The Death Zone: A Paul Decker assignment #1, #15

By Jeffry Weiss

The remnants of ISIS have been planning a series of great strikes against the infidels.  Working with limited resources, men and money, they are devising multiple operations that, if successful, may kill millions, possibly hundreds of millions of people guilty of nothing more that worshiping a different god. 

President James P. Hardessy enlists the help of protagonist Paul Decker to track down the Marburg virus that has been transported to Kathmandu, Nepal. 

The president has teamed Paul up with a biologist who knows how to handle the Marburg and is also an experienced climb.  But unknown to Paul and the president, she is, in fact, a member of the extreme Jihadist group, The Army of Justice.

An international expedition is set to climb Mt. Everest.  Ambassadors from six nations are using the expedition to develop a working relationship between countries that had been adversaries and who will, after the camaraderie and success they have on the mountain, take home that confidence and mutual respect to hammer out a nuclear disarmament agreement.

The terrorists will attack the infidels on four fronts at once: the releasing of small pox in America, Marburg in the Sahel, a suicide bomber in Algiers, an attack on opening night at the World Soccer Cup by a car loaded with explosives and the Everest expedition in Nepal.

The terrorists plan is both intricate and subtle.  And Paul must not only climb with the ambassadors to ensure their safety, but learn of the method by which the terrorists intend to disperse the Marburg before they get a chance to complete their plan.

The American government is stretched thin attempting to find and circumvent the plots, all while a clock is ticking down to zero.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffry Weiss
• Release date: Sep 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781077980099

Jeffry Weiss

BIOGRAPHY Mr. Weiss attended Central High School, at the time recognized as the top High School academically in the U.S.  He then attended Drexel University where he gained a BS in History, Temple University where he earned an MA in Economics and the University of Pennsylvania where he received an MA in International Affairs.  Those studies provided him with unique insights in the realm of foreign policy, military capabilities, détente, and trade. He has been a writer for forty plus years and has penned hundreds of articles on social, political, and economic issues.  He has written position papers for the Carter and Clinton Administrations and his work on social issues has received recognition directly from the office of the President of México.  He speaks regularly with Noam Chomsky on political, economic, cultural, and military issues. Mr. Weiss writes political, military, economic and scientific thrillers.  There are now twelve books in the Paul Decker series.  All his stories come right off the front pages of the major magazines and newspapers but none of his plots has ever found their way into novel before.  His characters are ones readers can relate to: flawed, not superheroes.  His stories do not require a leap of faith or use deus ex machina. Finally, he has written a stage play, “Einstein at the Guten Zeiten (good times) Beer Garden, and an urban horror novel: “The Art of Theft”, a modern day version of “The Picture of Dorian Grey” by Oscar Wilde.

Book preview

THE CHARACTERS

Code 6 agents

Paul Decker

Kyle Lacey

American Embassy in Turkey

Maurice Van Zandt, U.S. Ambassador to Turkey

Ethan Coventry, Consulate attaché, secretary to the ambassador

Head of American Embassy in Algiers, Algeria

Madam Secretary, Dominique Rothschild.

Information

CNN Studios moderator, Douglas O’Brian

Dr. Bradley Jespersen, virologist

Climbers

Stephanie Steph Jordan

President of Swaziland

Best Wishes Onobongo

THE CHARACTERS

The President’s Cabinet

President: James P. Hardessy

Chief of Staff: Alan Carmichael

FBI Director, Mike Warren

Secretary of Health and Human Services, Simon Greenwall

Secretary of homeland security: Charles Lautner

President’s personal secretary: Mary Cleveland

CIA Director Tom Courtney

NSA Director, Frank Kowalski

Vice-President Stanley Abrams

Secretary of State: Sinclair Davidson

U.N. Ambassador, Sharon Delaney

U.S. Ambassador to Pakistan.  Madeline Alcott

U.S. Senator Kale Worthington, Senate Intelligence Committee

––––––––

Members of the International Mt. Everest expedition

Ambassador Samuel Patel from India

Ambassador Rene Laurent from France

Ambassador Danielle Hanson from America

Ambassador Ronald Pearlman from Israel

Ambassador Vladim Pushkin from Russia

Ambassador Zhang Min from China

Owen Mayberry, Mt. Everest guide

Pasang Sherpa, lead Sherpa

Alice Montgomery, Base Camp doctor

THE CHARACTERS

Islamist’s terror cell

Amir Bin Massud, leader of Jaish ul-Adi, Army of Justice

Cosette Naser Taylor, climber, devotee of Amir Bin Massud, assigned to see that the Marburg virus is distributed on Mt. Everest

Donatella Naaji Bisset, mistress of Sec. of State Sinclair Davidson, wife of Kassim Naaji.

