Hello, everyone! Here is the key introductory chapter from Stephan Zimmermann's newly released, THE CHRISTMAS STRIKE, a chillingly realistic novel of the ultimate terrorist attack upon the US available in download and print versions at
www.lulu.com
BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA
Bratislava was bathed in a blanket of pure, newly fallen snow. There had not yet been time to launch the inevitable snow-removal equipment, and it was too cold for slush to form. The few cars on the road this late evening moved gingerly, as did Cantara Suhayar as she made her way on foot to the inviting, cozy warmth of the small restaurant where she was scheduled to meet her date. Bundled in a red, thermal-insulated parka, with the inevitable logos on the sleeve and back, advertising the latest craze in fashionable ski equipment, she did not feel cold despite the freezing temperatures. Her fashionable ski pants and sturdy boots kept the winter’s icy fingers from her lower extremities. White mittens protected her hands, while a jaunty Russian bear cap with its flaps covering her ears prevented frostbite. The only exposed and vulnerable part was Cantara’s pert little nose, now deepening in color to a reddish-brown.
Cantara pushed open the door of the intimate restaurant on one of the many alleys in Bratislava’s Old Town. She noticed the gentle chiming of bells as it swung open, and was immediately immersed in the flood of warmth as she stepped inside. She had chosen an authentic Slavic, rather than German or Hungarian restaurant. Cantara preferred the informal, non-tourist ambience of this particular establishment.
She quickly surveyed the few customers. Her date had not yet arrived. At least, if he had, he was not seated at any one of the half dozen small tables, or at the tiny bar to her left. She turned in that direction and literally bumped into a matronly older woman, sporting a large smile and an even larger sense of curiosity.
In halting English, the older woman said, “Dinner for one?”
Cantara replied in perfect, though accented, English.
“Thank you. No, there will be two of us.”
“At a table. Yes?”
“Yes, o.k. A table.”
The older woman escorted her to a small table toward the back of the tiny dining room. With less than a half a dozen diners, there would be all the privacy she needed for her discussion with Dries Visser, the Dutch physicist she was about to meet. During the intermittent telephone conversations between her control and the Dutchman, they had given her the option of choosing time and place for the meeting. She knew the city. Neither her control nor the Dutchman was familiar with Bratislava, capital of Slovakia.
Cantara ordered a Campari and soda to sip on, although her strict Muslim upbringing essentially strictly forbade the use of any alcohol. This, however, was not a transgression. The Prophet, may His name be blessed eternally, would understand. This was an accommodation to the way the western world did business. This is why she, Cantara Suhayar, had spent the majority of her twenty-nine years in training.
A good twenty minutes elapsed before the old Slavic woman brought a rotund, fleshy, pink-cheeked older man to her table.
“Madam, this is gentleman seeking for you?”
Right, Cantara thought to herself as the prematurely balding and definitely overweight Dutchman squeezed into a chair opposite her. What luck! He would not present her with any distraction based on looks!
“Miss Suhayar? I am pleased to meet you. I am Dries Visser. Our mutual friend suggested we could finalize our transaction tonight. It is definitely a pleasure to meet you, although I must say that I did not expect such a young, attractive woman.”
“Yes, fine.” Cantara had no time for the niceties of politics. She was a nuclear physicist in her own right, by degrees, and by expertise.
“Does the system work?” she asked, preempting any further political correctness on Visser’s part.
Somewhat nonplussed, Visser deferred a response. Instead, he beckoned to the old woman.
“Aquavit. Double, please.”
The old woman nodded and shuttled off toward the bar.
“So, does it work? How soon can we be ready?” Cantara did not consider the Dutchman a “date” as her control jokingly had suggested. She was here to do a job. Period.
Visser did not like the aggressiveness of this young Arabic woman. What the hell did she know? he thought. Where was the moneyman, the one who could make his personal retirement a reality?
"In short, yes. We have developed and perfected and assembled the key components of the full system. We have achieved capability. Our Chinese friends developed the technology. We have bought, duplicated and adjusted it to our purpose.
“We have designed and implemented the delivery package. Expensive. The Australians perfected that and were willing to sell it. According to our theoretical models, we are able to deliver the payload within plus or minus two hundred feet of target. Not quite as sophisticated as U.S. or NATO delivery systems, but, under the circumstance, equally as effective. We are not looking to pinpoint. We wish to scatter. And we can. To maximize effectiveness.
“The actual method of delivery was difficult, but, with the assistance of our friends in France, we have overcome that.
"Simply, Miss Cantara, we are ready to do as you and your controllers charged. We can deliver a decapitating blow to the entire infrastructure of the United States – or anywhere else, for that mater – within days.
