The Great Deception Read online

  For everyone else looking to fly on the cheap, there were plenty of names in the industry that flew supersonic jumbo jets for very low fares. And unlike Orbital Flyer, they charged per flight. However you got what you paid for: economy-class seating, lack of infotainment options, and perhaps a bag of peanuts if the flight attendant remembered.

  Thus went the airline industry in the modern times of this story.

  --

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  It is lunch hour in the central business district of Israel's largest city. The glass pocket door of La Shuk restaurant opened and closed to the influx of a population seeking a good bite to eat. Good eats La Shuk had. The grill served up veal schnitzel with the popular side of creamy mashed potatoes all day. Fresh garden salads with baskets full of pitas hot from the oven made it around the floor to every table. On the second story in the non-smoking section, Azriel Markov sat at a booth all by himself. The neighborhood school in the Florentine neighborhood on the south side of town was where he should have been; Azriel in fact still had three years left in his middle school education as required in Israel's overarching compulsory education system (k-

  12).

  Azriel was a man unto himself though. His dad was away on business always and mom died of pregnancy complications when Azriel was very young. Or so that was the story they fed him. The stillborn baby would have been a girl--her name, Keila.

  The pain from these losses mixed in with his iced tea like a bitter lemon peel. Azriel slouched. This was one of many places he went to for perspective. No other restaurant in the area quite did it for him like La Shuk. Fist-fulls of broken pita bread dipped in tasty humus were of more comfort to him than a cerebral walk through the vineyards he would frequent southeast of Tel Aviv near Beit Shemesh.

  The young soul often thought about what he'd do with his life. School didn't hold much for him, the arts were out...Azriel wasn't a handyman either, nor was he bent that way. So what? There were a lot of tech companies always hiring in the area, and he even thought about stopping in one day at such a place. Azriel lacked ambition though. Life didn't seem fair to him, so why try? Instead of rising from the ashes, the thirteen-year-old boy chose to sit in them and marinade.

  From his table the boy had a view of anyone who ascended the stairs. Besides a few attractive girls he had guessed to be a few years too old for him, there hadn't been any persons of interest that had made the walk up to the second floor. Right as the breaded piece of meat got in between his teeth, touched his tongue...that's when he was forced to break from the flavor works going on his mouth to the current problem at hand. And it was walking towards his table. Uncle Markov was in the building, and he was on a mission. Ephraim took it upon himself to be his nephew's surrogate father whether the boy desired it or not. Ephraim knew Azriel was floundering in life and that he needed an elderly, sage voice of wisdom to show him the path.

  Azriel slouched so low in his booth that his spine protested against him. The Jewish boy's persistent uncle now loomed large at his side. He was talking in Hebrew; most of the whole contained scathing reproofs.

  At thirteen years of age the young man thought he knew it all. Not only was he officially an upstanding man in Jewish society, he was now an active participant in the daily prayer services at the synagogue. Good ol' Uncle Markov though...he was at it again. When is he gonna leave me be, Azriel thought.

  "Are you even listening to me?" his uncle sharply demanded while seating himself across from his nephew. "What have you been into boy?"

  Azriel understood the last question to mean what kind of trouble are you into this time?

  He slowly chewed in order to make his uncle wait even longer for an answer. Ephraim's scowl grew larger. "How's your dad been?"

  Azriel spoke for the first time. "Fine."

  "Oh really? What kind of business has he been away on, do you even know?" This wasn't a question the boy could answer, actually. His father's line of work hadn't ever been communicated very clearly to him. Ever. All he knew was his dad had frequent flier miles up the ying-yang. When he had asked his father point blank on one of the rare occasions he had opportunity to, all he got was a vague "it's for the country, son. I help save lives." That was usually code for it's confidential, I'm sworn to secrecy. But Azriel wasn't one to assume. "I don't know," Azriel admitted. He immediately wished he had lied instead of opting for honesty for he knew his transparency only invited more questions from his nosy uncle.

  "Wouldn't you like to know?" It was a good question. Not too provoking either. The boy's expression softened. He actually wasn't gonna fight it. Maybe a conversation with Ephraim wasn't so bad after all. "I really wish I could see more of him...know that he cares. He never says 'I love you son,'

  nothing."

  Ephraim's eyes grew sad. His larger hands enveloped his nephew's in a clasp of affection.

  Azriel looked into his uncle's dark eyes, noticing love there instead of hatred-kindness instead of disapproval. "Can you tell

  me something?" "Anything."

  "Why do you care so much?"

  Uncle Ephraim straightened up a bit at the directness of the inquiry. "Why, it's because you're family Azriel. I never had any of my own, so I see you as the son I never got to have."

  The profundity that left the whiskered lips of the middle-aged man left the young person speechless for a spell. A sip from the halfempty glass of iced tea restored his desire to pursue more conversation though. "I..." he looked away out of shame, shame for how he had treated the man before him. At long last he came to the bottom of Ephraim's heart only to be overwhelmed by his uncle's true intentions for him.

