leaders. Maybe the election in America will bring us a more sincere friend, who knows?”

“Does Mossad know the exact location of the underground nuclear plant?” Rachel whispered.

“We do know it, and it will never be found by any inspection and it’s devoted to enriching uranium to make a bomb and we know they’ve come a long way. Besides, the United States might not be looking too hard because they still believe Iran and America can be friends. How naïve, but it’s all tied in with politics.” Moshe wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and exhaled a deep breath. “They just don’t know the Muslim mind. Many are good people, but Muslim leaders never keep promises. Hitler never did either. Can you believe it? The agreement allows the Iranians to do their own inspections, and there are hidden deals between the U.S. and Iran—none of them on paper. Why can’t the Israeli Air Force do something? But I’ve said too much already.”

“We don’t have bunker-busting bombs, Papa, and planes like the B-52 to deliver it.”

Moshe envisioned the possibilities. If only they had access to such tools of destruction. “Ask your American husband to do it,” he said, half-joking “He used to fly B-52s.”

They laughed at the thought.

Moshe felt tired and drunk. He could barely get to his feet. Rachel draped his arm around her shoulders and helped him to his room in the hotel. Shayna was already asleep.

“Who can help us, Papa?”

He clasped his hands over his lips, then rubbed his aching eyes. “Only God.”

Moshe dragged his tired, drunk body into bed, his gaze toward the ceiling.

Dear God, we have spoken many times and you have done good things for our people—but sometimes you have not, and that’s what worries me.

The Jewish people have endured excruciating pain and suffering throughout the millennia at the hands of others, and yet we survived. We’re still here. Not only did our people and culture endure, but we have our own country.

The very existence of Israel is now threatened. Please don’t take our Jewish State away from us. I promise I won’t ask you for anything else. Israel must survive.

Thank you, God.

 

Paris, France

Two days later, David piloted an American Airlines flight to Paris and met Rachel for lunch at La-Taverne-de-Montmartre, a small, quiet café. They each ordered the same meal, raclette onion soup, a beef bourguignon platter and a glass of the local red wine. After the waiter left, they talked and laughed for a few minutes until Rachel’s face turned solemn, her lips pressed into a grim line. She reached across the table, gathered David’s hand in hers, and held it firmly. Her eyes scanned the few people seated nearby and she spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “I have something confidential to tell you.”

David leaned toward her. “What is it?”

“I have it from a good source that the Iranians have a secret uranium-enriching facility deep underground.”

He sat back. “I don’t doubt it. They’ve expanded their engineering graduate programs twenty-fold adding many more female engineers. Soroya received her first degree there. I know what you’re saying is true. I don’t know it as a fact but my gut tells me they’re working at top speed in many underground facilities and scouting for all the best engineers they can get.”

“This is different.” Her lips tightened as she stared into David’s eyes. “This facility is on a fast track and can produce a nuclear bomb in a matter of days—days, David! Sanctions against Iran were lifted, no thanks to the new agreement, and they’re rushing to make a bomb and destroy Israel before increased inspections become an issue. Besides, Iran has been doing some of its own inspections and sending notices of compliance to the United States. Can you imagine that?

“Time is a major player. It may be too late to stop them, but there is still a chance. We know the location of the facility and that’s a big plus. Legislators in America begged Obama to give Israel the long-range B-52 bombers so they could destroy hidden nuclear plants, but he turned his back on them.”

David tucked his chin in his hand and shook his head. “If Israel bombed Iran’s nuclear facilities, it would be an act of war and would destabilize the Middle East.”

“Yes, but Israel would still stand.”

“True, and it always must.” He looked down. “What worries me is that just yesterday Iran released a Qadr H long-range missile during a drill and the U.S. made nothing of it. It only made the American newspapers as a small blurb on the back pages, but it made headlines in The Jerusalem Post. That damn Obama deal,” he said, slamming the table with his fist.

“It was a bad agreement,” Rachel replied. “I guess Obama wanted to leave behind some kind of legacy to show he was a peacemaker.”

“Yeah, like the presidents before him.” David gazed into Rachel’s eyes. “How do you know for sure Iran has this secret underground plant?”

“My father told me in confidence and as you know, Mossad is not only the world’s best killing machine, but they know how to collect information.”

“And how did they come up with this information about the plant?” David asked.

“From a Mossad agent, an expert in radioactive isotopes who worked in the plant undercover for the past month.”

“It was dangerous for him. How is he getting away with this?”

“He had a lot of credibility. He was born in Iran and speaks Farsi, English, and Hebrew fluently. He moved to Israel with his family when he was twelve and they lived among the Iranians who migrated to Israel and settled in Tel Aviv. He’s known for his intelligence and tenacity. That’s all I know about him.”

“The Iranians living in Israel are good people,” David said. “I’ve talked to many and none of them ever want to go back to Iran—not even for a visit, and I don’t blame them. Iran violates every human right.”

“David, if we could get hold of a few bunker buster bombs and a long-range bomber, we could blast the hell out of that nuclear plant. Do you think we could get one or even steal a Boeing B-52?”

David flashed a smile. “Steal a B-52 that’s in service? I would say it’s close to impossible.”

“If we got one, would you be able to fly it?”

David nodded slowly. “It’s been over ten years since I flew a B-52, but I have two thousand hours on it. I could do it blindfolded.”

Rachel’s heart pummeled her ribs. “Really?”

 

Santa Monica, California

It was a chilly night. Soroya sat in the passenger seat of Sam’s Ford F-150 truck, smiling, as they pulled up to the beach near Santa Monica.

“Why the happy face? You gonna do something wicked?” he asked.

Soroya cocked her head to the side. “You never know,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I love the beach at night. The darkness enhances the sound of the waves.”

Soroya gave Sam a quick kiss on the cheek, opened the truck door, and ran across the deserted beach toward the ocean, stripping off all her clothes along the way. Sam grabbed a few towels, racing close behind, undressing until he caught up with her at the water’s edge.

The Pacific rollers were quiet that night, and a large yellow moon hung low on the horizon casting a pathway of glimmering light across the sea.

“Let’s swim to the moon,” Soroya said in a high-spirited voice as she pulled on Sam’s arm. He backed up a bit, scrunched his shoulders, raised some goose bumps, and stood still as his body quivered in the chilly air.

“Come on, come on,” Soroya pleaded as she dove into the cold water and swam a short distance. Then she turned and waved to Sam, his hands folded in front of him, and shouted, her voice shrill with excitement. “It’s not that cold. I thought you Americans were tough. Try to catch up to me. I feel like I can touch the stars,” she cried, the sound of her laughter fading into the cool night air.

Sam took a deep breath, dove in, and swam to her. As they stood knee-deep in the water, he drew her close and felt her hardened nipples pressed against his chest. They stood in the moonlight and kissed. Her body trembled. As their lips parted, she looked down and began to sob.

Sam lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, and gazed into her dark, chocolaty eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

Soon, the moon began to lose its bright yellow hue and took on a tarnished gold tint as they stood in its beam of lunar light and held each other.

Soroya gazed at him with a wavering smile and took a deep breath. Then, in a sudden change of mood, her voice brightened. “Let’s get something to eat—someplace quiet so I can tell you what’s on my mind.”

“Luigi’s?”

“Great. I need some hot soup,” she said, shivering.

They wrapped themselves in towels, dressed, walked back to the truck, and snuggled.

A Taylor Swift song, ‘Love Story,’ flowed through the vehicle’s speakers. The lyrics told the story of two soul mates, Romeo and Juliet, and it was easy for Soroya and Sam to feel as they did—the same rapture and love.

Luigi’s was a short drive from the beach. As regulars, they knew the place and the owner well. The front of the restaurant was a retail bakery with showcases filled with colorful, delectable looking Italian pastries. Red, white, and green decorations were everywhere. The entrance to the eatery was from the bakery, through an aged brick archway that led into a small, cozy restaurant with only twelve booths with tables covered with red and white checkered tablecloths.

They sat next to each other, their bodies touching. A colorful Venetian gondolier dominated the stained glass picture on the wall beside their table. He wore black pants and a white shirt with thin red stripes as he navigated the canal with his wooden oar.

A bottle of Valpolicella arrived at their table unexpectedly. They looked toward the bar, and there was Luigi smiling widely, an imaginary glass in his hand toasting them. The bread and soup soon followed. Each spoonful of the steaming minestrone took the chill off their still damp bodies. When they finished, Soroya settled back, drew Sam’s hand in hers, kissed it, and heaved a deep sigh.

“I love you, Sam,” she said, her eyes watering. “Except for my family, I’ve never had love in my life, so, for me, what we share is a gift like no other and yet…”

He remained silent.

“There are things we never talk about.” She hesitated. “It’s our differences. Deep down, we know what they are, but we say nothing as if they’re not there.” She squeezed his hand and bit her lip. “I’m afraid they may come out later when we’re married and hurt us.”

Sam offered a small frown. “You’re from Iran and a Muslim. I’m an American and a Jew. Is that what you’re talking about? Does it make any difference in how we feel about each other? I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t because we don’t let it. We don’t talk about some of our deeper feelings we have for our cultures, but we know the differences are there and I’m worried. You are pro-Israel and I am not. You are pro-American and I am not.”

“And you came to the United States because…?”

“I needed my chemical engineering doctorate. The best program was here at Stanford. You know that.”

“I thought you liked America. Now you say you’re not pro-American? I don’t get it.”

“I like the American people, and I love you, Sam, more than anything, but your government is corrupt and owned by big corporations. Your politicians make up reasons to go to war, and innocent people die.”

Sam took her hand and squeezed it. “I don’t like this conversation.”

“Afraid it will split us?” she asked.

“Nothing will ever split us. We’re beyond that. And, oh, what do you have against Israel?”

“They cause war and dissension in the Middle East and have no consideration for the feelings of the Palestinians.”

“Really? Whenever there’s a disaster in the world—a hurricane, a tsunami—Israel is right there to help. Besides, it’s the only democracy in the Middle East, and your Ayatollah doesn’t believe Israel should even exist. He openly threatens to destroy them with a nuclear bomb and says it’s a one-bomb country. That’s war mongering! If Israel’s enemies put down their arms, there would be peace. If Israel put down their arms, there would be no more Israel. Let’s stop this talk. It’s not us! I don’t want anything to separate us.”

“Nothing will. I’m yours ’til I die, Sam, no matter what. I just wanted to bring up things we haven’t spoken about. Now that it’s out, I feel better. It was something I thought could harm us but I know how much you love me and it makes me feel beautiful.”

“Soroya, we share the gift of love.” Sam knew if they kept talking politics, he would get angry. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore what she’d said about Israel. “Our differences in culture will never hurt us. They’ll always enhance us, as long as we stay strong together.” That, he believed firmly. They couldn’t let their differences stand in the way of their relationship. “And now that you’ve expressed your feelings, is there anything else?”

She smiled warmly, but he couldn’t help wondering if the conversation had unnerved her as much as it did him. “No, nothing. I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable with you and it made me feel safe. You’re right, what we have is a gift and it’s ours forever. I feel we’ve formed a third personality together. Yours, mine, and the personality we’ve created together—a place where we’re comfortable and feel as one.”

“We’re lucky to have each other.”

“Yes, not everyone gets to meet their soul mate.”

Sam relaxed and sipped his water. “I remember when we first met at the Whole Foods Market on Wilshire Boulevard. Not the most romantic place.”

“I don’t know about that. It was romantic for me, and we had a common bond right from the start.” A smile swept over her face. “It was the ethnic food section. Here we were looking at a shelf filled with boxes of couscous and you asked me what the difference was between the Israeli couscous and the Persian variety.” She winked. “I had a feeling you already knew. Did you?”

He chuckled and toyed with the button on his shirt. “I kinda knew, but I just wanted an expert’s opinion.”

“Really? An expert’s opinion—mine? No other reason?” A server came to refill their wine glasses and let them know their meals would arrive soon. Soroya thanked him.

“None,” he said innocently, raising his shoulders and gazing into her eyes. “I could tell you were from the Middle East. Did I look like someone with an ulterior motive?”

“Well, let’s just say I was thrown off a bit when you were looking me over.” She giggled. “Your eyes were kind of intense—moving from the top of my head to my shoes and stopping a few places along the way.”

“Well, maybe that was a dead giveaway. The truth is, you had me at first glance and I’ve been captivated ever since. You know…” He folded his arms on the table’s surface. “It wasn’t just about how you looked, your black straight hair resting on your shoulders, or your chocolate brown eyes or olive skin—that was only part of what I saw. Not that it wasn’t important. It was, but there was something else, something deeper that I can’t quite put into words. It had to do with your shy smile and gentle ways, your soft voice, and the way you looked at me with a sparkle in your eyes. That’s what won me over. I felt a connection I’d never known before.”

Soroya heaved a deep sigh. “How could you know and feel those things from the few minutes we were together? We were only looking at boxes of couscous on a shelf.”

“I don’t know. The couscous might have done it for me. By the way, did you notice?”

“Notice what?”

“The Israeli and Persian couscous sat on the shelf side by side, touching each other.”

Soroya shook her head and flashed her lovely smile. “That’s so sweet, Sam. Sort of relates to what we were talking about before. Different, but together. It was kismet when we met. It was meant to be. I remembered later that day we talked over coffee, and the next afternoon we walked in Clover Park…and the next evening, our first kiss on the beach while the sun was setting. It makes me smile inside when I think of our first meeting, being at the same place at the same moment. The ethnic section,” she said, beaming. “We should go there again, go to the exact spot and reminisce.”

He laughed. “Yeah, we’ll do that. How about tomorrow?”

“Sorry, tomorrow I have some things to do. Maybe soon,” she said, glancing down.

“No problem. We’ll do it when—ahh, here comes our food!”

They sat back as the server returned with a large platter of Pasta al Forno with a serving spoon and two warm plates. They gazed into each other’s eyes, touched glasses, and smiled. David took a deep breath. “We’ve been engaged long enough, Soroya. Let’s get married! The sooner the better. Money would never be a problem for us. I make a lot more as a lawyer representing celebrities than I did as an Air Force navigator. What do you say?”

She leaned forward, kissed him, and whispered, “Yes, of course, but not now. There is one other thing I have to tell you.”

Sam smiled and cocked his head to the side. “I hope it’s not about our differences.”

She waved him off playfully. “Actually, the more I think about it perhaps being bi-cultural would be good for us and our children. It would be a learning experience like no other. Look how fast you picked up Farsi. It’s not an easy language. But I have something else to tell you.”

Sam moved his plate away “Go ahead.”

“I was called back to Iran for a short time, maybe a month. The Iranian government asked me to help work on a project. It has to do with the country’s water purification system.”

“Are you telling me the truth? A water project? Nothing nuclear?” Sam asked, glancing at her and squinting. He didn’t trust the Iranian government, and couldn’t help but think there was something else involved.

“No, of course not!” she answered, her eyes fixed on his.

Sam frowned. “Really? And they need a chemical engineer to fly back to Iran for that? There must be hundreds of engineers in Iran who can handle water purification issues. Why you?” His heart quickened, the anxiety twisting him up inside.

“I’m not sure, but I know they think highly of me. It will give me an opportunity to visit with my family while I fix the water problems. I won’t be away long. I already agreed to go. I promise as soon as I return I’ll be your bride.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t believe them. I’m not sure I trust their motives. I have you here now, and you’re safe. Why would you agree to that?”

“My father is a well-known chemistry and engineering professor at the prestigious Sharif University. If I had not done my undergraduate work there, I would not have been accepted at Stanford. I still owe something to my country. We are a well-respected family, and they will honor any of our requests in return for my aid.”

“But there are travel warnings and they may not let you come back.”

“Travel restrictions would not apply to me. Besides, I want to do it, and when I come back we’ll plan our marriage. How many children do you want?”

Sam heaved a deep breath. “One at a time would work. When are you scheduled to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning, Saturday. I have a 6:10 a.m. flight on Emirates Airlines from Los Angeles to Tehran. It will take more than twenty-three hours with the connections. I only found out yesterday that I had to leave and was waiting to tell you when we were together.”

“I understand. We’ll pick up your things and stay at the Santa Monica Beach Hotel tonight and I’ll drive you to the airport.”

As much as Sam loved her, he wondered if she was telling him everything. Was it possible she didn’t even know the true reasons behind her trip? Even as the words came out of his mouth, he regretted letting her leave. The drive home from Luigi’s was quiet as if they were both worrying now about their differences—and how they might affect their future.

After seeing Soroya off, Sam called his close friend, David, Rachel’s husband, and they arranged to meet and attend the morning Shabbat Service at The Santa Monica Synagogue. They said the morning prayers and spent the rest of the day at the museum of art and later dined at the Ivy Shore restaurant in Santa Monica, a cozy, trendy place near the beach.

Both were tall with short-cropped black hair, brown eyes, and slim builds. They sat perched on wicker stools at the Ivy Shore bar, chatting as they lingered over two glasses of inky-red, Argentinean Malbec, and waited for their table.

They prattled about things such as David’s captain position with American Airlines and Sam’s practice as a well-known celebrity lawyer in Hollywood and former bombardier/navigator in the USAF. The conversation felt light after what Sam and Soroya had discussed, and he was glad for it.

