Foundational Stone

  Foundational Stone

  THE WAR OF THE THIRD TEMPLE

  PART 1

  Foundational Stone

  MARC CHEREM

  Copyright © 2019 Marc Cherem

  Rights Reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1-6732-5747-2

  To my Family. To the World. To the Creator.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1 - THE LAIR

  2 - THE PROFESSOR

  3 - THE ROCK

  4 - WHALID DU CHAMP

  5 - SAYYIDI

  6 - THE TRAIN

  7 - THE AMERICAN

  8 - PIANO BAR

  9 - IT WILL CHANGE

  10 - THE ALPHA EATS FIRST

  11 - MASKAROV

  12 - GORODNAYA

  13 - FREDERICK CADWELL

  14 - TURKEY

  15 - YONI

  16 - MAIKO

  17 - GENERAL LÖW

  18 – VOICE VOTE

  19 - EYAL BEN DAVID

  20 - HARUN VON WAGNER

  21 - THE NEOSADUCEES

  22 - GEOMAGNETIC ENERGY

  23 - A BIGGER ARMY

  24 - JUST KISS ME

  25 - THE RIGHT DIRECTION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1 - THE LAIR

  They deploy their parachutes. Seconds later, Yoni Ben David lands on the soft desert sand with his Special-Forces red boots. The moonlight timidly shines upon the dunes and the hills around him. Twenty meters to the south, Elliot disconnects the harness from the parachute. The other three members of Unit 41 quickly and silently approach from the north, wielding their MP-5 assault-riffles. They form a circle crouching down in between the dunes. Yoni informs through the radio transmitter they have arrived at the starting point. He cuts off and addresses his unit members:

  “Let’s find those tunnels.”

  He walks in front. The others follow. Each one, two meters behind the other. They scan the surroundings in search of enemies through the scope of their assault rifles.

  Ten meters underneath them, in the depths of the land, Ahmed is biting his nails looking at the flickering dot of light on the right side of the radar display.

  “I don’t like it, I don’t like this at all,” he says to Fadoul with an accusatory look, as if what is happening was the fault of the unfortunate radar operator.

  “What the…” Fadoul doesn’t get to finish the phrase. The dot of light on the display has suddenly turned into thirteen different dots that are moving towards them.

  Ahmed, the mujahid in charge of The Lair, gets closer to the display in complete astonishment. On the left side of the screen, twenty more aircraft appear out of the blue. He meditates for a few seconds, clears his throat and goes off grumbling:

  “It’s the yahud! Alert all the divisions! Moron.”

  Fadoul presses the alarm button. The sirens flood the facilities with noise and flashing red light.

  “Red alert, hold positions, red alert.”

  Ahmed walks towards Musti, the tall young man with melancholic eyes trembling in fear behind them:

  “Follow me, rookie. Be useful.”

  Musti turns pale. Barely a month in the job and already must engage in combat?

  He should have said no. He should have stayed with his Shannila, with his mouth shut and working at her father’s farm, instead of following orders from this…

  “Yala, boy, yala!”

  Above, on the surface, Michail, the Russian, finishes connecting the contacts to the plastic explosive. Runs away from the hatch towards one of the dunes. His unit mates wait for him, laying with their backs on the sand slope. He takes the remote detonator from his backpack. Looks at Yoni.

  He signals him to wait, and points at his wrist:

  “Sixty seconds.”

  The commander of Unit 41 receives real-time information, through the sight of his headgear, about the position and movement of all the pieces of the Titanium Spearhead Operation. He designed and organized each step himself and knows by heart where and when even the ammunition with the lowest caliber must be fired, or the guard on duty can fart.

  At this exact moment, the inflatable drones fly to The Lair as a decoy. When the anti-aircraft artillery of the terrorists starts firing, they will reveal their position to the combat helicopters that will come into play to shatter them to pieces. Immediately after, the assault troops will invade the arms factory. This will flush the terrorists out of the subterranean base like sewer rats, allowing Unit 41 to infiltrate into the hidden division of The Lair and achieve the main target of the mission.

