Abe Marks sat in his office chewing the end of a pencil, as he normally did when perplexed with a problem, it was a standing joke that the purchasing budget always had a ten-percent uplift to account for Abe's pencils. Abe stared at his secure com-unit as if it were booby- trapped. The problem was, whether to contact his cousin Ben Marks, the Israeli Minister of Security, firstly there had been a rift in the family, and secondly Abe wasn't sure if he should reveal that they had a man within the Palestinian government's security service. The family issue was the lesser of the two problems of course, but it was a consideration. He had always played the relationship down within the service, as he believed it may have compromised his position, but now it may turn out to be an advantage. Abe's father and Ben's had been brothers, but Abe's Dad, Joshua, had rejected Judaism in favour of atheism, and the family had then rejected Abe's side of the family, Ben's father, Joseph, and his wife had moved to Germany, where Ben was then born.
Abe took a deep breath and picked up his com, he selected the address for the Israeli Diplomatic hub, using the secure system. This address put him in touch with the European Diplomatic Service in Bonn, “EDS,” a disembodied voice greeted him' “can you input your security ID code please, and upon hearing the beep, please speak your password, speak at normal speed and clearly, thank you”
Abe keyed his ID into the pad of his com and waited a few seconds for the electronic 'beep', after which he spoke his single 'day-password'.
“Your security ID has been verified” informed the voice. There was a click and a human face appeared on his screen, “How can we help you Mr. Marks?”
“Can you connect me with Benjamin Marks, at the Israeli Security Ministry, please,” Abe asked.
“One moment Sir, while I try to connect you,” the EDS operator said. Around thirty seconds later the woman came back, “I am connecting you with Minister Marks now Sir.”
“Abreham, it's been a long time,” said Ben Marks, “I would guess this is not a social call with you using EDS.”
“Hello Ben, how are you?”
“I am wunderbar,” said Ben, “I believe you are climbing the ladder at 'Six' Abe, head of middle-east section, you are doing well.”
“Not as well as you Ben, Minister eth!”
“Right place at the right time, Abe. So what can I do for you?”
“What do you know about WAIAP Ben?
“Ah, we have heard that they are back on the espionage scene, but we have had no incidents, they have been around for a long time Abe, they keep surfacing and then disappearing again, we think they have a hard job funding anything, people are not interested in returning to the old days.”
“You haven't heard any rumours of late,” asked Abe. “Can't say we have, what is your interest?”
“Last week we had some intel come to light, as far as this intel goes it indicates that they have reformed with an old friend of yours in the driving seat, one Dirar Abu Sitta.”
“Sitta?” Ben repeated, obviously surprised by the news, “I guess that's the end of their funding problems. You know he's a multi-millionaire I suppose.”
“Yes, we are building a file on him.”
“Thanks for the info Abe, I owe you one,” said Ben. “Maybe you would like to make that two,” said Abe. “You have something else, Abe?”
“Yes,” said Abe, “and this is the point of this call, we have information that WAIAP are planning a 'retrieval' operation for your newly recovered Ark of the Covenant.”
“What? When? Do you know,” Ben almost jumped off his high-back leather chair.
“We don't know the when, but we can tell you that the Palestinian government know about it and are doing nothing to stop it, short of sponsoring the raid on a deny-ability basis.”
“Abe you are a good man,” said Ben, “and if this is kosher I will owe you a lot more than two. It will need to happen soon as we are already preparing to move it to a more secure location that will be complete in the new year.”
“We thought it may be imminent,” offered Abe.
“How did you get this intel Abe,” asked Ben.
“You know I can't tell you that Ben,” said Abe, “let's keep to the rules, shall we.”
“You have someone inside the Palestinian government, don't you?”
Abe kept a poker face and said nothing. “Dam,” said Ben, “you lucky dog.”
“Unfounded statements like that are dangerous Ben,” said Abe.
“Don't worry Abe that does not go outside this office.”
“Well that's it, nice to have spoken to you again, Ben.”
“Listen Abe, let's get together some time, and let bygones be bygones.”
“I would like that,” agreed Abe.
