Blaze (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA, OFFICE OF CIA DIRECTOR

C
huck Gallagher stood at his desk—a stand up desk that had become his trademark workstation. His colleagues chalked him up as a glutton for self-punishment. To Chuck, the tenacious director of the clandestine services, the stand up desk was a symbol of diligence. It reminded him that literally and figuratively it was his job to never sit down. It was his job to stand and be counted. To stand and fight. To remain steadfast.

Chuck's heart rate was up. He had just finished his morning calisthenics. He felt particularly energized from the vigorous jumping jacks he had performed. As he stood at his work desk, he felt a twitch in his right calf—his muscles were still reeling from his exercises. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his right forearm. He lifted the cup of steaming black coffee to his mouth from his left hand. The black liquid warmed his throat and the caffeine shot quickly into his system. His synapses were firing. He had a lot on his mind.

In a nutshell, it was Iran. The same old unnamed head of the snake since 1979. Their defiant, messianic-driven obsession with obtaining nuclear weapons—and a viable missile system to deliver them—kept Gallagher up at night and angry in the morning. The details of his recent briefings were swimming in his head. He began scratching notes on his yellow notepad.
Stuxnet 2.0
—it was almost ready. The Israeli scientists were working around the clock in the Negev desert for the sequel to the ongoing cyber weapon franchise.
Neo Iranian Nazi Party
—another puzzle piece. This group was on the rise. They co-opted uber-Persian Aryan nationalism and married it with cultish Twelver Shia Islamic eschatology.
Arash Jafari
—a new recruit who was a friend of the CIA's best Iranian spy asset, Reza Kahlili. Reza introduced Arash to Chuck and recommended him for recruitment. This op would be a perfect fit for Arash since he was an IT guy at the Natanz nuclear plant. Yet another likely piece of the puzzle.
Esfahan, Busheher, and Natanz
—the nuke plants. The targets. The objective was to find a way to neutralize these three Iranian nuclear sites as much as possible to buy time and delay the production trajectory.
But how?
Gallagher wasn't yet sure. He needed to assemble all the intel pieces, find the right agents, and get a plan solidified.

He scratched his head and then tapped his coffee mug with his pencil several times as if he was trying to force an insight.
The right team.
He shook his head in frustration.
These young agents don't have the instinct. They have the training, the technology, but they're soft. Anaesthetised by modern life. Pampered with misguided politically correct training.
Gallagher was always fighting an uphill battle with the powers that be over the protocol for the agency's new recruit training. He wished he had his top dog back. Blaze McIntyre. There would be no hesitation to place an operative like Blaze on a mission like this. He wasn't as seasoned as Gallagher, but his spirit was that of the old school agent. He used his training, but he succeeded because of his heart. His track record made him the rock star of the agency. Until he left. A day Gallagher still wished never existed. Gallagher took the last sip of his coffee as he stared at his notes. The last note he wrote was written in all caps, circled and trailed by several exclamation marks—BLAZE!!!

I have to get him back in the game.
Gallagher fantasized—no, he strategized—about a way to persuade Blaze to come back to the agency. He had kept in regular contact with Blaze since he left. Mostly phone calls, but periodic visits as well. They usually went to a shooting range in the Detroit area, fired off some rounds, and then went to a pub and grabbed a pint while shooting the breeze. Sometimes they went to Blaze's boxing gym, O'Conners. Chuck had always jokingly begged Blaze to come back, but never with any serious pleading. That was about to change.

I'll have to slowly put the bug in his ear over a few visits. Looks like I'll be doing some shooting and boxing in Detroit over the next few months.
It was settled. This part of the picture was becoming a bit clearer.
What about the rest of the team?

Chuck knew picking the rest of the team would prove more difficult.
There's always Zack Batt...nah. He's been too reckless lately. Can't stay out of trouble.
Chuck wrestled over the thought of using one of his most complicated covert mercenaries. Zack was a piece of work and he and Gallagher had a very close but tenuous relationship.
If his head is on even slightly more straight than when I first recruited him, he'd probably adapt perfectly to this mission.
Chuck was still unsure.
He resolved to re-visit the idea later.
He decided to hammer out the strategy for the op first, then finalize the team.

