Breakfast over Jim settled down to opening the day's mail. The mail had increased since the 'Revelation' as the discovery had at first been dubbed by the media, the name 'God Tapes' had come a little latter as a derogative term, coined by the evangelical atheists. There were the usual bills and requests for personal appearances from Jim or one or other of the team. Sometimes there was a crank letter or threat, these were passed on directly to the police, and on rare occasions there were donations towards the work of the Trust. Today there were no threats, but quite a large donation letter from the Anglican Church, this came as a surprise, as Jim's impression was that they collected money, rather than gave it away. There were three invoices that needed paying and Jim was just setting up the online payments when the gate signal chimed, he switched the soft-screen over to domestic and saw two men in business suites, that he did not recognise standing at the gate from the garage area.
“Can I help you,' Jim asked.
“Mr. James Markson,” asked the taller of the two.”
“Yes,” answered Jim hesitantly.
“Can you spare us a few moments Sir,” the taller one asked.
“We are on official government business, Sir,” the other man stated with some authority, and held an identity card up to the camera.
“OK, come up to the house,” Jim agreed, “if you turn right at the main door and follow the building round, I will meet you.”
“Thank you Sir,” said the taller man, and they disappeared from view as the gate opened.
Jim left his office on the seaward side of the house and met the two men as they approached the corner. “Will you follow me please,” Jim asked the men, as they shook hands. Jim led them through the terrace doors into the conservatory, which was isolated from the main house by bio-lock security doors. “Please take a seat” Jim said as he indicated two chairs behind a low table, “what can I do for you gentlemen, is this about the bombing” he asked.
The shorter of the two introduced himself a Robert Holdsworth, and his associate as Mitchell Cummings and then continued, “I a way Sir. We both work at Buckingham Palace and we are here at the request of His Majesty the King,” Jim's frown deepened as he listened to Holdsworth, “His Majesty wishes to reward you for your quick thinking and action on Friday evening in the event of the bomb that devastated studio ten at the BBC.” Jim tried to interrupt, but Holdsworth held up a hand, “Please Mr. Markson, hear me out, As you may know the British Crown remains the defender of the faith, something that the divorce between church and government has not altered. The Archbishop is therefore appointed by, and comes under the protection of the Crown, and it is the act that saved Archbishop Benn's life which demands a reward.”
“His Majesty, wishes to bestow a non-hereditary Knighthood, Sir, this is the traditional reward for assistance to the British Crown,” interjected Cummings, “If you are agreeable, Sir you would be dubbed as part of the New Years Honours.”
Jim's mouth hung open for several seconds after Cummings had finished speaking, finally, feeling a little stupid, he closed his mouth and said, ”I really don't think I can accept any such reward gentlemen, as honoured as I am, I. . .
Holdsworth, stopped Jim in what he was about to say, “Sir, I have to warn you that to refuse such an honour is traditionally regarded as an insult to the Crown, and His Majesty has made it clear that he will be personally hurt if you refuse.”
“Well it puts me in an impossible position, so I suppose I must accept,” Jim finally said. “Very good sir, can you please sign this acceptance for me,” Cummings asked as he produced a sheet of paper from his case. Jim signed the paper where Cummings indicated. “Thank you Sir”
“Just as a matter of interest,” Jim asked, “what will I be called; do I have to choose a name or something?”
“No Sir,” explained Holdsworth, you will simply be known as Sir James, chosen names are normally for heretical piers.”
After a further chat over another cup of coffee the two palace workers left, just as Carol returned from shopping in Weymouth town centre. “Who were those two,” she asked as she dumped the shopping on the kitchen table.
“Let's just say that from New Year's Day onward you will have to courtesy to me.”
“What are you on Jim Markson,” Carol asked laughing.
“Sir, Jim Markson, if you don't mind,” Joked Jim. “Are you serious,” Carol asked, “your getting a Knighthood?”
“Yep, but we can't tell anyone outside of the direct family until the New Year, so mums the word.”
Carol's first action thereafter was to contact Jo, and thereafter peter, with the news.
Ben Marks had a regular meeting with his Prime Minister at eleven that morning to update her on the week’s security matters, and was enjoying a late breakfast and relaxing for an hour before leaving for his office and then the for the PM's. His secure com-unit chimed just as he had sat down with the daily newspaper. Ben still loved to read the news in a real paper newspaper, an extravagance these days but worth it, he thought. Of course the paper was recycled, possibly for the thousandth time. It was Brigadier Bergman, he saw. “You have news for me Brigadier,” Ben asked hopefully of some news of Sitta.
“Yes Sir, sorry to disturb you, but it's rather urgent.”
“You've found Sitta?”
