The Great Deception Page 3

  The president's aide then held up his fingers, forming the symbol that has been commonly known to mean A-Okay, however, in other circles it represented something of an entirely different realm. Three little numbers.

  --

  Chapter 2

  The Middle East in 2041 looked something like this: a dominate United Islamic Caliphate surrounding little, but not defenseless Israel. And as history dictated, the bitter struggle between the devout jihadists and Jews continued on into the late first half of the twenty-first century.

  Many attempts to wipe the Zionists off the face of the earth had failed up to this point. Nuclear holocausts never occurred...biological warfare fizzled. Israel had mastered the art of preemptive military strike to erase any possibility of a mass genocide of their own people. At the center of their survival was the famed Mossad agency. It was second to none. With sleeper cells on every corner of the globe, satellites over every strategic hot spot, and a very capable defense force, Israel wasn't going anywhere...yet.

  --

  Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

  Out of the tribe of Quraysh rose a great leader to rule the millions of Muslims spread far and wide across the Arabian Peninsula, the Mediterranean, and Horn of Africa (which included northeastern African nations also). In the second decade of the twenty-first century the call went out from the militant groups of Islam (aka Mujahideens) and political parties of Islamic states for the Muslim world to unite under one caliphate, or Second Ottoman Empire.

  …

  In 2035 under the inspiration he was the chosen one to represent Allah's authority on earth, Rehan Khalil rode into the capital of the new kingdom on a donkey. Millions had gathered to witness this historic moment...security was high. Miles of the highway 271 had been shut down to secure a safe parade route for the king and his entourage.

  All the highways and byways looping their way through downtown were under the jurisdiction of the United Islamic Caliphate's (UIC) Supreme Guard units. It was these troopers that cordoned off all the city's major arteries: they controlled the flow. Anybody who wanted to punch their way through security would need to do it with the assistance of a small army.

  Jeddah rose to prominence in the Arab world through oil dollars. Not only that, but because of her central location in the Middle East she became the largest commercial center, eventually surpassing even Dubai in the late 2020s. Strategically positioned in close proximity to the Red Sea, this port city served the global economy in a big way. Much of the freight on big tankers passed through her waters headed for Africa, the Middle East, or Europe.

  The crown jewel of the newly-formed

  Islamic caliphate even began to build an elevator to space where orbital platforms had large space shuttles docked at them, ready to transport freight and paying customers in unprecedented efficiency.

  That day the Muslim world showed up big to witness their human representation of Allah's authority on earth. Waving green banners and flags with a white star and crescent symbol emblazoned on it signaled to the watching world a United Islamic Caliphate was rising out of the desert...and

  Jeddah was at the center of it all.

  --

  Where there is no guidance, a people falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety.

  --Proverbs 11:14

  April 20th, 2041

  The Mossad stamped that Proverb as their motto. They sought to give Israel's leaders guidance through good counsel in order to arrive at informed decisions.

  …

  Five stealth helicopters' blades thwacked against the night air around them. These birds of war were headed to the former Republic of Moldova which had been grafted back into the Russian empire after World War III (circa 2018).

  External fuel tanks hung from the pylons under the wings of the Block XX Blackhawk stealth choppers; though the extra load it carried may have increased its overall radar cross-section, the ancient but heavily modified helicopters would need it to make the hop over the Black Sea.

  The most dangerous part of the flight would be the brief exposure to Odesa's launchers that lie in wait for aircraft daring enough to enter its domain. The good news: Ukraine wasn't their end destination...only a very skinny sliver of it stood in the way of Moldova's southeastern section which they were headed to. However, the flip side of that coin being the Blackhawk's weak countermeasures to anti-aircraft missile launchers. If the stealth didn't have its desired effect on enemy radar, it would be lights out for the Israelis.

  ...

  Four agents bundled together in the back of one of the choppers. The airframe shuddered a little at an altitude of five thousand feet going two hundred and thirty knots. The pilots were really pushing the envelope. Meanwhile the rest of the crew were engaged in a rousing game of blackjack-except for Seth Markov.

  Seth held an enviable background. Some said he was over-qualified to be a

  Mossad operative. He studied chemistry and physics at Israel's oldest college: TechnionIsrael Institute of Technology. Next up, he did his graduate studies at none other than MIT: graduating with a Masters of Science in Mechanical Engineering.

  For his physical regimen he dead-lifted five hundred pounds (eight reps in six sets), swam a quarter mile, ran a 5k in 16 minutes....Now you get the idea. Later in the day he'd spar with Israeli Commandos (think Navy Seals) until he bruised all his ribs and/or partially blacked out. What made Seth the ultimate fighting machine though were his skills in the deadly martial art called Kraw Maga. One simply didn't outlast his moves. Death would be the only conclusion to a match. Seth's record was perfect, too: many had perished from his lethal blows.