But that would have to wait. He had a conference call in three minutes. He scribbled the word
TRINITY
at the top of his page of notes. He then ripped the piece of yellow paper off of the pad and carefully folded it into a square and placed it in his pocket.
I think I got something here.
He walked away from his desk and opened his office door. He needed to take a quick leak before the call started. He stood at the urinal losing water weight with one thing on his mind—how to get McIntyre back on the job.

CHAPTER FOUR

FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH OF DETROIT, DETROIT, MICHIGAN

S
ometimes Blaze didn't know who appeared to be more afraid of him—the terrorists that had the pleasure of meeting his fury in the heat of an operation, or average citizens who gazed upon his appearance as if he was a terrorist himself. It was around eighty-five degrees in mid May and it was beginning to feel slightly humid. It was one of those rare Midwest weather days when spring flirted with summer earlier than June. This was an anomaly that Blaze could deal with. He had changed into camouflage cargo pants and a tight black tee shirt before leaving the gym. He had completed a tougher than usual morning workout, complete with TRX training and an intense kettle bell regimen. Given the unexpected warmth of the day, he now wished he had been wearing camo shorts instead.

He parked his worn 2010 Cadillac CTS sedan across two parking spots in an obnoxious and diagonal fashion. He opened the door of his cherished vehicle with a slow push of his hand. As he stepped out of the sedan, he took the final puff of his Perdomo Patriarch cigar. He tossed the stogie onto the hot tar of the church parking lot asphalt. He watched it bounce and twirl for a second or two. The cigar then met its fate under the heel of his black combat boot. As he hurried toward the church building, he used the lower part of his tee shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. Despite a good shower, it was typical for Blaze to expect some residual perspiration within an hour after a good workout. This usually happened as a result of his motor having been just revved up and still running with high voltage. He was still as lean of a machine as he ever was. This particular day, the extreme vascularity in his arms made his physique pop.

Blaze admired the ethereal look of the ornate stained glass designs on the church's front doors as he opened the one to his right. He loved the imagery of the angels. He had a habit of visualizing the reality of attending angels that he sensed had helped him through many hairy battles in the desert. Angels that watched over him during many lonely nights in dark places where he sat awake waiting to strike an enemy. Soon after he entered the church, he caught the horrified face of the new church secretary. It wasn't everyday that a tattooed, muscle-bound secret soldier wearing combat boots waltzed in.

In Detroit, such an intrusion could very well invoke a legitimate sense of fear and imminent danger. That being said, the church never locked the door. Pastor Liam wouldn't hear of it. He was old school. No cell phone, no home security system, just his shotgun and his Bible. He was the quintessential bitter clinger. When former president Obama had unintentionally branded those who took comfort in guns and religion with that label during his first campaign, it was folks like Pastor Liam he must have had in mind. In regard to the Church doors in particular though, it was more of a welcoming thing for the Pastor. In his mind, God didn't close His doors to anyone, criminal or not. Besides, truth be told, there ain't no criminal in Detroit that would not soon regret trying to mess with Pastor McCardle. There are some skills that nothing can stop—be it the cloth of the pastorate or the drag of the whiskey bottle. And it was those skills that the good Pastor possessed that would halt any criminal dead in their tracks long before their intentions could be made known.

After a few speechless seconds, the secretary continued her deer-in-the-headlights stare and waited for Blaze to speak.

“I'm here to see Liam. Is he in?” Blaze smiled.

“Umm, well, umm. Could I, umm, let him know who wishes to see him?” She was horrified as she stared at Blaze's muscles and ink. She was clearly in her early to mid seventies, or possibly older, and was not at all used to seeing so much indelible art on a man's arms. Her expression did nothing to hide her lack of ability to assimilate what she was looking at.

“Please just let him know that Blaze is here, ma'am.”

“Um, why, certainly.”

She walked with a cautious step down the hall a bit and quietly let herself into Pastor McCardle's office.

“Pastor Liam, um, there is a man here, um, looks like an army man, or something. He calls himself ‘Blaze.' Do you, I mean, were you, expecting him, sir?”

Pastor Liam made a quick note in his weekly planner, doggy-eared the page he was currently reading in a biography on Abraham Lincoln, and slowly closed the bottom right desk drawer with the tip of his loafer. He closed that drawer just before his secretary could see the bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey that hid in there with the cork barely secure. McCardle always favored the protestant whiskey and left the Jameson to the Catholics.

