Murray McDonald - Critical Error

The gunman drove off. A second gunman, more senior, insisted Ben drive further into Gaza. Ben kept a close eye on the odometer. He had been told to stay in clear view and within 0.8 of a mile of the guard tower. Any further and they would assume the worst.

Ben stopped as the gauge clicked to 0.8 and ignored the gunman’s gesticulations to come further.

Ahmed had surveyed the scenes from afar. The news of one of Israel’s most famous and feared men venturing into Gaza on his own with only a white flag as cover had spread like wildfire. Ahmed’s network had informed him almost immediately and the news of the request to meet with him in private certainly intrigued him. If it were a trap, he could see no way out for Ben Meir. His men would cut him down with ease. Perhaps he was terminally ill and was willing to sacrifice himself for Ahmed. However, Ahmed held no illusions that his name was held in the same regard as Deif or the Sheikh. Ben Meir would not trade himself for Ahmed Hameed. Deif’s plan to bring them to their knees with the nuclear weapons seemed to be the only thing that fit. Here was Ben Meir, begging on his knees. That would raise Ahmed’s name alongside Deif and perhaps even the Sheikh. He instructed his best snipers to take up position. Any funny business and they were to kill the Israeli.

Ahmed jumped into a jeep and drove towards the diminutive Israeli.

Ben stood up and offered Ahmed his hand, as the two introduced each other formally.

“I do not like your snipers aiming their weapons at me, please instruct them to stand down,” insisted Ahmed, refusing Ben’s hand.

“My dear boy,” laughed Ben. “They’re not aiming at you, they have explicit instructions under no circumstance to shoot you. They’re aiming at me!”

Ahmed looked at him with some confusion. The old man was mad, it was a trick.

“My government is extremely concerned that if I were to be captured, I hold some of the most secret and important information in the land. I’m too dangerous to them in your hands. I also believe you’re too valuable to us dead. So trust me, if anybody’s getting out of here alive, it’s you. My life is in your hands.”

Ahmed accepted the honesty and Ben Meir’s hand.

“Now,” said Ben. “Let me tell you about something called Ararat.” He beckoned for Ahmed to sit, it was going to take some time.

Preston hadn’t slept all night. He had become increasingly wary of Johnson’s influence and closeness to the President. Johnson was not the brightest but was most possibly one of the most ruthless and ambitious people Preston had ever met. That was an exceptionally dangerous combination and he most certainly was not a man Preston ever intended to have to call ‘Sir’. The President was an exceptionally bright man but unfortunately, he was also incredibly easily led. His judgment, at times, was very wanting. The old men whom he had tied himself up with were a case in point. Killing Baker had always been the wrong move but once in train, it had to be followed through. If it did ever leak, Bakergate could destroy the political system in the US.

It was therefore down to Henry Preston to rescue the President and save the American political system and in turn, he hoped, gain the Vice President’s chair.

Preston, as Director of National Intelligence, oversaw sixteen of the nation’s most important intelligence agencies and had literally hundreds of thousands of America’s most intelligent individuals working for him. Preston had left the Oval Office the previous evening and called on his brightest and best talents. He had locked them in the room and between them, they talked through and considered all the information to date.

For obvious reasons, Preston had excluded the CIA from the session. Johnson’s guys couldn’t be trusted not to keep him in the loop and this was going to be Preston’s baby from start to finish. Preston laid out the timeline and talked his small and elite audience through what they knew had happened to date. With two FBI agents used to working down the leads, two code breakers/hackers from the NSA, a National Reconnaissance Office analyst with access to satellite feeds both historic and real time and a Department of Justice specialist with access to every database in the land, he figured that between them, they’d get there.

It was one of NSA men who jumped on the names they had used on the Paris to New York flight as a potential for narrowing down the search area. Of course, it was unlikely that they’d ever use the names again but up until that point, the names had been clean. As suggested, they tracked the names back and one of them, Sam’s, led all the way back to Glacier Park International Airport, Montana. Of course, they were no longer there but ask ourselves this, suggested the NSA code breaker. Why did they start there? Of course, that rationale, after hours of work earned a hearty laugh. However, he then pointed out that they didn’t start out as just two people. Light bulbs went on around the room as the point was made. Senator Baker was probably near Glacier Park International Airport.

With a point of reference, it did not take long to track down the skiing lodge. What was a complex barrier of trust funds to a tax lawyer was a Level One line puzzle to an NSA code breaker. As morning broke, they had their location. The NRA man was instructed to get a bird over there asap and was in the process of redirecting a new KH-13 satellite to do just that. They would have visuals of the lodge any time soon. Meanwhile, Preston was on the phone to DIA and instructing a drone be put up to offer round the clock eyes on the site as the satellite would only have a specific window due to its orbit. NSA were instructed to tap into every piece of communication that went anywhere near the lodge. With eyes and ears all over the location, Preston began to consider the assault.

Having witnessed Johnson’s previous failures, Preston had no intention of repeating them. Bombing was out. He wanted to know for definite that Senator Baker was out of the game. A straight through the door approach had failed as well in Washington and just succeeded in embroiling the Secretary of Defense into the mess. It was time for the professionals, Amateur Hour was over. Preston picked up the phone and called his contact at the Human Intelligence Directorate of the DIA, similar to the NCS of the CIA in many ways, apart from one. The DIA got the pick of the crop, the CIA had to settle for the best of what was left.

Within the hour, two five-men teams were kitting up and preparing to drive their two Suburbans into the loading area on board a C130 for the trip to Montana.

Preston packed up his things, thanked his assistants and hightailed it to the National Security Council meeting. The President had increased the frequency to every eight hours as the deadline for the nuclear bomb loomed. However, with the Vice Presidency sorted, Preston would turn his attention to finding the bomb and saving the nation. It was difficult being the most intelligent guy in the room, he smiled but somebody had to do it.

Sam really wished he could just phone his brother and tell him to come to him but he couldn’t. If anything happened to them, he’d never forgive himself. All it took was the tiniest slip-up at a gas station or a restroom and they’d be dead. With no option but to go get him, he had run through the routes with Rebecca. Driving was out, too long. The train, likewise. That only left airplanes which, considering everything he had done, was not going to be the easiest form of transport, nor the safest.

Rebecca made a call. It was going to get her into a lot of trouble but if it paid off, it would be fine. If not, she may be paying the state of Israel back for many years to come. Hiring private jets was not going to please the Accounts Department.