The God Complex: A Thriller Page 15

  Bertie desperately wanted to hang up but couldn’t, he needed to know what Antoine knew or suspected.

  “End it now before it’s too late,” said Antoine forcefully.

  “It’s too late, there’s nothing I can do.”

  “In that case, it was nice knowing you.”

  Bertie laughed. “Are you threatening me?”

  “You sad, stupid, old man, you have no idea how far down the chain you really are. You have no idea of our power or reach, or the scale of the operation that our family has built to protect our people.”

  “I am going to be president of the most powerful nation on earth.”

  “You won’t see the outside of that bunker if you don’t stop what you started,” promised Antoine.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m surrounded by agents that will give their lives to save me.”

  “Perhaps, but look around you, do you recognize anything in that room?”

  Bertie humored him and looked around the room, nothing. He couldn’t see anything untoward.

  “Look closer,” said Antoine. “But hurry, if your plan succeeds, you die.”

  Bertie looked closer. He recognized the small logo on the leg of the table. He looked around some more and noticed it on the phone, the stamp on the hinge of the vault door, the logo on the corner of the computer screens. The very familiar logo of the Atlas Noble empire, an intertwined A and N, buried in an airtight metal tube hundreds of feet below the ground. The AN logo was on the air system.

  “You can’t! You can’t kill me, it’s forbidden.”

  “Conrad!” shouted Antoine over his shoulder.

  Conrad hit a button on the laptop in front of him, shaking his head. “We can’t,” he mouthed. Antoine nodded insistently.

  A red light began to blink almost instantly in the bunker above Senator Noble’s head.

  “What’s that?” asked Jed, looking at the red light on the ceiling that had started to flash.

  Another agent rushed to the control panel. “The air system’s cut out!”

  “It’s fine, there’s enough air for two hours in the bunker,” said Jed. “Otherwise we’ll open the door.”

  “You’re too late, Antoine,” said Senator Noble. “There’s nothing I can do!”

  “Bullshit, you always have a backup,” said Antoine. “Conrad!” he shouted again. The sound of high-powered fans drowned out almost all the noise inside the bunker.

  “Your plan has failed, the fans have kicked in,” said Bertie jubilantly.

  “Au contraire, mon oncle,” said Antoine. “I think you’ll find they’re sucking the air out, not pushing it in!”

  “Open the door!” shouted Bertie to the agents.

  “They can’t,” said Antoine. “Stop it now or die. Do you not understand? There is nowhere on this planet I cannot get to you. You have no idea how much power I have,” said Antoine evenly.

  Senator Noble withdrew his phone and switched it back on, the Wi-Fi connection was all he needed. “It’s probably too late,” he said, hitting the ‘Send’ button.

  “If you’re not, I’ll turn the air back on. After all, the agents have done nothing wrong,” he said, while instructiing Conrad to turn it back on in a minute. He couldn’t kill Bertie, no matter what he had done.

  ***

  The last agent ran back into the cell block as the terrorist exploded, killing his two colleagues. The agent slammed the door futilely behind him. The lock was on the other side. He joined the last two agents and formed a line. Behind them stood the CIA Director, the Vice President, Secretary of Defense, and the rest of the alleged conspirators. The President stood at the back with his wife. His protests to stand at the front had been rejected by all around him. They would die protecting him, defending the man they had never stopped believing in. He felt ashamed. He had failed them. He had not stood firm when he knew the evidence before him couldn’t be true. However well orchestrated the plan and detail, he should have stood by those who would lay their lives down for him.

  With no bullets left, they were down to whatever weapons they could pick up. MP-5s and pistols became nothing more than projectiles or bats. They all stood ready to the sound of bullets pinging off the metal door. The terrorists were coming and they knew they had won.

  ***

  “Come on!” screamed Paula as the explosion sounded behind the cell block door. “They need us!”

  The bomb experts were working their way through the fourth trigger they had found.

  “Jesus, will someone calm her down! These are hair triggers we’re dealing with. If she startles us, we’re all dead!” said the bomb disposal leader.

  Jim took her in his arms and held her firmly. “Paula, they’re going as fast as they can.”

  “How many more, guys?”

  “This could be the last one. We’ll know in a few seconds…shit!”

  A light on the device changed from green to amber and continued to darken towards red.

  ***

  Imran emptied a magazine of bullets into the door as they rushed towards the far end of the corridor. They were on their way to heaven and Allah whilst sending the greatest infidel of all to Hell. He reloaded his AK47 and waited for his men to catch up, ordering them to take up positions while he prepared to open the door. Three men knelt in front of the other three, their weapons at the ready. The moment the door opened, they would unleash a torrent of bullets into whatever lay behind.

  Imran held his trigger in his hand and prayed to Allah.

  “One, two, Allahu Akhbar!!!!!” he bellowed, opening the door.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  ***

  The bomb disposal man snipped the wire when the light turned to red. The explosion rocked him back on his heels and the door flew open.

  ***

  The three agents in front of the most senior members of the United States government threw themselves forwards as the door burst open. They wanted to put as much of their bodies as possible between the terrorists and the people they were protecting.