  Psss… Boom!

  The first surface-to-air missile launched by the Northern Alliance whistles like fireworks leaving a shining trail and explodes into a fireball.

  Tic, tic, tic, tic, tic, tic, tic.

  The rattling of the helicopters indicates Yoni that the time for action is coming:

  “Thirty seconds.”

  Michail nods.

  The helicopters start to destroy with a relentless bombing. The orchestra of explosions shakes the foundations of the land and turns the night into day with fire lightning.

  “Now!” commands Yoni.

  Michail activates the detonator.

  Boom!

  “Let’s go!”

  Yoni exposes himself and rushes towards the hatch without waiting for the others.

  Elliot, the Ethiopian, frowns for a brief moment before following him. They gather around the smoking hole.

  “Let's find those tunnels,” Yoni reminds them.

  He ties a rappel rope and is about to get into the hole when Elliot grabs him by the shirt.

  “Yoni, hold on a second.”

  They look at each other in the eyes through the sight of their headgear.

  Maybe the rest of the unit members don’t notice it, but Elliot perceives certain recklessness and compulsiveness very uncharacteristic of his best friend and commander. It was because of his calmness in stressful situations, in addition to his excellent military genius, obviously, why he was chosen as the leader of the most secret and important military unit in the Middle Strip Defense Forces (MSDF).

  In the armory of The Lair, Ahmed hands an AK-47 assault rifle to Musti.

  “Do you know how to shoot, you idiot?”

  Musti lies and says he does. Actually, he fired one a couple of times, but up until now, he had mainly worked polishing boots and cleaning shit from the toilets that seem to melt and evaporate in the summer heat of The Lair.

  “Today, I will fulfill my mission,” says Ahmed with his chin up, while putting the suicide vest on his chest.

  He hands the boy a plastic card:

  “Do you remember how to get to the hatch, or did you forget already?”

  Musti nods.

  “Good. Don’t disappoint me. Neither me nor Allah.”

  Musti gulps.

  They split up. The boy runs to the right and to the left through the corridors, in the opposite direction from the other sweaty Mujahideen that run him over and shout war cries with the assault rifles held up high.

  He is left alone in one of the most remote halls. Breathes hard and fast. Drops of sweat soak the incipient mustache. He reads out lout the numbers on the grilles of the ventilation system on both sides of the hallway.

  “One hundred and forty, two hundred twenty-one… Aha!”

  He finds what he was looking for. Introduces the plastic card into a camouflaged crack, a whistle sounds, and the grille falls to the ground.

  Musti places the AK-47 in the air duct before getting in. He leaves the grille on the floor and crawls one hundred meters with his rifle over his forearms. At the other end, the duct leads to a room illuminated with incandescent light that hurts his sight. The room is veneered with white ceramic and packed with books, mic
roscopes, computers, and a great machine in the middle that no one explained to him what it is for.

  He lets himself fall in the laboratory and, with a knee on the ground, wields his rifle.

  “Psst, Professor. Where are you? Professor. It’s Musti.”

  “Boy!” answers a hidden voice. “What took you so long!”

  In the radar room, Fadoul holds his rifle close to his chest as if he was hugging a baby. Without notice, some fleeting silhouettes coming from the hallway scatter to different positions inside the room. Fadoul fires from one side to the other with his eyes closed, until two projectiles go through his chest and leave him swaying lifelessly on the chair.

  The bathroom door opens. Ahmed takes Elliot hostage. Strangles him and readies to push the button of the suicide vest with the other hand, when he feels a cold metal on his right temple. Listens to a click, and everything turns black.

  Elliot releases himself from the dead body that is still holding his neck.

  Michail kneels to deactivate the bomb vest.

  Yoni sends Yosef, William, and Michail to sweep the halls in search of useful information. He and Elliot kneel, place the 2D-LR tablet on the floor. From it, as though it was a mirage, a hologram with the blueprints of The Lair projects upwards.

