60.0345° N latitude, 76.2856° W longitude
East of Puvirnituq, Nunavik, Northern Quebec, Canada
The vast expanse of the icy desert is a solitary place. Only the sounds of Maniitok’s crunching boots and howling wind are heard. An elder marked by the wisdom of the ages, each step is grounded and respectful. He pauses, his eyes fixed on the earth beneath his feet. With a mattok passed down from his grandfather, he chips away at the ice. There, slowly revealed, is a rock unlike any he has ever seen. It is a fragment of the night sky. He frees it, picks it up, and holds it in his hand, this child of the cosmos. Beneath the watchful gaze of the heavens, Maniitok knows that the world of his fathers, his mothers, and their ancestors has shifted. The spirits of the air, earth, and sea speak to him of a journey that will test nature. The Arctic air becomes still. He shivers. As a boy and then a man, Maniitok never thought much of life and then of death but now…well, now was different: he had touched the black rock, and it
had touched him back.
Chapter 1
Karachi, Pakistan
November 2028
The sky was still dark. The sun had not yet risen over the Arabian Sea as eight U.S. Ranger and Canadian JTF2 Special Forces team members blended seamlessly into the Karachi throng heading to morning prayer. Three other team members managed SATCOM communications and weapon-targeting coordinates at the safe house, two blocks away.
The eight soldiers stalking Dr. Kamran and his son, Bilal, moved with well practiced grace, keeping them under relentless surveillance. It would be impossible for anyone in the crowd to know that an assassination team encased father and son. The team was invisible to all but the most highly trained counter-surveillance troops.
It was a pleasant predawn walk for father and son. The Azan chant floated hypnotically in the still air, inviting the faithful to prayer. Before the first notes of the prayers reverberate across the city, a fragrant tapestry of the urban milieu unfolds. First to greet the senses is the bracing hint of the salty Arabian Sea, a primordial scent that has witnessed the city’s evolution for millennia, mingling with the earthy aroma emanating from damp soils and leaves, a gentle reminder of the embracing earth.
Smells waft through narrow alleys and streets, narrating the tale of Karachi’s spirit. The distinct aromas—cardamom, cinnamon, cumin—being prepared for breakfast dishes gently nudges awake the slumbering senses. The robust notes of freshly brewed chai spill out from roadside dhabas. Whiffs of baked goodness emanate from bakeries, whispering of flaky pastries and crusty breads. The hint of roasting nuts is in the breeze, intertwining with the scent of fresh fruits displayed in the vibrant arrays of carts and stalls.
“Target is continuing south,” cracked the radio in a French-Canadian accent. The soldier following Dr. Kamran enjoyed these covert operations in a foreign country. Dangerous and exciting. He took pride that his heart rate never exceeded 60 beats per minute, no matter what chaos erupted around him.
“Roger that, Frenchy,” said a shaggy-bearded man leaning up against a wall 100 metres ahead. His ZZ Top appearance and Pakistani clothes—a long shirt and baggy pants—cloaked his hardened American soldier’s body. Bilal touched the back of his father’s hand. The two moved toward the Masjid e Tooba Mosque, a radiant structure crafted from pure white marble. Its simplicity veils its esoteric significance. The dome, a silent ode to the celestial, arches gracefully toward the sky. A lone minaret, a sentinel reaching for the heavens, waits for the heavens to call back.
Bilal had not seen his father for three months. “Praise God, Father. I am so happy you are back.”
“I’ve missed you too,” Dr. Kamran responded, smiling. His voice was soft and soothing.
“Father, I’ve prayed daily that Khuda would bring blessings and peace to all our family and companions.” Bilal glanced at his father, seeking approval. “That is good, my son. My work…keeps me away.”
“Yes, Father… I understand.”
Dr. Kamran looked over his shoulder as they walked. “Some want to…stop my work,” he said. His slight frame and thinning hair betrayed his role as one of the leading physicists in the world of fusion energy. Bilal again touched his father’s hand. “Why do they want that?”
“It is complex, my son. There is no one reason…there are many.”
“I don’t understand, Father.”
“Some in the world do not want change.”
“Why?” asked the boy, frowning.