“Why, yes, he's a bit early. But, um, yes, you can tell him to come in. Thanks Betty.” McCardle was looking forward to his meeting with Blaze. But, as always, he wasn't quite sure if he was ready for it.

After being retrieved by the hesitant secretary, Blaze walked back to Pastor McCardle's office. He gave two light knocks to the slightly open door and decided to just walk in before Pastor gave him permission. Waiting for permission to see what was behind a door was not Blaze's modus operandi given his past line of work.

“Top of the mornin' to you Pastor.”

“Hello, Blaze, have a seat, my friend. It's good to see you.” Liam smiled.

“You too Liam. As usual, once I sit my ass down in this seat, I'm sure I'll discover a whole new unopened bag of issues for us to dig into.” Blaze could not hold back on his tendency to lay it all out on the table instantly.

“Blaze, please my friend, I've told you before about the language.” Liam was really not offended by the nominal use of foul language, but he knew that sometimes Blaze used it liberally in his presence for the explicit purpose of trying to get a rise out of him.

“I know Pastor, you're right. I'm taking baby steps. I'm weaning off the f-bomb and employing damn, hell, and ass like it's a nicotine patch. It's tough to quit cold-turkey.” Blaze chuckled lightly.

Despite Blaze's faith, his practice of that faith still had many gaps. Control of the tongue being one of them.

McCardle smirked and waived his hands dismissively. “Enough of that already! Please, tell me, how are things? How can I help today?”

Blaze kicked his booted feet up on the Pastor's desk and leaned back a bit on the chair as he began to exhale after a very telling deep breath.

The Pastor's eyes widened slightly at Blaze's audacity in making himself so comfortable. After a moment, he then relaxed in acceptance of Blaze's boldness. For Blaze's part, it was hard enough for him to open up as it was. It certainly wasn't going happen if he couldn't kick his feet up, kick back, and get fully comfortable. Taking ownership of his immediate environment was Blaze's most unfettered instinct.

“Well, first off Pastor, this whole civilian thing is tearing me up inside. I swear I'm living in another person's body. Like I'm enacting another person's daily routine or completing the drudgery of someone else's boring suburban life. Sarcastic and negative enough for you?” Both men laughed.

“You certainly must think high of yourself to assume you're so special and above the mundane. Is this merely a matter of you needing more time to adjust or is it something else entirely? You've only been out for a year.” Liam thought best to start off with a soft challenge.

“It's something else entirely. It's a rhythm deep in my veins that is signaling to me that this ain't right; that I'm destined to return to the service of my country. I've been trying very hard to enjoy the normal life and go about the business of work, family, and the rest of it, but I can't ignore what's tugging at my soul. You know why I decided to retire and come back to civilian life. Diem was incessantly worried. She ragged on me to get out to no end. Then, you compound that with the perpetual guilt and conflict I deal with about the things I've done.” Blaze sat quiet for about thirty seconds as he pondered his past.

Then he continued, “You know that I've seen carnage that no one should ever have to see at such proximity. I've held the lifeless bodies of dead friends in my arms so many times that the last incident barely ignited any emotion in me, except guilt—guilt because I couldn't feel emotion. And where is God in all this? My faith has gotten me through many difficult times, but many difficult times have also weakened my faith. It's a paradox that still applies now. Some days I have tremendous trust and I know where I stand. Other days, darkness takes over, I curse humanity and feel abandoned by the Almighty. Sometimes to the point where I doubt His intentions. It makes me feel very, very violent. My mind often plays tricks on me.” Blaze began to shake as he revealed the dark terrors of his soul.

“Blaze. This tugging. Tell me more.” Pastor McCardle leaned forward and beckoned him with both hands.

“Truth is Pastor, I'm not happy unless I'm in combat or in the middle of an op. I'm at peace when I'm in the process of searching and destroying. As much as guilt, darkness, and conflict plague me as a result of the violence of my world, it's also the very current that provides purpose and satisfaction.”

“The tugging. This is it.” McCardle nodded his head.

“It's a sick, sick dynamic, I know. But it's the truth. I was made for this. I was made to fight, to train, to hunt, to kill. Made to protect this glorious republic we call America. My disdain for America's enemies is my gift.” A prolonged silence fell upon the room and Blaze stared with conviction into McCardle's eyes as if to cement the weight of his words.