Soon, they were led to a table in a private location in the corner of the dining room. They ordered Chateaubriand for two and more wine. As soon as they settled in and got comfortable, David’s face turned solemn.

“Something wrong, buddy?” Sam asked, frowning. Why did every conversation he had lately have to be so tense?

“I have something important and confidential to tell you,” David said in a low tone.

Sam leaned forward. “Sure. You can tell me anything. But why do you keep looking around like that?” Sam glanced around the dining area. He could see an elderly couple on the far side of the restaurant, but no one within earshot.

“I just don’t want anyone to overhear us, but we should be fine. I’m glad they seated us here.”

“David, what’s going on?” Sam asked, sighing heavily.

“A Mossad agent working undercover in a nuclear facility deep underground in Iran informed the agency the plant will be capable of producing a nuclear bomb in a matter of weeks,” David said quietly. “To put it simply…their plan is to blow Israel off the map.”

Sam clenched his jaw, then sipped his wine, his brows furrowed. “Israel will do the right thing and destroy it.”

“Yeah, but this time, Israel’s hands are tied. They don’t have a B-52 or bunker-busting bombs to blow it away and the nuclear plant is too deep underground to do the job without them. We have to find a way to demolish this plant as soon as possible. A single nuclear bomb could wipe out Israel very soon, so time is of the essence. We’ve been friends for a long time. We’re both Jews and still have a strong connection to our traditions. Our love for Israel is unwavering. Maybe we can achieve the impossible and destroy that damn plant.” David gulped the rest of his wine and peered over his glass.

Sam nodded hesitantly. “Sounds like you mean the two of us have to do something. Knowing you, you’ve got an idea in your mind, so let’s hear it. What are you thinking?”

David sucked in a deep breath. “I do have a plan. It’s kinda sketchy, and to be honest, it’s dangerous, with too many known and even more unknown obstacles. But if we do nothing, Israel is doomed. The Israelis know about the plant but are helpless and don’t have the equipment to do the job. This may sound crazy, but how about we steal a B-52 that’s already in service, snatch some bunker busting bombs and knock out that Iranian plant ourselves?”

Sam slid his chair closer. “Good idea, but it is crazy and would never work. First, it’s impossible to steal a plane like that. They’re too well-guarded.”

“How’s your legal practice, Sam? Lots of rich movie stars to look after?”

Sam tilted his head to the side. “I don’t get it. Are you trying to change the subject? Uh, yeah, I’ve got a good practice. I miss my Air Force days, but being a celeb lawyer has its moments. What does my law practice have to do with what we’re talking about?”

“Doesn’t one of your clients own a Gulfstream corporate jet?”

Sam scratched his head and thought for a moment. “You’re thinking of Bob Beecham, my one and only client. He keeps me busy since he’s the new Hollywood heartthrob. Yeah, he owns a G-5. He named it Eli B. after his wife Elizabeth.”

“Think he’d consider lending the plane to you?”

Sam shrugged. “Yup, cost him fifty million, but I think he’d trust me with it. He knows I’m a good pilot and he owes me big-time, but why?”

“Have you ever flown it?”

“Sure. Flew him to Hawaii, Auckland, and New York in the G-5. Very smooth ride. What are you getting at?” he said, searching his mind for a connection. “What does Beecham’s Gulfstream have to do with anything? Are you serious about this plan of yours? It is a bit on the wild side.”

“Yes, I am. Okay, here’s the deal, and I need your input along the way. So don’t be afraid to interrupt. You may not want to be part of this mission, and if not, please keep what I tell you top secret. We fly Beecham’s Gulfstream to the Mojave Desert. It’s a short flight from here, and my friend Brian will spray paint it and make it look identical to a C-37A.”

“Okay, I know what a C-37-A looks like. It’s the USAF version of the Gulfstream. Are you talking about Brian, your friend who helps the drug cartels modify their aircraft? The shady character?”

David laughed quietly. “Yeah, he’s a bit shady. He’s designed cartel tunnels from Mexico into the USA to help them smuggle drugs. True, he hangs out with the bad guys, but he’s still getting away with it. He also changes their planes to look like aircraft of any country. He’s got stacks of decals, all the right insignias, and gives the cartel pilots info on how to make runs under the radar and evade surveillance scanning.”

“I’m still not sure about the role Brian can play, but if he helps us, can he be trusted? What’s in it for him?” Sam asked, frowning.

“Money, for one thing, but the real reason is that he values my friendship, and on top of that he’s assisted some Black Ops missions that helped the USA. Those guys are far from ethical. What they do is usually illegal, but governments don’t follow any laws if they have to get a job done in secret.”

“What you’re planning sounds like it should be done by a Black Ops team, not us.”

“Maybe, but that’s something only governments get involved in and I wouldn’t even know how to go about suggesting it. Black Ops people engineer an event based on deception and then blame innocent countries or people for the outcome. I wouldn’t know how to do it.”

Sam scowled. “Yeah, I know what they do is pretty complex, but I don’t like the idea of getting involved with someone like Brian. I know what he can do, but I’m not sure how it fits into your plan. Let me see if I understand what you’re up to. Beecham’s Gulfstream becomes the C-37A, the U.S. Air Force version of the Gulfstream V. Both planes are the same except for the outer paint. So Brian will convert the Gulfstream to an exact copy of the Air Force plane it uses to carry dignitaries and high-ranking officers to wherever they want to go.”

“Right, it will be the same!”

“That part I get. But why a Gulfstream? It can’t carry the bombs and doesn’t have the range.” Sam hesitated. “Unless you mean we use it so we can get a B-52? Is that where we’re going with this?”

“Yup, that’s the idea,” David said.

Sam smiled. “Tell me more. I’ll help you with this one—glad to do it. I still know my way around a bombsight if that’s what we’re up to.”

“I know you speak Hebrew and Farsi. That might come in handy. Can you spare some time?”

He nodded. “Not a problem. Elroy will fill in for me at the office. He knows as much as I do. He’s a Yale man, real smart, and he’d be happy to do it. Okay, we get the Gulfstream and fly it to the Mojave Desert, now what?”

“After Brian performs his magic, and the Gulfstream looks like an official USAF plane, we fly it to an RAF Air Force base near London where they have B-52s and bunker-busting bombs.”

“Hold on! We’d be shot down after we take off from the Mojave. Too much official monitoring of military planes.”

David put up a hand. “Let me tell you something else about Brian. He was the lead IT and engineering officer in the Air Force who developed the scanning and monitoring devices for the government. He knows them inside out and he’s current with all the updates. Converting the plane is a piece of cake for him, but he has abilities beyond that. He’s the only one I know who can either defeat or redirect government monitoring devices.”

“But we’d be a military plane in the air without a flight plan and Brian can’t fake that!”

“Actually, he can and he’s done it.”

“Tough to believe. I’ve never heard of anyone able to do that, but I’ll take your word for it—reluctantly. Okay, we’ve got an official looking Air Force plane and we land in England. Go on.” Sam sipped his wine.

“We arrive early on a Sunday morning when no high-ranking officers will be around and make up a story to convince the officer in charge that we’re on a secret mission and need a B-52 with two bunker-busting bombs. We try to get them to agree and hope they will be impressed with us in our old officer uniforms, me a bird colonel and you a captain. They give us the B-52, load it with two bunker busters, and we fly it to Iran and blast that fuckin’ nuclear plant out of existence.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. No way! There’s nothing you can tell me to convince me that the RAF will just hand over a B-52. Maybe if we had a general with us it would help, but B-52s are guarded twenty-four hours a day. To get them to give us this plane and load bunker busters on it is unrealistic. They won’t buy it and they’ll put is in jail if we try anything like that. And even if they do buy it, and we take off, we’ll be shot down immediately, and if we’re not, we’ll be shot down when we reach Iranian airspace. So, where do you want to get shot down first?” Sam laughed. “There must be another way.”

“There is no other way!” David held up his hands. “Besides, reality is relative.”

“I have no idea what that means—relative,” Sam said, scratching his head.

“Look, my reality is that I want to live more than anything, share my life with Rachel, have children, grandchildren. I don’t want to die, but it’s more important that Israel lives. That’s more crucial than my life and that’s what makes it relative. Don’t you see? We’d be doing it for a cause. Our planet would suffer if it wasn’t for the innovations Israel has given to the world in technology and medicine. We’ve talked about these things before and I know you feel the same way. Risking our careers, jail, and our lives to pull this off is something we have to do.”

Sam sipped his coffee and crossed his ankle over his knee. “You’re so noble, especially with my life. It’s a little easier for me, David. I’m not married. You have your Rachel.”

“True. But you have Soroya and I don’t know what your plans are, but I’ve seen the two of you together and I know it’s for always. Yeah, you’re right, I am married, and to an Israeli, a Sabra who flies fighter planes. She would understand. Israelis know about sacrifice.”

Sam reached across the table and pressed the back of David’s hand. “I’m sure she would. So, you’re saying it will only be the two of us flying this large, complicated bomber with all its high-tech systems. A former captain and a colonel, just the two of us against the odds?”

“Yup, just us. Sound romantic?”

Sam grinned. “Sure, and crazy, but hold those thoughts.” He placed his napkin on his lap. “Here comes our dinner.” They stopped talking.

A smiling tuxedoed maitre de and his assistant rolled out a cart topped with the sizzling chateaubriand and all the accruements. As the sauce simmered in a pan, the maitre de began to slice the plump, well-rounded, head of the fillet into equal portions, placed them on gleaming, white dinner plates and lowered them slowly in front of each man. David and Sam watched the elaborate procedure as the sauce was added and the meal served with mushroom caps, asparagus, and chateau potatoes. He filled their wine glasses and left.

Sam finished eating first and leaned back in his chair. “I’m thinking about the obstacles. We both know airspace is tightly controlled and overseen by our military, especially in conflict areas. And you know as well as I do that flight plans into British military bases from the States are closely scrutinized by both countries, especially flights to Iran. If you say Brian can fake a flight plan, I believe you with strong reservation. But the ‘AF’ and ‘F’ numbers of all military aircraft are known and monitored. Is Brian up to figuring out the lettering and number sequences? Is he smarter than the entire U.S. Military? Just putting a fake paint job on a Gulfstream wouldn’t be enough to pass muster.”

“It’s more than a fake paint job, and, trust me, he can falsify a flight plan that can get us to Britain. Is he smarter than the U.S. Military? Not always. I’ve known him to slip up, especially when he can’t decrypt an update to reconfigure some of the government’s surveillance systems.” David took a deep breath. “We can’t let risk hold us back.”

“I feel the same way you do about risk,” Sam said. “I agree. This is something we have to do. Brian may be creative and we might get lucky, but he can’t help us with everything. I’ve been a bombardier/navigator for years and I know that the ordnance crew in England wouldn’t be allowed to load bunker-busting bombs on a B-52 without solid authorization. Even if they understood our cause, and even if they were Jewish.”

“Ahh, if they only were. That would be true mazel, the best kind of luck.”

“But, David, listen. Without a litany of authorizations to crank up the eight jet engines on a B-52, well, it’s not the sort of airplane you just jump into without a full crew. And it ain’t that easy for just the two of us to go through the start procedure and fly away. Besides, those planes are used to carry nuclear bombs, and they’re closely watched by many countries, including Russia, who also has close ties with Iran.”

David sat back and played with the stubble on his chin. “I agree, they’re formidable difficulties, but we can do it without a full crew. I’ve flown B-52s and have two thousand hours on it. Authorizations? There’s always Brian. Part of his business is jamming radios and making deals with the military on the inside who owe him favors. He knows the right people who can make things happen. True, it’s dangerous for him to be working for the cartels. Cross them once and they’ll kill you. He’s lucky to be alive, but money, creativity, and friendships drive him.”

“Do you actually know from personal knowledge any if his accomplishments?”

“He was the one who figured out how to jam military communications in the 2011 Egyptian revolution. If he can manipulate outcomes in other countries, I’ll take a chance on him doing it for us. I know jamming Iranian ground control would be next to impossible. Just add it to our list of risks. It ain’t easy, especially when we’re depending on luck.”

“I wouldn’t push your luck. You have a lot of faith in Brian. Maybe too much. I’m not so sure about him. The success of our plan depends too much on one man. Someone who works for drug cartels. Am I crazy to be in on this mad scheme? Probably, but I’m glad you mentioned luck. I hope it’s there for us on this mission. Do you think we can get all the way to Iran without being shot down?”

“No, I’m not sure, but between the two of us, we’ll figure things out as we go along. We’re running on desperation, and maybe that can help us. We can’t allow Israel to be pushed into the sea. They will be Iran’s first target if they get a nuclear bomb. We have to stop them and that’s it! We can’t allow eight million people to perish. Obama is no friend to Israel. We shouldn’t have to be doing this. In spite of the urging of congressional representatives, he won’t give Israel a B-52, and little else for that matter. I voted for him twice, thinking he was a rock star, but if I had to do it again, I’d vote for anybody but him.”

“Take it easy, David. You’re preaching to the choir. I know the score.”

“Obama should be more aware how important Israel is to stability in the Middle East and to our civilization itself. We can’t lose eight million more Jews. Hitler took six million. The Nazis wiped out one-third of the Jewish population in the world. If we lose eight million more out of the fifteen million remaining, there will only be seven million Jews left in the world and no Israel. We can’t let that happen. Desperation works—it drives us. Failure is not an option, so we have to keep it out of our minds and visualize ourselves succeeding. That’s what makes things happen, no matter the odds.”

Sam appeared to be searching for answers, but instead only found more questions—more details that still had to be worked out. “These are not simple matters. There’s still something that bothers me. You know better than anyone that to start the engines of a B-52, you need airflow to spin the turbine blades to fuel the plane and run the ignition. When we talked about B-52s last year, you told me you got the airflow from a ground power unit plugged into the airplane to fuel it. How can we make that happen if we can’t get ground power at the RAF base?”

David held up a hand. “What I didn’t tell you is that all B-52s, like some other planes, have an auxiliary power unit located in the tail, which can be used to start the engines instead of ground power. It’s usually not left operational when the B-52 is parked and isn’t scheduled to leave soon, but sometimes it is. It’s another chance we have to take. God will help us.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Sam said. “I’m a good bombardier. There have been major changes in bombsights and I’ve kept up with them. Just get me over the target. Oh, one more thing. What if one of the engines don’t start?”

“I wouldn’t worry. Those planes are well-maintained.”

David remained silent as if David’s glib answer didn’t satisfy him.

“Be optimistic, Sam. We can do it. America won’t play any part in helping us. Certainly not after that foolish agreement the president signed. Israel can’t do it, so it’s up to us.”

“Yeah, only us,” Sam muttered.

They skipped the offer of dessert and ordered cognac—Courvoisier.

When it arrived, David placed his nose deep into the brandy snifter, closing his eyes as he inhaled the rich, fresh aroma of the fine cognac. Sam cupped the brandy glass in his hands to warm it. He swirled it. They touched glasses and said, “L’chaim—To life!”

They sipped their drinks. “You’re my best friend, Sam. If we work together, we’ll destroy Iran’s nuclear plant.”

“It’s a long shot, but if anyone can do it, we can. There’s something else I want to tell you. Soroya was called back to Iran. She was told she’s needed to solve the problems Iran is having with water purification. She left early this morning. She’ll be living in a small town called Khorramshar.”

“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” David said. “Do you really believe they called her back to fix some water pipes? Soroya is super smart. I’m sure they want her expertise in the nuclear plant. Can you get her to come back?”

“No, she’s gone, but I checked it out. There actually is a water purification facility in Khorramshar and no sign of a nuclear plant anywhere else in the area—just a lot of mountains.”

“I hope you’re right. I was thinking of her safety.”

They remained silent, savored their cognacs, and ordered more.

“Okay, let’s say we make it into Iran air space without being shot down. Outside of being a bombardier, what else can I do?”

“You know they speak English on Iran ground control and if they don’t shoot us down, they’ll challenge us immediately, but you may be able to confuse them and slow down their action by speaking to them in Farsi, purposely letting our radio transmitter cut in and out. You can tell them we’re a covert Iranian plane on a special mission, anything. They’ll think about it for a minute, maybe only seconds, and won’t buy it. But it will give us a moment before they send up their fighters or shoot us down with surface to air missiles, and every bit of time counts, even seconds. We probably won’t make it back. Maybe we shouldn’t even try to come home. After all, we are committing an act of war by blowing Iran’s nuke facility all to hell. But then, there’s always our friend luck—and if it’s not there for us, so what? We can only do our best.”

“Get me over the target and turn the plane over to me,” Sam said. “I’ll get the bombs on target.”

David put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You’re the only man I would ever want with me.”

Sam’s expression was grim given the situation, but he forced a tight smile. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I have to tell you about the night Soroya and I went swimming. The water was like ice, but that didn’t stop me. I dove right in.”

“Really? That wouldn’t be me. So, when do we need the G-Five?”

“As soon as possible. I called Brian at his place in the Mojave Desert, but there was no answer. He has a rough idea of what I want to do and I know the coordinates of his location in the desert, so we can just show up when we’re ready.”

“Okay, let’s meet for coffee early tomorrow morning,” Sam said. “We’ll call Beecham. I’m staying at The Beverly Hills Hotel on Sunset. Seven a.m. okay with you?”