“I do not know. Maybe it’s about power and money,” came the gentle reply, as he discretely glanced at the members of his own security detail closest to him. Dr. Kamran touched his son’s shoulder as they walked.
The boy shrugged, deciding to focus on his special day. This was his tenth birthday. He could recite the call to prayers, and fast for a half-day during Ramadan. He was not yet a man, not yet assigned. It is enough, he thought, to be a boy today. He puffed his chest out and pushed his shoulders back.
His walk became a strut. It was the most beautiful day in his life, and he felt safe walking to the mosque beside his father.
Dr. Kamran looked again at members of his security detail. Three were visible. Each carried an American-made M4 carbine rifle. They made up for being visible by looking hard and angry. Each had the eyes of someone who would shoot first.
Another 30 members of his detail blended into the crowd. Equal in skill to the Special Forces team that was following, stalking, surveilling Dr. Kamran, each was armed with a 1951 vintage Russian-made Makarov pistol and a 15-inch knife. They were absorbed effortlessly in the passing tumult of people. The protective security team and the surveillance team—opposite sides of this intricate and dangerous dance—intermingled, often looking at each other or brushing against each other, none the wiser of the other’s identity.
“Targets are moving south on Korangi Road, passing by my position,” said Shaggy over the radio link.
“Copy that. I’m 20 metres back,” whispered a diminutive, skinny team member.
“Can you keep up, Shorty?” asked Frenchy.
“What’s the ‘Eye’ see?” responded Shorty, ignoring the jab.
“All’s clear ahead. They are now in the mosque. The satellite laser system has painted the targets,” came the response from the safe house. “The ‘Rod of God’ has them in its sights.”
“They should be coming out in ten minutes,” whispered Shaggy.
“Are we a go?” asked Lucky. She leaned against a wall and pulled out a Lucky Strike cigarette, her habit for every assassination project.
“Let’s get going. I’ve been in dis place way too long,” said Frenchy.“ Monsoon season too thick for me.”
Lucky Strike told her team, “He has three bodyguards. All I can see.”“That’s not many…for such a high-value target,” responded Shaggy.
“With all the firepower lined up for dis, they want it done-done-done,” said Frenchy.
“This just doesn’t feel right,” said Lucky. “Not enough protection.” She enjoyed being the only woman on the Special Operations team. From the Bronx, Lucky was as tough as they came. Her light brown and pocked skin made her invisible on missions to Middle Eastern countries. She had been selected to be the first female operator four years ago and had tasted action shortly after recruitment when she strangled a Syrian soldier to death in a violent encounter in Aleppo. She had earned her way. Cautious but dangerous is the reputation she earned on every mission since—small hands with a tight grip.
“Relax, Lucky. We have lots of backup,” offered Command from the safe house.
High above, a constellation of six MX-2243 LEO satellites provided constant coverage. Each could precisely deliver the tungsten ‘Rod of God’ from its low orbit…if called upon. The individual rods could reach speeds of 5,566 metres per second, creating a lethal and devastating shockwave equivalent to more than a tonne of TNT. Two RQ1 Predator drones circled lazily above, vultures equipped with two AGM0114 Hellfire missiles as backup. Four AH-64 Apache ‘Ranger Ready’ helicopters were on standby atthe city’s outskirts, ready to secure ground troops, provide cover, or attack.
“They are coming out of the mosque…time to rumble,” said Shaggy.
“Roger that,” replied Lucky. She fiddled with her Lucky Strike. He must be very important.
On the other side of the world, two warriors entered the Canadian Forces Command and Control Centre at Dwyer Hill, outside of Ottawa. The larger man stepped in front, his massive frame blocking the other from getting his command seat.
“Excuse me, General,” said Colonel Mike Woods. The larger man stood to one side, almost giving Colonel Woods a clear path to his chair. The two men avoided direct eye contact. After Woods assumed the command seat, General Terry Black took his assigned seat as the second, and looked at the computer screens.
A Canadian major, sporting an unkempt beard and long straggly hair, whispered in General Black’s ear. Black turned to his computer. With a few keystrokes, he pulled up an image of their target.