“I have a villa at the Dead Sea Resort, why don't you and your family come out and stay with us next year, for a holiday.”
“We'll see,” said Abe, “if we are still here next summer,” he added with a friendly smile.
“OK, that's a date then, Auf Wiedersehen for now then, I have the feeling that we will be working together in the future.”
“Could be,” said Abe as he broke the connection.
Ben closed his com-unit and pressed a button on the internal communications panel on his desk, the button activated a direct line to the Prime Minister, Heidi Goldbloom.
“Yes Ben, what is it,” came the familiar voice of the PM. “Madam Prime Minister, it seems we have a problem,” Ben briefed the PM about the conversation he had had with his cousin Abe, and the threat to their new national treasure.”
“Thank you for letting me know so promptly Ben,” said Mrs. Goldbloom, “I was expecting something of the sort after the request to hand over the Ark was refused.”
“Indeed, Mam, we have been keeping a listening ear out for anything of interest,” explained Ben.
“Yet our British friends have caught the whispers.”
“So it seems,” admitted Ben.
“Ben, I am giving you cart-blanch in this matter, do what you need to do, but keep me informed.”
“Of course Madam Prime Minister,” said Ben as the connection was severed.
Ben Marks rose from behind his desk, left his office and took the elevator to the basement of the ministry. From there he crossed the garage area and found another elevator, he pushed a key-card into the slot provided and the door slid open. The elevator dropped three more floors and stopped, the doors opened onto another passage, with two armed guards outside the lift, who came to attention and saluted as the Minister exited the elevator. Ben's next stop was at the office of the director of Mossad, the Israeli Secret Service.
Brigadier Bergman was at his desk pouring over some documents, he looked up at the rare occasion of someone not having the courtesy to knock before entry, and on seeing Ben, jumped to his feet in best military style. “Minister,” he almost shouted.
“Can you tell me why the British MI6 can get better intel on what is going on under our very noses, than we can get,” Ben asked without preamble.
“I'm not sure I know what you are referring to Minister,” said the Brigadier, slightly confused.
“That is exactly my point Max,” Ben said as he seated himself in front of the Brigadier's desk. I have just had a conversation with the head of the Middle-east section at MI6 in London, informing us that there is a definite perceived threat to this state.”
“In what form Minister?”
“In the form of an operation to seize the Ark.”
“Palestinians,” asked the Brigadier.
“Yes, but not officially, it seems that WAIAP has reared its unsavoury presence again.”
“Ha, the WAIAP are not a threat Minister,” stated the Brigadier a little too smugly for Ben's liking.
“Do you think that a WAIAP would be more of a threat if it was headed by our old friend Sitta?”
“Are you telling me that Sitta has taken over the WAIAP Sir,” it was a rhetorical question so Ben did not attempt to answer the Brigadier. “I thought he'd gone legit'.”
“Max, I want him, DOA, and quickly, this operation to seize the Ark is imminent, and we cannot loose it again so soon.”
“No Sir, I am on it.”
“Make sure you are Brigadier.” The Minister stood and left the office.
Out in the Iranian desert, in the foot-hills of Mount Daemavend is a training camp designated simply by a Greek letter and numbers, 'Ω60'. The camp is sponsored and financed by the Iranian government, as a 'Black Ops' project. Ninety-five percent of the camp is underground, beneath hundreds of meters of solid rock, that no infrared satellites can detect. On the surface is an oil installation that has fooled every western reconnaissance image analysis over the past twenty years. The underground complex took six years to cut from the mountain and contains accommodation for an army of three-hundred thousand souls, a command and control centre, class-rooms, drill halls, workshops, recreation facilities, and everything that a modern Muslim city needs. Fighters stay at the camp for twelve months and then are discharged into a reserve regiment to await the call.
Each individual is brain-washed and conditioned to obey the call and offer up their life for Allah and the current Mullah. The purpose, to await the day when Islam will be called to arms and take over the western world. Europe, the United States of America and Australia is now home to in excess of six-million 'sleepers' who have passed through 'Ω60'.