Kasim Naaji, Army of Justice

Abu al-Rashid, Army of Justice

Suzanne Awadi Deming, fiancé of consulate officer Ethan Coventry, member of the Army of Justice.

Kahil Awadi, husband of Suzanne, member of The Army of Justice

Hussein Haji, builder of suicide vests for the Army of Justice

Jamal, transporter of Marburg virus

Zoya, transporter of Marburg virus

Mustafa, transporter of the Marburg virus

Fahad, transporter of the Marburg virus

Ismael, transporter of the Marburg virus

Hassan Izz- al-Di, thief who stole the Smallpox virus

Ibrahim Al-Assad, transporter of the Smallpox virus

Sharif bin Sur, jihadist climber

Bashir, Army of Justice

––––––––

At the NSA

Director Frank Kowalski

Captain Mike Richman

Lieutenant Benjamin Ben Haskins

THE CHARACTERS

American Military

Paul Decker, Code 6 agent

American Military.  AFRICOM

Colonel Vince Blackie Black

CIA operative in Aghbarg, Baluchistan

Habib Mohani

Diplomats

President el-Sisi, Egypt

President Morsi, Pakistan

Expeditions on Mt. Everest

International

Polish

German

Russian

South Korean

Czech

Italian

CHAPTER ONE

Niamey, Niger

The traveler struggled against the rain, bent over, clutching the collar of his coat in an effort to stay dry.  He was a dark-complected man, with a wide, flat nose, small brown eyes, full lips, and ears that stuck out far enough to elicit derogatory comments.

His shoes squished every time he took a step, so soaked were his socks and feet.

He looked up from time to time, checking to see the names and addresses on the homes and businesses as he passed by.

Almost every Western government advised against all travel to virtually the entire continent, with added caution when going to the Niger capital, Niamey.  He was told to avoid demonstrations and areas popular with foreign residents.  Not to travel anywhere after dark.  To carry his passport with him at all times and to not take photos of the police, military or sensitive sites.

And while all that crossed his mind at some level, it did not fully register.  He’d been awake for thirty hours since starting his journey from Porto-Novo, Benin, six hundred miles due south   In any other country, it would have taken just one day, but in West Africa, nothing was simple, fast and easy.  Trains broke down, roads washed out, soldiers at checkpoints demanded money and held passengers for hours until properly compensated.

All he was told was to be at a certain place, at a certain time and take a package from a man he’d never met and carry it to N'Djamena, Chad.  He wanted to learn more about the package.  He wanted to know if it was illegal, drugs, possibly stolen money.

The traveler wondered where the package had started its journey...or what its final destination was.  But questioning was a dangerous trait in regards to the people he was dealing with.  Better to know less, be less curious, stay alive.

*       *        *

Many of the buildings he passed were dark, either out of business or unable to afford to keep the lights on for more than a few hours a day.

He knew he was in a dangerous area of the city, but it was not for him to decide or complain. 

The traveler was getting closer to his destination, but began coughing.  He was getting a cold he thought, and possibly worse, so tired and stressed was he.

Still, his mission was far more important than his health...or even his life.  Surely others had endured worse and sacrificed more.  His brothers and sisters were depending on him and he would not let them down.

Yet he had grave reservations.  He left a wife and two children behind.  The boys were just two and four years old.  His wife had never worked, had no marketable skills.  And now, raising two young children, there was no work that would allow her to accomplish both tasks.

His handlers emphasized that he was doing God’s work and would be rewarded by seventy vessel virgins in Heaven.  But he had lived in the West for a time: England, France, Germany and knew all that wasn’t true.  If he became a suicide bomber, he would rot in hell for killing children.  If he killed people of other religions his family would be struck down by a revenging God.

All these things he considered as he slogged through filthy, trash-strewn streets that smelled of urine.