“No Sir, I think we have more urgent problems that Mister Sitta,” said the Brigadier, “I have just heard from our monitoring and analysis centre, we have found a missile base in Iran and what we think is an underground training camp.”
“I knew they weren’t complying with the peace accords,” Ben almost shouted, “I'm on my way now, get all the data together, I'll pick it up on my way to my meeting with Mrs. Goldbloom, I'll see you in ten minutes.” Ben abandoned his newspaper and coffee, then grabbed a croissant and strode out to his official LIMO.
Twelve minutes later Ben Marks was in the elevator descending to the Mossad base below the ministry, At two minutes before nine-thirty he was in the Brigadier's Office.
“What have you got Max,” the Minister asked.
Max Bergman earned his rank in the British Army Intelligence Service and had been recruited by Ben's predecessor when cuts in the UK defence budget had forced the need to reduce staffing, about fifteen years earlier. Max, a fifth generation Brit of Jewish descent had jumped at the chance to move to Israel. Max was without a family, his parents were both dead from a car crash during the millennium celebrations, and he had been married to his job and too busy to make time for a relationship. However he was now married to an Israeli woman, and had a ten year old son on which he doted.
Max lifted the red security box onto his desk and after pressing his thumb onto the bio-plate, opened the box. As he gave the Minister a run-down on how the annalist had discovered the base, he handed him the still images and a pad which had been loaded the live video of the incident that had been sent over from the CIA. Max also went through the annalist's report in detail. It took close to an hour to brief the Minister, but finally Ben packed the material into the red box and left for the Prime Minister's office.
At ten-fifty Ben was in the antechamber of the Prime Minister's office, he unlocked the security box and sat looking at the images once more, what he saw brought out a cold sweat. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not hear the PM's door open, Mrs Goldbloom stood in the doorway for several seconds before saying, “This must be serious to keep your thoughts so occupied Ben.”
“Oh, I'm sorry I was away with my thoughts there,” answered Ben a little startled.
“So I found, come in Ben,” the PM said before turning to her private secretary and asking for coffee to be sent in. Ben remained standing until his PM had taken her seat on the couch, then he seated himself at a wave from his boss. “So, what do you have for me today Ben,” she asked.
“Not good news I’m afraid, Mam.”
“I sort of gathered that from your expression this morning.”
Ben opened the red box again a lifted out the contents and started to explain as he ordered the documents, “Yesterday our satellite monitoring section picked up an anomaly in the desert south-east of Tehran, after the seismic sensors alerted them.” Ben placed four of the images on the low table in front of the PM.
“What am I looking at here,” Goldbloom asked.
“This first image is from the CIA geosynchronous monitoring satellite, they detected the explosion, and these three images are from our satellite.” Ben pointed to the first image, “this shows a crater where the explosion occurred, this second image is a close-up of the same area, you see here and here these are camouflaged silo doors, there are some twenty silos in all. Then our operative noticed something strange about this pumping station, and found this, we think this is some sort of training camp, by the size of the doors, a very large one, or I suppose it could be an aircraft hangar, but we think it’s a camp as there is no runway or apron visible.”
“What sort of size are we talking about?”
“There is no way of telling Madam, we have been trying to penetrate it with sensors, but it's under a mountain with rock too thick to get any sort of image past the first thirty meters.”
“What about emissions Ben,” asked the PM.
“Nothing, they have possibly got coolant units to cool emissions to ambient, and a filtration system to take out detectable gasses, according to the CIA,” explained Ben.
“The big question is, what do we do about it?”
Ben was silent for several seconds, before answering, “As I see it Madam, we have two options, we take this to the UN, or we return to the old days and take punitive unilateral action against the two bases. After all, this is in contravention to the peace accord.”
“What would be the repercussions of a military strike, Ben,” the PM asked.
“In my opinion Madam, taking into consideration the size of this complex, and we have to assume that the remaining silos are operative, we may plunge ourselves into a full scale war.”
“Do we know what the Iranian capabilities are,” she asked.
“We thought we did, but then we didn't know about the missile base, so at this time I would say, ‘no’, we have no idea. The size of the silo tube is a good indicator of the rocket size, these are larger that I would have expected.”
“So, the second option seems to be the way to go, but I want our military on full alert Ben, and I mean full, that's level two-red. The Iranians will know now that they have been burnt so there is no telling what they will do. I want a full Cabinet meeting this afternoon at three, can you organise that?”
“Yes Madam Prime Minister,” answered Ben, who started to collect the documents together.
“Where are the Americans on this,” the PM asked.
“As far as I know Madam, the President has already been briefed on the situation.”
“Good,” said Goldbloom, “I'm afraid that I am going to disturb President Orwell's beauty sleep with this, I'll see you this afternoon. Thanks Ben.”
