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victory’. Good advice about ‘good advice’ , Zach thought.
    The man spoke as if reading from a script: ‘Zachariah Shomron, you are aware that national military service is mandatory for all Jewish men and women. You have the thanks of the State of Israel for completing your assigned service. Though you elected to resume a normal working life, you remain an inactive reservist until you are forty years of age. At the discretion of the State of Israel, in the event of war or extreme national risk you may be reactivated.’ He paused and stared into Zach’s eyes. ‘That risk now exists and you have been reactivated. Sir, your instructions are all in the letter.’
    Zach looked quickly at the envelope and furrowed his brow. ‘What? I’ve been reactivated? No, I can’t fight –’
    The man cut him off. ‘Your assistant will meet you at the airport. Elokim Yerachem Eretz Yisrael .’ He saluted and turned to leave.
    ‘Er, yes,’ Zach replied, confused by why the man should salute him. ‘God bless Israel . . . Wait, wait – I have an assistant?’
    ‘It’s all in the letter, sir.’
    Zach stood with his mouth open, watching the man disappear down the corridor. Why now? he thought, then, oh God, no , as he remembered the short article he’d written years ago for the university newspaper complaining about the restrictions Israel placed on Palestinian scientists. He’d known at the time it was going too far, but hadn’t expected anyone important to read a university publication. Seems he’d been wrong. Mossad , he thought, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. And an assistant . . .
    Major Hammerson pushed his chair back and walked towards the large windows. He stood at ease with his hands clasped behind his back and watched Captain Alex Hunter walk across the clipped grass of the parade grounds. Hammerson had just spent an hour with his HAWC team leader, primarily bringing him up to speed on the new Middle Eastern project. His brief to Alex was simple: negate Iran’s ability to organise and deliver a nuclear weapon of mass destruction. He had explained to Alex about the size of the gamma pulse and its unnatural characteristics. It meant the Iranians had either developed an enormous nuclear capability, or something else just as lethal. Either way, America had to act.
    After the briefing, Alex had asked again about his test results; he always did after one of his medical visits. Hammerson hated having to be evasive or deceive him, but he had his orders. Regardless, he didn’t think Alex was ready to hear all the information on his condition just yet. And Hammerson was damn sure he wasn’t ready to give it.
    Alex Hunter was probably the closest thing Hammerson had to a son. Truth was, he was proud of him. In effect, Hammerson had been responsible for his very creation, bringing him back to the US after the accident and handing him over to the medical men. Afterwards, Hammerson had taken the young man under his wing and moulded him into the soldier he was now. And shielded him, sometimes from his own military command.
    Unfortunately for Alex, his lethal skills combined with his amazing new capabilities meant he had become something more than just another elite soldier. A subject that exceeded expectations , the scientists had said. There were some who didn’t want just one Alex Hunter in the elite forces; they wanted 10,000 of them.
    While Alex succeeded in missions that others couldn’t even contemplate, he was a high-value asset. But the first time he failed, the first time he stayed down or didn’t regain consciousness, then he would be wheeled into one of the military’s covert science labs and probably never return. Hammerson wondered how many months or years Alex had until that happened.
    ‘Sometimes I can feel myself changing – and it doesn’t feel good, Jack,’ Alex had said during the briefing. All Hammerson could offer was some slick response about such change being fairly normal, just the