“All we need now is your money and your approval to launch.”
Cantara tried hard to suppress the emotional disdain she felt for this fleshy, white-haired old man, coupled with the elation of success within her grasp. The Americans – the Europeans - needed to pay. They needed to pay for all the devastation that they had wrought upon the Arabic world. For the rape of her country’s riches in petroleum for nearly a century. For the life of her brother, so young, so innocent. She would avenge Munir’s premature death.
“Yes. Fine. What type of weapon did you finally choose?” she averred.
“Oh, I see. Well, no one told me that you would quiz me on physical parameters.”
“Why else would I be here, Dr. Visser? Do you think I would simply transfer the money you want, in your typical American-style capitalism, without proof?”
Visser blanched. Working with the scions of billionaires in The Kingdom and the Trucal States, or, indeed, with the Chinese and North Koreans, seemed infinitely easier than working with this little hellcat. He could not guess how high up the hierarchy of his employers she was. They had simply told him that a Cantara Suhayar, whom he was to meet in the capital Slovakia, a brand new European community member, in this very restaurant at this particular time, would provide him with the final instructions to proceed or not with the hellacious plan which could wreak havoc on the United States, and perhaps on the entire civilized world as he knew it.
The old woman brought the aquavit and set it before the Dutchman. She also placed two menus on one side of the table. Momentarily distracted from their conversation, they both perused the menu.
“I cannot read Slovak. Do you know anything about the food?” Visser asked.
“Some. I shall have the Cesnakova Pulievka, a garlic soup with egg, and Pinena Paprika. Stuffed Peppers. With beef, not pork.”
The cuisine in Slovakia was a serious problem for Cantara, since so much of it revolved around pork and ham. Haram. Forbidden by the Prophet.
“If you have no objection to pork, the Szegedinsky Gulas is quite good. It is stewed pork with sauerkraut and sour cream.”
“Fine”
Visser would have been much happier meeting at the Radisson where he could have enjoyed a good, old American hamburger with French fries. He had immensely enjoyed his time at Princeton and MIT. He had no use for these Slavic states, newly integrated into the European Community.
Cantara ordered the meal, and the old woman disappeared once more.
Visser immediately continued his narrative. Though she was quite attractive, he wanted to spend no more time than necessary with this Cantara woman. He did want the approval for his handsome fee, though.
“The objective is to neutralize as much of the economic power of the United States as possible, in one decisive blow, far superceding the effect of the September eleventh events of several years ago. Beyond bin Laden.
“We have decided that this is best accomplished with a Vircator type device. That is a Virtual Cathode Oscillator. Several versions exist, on the drawing board, and in production. It will provide a wide spectrum, non-nuclear blast that will incapacitate most electrical and computer systems in the target area. For your purposes, it will encompass most of the United States, and affect all systems unless previously hardened, such as specific defense applications. Most of Wall Street and Main Street will be obliterated at the speed of light. The radius can be coast-to-coast in the United State, depending upon altitude.
“We have opted, under your instructions, to implement non-nuclear blast, both for reasons of expense and delivery factors. People will not be affected physically, unless they are on life-support systems in a hospital, or on pacemakers. This is a humane system, designed to destroy the physical infrastructure at a minimum loss of life, as opposed to straight nuclear weapons.
“Thus, we can free-fall or glide-bomb the payload at the proper altitude and intersect to inflict maximum damage at between twenty-five and forty-thousand feet, higher, if possible. Damage will occur at the speed of light. There is no measurable defense, except to destroy the device prior to detonation. That is unlikely under the plan.
“Our aircraft of choice for delivery is a Dassault-Falcon 900 series with a maximum ceiling of fifty-one thousand feet. Plenty of leeway for our project. It has been retrofitted to our payload. Everything is ready on the ground in the U.S., subject to your launch code.”
Visser knew that he had Cantara’s full attention. If she really had one or more degrees in physics, she would be up-to-date on the terminology and technology of the EMB – the electromagnetic bomb, under consideration by most of the world’s powers for decades. The ideal specifications changed virtually every year. The Chinese and Russians had made significant strides in the actual application of the potential super-weapons, while the Americans had sat on their scientific and governmental butts, still focusing on nuclear anti-ballistic technologies.
“So, Cantara. We have solved all the problems. We are ready to launch, as soon as you are ready to pay.”
The old woman, now accompanied by a young lad in his early teens who carried the tray with their steaming dishes, placed the sizzling plates in front of them. The aroma was delicious, Cantara thought. On a real date, this would have been delightful. Candles were lit on the table, and the silverware was gleaming.