  A few minutes ago, when penetrating the tunnels, the Jewish soldiers released a special gas that spread throughout the air, and its current distribution is detected by the electronic tablet, revealing all the places through which the gas circulates, down to the most remote and hidden duct, drawing this way a map of the whole complex with the use of stereography by gas diffusion technique.

  Elliot points at a duct through which the gas escapes from the main complex:

  “Here.”

  Yoni nods. They follow the route the computer indicates. A metallic grille lays on the floor, below the entrance of an air duct. Yoni says he will go alone and is about to enter, but Elliot stops him grabbing his forearm, which is cold and drenched with sweat.

  “Yoni, what is wrong with you?”

  “I just want to find the damn tunnels.”

  “Yes, you’ve already said that.”

  “Relax. I’m fine, Eyal.”

  “Eyal?”

  “I mean, Elliot.”

  Elliot crosses his arms:

  “I’m going first.”

  Yoni refuses:

  “I’m the Commander.”

  They get inside the air duct and crawl the one hundred meters to the laboratory. Yoni activates the thermal sight, and the thermal images of some hands, recently printed, are drawn on the floor, on the walls, and, even further, on the door frame. They follow the trace, tiptoeing, sweeping the place through the scopes of their assault rifles. The HUD alerts them about the presence of abnormal radioactive levels, but not lethal.

  Yoni raises his fist. They stop. He points at his ear.

  Elliot nods. He also hears the voices.

  “Hurry up, boy, let’s go.”

  Musti pushes the wheelbarrow with all his might; the veins on his neck are about to explode. The professor awaits sitting in a roofless wagon coupled to a small locomotive. The clattering of the locomotive makes the wagon vibrate. The rails reach into one of the tunnels.

  Musti hears a noise that gives him goosebumps. He doesn’t turn towards the lab but knows he is being watched. Keeps pressing the lever of the hydraulic jack until it reaches the same height as the wagon.

  The professor moves aside, and Musti pushes the box shaking from the effort until it falls into the wagon. The wood breaks and an emerald-green light flashes through the broken wooden boards from inside the box.

  “Stop!” shouts the Jewish soldier.

  Musti turns pale and hangs onto the edge of the wagon, but the professor shoves him, making him fall on his buttocks into the platform.

  “I’m sorry, boy.”

  The locomotive advances into the tunnel.

  Yoni chases after the wagon. Aiming his gun, he runs jumping the crossed wooden boards. He manages to see the face of the professor before stopping. The locomotive has already left him behind, speeding up under the lights that illuminate the subterranean railroad.

  The railway track extends beyond what his eyes can see, hundreds or maybe thousands of kilometers, into the subterranean network of the Northern Alliance.

  To his left, Yoni hears someone panting like a dog. The terrorist, sitting on the platform, raises his hands with his head down:

  “I surrender.”

  Yoni draws the SIG Sauer gun from his ancillary holster and presses the cannon on the boy’s forehead.

  “Look at me,” tells him in Arabic.

  Musti is surprised when he hears the yahud speaking in Arabic, but he doesn’t dare look at him.

  “Who were you helping? Who is the man that left on the wagon?”

  Musti was taught not to speak nor reveal information, but a hard blow with the gun butt leaves him with no options.

  He whispers with a trembling voice:

  “The Professor, he comes from Europe…”

  “What’s his mission in The Lair?”

  The terrorist doesn’t know.

  Elliot whistles at him. Still aiming at the boy, Yoni follows with his eyes what his teammate shows him. The underground facility seems like a European subway station. It is a wide distributor, like an underground subway system with multiple railroad lines. A great achievement of terrorist engineering. They must have used one of those tunnels to infiltrate Jerusalem and commit the suicide attack. This thought makes Yoni bite his lips and hits Musti’s head once more.

  “Which one was it? Which tunnel did they use? Answer me, you son of a bitch!”

