Coop’s face fell. “You don’t have to do that, Jerse.”
“No problem,” she said. “Glad to help out.”
Two
Abdullah El Farrar’s eyes blazed with fury as he glared at the sweating young man in front of him. “You have endangered our holy mission with your reckless disregard of the Prophet’s admonition against drinking spirits,” he said as he paced around the small room. Whirling suddenly, he backhanded the man, knocking him to the ground. Farrar straddled him and ground the point of a stiletto against his throat. “Can you give me one good reason not to cut out your throat and feed it to the jackals?”
With some difficulty the man rasped, “It will not happen again . . . I promise.”
The others in the room watched intently, afraid to avert their eyes and draw Farrar’s murderous attention to them. The man cringed, sweat running from his face, as Farrar slipped the point of the stiletto under his shirt. With an abrupt motion he sliced the shirt open, causing the man to cry out in fear. Farrar gently stroked the razor-sharp stiletto against his chest, leaving a thin line dripping blood.
“I shall spare your life but leave you with this mark of shame, lest you forget and again partake of the infidels’ poison. Now get out of my sight before I decide to cut out your tongue which the alcohol loosens!”
The man scrambled to his feet, his face flaming in embarrassment, and fled from the room. As the others also began to file out, Farrar said, “Mustafa, remain. We need to talk.”
Mustafa Kareem, his second in command, inclined his head in obedience and remained seated. Farrar poured them both fruit juice over ice, then shook his head in resignation. “If we didn’t need every man, I would have gutted that camel dung and been done with him.”
“You did right, my brother. All of the men have begun to be infected with the infidels’ ways. The lesson was sorely needed and adroitly applied.” Kareem inclined his head in admiration. “They will all think twice before causing the mission danger in the future.”
“We need action, Mustafa. The men grow soft with the waiting.” Farrar picked up a newspaper and waved it in the air. “I think this will give the men something to do to alleviate their boredom.” Throwing the paper down on the table, he spat on it. The headline read: PRESIDENT CLAIRE OSTERMAN TO APPEAR AT SOCIALIST/DEMOCRATIC FUND-RAISER.
Kareem tilted his head to read the story. “I agree, but there will be much security around such an important gathering. We will need to plan carefully if we are to succeed.”
“You’re right as usual.” Farrar took his stiletto from the table and wiped the blood from the tip with the newspaper, then slipped it into a scabbard behind his neck. “From now on, the men are not to leave the house. Pick up some women and young boys and bring them to the house for the gratification of the men. After a few days, dispose of them in ways which will not implicate us. By then, I will have planned our strike and the need for caution will be over. Our followers in the motherland have been most generous with funds to help us bring the infidels to their knees . . . I would hate to disappoint them.”
As Mustafa left to carry out his orders, Farrar turned to the case of AK-47 assault rifles in the corner and began cleaning and inspecting each one. He spoke softly to himself. “Yes, Allah, we badly need to strike back at the infidels to regain our respect among our brothers in the Middle East, and I need to do this to avenge my family.”
Known only as the Desert Fox to the United Nations intelligence service, Farrar had been number one on their “hit list” for the past seven years. Three agents had been killed trying to assassinate him, and he currently carried the “kill on sight” designation for intelligence agencies in four countries. Although aware of this, Farrar didn’t dwell on it since he was a true believer in the rightness of his cause and of the Prophet’s personal protection for him and his people.
Unknown to the intelligence forces of the United Nations, he and a handpicked band of assassins had made their way to the United States of America for the express purpose of assassinating Claire Osterman and softening up the country for its eventual takeover by his forces.
His band of terrorists were hiding out in a poor section of Indianapolis, preparing for the first strike against the United States, knowing it had been terribly weakened by its unsuccessful war against the SUSA of the previous year. If this attack were to go well, Farrar knew he would have little trouble attracting men of influence to back him and his cause.
Claire Osterman glanced up and smiled at her bodyguard, Herb Knoff, as he handed her a cup of coffee in her office. She was surrounded by her team of advisors, which she called her “cabinet.”
Harlan Millard, ostensibly Claire’s second in command, sat across the room, nervously biting on a thumbnail as he watched Claire with an expression much like a canary watching a cat.
General Maxwell Goddard, who’d recently assumed command of the United States’ Armed Forces after General Bradley Stevens, Jr., had failed in the last war against the SUSA and Ben Raines, rolled a thick, black cigar around in his mouth, not daring to light it in Claire’s presence. He was tall and thin, and not averse to speaking his mind when he thought Claire was going to do something stupid, but he was generally slow to speak and weighed his words carefully, like a skinflint whose every utterance cost him money.
Wallace W. Cox, her Minister of Finance, sat peering at her through glasses as thick as Coke-bottle bottoms, nibbling at the ends of his scraggly mustache, wondering if she were going to blame him for the sorry state of the country’s treasury as she usually did.
Gerald Boykin, her Ministry of Defense and liaison with the U.N., looked bored. The meeting had been called to discuss the upcoming presidential election, and he thought it would have little to do with him. He covered a wide yawn with the back of his hand, and tried desperately to keep his eyelids from drooping as he semi-dozed on the couch.
