Blaze (25 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

THE OFFICE OF PRESIDENT HADI SAMANI, TEHRAN, IRAN

H
adi Samani sat by the phone eagerly awaiting a call from Samere, his trusted Messianic advisor and key man in all things related to the coordinated preparation for the coming of the Mahdi. Samani had heard all the news reports both in the West and on Al Jazeera, and he was ecstatic about the results of their recent operation. Samani was more than pleased with the increasing dividends being paid as a result of the ever-developing relationship between Hezbollah and the Mexican drug cartels. The assassination plots were only the tip of the iceberg.

The phone rang.

“Samere!” Samani could not contain his exuberance.

“President Samani.”

“It appears we've had great success with our mission?” Samani could feel the strength of the proverbial wind at his back.

“Indeed it was a huge success. All three infidel wives, and some children of our enemies, have been eliminated per our plan. Our message will be received loud and clear when the CIA receives our postcard, which by now, they probably already have received. However, it's doubtful that they'll reveal that they've received it. They'll contain their newfound fear within the agency and likely not pass along that fear to their people. Our alliance with the cartels provokes great fear in them. Allah be praised.”

“Allah be praised indeed. What exactly was the message on the card sent to the CIA?” Samani was curious as to the exact language.

Samere explained, “Below the crescent moon it was written the names of the deceased infidels. It was then written on the card that Hezbollah takes full responsibility. They'll get the message. Back off the sanctions, back off the drones, back off the support of Israel. They'll also know from the crime scene patterns as to who we are working with. The rape tree in Utah clearly points to the involvement of the cartel. They know when they see women's bras and underwear hanging from a tree after a murder rape, that the cartel has left their unique mark.”

Samani's smile widened, “This is excellent news. Our source inside the CIA has made me extremely proud. He has served Allah and our Republic well. Have we transferred the wire to him yet through the Lebanese Canadian Bank?”

“Indeed, he has received his worthy compensation for his role. We hope to use him again if he doesn't end up exposed. It was difficult circumventing the OFAC regulations with so many masked layers.” Samere had always pleased Samani with his swift and prompt execution of business matters.

“Good work Samere. I'm proud of your diligence on behalf of Allah and the Republic. Do keep me posted on all other issues pertaining to the coming of the Mahdi and our ongoing war against both the Big Satan, the Little Satan, and all their deceptive ways.”

“As is my pleasure, President Samani. A report will be forthcoming tomorrow.”

“Bye for now, Samere.”

“Goodbye President Samani.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

SOMEWHERE OVER IRAQI AIRSPACE

A
midst the incessant hum of the Osprey V-22 helicopter, Blaze glanced down and managed to notice that his secure sat phone was vibrating. His thoughts of his family receded as he took the call.

“Yeah?” Annoyed, Blaze answered.

“Blaze. It's Gallagher.” There was a tone Blaze detected that he had heard before: hesitant and troubled. It was a tone that preceded terrible news.

“What is it Chuck? The mission went relatively well. We lost one merc, Arash is pretty banged up…but he's alive, and they didn't get anything out of him. What in the hell could be the matter?”

“It's bad, Blaze. I can't tell you over the phone. I'll be at the base in Iraq when you land. We'll talk then. Gotta go.”

Chuck hung up. A tough old bat like him was used to delivering bad news. But this time was going to be entirely different. When it came to informing Blaze McIntyre about the murder of his beloved, Chuck was not so tough. After ending the call, he found himself on his knees hugging a porcelain Kohler toilet bowl, puking furiously as if he was paranormally possessed.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

THE KREMLIN, RUSSIA

M
aksim Koslov was thoroughly annoyed. He had domestic annoyances, foreign policy concerns, and a series of personal ambitions that he felt were not being achieved nearly fast enough. On top of all of that, the international press was reviving an old story about an all female Russian punk rock band that was jailed for two years for voicing their political opinions. Putin had put an end to Pussy Riot with an iron fist, and now that the group was back playing their music throughout the motherland and speaking out against his regime, Koslov was considering turning Pussy Riot into a whimpering prison riot once again.