  He had no equal, except the fictional character Jason Bourne perhaps. Seth Markov was so rounded in every area there was literally no situation he wasn't prepared for. Because of his educational background, he was mentally equipped to think his way out of any dilemma like a living-breathing MacGyver.

  The six-foot-one, two hundred and ten pound jack-of-all-trades fighting machine sat undisturbed in peaceful reflection. He was so still, to anybody watching, Seth looked like an inanimate GI Joe doll. It was nearing 23:00 hours and the helicopters were still a good journey away from Moldova.

  The trivial occupation of playing cards didn't hold anything for the rough character. Everyone he worked with knew better just to let the warrior brood. That's what he did. His social skills weren't too good anyway; his attitude often was as snappy as a black bear smarting from a shoulder wound. Seth wore a snarly twisted scowl with battle scars marking his chiseled cheek bones. During exfils, Seth suited up for maximum readiness. Even though it was just a transfer from one safe house on to the next, the hardened Mossad agent treated it like it was his most dangerous mission. In an emergency he came ready with liquid body armor and a hang-glider system on his back in the extreme case the helicopter was compromised.

  All of the seemingly unnecessary precautions he took came from losing colleagues in the field due to a lack of preparedness. Never would that happen to him if he could help it, he determined. Ultimately, what Seth wanted most was to destroy the enemies of the state until there were no more. And then maybe, just maybe he could tell his son Azriel one day who is daddy really was. Seth knew he'd be old and gray and his son, married with kids before Azriel would ever know the real story about his father. Then again, there was a very real possibility he might never get that opportunity: coming back home, wherever that was, couldn't be guaranteed.

  --

  The Ozarks

  Damion's heart palpitated more than he was accustomed to. The situation was such: in a jail cell belonging to a female inmate who was a little more than mildly attractive to him. However, Christophe his loyal friend and chief scientist shared the same view.

  Heather's question of why they had been brought to the Ozarks facility still rolled around in his brain, having not yet found the answer he thought she would want to hear. He lowered his chin and looked up at the ceiling. "We, um--we're POW's. Scorpion had it in for us so t
hey ordered the hit. Bada bing, bada boom, we're here, like magic."

  Heather analyzed the billionaire. It didn't take long for the follow-up question to the first: "What makes you so valuable to the agency that they'd wanna take you in alive?" Christophe stepped forward and appeared ready to talk. His first words came out more French than American.

  Anglais s'il vous plaît. “English, please,” Heather said cracking a smile. "Yes, of course," Christophe apologized, turning red in the process. "We work for the FRN. We hold lots of major military contracts with their security forces that Scorpion is very interested in."

  "Yeah, wouldn't they love to know what we're capable of," Damion bitterly quipped. Heather held up a hand and squinted. "Wait a minute, do I--know you?" she was addressing Damion.

  "I don't know, do you?"

  The proverbial light bulb lit up in Heather’s mind. "You're that guy who started the nuclear fusion revolution in the transportation sector. Right?" Damion was flattered.

  "Yup, I did that," he replied modestly. "You’re so kind to take all the credit kid," his partner in innovation needled him in the side.

  "Sorry," Damion mumbled back.

  "Look, fellas, I'm not really in a talking mood, but a lot has happened to me in the past twenty-four hours and I've been dying to share it with someone."

  Both men's ears burned with curiosity now.

  "Make yourselves comfortable?" Heather was trying to play the part of hospitable host. Damion plopped his weight down on the concrete floor rather hastily. He was eager for a story. As Heather continued to talk, the fonder he became of her.

  Kara was now a distant country from his vantage point on an island surrounded by a sea of question marks. He had no clue if being held in isolation would be his new permanent residence.

  So much for those dang Viper agents coming to our rescue, the thought slipped into the billionaire's head as he listened to the British woman's strange accounting of her last day before waking up to her present reality.

  Christophe asked questions, but Damion remained silent, transfixed. Every now and then he would remember he had been staring; his eyes would then dart to some random object in the room. So inconspicuous.

  Heather noticed the extra attention the good-looking stranger with the green eyes and perfect tan gave her....She reached out and took it, folded it up, and put it in her back pocket. Distractions would be distractions.

  She had actually hoped to turn down the charm just enough to hold a meaningful conversation with both the faces that watched her every move.

  ...

  "....And that's when I woke up. I presently realized I was not dead, yet regrettably very much alive and staring straight into the gaze of the very cheeky warden of this prison." Christophe chuckled. A devious little grin played across his face. "Them bobbies are cheeky fellows, eh?"

  Heather laughed. Christophe's attempted use of British parlance with its accompanying accent was most humorous to her.

  Damion ignored his friend completely. That laugh. If only she knew what it did to him. This was getting ridiculous. He had to get out of there before he did something really stupid.

  "Er, Heather. It was really nice to meet you," he stepped forward to force the awkward handshake, "but I'm afraid my friend and I must be going." He cocked his head in the direction of the adjacent cell while he said this.