Clifford Ainsworth, her Minister of Propaganda, sat in a corner in a wrinkled seersucker suit, holes dotting the front of it from cigarette ashes. When he thought no one was looking, he poured dark, amber liquid from a silver flask into his coffee. His head was splitting from a long night at a bar and he needed a bit of the hair of the dog.
“Now,” Claire said brightly after sampling her coffee, “does anyone have any great ideas for propaganda for the upcoming election?”
Harlan Millard shook his head. “I just don’t know why you’re so worried, Claire,” he said in his typical whining tone of voice. “After all, we control the voting booths and the counting computers and the press. Anyone who dares to run against you won’t have a chance of winning.”
Claire’s smile faded a bit and her eyes grew hard. “That’s not necessarily true, Harlan,” she said, her voice hard. “There is talk the United Nations has been asked to intervene in our election.” She cut her eyes to Gerald Boykin, who suddenly began to sweat a bit. “If that’s true, and Gerry over there can’t block it, we may find it harder to steal votes as we did in the last two elections.”
General Goddard cleared his throat and took the cigar out of his mouth.
“Yes, Max?” Claire asked. “You have something you want to add?”
“I wouldn’t worry overly much about the U.N., Madam President,” he growled in a deep voice.
“Why is that, General?”
He shrugged. “The U.N. can decree and fuss all it wants to, but the simple fact is they haven’t the troops to back up any orders they give.”
“That’s true, Max dear, but if they think I stole the election, they could simply not recognize my government. Though it wouldn’t be fatal to us, it would severely hamper us in any efforts to trade with other countries.”
“Not to mention the havoc it would cause if they cut our allowance of foreign oil and gasoline,” Cox said. “At current levels of usage, there wouldn’t be an automobile running in two weeks.”
Claire spread her hands. “There, you see? We’re all in agreement that we must put the best face possible on
this upcoming election, just to avoid any messy complications with the U.N.”
She stood up and leaned on her desk. “Now, do any of you have any suggestions for the speech I’m going to give next week at the fund-raiser?”
Harlan Millard shook his head, his face a mask of worry. “I don’t think it wise for you to speak in public yet, Claire.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too soon after our defeat at the hands of Ben Raines,” he said. “There are still a lot of people who blame you for getting us into a war that caused such hardship and misery.”
Claire’s eyes flashed. “Are you saying it was my fault we lost?”
“No, no, of course not, Claire,” Harlan stammered. “But with so many of our citizens dying from the plague our allies released on the SUSA, there are some people who are not thinking correctly who are bound to blame you.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped it across his face. “I just don’t want you to take any chances, that’s all.”
General Goddard nodded. “I agree with Harlan, Claire. Emotions are still running high out in the country. Perhaps it would be better if the Army took over security for your dinner speech.”
Herb Knoff, who besides being Claire’s bodyguard and part-time lover, oversaw the security provided by the Secret Service agents assigned to protect Claire’s life, bristled.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, General,” he said coldly. “My men are perfectly capable of providing for the president’s security during her speech.”
The general gave a tiny smile, as if he doubted that very much, but he nodded. “All right, Herb, but don’t forget I offered our help.”
“Oh, I won’t forget, Max,” Herb said scornfully, “you can bet on that.”
“Now, gentlemen,” Claire said, “let’s don’t argue. The important thing is for us to get the right message across to the voters.”
“I think you ought to go with the usual,” Gerald Boykin said. “Put the blame for everything on Ben Raines and those SUSA assholes.”
“But Claire,” Harlan argued, “we can’t do that. Raines and his medical people are the ones who developed the vaccine and his medical teams are over here working as hard as they can to save United States citizens’ lives.”
Claire pursed her lips. “For once, you are probably right, Harlan. I think it wise to hold off on attacking Raines, at least until his doctors and nurses have finished their work here.”
“There’s always the U.N.,” General Goddard said slowly.
“The U.N.?” Claire asked.
“Sure. How about trying to lay the blame on them for not keeping a closer eye on Bottger and Perro Loco? After all, you can argue, if the U.N. had prevented them from building up their forces in the first place, there never would have been a war.”
“That’s a brilliant idea, Max,” Claire said.
“And the added benefit,” Boykin said, suddenly coming awake, “is if we stir the people up against the U.N., the U.N. will be less likely to intervene in our election.”
“And even if they do, no one will listen to what they say,” Claire added, rubbing her hands together, a broad smile on her face.
She turned her gaze to Ainsworth, her smile fading. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed and his forehead wrinkled in pain.
“Are you all right, Cliff?” she asked, though there was no real warmth in her voice.
“Got a bitch of a headache, Claire,” he answered shortly.
“I just wondered,” she said, “since you haven’t bothered to join in our discussion.”
Ainsworth opened one eye. “I’ll print whatever you tell me to, as usual, Claire. Just don’t expect me to come up with all the lies on my own.”
Claire gritted her teeth. Ainsworth was a drunk and an insubordinate son of a bitch, but he could write news stories that could make a cynic cry. As such, he was much too valuable to her to let him get under her skin.