*       *        *

Twenty minutes later he entered the Faite Maison Restaurant in the northern section of Niamey: an area of the city westerners rarely went and just as rarely were welcome.

The place smelled of curry and chili peppers, which reminded him of his home in Benin.

The traveler took a seat in the corner of the establishment where he could see all who entered.

He removed his soaked outer coat and hung it on the back of his chair. 

The waiter immediately came over, noted the man’s facial features and said, Shalom Aleichem.

Aleichem Salam, the traveler said in return.

They spoke briefly of where they were from, each having been born and raised in West Africa, and how they found their way to the Niger capital.

And while the waiter spoke easily and excitedly about his now home country, the traveler spoke slowly, carefully so as to not mix the truth with lies.

When the waiter asked the customer’s name, the traveler hesitated, asking himself if he should tell him his real name or code name.  He considered that the waiter might pass his name on to the police.  Knowing his name could bring anyone investigating the group or its plans, that much closer to the conspirators.  But that was just his paranoia, and so he replied honestly.  Jamal, he said.

Are you hungry, Jamal? the waiter asked.

I’m not sure.  I guess I should be.  I can’t remember the last time I ate.

We have wonderful, homemade food here.  Plantains, and fruit made from fermented cassava roots served with grilled crocodile meat and sauces.  Also, spinach stew cooked with tomato, peppers, chilies, onions, and peanut butter.  Our peanut stew is prepared with chicken, okra and ginger.  A favorite of the house is bambara, a porridge of rice, peanut butter and sugar.

The peanut stew sounds excellent, but allow me to cool down before serving me.

Perhaps a beer while you are waiting?

Yes, that sounds very good, Jamal said.  He found himself smiling at such a wonderful suggestion.

Of course!

They would have spoken further, but the waiter was called over by another table. 

That was just as well, since the traveler needed to concentrate on those who entered the restaurant, not knowing exactly what his contact looked like.  Only that the man was very tall and thin, with gold teeth and went by the name Zoya, which he was sure was a pseudonym.

The waiter brought the beer out right away for Jamal.  He never drank at home since it was haram in his home country of Benin.

By the time his food came out, Jamal had finished two glasses of strong ale. 

And each time he set his glass down, the waiter came by and filled it without being asked to do so.

Jamal was cool now, his stomach full, and his mind relaxed.  He enjoyed the calm after his long journey by lorry, bus and taxi from Benin.

At first, he did not see his contact enter the bar.  His mind had wandered to happier times in his life when he took his family to the bazaar or to a play or a movie.

*    *           *

Zoya stood at the bar and surveyed the patrons.  He too only had a general description of his contact and a name: Jabari.

When his eyes alit on the man seated at a table, finishing his dinner, Zoya smiled, showing off his gold teeth.

*       *        *

What Jamal saw was not a smile, but a sneer, which made him cringe.  Zoya was an ugly man with a narrow, bony face, sharp cheekbones and a pock-marked face. 

Jamal nodded at Zoya who made his way over to the table, but not before bending down and lifting a briefcase he had carefully set under his bar stool.

Zoya took a seat without being asked to, a man used to getting his own way, and being dangerous enough to ensure respect and deference.

Drinking, Jabari? Zoya asked rhetorically.  That is haram, he scolded, attempting to make Jamal as uncomfortable as possible, and doing a very good job at that.

I just needed something to cool my insides, Jamal said in his defense.

Zoya laughed heartily.  I don’t care what you do.  Just take this damn case, he said, using a foot to push it over to Jabari. 

Jamal noticed that Zoya was sweating profusely, even though it was not particularly warm in the restaurant. 

Are you feeling alright? Jamal asked, trying to be a good Muslim and offer empathy for a fellow traveler.

Just an upset stomach, that’s all, Zoya assured.  But less than a moment later, he gripped his stomach.  I think I’m going to be sick."  And with that he rushed to the bathroom.

When he came out, he was white as a ghost.

I need to leave before I get sick again and draw attention to us, Zoya said.   Don’t let the case out of your sight.  We don’t know who our enemies are.

That said, Zoya left the restaurant quickly, holding a hand over his mouth.

