Lethal Trajectories (43 page)

“This is true, but how do we provoke them without actually launching an attack?” asked General Ali Jabar.

“Through the back door, General,” Mustafa replied. “It is now urgent that we smuggle our dirty bombs into Israel and take out Haifa or some other noteworthy target. How do you think Israel would react to such an action? Would they not react as they always do—by attacking?”

“They might indeed attack, King Mustafa,” said Bawarzi, “but with our armored brigades already so heavily committed elsewhere, we may not be able to fend off an Israeli attack.”

“My guess is the Americans won’t allow Israel to launch a meaningful counterattack for fear we’ll set off the dirty bombs and contaminate our own oil fields. All it would take is an Israeli air attack or some other minor act of aggression on their part, and our Arab brothers would rally to our cause. Unlike an overt military assault by our forces, the dirty bombs are invisible. While the Mossad would know the origins of the bombs, our Arab brothers would see nothing but an unprovoked attack on an Arab brother nation by Israel.”

“General Ali Jabar,” Mustafa asked, “As head of our nuclear program, can you have two dirty bombs ready for detonation in Israel within a week? Can I count on you to have more available later?”

“Yes, King Mustafa, you can rely on me to provide the bombs you will need.”

“Thank you, General. I knew I could count on you. Now, we have a more immediate problem on our hands. Prince Hahad,” Mustafa said, glaring at the prince, “I’m not happy to see that your hit teams have failed again to take out Khalid.”

“Nor am I, King Mustafa,” Hahad responded defensively, “we wounded him, and a number of his security forces paid the ultimate price to protect him, but he got away. It’s only a matter of time before …”

“See that you don’t miss next time,” Mustafa said sharply, cutting off Hahad in mid-sentence.

“Mullah al-Hazari, how are our purification efforts coming along?”

“Quite well, King Mustafa. The renewed enforcement of shari’a law has finally registered with the people, and we’re noticing marked improvements in their behavior.”

“Well done, my faithful friend,” said Mustafa with genuine affection. But all softness fell away as he continued. “My brothers, we are now ready to move into the next phase. Within forty-eight hours I expect our protectorate arrangement with Kuwait, Qatar, and the UAE will be established. I also want at least two dirty bombs detonated on Israeli territory within the week. Destiny is in our hands. Take it, my brothers!”

The sight and sound of two F-15 fighter bombers making a low-level pass over headquarters momentarily preempted the troubles nagging at General Ali Jabar. With their passing, however, his thoughts returned to his problem.
How could I have been so stupid as to promise King Mustafa a supply of dirty bombs I do not have? I have enough radioactive material for the two Israeli-bound bombs, but that’s it.

A knock on the door interrupted his anxious deliberations. “Enter!” he commanded, knowing it would be Major General Aabid ibn Al Mishari, one of his most able officers. Al Mishari stepped through the door and saluted, but the general ignored him for a moment to avoid appearing overeager to see him.

Finally, he said, irritably, “Sit down, and I will tell you why I’ve ordered you to be here.” He poured himself a drink of cold water, but offered none to his subordinate.

“Yesterday I had an important meeting with King Mustafa,” Ali Jabar continued, reveling in his close connection with the king, “and there is a matter we must discuss.”

Al Mishari nodded but said nothing.

“As you know, I am privy to this kingdom’s every secret. The king has entrusted to me control of our nuclear program, including our dirty bombs, and I alone make all the critical decisions in this area. Unfortunately, I am sometimes challenged to meet all the requests made of me. I will, for instance, need two dirty bombs for detonation in Israel next week. I can handle that, but it will be a challenge to make more dirty bombs after that. This is where you come in, Al Mishari.”

Pulling a map out of his drawer, he said, “Look at this, Al Mishari. This top secret map contains the locations of all of our emplaced dirty bombs, as well as their detonation codes and frequencies. You are one of only four people in the kingdom to see this entire map.” Confident that Al Mishari was suitably impressed, he launched into a lengthy dissertation on Saudi Arabia’s classified nuclear program. He was proud of the program’s success and allowed himself to ramble, even though something in the back of his head suggested that Al Mishari did not, perhaps, have a demonstrable
need to know.
But he needed someone loyal, and surely he could trust Al Mishari to back him up … and take the fall if necessary.