In the opposite side of the mountain, under its north face and connected by a conduit is Iran's Second Missile Command HQ, a site that has been in operation since the late nineties. The site now contains the eighth generation of the Shahab-10 missile that has orbital and ICBM capabilities, a highly secret development outside of the Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty (SALT). To this date, no one outside of the Iranian Missile Command and certain departments of the Ministry of Military Strategies has any idea that these missiles exist; it is the Islamic world's best kept secret. A secret that has cost the lives of over seven-hundred people, Iranian, American and European, to ensure the existence of the base and its contents are preserved as non-existent. However that hard won, that secret is today ending.
Almost a kilometre beneath the mountain a technician is working on the maintenance and testing of the launch systems. The technician has eleven years of experience in his job, and feels that he could do these regular checks and adjustments with his eyes closed. At exactly 18:13 hours, there is a low level earthquake, measuring just three on the Richter-scale, no damage should have been caused as the whole installation and the camp is earthquake-proof. The technician is not paying full attention, he is dreaming of seeing his family again in just three days, when his three-month tour of duty finishes. The sudden shaking startles him and his simple electrical screwdriver falls from the ledge into the launch and guidance control of the thirty-two meter rocket. There is a small spark as the driver shorts out between two terminals, he reaches in to retrieve the tool, and the cuff catches the switch that changes the setting from test back to live.
Twenty meters below he hears the valves open, and the liquid oxygen starts to feed into the rocket engines, there is a burst of hot gasses, followed by a scream from the technician that no one hears. The great rocket shudders in its silo and starts to move toward the still closed doors eight-hundred meters above. The missile is out of control, in the C&C centre there is panic, the systems are jammed on their test settings. Other technicians tear off access panels in an attempt to kill the rocket motors, one military officer has the ultimate responsibility, one switch remains live, one chance, one self-destruct command. The officer punches the previously protected red button and the missile explodes twenty meters from the silo doors, that no longer exist.
Paul Robinson was about half way through his shift when the alarm sounded, I was not an unusual event, but also something didn't happen every day. The alarm was triggered by one of the observation satellites in geosynchronous orbit over the Middle-east; the comparison software that compared previous images with a current image had detected a difference. The image automatically went up on the main screen and showed a bloom of fire emitting from an area within a mountainous area in central Iran. Robinson immediately ordered the satellite camera to zoom in on the area; the view now showed smoke drifting away to the west to reveal a sizeable crater. Paul decided to zoom in even further, what he saw caused him to call his supervisor on the priority button. Within a minute Senior Analyst, Kevin Lodge, was approaching his station.
“What have you found Paul,” Kevin asked, as he looked at the main screen, “what am I looking at here?”
“This is central Iran Sir, about a hundred and fifty miles South-east of Tehran.”
“And what is that, a volcano,” Lodge asked.
“Let me run the back images Sir,” Paul called up the past sixty seconds of the satellite feed, the images showed a area of mountains, some desert area and some snow on the higher altitudes. Then came the explosion and the bloom of fire. Paul then went back to the live image and said, “I zoomed and then I spotted these, Sir.”
“Oh, hell, they look like silo doors,” exclaimed Lodge. “they've had a blow-out in the tube, good work Paul.”
“Thank you Sir," acknowledged Paul.
“Keep watching, and I want a finger-tip search and mapping of the whole area, UV, IR, spectra graphic, the works,” Lodge ordered, “can you send these images through to my com please.”
Kevin Lodge took the elevator to the seventh floor, and knocked on the door of the third office. The Deputy Director of Imaging was sipping his second cup of coffee of the morning, whilst watching his video message packages from the previous night.
“Good morning Kev,” George Mancini greeted Kevin, “is there a problem?”
“I need to show you this Sir, it just came in a few minutes ago.” Kevin plugged his com into the dock below the wall mounted soft-screen and played the sequence, including the close up views of the silo doors. “Where the hell is this Kevin,” Mancini asked.
“Iran, Sir, a hundred and fifty miles from Tehran out in the desert, I think it's a missile blow out accident, Sir.”
“Dam right, Kevin, this is big, very big. We need to take this to the top.”
