Blaze

B L A Z E

Operation Persian Trinity

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew Thorp King

B L A Z E

Operation Persian Trinity

Copyright © 2016 by Andrew Thorp King

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means—whether electronic, digital, mechanical, or otherwise—without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

 

World Ahead Press is a division of WND Books. The views and opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position or WND Books.

 

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-944212-28-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-944212-29-2

 

 

Printed in the United States of America

16 17 18 19 20 21 LSI 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel is dedicated to all that know me and yet, still love me. To all of my family, close friends and business partners.

To my son Griffin and my daughters, Chloe and Violet. Thank you for allowing me to lock my office door on so many Saturday afternoons to transport my mind into the world of Blaze McIntyre. Thank you for being the source of so much joy in my life.

Although there are too many great friends to mention, I'd like to thank Rami Dakko, Richard ‘Tricky Dick' Downes, and Barry Eitel specifically for their encouragement in the writing of this story and for all their solid support as friends. I'd also like to thank all of the fellas at the Old Havana Cigar club in West Chester, PA. The camaraderie and friendships that exist there are one of a kind.

Special thanks to Tom Wallace and Trevor Martin for all of their keen input and wise suggestions in the shaping and editing process. The manuscript benefited greatly from their ideas. Thanks to Pete ‘Swamp Yankee' Macphee for doing a tremendous job on the cover artwork. He nailed it on the first take.

Contents

1. Acknowledgments
   
2.  
   

1. Wardak Province, West Of Kabul, Afghanistan
   
2. The Mcintyre Residence, Romeo, Michigan
   
3. Langley, Virginia, Office Of Cia Director
   
4. First Baptist Church Of Detroit, Detroit, Michigan
   
5. O'conner's Irish Boxing Club, Detroit, Michigan
   
6. Client's Home, Detroit Michigan Suburbs
   
7. The Roosevelt Room, The White House, Washington, Dc
   
8. Natanz, Iran
   
9. Ramona's Diner, Detroit, Michigan
   
10. China (Memories)
    
11. Laredo, Texas
    
12. The Office Of President Hadi Samani, Tehran, Iran
    
13. Somewhere Along The Streets Of Detroit, Michigan
    
14. First Baptist Church Of Detroit, Detroit, Michigan
    
15. Somewhere In The Suburbs, Detroit, Michigan
    
16. Federal Correction Institution, Fairton, New Jersey
    
17. Henry Ford Hospital, Detroit, Michigan
    
18. Laredo, Texas
    
19. The Office Of Bernie Miller, Detroit, Michigan
    
20. Cliff Bell's Restaurant, Detroit, Michigan
    
21. The Kremlin, Russia
    
22. O'conner's Irish Boxing Club, Detroit, Michigan
    
23. The Oval Office, The White House, Washington Dc
    
24. Federal Correction Institution, Fairton, New Jersey
    
25. The Office Of The Prime Minister, Jerusalem, Israel
    
26. The Office Of President Samani, Tehran, Iran
    
27. First Baptist Church Of Detroit, Detroit, Michigan
    
28. The Office Of President Hadi Samani, Tehran, Iran
    
29. Arash Jafari's Home, Natanz, Iran
    
30. Belfast, Ireland
    
31. The Hampton Inn, Somewhere Near Fairton, New Jersey
    
32. Esfahan Nuclear Facility, Esfahan, Iran
    
33. The Office Of The Prime Minster, Jerusalem, Israel
    
34. Cia Safe House Somewhere Near Esfahan, Iran
    
35. The Mcintyre Residence, Romeo, Michigan
    
36. Esfahan, Iran
    
37. The Kremlin, Russia
    
38. Natanz, Iran
    
39. The Oval Office, The White House, Washington, Dc
    
40. Natanz, Iran
    
41. The Hampton Inn, Somewhere Near Fairton, New Jersey
    
42. Dr. Gabriella Mancini's Office, Washington, Dc
    
43. Evin Prison, Iran
    
44. Cia Safe House, Somewhere In Iran
    
45. Cia Safe House, Somewhere In Iran
    
46. The Foot Of The Alborz Mountains, Iran
    
47. Romeo, Michigan
    
48. Evin Prison, Iran
    
49. Somewhere On I-75 South Leaving Detroit, Michigan
    
50. Somewhere Outside The Perimeter Of Evin Prison, Iran
    
51. The Office Of President Hadi Samani, Tehran, Iran
    
52. Somewhere Over Iraqi Airspace
    
53. The Kremlin, Russia
    
54. The Oval Office, The White House, Washington, Dc
    
55. The Mcintyre Residence, Romeo, Michigan
    
56. Tehran, Iran
    
57. Chincoteague, Virginia
    
58. Bushehr, Iran
    
59. Sartal, Iran
    
60. Belfast, Ireland
    
61. The Office Of President Hadi Samani, Tehran, Iran
    
62. The Mcintyre Residence, Romeo, Michigan
    
63. The Office Of The Prime Minister, Jerusalem, Israel
    
64. The Mcintyre Residence, Romeo, Michigan
    
65. Tehran, Iran
    
66.  
    