“This is what I want you to do, Al Mishari. You will make a tour of all dirty-bomb emplacements, with my authorization, under the auspices of inspecting them. I want you to determine whether or not we can borrow radioactive material from some of those sites to build the new bombs we’ll undoubtedly need to make. You will then report back to me, but no one must know about this. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir! I will depart as soon as possible.”

Al Mishari’s complicity secure, he abruptly dismissed the man with a promise to supply an itinerary.

Al Mishari left his commander’s office in a funk. As a patriotic military officer who deeply admired King Mustafa’s leadership—though he found the so-called cleansing operations troubling—he was concerned. Ali Jabar had just committed a major security breach by sharing confidential information far in excess of anything Al Mishari needed to know for his clandestine mission. Worse, Ali Jabar’s deceptive plan could be a detriment to the well-being of Saudi Arabia’s dirty-bomb defenses, odious as they were.

Ali Jabar is a megalomaniac and a threat to the regime,
Al Mishari concluded in the secrecy of his own thoughts.
But what can I do about it?
As four F-15s passed over the base, Al Mishari, an accomplished pilot, knew what he had to do. He would take his F-15 up to the stratosphere where he often did his best thinking.

B
y two in the afternoon, Clayton had attended to most of the non-Safe Harbors work that he had let slide over the last few days. He was eager now to get back to the grand plan and hurriedly assembled the information he needed for the two thirty Situation Room meeting. With files in hand, he headed down to meet with his team.

“Thank you, my friends, please be seated,” Clayton said, still uncomfortable with the deference shown him as their commander in chief. “A great deal has happened since my speech a week ago, and I’d like an update on where we are today. Tony, let’s start with the CIA.”

“It’s been a busy week, Mr. President. With regard to the Saudi crisis, there have now been two attempts on Prince Khalid’s life. The first attempt nearly succeeded and did, in fact, superficially wound Khalid; thankfully the second, which happened just yesterday, was an ill-conceived failure. Our sense is that Mustafa’s regime is getting desperate to take him out.”

“Excuse me, Tony,” said Jack McCarty. “I’ve got an update on that. I received a call from Prince Khalid less than an hour ago seeking asylum in the United States. Apparently the last attempt made a believer out of him. I said we’d be happy to have him, and he’ll be calling back soon to make arrangements.”

The room was abuzz with this news, and the discussion digressed briefly into the logistics of asylum before reverting back to Tony.

“Israel has become an armed camp,” Mullen continued. “The insurrections in Gaza and the West Bank seem to be subsiding, and the Israelis have launched heavy airstrikes against Hezbollah positions in Lebanon. Our intelligence indicates Israel has dusted off its nuclear arsenal; it wouldn’t take much to set it off.

“My counterpart in the Mossad, Meir Kahib, told me they had uncovered a terrorist plot to implant a dirty bomb in Haifa. It was a masterful undercover job by the Mossad. They not only nabbed the ringleaders, they also recovered the dirty bomb. Their lab boys are analyzing the bomb and hope to get some sense of its radioactive half-life. Mustafa has claimed his dirty bombs would render a contaminated site uninhabitable for decades, which seems unlikely, but we’ll know the answer once we determine the type of radioactive substances contained in the bomb. The bad news is they have reason to believe another dirty bomb has been smuggled into Israel, and they are taking draconian steps to uncover it.

“On the Saudi front,” Mullen continued, “a number of high-level meetings have taken place between Mustafa and leaders of Kuwait, Qatar, and the UAE. Our guess is Mustafa’s putting heat on them to continue their partial embargo of oil, now estimated at more than half of their normal exports. We’ve also learned he might try to coerce them into a protectorate arrangement whereby these Gulf countries ‘request’ that the Saudis send in forces to bolster their security.” Mullen finished his report with estimates of oil inventories, consumption levels, and petroleum reserves for several major nations.

“Peter,” asked the president, turning to Peter Canton, “what’s the latest on our domestic rationing and oil situation?”