“Yeah, but your friend Beecham may be sleeping.”

“So? I’ll wake him. Besides, as I said, he owes me big time so there won’t be a problem.

 

Hollywood, California

After breakfast at the poolside café, they walked through the lobby to the front of the hotel. The valet brought their car around and Sam drove to a quiet spot a few blocks away and stopped. He dialed Beecham’s private number and put the phone on speaker.

“Hey, Bloomie, it’s me.”

“Mornin’. Hey, it’s early. I always know who it is when you call me Bloomie. You’re the only one who still knows my nickname. What’s up?”

“What’s up is that it’s time for you to get up.” Sam smiled at David. “You want to go for coffee at Annie’s?” Sam asked.

“I can’t, I have to review the dailies this morning. It was the last scene in The Long Kiss and I should have looked at them yesterday. Any changes in the new contract?”

“No, the contract’s fine. I read it over. Bloomie, I need a favor.”

“Name it, you got it,” Beecham answered quickly.

“I want to borrow your Gulfstream for a few days.”

“Eli B.—of course, not a problem. You want it, it’s yours. Anytime next week.”

“I need it sooner. It’s really important,” Sam said.

“Anytime but this week. Didn’t you read The LA Film News? I’ll be one of the actors nominated for my performance in The Last Sunset. It might get the best picture award, too. The cast is giving a party for me on Maui in two days, so you understand, I’ll need Eli B. then.”

“Why don’t you fly commercial?”

“And not give the cast the luxurious pleasure of flying in a Gulfstream? Never! Besides, what’s so important that you need it so soon?”

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but let me back it up a little. Soroya and I broke up and I have a new girlfriend, Nicole. I really like her and would like to score some points with her and fly her to some romantic spot with the Gulfstream for a couple of days. I’ll be with another experienced pilot. You know him. It’s David.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know David. He’s a nice Jewish boy. You broke up with Soroya? Why?” A long pause. “Sam, are you there?”

“Tell him you had some cultural differences,” David whispered.

“You know how it is,” Sam said. “She’s Muslim, I’m Jewish. We just had some cultural differences.”

“You know something, Sam? You’re my friend and my lawyer, and I love ya, but that’s a bullshit story and you’re a lousy liar. I know you and Soroya. Cultural differences? Your story smells big time. Tell me the truth. We were always straight with each other. Did you really break up?”

“That is the truth. Hold on a minute.” Sam covered the phone with his hand, turned to David and mouthed the words, “What do I do?”

“Tell him the truth without the details,” David said in a low voice.

“Sorry, Bloomie. Okay, it was a bullshit story. I didn’t mean to lead you the wrong way, but it was a white lie. It would put you in danger if you knew our plans and I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.”

“You’ve done a lot for me, Sam. You made me a star and I appreciate it. But I have a feeling that if I lend you this plane, I’ll never see it again. Is that true?”

“Maybe,” Sam said weakly.

“Can you tell me what this is about?”

David whispered, “If you trust him, really trust him, tell him. We need that plane.”

“Okay, you’re a good friend and you deserve to know. After all, it’s only a fifty million dollar plane,” Sam said, chuckling into the phone. “Let’s meet where we can talk privately without being disturbed. Please, Bloomie. It’s important.”

“Okay, my house later today at three O’clock. No one else will be there. We can talk in my study.”

The three men settled into Beecham’s full grain leather chairs and sat around a buttery gold teakwood table in his book-lined study. Beecham placed a pitcher of iced tea and three tall, ice-filled glasses in the center of the table.

He sat wide-eyed and quiet as David and Sam revealed an overview of their idea, and explained the reason why the Gulfstream-V played a crucial part in the success of the mission.

Beecham poured tea for everyone and sat back. “So, it was never going to be returned to me?” he asked.

Sam hesitated and sighed. “Probably not, and I don’t know if we will ever return.”

“Really? That important, huh?” Beecham paused. “Interesting. I’ll give you my plane on one condition.”

“Sure, what?” David asked.

“I want you to count me in. I want to be part of the mission,” Beecham said, gently striking his fist on the table.

“Bloomie, you’ll be a huge part of the mission just by lending us your plane. It’s critical to success and we can’t do anything without it.”

Beecham shook his head. “You don’t get it, guys. I mean, I want to be with you in this operation. I need to do something real in my life. Acting out characters in movies doesn’t cut it for me, and the fame and fortune wore off after the first year.” Beecham rubbed his forehead. “I’m an actor. My roles are not me. Screw the Academy Awards. Count me in and you’ve got Eli-B.”

“You interested in dying, Bloomie? Thanks, but no thanks,” Sam said. “I can’t let you risk your life. Giving us the plane is doing a noble thing. If we succeed, you’ll know you made it happen and you were the one who helped save Israel from destruction.”

Beecham shook his head. “Let’s go back a bit in my life and you’ll know why I need a strong taste of adventure. Before I was an actor, I pushed used cars on people. I told them anything, and I mean anything, to make a sale. I faked sincerity and I didn’t like the way it made me feel. I was dishonest and I felt guilty. I did that for a few years, then went into telemarketing where I honed my skills and learned new ways to fake honesty.”

“I understand the things you’re saying, Bloomie, but lending us the plane will help you be an honest man and help Israel,” Sam said. “Trust me, I—”

“Let me finish. After telemarketing, I sold timeshares, then I considered using my looks and became a TV evangelist. That’s when I met you, Sam. Where? Of all places, The Reform Temple Judea. You were a big macher, someone who made things happen, and an attorney. Before you were a lawyer, I know you were an officer in the Air Force. Then you were a publicist and represented bit players in the movies. Now you represent only me and you honored me with your friendship. I should have known meeting you in a synagogue was an omen, a harbinger of good things to come. It brought me mazel—luck!”

“Hey, you’re a first-class actor,” Sam said. “That must give you some pleasure.”

“You think that? Those roles brought out the worst in me. Everything I’ve done in my life was fake and acting was more of the same.” He looked down at his knees, appearing sad. “Acting is not being who you really are. Everything I did was not me. I want to finally do something important using my real name, Robert Blumenthal. Being with both of you and helping Israel will get me out of the fantasy world of movies and give me a real life experience. Don’t you see? That’s what I’m missing. I’m still not sure who I am. Am I a car salesman? Someone who sells timeshares? Who am I? Take me with you!”

“So being an actor isn’t enough? You’re a good actor. Nobody can take that away from you. You became the character you played. You found a great job!”

“Damn. You still don’t get it. Screw you both. I want to be somebody to myself! I don’t want to rust away in Tinsel town. I want to wear away, living the life I always imagined for myself. Hollywood is a fake place where nothing ‘real’ happens in or out of the movies. All I know is what I ask will bring the fulfillment I crave and no one else has to know anything about it.”

“But what can you do to help? You can’t fly planes. You’ve never been in the service. You’ve probably never shot a gun. What can you do, Bloomie?”

“I’d make a great four-star general.”

 

The Mojave Desert, California

Eli B. flew through the dry, cloudless blue sky until it touched down on a paved landing strip in a remote area of the Mojave Desert. On one side of the runway were two hangars. In one, a twin-engine Learjet. In the other, an old Cessna 150. Adjacent to the hangars were several workshops and a few single engine prop planes in various stages of repair. Beyond the airstrip were six or seven single-story stucco homes in brown and yellow colors, and scattered among them were Joshua trees and yellow-flowering Brittle Brush plants that helped decorate the drab landscape.

An unsmiling Hispanic man greeted David, Sam, and Beecham. He was about fifty, with dark skin and a short black beard flecked with gray.

“We were expecting you,” he said, extending his hand to each man. “I am Eduardo Martinez. I like your plane. We have worked on many G-Fives. They are not strangers to us.”

“Good ta meet ya, guy. Where’re ya from?” Beecham asked.

“I have a home north of here in Daggett, but I come from Medellin in Colombia. Please let me offer you some refreshments, and we can sit and talk.”

Sam whispered to Beecham, “Keep a low profile. We’ll do the talking while we’re here.”

Beecham nodded.

“We appreciate your hospitality,” David said, “but we’re in a hurry. Is Brian around? We couldn’t reach him for the past two days, but we’d like to speak to him as soon as possible.”

Eduardo nodded. “Yes, he has given us your work order and we will make the necessary conversions to your Gulfstream. It is not a problem. Brian has placed a high priority on what we must do. We have honored his wishes and placed your job ahead of the others. Meanwhile, let me invite you to sit, refresh yourselves, and relax from your journey.”

“Thanks. We appreciate your hospitality, but first, we’d like to see Brian so we can get our operation on the road.”

Eduardo stroked his beard, looked down, and spoke through tightened lips. “I must tell you,” he muttered. Then he hesitated, pointed to a house, and said, “Okay we will start soon, but for a few moments, come with me.”

The men followed him. They tramped through a patch of damp clay soil into a modern-looking single level house elevated from the ground by wooden pillars. Large boulders interspersed with Mojave Aster bushes flanked the perimeter. They ambled through a large kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances and rows of glossy oak shelving stacked with dishes, into a spacious living area crowded with sofas, tables, and lamps. Through a large picture window, David and Sam looked beyond the red cedar deck bordering the house to view an array of wind turbines near the low-lying Tehachapi Mountains.

“I have some cold beer,” Eduardo said.

“Great,” David answered. Then he whispered to Sam, “What gives? Where’s Brian?”

The Colombian brought out four iced Coronas with wedges of fresh lime stuck in the necks of the bottles and placed them on a dark wooden table.

David rubbed the lime around the opening of the bottle, slid the slice into the bottle, and turned to Eduardo. “Where’s Brian? Is he busy? He was supposed to meet us when we arrived.”

The Latino cradled the Corona in his hand sucked in a deep breath and tightened his lips. “Brian is not busy, my friends. He will never be busy again. He is dead.”

“What!” David said, jumping up. “What happened? I spoke to him two days ago.”

Sam struggled to stay calm and placed his hand on Eduardo’s shoulder. “How did he die?”

Beecham remained in his chair, stunned.

Eduardo shook his head, turned away, and motioned with his hand. “Come.”

The three men went along, their faces sullen until they came to a bedroom. Against an open window was a single bed. Over it, a lacy white curtain fluttered into the room with the breeze, and bright sunlight fell on the bed’s blood-splattered white linens—dried, dark red blood.

A single tear fell from Eduardo’s watery eyes. “He is no more. They slit his throat during the night as he slept.”

David and Sam stood wide-eyed, their jaws hanging open. Beecham remained silent and looked dazed.

David threw his hands up. “Who did this!” he growled.

“Everyone was asleep,” Eduardo answered, “two nights ago when it happened. We knew nothing until the next morning. It must have been the cartel.”

“Why them?” Sam shouted.

“They needed a plane modified immediately, but Brian couldn’t do it. He told them he had one more job to do first. It was yours, and we had already assembled the materials. That didn’t sit well with them. They demanded their job first, but Brian was adamant. We buried him yesterday at dawn. His grave is still fresh with desert soil.”

“Can we visit his burial place?”

“Come.”

The men walked a short distance from the house to a hillside shaded by a large pinyon pine tree. Under it was a rectangular pile of freshly dug soil surrounded by delicate Mojave primrose and rock daisies. There was no headstone, but David and Sam each muttered the Mourner’s Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the dead, and placed several small stones on the grave.

They walked back to the house, each man deep in thought until Eduardo broke the silence. “We will begin work on your plane today,” he announced.

“You can do it without Brian?” David asked.

“We can paint it according to Brian’s order, but we cannot perform any of the other services he has outlined for you, surveillance evasion, flight plans and so on. Only he could do those things for you. It’s not something we know.”

David met Sam’s dark expression and shrugged. “Thank you, Eduardo. Spray paint the plane, add the decals, and we’ll figure out how to do the other things.”

“I will gather the men now, and we will begin. It is not a difficult project for us.”

“How much time are we looking at?” Sam asked. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

“It will take some time. We have the most advanced robotics anywhere for these purposes, but there are some things we must do by hand. Let’s see.” He looked up, squinted and mumbled, “Clean, tape, prime, paint, dry, cure, buff. Maybe five days. Add another half day to cement insignias, six days in all.”

“Too long. Can it be done sooner?”

“That, my friend, is not possible. The paint needs to cure in our temperature-controlled hangars. Otherwise, it will peel off in flight. We can let your Gulfstream dry in the sun. It would be faster, but Brian never wanted to do it and didn’t say why. Perhaps it was not for everyone to see.”

Eduardo headed toward the Gulfstream, and the three men went back to the house. “We can’t continue the mission the way things stand,” David said. “You were right, Sam. We were too dependent on Brian. Without a flight plan and whatever the hell else he promised, we can’t get off the ground.”

“Does that mean it’s over?” Beecham asked.

“It’s never over. We’ve got to destroy that plant. We’ll figure it out,” Sam replied.

“I’ll call my wife,” David said. “Last time I spoke to Rachel, I told her our plan was a go, but she said faking a flight plan for a military plane might be impossible. She said she’d call back.”

Rachel called at nine a.m. “I’m sorry if I woke you, David.”

“No, that’s okay. I love you and miss you. I’m just exhausted from thinking so much. What’s up?”

“I just finished dinner with Netanyahu’s closest aide. We discussed the situation and arranged to meet again to discuss a new plan. I’m being cryptic on the phone because you know I can’t spell out the details.”

“I understand. Did this man know about our plan?”

“Yes. Most of it, anyway, and he was highly critical. The good news is that I can see you soon and discuss it in person. Can you get away for a few days? I can see you smiling.”

“I am ear-to-ear smiles. Yes, of course, I can get away. Not a problem.”

“We must talk in person as soon as possible. Can you drive over the border and meet me in Tijuana tomorrow? I can fly out tonight. What I have to tell you is urgent.”

“Okay, where?”

“Remember where we stayed last time?” she whispered.

“Yes, how could I forget?”

“Okay, see if you can book the same suite on the ocean. It’ll bring back memories.”

“I’ll make the arrangements within the hour and text you. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

 

Tijuana, Mexico

Rachel and David stood on the veranda of their sprawling three-room suite at the Rosarito Beach Hotel and looked out at the Pacific Ocean. They listened to the sound of gentle waves licking the sand as the breeze swept past them and through the open sliding glass door.

They nestled together, their arms around each other as they soaked up the sounds of the sea and inhaled the cool, clean salt air.

“Let’s walk on the beach,” Rachel said, tugging David’s hand. “It’s a beautiful night.” She sighed and kissed his cheek. “We’ve got to talk. It’s not a mission you can do alone. We need others to help, but most important, we know God is on our side. Come, we’ll talk more on the beach.”

It was a dark night and they were alone on the sand. A banana moon rested low on the fine line of the horizon under a sky filled with glittering stars. They kicked off their sandals and walked along the water’s edge while the frothy waves tickled their bare feet and a gentle breeze rustled through the coconut palms.

“It’s a quiet, gentle sea tonight,” Rachel said. “But it’s not an easy, gentle world to live in.”

“There’s something else bothering you now. I can tell. What is it?”

“I’m upset by the recent news about the attacks in Paris, Brussels, then in Orlando and Nice. Too many are dead and wounded and I feel their pain. Terrorism is a new experience for many people. Israel has been dealing with it since our country was born. We know the torment they’re feeling.”

David took her hand. “That’s why we must blow up Iran’s nuclear plant before Israel and maybe our civilization is destroyed.”

“Yes, we must talk about that. It’s not easy to be so serious with each other in these peaceful surroundings. We should be kissing instead. Also, I’m worried about Saroya. You told me she was called back to Iran because they needed a chemical engineer to help with a water system problem?”

“Yes, and Sam was disturbed when she left. He felt it was an excuse to get her back so they could assign her to the nuclear plant.”

“He’s right, they will. She’s not safe. Iran has had water issues for years, but they don’t need chemical engineers to solve those problems, they need water engineers. In fact, years ago it was the Israelis who helped the Iranians improve their water problems. It was a simple solution, they just had to dig deeper wells.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I feel terrible about Soroya. She’s a lovely woman, bright, with a gentle nature and a wonderful sense of humor. She and Sam were made for each other. They’re always laughing.”

David looked down at his bare feet as he sauntered in the soft, gritty, sea-soaked sand, the briny wavelets tickling his feet with each step. “It’s devastating for Sam. He’s certain she’s at the nuclear plant.” He stopped, turned to Rachel, and shook his head. “And he’s the bombardier.”

“Oh, my God!” Rachel exclaimed. “I can feel his pain. Can you imagine what he will be feeling when he drops the bombs?” She touched her heart. “I’ll pray for her. But we still have to talk about your plan.”

“I’ll pray, too,” David said in a soft tone.

“Let me begin. I have to tell you that what you and Sam are planning won’t work. Even if Brian were alive, he couldn’t fake a flight plan for a USAF military plane. What were you thinking? Also, his ability to perform his other promises are questionable as well. Maybe what he did for the drug cartels worked for them, but a military operation would be out of his league.”

“Maybe. I don’t know for sure, but I trusted his judgments,” David said.

“Be careful who you trust. I want us to have the time to grow old together and have grandchildren. I spoke with Netanyahu’s aide again the next day. What you are planning is not a two-man mission, and it will fail. It can only be done as a covert operation.”