67. Epilogue
    :
    Ain't Like You Tattoo Parlor, Detroit, Michigan
    
68. About The Author
    
69. Author's Notes
    
70. Coming Soon From Andrew Thorp King
    

 

“Writing a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement; then it becomes a mistress, and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public.”

Winston Churchill

 

“Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.”

William Butler Yeats

 

“If I had to define courage myself, I wouldn't say it's about shooting people. I'd say it's the quality that stimulates people, that enables them to move ahead and look beyond themselves.”

Clint Eastwood

 

“Our revolution's main mission is to pave the way for the reappearance of the 12th Imam, the Mahdi. Therefore, Iran should become a powerful, developed and model Islamic society. Today, we should define our economic, cultural and political policies based on the policy of Imam Mahdi's return. We should avoid copying the West's policies and systems.”

Former Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

 

“And in that day will I make Jerusalem a burdensome stone for all people: all that burden themselves with it shall be cut in pieces, though all the people of the earth be gathered together against it”

Zechariah 12:3

CHAPTER ONE

WARDAK PROVINCE, WEST OF KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

B
laze McIntyre could see it out of the corner of his eye. An abnormal wind blew behind him. It was a welcomed relief even with the sand it kicked up in his face. The tent behind him quivered from the wind's effects. Blaze focused on the men that had caught his attention. He continued cleaning his gun without looking down. Something didn't look right. He held tight to his weapon feeling a premonition that he might very soon need to use it. It was not a typical day in the desert and he sensed that what he saw was not a typical conversation between blue and green. Just beside the checkpoint area something was brewing. Blue looked calm, but increasingly nervous. Green looked abrasive and increasingly angry.

Blue was the term used to identify those serving with the ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) sent by NATO. Green was the term used to describe those serving in the ANA, the Afghan National Army. All based on uniform color.

The checkpoint had been quiet and uneventful for days. When Blaze arrived at the camp he aroused suspicion and curiosity. His guarded mannerisms fueled the curiosity. Blaze was busy holding secret meetings with several equally mysterious MI6 members. He barely interacted with anyone else there on the NATO side. No one on either the ANA side or the ISAF side was really sure why the hell the clandestine service guys were even there. Blaze sensed this and was glad that his designs had fleshed out. He liked keeping everyone guessing.

His gaze was securely affixed on the arguing soldiers. He could hear the voice of the Afghan soldier in green getting louder and he could see, even with his distant view, the contortions of the Afghan soldier's angry face flinching with agitation. The ISAF soldier's temperament had not changed—despite being yelled at—but it was clear the nature of the conversation was heading in a tense direction. Although Blaze was in Afghanistan on specific CIA business, he knew that he couldn't ignore what he was witnessing. He knew he would have to get involved.

The shot crackled with terror from the gun of the angry ANA soldier. Brain matter flung with an arched trajectory from the head of an unlucky ISAF soldier. Two other NATO-sent ISAF blues tumbled to the ground and howled in agony. Medics scrambled to rescue the wounded blues that surrounded the scene.

His position twisted sharply and he saw the aftermath of the shot. The Afghan soldier had fired quickly and the shot had not been visible to Blaze. But the seriousness of the situation was indeed clear to the American spy. It was time for him to get into the mix.

His legs took on a trajectory of their own as he charged towards the scene of this stupefying growing “incident”. His reaction was instant, but not well thought out. This was, after all, not the typical premeditated spy op he was accustomed to. This was normal warfare with all its spontaneity and unpredictability. The circumstances called upon the instincts that Blaze had honed back in his days in the Marines.

He saw his three newfound MI6 friends responding in kind close by, as they drew their weapons and ran towards the firefight. Blaze took out his Walther P99 as he ran to fight along side his British pals.

Several more Afghan soldiers emerged from behind the checkpoint area ahead. They ran with anger and were screaming and shooting their weapons. Sand swirled in the hot air mirroring the chaos of the moment. Other Afghan greens were fleeing, clearly trying to separate themselves from the rogue Afghans that had turned on the blue ISAF NATO soldiers that they were supposed to be working side by side with.

By the time Blaze got close enough to the checkpoint scene gone wrong, the bullets were flying everywhere. Several whizzed passed his head as he tucked and dodged his way forward. He simultaneously attributed divine protection and Irish luck to the fact that his head was still in one piece. A contradiction in belief that somehow worked well for him.

He said a quick prayer internally that the Almighty would follow him and swarm him with a “pillar of cloud,” as He did for the Israelites fleeing hordes of Egyptian marauders in ancient times.