Pastor McCardle finally broke the heavy silence. “I know full well what you describe. My experiences have been less intense than yours. But having been part of the struggle in Northern Ireland, I do very much understand the basic construct of your disposition. God has crafted you for a very specific purpose. One that isn't found in many.” Liam leaned in and lowered his voice to a serious whisper. He looked Blaze straight in the eye to reinforce the conviction of the charge he was making. He continued, “Your ability to assimilate the death, depravity, and violence is a gift. It gives you more strength than it drains from you. Most crumble upon contact with that world, yet you engage with it and find your strength there. The world needs you. America needs you. Good needs you. I think you know what you need to do. You're not living within your calling right now.”

Blaze let Liam's words sink in for a moment. Then he responded, “I know. I do. I really do. But I'm so weary of fighting with Diem on this. You know how women can be. They're an entirely different species from men. And I'm an entirely different species than even most men.”

“This is true, Blaze. They're a different species indeed.”

“I don't care how many books have been written to the contrary, but it's common frickin' sense. Girls like to sing, and dance, and wear dresses. Boys like to fight, watch things get blown up, and carry guns. Little girls like Hello Kitty, pretty dresses, and princesses. Little boys like fire trucks, garbage trucks, and plastic AK-47's. The only way I'd ever get Diem to sign on to the idea of my going back into the field would be if her natural, maternal protective instincts were provoked by one of our children being in danger. That's the only time you'll get a woman to become a warrior. You threaten their children and watch out. If those damn Islamo-facists were smart they'd start tapping into that reservoir of power. If my kids were in danger I could get Diem to blow up anything, shoot anyone, and jump out of any airplane. But yet she can't seem to understand that I have the same instincts when it comes to the threats facing our country.”

Liam responded with his thoughts on the threats facing the country. “Blaze, you know I've expressed to you before my sense as to what's developing on the world stage. I believe the times we live in now are more than unique. It's been many years since the Cold War, and still a few since we saw Putin re-take power when Medvedev was finished. But this new leader in Russia, this Maksim, he's like Putin on steroids. If there were ever a shred of free press or free speech in Russia in the first decade of this century, it has all been poisoned and eradicated by now. There's no autonomy for any entity, business, or person outside of the meticulous control of the Kremlin. Medvedev and Putin treated Obama with irreverence, but Maksim is outright mocking this Fitz with brazen arrogance. The Kremlin placated Bush, used Obama, and is now laughing at Fitz.”

Blaze nodded trying to wrap his arms around the point that Liam was driving at. Then he said, “Oh, I know. Maksim is laughing right in our faces and has been for a while.”

Liam continued, “And as goes for this Fitz, true Christian or not, he's driving the country in the wrong direction fast. He really makes Jimmy Carter look like Churchill.”

“True Christian or not, he's driving the country in the wrong direction fast.”

Liam went on, “Fitz has no clue how to approach the new Russia that is hell-bent on re-establishing the Soviet Empire and is increasingly transparent in regard to its designs on the Middle East. They no longer merely assist Iran in its apocalyptic ambitions and then downplay it publicly. No longer do they simply run political interference at the UN every time an effort is made to hold Iran accountable for its nuclear ambitions. Now Russia is crystal clear in admitting its alliance with Iran. There's no mistaking this partnership, this tightly knotted duo of pending doom.”

Blaze interjected, “Liam, what are you getting at?”

“Let me finish, Blaze. I'm describing important things here. As I was saying, Iran also has galvanized strong ancillary support in the region with Sudan, Libya, Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, and others. They're all standing stridently by Iran's side. The storm clouds are very thick now Blaze. If they were on the horizon last decade, they are now in our face. I can't in good faith believe otherwise than that the War of Gog and Magog that Ezekiel prophesied more than twenty five hundred years ago is right at our doorstep and will soon come to pass. That being the case, your service is greatly needed. This is the point. I don't know God's will, and I pray I'm wrong in my analysis. Maybe there are actions and decisions that can thwart this now and delay the prophecy so that more can come to faith. I don't know. But if there is anyone that ought be in the arsenal of the United States of America's military force or covert op pocket right now, it's you Blaze. It's you.”