  Their bodies took the full force of the blast, slamming them back towards their protectees. Their bodies flew back like rag dolls, crashing to the ground. The door hung from its hinges, exposing government members and the President to the horrors of terror.

  Chapter 32

  Jed Walters fought desperately to unlock the mechanisms but the door wasn’t budging.

  “We’ve got less than thirty seconds of air left!” said the agent monitoring the system. To their credit and no doubt thanks to their training, every one of them remained as professional as ever, given the situation.

  Senator Noble took a seat. He had resigned himself to his death, if not in the bunker, it would happen soon. Antoine would never forgive him. The Nobles were not a family who ordinarily resorted to such extremes but their code was clear. Total and utter loyalty to the leader of the family was expected at all times, although his actions technically hadn’t gone against Antoine’s direct wishes. Antoine had forbidden Bertie from running for President, not from following the constraints of the US line of succession. However, his intent was clear for all to see. Nobody would doubt that once President, he would have made a move to usurp or remove Antoine as head of the family - a move that would have been unprecedented within the doctrine and code by which the Nobles lived their lives. However, the timing of his coup would have brought the family together under his leadership. The events that faced the population and their way of life were far more important than an uncle deposing a nephew.

  Senator Noble began to think more clearly, and the thought of dying wasn’t one he relished.

  “Thank God!” shouted Jed.

  Senator Noble realized then that his thoughts hadn’t cleared, the fans had stopped.

  “Air reverting back to normal levels,” said the relieved agent monitoring the system as the vault door swung open without any attempt to unlock it.

  Jed looked at the open door in wonder. “I don’t think we’ll be
using this facility again,” he said, running over to the door and wedging it open. Better safe than sorry, he thought.

  Senator Noble stood up proudly. He had a show to put on, at least until he knew what Antoine had in store for him.

  ***

  Paula Suarez hadn’t even checked on the bomb disposal guy who had been blasted backwards towards them before she was on the move. He had just snipped the wire before the explosives had detonated. However, the force from the seven vests exploding in the confines of the corridor had sent a blast wave back down the length of the corridor, blowing the solid metal door from its hinges.

  She leap-frogged over the guy, who was flailing wildly in his lead lined suit, and sprinted for the end of the corridor. The mush of flesh that covered every inch of the far end of the corridor was one of the most horrific sights she had ever seen but she slid through it barely slowing down. The sight of her men picking themselves off of the government members with the President and his wife standing safely at the back of the cell block brought tears to her eyes.

  ***

  Antoine caught the breaking news. The President was alive. The terrorist plot had been foiled by the authorities, none having survived to tell their story. It was a fortunate outcome for Uncle Bertie. His backup plan appeared to be fairly robust. There was little chance he was ever going to be linked to the situation and knowing how resourceful the old bastard was, Antoine was certain there would not be a shred of evidence to suggest he ever was.

  The Nobles were safe, the plan was safe, the nuclear disarmament treaty would hold. The decommissioning was to start the following day which, thanks to Atlas Noble Defense, who had offered their services for free as part of the sweetener, was more efficient and simpler than ever. The 17,000 warheads would be decommissioned at a rate of over a thousand a day.

  A news flash on top of the breaking news interrupted the scenes of relief at the FBI Headquarters. The body of the Speaker of the House had been recovered from the Potomac. Another piece of the Uncle Bertie coup and resultant cover-up fell into place.

  Antoine picked up the phone. DIS was not the only service the Noble family had at its disposal to handle difficult situations.

  Chapter 33

  Astara, Azerbijan

  The VW campervan drew to a stop at the back of the small queue of traffic. The Iranian border guards waved through the three cars and two trucks before them, giving them some hope for an easy passage, but a hand signal held high and firmly in front of them made clear that their initial fears for a difficult crossing were well founded. The two couples produced their paperwork, Swiss passports with valid Iranian visas.

  “Out,” commanded the officer, leading a small team of border guards responsible for protecting the Northeast border of Iran where it met the Caspian Sea.

  The four occupants complied. Two men and two women stood alongside the aging VW campervan that had seen better days, decades earlier.

  “Purpose visit?” asked the Commander in broken English.

  “We’re touring around the Caspian sea, mountain climbing, surfing.” The driver pointed to the surf boards that overhung either end of the small campervan.

  The commander didn’t look at the boards, he was too busy analyzing the passports and paperwork of the group - two couples, recently married, all in their thirties.

  “We like to visit lesser known areas,” said one of the women.

  “Empty van,” barked the Commander.

  The four moved grudgingly and began to empty their copious amounts of equipment. They had packed for every eventuality of the adventure that faced them, climbing gear, cold weather gear, wetsuits, even parasails.

  As the gear piled up onto the road, the more frustrated the other guards became. The small queue that had been four or five long was growing. Fifteen vehicles were waiting for the Commander to finish with the tourists. Some of the Iranian licensed trucks, keen to continue their trade, were blasting their horns in irritation.