Cantara drifted momentarily, thinking back to her obligatory studies of Slavic history while pursuing studies at the Comenius University Faculty of Mathematics, Physics and Informatics in Bratislava. You could maintain your sense of cultural identity “if you have not sold your soul for money,” a hero of the Slavic independence movement had written a century earlier. The Americans, the Dutch – for that matter, all those who did not subscribe to the will of Allah – were selling their souls every day. America was in the forefront. It was America, not Russia, which was truly the evil empire. What difference was there between the old Soviets and the new Americans? None! They were all greedy, materialistic, capitalistic, racist and imperialistic warmongers. She would do her part to avenge the will of Allah, His name be blessed, and the immortal soul of her brother, no matter what the cost.
“Fine,” she intoned more demurely as the warmth of the garlic soup infused her body. “You have this Vircator? The aircraft can reach the proper altitude. You have the explosive charge. And it has the proper destructive delivery capacity? Are you suggesting free-fall or toss? I assume you are using a glide bomb, no?”
Visser was exasperated. This little brown woman should be serving him. Instead, because of the immense funds she represented, he was serving her. At least she did seem to know what he was talking about. Few people understood the terminology. He acquiesced.
“All right. Destructive capacity established at an altitude of twenty-five to forty thousand feet.
“Delivery vehicle capacity – fifty-five thousand feet max.”
“Scientific payload, assuming only cockpit crew, thirty-six hundred pounds. Our device weighs max twelve hundred pounds.”
For the next half hour, Visser detailed point-by-point how the project would be initiated and executed. It seemed well thought out.
Cantara’s mind raced. The decision she was expected to make based upon this short interview with the chief scientist on the project could spell the difference between the oppressive world in which she lived, dominated by the crass commercialism of the United States, or the beautiful vision of a much simpler life provided by the mullahs. Temptation for the material things in life would rapidly wane to give everyone the basic things provided for by the Holy Koran, the word of Allah.
“And how soon can we launch?” she asked, containing her excitement to present a placid front to the Dutchman.
“Tomorrow, if you have the logistics in the U.S. in place.”
Cantara thought deeply. This was now her decision. Could she trust the Dutchman enough to make the commitment? She had become an astute negotiator over the years. Too often she had had to prove to her own people that she was equal and superior to most of the men in her training camps, as well as in University.
“We will have all details in the U.S. triple checked. There can be no mistakes. We shall arrange for the strike to take place on Friday, the twenty-fourth. That will be the American’s Christmas Eve.”
Visser nodded.
“And my payment?”
Cantara detested the Dutchman’s mercenary attitude. He had no motivation for his participation in this horrendous scheme other than money. Well, with the United States incapacitated for at least several weeks, if not months, his money would be worth significantly less two weeks from now. And the same mission might be repeated over Paris.
“First, you will call control and provide him with the appropriate details. Names, licenses, tail number, location. When completed and verified, I shall ask control for final authorization.”
Visser extricated his cell phone and dialed the control’s number from memory. When the party answered, he rattled off names and numbers. Cantara remembered each one automatically.
After a few minutes, Visser handed Cantara the small phone. She accepted it, spoke a few rapid words in Arabic, nodded, and then closed the instrument. She looked directly at Visser, a hard, penetrating look.
“Call this number and confirm your banking code. We are paying you right now one-third of the total agreed amount. A second third will be released when the aircraft has launched safely in the United States. Without incident. The final third will automatically transfer when the action has been completed.”
Visser became agitated.
“That was not the agreement. It was to be all paid tonight, if you agreed to the viability and execution.”
“The terms I have given you are the terms I am authorized to offer. There is no option.”
In his gut, Visser knew that she was not play-acting. This was the Middle Eastern way. He had dealt with it many times over the last five years. He sighed, his face now florid from the spicy food as well as his elevated blood pressure. Only seconds away from fifteen million dollars! The years would all pay off.
“O.k. What are the account and code numbers?”
Cantara recited the numbers from memory as Visser punched them into his cell phone. A few seconds later, he punched a different series of codes into the instrument, listened intently, then snapped close the cover of the instrument. A deposit of five million United States dollars had been credited to his account in Latvia within seconds. A few additional seconds later, two thirds of that amount would automatically be transferred to five different, pre-designated accounts in various offshore tax havens around the world. Visser was a cautious man who, when he could, loved to have multiple options.
“And where are you staying, in case anything should go awry?” he asked Cantara.
“With friends,” she lied. “And you are at the Radisson, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then. I suggest we leave separately. You first,” Cantara commanded. “I shall pay for the meal. Good night.”
Visser was not about to argue. He rose, perfunctorily shook the woman’s hand, pulled on his coat, hat and gloves and left the restaurant.
