Paul McKellips - Jericho 3

Kazi was bent over a work table in the warehouse where his research and laboratory complex was housed. The others were outside waiting for him, but he wanted to finish painting the last three letters on the bottom side of the wing: G-L-E.

If he hadn’t pursued microbiology as his grandfather Qazvin had insisted, his dream was to become an astrophysicist, or a combat fighter pilot at the very least. Kazi satisfied his passion as a nitro-gas, radio-controlled airplane pilot. Fueled with nitro-methane and an internal combustion engine that screamed to life with glow plug ignition, Kazi was more than a hobbyist. He was a professional.

With painstaking precision he had assembled the brand new ARF P-51D Mustang WARBIRD as soon as the box arrived. The P-51 was his dream machine, a scalable model built on the famous American fighter jet platform from World War II. With a 65-inch wingspan and only 7.8-pounds of weight, the WARBIRD would be an impressive, perhaps daunting, sight in the sky. The model kit came with balsa wood wings and a fiberglass blend fuselage as well as all of the decals and paint necessary to decorate it like the classic American fighter. But Kazi intended to decorate the WARBIRD with his own creative meanderings, and the English lettering beneath the wings was just the start.

The SkitoMister had been removed from his warehouse three days before and just after the maintenance test in Rasht. The machine was flown to Turkey and then driven by truck down south into Iraq through Zakho District and into the village of Levo. Assyrians in the village had long-complained that insufficient attention was being paid to their agricultural needs, including their unanswered requests for pesticides and insecticides.

As Kazi finished painting the last letter on the undercarriage of the wing, his cell phone rang. The test in Levo was complete. The SkitoMister would make one more trip, to Ajloun village, 47 miles northwest of Amman, Jordan, before heading back to Damghan.

Kazi spoke his approval into the phone as a young man opened the warehouse door and yelled his complaint. The others were getting impatient.

Kazi put the phone down and ran outside where two teen-aged boys and another man in his mid-20s were standing with their RC airplanes waiting for Kazi. The large field behind the warehouse was set up like a circular track with four large pylons in each corner of the long rectangular field that would soon become an oblong race course. Each nitro-gas plane had been calibrated to have similar speed and matched performance. Each of the four planes on the track were constructed primarily of fiberglass with composites used at high load points. The wings were hollowed out to save weight. The .40 cubic engines had no problem reaching 150 miles per hour in the long straight-aways. The individual planes were identical and comparable.

It was the skill of the pilot that won each race, and Kazi had never been defeated.

Hilton Tel Aviv

Tel Aviv, Israel

Camp was the last one to shuffle into the King Solomon Restaurant for breakfast. General Ferguson, Billy Finn, Special Agent Daniels and Agent Fallon Jessup were deep in discussion with coffee and orange juice poured and breakfast orders already taken.

Ferguson glared at his Navy Captain in a manner that brought back many memories of then Colonel Ferguson giving Camp “that look” when he refused to leave his 18-hour shifts in the Balad trauma tents.

“You stormed out of a high level military intelligence meeting and failed to join us for dinner last night. Are you on official leave, Captain Campbell, or is there some other explanation for your juvenile behavior?”

The waitress walked up before he had a chance to formally ignore Ferguson.

“Coffee, OJ, two eggs over easy, and a bagel with cream cheese… cinnamon raisin if you have it,” Camp said as he rubbed his temples. “Finn, Daniels, Jessup… everyone sleep well?”

Camp couldn’t help but notice Fallon’s unbuttoned white blouse with a low-cut halter revealing most of God’s natural creation. Camp was not a skirt-chaser and his military bearing provided all the discipline necessary to reject the double-look temptation of an attractive woman. Fallon Jessup reminded him of “home” where beauty was celebrated and honored, not hidden beneath a burka and limited to eye-slit connections between men and women. Camp looked at Fallon once and allowed himself a brief glance before turning his attention away like the officer and gentleman he was.

“You won’t make admiral at this rate, Campbell.” Ferguson said as his blood apparently continued to boil after Camp’s premature exit from the meeting the day before.

Camp spewed a few ounces of freshly-squeezed orange juice all over his white china plate.

“Finn, please drop a slug of lead in my left temple if I’m ever so stupid as to solicit an admiralship. Sir, I’ve been telling you for two years that I have my years in, and I’m more than ready to retire and head back to Bird-in-Hand to milk some cows. If you’re ready for me to go then — please — just say the word, and I’ll have the paperwork on your desk yesterday.”

Ferguson had learned to ignore Camp as well.

“Where were you last night?”

“Covert mission.”

“Camp!”

“Seriously. Took a walk then took a taxi, some Irish pub named Molly Bloom’s.”

“By yourself?” Ferguson asked.

“No. I was on my way to meet up with you at the Sea View Terrace and I was, how shall I say, intercepted.”

“By whom?”

“The tall Israeli spook with the glasses.”

“Reuven? Why did he want to see you ?” Daniels asked.

“Probably because none of you were making any sense. Hell, Daniels, you didn’t even utter one damn word.”

“You learn by observing Captain Campbell,” Daniels added rather dismissively.

“Guess you didn’t observe enough then, at least when it came to WMD in Iraq.”

Ferguson raised his hands to stop the schoolyard argument while Fallon Jessup kept her attention on Camp.

“What did he want?” she asked.

“Nothing really, just wanted to know how I viewed the whole situation from 30,000-feet I guess.”

“Need I remind you that your opinions do not constitute official US policy positions on this matter?” Ferguson lectured.

“I wasn’t wearing my uniform, general, so you can relax.”

The waitress and two assistants wheeled a cart next to the table and started unloading breakfast orders.

“Well, no more contacts with Reuven or any other Israeli officials. That’s a direct order.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Billy, I want you and this malcontent to head out to Lyon today. Make sure that Raines and this LyonBio outfit get the full support and cooperation of the United States government. You will both stay there until we have vaccines loaded on boats, trains, planes and automobiles bound for Tel Aviv. Clear?”

Finn nodded as Camp shoveled two eggs over easy into his mouth.

“Daniels, what’s next for you two?”

“Back to Langley tonight, sir. We’ll be in touch with the SECDEF’s office with any new developments,” Daniels said.

Ferguson took one bite of his toast, pushed back and placed his napkin on the back of the chair.

“I’ve got a MILAIR flight out of Palmachim within the hour and back to Kabul.”

“You got this?” Camp said with a mouth full of food referring to the restaurant tab. Ferguson ignored him and walked out of the King Solomon.

Lyon Airport

Lyon, France

Billy Finn and Camp left baggage claim and scanned the waiting cars until they saw headlights flash on a white Peugeot. Camp’s heart missed a beat with the smile that flashed his way from a familiar face partially hidden behind her Oakley’s.