C.A. James - The Zarrabian Incident

The
Zarrabian
Incident

C.A. James

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 C.A. James

This ebook is licensed for yourpersonal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or givenaway to other people. If you would like to share this book withanother person, please purchase an additional copy for eachrecipient. If youre reading this book and did not purchase it, orit was not purchased for your use only, then please return to yourfavorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you forrespecting the hard work of this author.

Golden Gate Bridge cover photo byJaxon Stevens.

Edited by Ben Silverman and DawnDaniels

Cover Design by C.A.James

TO MY WIFE LAURI

With all my love.

Your belief in me

made this book possible,

and your wisdom

made it even better.

And your grammar too.

That helped.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Awareness slowly returned. Wherewas he? Around him, dust and darkness swirled, filled with vagueshapes and senseless ghosts. Maybe he should sit up? Yes, thatseemed like a good idea. He struggled for a moment, but his bodydidnt cooperate. Something heavy seemed to be on his chest,pinning him to the floor and crushing his breath away. Was there awall on his chest?

Cries and screams started topenetrate the fierce ringing in his ears. Fleeting fragments ofmemory emerged from the fog in his brain and reassembled themselves... a drive to Tehran... the Grand Bazaar... the whine of a cruise missile... anexplosion.

Yasmin and Mina! Where werethey?

Full awareness surged through hisbrain. He turned his head, ignoring the vertigo, and tried to seethrough the murk for a sign of his wife or daughter. But the airwas filled with smoke, dust, and grit, stinging his eyes and noseand making it impossible to see. He struggled against the immenseweight on his chest, but it was hopeless; the effort only made himgasp more.

A breath of wind swirled throughthe dust and smoke, clearing the murk momentarily. He looked aroundfrantically, searching for any sign of his family. There! He couldsee Yasmin on the ground in the rubble, her head resting on one ofthe shopping bags that shed carried just moments before. Her facewas turned toward him, completely unmarked by the explosion, buther eyes were closed. It took a few seconds for his mind toregister. Only half of his wife was there.

But where was his daughter? Thebreeze swirled again, revealing Mina lying a few meters from hermother. A pool of bright red blood spread from under herhead.

With a loud crash, a shower ofbricks tumbled over Yasmin and Minas bodies, and redoubled theweight on Zarrabians chest. He felt the last vestiges of air beingcrushed from his lungs. The ringing in his ears softened, and thesounds of cries and screams faded. The world grew dark.

Attack

Zarrabian looked up from thenewspaper he was pretending to read. His eyes scanned therestaurant, checking each of the three drivers on his team. Theydarrived at the rendezvous separately and hadnt spoken or made eyecontact yet.

The truck stop was just off USHighway 101, two dozen miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Ithad a no-nonsense atmosphere, the rough friendliness andcamaraderie of truckers in their element. The kitchen served whatthey wanted: piles of bacon and eggs, mountains of pancakes, andstrong coffee. And the newspapers were free.

Two of his men, sitting at oppositeends of the lunch counter, had finished eating. One nodded as atrucker seated next to him talked and gestured at the baseball gameon TV. The other was getting a refill. Zarrabian watched as theyoung waitress, soft and plump like so many American girls, smiledand leaned forward just a bit too much while she poured.Zarrabians brow started to furrow at her immodesty, but he caughthimself. Today he was a trucker, not a soldier.

Zarrabian took another sip of hiscoffee. It was good, surprisingly rich, an unexpected pleasure inthis truck stop. In a country of lite beer and fast-foodhamburgers, good coffee was scarce. He held it to his face and letthe steaming aroma fill his senses.

His third man was at a table byhimself, finishing his meal. Zarrabian suppressed a surge ofimpatience. His men needed a good meal. They were on schedule.There was no need to rush.

His team was dressed to blend in.Zarrabian wore a faded blue denim jacket over a plaid flannelshirt, topped by a baseball cap. Hed stuffed a pack of cigarettesinto his shirt pocket to complete the outfit. His men wore similargarb.

Zarrabians complexion was darkerthan most of these truckers, but he could easily pass for thesecond-generation son of Iranian immigrants. Here in California,hed been mistaken several times for one of the Latinos whoseancestors owned this land so long ago, in the time before Americansinvaded Mexicos Alto California and claimed it for theirown.

Underneath the trucker disguise,his body was that of a soldier. Decades of service in an army thatguarded uncountable square kilometers of rugged, dry mountains anddesert sands had made him hard and lean.

He looked back at his newspaper.The stories seemed so trivial. Burglaries, a drought, a minorscandal in the American Congress, rising oil pricestomorrow thesewould be nothing.

More coffee, sir? He looked up.The waitress smiled and raised her coffee potquestioningly.

No, thank you.

Well you have a wonderful day, OK?Come see us again!

She set his check down and movedefficiently to the next table. He glanced at it, taking out hiswallet. His hand trembled slightly as he removed money from behinda photograph of his wife and daughter.

He dropped money on the counter,stood, and then briefly made eye contact with each of the otherthree drivers on his team. The mission was on.

Outside, Zarrabian climbed into histruck and pretended to write on a clipboard while he watched therestaurants entrance in his mirror. One by one, the other driversemerged and climbed into their trucks. Twin puffs of black sootbelched from the exhaust stacks as each truck rumbled to life.Zarrabian started his engine as a plain white delivery van pulledinto the parking lot and stopped alongside him.

His team was ready.

What was it the ancient had said?We make war that we may have peace. So true.

Christine Garrett took her eyes offher sails for an instantjust long enough to glance at hercompetitors position.

Damn!

Kerrys boat was four lengths aheadof her and two boat lengths to leewarda dead heat. They were justone minute from the windward buoy of the race course, where theydturn and head for the finish line.

They were out past the Golden Gatein vintage San Francisco summer weather: a stiff, cold wind andbrilliant blue sky. A dark wall of fog lurked a mile farther out.Behind them, twenty other racers were bashing through the waves,but unless something dramatic happened, it was between her andKerry.

Sailing was more than a hobby forChristine Garrett. It was her passion, her escape from the dailygrind, some even said her