California Triangle Read online

  California Triangle / Uzi Eilam

  All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Copyright © 2017 Uzi Eilam

  Translated from the Hebrew: Yael Schonfeld Abel

  Contact: [email protected]

  Dedicated to the warm hearted, lovers of Israel and to David & Vinny from California.

  Thanks

  The adventure called California Triangle would not have been published if it weren’t for the patient and dedicated guidance and editing I received from Amnon Jackont. Amnon guided and navigated the writing process with sensitivity and intelligence, chapter by chapter, allowing me to enter the magical world of novel writing with a mixture of pleasure and constant curiosity regarding “what would happen next?” Thank you to my friend Yoram Schweizer, senior research fellow at Israel’s Institute for National Security Studies, for his encouragement during the writing process. Thank you to Uzi Rubin, a former colleague I worked on wonderful security technology projects with, for his wise, professional comments. These were important to me, even though this is a fictional story. Thank you to my friend Yoram Petrushka for the encouragement to continue writing. Thank you to the retired El Al captain Ram Levi for the continuing support along the ups and downs of writing. A special thank-you to Ram Oren for the savvy and professional comments and constructive criticism that helped to take this book to a higher level. Yoram Shapira, in his organized and methodical way, contributed greatly to the clarity of the written story, and I thank him for this. Many thanks to Helene Hart who did a wonderful job of translating/editing my book.

  California Triangle would not have been completed without the warm and loving support of my family. My wife Naomi and my children, Osnat, Nimrod, and Noa, supported me throughout the writing process. The peace and quiet I received as I sat for many hours every day in my writing corner, and their encouragement to continue doing so, was the wonderful wind in my sails. Finally, my heartfelt thanks to Steimatzky’s literary incubator headed by Evelyn Levy, and to all those at Steimatzky who helped with the publication of this book.

  Prologue

  It was early morning, and although the sun had just risen, the desert heat was unbearable. The shade of the impressive grandstand and the huge fans placed nearby couldn’t cool the air. Anyone who was anyone in the Iranian leadership was there to witness the great success story in action: the improved, advanced, and longest-range missile ever developed. The Shahab was the pride and joy of the Revolutionary Guards’ missile development unit, and they were there to watch it prove its capabilities.

  Three enormous rocket launch vehicles stood out against the desert plain. From each vehicle, a missile loomed over them like primeval monsters. The crews had completed all the preparations, including filling the tanks with liquid fuel.

  As the guests gathered in the shade of the stand, they were greeted by the Revolutionary Guards’ Director of Research and Development, General Mohammad Ali Jamsheedi. He moved between the dignitaries, who were enjoying cold drinks and a selection of sweet pastries from the waiter’s tray, but he maintained constant eye contact with his patron—the president. Everyone knew him and seemed to think very highly of him.

  Seats were reserved in the front row for three high-ranking honorary guests from Russia.

  “Mr. President, distinguished guests,” Jamsheedi opened, “we’re delighted that you could join us today, here at the missile development unit’s test site, in our country’s magnificent desert.”

  The audience remained quiet and attentive.

  “Today, gentlemen,” the general boomed confidently, “we will launch three different missiles. That, however, is not all. These missiles will prove their ability to evade antimissile systems.”

  Jamsheedi paused for a moment to scan his audience’s faces. He waited for a sign from the president and continued only after he received a slight nod.

  “We owe Russia, our greatest ally, a special thank-you for flying an entire antimissile system out for this test.”

  The general turned his gaze to the three guests, who were wearing earphones for translation. The audience joined him in applauding the smiling guests, who waved their hands in thanks.

  The general continued. “On the screen to the right, you will witness the Shahab during liftoff and the first stages of flight. If you watch the screen on the left, you will see the target area of the missiles and the defense missiles that will try to intercept the Shahab.”

  A thunderous rumble rolled like a lion’s roar through the desert morning air. A giant missile shot off into the sky, leaving a trail of fire and smoke as it gained speed and turned eastward. The audience held its breath and focused on the screen on the right until the cameras tracking the liftoff had done their part. The test engineer, also a member of the development team, drew the audience’s attention to the screen on the left, which showed a clear picture of the vehicle-mounted Russian interceptor missiles. It wasn’t long before the first was expelled from the launch tube in a burst of flames, and immediately another, followed by tense silence from the stand. It was impossible for the guests to follow the speeding interceptors’ flight, but before they knew it, they saw an explosion high in the desert sky, and a few seconds later, another larger explosion. The Shahab had been intercepted and exploded in the air. “Oooh,” the general heard the guests sigh together, indicating their disappointment.

  “You’ve just witnessed the launch of a regular Shahab,” Jamsheedi said confidently, trying to calm the concerned crowd. “The next launch will be of a maneuvering missile, which the interceptors will find more difficult to hit.”