David turned to her and smiled. “Israelis are good at that.”

“We are. Israel likes your overall idea, but we’ll have to pull some strings with other countries to make your plan work. Only a joint Black Ops mission between Israel, the U.S., and Britain will help you pull this off and destroy Iran’s nuclear facility. Mossad will be one of the players and they’ll help make your mission successful.”

“I just want to blow that plant to hell, Rachel, get it off the planet, and keep Israel safe. Tell me what I have to know.”

“This is the info I got straight from a high-level Israeli Military Commander. He will be the coordinator for the mission. There will be three stages involved in this operation. I don’t have to tell you that all of them are risky and my heart will be with you. They have given me an overview of the first stage. Only a few know the entire plan. All communications between the coordinator and the operatives will be made in person when possible, and alone. In a severe emergency, there will be a special encrypted dedicated line to reach the coordinator and he will be able to contact the team leader of your Black Ops unit.”

David laughed. “Is this my wife speaking, the one, and only love of my life? Hmm, communications in person? And alone? Sounds like us. I like that.”

Rachel chuckled. “I know it sounds crazy for us to be talking about these things. We should be talking about our future and having babies. But we live in a dangerous world, and Iran will use their nuclear power to bring down Israel and affect our entire civilization. I know you and Sam want to be part of this Black Ops mission. Any questions so far before I tell you what I know?”

“Well, our Gulfstream is in the Mojave. It’s painted to look like an official USAF plane with no flight plan.”

“A legitimate flight plan for your fake USAF plane will be prepared as part of Black Ops intervention. But on the outside chance that you are shot down, and the remnants of the plane are recovered, the paint job will show up, and it will give all three countries plausible deniability to chalk the plane crash off to a couple of guys who planned their own caper. In a Black Ops mission, no government will ever claim responsibility. We keep the plan based on what you started and we add Black Ops. When you get to the RAF base, you will get a B-52. The Black Ops team dispatched to England for this purpose will supervise the bomb loading. They will make sure the bombs are properly placed in a rack so when they are dropped the remaining bombs will be rotated like a revolver to the next position. The plane was modified prior to your arrival.”

“Modified how?”

“It was cleared for airframe fatigue adding minor changes and the aircraft was painted flat black mixed with special anti-reflective paint. Saudi markings were placed under the painted tail section.”

“Saudi? I don’t get it. And what about Sam and me? If we end up getting shot down in the fake USAF plane, we’ll be three dead guys in U.S. uniforms.”

“I’ll explain the Saudi part in a minute. Trust me, you’re probably not going to get shot down. And what do you mean by three guys?”

“Beecham is coming with us. He always wanted to act the part of a general. I thought we could use him.”

Rachel shook her head. “No, that can’t happen. Black Ops sometimes include civilians with special training or expertise, but Beecham? He’ll have to be out. He doesn’t have any skill we can use.”

“He can act out a good four-star general,” David said with a close-lipped grin.

“Come on, he has to be out. The Black Ops people will not take kindly to his presence. They will tweak the details in the plan when necessary as new situations arise, but they’ll always focus on the overall purpose of the mission. They’re professionals. They put their emotions aside and do what has to be done. Does Beecham know the mission involves blowing up a nuclear plant in Iran?”

“Yeah, he knows the details.”

“That’s too much for him to know. Lives are at stake here. I think your feelings are getting in the way. It’s not like you. I’ll contact the coordinator, tell him about Beecham, and let him make the decision as to how to deal with him.”

David took her hand and kissed it. “I hope God will help us.”

“He’s always been there for us and for Israel for thousands of years. He gave us one miracle after another. I’m glad we both believe the same way spiritually. It’s a beautiful gift for us to share, and I hope someday our children will be passionate about the things they think and feel.”

“I always know He’s with me,” David said, sucking in a deep breath. “Israel exists because God chose it as His land. He protects it, and He’s the one we need now.”

“I agree, He’s the reason for our miraculous victories. We were too young to remember that the first day we became a nation. We were attacked by hundreds of thousands of trained soldiers from the five Arab nations surrounding us. We did the impossible, David, with the few defense forces we had and beat them. God had to be there for us. We could never have done it alone.”

“There was one miracle that astounded me more than any other. It was when we fought an uphill battle against seventy-five thousand Syrian troops for the Golan Heights. We gained some ground and expected the battle to continue the next day, but we knew we were so outnumbered that we would lose. Strange thing is, we showed up the next morning, and the Syrians didn’t.” David boasted a huge smile. “I’ll pray for us.”

“I will, too,” Rachel said.

“You’re so beautiful. I can’t picture you in an F-16 dressed in all that gear.”

“Thank you, but my F-16 is more beautiful than ever now and it’s not just skin deep.”

“Really? Tell me why.”

“It’s now coated with a new anti-reflective paint that can cancel out most radar waves. So if you come looking for me, David, you won’t be able to see me.”

“I’ll always find you, and spiritually you’ll know I’m there.”

They smiled.

The banana moon inched below the horizon after its yellow color turned burnt orange. With their arms around each other, they kissed often as they sauntered through the gentle foamy wavelets under a black sky blazing with stars as the lights of the Rosarito Beach Hotel faded in the distance.

David spoke in a low tone just above a whisper, the breeze brushing past them. “No one can hear us. Tell me the details I have to know about the op.”

“As I said before, according to Netanyahu’s aide, only a Black Ops mission can achieve success. That means the United States, Britain, and Israel will work secretly through the CIA, MI6, and Mossad to attack the Iranian nuclear facility and blast it away. Everything is covert. Deception is the key. Agencies of our three countries will destroy the plant and Saudi Arabia will take the rap.”

David stopped and turned to Rachel. “What are we talking about here? You mentioned Saudi insignias before. How did they get into this? I thought the U.S. and the Saudis were friends, and besides, Iran and Saudi Arabia are both Muslim countries.”

“Well, let’s say the U.S. and the Saudis are not quite friends but they have special interests in each other’s economy—think oil and petrodollars. You’re right, Iran and Saudi Arabia are both Muslim countries, but they hate each other for different religious reasons. You know how it is, David. Religious hatred and small differences go back to ancient times, thousands of years.” Rachel shook her head. “Even the Orthodox Jews argue with Reform Jews for reasons long forgotten, but they still fight.”

David took her hand and squeezed it. “Yeah, when it comes to religion, everything gets complicated.”

“It’s even more complicated between the Saudis and Iranians. Saudi Arabia is the center of Shia Islam and Iran is the hub of Sunni Islam, plus Iran is a Russian ally. All the more reason for hatred between the Saudis and Iranians,” Rachel added. “And so we have a credible reason for the Iranians to blame the Saudis for blasting away their nuclear plant. It’s all about deception, something we know some governments are good at.”

“And all the Black Ops we’ll be working with are from these three countries?”

“Right, mostly. I don’t know how they’re selected. Many are mercenaries from different countries. Maybe only God knows that, too.”

“Why do you think so many people in the world hate America?”

“I think they look at Americans as war mongers. Eisenhower warned about the power of the Industrial Military Complex. He was right. Too many corporations who profit from war have the power to influence people in government. They’re influence peddlers. America didn’t need all these wars. Too much blood was spilled for bad reasons.”

“Yeah, but the United States had to be involved in World War II. That’s a given.”

“World War II was necessary. The others were born out of deception, invented reasons and scare tactics like fear of communism. So America went to war to fight Communism and corporations became rich. Communism was never a threat to the United States. The Gulf of Tonkin was a staged trigger to get America into the war with Vietnam and save South Vietnam from communism. The real reason was that America wanted to be a power in Southeast Asia. Innocent people died and a country of a common culture separated. Now they’re one again.”

David appeared to be rushing his words as if he couldn’t say them fast enough. “And now we’re in the Middle East, Iraq, and Afghanistan. The Saudis bombed the Twin Towers. What did we do? We invaded Iraq. Come on, talk about trumped up reasons—weapons of mass destruction. Give me a break. Okay, let’s get back to the Black Ops. Give me the details you brought me from Israel and clue me in on my part.”

Rachel took a deep breath. “A covert operative from each country will arrange a secret meeting to coordinate the op between the three countries. Black ops units will perform every detail, deception, planned explosion, radio transmission necessary. Most of the operators will not have full knowledge of the big picture, or how their involvement relates to anything else. They have one job to do, and they do it, period. The Black Operation will be a secret understanding between the countries. Very few people will know every element of the operation, and all knowledge of the mission will be disavowed if any of the so-called players are caught.”

“So, did you learn all this in Israel before you got here?”

“Yes, and I was also told that most operatives won’t know each other and the non-military will be paid in cash. There will never be a paper trail. All high-ranking military will be given orders to grant permission for whatever the op needs. All information is on a need-to-know basis. Two of the major players participating in this op—that means you and Sam—know its high risk, and you will be abandoned by the United States if it doesn’t go well.”

“Why don’t we make it simpler and begin the mission in England? Why bother starting in the U.S.?”

“Actually, I believe the Mossad originally suggested England as the starting point, but the Brits rejected the idea. Seems they’re willing to be involved, but not that involved. Don’t ask me why.”

“Okay, Sam and I have to shift gears quite a bit to include the Black Ops mission. We have our Gulfstream in California. Is our original plan still part of the operation?” David asked.

“Basically, yes. You and Sam had some good ideas going. Great ideas! Now, the two of you are the major players along with the Black Ops people. I don’t know the complete plan, just the part that gets you to England. I know you’ve got your Gulfstream painted to look like an official USAF plane.”

“Why don’t we just use a real Air Force plane now?” David asked.

“If you’re shot down or crash, it will be identified as a U.S. plane—bye-bye to any denials. Your plane gets shot down they’ll see it’s painted over. Flight plans will be arranged for your painted plane to get you out of the country and into the Northolt RAF Station, near London. The arrangement is that you get a B-52, painted black, with bunker-busting bombs. The fake USAF plane is blown up in England by two of the players.

“There can be no evidence of the converted Gulfstream or the B-52 belonging to any specific nation. If one of both of them crashes, the plane has to look as if it was painted over and the Saudi tail markings will be found. No one will know what to make of it. The three countries involved will show plausible deniability and act as if they were scammed and knew nothing about anything. If the plan is successful, the false flag—the guilt—will be directed to the Saudis. They will be blamed for the destruction of the Iranian facility.”

“It’s an elaborate scheme, but I’m ready. I feel like a small cog in a wheel.”

“That’s what Black Ops are all about,” Rachel said. “The big picture is the wheel, and every cog does its job to make the wheel turn. Actually, something similar to a Black Ops mission was completed a few months ago in Tehran. In order to erode relations between Saudi Arabia and Iran further, an operative took advantage of the fact that Nimr-al-nimir, a popular Shia cleric in Saudi Arabia, was executed for terrorism along with many Sunnis by the Saudis, but the operative fired up enough Iranians to protest the execution of Namir-al-nimir and attack the Saudi Embassy in Iran.”

“I read about the incident. So what happened?”

“After that, Saudi Arabia and Iran severed ties. So now, blaming the Saudis for blowing up the Iranian nuclear plant is a natural thing to do. Their hatred for each other is already there. That’s the way things work. The Black Ops man did his job. He incited a protest in Iran and the Iranians destroyed the Saudi Embassy. Now, we’ll create an incident by destroying Iran’s nuclear plant and blame it on the innocent party. The easiest mark of all—The Saudis.”

“Hmm. I can see the next day’s headlines after our mission is completed: ‘Saudi plane bombs underground Iranian Nuclear Site.’”

“That’s what I hope it looks like,” Rachel said. “What I’m worried about is you. This is not supposed to be a suicide mission and there’s only a sketchy exit plan if any. The only question I asked Netanyahu’s aide was, ‘Will my husband come back alive?’ His answer, ‘It’s risky, but if all goes well, he will.’”

David laughed. “Sure, he’s not going. But if all really goes well, that would be a huge plus. I always liked happy endings.”

“One more thing about the first stage. After your Gulfstream morphs into a USAF plane with Saudi aircraft insignias under the paint, three young men posing as Saudis who speak perfect Arabic, Farsi, and English will introduce themselves to you in the Mojave. The first thing they will say is, ‘It’s nice in California, but I hear it’s raining in Lisbon.’ Your response will be, ‘I’ve been there only when the sun is shining.’ They will show you their forged Saudi passports with their pictures. I was told they are dark-skinned with short, black beards, and their names on their passports will be Ali Hassan al Majid, Omar Fakhoury, and Mohammad-al Karim.

“Two of these men, Ali and Omar, are experienced pilots and Mohammad is a first-class flight engineer and technician specializing in evading radar, jamming communication equipment, and compromising wireless devices. He is also the lead Black Ops person in this mission.”

“Okay, I understand. One last question,” David said.

“What’s that?”

“Do you have a part in this operation?”

“I might. A small part, and it’s not dangerous, but I’m not sure yet. I was told nothing other than to give you the information you needed to know.”

“I can see why you couldn’t tell me all this on the phone.”

“And I didn’t tell you any of this in our room, either. Speaking of our room, let’s walk back, David. We’ve come a long way.”

“We have. A very long way.”

Rachel and David stood at the water’s edge under a blanket of stars, holding hands, the small waves caressed their bare feet. They returned to their room and Rachel changed into a white silk negligee, lit a candle, and snuggled close to her husband. They entered the private world only they knew—a peaceful place devoid of war, filled with images of colorful wildflowers, vivid sunsets and walks with their arms around each other on lonely country roads.

That night they shared their burning passions and tender kisses and slept in each other’s arms.

David prayed: Dear God, thank you for bringing Rachel into my life. I will love her for all eternity. I ask for one more miracle. Make our mission a success, and please bring Soroya back to us safely. Thank you, God. Thank you.

 

The Mojave Desert—Three days later

The Cessna 210 set down on the landing strip at dusk and taxied to the tie-down area where three Black Ops men climbed out of the small, single-engine, high-wing plane and introduced themselves to David and Sam as Ali, Omar, and Mohammad. They exchanged code words and agreed not to share any personal information about themselves unless it was in the interest of the mission. Later that night at dinner, they were introduced to Bob Beecham. The conversation was cordial. However, nothing they said referred to the mission, despite the obvious presence of the sleek Gulfstream V hunkering outside on the tarmac, dressed as a USAF non-combat jet.

Later, as the conspirators slept, Omar and Ali awakened Beecham. With a single finger pressed against his lips, Ali whispered, “Please come with us. We need your help. There has been a change of plans for you in this mission, and we must brief you.”

Beecham’s eyes cracked open. He blinked rapidly, ran his hand through his hair, and glanced at his watch. “It’s two-thirty in the morning. What’s going on?”

“Just come with us. We must get some plans straightened out for you. You will be back in your bed very soon.”

They walked out into the chilly night.

Beecham was still half asleep and appeared confused. “Is it about my flight?”

Ali and Omar exchanged glances. “Uh…yeah…your flight,” Omar said.

“Okay, let me go back and get into some clothes and—”

“Do not worry about that. Just come along. You don’t want to go back and wake the others. They will need their rest and won’t be sleeping in a real bed for a few days. You’ll be back here in fifteen minutes.”

“And this can’t wait ’til later this morning?” Beecham asked.

“No, because we will be too busy going over the revised navigation. This is the only time we’ll have to prep you.”

Under a starry moonless sky, the three men walked deep into the desert, one on each side of Beecham and stopped at a stand of several tall cacti.

“Why are we walking so far?”

“It’s a nice night. Let’s just go beyond those giant cacti,” Ali said.

They ambled past a three-finger cactus and stopped by a wooden shed that looked like an abandoned movie set, its dull, dark crimson paint flaking off the sides.

“So, I guess you want to talk about my flight out of here,” Beecham said.

“What flight? The one we will be on for the mission?” Ali asked.

“No, the plane I’m going on later today. David told me earlier that I won’t be joining you guys and he was gonna to ask one of Brian’s men to arrange a charter to get me back to LA.”

Omar and Ali shrugged and stared at each other. Then, in an instant, the three men turned their heads skyward and their eyes widened as a meteor streaked across the Mojave sky in a flash and left them breathless.

“Did you see that?” Beecham said, pointing.

“Yes, spectacular,” Omar answered. “Keep looking up and maybe we’ll see another.”

Beecham stood motionless, like a store mannequin dressed in summer pajamas and stared at the huge breadth of twinkling stars. His gaze remained frozen as Ali slipped behind him, encircled his neck with a garrotte, and pushed his knee into Beecham’s lower back forcing his head to snap back. Then he tightened the garrotte further as Beecham made a choking sound and his limp body slumped to the ground, blood gushing from his throat.

Ali and Omar grabbed two shovels from inside the shed and dragged Beecham’s body to the side of a large Saguaro cactus. An adequate grave was soon dug and the cooling corpse was interred and covered with desert soil. A large towel was dragged from the shed to cover the site.

Omar glanced at Ali in the dim light. “Shall I?”

“But he’s not a believer.”

“He may not be, but remember also, we are Israeli Muslims, our Iranian roots go back a long way.” Omar clasped his hands in front of him and stood silently at the side of the grave for a moment, then spoke in a low tone just above a whisper. “Oh Allah, forgive him and have mercy on him. Give him strength. Pardon him and take him into Paradise and protect him from the punishment of the grave.”

