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Authors: Jonathan Maberry
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formed small but valuable links in the intelligence chain that was looped through every town and country in the Middle East.
The lead agent was named Dor Ben-Shahar. His mother was a Tel Aviv Israeli; his father was from Brooklyn. Both of them were experienced agents, both second generation Agency operatives, which made Dor a third-generation spy. He treasured his agencylegacy as much as his ethnic and religious heritage. His grandfather had fought in the Six Day War. One of his uncles was at Entebbe. His great-aunt had been part of Operation Wrath of God following the Munich Massacre. There was no one in his family, on either the American or Israeli side, who hadn’t seen active combat. Not one.
Dor Ben-Shahar was different only in that he never wore a uniform,but he’d seen his full share of dirty little actions. He had blood on his hands, and most of it was guilty blood. Bad guys who needed to die. A few drops of blood were from civilians caught in the cross fire. Collateral damage. Unfortunate but unavoidable.
Lately, though, Dor hadn’t had to use his gun or any of the skills he’d learned from the Agency trainers or from his friends here in Israel.He hadn’t touched his gun at all except to clean and oil it. Lately he’d put on three pounds from eating too much falafel and doing too few crunches.
Lately, he had become a babysitter.
Part, in fact, of a team of babysitters.
All for one man.
A little pip-squeak of a guy from New Jersey. An egghead. A scientist.
Doctor Aaron Davidovich.
Dor thought the guy looked like a tailor. Or maybea bookie in a 1960s New York gangster movie. Beard, big nose, thick glasses, delicate hands, bad breath. Not the kind of guy you’d want your sister to marry, unless you didn’t care much for your sister. Dor’s sister, Esther, was in Army Intelligence. He did like her, and her taste in men tended toward Navy SEALs or Delta gunslingers.
Not creepy little guys like Davidovich.
Dor’s job was to protectthe scientist and guarantee that he would be fit, healthy, and whole so he could make his presentation to a joint panel of military strategists from the United States and Israel. All very hush-hush. All tied to a new phase of the drone project. All part of a new level of warfare that would—if Davidovich was as good as his promises—significantly increase the tactical effectiveness of UAVs usedin surgical strikes while decreasing collateral damage among civilians. Bystanders were martyrs waiting to happen, children doubly so. Nobody wanted them killed. Not even the kind of people who didn’t give a cold, wet shit about Muslim children as long as the target was secured. Those ultrahawks weren’t motivated by compassion. Not even a little. Any concessions they made to reducing civilian casualtieswere measured against negative political pressure because political pressure was often tied to defense-budget purse strings.
Dor, though a warrior and son of warriors, was a family man. He considered himself to be a good man. Not really as devout as he might be—his wife had to all but threaten him at gunpoint to get him to synagogue except on the High Holy Days—but he believed that warriors weredefined by their skill, not their body count. If it took a little more work and time to reduce unwanted nonmilitary casualties, then so be it. Otherwise, a warrior became a barbarian. A Philistine. Dor took pride in what he did.
If Davidovich could accomplish both goals—increasing the likelihood of killing high-level targets while decreasing unwanted casualties—then Dor was more than happy todo his part to keep him safe.
Shame the guy was such a drip.
“You want to play cards?” asked Dor.
Davidovich didn’t look up from his laptop. “I’m busy.”
He wasn’t working. Dor could see that easy enough, even without the laptop beeping and booping as the guy battled his way through some old retro arcade game. Ms. Pacman for god’s sake. Guy writes artificial intelligence
The lead agent was named Dor Ben-Shahar. His mother was a Tel Aviv Israeli; his father was from Brooklyn. Both of them were experienced agents, both second generation Agency operatives, which made Dor a third-generation spy. He treasured his agencylegacy as much as his ethnic and religious heritage. His grandfather had fought in the Six Day War. One of his uncles was at Entebbe. His great-aunt had been part of Operation Wrath of God following the Munich Massacre. There was no one in his family, on either the American or Israeli side, who hadn’t seen active combat. Not one.
Dor Ben-Shahar was different only in that he never wore a uniform,but he’d seen his full share of dirty little actions. He had blood on his hands, and most of it was guilty blood. Bad guys who needed to die. A few drops of blood were from civilians caught in the cross fire. Collateral damage. Unfortunate but unavoidable.
Lately, though, Dor hadn’t had to use his gun or any of the skills he’d learned from the Agency trainers or from his friends here in Israel.He hadn’t touched his gun at all except to clean and oil it. Lately he’d put on three pounds from eating too much falafel and doing too few crunches.
Lately, he had become a babysitter.
Part, in fact, of a team of babysitters.
All for one man.
A little pip-squeak of a guy from New Jersey. An egghead. A scientist.
Doctor Aaron Davidovich.
Dor thought the guy looked like a tailor. Or maybea bookie in a 1960s New York gangster movie. Beard, big nose, thick glasses, delicate hands, bad breath. Not the kind of guy you’d want your sister to marry, unless you didn’t care much for your sister. Dor’s sister, Esther, was in Army Intelligence. He did like her, and her taste in men tended toward Navy SEALs or Delta gunslingers.
Not creepy little guys like Davidovich.
Dor’s job was to protectthe scientist and guarantee that he would be fit, healthy, and whole so he could make his presentation to a joint panel of military strategists from the United States and Israel. All very hush-hush. All tied to a new phase of the drone project. All part of a new level of warfare that would—if Davidovich was as good as his promises—significantly increase the tactical effectiveness of UAVs usedin surgical strikes while decreasing collateral damage among civilians. Bystanders were martyrs waiting to happen, children doubly so. Nobody wanted them killed. Not even the kind of people who didn’t give a cold, wet shit about Muslim children as long as the target was secured. Those ultrahawks weren’t motivated by compassion. Not even a little. Any concessions they made to reducing civilian casualtieswere measured against negative political pressure because political pressure was often tied to defense-budget purse strings.
Dor, though a warrior and son of warriors, was a family man. He considered himself to be a good man. Not really as devout as he might be—his wife had to all but threaten him at gunpoint to get him to synagogue except on the High Holy Days—but he believed that warriors weredefined by their skill, not their body count. If it took a little more work and time to reduce unwanted nonmilitary casualties, then so be it. Otherwise, a warrior became a barbarian. A Philistine. Dor took pride in what he did.
If Davidovich could accomplish both goals—increasing the likelihood of killing high-level targets while decreasing unwanted casualties—then Dor was more than happy todo his part to keep him safe.
Shame the guy was such a drip.
“You want to play cards?” asked Dor.
Davidovich didn’t look up from his laptop. “I’m busy.”
He wasn’t working. Dor could see that easy enough, even without the laptop beeping and booping as the guy battled his way through some old retro arcade game. Ms. Pacman for god’s sake. Guy writes artificial intelligence
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