  She nodded with understanding. "See you again?"

  "Yes!" Christophe uttered without a pause in his voice.

  The blonde gave him a big smile and said,

  "Good."

  --

  Tel Aviv, Israel: circa 2036

  There was no big yellow bus that waited curbside in front of the restaurant La Shuk for a boy that needed to be in school. His uncle's Mercedes ended up being the shuttle instead.

  The uninviting nippy spring breeze hit Azriel with full force as he walked out the front entrance of La Shuk with uncle Ephraim nudging him as they went along at a fast walk. It was only a cool sixty degrees--the sun hid behind cloud formations to boot. Not a word was spoken between the two of them. As they neared the parallel parking spot the vehicle revved up and its gull-wing doors let the passengers mount up. The white interior was cast in a blue glow with silver accents all over.

  "Nice ride," Azriel murmured after he had

  climbed into the front passenger seat. "Does it fly?"

  Ephraim balked. "Only the top one percent of society have those, kid. Uncle

  Ephraim didn't get so lucky."

  The Jewish boy understood.

  The engine made a whooshing sound as its electric motor sent power to the wheels. It was a smooth acceleration--sporty, but not jerky. Azriel took in the blur of colorful pedestrians strolling along the sidewalks of Israel's biggest hub. The old architecture mixed in with the new in the city. Art Deco buildings abounded; ubiquitous single-story European homes topped by a red tiled roof crawled all over the landscape; and two to three story sandstone residences also proliferated.

  Ephraim did a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour on the Ayalon Highway which fringed the eastern section of downtown. There was no posted speed. In the age of fully autonomous vehicles, car accidents were simply unheard of. Cars had really gotten that smart.

  Uncle Ephraim still drove manually though, no matter how capable his vehicle may have been. He refused to let his skills go to waste in exchange for convenience. That was an extremely bad trade-off in his mind. Every once in a while if there had been something on his mind that would require him to take his hands off the wheel, eyes off the road, and give his full attention to the person he wanted to deliver a message to he would make an exception and push the button for the vehicle to take over.

  Today was a day for expediency, however. Azriel would go to school and make fourth period...on time.

  "But I don't have any books, uncle," the boy said out of the blue, breaking down the wall of silence.

  The driver went ahead and adopted a mischievous look in his expression.

  "Ah, so you think. I actually spoke with the school superintendent recently. It has been arranged for. Books, school supplies, transportation every day....Done."

  Tall skyscrapers, apartment buildings, and offices loomed large on the left. Ephraim's tunnel vision wandered to observe the central business district. "I never get used to that sight," he commented on Tel Aviv's modern architecture.

  "It's all I've ever known," Azriel responded, his voice muffled. The Mercedes weaved through traffic very aggressively with the goal in mind of being on time.

  "We're nearly there."

  Azriel looked confused. "But, the school I

  went to wasn't on the northeast side of Tel Aviv...."

  "This is your school," his uncle cut him off, not giving his nephew a chance to question. "The teachers here are excellent. You will get an education, I assure you." Well, it was of no assurance to the boy fresh off his bar mitzvah. To him, an education wasn't a part of the rite of passage

  to adulthood. It didn't interest him. Azriel would much rather have been a wanderer, a passerby in the game of life. He wasn't willing to put in the hard work to get anywhere. But his wellmeaning uncle was hoping to change all of that.

  The stylish black Mercedes slowed down to a stop behind a school bus that had its amber lights flashing. A ringtone suddenly filled up the cabin of the SUV. It played over the car's speakers, but Ephraim took the call on his inear headset.

  "Yeah..." he answered a question. His eyes shifted sideways to the boy. His mind was quickly made up as the call continued. Before long he was making shooing motions for Azriel to get out and walk the rest of the way to class.

  "But I don't even know where to go!" The boy protested.

  "Just go! I'll be there shortly, "Ephraim whispered, his eyes rising over the top of his glasses which perched at the end of his nose. The boy shrugged.

  Azriel gingerly got out in his own time, casting one long last look over his shoulder at his uncle who was still on a phone call. His
sneakered feet took him towards the rotunda entrance of the grand school building. Security cameras, always on the swivel, perked up at his arrival. Azriel didn't like the feeling of being watched. But he needed help, direction on where to go. As he got up to the door he sensed his body undergoing a scan. To the right of the door frame at waist level was a digital display. It pulled up Azriel's national ID card on the screen.

  An artificial voice sounded and said, "Welcome, Azriel Markov. Please walk to the front desk to report for further instructions.

  Thank you."

  Thank you, the thirteen-year-old parroted back.

  After the shutter-style doors parted the next thing he noticed was a big area rug carpeting the floor of the turnstile: Welcome to Thelma Yellin High School was stitched into it in blue letters.

  There was momentary confusion. "But I'm still in Middle school," escaped his lips. A motion detector sensed the human approaching and correspondingly opened the next set of doors.