As Omar and Ali rushed back toward the house, they stopped abruptly and turned their heads skyward. Their eyes filled with awe as they followed a streak of brilliant white light as another meteor dashed across the sky at split-second speed over the three-fingered Saguaro cactus guarding Beecham’s grave.

Both men stood motionless and gazed at each other, perhaps in a moment of reflection. “It’s a sign from Allah that our mission will succeed. Come, we must hurry and get Beecham’s things,” Ali whispered. “I’m glad the coordinator tipped us about him in time, and why he wanted it done at once before he was off to Los Angeles. If we didn’t, the coordinator would have had him killed there. I didn’t know David told him he wouldn’t be going with us.”

“I didn’t either. There was no way Beecham could be allowed to go on this mission,” Omar said. “Let’s get his belongings out and stash them.”

“Okay, but how’re we going to explain Beeecham not being here in the morning?”

“David told me there’s a flight that comes in at five a.m. daily, usually a twin-engine Piper Apache. The pilot drops off parts and leaves them at one of the hangars. We’ll say he hitched a ride back to L.A. on the Apache.”

“Excellent. I’ll tell them I was up at the time, spoke to Beecham and he told me he wanted to catch an early flight so he could charter a Gulfstream to fly him and his party to Maui from Los Angeles. It works out well for us because they postponed the award ceremony. One problem: Sam may try to call him without saying anything to us.”

“Maybe, but we’ll keep an eye out.,” Omar said.

“I liked Beecham. He probably wouldn’t have said anything, but Hollywood people are known for having big mouths. He seemed like a nice guy, but we’re not in the humanitarian business. There was no way we could let him live with what he knew about the mission.”

“There was really no choice,” Omar added.

“The problem is that Beecham will be missed. We have to come up with a plan to explain his disappearance. Other actors and their friends may have planned to join him in Hawaii and will be there waiting for him. This guy was famous. He can’t just disappear without an explanation.”

Omar nodded. “I have already devised a believable plan to explain his disappearance. If you agree, we’ll send it off to the coordinator and let him fill in the details.”

“Go ahead.”

“Beecham’s chartered Gulfstream will show the plane leaving Los Angeles and heading to Maui. The jet will silence its transponder over the ocean, make a few Mayday calls, then drop low over the water at night, and land on an island with an uncontrolled airstrip. The aircraft can return weeks later under a different call sign when things have blown over.”

“That sounds good. So, it’ll look like the Gulfstream disappeared in flight?”

“Yeah, the Coast Guard and Air Rescue will mount a search for the wreckage. Of course, there won’t be any, but because he was so famous, they’ll continue to explore for a few weeks until the headlines and story fade. The coordinator will make the arrangements, create a fake charter company, a few false sightings from passengers on private aircraft, sailors and so on. You know the scenario, Ali. The coordinator has arranged tougher deception schemes. This one will be a no-brainer.”

Early the next morning, David and Sam settled in the cockpit of Beecham’s transformed Gulfstream. They were going over the instrument panel when Ali climbed aboard.

“Good morning. A good flying day today,” Ali said.

“Have you seen Beecham?” Sam asked.

“Yes, I was up early and saw a Piper aircraft drop in at five a.m. to leave parts and supplies. Mr. Beecham hitched a ride to Los Angeles. He asked me to wish you good luck.”

Sam scratched his head. “Okay. I was going to charter a flight for him later. I wish he’d awakened us to say goodbye. Did he say anything?”

“He said he had to return, then get to Maui to attend the award ceremony held in his honor.”

Sam nodded. “Oh, well. He’ll have to stick to having his adventures in the movies.”

A few minutes later, Omar and Mohammad boarded the converted Gulfstream and greeted the others. They were dressed as Air Force lieutenants. Sam was a captain, and David a bird colonel. Eli B. had her classification changed to a C-37A on the books and looked impressive in her showy new military garb with The United States of America emblazoned across her fuselage.

With the brakes on and flaps set to five degrees, David advanced the power to the take-off setting. Ali acted as the first officer. Both focused on the four colorful display screens on the instrument panel as Sam and Mohammad looked on. Omar sat in the main cabin and browsed the C-37A operating manual.

The take-off was far from smooth. The plane looked like a roller coaster, as it dipped down for a few moments, and then finally up as the newly minted “Air Force” jet flew into the cloudless blue-sky and headed northeast.

Mohammad’s Air Communicator Phone rang. It was a dedicated secure line between the lead operative and the coordinator.

“Yes sir, this is Mohammad…. Is that the most recent information? I see. I agree, but even if it is hidden, it must have an airshaft for air conditioning…. I see. Yes, UAV, an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle…. A reaper, yes…. Thank you, sir.”

“What’s up?” David asked. “You look worried.”

Mohammad bit his lip. “It’s something we hadn’t anticipated. An updated geologist report shows further research into the type of rock we’re dealing with in the mountainous region where the nuclear plant is located. The report stated that these mountains contained elements of quartz and feldspar which indicate the mountain is almost pure granite. As a result, the bunker busting bombs will not be capable of major penetration or significant destruction.”

“Damn,” Sam cried out, his face twisted with rage. “What are the options? There’s got to be something.”

“There is only one,” he answered.

“What?” David asked.

“Nuclear weapons.”

Eight hours later, as Eli B. passed the southern tip of Greenland, Omar took the controls. “Only an hour to go,” Omar announced. “Tidy up your uniforms, guys.”

“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll take over again,” David said.

“No problem,” Omar replied.

David put on his Air Force jacket, left it unbuttoned, and joined Sam on a sand colored leather couch in the center of the luxurious aircraft. Two bottles of Perrier fizzed in the glass holders. Mohammad sat opposite them, the C37-A operating manual on his lap. He turned to the two men, took a deep breath, and spoke in a soft tone.

“Our plan will go on as scheduled. We just have to be prepared to modify our weaponizing solution. Discussing it further will only be conjecture. When I hear from the coordinator, I’ll let you know.”

Sam pressed his hands to his temples. “But if a nuclear attack is our only option, the mission may have to be scrapped.”

“Let it go for now, Sam. We’ve got a good plan in progress,” Mohammad said. “It’s flexible and we must be receptive to changes. Protocol states we continue with our plan unless told otherwise. Besides, the enemy of a good plan is the search for a perfect one. As long as we have the time to chat, there’s something else I want to discuss with you.” Mohammad stood and began to pace. “I want you both to know I am the only Saudi on this plane.” He spoke as if it were an announcement. “Our three Saudi passports are forged, including mine. My name is not Mohammad, but that’s okay, you can call me that. As you know, I am the lead Black Ops operative here.”

David and Sam leaned forward.

“Why are you telling us this? We don’t have much time before we land,” Sam said.

Mohammad sucked in a deep breath. “In the event something happens to me on this mission, there are important things I want you to know, matters few people are aware of and I can’t let this information die with me.”

“But nothing bad can happen to you, Mohammad. You’re helping us get to England, then you leave. No danger there.”

“What you don’t know is that the next stage of this mission involves me. You didn’t need me to help get you to England. You could have done it yourselves, not easily, but it would’ve been possible. Omar and Ali are part of this mission for two reasons. One, to help you fly the plane. Two, to destroy this aircraft after we land at the British Air Force Base. It must be disposed of. But I will be on the B-52 with you when we leave England and when we enter Iranian airspace. My job is to help get you to your target, handle any complications, and make sure I get you safely to your final destination in the United Arab Emirates.”

“The UAE? Why not back to the States?” David asked.

Mohammad grinned. “Let me get back to what I was saying. I told you I am the only true Saudi here. The others are not Saudis but are professional, efficient military operatives from friendly countries. I have worked with one of them in Iran conducting secret reconnaissance missions to help identify potential missile and nuclear sites.”

“Is that how you found the underground plant we’re bombing?”

“I was not the one who discovered it, but since you brought it up, I’ll tell you a little story. A Mossad agent, who I will call Simcha, worked in the hidden Iranian nuclear plant.” Mohammad continued to pace as he talked. “However, he feared his cover might be blown, and he was right. I won’t go into the details of how he was found out, but after he was, I discovered he was tied to a bench, his back whipped along with the bottoms of his bare feet until blood poured from both places. When he was dragged off the bench he left a trail of bloodied footprints on the gray, concrete floor as the guards marched him to his cell.

“The next morning they waterboarded him. They strapped him to a tilted board, his legs above his head, then placed a heavy cloth over his nose and mouth, and constantly poured water over the cloth to make him feel he was downing. They pumped him for secret information about other agents. He said nothing. Then they beat him again until every part of his body dripped with his blood. Before he died, he passed detailed information regarding Iran’s nuclear weapon program. He let me know exactly where the plant was, with its coordinates, and said they were only weeks away from developing a nuclear bomb to destroy Israel. Now, maybe they’re only days away. I passed the information on to Mossad and that’s why we’re together here today doing what has to be done. I know Simcha didn’t give them any important information about our agents and their locations, although they beat him incessantly.”

“Better men than him would have talked,” Sam said.

“There was no better man,” Mohammad answered.

“Why couldn’t he connect to Mossad himself through his contacts?”

Mohammad stood silent for a moment then answered. “He did.”

“You? You’re a Mossad agent?” David asked.

“I was also an operative in the plant and I knew him. He was my friend,” Mohammad replied with watering eyes. “I was one of the ‘workers’ who did not deal with certain nuclear aspects of the plant and I was allowed to leave the plant in the evening. When the news got to me from Simcha, a contact cloned a British microchipped passport for me and I was gone.”

David put his arm around Mohammad and pulled him closer. “I’m so sorry. I can see your feelings for him in your eyes.”

“We’ll do things right by him,” Sam said. “God, if he only knew about our mission. It would bring a smile to his face. He’s the reason we’re here—one man.”

Mohammad inhaled a deep breath, glanced upward and was silent for a few moments. “It’s a pleasure to serve with you both. Success is our only option.”

Sam spoke in a soft tone. “Help us out here, Mohammad. We’re in this together and I’d like to know more about you. I’m sure David feels the same. Tell us whatever you think we should know about you, without revealing what you can’t, and let us know anything about the rest of the mission that’s important.”

“Fair enough, first about me. I was born in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia in 1976. I studied law and political science at King Saud University where I met a fellow law student, Azmi. It wasn’t his real name, just what you call a nickname, but it doesn’t matter. I was interested in his thinking because we differed greatly about politics and religion, and our discussions included a lot of philosophy and idealism. We discussed science, metaphysics, meditation, things like that—all interesting and exciting. We spoke for hours at a time. He believed in the teachings of the prophet Muhammad.”

David chimed in, “Not unusual, he and a billion others.”

“True, but Azmi, like many others, was very anti-American calling them warmongers, infidels and saying they violated every honorable tenet of Islam. Still, he was a curious fellow, and he held my interest. I had never known anyone like him. He once told me his goal in life was to seek martyrdom. Who would think such things? He had so much zeal, so much determination, and a great deal of dedication to his religion. My views were more secular. Perhaps more like yours, except I’m not Jewish.”

They all laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly call Jews secular, but Judaism doesn’t advocate violence at its base. Are there churches in Saudi Arabia?” Sam asked. “I’m sure there are no synagogues.”

A broad smile swept across Mohammad’s face. “No, there are no churches or synagogues, for that matter, in Saudi Arabia. It is forbidden, and even the few million Christians who live in the kingdom have no rights to practice their faith. Not like in other countries, including Iran where there are many churches and even a few synagogues.”

“So, get back to Azmi. What else about him?” Sam asked.

Mohammad inhaled deeply. “Azmi, yes.” He paused. “It’s important for you to know that although the Saudis have important economic ties with the United States, it’s the religious beliefs of the few Saudi Islamic Shia radicals that drive them toward violence in the name of God—Azmi, for example.”

“Azmi was violent and still your friend?” David said.

“Not quite a friend, but I stayed in contact with him until 2001. In August of that year, he called and told me that the Saudi Royalty had given him three hundred thousand dollars as a gift to use for himself and to distribute to others. I was happy that he received this gift and thought nothing more about it.”

“Did he tell you what he did with the money?” Sam asked.

“No, but later that year I found out that Azmi was known by another name, Satam al-Suqami.”

“Sounds familiar,” David said.

“It was well known to a few and now to many. He was one of the men in the 9/11 attack on the North Tower in New York.”

Their jaws dropped.

“You knew this bastard?” David asked, pointing at him.

“Why are you telling us this?” Sam asked. “And why is it so important for us to know?”

“Note the similarity, my friends,” Mohammad paused, “between what we’re doing and what they did.”

“I don’t see any, and with all due respect, don’t give us any bullshit! We’re fighting for a noble cause, and don’t make comparisons like that,” David said, making a fist. “We don’t kill innocent people!”

“And so were they fighting for their noble cause. It was an honor for them to die while attacking the United States. Yes, and they killed thousands of Americans in a covert operation. Now, we too are involved in a covert operation where thousands will die. It was Black Ops for them, just as it’s Black Ops for us. Who got blamed for the 9/11 attack? Iraq, and they never did anything to harm the United States. Mostly Saudis attacked on 9/11. They did the deed, Iraq took the blame. Not one was an Iraqi. It was a matter of doing the deed and blaming another. I’m not stupid. I know we’re planning to bomb away the Iranian nuclear facility and place a false flag on the Saudis and let them take the rap.”

“Why will people believe the Saudis bombed the Iranian plant?” Sam asked.

“Everyone will believe it, everyone because it’s credible. The world knows the Saudis and Iranians hate each other. Well, you get the picture.”

“Well, most of it,” Sam said. “I don’t see a strong connection between the attack on 911 and what we’re doing other than the secrecy involved.”

“No? Think about it,” Mohammad said with open hands. “Fifteen out of the nineteen men who attacked the United States on 9/11 were Saudis. They were all members of Al-Queda under the direction of Bin Laudin. He was another Saudi who had close ties to the Saudi Royal Family. It was Saudi wealth given to Satam al-Suquami to distribute to others, wealth from the Royal Family. Did you know The House of Saud is worth over two trillion dollars? I know, without a doubt, they funded the 9/11 attack. I asked myself, why was this huge sum of money given to Azmi? His death gave me the answer.”

“The money didn’t have to be for the 9/11 attack, maybe something else,” Sam said.

“Nothing else! Don’t be so naive. Maybe the truth will be revealed someday if pages removed from the Joint Congressional investigation of 9/11 come to light, and even if they do, there’s a good chance some will be edited out. Who did the United States blame? Not the Saudis. Of course not! No not them.” Mohammad shook his head. “The Royal Kingdom of Saudi Arabia had ties with ‘American Royalty,’ the president. It was no secret. It was about deception and perception. So, in this case, Saudi Arabia is blamed for nothing and the false flag, the blame, goes to Iraq, so they get attacked with ‘shock and awe’ and the Saudis are off the hook.”

“Not too different from our Black Ops mission,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Do you realize our military is in Iraq over fifteen years now and will probably be there forever? Damn, all those lives lost, for what? Nothing changes.”

“I told you my beliefs,” Mohammad said, “because I want you to remember that the Saudi Royals were responsible for funding 9/11. Maybe it will come out in the missing pages of the Congressional report and maybe not. But I trust both of you with that knowledge, which is why I told you that story. Perhaps it will be useful one day. As I said, I don’t want to die being the only person aware of it.”

“But why would Saudi Royalty support an attack on the United States. I don’t get it. What would they gain?” Sam said.

“The answer to that, my friend, is muddled. Saudi Arabia has a long record of backing Jihadists and playing both sides. Perhaps they funded the 9/11 attacks to gain favor with the extremists so they would never challenge the monarchy. But we are only left with speculation.”

 

Northolt RAF Station, England

Omar called out from the cockpit. “It’s a glorious Sunday morning, weather clear. I hope you’re all ready. We’re thirty-five minutes out of Northolt RAF Station. ETA 05:15. You guys better take over and contact Air Traffic Control. They’ll coordinate our landing on an airstrip twelve miles off the base.”

David and Sam as they took the controls. “You look very impressive, a major and a colonel,” Ali said. “The Brits will like that.”

“Yeah, they’re easily impressed,” David said.

“That plays well for us,” Sam added.

They smiled.

After the landing, everyone shrugged off their uniforms and changed into flying gear. Omar and Ali shook hands with the others, said their goodbyes, and remained aboard Eli B. while a Jeep escorted David, Sam, and Mohammad to the B-52. The plane was painted black and from a distance, it looked ominous.

“Saudi insignias are cemented under the painted tail section, and two of our operatives, local men, are working ATC,” Mohammad said.

David stared at the B-52 and cocked his head to one side.

“You look confused, my friend,” Mohammad said, glancing at him. “Not what you expected?”

“The front end looks different.”

“I thought you would notice. In addition to the anti-reflective paint, we needed a back-up to avoid detection, so the mainframe was slightly re-sculptured using a modern algorithm to scatter radar waves rather than bounce them back to Iran’s radar.”

“I didn’t know the mainframe could be that easy to modify,” Sam said.

