Jericho 3 (39 page)

Sitting on the ledge of her tub, wearing an open white robe, she picked up her cell phone and made one last call. The call went to voice mail as she knew it would.

“Hey sailor…I know you’re probably somewhere over the Atlantic and sound asleep by now…just want you to know that I’m naked, well, almost naked…and ready for a three-hour bath, an entire bottle of wine, and 100 hours of sleep…but guess what…I miss you already. Give me a call when you land so I know you made it home okay…miss you.”

Raines ended her call and powered her iPhone to off.

ISAF Headquarters

Kabul, Afghanistan

G
eneral Ferguson, Billy Finn and two coffee-pouring majors were carrying their food trays and looking for an open table in the DFAC. Finn was positioned right in front of one of the 10 flat-screen TVs that played news, sports and movies – all courtesy of the Armed Forces Network.

The noise in the DFAC prevented anyone from hearing the TVs but they served as conduits of moving wallpaper back to the real world nonetheless.

“Did Camp seem excited about his new assignment at Walter Reed?” Ferguson asked as Finn speared his tossed green salad.

“Seemed to be. Better than coming back to OEF,” Finn said.

Finn noticed Major Spann’s fixation with the news report and looked up.

“I’m at a loss about what to do with that man,” Ferguson said with his back to the TV. “Maybe getting back in a hospital is the best thing for him.”

Finn put his fork down, got up and ran over to the TV so he could hear the report on CNN.

“What is it?” Ferguson said finally turning around.

“The Iranians claim that Israel, through the covert action of Mossad, has assassinated another high level military officer. Colonel Farid Amir was visiting family in Markazi Province when a motorcyclist attached a magnet bomb to his car and drove off as the blast killed the Iranian colonel. No other injuries were reported. Israel denies that it had anything to do with the Iranian officer’s death.
”

Finn ran out the back door of the DFAC and back to the general’s office.

Tel Aviv, Israel

T
op level officers from Shin Bet, Aman and Mossad were gathered in the conference room closest to Reuven’s command center.

Yitzhak turned the TV off.

“Was this the man you met with?” Major General Shalom from Aman asked.

Reuven nodded.

“But this wasn’t us,” the officer from Shin Bet hoped.

Reuven shook his head.

“Have you heard from the American?” the general pushed.

Reuven was silent.

“Then we have no choice. There is a firm plan. We know the plan thanks to Iranian military intelligence. We must strike first.”

Reuven was powerless to offer a different solution as the general from Aman went to prepare for an all-out military attack as Shin Bet would try to protect the people of Israel.

Yitzhak stayed with Reuven alone in the conference room for a few more minutes then finally left as well. Reuven stared ahead at the wall. His face was void of emotion.

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and pulled out his phone. He was tired of the chain. He called the number directly.

Camp answered on the second ring.

“Yes.”

“Shepherd’s Pie?”

“Molly Bloom! How the hell are you?” Camp said with great enthusiasm.

“Where are you?”

“Just went through customs after a long flight home. Feels good to be home, my friend.”

“You’ve not seen the news?”

Camp stopped in his tracks and put his bag down.

“What news?”

“The festival has been pushed up…by two weeks. Your friend from the Hindu Kush…he’s dead.”

“Why?” Camp demanded. Reuven could hear the anger in Camp’s voice.

“It wasn’t us.”

“Why does that seem hard to believe right now?”

“If I wanted him dead, he would have never finished his picnic.”

Reuven paused and let the silence and realization sink in for Camp.

“So…he tried to stop it, they killed him and they moved the plan up,” Camp finally said as the pieces started to come together.

“I must reach your scientist, Shepherd’s Pie…we have moved to ‘orange’. There is not much time now.”

“Okay, Molly, do we need to play all this covert code shit, innuendos and chain calls, or do you want her name and phone number?”

Reuven rubbed his eyes and blew the frustration out of his mouth. There was little time left to maintain controlled conversation security and Reuven had to move quickly.

“I know her name, give me the number…call her first and tell her to expect my call.”