  Nervously, he glanced at the president and instructed the test manager to shoot off the next. An enormous flame escaped the base of the second missile, sending it shooting through the sky with a chilling roar as it gathered speed. The crowd watched closely, and those who understood what they were seeing whispered to their neighbors that the second-stage separation had gone well. All eyes turned to the screen on the left, which was showing the target area. They had a clear view of the missile spiraling down before impact. Two interception missiles appeared one after the other from the defense battery, which was operated by the Russian technicians. The first interceptor missed and exploded at some distance from the Shahab. Everyone held their breath as they watched the second Russian interceptor on the screen, and within a fraction of a second, the Shahab, as if it were moving toward it. Then a muffled blast sounded, and they saw a large ball of fire appear on the screen. The second missile had also been intercepted and had exploded in the air.

  “I take my hat off to the missile defense system developed by the Russians,” General Jamsheedi declared, trying to sound calm. “Let’s see what they can do to our third missile.”

  The general decided not to elaborate on the third missile’s stealth, just in case he couldn’t deliver. He didn’t dare catch the president’s blazing eyes, and he motioned the test manager to continue firing. The third launcher was soon hidden in heavy smoke and thundering louder than its predecessors, forcing the guests to cover their ears. Once again, they fixed their eyes on the screen, waiting for the interceptors to enter the target area as they were launched. The Shahab seemed to be spiraling down, but those with a keen eye noticed its change in speed as it seemed to dance above them. The first interceptor clearly missed. The second seemed to close in on the Shahab, but after detonating, the Shahab continued unharmed. The third missed by a long shot and exploded somewhere in space. Loud applause and cr
ies of admiration soon followed.

  “And that completes the test!” General Jamsheedi boomed with returned confidence. “Thank you for taking part in the efforts of the Revolutionary Guards’ technical unit. We still have plenty of work to do in deciphering the results and in continuing our developments.”

  The group rose to its feet and applauded again before moving toward the helicopter landing pad. The president stayed where he was and motioned to the general, who hurried toward him.

  “We have to talk, Mohammad Ali,” the president said grimly. “Preferably in private.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamsheedi said quickly, “of course.” He whispered something in the test site manager’s ear, who rushed off to prepare the command room for a meeting.

  The cold drinks in the air-conditioned room did not cool the president’s mood. As soon as they were alone, he started to rant. “You disgraced me today, Mohammad Ali,” he said, his voice as cold and severe as his eyes. “Two failures witnessed by the country’s entire top ranks is too much. How do you explain this?”

  “Mr. President,” Jamsheedi squirmed, attempting to quell the wrath of the man who’d gone such a long way with him, from the battlefields of the war with Iraq, “we underestimated the effectiveness of the Russian’s interceptors. You recall that they weren’t prepared to allow us anywhere near them, right? They agreed to participate in the tests on condition that they themselves operated the system, and tomorrow they’re flying the battery back to Russia.”

  Jamsheedi hoped that their years together in engineering school and their joint efforts in developing the technological capabilities of the Revolutionary Guards would help the president to show some understanding.

  “And our third missile, with the upgraded systems, was successful…”

  “You must understand our situation, Mohammad Ali,” the president said more calmly. “The two missiles that failed are ammunition for the top echelons of the country who are just waiting for your failure and mine. Technical explanations don’t interest them. All your past achievements will be forgotten. They won’t remember that you excelled during the war against the damned Iraqis, and even the occupation of the American embassy when we were students won’t mean a thing. The failure today has to be erased in any way possible.” Despite his calm tone, the president’s jaw was clenched.

  “I’ve already ordered the collection and destruction of all the recordings and videos of the test. It will be done, Mr. President, after we’ve extracted all the necessary data from them to complete the development,” Jamsheedi assured the president.

  “That’s fine, my friend, but that doesn’t solve the other weightier issue we have with our missile system…”

  “What do you mean, Mr. President?” Jamsheedi questioned.

  “If our missiles failed against the Russian system, which is not the last word in technology, what is the Shahab’s fate against the systems that the Israelis are developing with the Americans?”

  The president didn’t take his eyes off Jamsheedi, who met his eye. They knew they were in the same boat.

  “That’s an important and critical point, Mr. President.” Jamsheedi chose his words carefully. “We have to find out more about what the Great Satan and Little Satan are up to.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m talking about, Mohammad Ali, and the failure today must motivate us to do everything possible to assure we won’t fail in the real test, against those damned Americans and Israelis.”

  “We’ll have to mobilize our intelligence units. They’ve been dormant until now,” Jamsheedi mused.

  “Yes, we will,” the president shot out quickly, “and that’s your direct and personal responsibility.”

  “We’re going to need a much bigger budget than we’ve invested so far, if we want to get hold of intelligence as fast as possible.”

  “Now that’s something you don’t have to worry about,” the president assured him. “When it comes to matters of national priority, budgets will always be available. Money won’t hold you back in any way, don’t worry. Start acting immediately and don’t stop.”

  General Mohammad Ali Jamsheedi’s daily schedule, which was already too demanding, was clearly being added to.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” he said almost inaudibly. “It will be done.”

