Jericho 3 (23 page)

“Every Muslim?”

“Oh, no. Not even close. But the current Iranian regime…the Muslims in control of Iran today…they want rational annihilation.”

“They’re a bunch of radicals!”

“Billy, one man’s ‘radical’ is another man’s ‘rational.’ But here’s the problem: what about the 200 million more Shiite Muslims who follow this same brand of Twelver Islam? Do they secretly disagree with the interpretations of this Iranian regime? I haven’t heard any other Twelvers
condemning
them. Now add in the other 1.4 billion Sunni and Shiite Muslims. Would any of them be terribly upset if Iran wiped Israel off the map? Or would they reject Israel’s destruction on the grounds of being Islamic pacifists who preferred instead to live side-by-side in peace, content to wait for the Islamic messiah to reveal himself later on?”

“So…
you
think a type of quasi-rational theory is in play,” Finn concluded. “The west is using
their
rational
diplomacy
, and the east is using their rational
theology
?”

“Exactly! We try to discourage Iran with western rational theory actions: sanctions, rebukes, then more sanctions…Iran responds with rational eastern theory and theocratic policies: shut down the Internet, suppress the popular revolt, then prepare the nukes and bio-weapons for the rationally-required annihilation of Israel that ushers in the Mahdi,” Camp said with almost complete exasperation.

“So, what if we think outside our rational western box and deny them first-strike capability?” Finn asked.

“Shoot the suicide bomber before he detonates?”

“It won’t change their theology...but it will slow them down,” Finn reasoned.

Camp stared out at the passing streets, cars and buildings without really seeing anything as he grew introspective.

“I’ve spent my entire career wearing this uniform, Finn, and here I sit not really sure why nations go to war in the first place.”

“Well, Rome marched into Carthage to crush a resurgent rival. Prussian General Von Clausewitz waged war as an act of force designed to compel his enemies to do his will. But the Jewish Talmud says it best,” Finn theorized. “There are only three universal reasons for war.”

Billy Finn fell quickly silent as he leaned forward and looked into the driver’s rearview mirror at the same unmarked car that had been following their sedan through the streets of Ashgabat since they left the airport.

“What is it?” Camp asked referring to his silence.

“Money, ideology-religion, and power.”

The sedan stopped curbside in front of the Turkmenistan Hotel, a comfortable Soviet-era three-story cinder block hotel with 90 rooms and five suites, all packaged from the outside with sea foam green paint and dark green awnings covering petite wrought iron patios.

Finn noted the trailing sedan as it pulled a u-turn after passing the hotel then parked on the opposite side of 19 Bitarap Turkmenistan Street.

“So be western irrational for a second, Finn,” Camp said as they exited the sedan, tipped the driver and made their way into the hotel and the reservations desk. “You heard what Omid was saying about the Twelvers. What would you do?”

“There’s only one way, Camp…cut the head off of every snake that comes out of that pit. Shoot the suicide bomber before he pushes the button.”

“But don’t blow the entire snake pit up?”

“Nope. That’ll piss off every other snake and make ‘em even more aggressive.”

“And how do you suppose we just chop off heads, Mister Irrational?” Camp asked.

Billy Finn smiled as he laid his passport down on the counter.

“Look the other way when the chopping starts. Get someone inside the pit to chop the heads, or just get it done yourself.”

The front desk clerk smiled and greeted the two American guests.

“You gotta be kidding,” Camp whispered as she processed Finn’s room. “CIA?” The clerk handed Finn his room key as Camp put his passport down on the counter.

“You have a beard now, Mister Campbell. It’s hard to recognize you from your photo,” the clerk said as Camp smiled and stroked his fledgling beard from the Hindu Kush mission that he’d all but forgotten. Finn leaned over and whispered.

“Mossad.”

National Interagency Biodefense Center

BSL-4 Facility

Fort Detrick, Maryland

G
eneral Ferguson and a new detail of coffee-pouring majors from the Pentagon pulled through the security gates at Detrick. The checkpoint guards called Lieutenant Colonel Raines immediately as instructed. Raines grabbed Dr. Groenwald, and they headed down the elevator without buttons to the atrium where they waited for Ferguson.