  "I went to morning prayers today, uncle."

  Ephraim poked a finger into the diminishing mound of mashed potatoes with the enddestination being his open mouth, ready to receive the delectable starchy goodness. He smacked his lips and nodded at the lad before him.

  "First time?"

  "Yeah. It was..."

  His uncle had raised eyebrows. "What?" He had been expecting a simple yup, but the boy had more to say.

  "Rabbi said some," Azriel paused and blinked, "interesting things concerning Messiah."

  "Oh?" Now it was his turn to be concerned again. Ephraim was very traditional in his Jewish beliefs. According to them, the Messiah was not the person Jesus Christ--he had not yet come.

  "Jesus is returning a second time," the young man said out of the side of his mouth, as if he didn't like the message's contents any more than the listener did. "Bah!" Uncle Markov very indignantly knocked the salt and pepper shakers over.

  "Blasphemy!"

  Azriel looked confused. "But uncle, I didn't say who Jesus was. I didn't refer to Him as the Son of..."

  "Don't speak that rubbish boy! I will not have it!" Ephraim cursed. Azriel regretted he ever brought it up. "You know I don't believe in it," he lied. "Good boy," Ephraim said in a more collected, controlled manner. "Now, I will take you to your new school."

  "Say what?"

  "You heard me. Get up. We don't have much time. The bell rings soon for fourth period. Up, up!"

  --

  West LA, California

  Two blue trails streaked upwards for a mile before detonation. Then there was a boom, an intense flash of light, and a shock wave that had an incomprehensibly large radius that continued to grow with the passing seconds.

  "EMP!" Mike Dumphree screamed over the radio from his command and control chair in the AWACS plane. Suddenly his faith in the air armada's electromagnetic shielding sharply diminished as the shock wave continued to ripple, threatening to envelop FRN's security forces in the sky.

  …

  A little bit earlier

  Meanwhile in the Basement, FRN's secure presidential bunker deep beneath Honolulu, President Alexander Toporvsky and his National Security Council were anxiously watching the events unfold in Operation Switchblade. Base Commanders Bill Rescheck, Abraham Steffords and brigadier general Thomas Harding all added their collective inpu
t on tactical air tasking orders from their command and control centers located throughout the Free Republic of North America...and Texas.

  It was like a three ring circus...

  Five minutes prior to the imminent engagement with the enemy Commander Steffords was in direct communication with the Air Boss giving the order to put down the heavy-lift craft in the LZ at 2404 E El Segundo Blvd.

  "Do it now or else there may never be another chance," he said in context of the mission and setting up a secure perimeter on-site.

  Air Boss Mike Dumphree worriedly looked at his screens fill up with enemy aircraft. Even though he had given the directive to open fire on all bogies, they were absorbing the damage. The enemy had superior shields that could take a missile or two and laser cannon fire. This couldn't have been happening. But it was.

  Mike said into his headset, "Mustafa bubbas (fellow squadron members), what's the skinny on your ISR (intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance), over."

  "Nothing moving on the ground within five clicks of the LZ. No heat signatures. Over," the Mustafa group commander radioed in. Mike celebrated his good luck by taking off his headphones for a minute to wipe his forehead. God this couldn't be anymore.... Before he could even finish internalizing what he was experiencing Scorpion's mothership launched her missiles. She hadn't targeted any of FRN's planes though. Instead, their sights were set on detonating them a mile above the action with the intent of creating a massive electromagnetic pulse that would wipe out FRN's shielding.

  ...

  As soon as President Alexander saw the enemies first move (EMP attack) that's when instinct told him they needed to jink and not stick around with these guys. He knew they were outgunned and outmatched; therefore Operation Switchblade would take its chances on the ground instead. The leader of the free world was about to make a gamechanger decision. Not before there were more casualties however.

  "Punch out, punch out!" one copilot frantically communicated to the other pilot in a two-seater seventh generation jet that had just bought the farm. The man he spoke to was unresponsive however; he had in fact been killed in action by the tango's laser fire that managed to slice through his cockpit section and incinerate his vital organs in the process.

  The situation couldn’t have been any worse for the good guys--even before the EMP shock wave hit. Then the losses would really start to tally up.

  Alexander couldn't take it anymore.

  "Have we had enough downed planes?!" he cried. His eyes narrowed in anger. "Ground the armada. Get 'em down before this gets any messier," he growled to the Air Boss. "Roger that Eagle Command," Mike Dumphree acknowledged with due deference to chain of command.

  Then Mike proactively said to the air armada, "All groups tasked with escort of heavy-lift aircraft, break off and get your fangs out. We're gonna light 'em up." Thomas Harding who was in charge of the ground forces now joined the chatter, giving coordinates to the flying fortresses (heavy-lift aircraft) on where to land.

  "You're gonna push the envelope and come in hard. There is no time for a soft landing gentleman," he stressed.