  “Okay, Okay!” snapped the Commander in frustration. He didn’t like it, something felt wrong. He’d have liked to have spent a lot longer on the four. From the moment they had pulled to a stop, there was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  They loaded the equipment back into their campervan and set off. He watched them closely while his colleagues waved the waiting trucks through. The campervan drove off into his beloved country and a feeling of dread washed over him. What was it? Why had they concerned him?

  He realized that they hadn’t flinched, not an inch. There hadn’t been an ounce of concern between them. In the ten years he’d manned the border, no foreigners had ever been that laid back and cool. He’d seen plenty try to act it but deep down there was that nervousness about their brush with the big bad Iranians.

  ***

  “Shit!!” said Ben, keeping an eye in the rear view mirror as the border disappeared behind them.

  “What?” asked Gina, who was, according to the paperwork, his wife of two months and his passenger in the front of the campervan.

  “The Commander is still staring at us. He’s not taken his eyes of us since we drove away.”

  “We were perfect,” said Avi, the leader of the small Sayaret Matkal team.

  “Too perfect perhaps,” cautioned Hannah who, according to the forged paperwork, was Avi’s wife. Avi and Hannah sat together in the back of the campervan.

  Sayaret Matkal was the Delta Force and SAS equivalent of the Israeli Defense Forces. Having women amongst their ranks offered them the ability to stage such brazen incursions. No other forces in the western world allowed its female operatives into its elite ranks. The Israelis welcomed them with open arms.

  “Hopefully he’ll let it go,” said Avi, stealing a look at the disappearing view behind them. The border Commander was still watching them. Avi turned back around. He couldn’t worry about what was behind them, he had to focus on what was ahead. Their mission was one of the most crucial in the history of their nation.

  “Our papers are flawless,” said Gina, “we’ll be fine.”

  “Our papers are, but are we?” asked Avi.

  “What do you mean?” asked Ben. “We’re supposed to be on a trip of a lifetime as newlyweds.”

  Hannah ran her hand along and up Avi’s inner thigh, not stopping when she reached his manhood and rubbed gently at his crotch. He flinched.

  She smiled wickedly. “Yep, needs some work.”

  “Exactly,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “We need to be far more tactile with each other.”

  “I’m up for that.” Ben smiled, glancing over at his supposed wife Gina, a beautiful dark haired Israeli beauty.

  “Ugh!” she spat in disgust. “Don’t make me sick!”

  “Just my luck,” said Ben, “I get the lesbian.”

  “You wish,” replied Gina, catching Avi’s eye in the mirror. Avi was a man blessed with looks that would have graced the cover of any glossy fashion magazine. Unfortunately, Ben was a man who looked to be hitting well above his weight with the beautiful Gina. However, in a tight spot, none would want anyone else by their side. The short, compact Ben was one of Sayaret Matkal’s most experienced and feared fighters.

  “Everyone calm down, we got across the border. Hannah’s right, we need to be a little more tactile, which doesn’t necessarily mean rubbing each other off in public,” said Avi.

  “Shame,” said Gina. She kept her eye on Avi, under the watchful eye of Hannah, whose hand had slipped onto Avi’s manhood again.

  “I’m being serious, guys,” said Avi. He pushed Hannah’s hand aside gently and a little reluctantly. “We’ve got a two hour drive to Chalus, I suggest we relax and remember why we’re here.”

  ***

  Nevatim Air Base, Israel

  The satellite feed of the Sayaret Matkal’s team progress was being watched with increased interest. The ten-mile to target point increased the excitement even further. The Air Force General looked across at the Mossad chief who picked up his phone
and hit the dial button.

  “Mr. President,” said the Mossad Chief. “We are in position, awaiting your final approval.”

  “Excellent, you have it” replied the Israeli President.

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  The Mossad Chief nodded to the General who gave a thumbs up to his team of controllers. The mission was a go.

  Forty of the Israeli Defense Force’s newest aircraft were about to be unleashed on the unwitting Iranians. The Lockheed Martin F-35 was the most advanced strike fighter within the Israeli arsenal and thanks to its stealth capability, was immune to the recently upgraded Iranian air defenses. Their new Sayyad 2 missiles would have laid waste to the Israelis’ older F15s and F16s that otherwise would have had to have been used.

  From the moment Israel had been strong-armed into giving up its nuclear weapons, the planning had commenced to eradicate any potential for the Iranians to achieve their dream of obtaining a nuclear weapon. The other soon-to-be non-nuclear powers were turning a blind eye to the operation, although secretly they were rooting for a total and complete success. No one wanted to see a world where only Iran had a nuclear option. The Americans had even assisted in the development of a very special munition, which was about to tested for the first time, although they would later show public outrage at the aggressive maneuver, as would the other world leaders.

  ***

  Chalus, Iran

  Avi strained his neck, struggling to see the top of the mountain from inside the campervan. At almost 16,000 feet, the Alam-Kuh peak was an impressive sight. Its harsh sharpness outlined against the brilliant blue skyline gave the viewer an ominous hint of the power that lay below.

  “There it is,” said Avi. “Home to the Iranian nuclear arsenal.”

  Gina leaned across as they disappeared into the darkness of a tunnel. Ben patted her head down towards his lap with a laugh.

  “You wish,” she said, pulling herself back up.