The icing on the cake of his aggravation was the series of setbacks and hiccups that plagued his ongoing relationship with Iran. He had heard all about the newer, improved Stuxnet-like computer worm that had recently wreaked havoc at Natanz, he was still getting pressure to expedite a cure to the disaster that occurred at Esfahan, and now he had Samani breathing down his neck about the timelines for work at Bushehr.

Maksim picked up the phone and dialed Samani as scheduled.

“Hello Hadi, how are you?” Maksim's tone made it clear the question was rhetorical.

“I'm doing well, our republic is doing well, and our Messiah is approaching his reemergence. The time is near.” Hadi Samani knew that Maksim Koslov was highly irritated with any religious references, let alone the blatant theatrics with which Samani routinely presented his faith. But Samani did not care at all, and his brazenness was growing daily as he truly felt the imminence of the Twelfth Imam.

“Moving on here President Samani, what business of ours do you wish to discuss?”

“First of all, I'm sure you're aware of the unfortunate digital attack on Natanz and the immense setback it has caused to our production there. The Americans and the Jews are relentless with their cyber trickery and the fury of our Islamic revenge will scold them for it tenfold when Allah permits. But for now, we must deal with the issue and recoup as fast as we can. Part of this means that I insist on urgent expedition regarding the scheduled deliveries and production timelines at Bushehr. Are you able to move up the schedule of the scientists and technicians? This is imperative.”

“We've been meeting all of our promised obligations according to our agreements and all of our subsequent addendums. I'll see what I can do about any increased cooperation.” Koslov was placating at best.

“Allah is on our side with or without Russia. This joint venture is an asset for your country, I'd imagine it would behoove you to find a way.”

“Iran needs us with or without Allah on your side. Don't prod me on this. I said that I'd see what I can do.”

“Are the parts on track for delivery this week as scheduled?”

“Yes, they will be there.”

“Excellent. I'm astounded at our recent ability to increase the amount of spent fuel being retained at Bushehr. We've gone from 25% to 35% without the nuclear inspectors noticing. That equates to a great increase in the amount of weapons grade uranium we are able to produce. We are almost at our goal. Our top researcher, a bright young man named Azad, is working feverishly. He will be rewarded greatly.”

“Speaking of keeping off radars, you never mentioned to me the Natanz employee that betrayed you. I had to hear about that from other sources.” Koslov could not believe the story when it was told to him. The Iranians were not known for allowing prisoners to be rescued. That was one thing that Russia and Iran truly had in common.

Samani's lowered his voice to a treacherous tone. It pained him to think of the incident. He was clearly burning with hot rage inside at the thought of the lost captive. “Yes, well, to our dismay, Arash Jafari was rescued, by what we believe was the American special forces, before we made the connection between him and the computer virus at Natanz. You can bet that our internal security at all the plants have been entirely revamped since. That can never happen again.”

“Well you better make sure that nothing of the sort occurs at Bushehr. We have too much invested in this venture.”

“I'll see to that and you see to the quickening of our scheduled plans.”

“I'll see what can be done. Have a good day Hadi.”

“You as well.”

Neither men truly wished either a good day. As is for most powerful men, they wished only for their interests to be advanced and secured.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC

J
ack Fitzsimmons felt good for the first time in a long time. For a man who sat with great power in the Oval Office, Jack Fitzsimmons rarely felt powerful. The majority of the time he could feel his nervous stomach acids eating away at the lining of his gut as his mind raced blindly in a million different directions. Since he had taken office, he had felt as if he had not had the traction to truly implement any of his own vision or agenda. Instead, he felt as if circumstances, exterior powers, and unexpected inertia carried him to and fro haphazardly like a ship caught in an unbridled Nor'easter.

Not today though. Jack was on his second read of his briefing regarding the covert mission in Iran that he had green-lit weeks prior. His foreign spy asset was recovered without leaking any info about his activities or whom he was working with. The team that extracted him suffered only one casualty, and the Iranians were undoubtedly beside themselves. By now, Stuxnet 2.0 was systematically deconstructing their centrifuges and wreaking havoc on their nuclear ambitions. Samani and the mullahs were acting normal in public—threatening the end of Israel, condemning the big Satan, and claiming the Mahdi is with them. Nowhere in the western press, Al-Jazeera, or anywhere did any sign of turmoil surface in regard to Iran's nuclear path. But Jack reckoned not all was so pretty behind the curtain. They had to be sweating the setbacks that they had been dealt, and one could only guess how much more time had just been purchased by the US and Israel, but some serious breathing room had likely just been accomplished.