  Meanwhile more FRN jets fell prey in the fur ball of chaotic high-speed combat maneuvers with the enemy. Many burned out of control, losing flight control…ultimately slamming into skyscrapers below. Those that missed became large impact craters in the highways. Smoke belched from the wreckage all across the city's west side. The loss of life, both pilots and collateral damage of citizens on the ground continued to escalate.

  A tremendous groan suddenly filled the skies as Scorpion's electromagnetic pulse defeated the thick alloy shielding FRN used against such attacks. In a fleeting moment it looked like all hope was lost.

  --

  Somewhere over the North Pacific--03:00 hours, April 24th, 2041

  The three leaders from Britain, Russia, and Germany were assisted into the airlock inside the Scorpion AirCorvette. From there they would be helped into the submersible that would drop through the bomb-bay doors in the rear section of the craft when it was time. There wasn't a whole lot of chit-chat between the cast of characters. If communication was desired, they all had their translucent Universal Articulators which were worn like retainers in their mouths. These handy little devices replaced artificial voice synthesizers as the new standard for

  universal translation by utilizing the speaker's own vocal tract.

  The Russian leader conversed with one of his own aides in a low voice near the aft of the plane by the cargo ramp in a little alcove under a side bulkhead. Two alcoves up from the one the aforementioned characters occupied, the German and British heads of state began to dialogue.

  "Have you ever been to the war room before?" the chancellor of Germany spoke in the British prime minister's own native tongue.

  "Yes Lothar, on one other occasion." The British PM appeared a little tired, but that didn't seem to affect his cordial disposition. Lothar Kirsch made a guttural noise in the back of his throat.

  "What was the nature of your first visit?" The German head of state tried to hide his lack of trust for the other man behind an innocent little smile.

  "That's none of your business, chancellor," Jasper Turpin deflected. "I've come to see the dawning of a new age today. I know the Lord of the Ages won't disappoint." Lothar clutched the harness's buckle that went over his lap. He was secretly angry at Jasper for denying him the information he had requested. But this didn't come as a surprise. It only served to add more brush strokes to further color his view on Jasper in a negative light. What he sought to grapple with was the idea of working together, in unity, as a one-world government when there clearly were seeds of distrust sewn into the fabric of such a weave-- because of rulers like Jasper Turpin.

  "I hear S3 is going to be the new seat of government for the established order...." Lothar changed subjects. "Any thoughts?"

  Jasper mentally steeled himself to conceal the true identity of his affections. Almost certainly he wished the capital of the new world order would be along the Thames in the UK instead of Sector Three in North America.

  "I've always thought highly of the District of

  Columbia. It was born for greatness," Jasper Turpin lied.

  The German chancellor compressed his lips together. "Yes, indeed. My impression, also."

  "Then today should go well," Jasper was quick to say.

  "I hope so. I'd sure like to hear what Igor has to say though."

  ...

  Igor Orloff, president of Russia, wasn't a man to trifle with. The fifty-six-year-old dominated talks at roundtables and summits the world over. He had perfected the power grab when he shook hands with his gripper always overlapping the other ruler's. His body language communicated great pride and confidence. What really tops the list of quality leadership attributes for this man, though, would be his perceptive mind that could see through any smokescreen, red herring, diversion...anything.

  Russia's Chairman of the Government, or the land's number two, went with Igor to Scorpion's war room that morning. President Orloff was hardly ever seen without his right hand man. The two men now discussed domestic concerns under the sepia-red glow of the aircraft's interior lighting. They sat side by side on a low bench situated in a little recess tucked into the plane's side. Both were buckled in until told otherwise.

  Grigory stretched his legs. "So nice of them to transport us in the cargo hold of a military jet."

  Igor smiled at his aide's quip. "What? I thought you missed travelling like this. The

  KGB flew much worse planes than this."

  Grigory Sliva folded his arms at the mention of his history. He'd like to forget the missions he flew all over Eastern Europe with Russia's syndicate intelligence agency. There was one memory however that strangely surfaced in Sliva's head in the moment. It was an assignment he had done more than fifteen years ago in Kosovo.

  The thin man winced.

  His hands would be forever stained red from a life of past sins: the countless victims that fell to the skil
lful dagger or quick trigger continued to haunt the Russian leader. Nothing he did to medicate would erase the undying stigma that went with him as he climbed the rungs of Russia's ladder to power.

  "Aren't we near our lay-over?" the aide humorously referred to the drop into the ocean as such.

  The Russian president followed Grigory's gaze to the capsule that sat no more than ten feet away. It looked like a space vehicle ready to escape earth's orbit and head to mars.

  "Let's get on with it," Igor said, his impatience growing. "I want to meet this great man I've heard about in whispers." "Some say he's not even a man," Grigory said with a wink.

  Igor laughed and paused. "No, he's a man alright, but he's also something else. I believe," the leader began to say as he traced his red beard with his fingers from the lip to below his jutting chin, "that this man is the one long foretold about. He has a unique mark."