The moment that the door closed behind Ben the Prime Minister extracted her secure com from her locked desk drawer and lightly tapped on the direct address of President James Orwell. After a few seconds Orwell's face appeared on the screen, he was fully dressed and was in the Oval Office, “Hi there Heidi, I was wondering how long it would be before you contacted me.”
“Hello James, I have just been briefed on the Iranian bases.”
“Bases, have you found more,” Orwell asked in surprise. “You don't know yet,” Goldbloom questioned, “yes we have found what we think maybe a large training camp on the other side of the mountain.”
“Hell, Heidi, why haven't your people passed that over, we tipped you off about the explosion.”
“Not really James, our seismic sensors detected it as it happened, but I thank you for the imaging,” the PM stated with authority, “so I am telling you now.”
“OK Heidi, keep you hair on, so what are you proposing to do?”
“Under the circumstances I think it best if we take this to the UN Security Council, the last thing we want is to start a war, not until we know what we are up against, anyway.”
“That's fine with me,” said Orwell, “we can get a full council organised by tomorrow afternoon, could you, or someone else, make it over here?”
“Yes, it's a must James; I will probably get Ben Marks to pop across.”
“OK Heidi, good man Marks, keep me informed of any other developments, ya hear.”
“I guess we will see you soon James, take care.” The Prime Minister severed the connection and sat back in her chair, “Monday, Monday,” she said out loud.
The Minister of Defence, Hooshy Ar Karimi shouted, “Come!” following the knock on his Office door, “Ah, MehrzAd, thank you for coming, please be seated.” MehrzAd Behzadi. Head of the 'Sazeman-e Ettela'at va Amniyat-e Keshvar' or SAVAK, the feared Iranian secret service, took a seat where the only other chair in the room was placed, at the opposite side of the huge ornate desk to Defence Minister Karimi.
Karimi, sat a stared at MehrzAd for some seconds, that seemed like minutes, finally he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “This is the single most disastrous event in twenty years MehrzAd, what in the name of Allah went wrong,” the minister asked with some danger in his voice.
“As far as we can tell Minister, it was an accident, a technician was making checks and tests on that particular missile, and something must have gone wrong.”
“Hmm,” the Minister said as he sat back in his chair, “is there any chance that this was sabotage?”
“The technician was a trusted man who has worked on the missile programme since we started it back in two- thousand and thirteen,” MehrzAd said apologetically, “he had the highest clearance for his job and has been both examined and checked out every year.”
“I suppose that there is little chance that the West missed the event,” asked Minister Karimi.
“My sources tell me that the CIA have images of the explosion and have detected the missile base.”
“How very convenient for them,” said the Minister, “What about the training base?”
“We don't know, Minister, but I doubt it, the base is too well hidden and temperature equalisers do not allow any IR detections, our own satellites cannot detect it,” answered MehrzAd.
“Nevertheless, I want our military on alert, and cancel all leave for the foreseeable future,” instructed the Minister, “the Americans will have shared the information with the Israelis, so we need to be alert to a pre-emptive attack. You are dismissed. Oh and I want you to start an investigation, this may not have been an accident.”
President Orwell was as good as his word and convened an almost full session of the Security Council, which had been a rare occurrence over the past decade. The four main governments that now formed an international alliance met on a quarterly basis to discuss issues, the EU, not including Russia but most of the former USSR states, and the Islamic states (UIS); the USA, which now included Canada. The remainder included the Southern Hemisphere Alliance, which included Australia, New Zealand and South America. This arrangement had proved to be a successful way of avoiding issues between alliance members and the various national states.
The Deputy Director General, who was from the UK, called the council to order and called upon President Orwell to address the council.
“Delegates, after many years of mutual cooperation under the auspice of the Calcutta Accord, we accidentally discovered that one of our number has secretly breached that agreement. The accord calls for an openness between members and requires that the signatories declare major strategic armaments and installations. It is therefore a great disappointment to find that a member of the UIS has turned its back on these requirements. I see that the representative from Iran is actually present, together with the Iranian ambassador, thank you for you attendance. I will now call upon the Iranian representative to explain to this council, why they have a non-disclosed missile installation on their territory.”
“Mr Deputy Director, Mr. President. I am assuming that you are referring to the small installation which suffered an accident on Sunday whilst under construction. The base is of limited size and has not been declared because it is not yet in operation. When it is completed the base will operate with short range weapons. There is no need for concern here, as Iran will abide by all of the Accord requirements.”
President Orwell leaned forward to the microphone, “Will the representative for Iran then please explain to the council, why they need a silo of four point six meters in diameter, if, as he says the base will operate short range missiles, Mr Deputy Director?”