“It wasn’t, but this particular B-52 was redesigned for this mission only. It was a rush job so there may be some unforeseen glitches. Be thankful you have one of the newer planes. This one was built in October 1962, and it’s been upgraded with color screens, wireless networking, and additional electronic jamming capabilities.”

“We’ll name this one, Eli B-II. It looks like age didn’t degrade this baby. A few Model-T’s are still around and run well, too. The basics always stay the same,” David said, smiling.

“So, changing the mainframe design will keep us off Iran radar?” Sam asked.

“No, it may help and it may not— mostly may not. We took the idea off the drawing board with no time to test it. But there’s something else.”

David shrugged. “Shoot.”

“Radar works off radio waves, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“And in case you don’t remember, radio waves are in the spectrum of 30 Kilohertz to 300 Gigahertz. Were you ever a Ham Radio Operator?”

“No, one of my friends was but—”

“Well, never mind. Here’s the deal. As you know, most military planes have some level of anti-reflective coatings and in visible light, the coatings absorb most radio waves, but a plane will still show up on radar as shapeless, green, or black blips. Now this is important, radio waves also include the shorter, low-frequency microwave spectrum.

“I know the different bands,” Sam said, “but dummy it down.”

“Okay, we placed what we think is a special one-hundred percent anti-reflective coating on this fifty-four-year-old B-52. It was experimental for a long time, but was perfected by Israeli scientists and has never been used before. It’s made of specially treated sugar along with other polymerized components, and it will absorb one hundred percent of the microwave portion of radio waves that Iran radar will throw at us, and the coating will render our B-52 completely invisible to their screens.”

“Wow. So they won’t even see us?”

“We don’t think so. The idea originated from the eyes of moths.”

“Moths? Eyes? I wasn’t sure they had them,” David said.

“Yeah, and don’t make any mothballs jokes, either. I’ve heard them all. Actually, one of the species doesn’t have eyes, but all other moths have eyes made up of tiny beads, smaller than the wavelength of light. When light hits the moth’s eyes, it’s immediately absorbed into its cornea, or corneal nipples actually, so there is no light to reflect back. Their eyes absorb all the light and reflect none. That’s how moths evade bats. The moths go unseen.”

“Interesting. So we learned how to make anti-reflective paint from the animal world,” Sam said. “I get it. Because radio waves are like light waves, they travel at the same speed. Iran radar sends its radio waves out, hits our plane, and is totally absorbed. Nothing to reflect back to Iran’s radar screen. Hope it works for us.”

“Again, we’re using an experimental coating and we had to fine-tune the balance between the sugar in the coating and other constituents to make it work. We tried to get the best blend for our B-52.”

“Hmm, it has sugar in it? The kind I use in my coffee?” David asked.

“The same, except the sugar is caramelized to form the hexagonal shaped beads in the coating similar to moth’s eyes. Think of pixels on your computer screen.”

“Will there be times we want to be seen on enemy radar?”

“Absolutely, yes! We’ve installed a PDP system,” Mohammad said, shaking a triumphant fist. “The B-52 is fitted with Permit Discovery Panels. These panels were placed on each side of the fuselage with an on/off switch on the instrument cluster. Most of the time, the panels will be in the closed position so we won’t be seen on enemy radar. When we do choose to be seen, the panels will be opened to reveal reflective aluminum strips so our aircraft can be discovered. We would appear as a blip on Saudi Arabian radar and coastal Iranian Sepehr radar, which has an established range of over one thousand kilometers. We’ll leave our panels open long enough for enemy radar to document an unidentified plane leaving from the east coast of Saudi Arabia and heading for Iran airspace. Then we slide our Discovery Panels closed.”

“Okay, maybe we can defeat the radar,” David said, “but what about satellite tracking? They’ve got to see us there.”

“You sitting down? We’ve hacked satellite imagery,” Mohammad said.

“Impossible,” David answered.

“Really? Believe it or not, satellite imagery has its vulnerabilities. Weak encryption algorithms are one of them. They were supposed to clean it up years ago, but they never got it perfect, and I’ll be able to block our location to the tracking satellite. In addition, I can make contact with our coordinator on SATCOM or our direct encrypted Air Communicator phone, which will re-direct the origin of the call to a city in Uganda.”

“How do you know all this stuff? What kind of lawyer were you in Saudi Arabia?”

“I never said I was a lawyer. I only completed one year of law school. When I realized the Royal Family created most of the major laws, I didn’t want any part in it so I switched to electrical engineering and now I work for—well, you don’t have to know.”

“You know the big picture, don’t you, Mohammad?” Sam said. “You know all the stages, I can tell. Let us know. Just so we’re prepared.”

Mohammad sucked in a deep breath and hesitated. “Yes, I do know the stages. The bottom line is that this mission is riskier than we thought. We may not get out alive. I’m here to help you anticipate the unknowns. Our plan is based on the idea that Saudi and Iran radar will not find us with our new coating so we don’t have to fly below the horizon or behind mountains. If we’re spotted on radar, Iranian fighters or a surface to air missile will shoot us down. You and I speak Farsi, Sam. That may help slow things down with Iranian ATC, but our goal is to keep time on our side and try to defeat any technology the Iranians throw at us. That’s my job, and if things go well, you’ll blast that fuckin’ nuclear plant to hell and I’ll get you to safety.”

“Talking about the nuclear plant,” David said. “Any word from the coordinator about whether our bombs will penetrate the granite?”

Mohammad shook his head. “Nothing yet. Until we’re notified, we go on with the plan.”

David and Sam both held their breath.

 

In Flight Over Africa

The raindrops scattered off the windshield as the eight powerful jet engines of Eli B-II, dressed in black, roared down the runway and soared above the weather and sunlit clouds into an azure sky. It headed south along the west coast of Africa until it reached Cameroon and turned inland. David deactivated the transponder of the B-52 Stratofortress and maneuvered the bomber northeast toward Sudan and Saudia Arabia.

Although the plane stood out like a dramatic silhouette flying across the setting African sun, it remained unchallenged by any Air Traffic Controllers. The only radio transmission that caught their attention was a garbled message from a non-native English speaker at Khartoum ATC announcing weather conditions.

David and Sam flew the plane while Mohammad stood behind them, his hand resting against the doorframe. “I’m sure it’s a pre-recorded message,” Mohammad said. “These African controllers probably take turns making a new recording every six hours then walk home. All in a day’s work.” The men laughed.

“Yeah, you call that work?” David said in a sarcastic tone.

After a while, Mohammad and Sam climbed to the upper deck while David remained at the controls.

Strung along the inner fuselage in the bunk area on the upper flight deck was a six-foot strip of burlap topped with an ultra thin foam mattress. It was the only bed,if you could call it that where anyone could lie down in reasonable comfort. In the adjoining compartment was a rack containing six Tavor TAR-21 Assault Rifles and alongside, a stand with three Honda lightweight motorcycles. Scattered about were Royal Saudi Air Force uniforms and three sets of civilian clothing made in Iran. Sam stretched out on the bed as he and Mohammad rambled on about the lax African controllers and how scary it could be because of poor communication.

“Yeah, but flying across Africa is a plus for us,” Sam remarked. “I heard that years of corruption and wars contributed to negligent Air Traffic Control, so we probably won’t have any problems. Beats flying around South Africa and heading north. Saves time, fuel, and there’s less risk of being a blip on the wrong radar.”

“That’s far from guaranteed. There’s only a slight chance we’re going to get through without being discovered,” Mohammad added. “Our anti-reflective coating is experimental and not tested. We’re still at risk of being shot down—and fast! You may be the last person I’ll ever see in this life.”

“Maybe, but so what?” Sam answered. “We’ll live ’til we die like everyone else. Be optimistic. If we live, they’ll make a movie out of what we’re doing.”

“And if we die?”

Sam sighed. “It’ll be a short documentary. I’ll leave the movie making to Beecham. Let him figure it out. Too bad he didn’t get the chance to play the part of a super hero in our mission. I miss him. He wouldn’t be afraid of dying because, for him, it would be the adventure of a lifetime. Beecham’s always said, ‘It’s not how long you live, but how good you live.’ I’ll call him. He was with us from the beginning and must be bursting at the seams not knowing what’s going on.”

“No calls from this airplane,” Mohammad said in a low tone. “It would risk the security of the mission.”

“Who said? Hey, I might be dead before I ever talk to Beecham again. We’ve got about thirty minutes before we get to the east coast of Saudi Arabia and open our Discovery Panels. There’s an American GCI, a Ground Control Intercept, in Iraq that has a dedicated and extremely secure band. Maybe just to talk to him for a minute or two and hear the excitement in his voice. It would make him feel he’s still with us and it wouldn’t risk the security of the mission one bit.” A broad smile crossed his face. “It may be the last time I talk to him.”

As Sam proceeded to go to the lower deck, Mohammad grabbed his arm, gently moved him against a bulkhead, and repeated, “No calls!”

Mohammad looked into Sam’s tired eyes, his chest heaving in and out. “Okay. No calls.”

At that moment, Mohammad’s Air Communicator phone rang.

“Yes, sir. We will be crossing Sudan.… I understand. Yes, sir. A reaper? Give me a moment to make some notes so I can advise the others in my unit.” He wrote on a pad as he listened. “Thank you, sir.” He hung up.

David and Sam stood frozen, their eyes focused on Mohammad.

“Here’s the deal. It’s true the mountain is solid granite. However, latest UAV information is that a stealth reaper was dispatched to the site at night equipped with FLIR—Forward Looking Infrared—capable of detecting infrared radiation. The heat responses from the surface of the plant indicated human movement. It also revealed small buildings of various types and sizes, possibly housing electronic equipment, computers, and GPS jamming systems. The colors radiating from the surface interpreted the structures to be similar to chow halls and dormitories. Greenery was everywhere and tall trees were actually planted on top of the buildings amid other forms of traditional camo. Nothing unusual would be seen from the air other than a mountain with rocks, trees, and bushes. FLIR saw it all.”

“So do we still go nuclear?” David asked.

“Nope. It’ll be a clear run for us as planned. Only now we bomb the entire surface of the nuclear plant. That will blow out the airshafts and other portals leading to the underground nuclear plant below.”

“Phew, that’s a relief. My stomach was churning since I heard we might have to resort to nuclear weapons.”

They returned to the cockpit and Mohammad glanced at the flight progress screen. “We’re passing Port Sudan. In a few minutes we’ll be out of Sudan, then a long stretch of Saudia Arabia is ahead of us before we get to Ad Dammam on the Saudi east coast.”

 

Saudi Arabia

Four hours later, the Discovery Panels were switched to the open position as Eli B-II soared past the King Fahd International Airport on the most eastern portion of Saudi Arabia. Almost immediately, a message boomed through the aircraft speakers:

“This is King Fahd Air Traffic Military Control, Dammam. Attention: Unknown aircraft, FL 350, bearing zero-nine-zero. You are in Sovereign Saudi Arabia controlled airspace. Identify yourself.”

Before Mohammad pressed the transmit button to respond, he turned to David. “We’ll be out of Saudi Arabia in a few minutes. We’re blocked on satellite imagery monitoring, so they won’t find us there. After we close our panels, we’ll disappear. I’ll buy time…try to confuse the controller in Arabic.”

Immediately, Mohammad communicated an intentionally garbled message in English to King Fahd Military Control: “We are a Saudi aircraft heading for Tehran cruising at thirty-five thousand feet.”

He waited a few seconds, then transmitted the same message in Arabic allowing his transmission to cut in and out.

They replied: “This is King Fahd Air Traffic Military Control. Attention: Unknown aircraft at FL 350. You are in restricted sovereign Saudi Arabia airspace. Identify yourself in English immediately or we will shoot you down!”

“Damn, we opened the panels too soon. Should have waited another couple of minutes. Fuck! Close them now!” Sam yelled.

“Discovery Panels closed,” David called out.

“They’ve already seen us as an unidentified aircraft on Saudi radar, and we claimed we’re Saudi,” Mohammad said. “The new over the horizon Iran radar also saw us and will document it, trust me. I know them and that’s good. It will establish we’re a Saudi plane headed to Iran.”

Mohammad transmitted once more: “Saudi Military Air Defense Radar, this is Saudi aircraft HZ-AHK Lockheed L-1011 Tri-Star. Repeat, we are a Saudi aircraft—HZ-AHK. Please confirm.”

Silence.

“This is Saudi Arabia Air Defense. Your identification information cannot be confirmed. Repeat, your identification information is not confirmed. You are intruding into Sovereign Saudi Arabia restricted airspace and we consider you hostile. Intercepting aircraft will try to establish radio contact with you on the distress frequencies 121.500 MHz or for NATO aircraft 243.000 MHz. If you do not respond and comply with our interceptors instructions at once, you will be shot down.”

Mohammad responded. “Saudi Air Defense, this is Saudi aircraft HZ-AHK. We have cleared Saudi Airspace. Repeat, this is Saudi aircraft HZ-AHK. We have exited Saudi airspace.”

One minute. No response.

“Fuck! They sent their F-15 Eagles. I know it! They’ll lock on and shoot us down,” David yelled. “We’re goin’ up to FL450, heading one-six-zero. It’s gonna cost us fuel. Damn! Where the hell are their F-15s? Didn’t they spot us yet on visual?”

“How could they not see us?” Sam said. “They knew our last position.”

“Yeah, but we’ll be out of their airspace in a split, and besides, we’re invisible again.”

The men were silent—waiting. Ten minutes later, Mohammad heaved a loud sigh of relief. “We were lucky. That could have been the end of everything, including us. A different controller might have stuck to stricter protocol while we were in their airspace.”

“I don’t think a different controller would make a difference, but now what?” David asked.

“Now Iran knows we’re headed their way from Saudi Arabia,” Mohammad said. “I’m sure their advanced Sepehr radar had us as a blip on their screen when our panels were open and they will document the time and date Saudi Military Radar Control confirmed an unidentified aircraft leaving Saudi Arabia.”

“Great, it’s what we wanted,” David said. “Just a reminder about our fuel. We’ll be cutting it close—very close. The important thing is we gotta end up on the ground in Iranian territory—that’s a given.”

“The Iranians will find it and the Saudis will take the heat,” Sam replied.

“Right, and we can’t wait too long after we bomb the target to put this plane down. Fuel is fuckin’ low,” David shouted.

“Once we destroy the plant,” Mohammad added, “we’ll fly south to the Iranian coast and land our plane there.”

“That’s a bit of news,” Sam said.

“You know the fucking new, advanced, bunker-busting bombs may end up causing major collateral damage and leave the nearby town of Khorramshar in rubble. It’s very close to the side of the mountain. We’ll be killing innocent people in addition to destroying the nuclear plant.”

“That’s the sad part. Soraya’s there, I know it.” Sam sighed. “She’s the love of my life—my heartbeat!”

“There’s still a chance she’s somewhere else. What’s our time to the target, guys?” Mohammad asked.

“Forty-seven minutes. ETA 03:51 UTC,” David said.

“Okay, we were lucky to get to where we are. Let’s give this Big Ugly Fat Fucker, BUFF B-52, some action and let it do what it was designed for,” Mohammad cried. “It’ll all go well. I know it! Stay focused!”

Sam eased into his bombardier seat in the modified cone of the B-52 and rubbed the leather seat. It had a familiar feel to it. Maybe because he’d settled into similar seats years ago in B-29s and in earlier versions of B-52s. The new, modern precision bombsight was within easy reach, and he had a panoramic, uncluttered view of the star-studded night sky in front of him—perfect for a celestial fix at twilight, stargazing or staring at the moon.

Eli B-II headed unchallenged toward the Zagros Mountains in south-central Iran to the highest peak, over four thousand meters.

Sam hunkered down over the bombsight, checked the electro-optical viewing sensors and infrared targeting pods, and plugged the coordinates of the Iranian nuclear plant into the updated, computerized bombsight. His visual inspection, final adjustments, and vector considerations still had to be made before he arrived at the exact moment to drop the six deeply penetrating ten thousand pound precision-guided bombs on the camouflaged surface area of the facility.

After he double-checked his calculations, he turned to David and Mohammad. “We’re good to go.”

With nineteen minutes left to target, David snapped a few switches on the instrument panel and said, “Okay, Sam, the plane is yours.”

Seconds later, the B-52 radio speakers blasted a frightening message:

“This is Iran Military Air Control to unidentified aircraft. This is a warning. Identify yourself at once. Repeat, unidentified aircraft heading zero-eight-zero, identify yourself immediately or you will be shot down. ”

“Mohammad,” David cried out. “I thought we were off satellite imagery!”

“We are,” Mohammad yelled. “Damn, we should be invisible. Let me—”

Sam glanced at David and grabbed the microphone. “I’ll try to confuse them and get more time, something! I’ll ask in Farsi to repeat their transmission and tell them we’re a friend.”

Sam transmitted the message in Farsi: “Iran Military Air Control. We are a Qatar commercial airliner. Registration A7-223. Repeat, we are a Qatar Airlines Airbus-A-230 carrying two hundred and thirty-seven passengers from Khartoum, destination Mehrabad International Airport. Delay any action pending confirmation.”

Less than a minute passed with no response.

“Damn! They’re checking satellite imagery so they can use SAMs. It will be over for us with a surface to air hit. The Discovery Panels are not working, and we’re not invisible!”

