Bobby Akart - First Strike

There was no memorial service for Agent L. His code name was retired forever, along with his moniker—Lightning. He was presumed dead by everyone.

Yet here he was leaning against a stucco wall on the streets of Isfahan, a city of two million, located in central Iran. Isfahan, a word meaning half the world , was the cultural center of Iran. Its elaborate mosques, adorned with ancient mosaic tiles and remarkably well-preserved calligraphy, added to the beautiful hardscapes found throughout the city.

Isfahan was also the location of the Islamic Republic’s largest nuclear assembly and production plant. Over Israel’s continued objections, appeasement policies from Western governments resulted in Iran’s nuclear weapons program proliferating. That, coupled with technological assistance from Russia and North Korea, resulted in the rogue nation pulling even with their sworn enemy to the west—Israel.

Israel had made it known for decades that Iran was approaching a red line, a line in the sand that couldn’t be crossed. Now, Iran, with its ninety nuclear warheads, was on par with the Israelis. At the United Nations, the Israeli prime minister made his feelings on the burgeoning Iranian nuclear arsenal loud and clear. Enough was enough.

That was three weeks ago. Agent L, who lived in a Greek villa overlooking the Mediterranean, had received a packet of materials and an offer. A lucrative offer. Payable in an incredible amount of untraceable bitcoin. His employers never revealed their true identity. But for a seasoned intelligence operative like himself, all indicators pointed in a single direction. A nation he’d done work for in the past. One whose offers bore a marked resemblance to this one.

Only, this was the largest compensation package he’d ever been presented. The task was a difficult one, to be sure, but not beyond his capabilities. He would have to go it alone, which was his preference. The result when, not if, he was successful would be a tremendous ancillary benefit to the nation he loved.

A throng of pedestrians shuffled their way along the sidewalks of a small road that led to the nuclear enrichment facility on the outskirts of the city. Nearby, an annual arts fair had commenced that morning, complete with musicians vying for patrons’ attention and vendors who were hawking everything from balloons for the kids to delectable treats for adults.

The afternoon was blustery and warm for early October. A balmy breeze that swept down the dirt-covered streets of the ancient city reminded him of Tel Aviv, where he was born. He shielded his eyes from the sun to watch the tops of the decrepit palms rustling as though they were applauding the performers nearby.

Agent L glanced over his shoulder as a flatbed loaded with crates bound by heavy-duty straps lumbered along the rough road toward him. The driver, who was partially blinded by the sun, seemed to be having a rough time choosing the appropriate gear as he prepared to leave the city limits. He revved the engine, and the truck’s exhaust spewed out a black trail of diesel as it trundled past him.

Just ahead, by prearrangement, a cart led by the most stubborn donkey in Isfahan awaited the truck’s approach. Just a moment before the truck’s arrival, a man led the cart into the roadway. The driver blared his horn in anger and swerved to the left, careening onto the sidewalk. Several pedestrians stepped back from the truck’s path in time to avoid being run down.

“Moron!” the driver exclaimed through his open window. “Move that ass. And yours, too!”

Agent L didn’t hesitate. He rushed across the street during the chaos and easily closed on the rear bumper of the truck within seconds. While all eyes, including the driver’s, were on the braying donkey, Agent L deftly climbed up the back of the truck, hurled himself over the steel gate, and rolled between the crates until he was hidden.

Now he would hold his breath until the driver arrived at his appointed destination—the Isfahan Nuclear Technology Center, or INTC.

Built with Chinese assistance and opened in 1984, the facility at Isfahan was Iran’s largest nuclear research complex, employing nearly three thousand scientists. In the past year, United States and Israeli intelligence had confirmed that the INTC had become the center of Iran’s secret nuclear weapons program. It operated three Chinese-made nuclear reactors. Its conversion facility, fuel production plant, and zirconium cladding plants were state of the art. The Chinese, through their proxy North Korea, had spared no expense in helping Iran become a nuclear powerhouse once the U.S.-imposed sanctions had been lifted years ago.

Agent L had been hired to deal the program a setback.

The security detail manning the walled perimeter of the complex was heavily armed. They wore light windbreakers to ward off the pelting sand stirred up by the October winds, customary for that time of year.

In addition to the perimeter guards, several other armed personnel could be seen wandering through the inner compound. These men were assigned to the top-level scientists who operated the facility. They were members of the Ministry of Intelligence and were not to be trifled with. Agent L had lost a partner to their assassins years ago.

The truck pulled into the loading dock area surrounded by a simple chain-link fence. If the intelligence he was given was correct, and it always was from this particular employer, the driver would park the truck and leave it for others to unload the next day. One crate on the flatbed truck would be specially identified for Agent L to view its markings with his night-vision optics. Everything he needed was contained inside.

He trusted this employer, as they’d never let him down. Naturally, he was uneasy when he learned he’d have to enter the INTC compound with nothing more than two sidearms, a knife and several Japanese shurikens , also known as throwing stars. With these minimal weapons, he could clandestinely manage to eliminate a single target or two. However, he couldn’t fight an army of security personnel when it came time to extract. An extraction that he considered near impossible, making him wonder if it was by design.

As darkness set in, he continued to surveil his surroundings. The addition of the personal bodyguards accompanying the scientists around the compound resulted in complications for the former MOSSAD operative.

Once complete darkness had set in, he located the specially marked crate and quietly pried it open with his knife. As promised, the interior contained a Galil rifle, the Israeli version of the AK-47. Weighing just over eight pounds, this battle rifle was capable of firing six hundred fifty 5.56-millimeter rounds per minute. He was provided six fifty-round magazines to complement the two hundred rounds of ammunition for his sidearm.

Agent L quickly checked the rifle and then donned the black combat vest found in the crate. The loadout would be heavy, but necessary. He secured the additional magazines in the pouches and took another few minutes to look around the compound before he moved on to the next phase of the operation.

Every light in the compound’s main entrance glowed bright, the expansive grounds fully illuminated and designed to eliminate potential hiding places. The utility yard where he was located was dimly lit by comparison, yet bright enough for him to be observed by the perimeter guards at the two towers near that side of the complex.

He tried to locate and count as many hostiles manning the fenced area as possible. His intelligence did not indicate what time the shift would change, so he had to be mindful of that plus the time for his attack. The number of armed personnel were a testament to the importance of the work being performed at Isfahan. The ten-foot-high walls surrounding the complex added to the sense of invulnerability to outside observers.