The Iranian's face was getting a little redder as he pressed the button to activate his microphone, “As I have already explained Mr. Deputy Director, the base is under construction, and has yet to have its liner, which will reduce the diameter considerably.”
“May I present an image of the 'accident' site, Mr. Deputy Director,” President Orwell asked.
“You have permission Mr. President,” assented the Director.
The blow up of the damaged silo appeared on the very large display screen above the Director's desk, and Orwell continued. “As the delegates will see from the image, the high density liner is already in place in the silo; that is the darker material inside the concrete. The image has been analysed and my experts tell me that what you are viewing is a fully completed silo. Can the Iranian representative also confirm the extent of this base please?”
“Mr. President, I have already stated that the base is a small one,” stated the representative, “we are building no more that four launch silos.” The Iranian Ambassador was seen to nudge the representative at this point. Orwell knew that he had caught them out.
“At this point I would like to call upon Minister Benjamin Marks who has consented to attend from Israel, Minister Marks has further questions and evidence, I believe,” announced Orwell.
“Thank you President Orwell,” said Ben Marks, who slipped three image sheets into the display unit under his desk, “Can I draw the esteemed Iranian representative, and the council, to this image,” Ben pointed to the screen that now displayed a close-up of a silo door. “This is an image of another silo at the site, which as you will observe is fully completed, this next image shows exactly twenty of such silo doors. I would call this a major missile complex capable of housing and deploying Inter-Continental level missiles. I would also like to ask the representative about the use of a concealed base on the opposite side of the mountain to the missile complex, this final image clearly shows the entrance to the base, which is some ten meters wide and eight meters high.”
“Will the Iranian representative comment on these pieces of new evidence please,” said the Deputy Director.
“Mr. Deputy Director,” there is no base in that area of the desert, this is a construct of the Israeli government, in an attempt to again discredit Iran and the UIS,” the Iranian stated.
Ben slipped a memory stick into the input socket built into the electrical pod of the desk, he pressed the play button and a real-time image appeared on the screen. “We are now watching a video sequence that was recorded on Sunday from our satellite.” The video imaging zoomed in on the missile base, and then zoomed out slightly and re-focused on a seemingly empty area of desert. Slowly the massif doors came into resolution, as well as the pumping station and the netted area from a low angle, which showed the shadow. “This next clip was recorded in infra-red last night, as you can see the doors of this non-existent base are now open, and out of the doors comes a convoy of some seventy-three vehicles. The base and the vehicles are fitted with ATE technology, that's Ambient Temperature Equalisation technologies, for those who do not recognise the initials. We only get a brief period to get an image as the technology adapts to new conditions, but here we were lucky.”
The Iranian Ambassador, almost pushed the representative away from the microphone, and obviously angered, he spoke loudly into the microphone, “This is another example of the United States and Israel concocting evidence against my country, will we be returning to the old ways of the first decade of this century, I really must protest Mr Deputy Director.”
“Mr. Deputy Director,” interjected President Orwell, “the United States tables a resolution that Iran submits to a team of UN inspectors investigating the two sites in question here, and opens it borders of a full survey. I believe that this is the only way to settle this. We further propose that, if the accusations levied by myself and Israel are founded, the bases be destroyed or dismantled as the UN sees appropriate. Can we take a vote please?”
The Deputy Director agreed to take a vote, unsurprisingly there was only seven votes against and one-hundred and sixty-three in favour. As the final votes registered on the digital readout the two Iranians and their support staff rose from their seats and walked noisily from the chamber. The Deputy Director declared, “The resolution is passed, this council calls upon Iran to succeed to the requirements of the resolution, within eight days.”
There was no response, the Iran desk was abandoned. However the resolution would be sent to the 'Majlis-e- Shuray-e Islami', the Iranian parliament, electronically within the hour.
Ben Marks walked across the floor of the chamber to the United States desk, where President Orwell, was still seated, “Thank you for your support Sir,” he said.
“I think you did fine by yourself Minister, but it's in both our interests to get this sorted, one way or another.”
“There is something going on here Mr. President,” said Ben, “something more than the Iranians just trying to get one over on us.”
“You may be right son,” said the President, “and I'd love to know what it is, but we will have to be satisfied with the resolution for now.”
“You may be, Sir, but that does not mean I will be, I have some options other than the resolution.”
“I am sure you do Minister, I am sure you do.”
Ben arrived at the embassy after a stressful day and was greeted by the Israeli Ambassador, who had only heard of the Minister's impending arrival some half hour before.
“I need access to the secure com-network Ambassador, and I assume you can accommodate me for a night's rest.”
“Of course Minister, please use the encrypted connection in my office, will you join us for dinner Sir?”
“Thank you Ambassador, that would be nice,