Radio speakers blasted the following:

“Unidentified aircraft, this is Iran Military Air Control. The information you provided is not confirmed. We consider your airplane hostile. Out.”

Sam cried out, “That’s it! They’ll send fighters.”

“Damn, I love this BUFF, but what I wouldn’t give for some armament. This plane wasn’t fitted with the fifty caliber guns in the tail,” David said.

“Fuck! I hope that’s not the last word I utter in this life. I thought they couldn’t see us.”

David flicked a switch in front of him. “Shit! One or both of our panels are open! Changing heading to one-six-five. Hang on.”

A minute passed. The speakers blasted an ominous message.

“This is Iran Military Air Control. HESA Saeqeh Thunderbolt Fighter Squadron alerted.”

“Damn, they’re sending fighters. Fuck!” David yelled. “We have no plan B. Check the Hafele roller running gear on the Discovery Panels. They gotta be stuck in the open position.”

Mohammad grabbed a few tools and ran to a bulkhead a few feet aft of the cockpit, opened a small door and checked the Discovery Panel’s inner mechanism. “Starboard panel is shut tight,” he shouted. “Will check the other one.”

He dashed to the opposite side of the fuselage and opened the door guarding the mechanism to the panel. The roller was stuck in the half-open position. “Damn! I need a good lubricant here.” After a few seconds, he called out, “Port panel was jammed. Fixed it. I hope it’s not too late. Both panels are now sealed tight.” Mohammad rushed back to the cockpit.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Sam shouted. “We’re not reflective now, but we’ve got non-existent maneuverability and those fighters can nail us.”

“Diving to twenty-thousand feet,” David said, “burning more of that precious fuel, hope we have enough. Those fighters will be flyin’ VFR like us, and none of their zigzag radio beam sweeps will find us. They’ll have to see us to hit us. Anything’s possible, but now we’re invisible again. Fuck ’em. They’ll know we’re somewhere in the sky, but they’ll never see us. That’ll blow their minds.”

“They can still find this clumsy behemoth. They know our last position. If they see us and lock on, it’s over,” Mohammad said.

“Yeah, but they’re not gonna find us. We’re descending to a new level. Good thing we were flyin’ high when they spotted us on radar,” David said, “gave me plenty of altitude to play with. We’ll hide out at twenty-thousand feet for a bit. Besides, they’re gonna send two fighters, not a whole squadron to search the entire sky. By the way, Mohammad, how the hell were you able to fix that slider on the radar shield panels so fast?”

“Spit.”

 

Islamic Republic of Iran

Sam, an experienced bombardier and navigator, had already programmed the exact coordinates of the Iranian nuclear plant into the most technologically advanced bombsight ever built, far superior to the Norden bombsight used in World War II. The numbers were the exact coordinates Simcha provided, and why wouldn’t they be? He was working at the plant!

Sam knew with all its accuracy that the bombsight still needed his final touch to guide the bunker-busters the shortest way home. Despite the advances in technology it still remained a bit of an art form.

His thoughts drifted to Soroya. They were planning their marriage when she was told by the Iranian government to return home to fix a problem with the water purification system, but Sam believed the Iranians had something more disturbing in mind. He was convinced they needed her expertise as a chemical engineer at the nuclear facility near Khorramshar, the town that may soon suffer total collateral destruction. He was sure she was in Khorramshar and knew if she refused the assignment there would be consequences for her family. She had no choice.

Dear God, why does it have to be me to do this terrible thing? Soroya will not survive, but Israel will. Why wasn’t an adequate exit strategy possible? It’s a suicide mission, pure and simple, and our lives are expendable.

Sam’s heart pounded. Eli B-II was twelve minutes from the target. The incessant drone of the eight jet engines persisted in the ears of the three men.

“What’s the latest on the fuel?” Mohammad asked.

“Two hours,” David replied, “and I’m not even going to ask if air-to-air is possible.”

“You’re right, in-flight refueling isn’t possible—no stratotankers around, anyway. Excuse me.” He turned away and pressed the ‘receive’ key on his dedicated frequency Air Communicator. It was the coordinator.

“Yes, sir,” Mohammad said. “We’re approximately ten minutes from platform to target, sir. Not more than two hours fuel left. Yes, sir, I’m jotting it down now—Siron Abbas.” Mohammad continued to listen and ended the call.

“What’s that all about?” David asked.

“Spoke to the coordinator. Talk later. We’ll be taking a two-hour ride southeast when we’re done here if our fuel will hold out. Six minutes to target.”

“Bombardier to Pilot, open sesame, bomb cradles open.”

“Roger, that, Bombardier, we’re starting our run. Okay, Sam, the plane is all yours—again.”

Sam stared into the viewing disk of his bombsight. Six white concentric circles against a light green background filled his eyes. With his brow furrowed and lips pressed tightly, he focused on the smallest ring in the center: the target. Two narrow roadways and a water tank were visible from the B-52 as Sam zoomed in on the area with the latest update to the bombsight, an adjustable zoom lens designed for night viewing. Each detail was consistent with the information imparted by the Israeli agent who had painfully given his life to achieve this moment. Sam would blow away the entire surface area, which would guarantee destruction of the nuclear plant below.

His eyes shifted to the right portion of the viewing disk. Small pinpoints of light were scattered about in a tight cluster, which indicated the town of Khorramshar. Sam’s thumb lightly brushed along the surface of the large red button. An image of a map of the Middle East flashed through his mind. Israel was only a speck, a small area on the map, he thought, but it was a homeland for the Jews who were humiliated by the Nazis all those years ago.

We’re the ones who are strong now. No one can defeat us. Never again!

He pressed down firmly on the button. A short intermittent beeping sound hummed through the cockpit. “Bombs away,” he cried as he imagined the bullet-shaped bunker-busters falling behind the plane, heading for the disguised target. All he was able to see through the zoom viewer was thick black smoke as it spiraled into the sky. Sam’s intuition told him that one of the bombs didn’t hit the target. He surmised that Iran’s GPS jamming system re-directed it and it appeared to fall on Khorramshar. Otherwise, the town might have been spared. Instead, it was left in flames.

As more and more chunks of earth were blown away, the mountainside and nuclear plant were reduced to rubble which tumbled down the mountain leaving a huge crater. His thoughts wandered to the love of his life, sweet Soroya. He felt sick inside and the thought of murdering the woman he loved nauseated him. After a few minutes, the sour taste of bile swept over his tongue and he heaved up his guts. He wiped his lips, fortified his concentration and continued to view the scene below. Mass destruction was everywhere. His eyes watered. Forgive me, Soroya.

It was over. The nuclear plant had been demolished and with it, many innocent people were killed. Death, obliteration, smoke, and fire were behind them. Now it was about getting away and maybe—just maybe—getting home. Fuel was the issue!

Russian-made MiG-29 fighters swept the sky looking for the intruder. Mohammad and Sam picked up the chatter of the Iranian fighter pilots speaking Farsi. They discussed their altitudes, a good place for Eli B-II to stay away from. To be certain, David risked the meager fuel reserves and climbed another five-thousand feet to keep a closer eye for enemy fighters below. The B-52 was still invisible on radar, but it could be seen visually seen by the Iranian fighter pilots. Luck was with the bomber. They got away and David and Sam knew Mohammad had a plan for their next move.

“What’s the latest with the coordinator, Mohammad? I only heard bits and pieces of your conversation. Do you have the big picture for us?” Sam asked.

“I do,” he answered, but said no more.

“So, are you finally gonna tell us for a change?” David said.

“Well, let’s cover the next stage of the big picture first and see how that goes, and then I’ll say more about how the mission will end,” he said, playfully shaking his finger at the two men. “Let’s get on a southwest course toward the coastal town of Siron Abbas. We’ll land about forty miles east of it. Here’re the coordinates for the landing spot.” He handed David a note with the information.

“I don’t know how we’re gonna get out of here,” Sam said. “Even after we land, we have no passports, no identification, and no Iranian Rials. Plus, we’re in a terrorist country with an unmarked plane, and we don’t quite look Iranian. Except for you, Mohammad. Talk to me. How are we gonna get outta here?”

“Look, exit strategies were difficult to nail down when we started this mission. We created various algorithms and played out a variety of outcomes which all led to dead ends. The dynamics were too complex to anticipate every detail, and there were too many variables. Besides, it was assumed by the planners that we would be willing to sacrifice our lives.”

“Yeah, I guess being dead does make the exit strategy a moot point,” David said.

Mohammad grinned. “The main thing is that we’ve already accomplished our goal.”

“True,” David said. “We accomplished that part, but we haven’t landed our plane in Iranian territory. Only when this plane is on the ground and the Iranians find the Saudi markings will the Saudis get hit with the blame. Also, have to get away so we’re not found dead and identified. Our covert operation will be discovered and our governments will deny knowledge and responsibility for our actions. Plus, they’ll be no false flag planted anywhere. I’m sure you have a new plan for that in mind, Mohammad.”

“I do,” he answered. “Keep the southeast course and we’ll be landing on an isolated desert strip in less than two hours if our fuel holds out. The ground may be a little rocky and sandy, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“And after that?” Sam asked with raised eyebrows.

“That’ll be stage three. We’re not there yet.”

 

Siron Abbas, Iran

They headed southeast. With thirty minutes to go before they’d land, two of the starboard engines died from fuel starvation. When they made their final approach, two port engines sputtered into flames belching a trail of thick, black smoke as the plane touched the ground and plowed along the sandy strip of desert. Bullet-like sounds were produced by small stones as they kicked up against the underside of the plane’s massive wings. As the landing progressed, David tried to power the plane into reverse but it would not go into that gear and Eli B-II kept speeding forward with a mountain dead ahead. He rolled the B-52 hard to port as the remaining engines cut out and were left smoldering as the plane spun around and skidded home on a hard stretch of rocky land alongside the mountain. It was finally down on the ground in Iran. Her last stop. The three men immediately grabbed the fire extinguishers and discharged them onto fuel starved engine cowlings. All was quiet.

“What’s the fuel gauge say now, David?” Sam asked, smiling.

“Well, let’s put it this way. E doesn’t stand for excellent.

Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. “We better get outta here.”

“Hold on, guys!” Mohammad held up his hand. “We’re still invisible. It’s a dark, desolate, deserted spot and we have to go over a few things before we leave. First thing is, we have to get into town.”

“Forty miles is a long walk,” Sam said.

“Well, we’re not going to walk it. We’ve got three lightweight motorcycles on board, and now is the time to give you guys the rest of the picture. Maybe it’s better, or worse than you thought. I don’t know.”

“Shoot,” David said.

“Okay, listen up. You were right, Sam. We do have to get out of Iran and find our way home. We don’t want to be found dead. That would give the deception away. We don’t have passports or ID, and we don’t have any money, except for a few Saudi Riyals, but we must get into town if we’re gonna get out of this hellhole country, and it won’t be easy. You two guys look like foreigners.”

“We’ll try to keep a low profile and shield our faces,” Sam said.

“Not good enough. Here’s how we’ll do it. We stay together. Being with me will give both of you a lot of credibility. You don’t have mustaches, but you have deep tans, thanks to the California sunshine, and we’ll be wearing Iranian style clothes so we’ll fit in.”

“Oh, right,” Sam said. “Ugly black pants and white shirt. I’ll look like a waiter.”

“We stay away from crowds and use the back streets. When we pass other people, Sam and I will be speaking Farsi and you, David, will just nod and laugh along with us as if you understand everything.”

“Okay, got it,” David said, his expression grim.

“Not everyone in this town is Iranian,” Mohammad went on. “It’s a small town and a bit touristy. Fishing is literally the big game activity, and that, my friends, is what makes this town special for us. The coordinator picked Siron Abbas for two reasons. One, based on his calculation, we had just enough fuel to get here. “He was right about that. We landed on fumes.”

“And the other reason?” Sam asked.

“We have a Black Ops operative in Siron Abbas to help us.”

Sam’s jaw dropped and David gaped. “This is getting better all the time,” David said. “Who is this guy? “

“Who said it’s a guy?”

“A female operative?” Sam’s eyes widened.

“Relax. Let me finish explaining our plan. We ride to Siron Abbas, leave our bikes on the outskirts of town, and walk toward the dock using the back streets until we get to the marina. We search for a fishing boat with a tower that will be docked stern to, with the name Snapper Tapper on each side of the hull. The skipper’s name is Melodi. She’s a recently recruited operative trained in covert operations, and she’s motivated like many of our mercenaries by substantial material compensation, in cash after each mission. She was previously in the armed forces. That’s all I will tell you. I’m sure she will not volunteer any further information about herself unless it applies to this assignment.”

“Is she based in town? If she is, it will tell me she knows her way around, and that could be helpful,” David said.

“I cannot tell you that.”

“How the hell did you get into Black Ops? I mean, we have somewhat of a personal relationship now.”

“We have no personal relationship. We’ve never had one and never will. It is not possible, but I’ll answer your question in a general way. The operative must be a person who is able to do things others can’t. Simple as that. The world will need more operatives in the future. We have a new enemy, Isis. They are a different kind of enemy.”

“In what way?” David asked.

“The enemy is not built on people. It’s built on an idea, and we will be fighting against an idea—an ideology. Something we have never dealt with before. Deception will be difficult with them. Eventually, we’ll find a way.

“But enough of these thoughts. I don’t want to take too much time here, so let’s talk about Melodi’s role as a player in this part of the mission. She will take us to a small uninhabited island called Shidvar. It’s off the south coast of Iran in the Persian Gulf, not far from the United Arab Emirates. She has strong marine and boating skills and will help us stay safe. Melodi will drop us off on Shidvar and leave immediately. Snapper Tapper cannot stay at anchor there because few people visit this island and it can be noticed from the sea or air and raise suspicions. After Melodi takes off and we wait for the Black Ops commando team to arrive and hustle us across the Gulf to the Dubai Marina in the UAE. This country has strong ties to the USA, Britain, and Israel. Once we’re in the hands of the commandos they are in control of the rest of the mission and I will no longer lead this unit.”

“Are you saying the Black Ops will come to save us? I’m not comfortable with that,” Sam said. “We’re expendable now. We finished the job, and they may want to finish us. We know too much. I think their mission will be to kill us, not save us. We’re just cogs in a wheel. They’ll kill us for sure,” he added, certain of it now.

“Good thinking. You should apply for a Black Ops job. Check out the CIA under career opportunities. Look, I was on an operation once and had to kill two men and a woman, operatives who contributed to the success of the mission. They also knew too much and I had to kill them. I shot the three of them dead and walked away.”

“How does it make you feel when you do things like that?”

Mohammad shrugged. “It’s what I do. I don’t have any feelings about it. Let’s get back to business. We have to take the chance that the commandos are coming to help us. Getting off that island on our own would be impossible, and we’ll end up dead or in Iranian jails where we’ll be tortured to death. If the Black Ops players who come to rescue us are hostile, it’ll result in a shootout between them and us. However, we have no choice and we need them to get us across the Gulf…however they want to do it.”

“It sounds like we at least have a chance of ending up alive,” David commented.

“Hopefully, yes…but nothing is sure. Let’s get going into town.”

“Take our Glock 22s?” Sam asked.

“Glocks are fine. Change into some of the Iranian clothing, and take a fanny pack for extra clips of ammo. I’ll take one Tavor TAR-21 Assault Rifle, in case we need it, and my Glock.”

“How will we eat in town with no money?” David asked.

“Forget eating. What are you thinking? We don’t, and we wouldn’t stop to eat anyway. Too much exposure. Besides, there’ll be food on the boat. We don’t know when we will be picked up by the commandos. Melodi will let them know by a code transmission when we leave the dock and arrive at the island. We have plenty of food here on the plane, all Saudi stuff. Quickly eat what you can. Limit what you drink. We’ll have to skip ‘pee time’ along the way. Have the tabbouleh, fattoush, taboon bread, and hummus. When the plane is discovered, and they see the food, they’ll know it’s Mid-Eastern cuisine. Wee have the advantage of night. Oh, and leave some half-eaten food…can imply a quick getaway.”

“After they discover the Saudi markings on the plane,” David said, “I’m sure they’ll put it all together.”

“We’re leaving more than enough clues. They’ll also see the few pieces of Saudi military clothing scattered about. They’ll know it was a Saudi operation for sure, and that it was the Saudis and only the Saudis who took out the nuclear plant.”

“I’m glad I finished all the falafel,” Sam said. “Too good to leave behind.”

“I grew up on falafel,” Mohammad added. “Still eat it. Maybe bring one bottle of water and leave the rest, especially the Saudi brands—the Masat, and the Zamzam.”

The men mounted their motorcycles and headed over a narrow, twisting mountain road, which led into town. Sounds of sirens rang through the air and one Iranian police car spotted the bikers and headed toward them at top speed. Soon a spotlight washed over them as they biked their way along a dark road. They sped onto an alternate path to dodge the police car until a sharp stone pierced the front tire of Mohammad’s bike. The motorcycle took a spin and threw Mohammad to the ground as the bike’s high-pitched whirring engine screamed and skidded down the mountainside. David and Sam stopped and leaped off their bikes as the lone police car approached, its siren wailing and its red and blue lights flashing. When it got close, David and Sam pumped a stream of bullets through the car’s windshield and tires. Then held their aim on the car and moved toward Mohammad. When they get closer, Mohammad shouted, “I’m okay. Keep shooting him!”