  1.

  As usual, Peet’s Coffee was jam-packed. The proprietor himself, who had studied at the Cordon Bleu School in Paris, made the pastries that were a household name in serene and sleepy Palo Alto. The university buildings were in clear view through the glass walls, including the campanile. The din of traffic was blocked by thick windows, and only the coffee machine building up steam and the clatter of spoons interrupted the quiet conversations around the Parisian bistro-style tables.

  Gideon cycled unhurriedly through the campus grounds to the commercial center. He felt a need to disengage from work after two morning sessions at the institute.

  He reached the road and waited for the light to change so he could cross El Camino Real, thinking how perfectly the name—the King’s Way—fit his stage in life. He felt like a king in his own way. He knew how lucky he was that, through his good fate, he was still involved in academic technological activity that continued to fascinate him, even at the age of forty-six. Some of his friends had resorted to teaching only.

  He leaned his bike on the rack, not bothering to lock it. In a city where no one lacks anything, there was no danger of it being stolen. He walked into the café and looked around for a free table. The smell of coffee and baked goods hit him hard. The dark-eyed waitress came over quickly and welcomed him in her heavy Mexican accent. She led him to a table by the glass wall. Gideon didn’t need a menu. He knew just what he wanted. Still, he casually glanced at the two parchment-like cardboard pages.

  A woman wearing huge black cat-eye Prada sunglasses and a green pantsuit was sitting at the next table. She was absorbed in jotting notes in the margins of a yellow legal pad. Gideon glanced again at the menu, but something made him glance at her again. Was it the way she so resolutely turned the pages? The tilt of her head as she concentrated? Or the stubborn black curl hanging down her shoulder?

  He lowered his head to peer at her, and not quite sure of himself, said, “Nurit?”

  “Gideon!” the woman exclaimed. A slight flush, so familiar to him, spread across her high cheekbones. “It’s really you! What are you doing here?”

  They both stood up to find themselves in a long embrace, with Gideon kissing her cheek for a little longer than politeness called for.

  “Join me,” Nurit said after they broke the embrace. “Tell me what’s going on with you. It’s been too long since we saw each other! You’ve hardly changed. If I hadn’t been so absorbed, I’d have recognized you in an instant.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit. Only those huge sunglasses stopped me for a moment…”

  A list of questions ran through Gideon’s mind, but he made do with the first, and most painful. “Did you really get married, as your message on my answering machine said?”

  The waitress apologized for interrupting them and asked Gideon what he wanted to drink.

  “A large Colombian coffee,” he replied impatiently, “with warm milk on the side. And a chocolate Danish please.”

  “You’re still the same Gideon who likes Danish pastries from the kibbutz kitchen,” Nurit noted. “As if they ever sent such luxuries to us at the kids’ house.”

  “So you still think about the mossad ? The kids’ house? You haven’t recovered?”

  “Recovered? They packed us off almost the moment we were born. What’s the point of having children if you only see them for a couple of hours a day? If..”

  Gideon interrupted her. He could feel her anger rising to the surface, but he had his own pain to deal with. “I asked you if you..”

  “Yes, I got married.”

  She
ran her tongue quickly over her dry lips, and Gideon wondered if he too had the same telling habits that she’d been so familiar with.

  “Yes. Not long after you told me that you were afraid of committing, I met Yudke. He was a physics student at the Hebrew University. After I finally left you, I started dating him, and within no time, it was clear we’d get married.”

  “And you fell in love so quickly with someone else?”

  She smiled. “Yudke grew up in a wealthy family in Jerusalem. His father was a well-known building contractor in the city.”

  “And that’s why you married him?”

  “I found a home. That’s a lot, don’t you think? You also found a home, or was love involved too?”

  “We were in love at first,” Gideon said, trying to ignore the sudden sense of relief he felt from knowing about the convenience behind Nurit’s marriage.

  “Well—who’s the lucky woman?” Nurit asked pseudo-nonchalantly, unable to hide her curiosity, and Gideon wondered if she still longed for the love that they’d shared. He didn’t answer.

  “What’s the matter, Gidi?” she asked softly. “Don’t you want to tell me?”

  “There’s nothing much to tell.” He shifted in his seat. “I continued my studies at the Technion. I threw myself into my studies… It stopped me from thinking about you. I also broke off ties with my kibbutz. I went through a difficult period. An identity crisis, I guess.”

  He’d hit a nerve.

  “I don’t recall you ever being such a believer in kibbutz life,” she snapped.

  “True, but still, it wasn’t easy for me to say goodbye to the place where I was born and raised. When I moved to Haifa, I was all alone in the world. I found a job, and luckily, the Ministry of Defense helped, thanks to my leg injury.”

  “How is it now?”

  “It’s okay. I ride my bike a lot. That helps. Overall, I’m fine, Nuri,” Gideon said, reverting to her nickname and watching to see her reaction.