“The Director,” Kevin asked.
“No Kevin, this I'll go to the President.”
At the same time, some five-thousand, eight-hundred and eighty miles away in Jerusalem, the explosion had not gone unnoticed by the Mossad satellite imaging centre. Seismic detectors had alerted the duty staff and a cross reference of the shock detectors had given them an approximate epicentre. Satellite control was then asked to align the closest satellite on that area, they found the crater straight away and by this time the rubble from the explosion had collapsed into the silo, leaving a nice sharply defined hole. The Israelis also saw the slight outlines of other silo doors. The imaging officer for Israel was also a trained annalist and noticed the drilling rig and pumping station on the other side of the mountain. He also noticed that the road to the oil extraction site seemed too well used for an out of the way post, and then switched to infra-red. The area around the oil post was cold in infra-red, and if the station was pumping oil, as the satellite image suggested it was, the pipeline should have shown warmer than the surrounding rock. There was little temperature differential around the pump.
The annalist asked satellite control to move the satellite to a different position, a position that gave him an oblique view-point of the oil station. Twenty minutes later the images from the new position arrived at the annalist's screen, the high resolution ten-thousand mega-pixel images showed every crag and stone. After a through search taking over forty-five minutes the annalist shouted, “heurisko”, meaning 'I have found it', and find it he had. It was very well hidden and disguised, but the massif doors of the Mount Daemavend camp were unmistakable. The doors themselves must have been clad in the same stone as the mountain itself, as there were no temperature differentials between the doors and the surrounding rock, the only thing that gave it away were the camouflage nets and the shadow from the recess that the doors slid into, and the motor housings. The images and an 'Instant Analysis' document were sent to Brigadier Bergman within fifteen minutes.
Jim sat uneasily in the second pew from the back of the church; Carol had persuaded him to attend the evening service, telling Him that they should thank God for his escape on Friday evening. Jim had to admit that an hour spent in a peaceful atmosphere of a church was possibly what he needed, so they had arrived as late as possible before the service commenced, in order to avoid the greeting and back-slapping. Almost as soon as they had taken their seats the vicar, Edward Fielding had appeared at the front of the church.
“Good evening,” the vicar said into a microphone, “can we start the service with an old favourite hymn, “To God Be the Glory' for great things he indeed has done. We will be singing the new setting that our worship-leader, Barry, taught us a couple of Sundays ago.”
Jim was surprised when the music started, this time there seemed to be a full orchestra, and the tune was quite beautiful. Jim found himself actually singing the hymn, and it felt good. The song finished and Ed Fielding announced that someone would now give the notices for the following week, then, Ed's his eyes fall upon Jim.
“It seems that we have our new national hero with us tonight folks,” the vicar announced, “Jim, I wonder if you could come up here for a few moments please.”
Jim waved his hand to indicate that he did not want to be singled out, but some helpful usher came and helped him out of the pew. As Jim walked to the front of the church someone thought it would be a good idea to start clapping, something that no human seems to be able to resist joining in. Soon the whole church was on its feet clapping. Jim reached the front in a state of total embarrassment. None to soon, the Reverend Fielding held up a hand to signal the end of the applause, much to Jim's relief. “You look embarrassed Jim,” he said, “we just want to show you our appreciation for your act of humanity on Friday evening. I for one am proud to have you as a resident of Preston Village. Jim, thank you.”
Jim then had to walk back to his seat; the thought struck him of how it would have been better sitting on the front row. All the way back along the isle people were patting Jim in the back and shoulders. Ed announced that Jim would be speaking to the church in a couple of weeks, which only made the journey worse. Finally Jim slipped into his seat next a beaming Carol, “Not a word,” Jim whispered to her, and added a smile. The remainder of the service passed without incident, and Jim had to admit that, other than being in the limelight he had enjoyed it. It was after nine when Jim and Carol managed to get away from the church, it seemed everyone wanted to talk to them. Finally, at twenty past nine Jim sank into his favourite chair with a mug of hot chocolate, with his preferred music album of Eva Cassidy playing in the background.