“De-facto rationing, though unfortunate, is underway, Mr. President. With pump prices averaging over ten bucks a gallon, poorer people have been rationed out economically. People are panicking. They’re topping off their tanks whenever they can find gas. As a result, spot shortages are occurring everywhere, reinforcing their fears of shortage. Paradoxically, when we start releasing reserves from our strategic petroleum reserve on Wednesday, we’ll have almost as much oil in the system as we did before the Saudi embargo.”

Rationing was a topic they loved to hate. The ensuing discussion on the mechanics of gas rationing and its impact on the financial markets was heated.

“Elizabeth, what’s the latest at state?” Clayton asked, making a note to visit her later to talk about the flack she was getting from Collingsworth on her VP nomination.
We’ve got to stifle that little worm,
he thought.

“Our allies are most supportive of our stand against the Saudis, Mr. President, and particularly pleased that China has joined our coalition. They’re still wrestling with the mechanics and impacts of global oil rationing, but everyone has signed on, at least in principle.

“It’s a different story with the third-world countries. They almost universally feel that they’ll get rationed out of their share of oil. In addition, the massive crop failures that have plagued them over the past three years will be severely aggravated by energy shortages and the cost of energy. We can expect them to petition America for an increasing amount of assistance. They see oil rationing as the typical zero-sum game, where they get the zero while others get the oil.”

One more thing that needs to be dealt with fast,
Clayton thought as he turned to Secretary Thompson. “Thurmond, what’s the latest at the DOD?”

“The American military is now on a DEFCON 2 alert, Mr. President,” Thompson replied, scrambling for his notes, “and massive deployments to the Middle East have begun. We’ve identified National Guard and reserve units to be called up and will have our completed requests on your desk for approval by Wednesday. We’ve instituted oil rationing within the armed forces to get the biggest bang for the buck, but the military will soon call on the strategic petroleum reserve to fuel major operations now underway. We are also working with China on joint military plans and exercises, and our top officers have been pleased with the progress thus far.”

Following a lengthy discussion on troop call-ups and deployments, Clayton decided to close the meeting.

“Thanks much for your excellent work, folks. I had a chance to watch most of you on the Sunday news-show circuit, reinforcing our Safe Harbors strategy, and I want to congratulate you on a first-rate job. I think you drove home our message that this would be a long crisis requiring a monumental effort, but you also pronounced that there is hope at the end if we all work together. At least that’s what I heard.

“I also talked to other world leaders, including China and Israel, and our new coalition seems to be gaining traction. Domestically, the verdict’s not in, but congressional leaders have advised me their members will at least be cautiously supportive until they get a better read on voter temperament. The hard-line faction in the Senate, led by Senator Tom Collingsworth, is already aggressively opposing our plan, and I’m sure that Tommy Boy will be working with his buddy, Wellington Crane. We’ll see.”

On the walk back to the Oval Office with Jack, Clayton said, “You know, I can see a few glimmers of hope in the way things are starting to shape up. I think there’s a better-than-even chance the American people will rally around rationing and the things we’re trying to accomplish to weather the storm.” Jack nodded.

Of course, Tom Collingsworth and Wellington Crane had an entirely different interpretation, and they were already taking aggressive steps to prove the president wrong.

W
ellington Crane’s chickenhearted neighbors had all but evacuated Myrtle Beach as Hurricane Matilda approached its shores. Wellington had other hurricanes on his mind—such as the one he was about to unleash on the McCarty administration. His guts were churning over the “McCarty Manifesto,” his new pet name for McCarty’s communist-like plan for the nation.

With hurricane alarms blaring in the background, he sat in his den and reflected on the call-to-arms videoconference call he had held with Senator Tom Collingsworth and Hugo Bromfield last week. He smiled as he recalled the cacophony of invectives hurled at McCarty by the good senator.

“It’s hogwash, Wellington,” Collingsworth had frothed. “The American people will never buy the crap McCarty’s trying to cram down our throats, never. I’ll do everything in my power to oppose him and his bumbling administration, and he can consider his Cartright VP nomination DOA. Are you with me on this, Wellington?” shouted the apoplectic senator.