“General Ferguson, welcome to Detrick, sir, it’s great to see you again,” Raines said as she shook the general’s hand and introduced herself to his majors. “This is Dr. Groenwald who runs the facility.”

“Pleasure to meet you, doctor,” Ferguson said. “Colonel, how’s your health?”

“Medical cleared me to start running again and, other than being a bit winded I feel just about 100 percent.”

“Glad to hear it, colonel.” Ferguson’s eyes fixated on the coffee bar in the atrium. “Think we can grab a cup of high octane before you give me the briefing?”

Five cups of coffee in hands, Dr. Groenwald conducted the standard briefing then the entourage entered the elevator without buttons and rode it to the floor where a card reader and Raines’ biometric scan allowed her to go. Everyone took their seats in the conference room. Ferguson hesitated and almost seemed lost when Dr. Groenwald took the chair at the head of the table, so Ferguson quickly sat side saddle across from Raines.

“Last we spoke…you had successfully cooked up a vaccine-resistant recipe for tularemia. ‘Four Dead Monkeys’ I believe was the headline on your brief. Where do we stand today, colonel?”

“Sixteen. Sixteen more dead monkeys, sir.”

Ferguson rubbed his balding head.

“Well, that’s not good. Obviously, you have created quite a recipe. I suppose you don’t want to work on the manufacturing side of the equation until you master the vaccine.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Do you think we should manufacture domestically, colonel?” Ferguson asked.

“The issue is FDA oversight and additives. Could be dicey, sir. Dr. Groenwald has put me in touch with two pharmaceutical companies in Europe, one in Germany and one in France. I’ve spoken with both, and I believe the one in Lyon, France – called LyonBio – has the manufacturing capacity we would need and lacks the public visibility, scrutiny and potential hysteria that we’d prefer to avoid.”

“Animal testing?”

“Yes, sir, they are equipped to handle the necessary applied research with animal testing to make sure the vaccine is effective, efficacious and safe.”

“Animal rights groups?”

“Not so much in southern France, sir.”

“Transportation?”

“For the vaccines, we ship at intervals when supply is ready. Antibiotics? If an outbreak occurs in the Middle East, northern Africa, or Europe, LyonBio could drop and ship five million doses within 48 hours. That’s not for manufacturing – that’s the time needed to ship. They’d need 72 hours for shipping to Southeast Asia, the Pacific Rim, North and South America. But our outbreak models suggest that the Middle East is more likely.”

“Israel in particular?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dr. Groenwald, is 48 hours good enough?” Ferguson asked.

“As you know, the incubation period is three to five days from exposure. That’s the time window before health officials connect the dots and identify it as tularemia, unless someone announces they released this bio-weapon, which in that case, we can move very quickly. But the colonel is correct. Prevention is a better option than treatment.”

“What symptoms are we looking at?”

“The patient experience starts with chills, pus in the eyes, fever, headache, muscle pain and joint stiffness. Most will assume they have the flu. Unless a physician orders a blood culture for tularemia, it could go undiagnosed.”

“Then what?”

“If they contract the bacteria through the skin, then we’d expect ulcers and open sores to start appearing. That would be the best kind of tularemia to contract.”

“Inhalation?”

“If they breathe it in, then fever, sore throat, abdominal pain, diarrhea and vomiting for sure,” Groenwald described. “Untreated or undiagnosed, five-to-15 percent will die. If the lymph nodes swell and pneumonia sets in, mortality could reach 60 percent without antibiotics.”

“General Ferguson, the problem is that you only need 10 to 50 microscopic bacterial organisms in order to be infected,” Raines added. “With vaccines and antibiotics, the survivability tables look good. But the panic and fear will be more contagious. Most people will live – but everyone will be scared to death.”

“Colonel, I asked you to run some outbreak models for an aerosolized attack on Israel.”

“Yes, sir. Israel has a population of roughly seven million people with another four plus million living in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank.”

“You think they’d attack Muslims?”

“Perhaps not overtly, general, but tularemia bacterium is no respecter of persons. It doesn’t care if it infects Jews, Muslims, Christians, men, women, the elderly or children on a playground.”

“How many doses, colonel?”

“It’s not practical to vaccinate nearly 12 million people against something that might not happen or to prepare 12 million antibiotic treatments without an outbreak. But given the geographical constraints, Israel is a target-rich environment.”