“We have him, Colonel,” snorted Black in a booming voice, his 245 pounds of muscle resting menacingly on his 6’5” frame. Woods slid his sinewy frame around to glance at the video screen. A 75th Ranger from Fort Benning, Georgia, his Regimental Special Troops Battalion conducted intelligence, reconnaissance, and termination missions previously accomplished by small detachments assigned to the regimental headquarters.
His nickname was ‘Dirty Harry’ —he had a remarkable resemblance to Clint Eastwood.
“Yes, General, you might be right.” He found satisfaction in eliminating high-value targets, but always ensured the right person was targeted. He never
shook that nagging question: Would God forgive me if I was wrong? “Roger that, General. Can we get a close visual?” he asked.
“Yes. Target has left the mosque,” confirmed Black. Woods nodded.
“Release a micro-drone and get up close. I need a picture of Kamran at five metres,” commanded Black.
“Copy that.” Frenchy released a bug-sized drone along a crowded side street. Slightly larger than a German yellow jacket wasp, it had enough power to stay in the air for 16 minutes, transfer pictures back to the ground base, and then connect by satellite to Dwyer Hill. It flew past the target’s face, snapping eight pictures. Within seconds, the face of Dr. Kamran appeared on a screen at the Dwyer Hill Command Centre.
“That’s him, sir. Facial recognition confirms,” said Woods. No wonder they hate us so much. We go where we want to go. “I understand you have an
asset in custody. Show him the picture for final confirmation.”
“That’s a waste of time,” barked Black, twisting in his seat.
“Double confirmation,” said Woods softly, almost imperceptibly.
“That’s BS!”
“Just do it.” Woods turned away, letting Black know this was not a debate.
In the safe house, maps with scribbled notes crowded the walls; a man on a chair had a black bag over their head. His feet and hands were bound with plastic zip ties. Rope bound him to the chair. The asset had been kidnapped on his way to prayer earlier in the morning. He was the paymaster for Kamran’s physics research group. He had made the mistake of bragging on social media about his rank and the importance of the work. That was enough for the open-source intelligence team at Fort Bragg to pinpoint his location. They pulled the hood off his head. He was gagged. His eyes were exploding from pure primal fear. He had been slammed into the van floor during his abduction…fresh blood dripped from above his left eye. The two soldiers circled the chair several times before they asked the question.
“Is this Dr. Kamran?”
The asset shook his head no.
One hard slap across his head and an M18 SIG Sauer P320 shoved against his balls changed his perspective. “Is this Dr. Kamran?”
Now, the answer was a quick nod. Yes.
“Are you sure? If you’re wrong, I will return with a smile on my face and kill your entire family. Look again,” spoken in fluent Urdu.The asset looked at the picture again, this time with absolute focus, and nodded. The asset was now a political liability. This was a no-witness mission. The fentanyl injection was painless. The three soldiers considered it a humane termination. His body slumped silently, held up by the binding ropes.
“We have third-party verification. Do we have a green light?” asked control at the safe house in Karachi.
Woods looked at Black. “Innocents?”
“Yes. His son and about 15 others.”
“You’re bullshitting me, Terry. Fifty at least.”
“Make up your mind, Colonel,” said Black.
After a slight pause, Woods nodded. He knew that meant death, but he also knew that the balance of world economic power would change if Pakistan
succeeded. Kamran’s fusion project would destabilize the world’s energy supply. High above in the command structure, this project was deemed to
undermine the current world order. It had to be stopped—that order to terminate had come two months earlier from B-613, the special Five Eyes
operations group he and the colonel reported to. B-613 kept English-speaking countries and industries strong, viable, and productive. And powerful.
“Roger. You have the green light,” said Black to the safe house command in Karachi. In General Black’s and Colonel Woods’ minds, Kamran was already dead.
They were both thinking about preparations for a B-613 meeting the next day. “If the rods don’t work, we have men on the ground,” said Black. If that
doesn’t work, we’ll send in the Hellfires. We are okay with this project. It must be good. Terminating Dr. Kamran…number one priority.
The Ranger Special Operators were now ‘sua sponte’: on their own accord. “Phantom Strike is a go,” relayed the safe house command centre to the
field operators. “Copy that.”