The Iranian police officer was slumped over the steering wheel, bleeding and appeared to be dead, but David and Sam shot a few more rounds into him. Mohammad jumped on the back of Sam’s motorbike and they sped into town toward the marina, the sound of sirens surrounding them getting louder at every turn.

The diesel engine on Snapper Tapper was already running at idle when Melodi heard the approaching motorcycles and police activity in the distance, and she removed the slack leeward bow and stern lines in preparation for a speedy departure. In minutes, the motorbikes arrived. The men hopped off and ran toward the boat, as the sirens screamed behind them. They turned to see two police cars in the distance racing toward them, one car ahead of the other.

Melodi quickly cast off the remaining lines. As the men scrambled into the cockpit, David stumbled over the stern cleat. “Damn!” he shouted, falling into the water as the lead police car came to a screeching halt near the boat. A cop emerged, his gun drawn. Sam fired a barrage of bullets into him and he dropped to the ground.

Melodi kept the boat positioned in the dock as Sam caught sight of another police car turning into the dock area, its siren blasting, lights flashing. Sam threw David a line, dropped a ladder off the stern, hauled him to the steps, and lugged his drenched body onto the cockpit floor. The second police car came to an immediate stop, not far from the boat. The Iranian officer crouched behind the car’s open door and began shooting. One of the bullets hit an outboard motor hanging on the stern rail. It crashed into the cockpit, almost hitting David who remained on the cockpit floor, his clothing soaked, reeking of diesel fuel. Sam and Mohammad unloaded their bullets on the remaining police officers, but he kept shooting until Mohammad fired his assault rifle at the police car, watched it explode and burst into flames.

“Looks like we wiped out the entire local police force. Let’s move it!” Mohammad shouted, breathing heavily.

With Melodi at the wheel, Snapper Tapper took off into the night at top speed and headed to Shidvar Island, churning up the water and a leaving a trail of black diesel smoke above the white frothy wake.

Melodi yelled, “Somebody take the wheel, and fast! They hit a fuel line. I can smell the diesel. We’ll never make it if it’s more than one line!”

Sam grabbed the wheel and took over.

“Stay on the same course. I’m going below to check it out. It doesn’t look good.” She went into the cabin, grabbed a flashlight, and quickly shouted the number ‘seventy-three’ several times into the handheld microphone on the VHF radio. Then she rushed to repair the problem.

“Maintaining course,” Sam called out.

“Can any of us help?” Mohammad shouted.

“Only God,” Melodi quipped from below. “I hope He still remembers me.”

The men heard the sounds of the engine as it sputtered. It lost and regained power periodically until it stopped and left Snapper Tapper dead in the water, drifting.

Melodi shouted from below, “Damn, we’ve got a major fuel line leak. Diesel is pouring out at the coupling going into the injectors. Duct tape is not gonna do it. Hang in there!”

The men looked at each other. They were far enough away from the dock and using binoculars. Mohammad didn’t observe any police. “One of the police might have alerted the Iranian Coast Guard,” he shouted. “They’ve got fast boats and are heavily armed. It would be the end for us. Turn up the volume on the VHF so we can monitor their Coast Guard activity.”

“Done!” David replied.

Melodi came up through the companionway. “Keep your fingers crossed.” She turned the key and the engine kicked over and heard the familiar clickety-clack sound of the diesel engine starting. “It’s a done deal. A temporary fix, but it’ll get us where we want to go.”

“So what did you do to get it going?” Mohammad asked.

“Diesel fuel was all over the teak sole with more diesel gushing out of the coupling. I wiped the area with a rag and quickly applied epoxy. The fuel continued to pour through the resin and I kept wiping and applying more epoxy until it held. I’m glad it didn’t lose its prime. Keep your fingers crossed and hope it holds. I cut the speed down a couple of knots to stay on the safe side. I’ll take the wheel. You guys go below, eat and drink whatever you find. It’s all fresh.”

The men went down the steps to the main cabin, feasted on cold, grilled lamb kabobs, and drank the ruby red Shiraz wine. They stopped eating and looked at each other when they heard the same threatening noise. The distinctive thump-thump sound of a helicopter as it vibrated in the distance.

Mohammad sprang up the steps and through the companionway to the cockpit. “I can see their running lights and the bright spotlight on its port side. It’s definitely not one of ours. We have two rocket-propelled grenade launchers aboard. I’ll grab one.” Mohammad called out to Sam, “Bring up the other RPG. Melodi, stay on an easy zigzag course, but keep the boat steady.” She zig-zagged and turned the boat in figure eights. The helicopter came straight toward Snapper Tapper and began firing.

The bullets fell short as Mohammad raised the launcher on his shoulders. “This thing only has a short range. I have to take a chance and let them get closer,” he said through gritted teeth.

A few seconds passed and Mohammad pulled the trigger and the rocket-propelled grenade zoomed through the air and hit the target. At first, its tail rotor immediately lost power for a few seconds, and the helicopter made a slight turn as everyone looked on. Then they watched in awe, their mouths open, as the enemy helicopter exploded and burst into flames, turning the night sky into daylight as the flaming wreckage spiraled into the sea.

“That was a close call. These launchers are only good up to the two hundred yards. They were farther out than that, but when they started firing, I knew I had to take a chance.”

“Mohammad, you’re the best,” David said, still breathing hard.

“When I think back on this mission so far, you’ve pulled us out a few times,” Sam said. “Maybe we can be friends when this is over and live through it.”

“Thank you for the honor, but a continuing relationship is not possible.”

“You’re not gonna kill us, are you?” David asked, his head down. “I mean, we know a lot.”

Mohammad cracked up laughing. He couldn’t stop. “Kill you? I never thought of that. Thanks for the idea. Let’s see, where should I kill you? On the boat? No, that would be too messy. Tie you up and throw you overboard? Nah, not imaginative. Gouge your eyes out with spoons…now we’re talking. Wait, I have one better. Torture you by taping your mouths and make you listen to the story of my life. I’ll let you make a recording of it in case you have trouble falling asleep you can play it. Kill you? Nah, I’ll let you live. You don’t have to worry.”

David and Sam laughed their way through his little speech and David asked, “Tell me, Mohammad, how does someone get to be in Black Ops?”

“It’s not for you guys, for sure. You’re good men, smart, with good intuition, but it would be difficult for you to kill someone that you know face-to-face. You couldn’t do it, and that’s something you must be able to do without thinking.”

“We already dropped bombs and killed a lot of people. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“No, you didn’t know those people and we were thousands of feet away. It’s different.”

“The woman I loved was down there, and I killed her,” Sam said, his eyes closed as he hung his head.

“I’m sorry. We learned about Soroya when we investigated you. My condolences, but I was trained to lose my emotions.” Mohammad was stone-faced and appeared dispassionate. “What I’m trying to say is you’re not Black Ops material. I’m not going to give names, but I was part of a force similar to Delta.”

“What does Black Ops mean? Are you in the military first, or what?” Sam asked.

“If you’re an operative or mercenary, often the same thing, you will be doing illegal, unethical things for a government. Not like Special Forces or Delta. They stick to the rules most of the time. We’re usually underground mercenary groups with strong military training who do jobs for the government in secret. Any other questions before I kill you?”

David and Sam laughed.

“But I have to tell you. In this business, don’t trust anybody…and that goes for the Black Ops people who will come to get you on this island. We don’t know them and they don’t know us. We know they’re supposed to help us. But we can’t be sure, so when we meet them, we have to be careful.”

An hour later, the men debarked on Shidvar Island. “You’ll be okay,” Melodi said. “Nobody will bother you. It’s uninhabited, but watch out for snakes. They’re all over the place. I’m taking off. I’ve already radioed 73s to the operatives standing by to let them know we left Siron Abbas and we’ve arrived here. Can’t anchor off this island and take a chance on being spotted by the wrong people. I’m sure the coupling fix will hold. We would have lost more fuel by now if it hadn’t. I’ll be heading to a different location where a couple of operatives will do a name change on this boat and dismantle the tower. It’ll never look the same. Different boat for different missions. Nice working with you. Good luck, guys!”

“Thanks, Melodi. We couldn’t have done it without you,” Mohammad shouted.

At first light, a Coastal Command Patrol Boat, showing no flag astern, appeared about a hundred meters offshore. Minutes later, an unmarked inflatable approached the island with four men dressed in dark jeans and black t-shirts. On their waists, semi-automatic handguns. They motored ashore in an inflatable and hauled a light Danforth anchor onto the beach and dug it into the sand. With their guns drawn, the men stood near the bow of the dinghy. Mohammad, David, and Sam stood in a shooting stance with their Glocks in hand.

“We only need to identify,” one of the black-shirted men called out.

“May I reach into my top pocket?” Mohammad shouted.

“Yes, sir, go ahead. Slowly.”

Mohammad continued to point his gun at them with one hand while reaching into his pocket with the other. He pulled out a small toy clicker and clicked it three times. Three clicks were heard in return by one of the arriving commandos as they holstered their guns.

“Let’s get a move on, gentlemen,” one of the men said. “We just wanted to make sure you’re the right people. Glad you made it here. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

David turned to Mohammad. “Why didn’t you tell us about these clickers? We don’t have them. What would we have done if you weren’t with us?”

“You’ll never believe it. I forgot to tell you,” he replied.

“You? Mr. Details? So, we’d probably be dead by now?”

“Nah, these operatives are professionals. They expected to find you here and knew what we looked like before they arrived. They were just taking an extra precaution. Besides, you would have thought of something to say anyway. It was great meeting both of you.”

“That’s it? Just a quick goodbye?”

“Yup,” Mohammad replied, his gaze on David and Sam. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. Good luck!”

“We did what had to be done,” David replied. “Good luck to you, sir.”

That night, David and Sam shared camel milk cappuccinos in Dubai.

 

The King David Hotel, Jerusalem

Ten days later

Rachel, David, and Sam sat at a table on the private hotel terrace, ordered a late breakfast, and filled their eyes and ears with the surrounding views, sounds, and sights of holy places in Jerusalem’s Old City.

“So, how was your flight from Dubai?” Rachel asked.

“After debriefing, we slept through both legs. Dubai to Amman, then to Tel Aviv and the drive to Jerusalem. It’s good to be here,” David said.

Rachel turned to Sam and spoke in a slow, gentle voice. “ I’m so sorry about Soroya. We know how much you love her. We all did.” Rachel reached across the table, took his hand, and held it. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Maybe there’s still a chance…”

Sam sat disengaged, not answering, his red, tired eyes in a distant gaze. “A chance?” he said, his voice breaking. “Yes, that’s in my mind. Anything’s possible, but what are the chances? The bombs took out both the plant and the town. All I can do is pray and hope.”

Rachel reached out, met his gaze, and squeezed his shoulder.

They sat back quietly for a while, not speaking until their breakfast arrived, family style on a large white platter placed in the center of the table. On it were several smaller white plates, which contained an assortment of hard and soft cheeses, labane, olives, omelets, artisan crusty bread, and a pitcher of Jaffa orange juice, along with pots of mint tea and coffee.

 “Did you read about what the Saudis did?” Rachel asked, with a wicked smile.

“Yeah, I knew they didn’t get along with the Iranians,” David answered. “But the Saudis bombing their hidden nuclear plant? Who would have thought they would do anything like that.” A smile crossed his face and his eyes lit up. “It’s amazing they were able to get through Iranian airspace. The people who did it were very smart. Wonder how they got away with it? Well, I’m glad it was the Saudis. It left the Israelis in the clear.”

“Yeah, for once,” Sam said, offering a thumbs up.

“I’ll bet the Iranians didn’t think the Saudis had a B-52,” David said.

“Well, they know now,” Rachel replied. “Thanks, guys. You’ve been through a lot. Israel is safe again, for now. I can just see the Saudis trying to convince the media that it wasn’t their plane. They’ll blame the Iranians and say it was a set-up to trick them.”

“Yeah, and they’ll say things like, ‘They planted Saudi uniforms and the leftover food. Well, we eat that kind of stuff but…”

“In the end, the world will believe it was the Saudis who bombed the plant,” Rachel said. “They’ll never question it with so much planted evidence showing Saudi Arabia was the guilty party. The interesting part will be when the Saudis and Iranians start threatening each other with retaliation and the UN enters the picture. Then the whole world will get involved with the news stories. CNN will cover it twenty-four hours a day, analyzing every small detail, never getting it right and the world swallowing the story. It took a long time for the Gulf of Tonkin incident to come to light as a made-up story to get the United States into war with Vietnam, and some people still didn’t believe it. Oh well, that’s old news now just as this story will be in time. No one will ever know the truth.”

“Except us,” David said smugly. “I can’t wait to see how everything will unfold in the newspapers. There’s no way they’ll figure it out and the media will spread the lie around the world.”

“People don’t realize how imaginative governments can be,” Rachel added. “When they make up deceptive cover stories to promote going to war, they put fear into people’s minds so they’ll support the lie. All it takes is a false flag, meaning the innocent country takes the rap!”

“Yeah, everyone will believe the Saudis did it except the Saudis. After all, they’ll be the only ones who know the truth. That’s a laugh. They’ll probably make up stories and say the Iranians blew up their own plant so Iran can blame the Saudis. That’s okay. Let them go to war with each other.” He held his fist in from of him and shook it.

David grinned. “Black Ops was the name of the game, Rachel. You steered us the right way. Sam and I thought we could do it alone. Guess we were a little over-spirited. If we had tried it our way, we’d have been shot out of the sky before we left the States.”

“Well, your heart was in the right place—just a little overzealous.”

“I was sorry to hear that Bob Beecham’s plane is still missing,” Sam said. “He’s a good friend and I hope they find him, but I know Bob. He’s probably hiding out on some small Pacific island surrounded by sexy, exotic women encircling his neck with flowered leis and bringing him ice-cold tropical drinks. He’ll show up all right, and soon, too…in a bright, flowered shirt with a smile on his face. Not sure when I’ll see him again.”

“Only God knows.”

David and Rachel exchanged glances.

Everyone finished their breakfast, basked in the sun for a while and continued to chat.

Sam took the last few sips of his tea and put his cup down as his cell phone rang.

“Yes, this is Sam. Who? Say that again.”

“What is it?” Rachel asked, her voice low.

Sam waved her off.

Rachel asked again. “Is something wrong, Sam?”

Sam looked at her sternly.

“Hadassah Medical center? Here in Jerusalem? Yes, yes. Oh, my God, that’s great news. Yes, I’ll wait.” A moment passed.

“Soroya?”

 

WXEL BBC World Radio: Breaking News

6:15 a.m.

This just in! It has been reported that an Iranian nuclear plant hidden deep underground in the Zagros Mountains has been bombed and destroyed by an aircraft alleged to be from Saudi Arabia. Collateral damage to the nearby village of Khorramshar destroyed most of the structures and claimed thousands of casualties. Russian-designed Mikoyan MiG-29s Iranian fighters immediately took to the sky to search for the intruding Saudi bomber responsible, and only hours ago discovered a B-52 long-range strategic bomber in Southern Iran, undamaged, with concealed Saudi Arabian markings.

Armed Forces of the Islamic Republic of Iran are actively searching for those responsible. The Iranian government claimed the nuclear plant was totally dedicated to the production of electricity for the benefit if its people and had no plans to produce nuclear weapons in violation of The Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action agreement with The United States.

Despite the bomber’s attempt to remain undetected, unrevealed sources reported the aircraft was in fact seen on Iranian radar heading from Saudi Arabia toward Iran. The same sources stated when it reached Iranian airspace; the aircraft was challenged by Military Air Traffic Control and asked to identify itself. There was no response, and the aircraft soon disappeared from the radar display. More news on the hour.

 

New York Times:

SAUDI ARABIA BOMBS IRAN NUCLEAR PLANT

Reports from Reuters and other sources claim the Iranian secret underground facility was only days away from developing powerful nuclear bombs. The nearby village of Khorramshar was destroyed in the blast leaving 564 dead, 1,123 wounded.

 

Palm Beach Post:

IRAN THREATENS WAR

Tehran Radio reports from Iran leaders suggest that strong military force will be proposed by Iran against Saudi Arabia for what they claim to be a senseless bombing of an Iranian plant designed only to create electricity for needy citizens in nearby cities. The Iranian military has been placed on alert.

 

CNN:

BREAKING NEWS!

IRAN MISSILE STRIKES SAUDI ARABIA

(17:30 UTC 5:30 EST) Following reports of an airstrike by a Saudia Arabian aircraft on an electrical plant in the mountainous area of Iran. A Ballistic Missile hit the city of Buraydah the capital of Al-Qassim Region in north-central Saudi Arabia in the heart of the Arabian Peninsula wreaking heavy damage and loss of life. Iranian government takes full responsibility for the strike. The number of killed and wounded has not yet been reported World leaders expect retaliation by the Saudi Government. United Nations Ambassadors representing both countries were outspoken at a General Assembly meeting this morning Latest updates will follow as soon as they’re received. CNN will cover this event without commercial interruption. Stay tuned for Wolf Blitzer in the Situation Room.