Nuclear Winter First Strike Read online

  Now he would hold his breath until the driver arrived at his appointed destination—the Isfahan Nuclear Technology Center, or INTC.

  Built with Chinese assistance and opened in 1984, the facility at Isfahan was Iran’s largest nuclear research complex, employing nearly three thousand scientists. In the past year, United States and Israeli intelligence had confirmed that the INTC had become the center of Iran’s secret nuclear weapons program. It operated three Chinese-made nuclear reactors. Its conversion facility, fuel production plant, and zirconium cladding plants were state of the art. The Chinese, through their proxy North Korea, had spared no expense in helping Iran become a nuclear powerhouse once the U.S.-imposed sanctions had been lifted years ago.

  Agent L had been hired to deal the program a setback.

  The security detail manning the walled perimeter of the complex was heavily armed. They wore light windbreakers to ward off the pelting sand stirred up by the October winds, customary for that time of year.

  In addition to the perimeter guards, several other armed personnel could be seen wandering through the inner compound. These men were assigned to the top-level scientists who operated the facility. They were members of the Ministry of Intelligence and were not to be trifled with. Agent L had lost a partner to their assassins years ago.

  The truck pulled into the loading dock area surrounded by a simple chain-link fence. If the intelligence he was given was correct, and it always was from this particular employer, the driver would park the truck and leave it for others to unload the next day. One crate on the flatbed truck would be specially identified for Agent L to view its markings with his night-vision optics. Everything he needed was contained inside.

  He trusted this employer, as they’d never let him down. Naturally, he was uneasy when he learned he’d have to enter the INTC compound with nothing more than two sidearms, a knife and several Japanese shurikens, also known as throwing stars. With these minimal weapons, he could clandestinely manage to eliminate a single target or two. However, he couldn’t fight an army of security personnel when it came time to extract. An extraction that he considered near impossible, making him wonder if it was by design.

  As darkness set in, he continued to surveil his surroundings. The addition of the personal bodyguards accompanying the scientists around the compound resulted in complications for the former MOSSAD operative.

  Once complete darkness had set in, he located the specially marked crate and quietly pried it open with his knife. As promised, the interior contained a Galil rifle, the Israeli version of the AK-47. Weighing just over eight pounds, this battle rifle was capable of firing six hundred fifty 5.56-millimeter rounds per minute. He was provided six fifty-round magazines to complement the two hundred rounds of ammunition for his sidearm.

  Agent L quickly checked the rifle and then donned the black combat vest found in the crate. The loadout would be heavy, but necessary. He secured the additional magazines in the pouches and took another few minutes to look around the compound before he moved on to the next phase of the operation.

  Every light in the compound’s main entrance glowed bright, the expansive grounds fully illuminated and designed to eliminate potential hiding places. The utility yard where he was located was dimly lit by comparison, yet bright enough for him to be observed by the perimeter guards at the two towers near that side of the complex.

  He tried to locate and count as many hostiles manning the fenced area as possible. His intelligence did not indicate what time the shift would change, so he had to be mindful of that plus the time for his attack. The number of armed personnel were a testament to the importance of the work being performed at Isfahan. The ten-foot-high walls surrounding the complex added to the sense of invulnerability to outside observers.

  Invulnerable to most, except Agent L.

  Comfortable that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he turned his attention back to the contents of the crate. Again using his night-vision optics, he undertook the arduous task of assembling a complex piece of machinery, a technological wonder that combined artificial intelligence with a deadly weapon.

  While constantly checking his surroundings, Agent L assembled the components of the weapon, carefully checking his progress against the plans written in his native Hebrew. Methodically, he pieced the weapon together. He constantly checked his watch to ensure he wasn’t approaching go time. The instruction materials he’d received were adamant that he meet his employer’s timetable. There were certain preparations that had to be made, and there was no margin for error once he’d placed the weapon in position.

  Once it was fully assembled, Agent L shook his head from side to side in wonderment. The weapon reminded him of something out of an American big-screen movie. He’d often said if a moviemaker could imagine it, then it could be done.

  He hoisted the device onto his shoulder and stealthily climbed over the steel gate at the back of the truck. Once he was on the ground, he raced across the utility yard with the seventy-pound device weighing heavily on his back.

  Agent L slid in between the dumpsters until he had a clear view of the compound’s entrance and the lush area of grass surrounded by beautifully maintained plant material. The oasis created for visitors and workers alike stood in stark contrast to the dirt-covered surroundings.

  Using a small bolt cutter supplied in the crate, he cut a hole in the chain-link fence, moving slowly to avoid attracting attention. He prepared the weapon according to the instructions provided, and then he flipped down the cover of a small control panel located on the mount. He powered on the display in dark mode and entered the code provided in his materials. Then he held his breath and squinted as he watched the display for instructions. His handlers responded with a message on the screen, requesting adjustments, which he promptly complied with. Then a green light illuminated.

  Check. Now he was on his own.

  Agent L glanced at his watch. It was approaching the time for Salaat Fajr, the morning Shia Muslim prayer.