He heard a scream to his left, and saw one of his new MI6 buddies go down with a thump. Blaze kept moving, it appeared not to be a fatal hit.

Blaze raised his Walther P99 and began firing while running. All the good Afghans had already fled the scene, and all that remained were rogue Afghans shooting brave ISAF soldiers. Blaze killed three rogue Afghans quickly and effortlessly. Two others almost escaped the path of his bullets, but ultimately found death from the flying lead.

His foot trampled the fingers of a dead Afghan turncoat as he continued to spring forward. An excruciating pain surged abruptly in the side of his right calf. Blaze tried to continue running, but fell forward to the ground after only a few steps. He had been hit. He was down.

Blaze had been shot before, and knew the pain of a bullet, but this one hit a particularly sensitive and vulnerable spot. He reached down and clutched his ankle in an attempt to calm the unbelievable pain caused by the flaring nerves that spazzed inside his leg. His eyes flinched and closed as he braced the unrelenting agony. He held in his screams as to not draw attention to himself. He had always disciplined himself to not yell and scream like others in battle. He knew the value of holding in expressions of pain. He opened one eye as he held tight his leg. The Afghan was only a few feet away, and his gun was closer.

Blaze shifted his fallen body with precision. He positioned himself to shoot the oncoming Afghan maggot before he got turned into a bleeding dead pile of red.

Blaze's head tilted back and he escaped any feeling of prolonged pain as he felt a dizzying transition out of his body, while the oncoming bullet transitioned its way through his forehead. Death had come.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MCINTYRE RESIDENCE, ROMEO, MICHIGAN

B
laze hated hearing the acronym PTSD uttered by anyone. He despised all the extraneous and insulting new implications it had recently come to carry. He knew
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
was real, but he refused to have it applied to him. Ever. The nightmares, the mental terrors that plagued him during waking hours, and the images of horror that constantly shrouded his psyche, were all part of the job. Blaze did not welcome any diagnosis or treatment for his condition. He instead pursued assimilation.

His chest was pounding as his heart beat. His breath was heavy and sweat drenched his pillow. Diem was still sound asleep.

After catching his breath, he thanked God that it was only a dream. Additionally, he thanked God that he was never actually shot by the green Afghan soldier that day, and that in fact, that sniveling green puke met his maker with haste as Blaze successfully neutralized what was a military and political cluster fuck. If he could, he would bring that ANA bastard back to life just to have the pleasure of killing him again as extra punishment for the trouble he had helped cause.

He remembered the charade in the press after the incident. Afghan President Hamid Karzai claimed sadness and no knowledge of the impetus of the inside attacks from green on blue. The US generals all claimed that the majority of the Afghans were “still with us” and did not share the rogue mentality of the wayward turncoat Afghan greens. Blaze doubted it. He suspected there were more Afghan soldiers who didn't have the balls to go rogue than the US would ever know or imagine.

Blaze rose out of bed and made his way into the kitchen as he tugged tight on the tie of his navy blue bathrobe. Diem had fresh coffee brewed and ready.
God Bless that woman.
It was steaming, inviting, and precisely as Blaze liked it. Hot and black. He sipped it with a sense of relief as he saw his wife walk into the kitchen. He stood by the counter. Blaze had only slept five hours. Along with the lingering terror of the nightmares, he also suffered a slight sting of a headache from having enjoyed a tad too much Glenlivet the night before. Single malt scotch and late night reading always paired well for Blaze. The hot cup of joe seemed to help alleviate the ailments caused both by his nightmares and the scotch.

He was thirteen years deep into his blessed marriage with Diem. She was a lovely Chinese woman who had put up with his catalogue of idiosyncrasies with more tolerance than one could reasonably expect. Only her beauty exceeded the width of her tolerance.

As Diem reached for her coffee, Blaze gently grabbed her arm and intercepted her as he confessed, “Last night was one of the rough ones. The nightmares again. They hit hard.” In his dreams, there was no fog of war. The images were full color and high definition and he had no nocturnal remote with which to make them stop.

She nodded with understanding and gave him a hug as she said, “You don't have to worry about any of that stuff anymore, baby.”

Shaking off the terror of his night, Blaze settled into his customary seat at the family table while clutching his hot coffee mug with one hand. Although he was in no mood for an unexpected, introspective life talk with his bride over cheerios and a handful of much needed aspirin, he was happy to be awake. Happy to be away from his night terrors. And very happy to be peering at the beauty of his faithful wife.

Diem sat across from him bearing an expression that signaled she had something to say. He looked at her and smiled as he continued to sip his coffee. She began to speak.

“Blaze, I know you miss being in the field, but I really do feel so much safer and happier that you're home now and doing what you do.” Diem took a slow sip of her coffee.