Jamal felt that he, too, should leave, but didn’t want to risk being connected to Zoya.  And so he waited what he thought was an appropriate amount of time then picked up the briefcase and quietly left the restaurant.

*       *        *

Zoya was woozy.  He reached out for the fender of his car in the parking lot.  I’m suddenly not feeling well, he said to himself.  But I haven’t been sick in years.

He placed his free hand to the side of his head and squeezed.  I have a terrible headache.

Zoya bent over and spewed vomit out of his mouth for a full minute.

His eyeballs bulged, looking as if they would pop out of his head.  His skin turned yellow.  What is happening to me? he asked himself.

Zoya heaved again, now spewing blood along with whatever food was left in his stomach.  His eyes were the color of rubies and his face a mass of black bruises.  The muscles in his face drooped, as if the skin was detaching from the underlying bone.

I think I need a doctor, Zoya said weakly.

What Zoya didn’t know was that an alien life form in his body was converting Zoya to it.  His flesh was being liquefied.  His blood was clotting.  Clots were forming in his liver, kidneys, lungs, hands, feet and head.  He was having strokes throughout his entire body. 

Zoya vomited again.  This time it was black.  He stared incredulously at the pool of liquid on the ground.

If he were more of a doctor or a scientist, he would know that it was his brains liquefying and oozing out of his body. 

Zoya tried to call for help, but he could only gasp for air.  He was now bleeding...out of his eyes, nose, mouth and rectum.

Zoya became very dizzy.  His spine went limp; he was losing his sense of balance.  The parking lot spun around him.  He was going into shock.  He leaned over and spewed an incredible amount of blood and dark matter on to the ground.  Then there was a sound like a bed sheet being torn in half.  His bowels opened up and he spewed copious amounts of blood out of his anus.

If he could see a PET scan of his body, he would have seen that his veins looked like cooked macaroni and his internal organs disintegrating.

Zoya slipped off the fender of the car and slumped to the ground.  His eyes were still open though staring straight ahead. 

He had just enough of his mind left to know that he was dying.  What he didn’t know was how or why.

CHAPTER TWO

El Capitan.  Yosemite, California.

The subtle tilt of the earth’s axis brought on the first signs of the new day.  The night relented, taking with it the stars.  A morning breeze scattered the last of the clouds that had accumulated the night before, exposing the white monolith known as El Capitan, or El Cap, as it was called by those who knew her intimately.  She was solid granite, rising three thousand three hundred feet above the valley floor, awe-inspiring even to those who never took a single step off the ground.

If one could love a mountain, if a mountain could feel love, then El Cap had an intimate relationship with thousands of young men and women.

Yosemite Valley and the Sierra Nevada mountain range once lay beneath the sea, surrounded by a chain of volcanoes.  Granite formed from the molten rock.  The canyon itself had been cut by the Merced River three million years ago.

The Ahwahnechee Indians settled in the area in the 1300s and named the place, Yosemite, meaning Big Mouth, for the way the river sliced through the valley.

The very first ascent of the most prominent, intimidating route on El Cap, The Nose, was done in 1957 by Warren Harding, Wayne Murray, and George Whitmore.  It took them 47 days and attracted world-wide attention in that, previously, the wall was deemed impossible to climb.

Once that precedent was set, each subsequent climbing party got faster.  Starting with Royal Robbins, Tom Frost and Chuck Pratt in 1960, who did it in seven days, to Jim Bridwell, John Long, and Bill Westbay in 1975 who made the first one day ascent, to the current era of climbers who were able to climb the wall in less than two hours.

The average time taken by experienced climbers to ascend the wall was 3 - 5 days.  But few of the climbers in The Valley could be accused of being average.

*       *        *

From the meadows, people with telescopes, and cameras with telephoto lenses, watched as climbers clung to the rock like flies on a window of the top floor of the tallest building in Manhattan.

To the tourists, they were crazy, thrill-seekers, people with a death wish.  But they didn’t understand the nature of the sport.  It was really a life wish, challenging oneself, pushing the boundaries of what was possible.  A willingness to give everything to attain a goal so esoteric that only another climber would understand.  Most people never challenged themselves.  They stayed in their comfort zone, skated through life, multi-tasking, proud of their accomplishments where they gave no more than a portion of themselves and called it a victory.