Feeling satisfied with some success on something, Fitz took in a deep breath. With that, his expected call came through.

“Chaim! How are you this morning?”

“I'm doing well Mr. President. Very eager to hear your thoughts. I did receive and read your report.” The Prime Minister of Israel was all business with Fitz, often times as a means to disguise his inherent dislike of the man.

“Yes, I'm very satisfied with the outcome. Our men have completed several key goals of the Operation Persian Trinity mission. We've caused serious supply interruptions with the raw materials at Esfahan, unleashed the vicious Stuxnet 2.0 virus at Natanz, and successfully extracted our foreign spy asset from captivity at Evin. We still have some work to do at Bushehr, but we've already, undoubtedly, created some substantial breathing room by our efforts.”

“I'm fully aware of these successes and am pleased as well. This is a good and necessary step. But these are only steps. They'll not alleviate the ultimate need for more direct force, and they're only roadblocks in the Iranians eyes, not game stoppers.” Chaim tried hard to keep a tone of gentle disagreement.

“Chaim, I understand your position. That said, I do believe we can continue to contain the Iranian problem through constant disruption, subterfuge and targeted assassinations. No one can afford a military attack on Iran's nuclear facilities. The risks and ramifications are too large.” Fitz's tone was casual and unconvincing.

“I would love to believe you were onto something with your analysis, but I don't, and you know that. We'll give it some more time, now that it appears we have some. But our end game has not changed, as the Iranians end game has not changed. They're charting the course of this charade. We're simply planning necessary responses to ensure our survival. Thank you for all your work and cooperation with these missions, Jack. The people of Israel are extremely grateful.”

“You're welcome Chaim. We'll continue to do what we can, within reason.”

“Yes, of course. Hopefully we'll agree with the definition of ‘reason' as time goes on.”

With that, the call ended. Fitz shook his head with a sense of disbelief in what he viewed as the obstinate nature of the Prime Minister's views. Fitz was never going to authorize an official US attack on Iran and would never publically support an Israeli attack on Iran. Everyone knew this. Fitz still harbored sympathy towards Israel's enemies and resentments towards Israel, but he had to continue pursuing the disruption campaigns. Fitz thought about how different he believed the geo-political landscape would be right now if Israel simply did not exist. In his mind, they were the sticking point holding up so much movement towards progress. All from a country that was the size of Rhode Island.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

THE MCINTYRE RESIDENCE, ROMEO, MICHIGAN

I
t was three thirty in the afternoon and the shades were pulled down and no light was permitted to creep into Blaze's bedroom. There were rarely sounds in the house other than the normal creeks that any house ominously makes when otherwise silence allows them to be audible. Blaze lay in his bed, empty. The bed creaked under his burden as he breathed heavy and shifted his weight. He felt as if a concrete block rested upon his chest.

Occasionally, in moments of heightened pain, Blaze would let out a loud scream of terror. He had showered twice only in the two weeks he had been secluded in his room after returning from the base in Iraq—the base where Gallagher explained the losses that had brought him to this newfound hell.

His face wore a full beard: unkempt and unruly. He wore nothing but boxer shorts and a robe and forced himself to sleep whenever God would allow him that escape. It was not even depression that had struck him, but some affliction of mind and spirit far more blunt, far more debilitating and entirely incomprehensible to understand outside of first hand experience. His flesh felt, at times, as if he was literally being poked by sharp objects that invisibly taunted him.

He thought of Job and envied Job's faith in affliction. Blaze had no such faith in this state. Hope was a conspiracy. A will to live was an unachievable attribute. He tried to get angry but failed. It took ambition to be angry.

Occasionally, Blaze would rise to appropriate sparks of anger and punch the walls that enclosed him. These bursts were short-lived and produced no satisfaction. His soul was drained—bereft of any life. On a good day, he would manage to stumble to a chair by the window and stare out into the daylight. He'd lean his elbows on the cold, white tiles of the windowsill—hoping for hope. He tried to pray but could not. He could only muster a weak human wish. He wished that somehow the light would penetrate the darkness that owned him. He would sit and stare and wait. But the darkness never relented. And the light proved impotent.