  Musti shakes his head, furrows his forehead, and starts crying.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know! I swear. I wasn’t here… I’m new.”

  “Do you know how many people died in Jerusalem? Do you know how many mothers, how many children died? Do you know how many siblings were killed?”

  Yoni loads his gun, dropping the bullet that was in the chamber.

  “Yoni, what are you doing?” asks Elliot.

  Musti finally dares to look him in the eyes like an abandoned puppy asking for mercy. The cannon of the gun sinks into his forehead.

  “Please, sir, I don’t know anything else. I swear I’ll never work again for the NA. Let me live.”

  “Yoni, what are you doing?” Elliot insists.

  Yoni won’t listen, his finger shakes in the trigger.

  “Give me a reason why I should let you live.”

  “Shannila… I’m, I’m young.”

  Yoni denies with his head:

  “You won’t be young forever.”

  “Please, sir, have mercy of me, I didn’t want to be here.”

  “Did you have mercy of the three hundred and fifty victims that were blown to pieces?”

  Elliot gets closer.

  “Yoni! What are you doing?”

  “Justice, Elliot.”

  “Justice?”

  “Please, don’t kill me, for the love of God. For the love of God!”

  Yoni denies again:

  “There’s no God,” says, and pulls the trigger.

  The lifeless body falls over the rails. Musty’s last look imprints in the mind of Yoni, who lets the gun fall to the ground and takes his hands to his head.

  “Damnit! What the fuck is wrong with you, Yoni?” Elliot pushes him. “We don’t act like this.”

  Yoni doesn’t answer. His eyes set on the body.

  “You are the leader of Unit 41, are you insane?”

  Yoni turns pale. Removes his headgear and checks the camera that records all their movements.

  “Elliot…”

  Elliot gets his hands on his hips and lowers his head.

  “It’s okay, Commander, there was no live broadcast. I’m not thinking of reporting anything, but something is messing with your head. Ever since the attack, you have behaved like a deranged person… We will still need that
image from the headgear, the one you recorded of the Professor... Damnit, Yoni!”

  Yoni looks from one side and to another. Frowning. As if he was waking up in a strange place.

  Elliot continues:

  “And we are going to need the forensic team, there are high levels of radiation in the lab… Something bigger is cooking up.”

  2 - THE PROFESSOR

  The first class of the semester is his favorite. Not so much for the excitement of introducing the neophytes to the intellectual wonders of his abstract area of expertise, but more because of a kind of sadistic pleasure his students produce in him when they first encounter Nanogeometry; and their pale panicky faces seem to say: Not even studying for a thousand years will I understand this shit.

  The professorship he leads is considered the academic filter of the Faculty of Biomolecular Nanoengineering (FBMN), with a passing rate of less than seventy percent. There is a student myth going around the corridors about Applied Nanogeometry being the most complicated subject in the entire major and Professor Brahim El Aisami being a nutty genius. Of course, El Aisami has only heard the sugar-coated version; A more accurate version would be among the lines of El Aisami is a sadistic, old, son of a bitch.

  Brahim enjoys the bewilderment shown on the faces of his students, illuminated in the dark by the glare of the 3D-HR screen, almost as much as he enjoys listening to his own voice.

  “In the past, and even nowadays, our primitive scientific predecessors,” mockingly smiles, “the genetic and biomolecular engineers produce macromolecules, such as recombinant insulin, for which they use the synthetic capacity of certain bacteria… Which is really good, and we applaud their effort. However,”—he pauses and raises an eyebrow— “such tech is ancient.” He changes the slide in the hologram and continues talking. “As the demands of our society become more complex and, instead of needing a simple protein like insulin, we require structures in the like of artificial viruses, nanobots, nanochips, etc.” El Aisami makes sure not to mention any of the possible military applications, not even as an example, “the development of more advanced disciplines like the BMNI becomes necessary, as well as the use of more complex streamlines of bacterial production.”