“Well, try to pay attention, Cliff. We have some ideas for you to pursue in tomorrow’s editorials and news stories.”
He nodded, then winced as the pain shot through his temples like a hot ice pick.
“I heard. You want me to do a hatchet job on the United Nations . . . blame everything from the plague to high taxes on their incompetence.”
“That about sums it up,” Claire said.
Three
Mike Post had his driver slow the HumVee he was riding in as it pulled alongside Ben Raines, who was jogging slowly down the street with Jodie, his malamute dog, by his side.
“Hey, Ben,” Mike called out of the passenger-side window. “You want to pull over? I’ve got some new intel I need to discuss with you.”
Ben grinned and shook his head. “Naw, but I’ll slow down until you can climb out and join me.”
Mike sighed. Ben’s penchant for pushing himself ever harder since his fortieth birthday was well known. Ben was determined to fight old age every step of the way. Word had it he was succeeding remarkably well, being able to outperform most of his troops who were less than half his age.
Mike nodded at his briefcase on the seat next to him. “Please see that my case gets back to my office, and notify the medical corps if I’m not back in half an hour. They may need to send an ambulance,” he said to the driver.
“You want some advice?” the young man drawled in the thick accent of a Texan.
“Sure,” Mike said as he pulled the door open.
“Don’t try to keep up with the general,” the sergeant said, grinning lopsidedly. “Just go at your own pace and look like you’re in pain. Maybe he’ll have mercy on you and slow down.”
“Thanks,” Mike said sarcastically as he jumped down to the pavement.
Ben was jogging in place, until Mike got next to him; then he started down the street again, not waiting to see if Mike was coming.
Jodie, impatient to run full out, bounded ahead with a joyful bark, diverting off the street briefly to scare the living daylights out of a nearby squirrel.
“What’s so important you risk breaking into a sweat to tell me?” Ben asked, breathing easily though his fatigues were damp with sweat.
“Things are getting worse in the USA,” Mike said between puffs. “There’s widespread starvation among the more rural population, the government has no money for even the most basic essential services, and there are shortages of almost everything throughout the country.”
Ben gave a short laugh. “Hah. When will the eggheads who advocate socialistic types of government ever admit it just doesn’t work? People, especially Americans, just won’t put up with giving all their hard-earned money to others who refuse to work out of pure laziness.”
Mike nodded, his breath beginning to come harder now. “That’s not all,” he gasped.
Ben glanced to the side, grinned, and slowed his pace to not much more than a fast walk.
“I think I’ll issue orders that senior officers start attending physical-training exercises again,” Ben said. “I can see that my staff is getting seriously out of shape.”
Mike rolled his eyes, but the pain in his side prevented him from answering.
“Well, what else did you have?” Ben asked.
“We have information that a band of terrorists has crossed into the U.S. from Canada.”
“Do we know who?”
“Remember what I said about the situation in Iraq the other day?”
“Yeah.”
“It seems this Abdullah El Farrar has decided to attempt a takeover of the USA as his first big target. I have it on good authority he intends to assassinate Claire Osterman and then try to move in during the resultant chaos.”
Ben slowed to a walk, his eyes narrowed. “The man must be insane. From what you say, he has no real army, just a ragtag bunch of misfits and extremists who are pissed off at the world.”
“Maybe he’s not as crazy as we think,” Mike said, bending over and putting his hands on his knees and taking deep breaths.
�
�How so?” Ben asked.
“I have further information that the Armies of both Iraq and Iran haven’t been paid for several months now. There is talk that Farrar is using some of his family’s old oil money they had stashed in Switzerland to bribe the Armies’ higher officers to break allegiance with Iraq and Iran and come under his command.”
“Are you talking about a coup?”
Mike nodded. “If that happens, and Farrar can manage to get the religious leaders to endorse his regime, he’ll be the de facto new leader of two of the most extreme countries in the Middle East, Iran and Iraq.”
Ben stroked his chin. “And he’ll have some control over a third of the world’s oil fields.”
“Not something to look forward to, is it?”
“What do you recommend we do about it?”
“First, I’d send a team of antiterrorists into the USA to give Claire some help. If he can be stopped there, the Army officers back home won’t be too anxious to let him take over their Armies, no matter how much money he has.”
Ben pursed his lips. “Claire won’t be eager to accept our help. She’ll think we’re trying to take her government over.”
“Well,” Mike said, straightening up and breathing more normally now, “you asked what I recommended, and that’s it. How you do it is up to you.”
“Perhaps we could send our team in disguised as medical personnel, using the plague treatments as a cover for their being in the country.”
“Are you going to tell Claire what we’ve uncovered as far as the terrorists coming after her?” Mike asked.
Ben nodded. “Yes. Like you say, better the devil you know than one you don’t. I kinda like having Claire president of the U.S. I know what to expect. If she were to be killed or otherwise ousted from power, there’s no telling who would take her place.”
“And then we’d have to worry about the domino effect her assassination would have on the situation back in Iran and Iraq,” Mike added.
Destiny in the Ashes Page 2