Literally translated as the “city of love” in Persian, Ashgabat’s nearly one million people and relatively modern city served as a refreshing detour for Camp and Finn on the back-end of a brutal march up, over and back from the Hindu Kush in freezing weather. Situated between the Karam Kum desert and the Kopet Dag mountain range, Ashgabat was the capital of Turkmenistan, the last of the Soviet bloc’s to declare independence before the former Soviet Union collapsed.
Ashgabat was a major stop on the Trans-Caspian railway, a point that was of utmost importance to Camp and Finn as they rode in the back of the black sedan on the 23-minute ride to the hotel.
“Finn, can I ask you a question? What compels a group, or a country, to consider launching a bio-weapon that kills thousands, maybe millions, so indiscriminately?”
“That’s a bit heavier than the ‘wanna get a beer at the bar’ I was expecting.”
“Seriously, you FBI guys profile this sort of thing. How does anyone even think this way?” Camp asked.
“You can’t get your arms around it because you’re a rational warfare guy, Camp. Rationalist theory says the actors are rational and able to project their likelihood of success or failure. The Cold War was a stand-off between two rational players, armed to the teeth with nuclear weapons, but each actor embraced the inevitable notion of mutual destruction. Hence, no war… both actors were rational.”
“I spent a lot of time talking to the Iranian… Omid.”
“I know… so let me jump to the chase; Iran is not a rational actor,” Finn said.
“But they are, Finn! They are completely rational within the constructs of their own brand of Islam. They rationally believe that they have a moral and spiritual obligation to usher in the Age of the Coming. It is their rational desire to trigger the annihilation of Israel in order to rationally pave the way for the Twelfth Imam. It’s all quite rational… for them.”
“Every Muslim?”
“Oh, no. Not even close. But the current Iranian regime… the Muslims in control of Iran today… they want rational annihilation.”
“They’re a bunch of radicals!”
“Billy, one man’s ‘radical’ is another man’s ‘rational.’ But here’s the problem: what about the 200 million more Shiite Muslims who follow this same brand of Twelver Islam? Do they secretly disagree with the interpretations of this Iranian regime? I haven’t heard any other Twelvers condemning them. Now add in the other 1.4 billion Sunni and Shiite Muslims. Would any of them be terribly upset if Iran wiped Israel off the map? Or would they reject Israel’s destruction on the grounds of being Islamic pacifists who preferred instead to live side-by-side in peace, content to wait for the Islamic messiah to reveal himself later on?”
“So… you think a type of quasi-rational theory is in play,” Finn concluded. “The west is using their rational diplomacy, and the east is using their rational theology?”
“Exactly! We try to discourage Iran with western rational theory actions: sanctions, rebukes, then more sanctions… Iran responds with rational eastern theory and theocratic policies: shut down the Internet, suppress the popular revolt, then prepare the nukes and bio-weapons for the rationally-required annihilation of Israel that ushers in the Mahdi,” Camp said with almost complete exasperation.
“So, what if we think outside our rational western box and deny them first-strike capability?” Finn asked.
“Shoot the suicide bomber before he detonates?”
“It won’t change their theology… but it will slow them down,” Finn reasoned.
Camp stared out at the passing streets, cars and buildings without really seeing anything as he grew introspective.
“I’ve spent my entire career wearing this uniform, Finn, and here I sit not really sure why nations go to war in the first place.”
“Well, Rome marched into Carthage to crush a resurgent rival. Prussian General Von Clausewitz waged war as an act of force designed to compel his enemies to do his will. But the Jewish Talmud says it best,” Finn theorized. “There are only three universal reasons for war.”
Billy Finn fell quickly silent as he leaned forward and looked into the driver’s rearview mirror at the same unmarked car that had been following their sedan through the streets of Ashgabat since they left the airport.
“What is it?” Camp asked referring to his silence.
“Money, ideology-religion, and power.”
The sedan stopped curbside in front of the Turkmenistan Hotel, a comfortable Soviet-era three-story cinder block hotel with 90 rooms and five suites, all packaged from the outside with sea foam green paint and dark green awnings covering petite wrought iron patios.
Finn noted the trailing sedan as it pulled a u-turn after passing the hotel then parked on the opposite side of 19 Bitarap Turkmenistan Street.
“So be western irrational for a second, Finn,” Camp said as they exited the sedan, tipped the driver and made their way into the hotel and the reservations desk. “You heard what Omid was saying about the Twelvers. What would you do?”
“There’s only one way, Camp… cut the head off of every snake that comes out of that pit. Shoot the suicide bomber before he pushes the button.”
“But don’t blow the entire snake pit up?”
“Nope. That’ll piss off every other snake and make ‘em even more aggressive.”
“And how do you suppose we just chop off heads, Mister Irrational?” Camp asked.
Billy Finn smiled as he laid his passport down on the counter.
“Look the other way when the chopping starts. Get someone inside the pit to chop the heads, or just get it done yourself.”
The front desk clerk smiled and greeted the two American guests.
“You gotta be kidding,” Camp whispered as she processed Finn’s room. “CIA?” The clerk handed Finn his room key as Camp put his passport down on the counter.
“You have a beard now, Mister Campbell. It’s hard to recognize you from your photo,” the clerk said as Camp smiled and stroked his fledgling beard from the Hindu Kush mission that he’d all but forgotten. Finn leaned over and whispered.
“Mossad.”
20
National Interagency Biodefense Center
BSL-4 Facility
Fort Detrick, Maryland
General Ferguson and a new detail of coffee-pouring majors from the Pentagon pulled through the security gates at Detrick. The checkpoint guards called Lieutenant Colonel Raines immediately as instructed. Raines grabbed Dr. Groenwald, and they headed down the elevator without buttons to the atrium where they waited for Ferguson.
“General Ferguson, welcome to Detrick, sir, it’s great to see you again,” Raines said as she shook the general’s hand and introduced herself to his majors. “This is Dr. Groenwald who runs the facility.”
“Pleasure to meet you, doctor,” Ferguson said. “Colonel, how’s your health?”
“Medical cleared me to start running again and, other than being a bit winded I feel just about 100 percent.”
“Glad to hear it, colonel.” Ferguson’s eyes fixated on the coffee bar in the atrium. “Think we can grab a cup of high octane before you give me the briefing?”
Five cups of coffee in hands, Dr. Groenwald conducted the standard briefing then the entourage entered the elevator without buttons and rode it to the floor where a card reader and Raines’ biometric scan allowed her to go. Everyone took their seats in the conference room. Ferguson hesitated and almost seemed lost when Dr. Groenwald took the chair at the head of the table, so Ferguson quickly sat side saddle across from Raines.