General Ferguson stood up and walked to the door.

“Colonel, Rhode Island is the smallest state in the union, both in terms of land mass and total area. You could fit Israel inside of Rhode Island…two and a half times.”

Groenwald and Raines followed Ferguson and his entourage out into the hall. They rode the elevator with no buttons down to the atrium and then outside into the light rain.

“You’re on the clock, colonel. I need a vaccine,” Ferguson said as he started to walk away.

“Sir, I’m working as fast I can. I want to get the research done so that I can join Captain Campbell in Tel Aviv as soon as possible.”

Ferguson stopped on a dime, turned and walked back as the majors covered his head with an umbrella.

“Colonel, unless you two are planning to honeymoon in Israel, no one is going to Tel Aviv. Am I clear?”

The general didn’t tarry for an answer. A clear and direct order had been given.

Caesar’s Palace Casino

Las Vegas, Nevada

B
rady Kenton kissed his wife Karen goodbye in the rear parking lot employee entrance where she worked as the assistant front desk manager at Caesar’s Palace.

“Love you, babe. See you in a few hours.”

She smiled and caressed his cheek.

“Be careful up there today, okay?” she said as she left for her eight-hour shift.

“Chinese carryout tonight; its Tuesday you know,” Brady said as she winked and walked into the Palace.

Brady plugged in his iPod and headed off to work, 40 miles down Highway 95 toward Indian Springs, Nevada. The driver’s window on his Chevrolet Silverado stayed down the entire drive as the warm desert air blew through Brady’s short, cropped hair. He stopped at the main gate and showed his badge.

“Good morning, Captain Kenton,” the checkpoint guard said as he greeted U.S. Air Force Captain Brady Kenton back to Creech Air Force base for another day of work.

General Wilbur “Bill” Creech was a trailblazer. During the Cold War era it was Creech who encouraged the military to pursue a new era of modern weapons and tactics coupled with decentralized authority and responsibility.

Captain Kenton was about as decentralized as any Air Force combat pilot could possibly be. Kenton moved quickly into the main gaming room where third shift aviators were more than thrilled to see their replacement crews.

“Good morning, Jack. Kill any bad guys last night?” Kenton asked as he moved into the 17th Reconnaissance Squadron’s large brown leather swivel chair in front of the video screens, computer monitors, keyboard and flight throttle.

“Not much going on, Brady. Late afternoon Kandahar time we had an MRAP pinned down on patrol with small arms fire. They got ground back-up within minutes, so no hellfire’s from ‘Kate.’ She’s back sun-tanning on the ground and waiting for you.”

Captain Brady Kenton was a drone pilot. Since these modern day, remote Air Force pilots couldn’t paint traditional naming signs on their UAVs, Captain Kenton had affectionately named his drone after the latest swimsuit model sensation, Kate Upton.

More than 7,000 drones were in use during the height of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Every one of them were given unofficial nicknames, depending on the shift and the pilot.  As Iraq wound down, many of those drones and the MQ-1 Predators were transferred to joint Air Force / CIA control over the lawless regions of North Waziristan, Pakistan.

But Kate was different. She was wearing hardly anything at all and was practically naked, at least on a radar screen. Built by Lockheed Martin, Kate was a bat-winged RQ-170 Sentinel, a sophisticated stealth spy drone.

Shift Commander Lieutenant Colonel Abrams walked in and took the seat next to Captain Kenton briefly.

“Brady, we just received a special joint mission request from the SECDEF and Langley.”

“Pakistan?” Kenton asked eagerly hoping to get some heat drops on a special Al Qaeda target or two.

“Negative. Kate’s going over Iran.”

“Whoa,” Kenton said as he quickly punched up Iranian maps and topography on his computer screens. “Nukes?”

“Bio. Special Ops got a tracking beacon on a machine they think the Iranians might want for aerosolizing a biological weapon. The satellites picked up the device in Damghan.”

Kenton quickly honed in on Damghan.

“North 36, east 54, got it. Chemical and biological weapons production facilities. Bet you didn’t know this, colonel,” Brady Kenton said with schoolyard delight.

“School me.”

“Damghan is the pistachio nut capital of Iran, in the Khorasan Province,” Captain Kenton said as he read from his computer screen.