Washington D.C.
The cafe was desolate aside from the only employee present, a teenage female hipster who was busy cleaning the display case for the shop's assorted pastries. Gerald Gordon was an island at the center of the cafe's patio, utilizing a second chair to house his wingtip-clad feet, which sat opposite from the chair in which he sat. On the table before him sat a small cup of heavily-sweetened black coffee, a half-eaten blueberry muffin, and a larger-than-average laptop. The laptop's screensaver was the CIA seal which blinked into visibility every few seconds. Gordon was waiting for someone, and he sipped away at his coffee as he waited.
It would be only a few minutes before the patio's glass door would swing open to reveal Senator Carl Weathers. His hair a freshly-dyed sandy-blond, and his suit custom-tailored to his nearly-obese physique. Gordon smiled as the senator approached the table he had selected, "Carl, good to see you," the men would shake hands firmly as the Senator pulled out a chair for himself before sitting, "I apologize for the environment of our meeting, but I felt it'd be best to see you in private in a place without wandering ears." Gordon reached for the laptop's left side to retrieve a flash drive from one of the computer's many USB ports. "On this stick is a detailed intelligence report that I have obtained from two insiders I have in the Iranian government," Gordon leaned forward to slide the memory stick across the table to his superior, "I'm going to cut through the bullshit and get to the point, Carl. We are in trouble. The Iranians are no longer playing the proxy war game with us in the Middle East. They want big numbers, and they want those numbers to be written in American blood."
Senator Weathers kept his concern hidden, but could not contain his curiosity, "Are we looking at a dirty bomb situation?"
Gordon was more than happy to oblige his superior's curiosity, "We are looking at a serious biological threat. Make no mistake, Carl, this threat is imminent." The Senator let his curiosity get the best of him once again, "How imminent?"
Again, Gordon showed no hesitation in his response, "Two, maybe three weeks. The perpetrators will not be Iranian nationals. This threat is completely home-grown. We do, however, have financial proof that this attack is directly-funded by Iranian government officials. I have a team working on cracking the monetary transfer, but as you know, getting any sort of information out of the Swiss banking system is a gigantic pain in the ass."
Senator Weathers pushed another inquiry, "How do we know that these Swiss accounts lead to anything significant if we don't know where the money is going?"
Gordon was swift with his defense, "We do know where it's going, but at the same time, we don't know exactly where it is being transferred. My assets are two high-ranking members of the Iranian government, Senator, they're solid. Every piece of information in my report is solid. This is happening, Carl. Ignoring the situation will only set us up for another potential nine-eleven."
Gordon's experience as well as reputation were virtually spotless, and it was because of these reasons that the Senator had no problem putting his trust in the man, "How do we fix this?"
Gordon shook his head with his reply, "We don't. Not until my people find out where the money is going, first. The best we can hope for is a containment option, after-the-fact. My report details a potential operation, but I have to warn you, it's going to require you to back me one-hundred percent."
"Always, Gerry," the senator replied, "but why? What's the play?"
Gordon slid a his pointer-finger across the touchpad of the laptop in order to disengage the screensaver before turning the laptop at an adequate angle for the Senator's viewing convenience, "The play is Operation: Red Storm, and it is going to be the largest homeland military movement since World War Two, and we have less than two weeks to have it mobile."
The Senator scanned over the screen in front of him, which detailed the outline of the operation, before leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest, "This is bad, Gerry. Really bad."
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