Hammerson exhaled and opened the eyes-only folder and read from the first page. The suspects ranged from the obvious to the far-fetched. No group of the dozens making a mess of Iraq right now had this sort of technology, or the means to develop it. He rubbed at his chin. But there were a few certainly wealthy enough to buy a weapon like this, and a few sellers with a corrupt enough ideology to supply one.
Due to the chaos in the Middle East, they had various orbiting birds watching most parts of the landscape. Hammerson called up the orbit log of the VELA satellites and selected one that had eyes on Northern Iraq. He then tracked the data feed back a month, looking for any high energy particle traces. Most bombs of that size will shed, giving off minute traces of enriched uranium, plutonium, deuterium, tritium, or dozens of other elements used in thermonuclear explosive devices, all tidily collected under the heading of Highly Radioactive Elements, or HREs.
Leaning forward to stare at the screen, Jack Hammerson started with the fireball, and then moved back in time, by seconds at first, then minutes — there, there it was, the hotspot, the trace within the boundaries of the city. He reversed back more minutes. The hotspot was moving, but so slowly, at approximately four miles per hour — walking speed.
Hammerson sat back and folded his arms. He knew tactical nukes could be packed down to suitcase size, but even the smallest would weigh several hundred pounds. And the smaller you made the device the smaller the detonation. But the blast at Soran was twenty kilotons, and for something with that much punch, it would mean the initiation and storage technology had to be between five hundred and a thousand pounds, at least — way too big for any normal man.
Hammerson ran a hand through his iron-gray crew cut, and then reversed the time back more hours, watching the trace continue its slow march. The weapon had traveled west, across the desert, to its ground zero point. He moved it back days, and still it was there, plodding forward. Whoever or whatever it was, was either in the world’s slowest vehicle, or it was on foot, carrying an impossibly heavy nuke.
Hammerson drew the dates back further, and saw that the trace signature was still on a direct path from the east, until it finally stopped. Its genesis point was one of the worst places on earth — Mosul — the viper’s nest of terrorism, and one of the declared state capitals for Hezar-Jihadi, the Party of a Thousand Martyrs.
He lifted his coffee mug, sipping, staring at the screen. “Could you assholes really get access to that sort of weapons tech?”
Hammerson went back another day, then another week, then a month. The trace was gone, vanished. It didn’t exist one day, and then the next, it just shows up in Mosul.
“Well now, who dropped that gift into your laps?”
Hammerson was in luck; the satellite had been directly over Mosul, making drill-down possible. He selected and amplified, diving down to the city blocks and then to the roofs, until he came to a single dwelling — a large flat structure that could be a small warehouse or factory.
“Love to get a look in there.” Hammerson read the Case Activity Section of the classified report — the situation was currently under the jurisdiction of the CIA, who was coordinating with the local Iraqi police and armed forces.
So, a nuke goes off in the Middle East and we let the suits and sunglasses go front and center, he thought. Might as well close the file now. He grunted, drumming his fingers. He knew he couldn’t push his nose into everything, but something about this incident made the hair on his neck prickle. He had the feeling it was like a test run — a prelude to something bigger.
Hammerson turned in his seat to look out of his large office window. He doubted the Israelis would be treating a thermonuclear explosion in their backyard with as much indifference.
CHAPTER 2
General Meir Shavit was the head of Metsada, the Special Operations Division of the Mossad. Short and grizzle-haired, he had served his country for over fifty years in both military theaters and dedicated intelligence services. He could even boast an apprenticeship under the fearsome Ariel Sharon in the infamous Unit 101 — Israel’s very first Special Forces command.
Though the Mossad was classed a civilian bureaucratic security operation, Shavit’s Metsada was the most structured and professional. It was also the deadliest, responsible for assassination, paramilitary operations, sabotage, and psychological warfare. Metsada was Israel’s fist, and Shavit was its brain.
Shavit spread the photographs out on his desk like a hand of playing cards. His stubby finger came down on one with a circle of red around a flat roofed building.
“In here, Addy. That is where we believe the bomb originated.” He looked up at his niece, his eyes yellowed from years of smoking. “There are no traces leading in, only ones leading out.”
Adira Senesh nodded, looking at the building, memorizing every stone, crack and piece of rubble in the streets surrounding it. Noting access points, exits, and potential danger zones from surrounding buildings.
“A bomb factory.” She knew it must be fortified. “They must have landed a helicopter on the roof. Dropped the components or completed device in that way.”
Shavit grunted. “I think yes. They received it there, and then someone, one person, somehow walked it to Soran.” He sat back. “Impossible.”
“Not impossible.” She remembered one man who could do it. And if he could… She stood at attention, waiting for her orders.
“The American Central Intelligence Agency has combined with the Iraqi National Intelligence Service and the Iraqi Army. But none of them can safely enter Mosul while it is under the control of Hezar-Jihadi. And what good is a spy agency when every informant they pay, the terrorists pay more to send them wrong information or entrap them.”
His fingers drummed for a moment. “Addy, we cannot wait for our answers. We must know what’s in there.” He breathed wheezily for a few moments. “Be our eyes in there, Addy.”
“And if we find something?” she asked.
Shavit seemed to hold his breath, and looked up at her with rheumy eyes. “Then destroy every atom of it.”
CHAPTER 3
The International Zone, formerly known as the Green Zone, or just “the Zone”, was home to American, British, Australian and Egyptian embassies, as well as numerous private military contractors.
It was an oasis of modernity and what the Iraqi government hoped would one day be a template for the rest of the country. Access was heavily guarded, and few thoroughfares were larger or better monitored than the Arbataash Tamuz Suspension Bridge that crossed the Tigris River, a border to the Zone.
A watch tower and a series of gates slowed the traffic across the bridge, and a couple of M1117 Guardian Armored Security Vehicles, or ASVs, were parked off at each side, both with their turret mounted M2HB Browning machine guns pointed at the roadway.
There had been no attacks in months now, and slowly, hour by hour, the city seemed to be moving back to a sense of normality.
Zaid Surchi was one of six guards in the span tower that stretched across the entire roadway. His automatic weapon was slung over his shoulder, and in a large hard covered case at his feet sat an RPG rocket launcher. The barriers would slow any foolhardy suicide bomber in a vehicle and then the RPG would send them to hell long before they got to the Zone.