As aspirin frolicked down Blaze's throat, chased by another unrelenting volcanic gulp of decisively bitter black coffee, Blaze slightly grunted and held his tongue. He had left the CIA about a year ago and had been working as a financial planner ever since. He was not adjusting well to being a civilian. He didn't mind wearing the monkey suit every day and chasing every Tom, Dick, Harry, and Frank around the greater Detroit area in an effort to convince them to give an aeronautical fornication about their personal finances, but his heart was certainly not gung ho. As much as the memories of his time in the Marines and the CIA brought pain, regrets, and sorrow, those memories undoubtedly overwhelmed him moreover with pride, nostalgia, and a hunger for further missions. He wanted back in. His balls hadn't dropped out yet.

“I know you're very happy that those days are over, but please don't talk about them with me like that. Let me deal with my transition emotions in my own Irish way—by burying them.” Blaze sounded part Heartbreak Ridge-era Clint Eastwood and part drunken Irish poet with his tone of barely-caffeinated morning gibberish. Imagine Dylan Thomas writing a character sketch of Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Highway all sung by Shane MacGowan of the Irish rock band The Pogues.

“You need to be home more, helping me with the kids and the house. It's good for you. I know it's awkward and unnatural for you, but you'll get over it.” Diem leaned over and gave him a kiss on his forehead as she ran her loving fingers through his slicked back, black hair. Blaze hadn't had an oil change for his pompadour yet that morning and his scalp was screaming for a fresh tube of Brill Cream. His hair cream preference was as outdated as his hairstyle. He had been sporting a fifties style rockabilly greaser look since he left the CIA, but it was starting to become a bit too high maintenance. Made him think about going high and tight again.

“It's definitely not my natural modus operandi. And I'm not so sure it's good for me to be honest.” Blaze was actually increasingly very sure that his current life was not good for him at all. The only thing that caused him to resist that feeling was the happiness in Diem's eyes every time she spoke of his newfound regular presence in the home.

Diem was not taking him seriously at all. She reached down to grab her keys from the basket by the door as she said, “Don't forget to pick up some two percent milk on the way home. Half gallon. Oh, and also, remember Shane has swimming tonight.”

“Got it. Get two percent milk. I guess that's the closest to a mission I'll get for now.”

Diem continued smiling and Blaze granted a reluctant grin knowing she did not appreciate his sarcasm or perceived negativity. Diem left the house to begin her day and Blaze McIntyre retrieved the remote from the counter and flicked on the news on the kitchen TV and poured himself some more coffee.

As he watched the self-important talking heads blabber on with their redundant rhetoric, he was struck with the feeling that the rest of the world was beginning to really suffer economically in the way that Detroit had been for years. The economy had been ever worsening and increasingly unpredictable long after the impotent era of hope and change had dissipated. Not a great time to be selling mutual funds and annuities. People thought 2008 was bad. Over a decade later, it was worse. Blaze was making a living but, given the financial climate, sometimes he felt like he may have been better off grabbing an AK-47 and joining the Somali pirates. Piracy seemed to be the only growth sector these days. The only real skill set needed seemed to be some nominal trigger experience and a penchant for brazen nautical hijackings.
If a nine year old kid in sandals can hang and bang on the high seas, why not me?

Blaze's thoughts were interrupted by the persistent chirp of his cell phone.

“What do you want, you German scam artist? You lose your lederhosen?”

It was Bernhard Miller, Blaze's partner at the firm. Working as a financial advisor with little time under his belt, Bernhard was the perfect business partner for Blaze.

Blaze was fighting many internal distractions by way of lamenting his past profession as a warrior. This had caused a need for him to be under one's constant mentorship at the office. Bernie Miller was the right man for that job. He was loud, obnoxious, and constantly interrupting people in conversation. Emotionally, he was about as sensitive as a cactus shoved where the sun don't shine. Blaze loved him. Somehow.

“What do I want? Are you ever gonna get your Mick self into work today? My books are looking light and I need you to fill them. You ain't good for much else.” Bernie loved to remind Blaze constantly who was driving their business partnership.

“Yeah, I'm making my way. Your old lady just left, Bernie, so I can come in now.”

“She happens to be my ex-old lady and if the divorce was actually real, it would've been the best thing that ever happened to me. Unfortunately, the broad won't stop stalking me and running interference on me dating my secretary.” Bernie had no shame about the complicated nature of his personal life.

“Life's tough when you're a cocky German pimp in much demand. Good thing you're a Midwestern farm boy, cuz east coast broads wouldn't stand you for a millisecond with your Luke Skywalker grin and Smallville stupidity.”

“I hear you, buddy. Finish your potatoes and put your pot of gold in the safe. Then, get your double-grape fruit arse in here so we can make some loot.”

“Double grapefruit? More like double boulder. I'm still in rock solid shape pal.”