  Quietly. Reverently. The scientists who operated the nuclear facility at Isfahan made their way into the courtyard with their prayer blankets. Among the men who would kneel that morning was Mohsen Farouk, the mastermind of the covert Iranian program to develop and then proliferate the nation’s nuclear arsenal. He would be joined by everyone within his team. The best of the best who’d gathered in Isfahan to assess North Korea’s technological advances using low-Earth orbiting satellites as a means to launch nuclear warheads.

  To be sure, dropping a bomb on the facility at this hour would more than accomplish his employer’s purposes. However, bombs left breadcrumbs, trails of evidence of where they came from, easily allowing fingers of blame to be pointed. Operatives like him were ghosts, before and after death.

  Agent L retreated from the weapon, slightly concerned about a malfunction or a case of mistaken identity. He scanned the perimeter and confirmed his plan to extract himself from the compound when the time came. He checked his watch. It was 5:03. The grassy area was filled with INTC personnel, men only, kneeling on their prayer blankets.

  He studied his digital watch.

  5:04. Sunrise.

  From a satellite high above the planet, artificial intelligence pulled the trigger on the computer-controlled machine gun. The powerful 7.62-millimeter rounds poured out of the drum magazines affixed to the bottom of the weapon. The laser sights, powered by the AI, scanned the courtyard full of those in prayer, searching for movement. Any quiver or flinch or deep breath created a target for the weapon, which immediately locked on and riddled the body with bullets.

  Agent L was astonished at the speed and accuracy of the killing. No human being, including a trained killer like himself, could accomplish the slaughter of over a hundred people in mere seconds. The incredible killing machine then turned its sights on the security personnel manning the perimeter.

  One by one, the targets were eliminated with ease. The electronically controlled gun turret swept back and forth, alternating betwe
en the armed guards on the perimeter wall and the security personnel racing through the front entrance to lend an assist. Shouting and screams of agony filled the air as the weapon spent hundreds of rounds, killing everyone.

  Agent L heard sirens in the distance. Helicopters could be heard inbound. He scooped up his rifle and ran to the rear of the utility yard, where he climbed the chain-link fence at the point where it adjoined the perimeter wall. He ran along the top of the wall until he reached the northernmost side of the compound, relieved that the building stood between him and the most destructive automatic weapon he’d ever witnessed.

  As dust rose into the morning sky from the vehicles approaching the facility, Agent L paused to look toward the rising sun in the east. He was certain his employers—in Beijing—would be pleased with the results.

  Part I

  One Week in October

  Day one, Friday, October 18

  Chapter One

  Friday, October 18

  Driftwood Key

  Florida Keys, USA

  Hank Albright looked out across the turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Off in the distance, storm clouds were brewing, causing the points of the waves to lance up and down. The miniature pinpricks at their crests were white against the backdrop of the bluish-green gulf. It was never ending. A perpetual motion machine of energy coming ashore, teeming with life and creatures and an entire world he’d spent his life admiring.

  He’d always been drawn to the water. He had been born on Driftwood Key in the Albright family home, which had been there since the early days following the connection of the string of islands to the mainland via the Flagler Railroad. The original Conchs, as those early settlers were called at the turn of the twentieth century, were dependent on the pristine waters for survival.

  Albrights, Russells, Pinders, and Parkers shared a common background. Their forefathers were American Tories who fled the Thirteen Colonies at the end of the Revolution to a new home in the Bahamas. They became fishermen and sailors. They discovered the bounty beneath the pristine Caribbean waters and made a life for themselves.

  Their descendants ultimately found their way to the Florida Keys when transportation generated commerce and trade routes to a burgeoning American economy. They brought their trade and craft with them and harvested the sea of the large mollusks known as conch.

  The Albrights were pioneers in their own right. In a way, the Florida Keys was somewhat of a wilderness at the time the Flagler Railroad was built. Like their counterparts who’d traveled to the west on the mainland, the new settlers built towns, established local governments, and created businesses to sustain themselves. Today, the one-hundred-twenty-five-mile-long chain of islands that begins just south of Miami and stretches to within ninety miles of Cuba is known for its sun, sand, surf, and tourism.

  Hank, despite having lived his entire fifty-one years on Driftwood Key, never tired of the deep scent of saltwater, the moist tropical air, and the mild subtropical climate. Certainly, hurricanes were a factor, but Driftwood Key and the buildings that dotted its landscape had withstood the worst of what Mother Nature had to offer. Thus far, anyway.

  He slid his hands into the pockets of his white linen pants. Hank didn’t have a uniform per se, but if he did, white linen pants topped with a Tommy Bahama camp shirt would be it. No shoes required. He looked and dressed the part of a retired islander with sun-kissed skin, bleach-blond hair, and a slightly weathered face courtesy of years of exposure to the sun and salty sea.

  Hank, however, was not retired. He operated the Driftwood Key Inn, a property on the National Register of Historic Places, built by the Albright family in the early 1920s. The inn, which was more of a village, actually, was situated on a twenty-eight-acre island in the heart of the Middle Keys just west of Marathon.