Moments arose at times in which Blaze mustered up some defiance. He cursed God and howled at the heavens.
What have I done but try to defend my country? Why did You take her? Why did You take my boy? What have You left me to do? How much do You think I can take? How do You call Yourself a God of love?
Blaze knew in his heart the answers to his cries. He knew God's nature was pure love, but he could not see it or believe it in his agony.

Memories of Diem and Shane stung in his mind and provided both strange comfort and cruel reminders of the loss that had plagued him. His body temperature rose and he became overheated. The emotional tumult drove his bio-chemistry. He thought of the joy that Shane had when he would play guitar and make music. He was getting really good at it and was even writing some impressive originals. The day Shane shot his first rifle stuck out in Blaze's mind as well. He had been so proud of him. He had already become a good shot. The simple things he did with his young son continued to come to mind. Playing a round of horseshoes in the back yard. Grabbing a slice of pizza for lunch. Praying at the dinner table. Lighting fireworks in the back yard.

He remembered the sweet support of Diem. Her loving embrace, even when she was scared. Her understanding nod, even when she had no clue as to why things were happening. Her faith in Blaze's instincts and nature. The way she managed the house and took care of the kids without complaining. She was an amazing mother and made it all seem so effortless. The images flooded his mind. He wasn't sure whether to indulge in them or attempt to push them away. Either way, he couldn't stop his mind and he had no will or energy to move. He lay staring at the ceiling for hours, occasionally leaning over to urinate in a bucket by his bed.

He was proud of Dennis already. Dennis was staying at his aunt Melissa's, Blaze's sister-in-law. Blaze was too distraught to even keep the company of his only living son. He knew Dennis needed him. Blaze needed Dennis too. They would come together and support each other in time, but not now. Blaze needed to heal alone and Dennis would find more tangible support in his aunt. Blaze saw him briefly before retreating to his dark bedroom. He wept profusely and gave Dennis a long, strong bear hug. Dennis was notably unemotional and displayed a strength and maturity way beyond his years.

“You're still here for a reason, Son. You're alive for a reason.” Blaze proclaimed to Dennis.

“I know Dad. Don't worry about me. I'm all right. You'll be too, just wait. Mom and Shane are safe in heaven now. We're still here for a purpose. You'll see. God doesn't make mistakes.”

Blaze pondered the words his son had uttered and tried to let them soak in. He wanted to believe what Dennis had said. He knew in time he would. But right now they were an empty comfort at best.

He thought of what Gallagher had told him. It had finally happened. Everyone had feared that these types of horrors would ultimately emerge. It had been known for some time now that Iran, via Hezbollah, had made real alliances and partnerships with the Mexican drug cartels, but until now, America had not felt any harm from this nefarious marriage.
Hezbollah even had the balls to take responsibility and leave their card.
The enemy was getting brazen and their reach was getting longer. He thought of the other victims. Other CIA families effected. He knew this couldn't go unanswered. This couldn't be permitted to escalate.

Blaze forced himself to think about what happened. He imagined all the details that led to these hits that Iran commissioned, Hezbollah facilitated, and the cartel fulfilled. He tried to focus his thoughts. He tried to arouse his anger in search of some motivation or purpose. He lay in bed struggling through his thoughts, darkness all around him and deep inside him.

He had not eaten in over ten hours and his stomach was beginning to growl. His cell phone had been turned off for weeks. Blaze, in a single motion, swung his body up out of his bed and grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand. He determined to go fix himself something to eat. He turned his cell phone on as he made his way into the kitchen. He couldn't go on hiding like this. He felt his anger and purpose. His phone rang.

“It's about time you picked up your phone.”

“Really? You're gonna talk to me like that after what just happened to me Chuck? Really?”

“Sorry, Blaze. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just…well, we're all just really worried about you. You can understand that, right?”

“Yeah, I understand. And you should be worried. I'm not fine. Not sure I'll ever be.”

“There's someone you should talk to. An old spook who went through something similar. A bit eccentric, but I know he can help. Will you see him Blaze?”

“Who exactly is ‘him'?”

“Yoda.”