But Paul Decker didn’t live like that, didn’t even consider himself a member of that society.

For him, overcoming his fears, giving every last ounce of energy, using his mind to solve a difficult puzzle of where to put his feet and hands, and cheat death one more time, was living life to the fullest.   It was only when a person gave all of himself to accomplish a task, did they get everything in return. 

Rewards were measured in orders of magnitude greater than the day-to-day accomplishments of the average person.

*       *        *

Yet at that singular moment in time, all Paul Decker thought about was how to get up a blank section of the Salathé Wall with no apparent hand or foot holds.

He searched for small inconsistencies on the rock face.  At first, it felt perfectly smooth, but as his eyes and mind sharpened their focus, small nubs and shelves appeared, offering a way up.  At times, climbing was like a puzzle, where only one single piece would fit in a certain slot, or like chess where one had to think a dozen moves ahead.

He dipped one hand, then the other, in his chalk bag in order to dry his fingers and get a better grip on the micro holds.

Paul looked back to his belayer, Stephanie Steph Jordan, one hundred feet below him, who held the rope that was clipped into four pieces of protection Paul had wedged into the cracks at strategic points as he ascended the wall.

Watch me here, Paul yelled back to Stephanie who nodded in return.

I’ve got you, she called up to him.

Stephanie Steph Jordan was twenty years Paul’s junior.  She was a strong climber with ten years of experience on big rock walls, Himalayan expeditions, four assents of 8,000 meter peaks without supplemental oxygen.  Paul wished that once in a while he could climb with someone from his own generation.  Unfortunately, anyone even close to Paul’s age had either stopped climbing years before or had died when pushing the boundaries as to what was possible.

The fact that Stephanie had a sculpted body and a PhD. in biology made her a partner who pulled her weight on the walls and was never at a loss of interesting conversation.

She was beautiful in an athletic way.  Her blonde hair was cut short in a pixie.  She had piercing hazel eyes, high cheekbones, smallish nose, and long, thin lips that seemed always prepared for a kiss.  If she didn’t have sinuous veins through her hands, arms and legs, she could have been a runway model: tall, thin, but with a little more fullness in just the right places.  She oozed intelligence and intimidated others by speaking just a little faster than they could think. 

Her face was unmarred, somehow immune from the stresses of balancing teaching, research, and the writing of scientific papers needed for recognition and promotion.  

Yet her beauty just as often worked against her.  She was not always taken seriously by others in the field: people who chose to dismiss her work and conclusions as coming from a lightweight.

They had a history together, but he wasn’t sure if she looked at it the same way he did.  It was ten years ago.  Paul was taking a course in biology at the military college, where she was the instructor...a very young instructor, in a room full of high-octane testosterone.  The energy was palpable.  Every man in the class wanted to jump her bones.  Paul was turned off by the macho display and chose to stay on the sidelines rather than enter the game. 

But when it came to responding to questions in class, he stood out, being one of the only men who apparently did their homework.  That intrigued Steph and she asked him to remain after class.  She wanted to know what led him to keep up with the lessons but not the other men. 

Was it her? she’d questioned. 

Paul explained that soldiers thought about two things: killing the enemy and bragging about the women they bedded.  Anything else was just stuff that got in the way.  And having to take instruction from a woman, a young woman was more than most of them could handle graciously.

She was thankful enough of Paul to ask him to dinner; her treat.  He accepted, but insisted on Dutch.  Over a meal that went on for five hours, and two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, they shared more of their lives with each other than they ever had with their respective ex-spouses.

The two of them had more in common than either gave themselves credit for. 

During the evening they found each had preconceived notions: Paul thought her a cerebral, academic, out of touch with world events...especially war.  She thought him a jarhead with no concern for intellectual matters.  They found both premises false and gave each other grudging respect.

That began a lot of late night talks about everything from astronomy to God to politics, which they both found ugly, petty, and vile...with the leaders of Congress increasingly isolated from the American people.

There came a night and a time when the talk and the wine coalesced.  Yet it was Steph who forced the issue off dead center.  Do I need to drag you back to my apartment? she had asked.

I’m old enough to be your father, he had said.

I love my father, she’d replied.

The relationship was intense, compressed between his deployments and her teaching schedule, and would have lasted had it not been for the fact they were both reassigned long term.  He went overseas, she off on a two-year sabbatical, taking a full time position at UC Berkeley.