LyonBio

Lyon, France

T
he office phone in Raines’ lab was ringing. It was the first time it had rung since she was in France. Raines had forgotten that she even had a desk phone.

“Leslie Raines.”

“Les, I’ve been trying to reach you for almost 18 hours.”

“Camp,” Raines said with comfort.

“Are you okay?”

“Didn’t you play my message? I took a long bath, drank a full bottle of wine and slept for nearly 20 hours straight. I forgot to turn my phone back on. Sorry.”

“Les…we have big problems. I have to speak ambiguously, so track with me. Les, the rabbit is coming earlier than we planned.”

The rabbit
, she asked herself.
Rabbit fever…the tularemia.
Raines was panicked.

“How much earlier?”

“Two weeks earlier. The rabbit may be visiting our friends as early as a week from today.”

“Camp…it won’t be ready by then. You know that, right?”

“How much? How much can you have ready?” Camp begged.

“I don’t know…some…nowhere close to all of it.”

“Les, you’re going to get a call from a man. I gave him your number. Don’t ask questions just give him answers. Imagine every question he is about to ask you and have the answers ready.”

“Good God, Camp…you’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared, Les. I’m scared.”

“What’s his name?”

“Doesn’t matter. Call him Molly Bloom.”

Beirut Luna Park

Beirut, Lebanon

T
he 50 balloon teams met in a classroom at Beirut Arab University. The teams were sponsored by several governments, businesses, news organizations and even airlines. The prize money was put up by QLS, a research organization based out of Islamabad with offices in Iran, the United Arab Emirates and Yemen. Qazvin Life Sciences was highly regarded throughout the Middle East, and Dr. Markazi was their ambassador of goodwill.

“I am Dr. Markazi and on behalf of the many event organizers, I am pleased to welcome you to the first annual Unity Festival. First, I want to thank you for arriving early. The weather forecasts for late October were growing worse by the day. The entire world will be watching, so we wanted to make sure that our skill and expertise were on full display with proper conditions.”

The 50 pilots and their teams were excited. The prize money was certainly a good incentive, but the international television news coverage was just plain seductive. Every balloon was painted with the decorative logos of sponsoring businesses, governments and universities.

“This will be a very challenging race. From Beirut to Port Said is 418 kilometers, or 260 miles. We expect the wind to be blowing from north to south. You may use your own judgment, but we recommend that all pilots stay at 3,000 feet and below,” Kazi said.

“What about the Zionists?” one pilot shouted out.

“Obviously, do not stray or even navigate over their non-existent territory. International law indicates that every country’s territorial waters extend for 12 nautical miles, or 14 miles by car.  But I’m quite certain the Zionists will have international blood on their hands if they shoot down hot air balloons during a Unity Festival race.”

The room erupted in laughter and applause

“Come as close to the Zionist’s coast line as you feel comfortable doing. But smile for the cameras. Every television news network in the world will have their cameras focused on you as you fly past Tel Aviv. Your skill, proficiency and speed will be on display for the entire world to see. If you are too far out above the Mediterranean, you will not be seen on TV. That is why we are offering a 5,000 Egyptian pound bonus for every team that is filmed on western TV news. Brothers…every team. That’s a huge bonus.”

The room filled with thunderous applause.

“Each team has different skills. There must be two people in every balloon. To level the competition and make it fair among all teams, each balloon must take a separate vapor tank on board, which is designed to eliminate the advantage that a lightweight team might have over a heavier team. The heaviest team is the benchmark. If the heaviest team weighs 300 pounds, for example, and the lightest team weighs 225 pounds, then the lightest team must carry a 75-pound tank of water. Each balloon will have additional water tanks added to their balloon, depending on the weight deficit between them and the heaviest team.”

The pilots were not thrilled with that rule. If every team was even from the start then no team would be a clear winner. Dr. Markazi addressed that.

“As soon as you cross into the Zionist’s air space and you can see the hook in the shoreline that is Haifa, you can start to vaporize your water, reduce your weight, and increase your speed. If you start to vaporize your ballast weight before you get to Haifa, then you will be disqualified.”

