Ted Bell - Spy

The icy Washington roads, barely visible and unfamiliar, presented the human sensor operator with a bewildering challenge. Still, with the well-practiced Top at the controls, the enormous treads had been successfully grinding up the miles since his insertion inside the District of Columbia’s theater of operations.

Top had been manning the controls for nearly an hour. With the exception of that one minor mishap, he had successfully navigated a crossing of the Key Bridge. He had then entered the maze of confusing side streets of Georgetown. He was now rounding Washington Circle and preparing to move the beast left onto Pennsylvania. So far, he’d been un-opposed by forces of any significance. Two DC police cruisers had chased him for a few blocks, but he’d dispatched them with only his .23-millimeter machine guns.

He heard a disconcerting alarm sounding. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the blinking dot of orange light moving across the computer-generated map of Washington, DC. It was coming this way. At a disturbingly high rate of speed. The words Manned Armed Vehicle flashed at the bottom of the screen. Jara, he whispered, shit. A tank.

Top spun his turret toward the location of the glowing dot five kilometers away. He had his electronic jam screen up. He didn’t think the thing could get close. He wondered why EMP hadn’t knocked the vehicle’s guidance systems out. Perhaps it was operating visually. In any event, he had plenty of low-yield missiles yet to expend and he was unafraid. He felt, not without reason, invulnerable.

He spun his fire control cursor, moving a bright red dot across the screen with well-practiced ease. When the red dot and the orange dot merged, he stabbed at a yellow button on his panel.

Both blinking lights disappeared, praise be to Allah!

Then he turned his gaze to the icy road dead ahead. He was nearing one of his primary targets. He could feel the shudder of nervous excitement building inside. It was a feeling very much akin to lust.

Top’s right hand, the one gripping the joystick, trembled slightly as he twisted the throttle, shoved the stick forward, and accelerated. It was cramped inside, and though there was artificially cooled air, his face shone with a thin coating of sweat.

He successfully navigated the sweeping left hand turn at forty miles and hour and slowed the machine as he pulled up abreast of the White House. With darting jabs at his controls, he armed the main fire control systems and reached out for the small joystick that operated the giant tank’s turret. A second later, he had the North Portico of the White House squarely in his primary gun sight.

A great lantern hung suspended by chains from the porte-cochere that sheltered the North Portico. The lantern glowed a soft yellow through the sleeting snow. He’d seen countless photographs of this famous scene in his life, harried diplomats coming and going through this storied portal, trying to save the world from people just like him.

A burst from his forward machine guns obliterated the lantern. He moved his hand over the primary weapons control panel. He would fire his first missile right through the Great Satan’s door!

“THAT’S ENOUGH,” he heard Dr. Khan say in his headset. “Come on out. Playtime is over. We’re due at the river for the demonstration.”

“I did well?” Top asked his superior, exiting the Ogre Tank Simulator. It was even colder in the underground bunker than it had been inside the simulator. And he didn’t have the Stones to keep him company, heat his blood.

“Yes. You did well. Almost perfect, in fact.”

“Only machines are capable of perfection, Leader,” he responded, knowing the words Khan wanted to hear.

“It’s a pity you won’t be driving one of these brutes north, Muhammad.”

“Yes. I come by these skills naturally, Dr. Khan,” Top said, accepting his fleece-lined bomber jacket from one of the technicians. “My father commanded the 192nd Armored Division in the Valley of Tears. Golan Heights. 1973.”

“I knew your father well. He was a fierce warrior. But he lost. A mere 150 Israeli tanks stopped 1,400 invading Syrian tanks in the bottleneck. It was a disaster. I vowed that day never to see a repeat of your father’s humiliation.”

Abu Khan knew whereof he spoke.

In 1973, in the Yom Kippur War, Dr. Abu Musab al-Khan had commanded all the mechanized armor divisions deployed on the Golan Heights. It was a mere two-hour tank ride south to Israeli territory. The Golan Heights protected Israel’s north. Any attack from Syria had to be topographically channeled through one of only two passes in which armored vehicles could cross.

The surprised and vastly outnumbered Israeli troops held off the invaders for a vital 48 hours. In that time, they were able to mobilize and deploy the necessary forces required to beat back and ultimately defeat the Syrians.

Khan had long since redeemed himself. He had been responsible for the Syrian build-up of highly advanced weaponry in response to the Yom Kippur disaster. Now, in order to implement Hafez al-Assad’s vision of a “Greater Syria,” Khan’s generals possessed 4,000 manned tanks on the Golan crestline.

The troops had doubled in size and were equipped with Scud-C missiles, twice as powerful and four times more accurate than the Iraqi Scuds that rained down upon Israel during the Gulf War. When war came, his plan was to unleash vast numbers of the new Scuds against Haifa and Tel Aviv, sowing widespread civilian panic and seriously disrupting Israel’s emergency reserve mobilization.

But Khan had far grander ideas. At a secret meeting in Damascus, he had seen Top’s Latin American battle plan in its infancy. It immediately dawned on him that here was a chance to build, test, and field his dream. A remote-controlled air force. And a mechanized army incapable of human foibles and battlefield stupidity because it would be autonomous once launched.

“You’ve created an invincible army, Leader.”

“Yes, God willing. Because there is no chance of human error. Keep that in mind when you play your little war games, Muhammad, my brother. The Day approaches. It is out of your hands now. Inshallah.”

Top looked Kahn squarely in the eyes. In truth, he had come to believe in the vision. The wizard from Damascus believed that infallible machines should strike the first blows in this jihad. Death would roam the streets of Washington, unseen and unexpected. The Cause would be better served if Abu Khan and Muhammad Top were here in the bunker on the Great Day. Let infallible machines do the work of destroying the enemy’s military and political infrastructure.

Then send the armies north to wreak havoc on the civililan population.

“Yes, Leader. It is out of my hands.”

“I believe the Bedouin is ready for inspection?”

“She is. Let us go at once.”

Bedouin was a small, unmanned submarine that would ultimately carry a single but very lethal piece of cargo. The sub could be operated from remote locations up to 7,000 miles away. Inside Bedouin was a 150-kiloton nuclear weapon. The warhead was shielded to provide protection from the electronic pulse of any simultaneous nearby nuclear explosions. In two hours, the Volkswagen-sized sub was due to be airlifted to Manaus for further shipment to Mexico. From there, Bedouin would be transported by tractor-trailer truck to a pre-determined location in America.

The location was a small farm just outside of Lee’s Ferry, a tiny town located on the Potomac River in Virginia. It was called Morning Glory Farm. Apple orchards. The farm was owned by an extremely wealthy individual from Rio de Janeiro. He in turn was owned by a large multinational company headquartered in Dubai.

The man, a German, had been a traitor.