*       *        *

Paul gingerly stuck a foot out three feet to his left where there was only the slightest curvature in the rock.  He smeared his soft rubber climbing shoe against the wall, causing just enough friction to hold a portion of his weight and leaned over to grasp a slanted hold that extended a third of an inch out from the wall.

With his left foot and hand as secure as they could be, he leaned his whole body to the right and reached a crack system that extended all the way to the top of the pitch.

Seventy-five feet, Steph yelled to Paul, letting him know how much further he could climb before running out of rope.

There’s a ledge fifty feet above me, he called back.  I’ll set up a belay there.

All right, Steph yelled in order to overcome the whistling wind.

Paul began again, but the crack quickly widened into what they called an off-width: too wide for hands, to narrow for the whole body.  It involved wedging half of his body in the crack while the other half tried to find foot or hand holds on the face to ascend.

Climbers felt off-width cracks were the most difficult to navigate as well as being the most dangerous due to lack of opportunities to place protection.

He worked up quite a sweat even though the temp was in the low 60s and the wind was blowing at 15 mph.

Paul quickly found himself in a dangerous position.  He was thirty feet above his last piece of protection, which meant a potential sixty foot fall since his belayer couldn’t catch him until all the slack was out of the rope.  And by that time, he’d be thirty feet below his last piece of pro.

He squeezed as much of his body in the crack as he could, then worked his way up.  B the time he reached the top of the pitch, his knuckles were bleeding and he had sewing machine legs that wouldn’t stop convulsing.  He set up a belay stance and called out to Steph, Belay on.

Climbing, she said, then made her first move up the rock.

Climb.

It took Steph twenty minutes to ascend the one-hundred feet, slowed down by the need to unclip and remove the pieces of protection Paul placed on the pitch.  When she got to the belay stance, Steph took the rest of Paul’s rack and started up the next section of rock which was better suited to her style: delicate hand and foot holds for thin fingers and small feet.

Steph finished off the pitch and set up a belay point.  Paul made short work of cleaning the pitch, gathering the protective gear that Steph had placed.  They would exchange leads like that until they reached the top.  And although they had gotten past the crux, or hardest part of the climb, there was no time for celebration.  They still had to be off the mountain before the sunset or spend a night on the wall with no tent or warmer clothes or even water, which they had used up hours ago.

*       *        *

Five hours later, after hiking down the back side of the mountain, Paul and Steph joined the other climbers at Camp 4.  That was where the hard-core rock jocks hung out to talk about their successes and failures, then just as quickly, planned the next day’s assents.

Even the poorest of climbers, those who had to scrounge for food or steal anything that wasn’t watched carefully, had enough pot to smoke.  The joints were passed around and nobody was excluded.

The rescue team came in late, after scraping together parts of dismembered bodies that had fallen from high up on the walls of El Cap and Half Dome.  They had pictures, always had pictures, of the most gruesome scenes imaginable. 

Dude, Dude, check this out, they’d say, trying to pass the photos around.

But the last thing climbers wanted to see were photos of people who had made a single mistake and wound up as dog meat.

The saying went, There were old climbers.  There were bold climbers.  But there were no old, bold climbers.

A reporter for the Sacramento Bee came into camp, followed by his cameraman.  He looked around to see who might be a good person to interview.  ’How about you, sir? he asked a kid with long scraggly hair and a joint in his mouth.

No way am I goin’ on record, the kid said, sticking his hand out like a mime.  If my parents learn I’m hangin’ here instead of bein’ at school, I’m fucked.

Anyone else care to voice an opinion? the reporter asked, surveying the faces of those present.

You need to talk to Jim Bridger, one of the boys said.  He’s the unofficial voice of Camp Four.

Is this Jim available?

Yeah, another said, pointing to a young man with flowing blonde hair and a Fu Manchu mustache.

The reporter walked over to where Jim and another man were passing points, separating gear and racking equipment.  Would you be willing to go on record, Jim?

Jim set down a quick-draw and looked up.  Depends.

On...?

Whether you leave my quote intact or rephrase it to fit in the little box they give you.

I can assure you that—.

"Sounds like the last girl I was with who said, ‘I had a