Dr. Markazi lifted up one of the water ballast tanks and the vapor unit that was attached to each.

“I have personally built each one of these systems. Simply turn this knob, when you are over Haifa, and the water ballast in your tank will start to burn off. Any questions?”

The elderly woman, sitting in the middle of the room with various members of Luna Park’s employees and event organizers, pressed the clicker in her hands and snapped photos as Kazi demonstrated the vapor unit he had built.

The room full of pilots and teams were more than excited.

“Next Tuesday morning at 8:00am, the Unity Festival race begins from Luna Park. Once your ship has been inspected and your ballast tank has been filled according to your weight, you will receive your ribbon and will be ready to fly.”

A young man from the back of the room raised his hand.

“Yes.”

“Dr. Markazi, are you a hot air balloon pilot? Are you racing?”

“No, I’m a nitrogas RC pilot, an astrophysicist and a microbiologist. My grandfather is the head of QLS, and he’s putting up the prize money. But balloons don’t go fast enough to suit me.”

The audience of pilots and crew laughed and were probably relieved that Markazi wasn’t one of their competitors.

“Now, as a special treat, reporters from three major Arabic networks are about to come in. They want to interview you, learn about your skills and abilities. Talk to them about Islamic unity. Make your countries and your God very proud of you.”

A proud round of applause greeted Dr. Markazi as he exited the platform as news crews entered the room on cue. He paused and spoke with one of his assistants.

“Make sure that every ballast tank brings the weight of each team to the maximum.”

“I understand, Kazi.”

The woman left the room behind Kazi as members of the media and press entered.

Lyon, France

R
aines was in her rental car driving over to the apartment in the BioPark when an unknown call appeared on her iPhone. She was nervous.

“Hello.”

“Were you told to expect my call?”

Raines swallowed and paused.

“Is this Molly Bloom?”

“Please listen carefully…I am bringing a commercial airliner into your city at 2:00am on Sunday morning. I need you to bring all that you have with you, in trucks, so we can load the plane. Is that clear?”

“I understand, but there is not enough time to manufacture the amount you need.”

The voice on the other end paused.

“Give me your best guess…how many can you serve in our restaurant by this Sunday at 2:00am?”

Raines had anticipated the question, and she had done her dose calculations. It would not be smooth, and certainly not professional, but it could work.

“I can’t serve you the soup in individual bowls in that amount of time,” Raines said as she tried to explain the challenges of preparing individual doses. “You will have to ladle it out with your own spoons…one-point-seven, maybe two million can be served, and give them three drops each.”

Raines heard Reuven’s fingers on a keyboard. She assumed he was doing some quick calculations.

“See you Sunday.”

Tel Aviv, Israel

Yitzhak looked at the scratch marks on Reuven’s tablet.

“B
ring me two of the best meteorologists in Tel Aviv. And get the director to call the Ministry of Health in Jerusalem. We need to meet tomorrow morning.”

“Anything else?” Yitzhak asked.

“Yes. Arrange a meeting with the news directors from each TV station in Tel Aviv. Have them attend the meeting with the meteorologists and the Ministry of Health.”

Reuven went home, kissed the heads of his sleeping sons and got into bed next to his wife. His eyes stared at the ceiling as the digital clock on his nightstand counted the minutes. He was up in the kitchen pouring his coffee long before his wife or children even stirred.

The Health Minister was not pleased that her morning calendar was cleared by Mossad with just one phone call, but she didn’t mind the inconvenience of an exquisite helicopter ride from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. The news directors played coy and were calculating the angles they could use to beat the other with a scoop on whatever news story was about to break. The two weather forecasters thought they had died and gone to heaven. They were intercepted at their homes by Mossad agents before they could drive to work. Now they were sitting in Reuven’s command center, a secret lair in an unmarked building in the middle of Tel Aviv.

Coastal maps of Israel – from Kfar Rosh HaNikra in the farthest point north, to Haifa, Netanya, Tel Aviv, Ashdod, and the Gaza Strip to the south – were all affixed to the walls in Reuven’s secret post.