  Driftwood Key was unique in that it was not located directly on State Road A1A, a north-south Florida highway that runs along the Atlantic Ocean from Key West to Fernandina Beach at the Georgia border. Many a crooner had belted out a song about A1A, providing imagery of swaying palm trees and margaritas to music lovers.

  The Albright property was an anomaly in the Keys. It was only accessible by a private bridge that connected it to the much larger Vaca Key. It was exclusive as room rates go, yet all-inclusive, meaning it was an expensive property to visit, but its guests were provided everything they needed for their stay.

  Throughout Driftwood Key were nineteen self-catered cottages complete with kitchens and all the amenities. Food was delivered to the guests daily by the inn’s staff or, at their option, they could have dinner with Hank and other guests in the main house.

  The private beach and stunning freshwater swimming pool were surrounded by native palm trees and vegetation. The mature growth, coupled with the ever-present breezes off the gulf, allowed guests to completely block out any sound or light emanating from the other keys.

  Hank loved his home and business. He understood why people were drawn to the warm, maritime climate of the southernmost part of the U.S. Who could argue with a beachfront umbrella, toes in the sand, and a cold drink in hand? Most couldn’t and were willing to spend their entire budget on a multi-thousand-dollar stay at the Driftwood Key Inn.

  Hank mindlessly kicked at the sand that morning as he spoke to his wife, a daily ritual since she’d died of breast cancer eight years ago. He still missed her, and coming out to the beach with the break of dawn was his way of keeping her close to his heart. The sadness and despair over her loss had passed years ago. There were constant memories of her throughout Driftwood Key. A random flower garden planted here. A secluded hammock hung there. These reminders didn’t torture Hank. They allowed him to hold her close to his heart.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hank!” a voice cheerily announced.

  Hank turned to greet Jimmy Free, the youngest son of Sonny and Phoebe, who had worked for the Albright family since they were young. The entire staff at the inn referred to him as Mr. Hank. Early on, he tried to force them to call him Hank. Heck, he’d grown up with most of them, and attaching the word mister to his name didn’t seem right. Nonetheless, out of respect, once he took over the inn’s operations, they began to refer to him as Mr. Albright. Hank pitched a fit, and finally a compromise was struck. It was agreed that he would be henceforth referred to as Mr. Hank.

  Jimmy, like the rest of his family, who’d worked on Driftwood Key for generations, was of Seminole Indian descent. Their ancestors had immigrated to southern Florida in the late eighteenth century and had been employed by merchants after the railroad was built. The Frees were one of the largest Seminole families in the Keys. Jimmy’s aunt, Lindsey Free, was the mayor of Monroe County.

  “Good morning, Jimmy,” Hank greeted heartily. He genuinely liked the young man who’d just taken over the water sports activities at Driftwood Key. Jimmy was one of the many young men who grew up involved in all manners of water activities, from fishing to diving to beach games. His zest for life was addictive, which made him a favorite of the inn’s guests.

  He handed Hank a red Solo cup with a straw protruding out of it. “Mom asked me to bring this to you.”

  Hank took the cup and looked at the concoction. It was adorned with a pineapple slice.

  “It’s a little early for cocktails, don’t you think?”

  “Said no one ever,” replied Jimmy with a toothy grin. The young man’s joke was surprising in light of the fact Jimmy had never had a drink in his life as far as Hank knew.

  He shrugged and took a tentative sip. His eyebrows rose, and he nodded his head with approval. He sucked it down in earnest the second time around.

  He raised the cup in the air. “Hell yeah. I approve. What is it?”

  “It’s a new breakfast smoothie Mom’s trying out. She added flax seed, papaya, banana, and protein powder. Hella good, right?”

  Hank laughed as he took another sip. The icy-cold drink gave him a mild attack of brain freeze.

  “Hella good,” he repeated Jimmy’s wo
rds.

  Jimmy began to unpack his scuba bag containing fins, mask and a snorkel, although he rarely used it. He was capable of holding his breath under water for nearly ten minutes, five times the average person.

  “I’m gonna empty out the lobster traps and then get everything set up for the backgammon tournament.” The inn had set up dozens of traps around the island to catch Caribbean spiny lobster. Jimmy also liked to dive near the reefs and catch them by hand.

  “Fins up, Jimmy!”

  The young man provided Hank a thumbs-up and began to jog down the beach. Hank turned toward the main house just as the sun was peeking through the palm trees on the east side of the island. It was gonna be another glorious day in paradise.

  Chapter Two

  Friday, October 18

  Driftwood Key

  Hank turned up the smoothie and made sure to consume every drop. He would encourage Phoebe to make this a part of his daily routine if she had time. Hank rarely stopped for breakfast in the morning unless some of the Albright family stayed overnight or a notable guest happened to be in residence.

  He bounded up the broad, sand-covered steps leading to the porch of the main house. The sand covered part of the porch, a wood deck covered with an upper balcony and kept cool with numerous ceiling fans that also served to shoo away mosquitos during the summer months. Hank glanced to his left and greeted the man who truly kept the inn running smoothly.

  “Whadya say, old man?” he said with a laugh.