Tehran Decree

by James Scorpio

  Chester threw his hands in the sir and conceded it was better than a lot of winging vets and sympathetic do-gooders clamoring for tabloid headlines after the event.

  ‘All right, providing they don’t get too close to the police cordon, or the Secret Service officers.’

  ‘There’s no way they could do that sir, the barriers there are at least three metres high and quite a distance from the highway. The motorcade would pass without even seeing them...they would be left out in the cold.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting we move the barriers for a few disgruntled veterans are you inspector -- we’re not in the business of promoting minority groups -- our job is security...i.e. protection of the US president’

  ‘They’re hardly a minority group sir, there are many thousands of our own veterans as well as many others from overseas countries. They do have a significant political clout and media representation. Any denying of their representation might be seen as heavy handed police tactics. It could be blown out of all proportion by the Veterans Organisation.’

  ‘That may well be inspector, but we can’t just let them take over.’

  ‘Well I thought we might remove just one barrier sir at the airport exit road and then place a few police officers around them...sort of fence them in with a human chain instead.’

  ‘All right...do it, but it’s against my better judgment, and as soon as the motorcade passes close it up again.’

  ‘Understood sir,’ Chester pressed the end-call button on his mobile and mouthed a few chosen words to himself.

  ‘Bloody vets, always after something, you’d think we owed them the ruddy world,’ Chester hadn’t spent three decades in the police force without learning something about the public at large. He had spent most of that time putting members of the public right and heading off problems created by misinformed, egotistical politicians.

  When things went wrong it was nearly always some inconsiderate rat bag trying to get their own way.

  Chapter Twenty

  Kazeni parked his BMW near Rushcutters Bay and strolled to the small unpretentious park surrounding the Bay’s waterline. He had often went down to the area in earlier days and enjoyed the company of fellow joggers. His favourite stint was to jog up the steep, stone steps, at the west side of the park, which lead up to Potts Point and Kings Cross until it tired him out, then relax completely on his back in the soft grass. There were several grand houses and apartments along the way, and an intimate view of the harbour with its row upon row of top class racing yachts, which added to the exciting aura he felt every time he visited the place. The small nautical enclave was home to many craft who were not only contenders, but winners and runners up, in the world renowned Sydney to Hobart yacht race.

  It was special, and he would sit for hours on a summers day taking in the prestigious surrounds, and pretend he was a tycoon lounging in his own back yard. Whenever he wanted to think or dream away his worries, this was his ultimate little paradise, it had all the ingredients in the correct proportions.

  There were a number of iconic places in the Sydney environs, all of them memorable and enigmatic in some special way, but for him Rushcutters Bay Park held the trump card. It was a little park by any standards, a patch of green graced with some of the worlds best racing yachts as a backdrop. It was a direct front to Sydney harbour and a buffer to several contrasting suburbs. To the north west was the notorious Kings Cross and Darlinghurst, with the eastern aspect being dominated by the well heeled suburb of Double Bay. But the US president wouldn’t be visiting any of these areas. It was nice to dream and revel in these fascinating suburbs, but cold reality now dictated that he immerse himself in less prestigious places.

  He had decided that he would traverse the presidential motorcade route until he had a workable plan -- checking out each feature of the surroundings, and delving into the flaws of the US security schedule. Nothing was perfect and the best security arrangements in the world always had weaknesses -- these would be ruthlessly exploited.

  It didn’t matter how long the US secret service spent checking the layout of the suburbs, they would still lack the subtleties of the street wise individual, who actually lived in the city, and knew the peculiarities of Sydney milieu.

  Most important of all was the terrorists escape route which had to stretch all the way from the Sydney suburbs to the Iranian capital of Iran -- daunting though it seemed, they had a trump card on their side -- it would be the life of the president of the United States. He would see them through or they would all die in the attempt.

  Kazeni took one last look around Rushcutters Bay Park and uncovered his lap top on the passenger seat.

  He smiled appreciatively as the computer booted up and went automatically into fast Internet broad band. Surfing the private aircraft charter listings he picking out three fast helicopter machines, which seemed suitable for a fast trip across the country to Darwin. Then checked the private Lear jet companies for a long range aircraft suitable for a small group of people.

  He went over the specifications of each aircraft keying in weights, and passenger numbers in relation to fuel capacity, placing the figures in the computer’s calculator. Then he estimated speeds and distances covered with possible fuel stops. He crunched the numbers in his head several times making absolutely sure they were accurate and reliable, even though the computer supposedly supplied accurate data; from past experience he knew that the computer was only as good as the operator and wasn’t always totally reliable.

  One thing he liked to do was organise and improvise on the spot; it was a very necessary skill for a successful terrorist. Thinking on ones feet would commence from the word go and continue until the mission was well and truly over.

  Tentatively he made two bookings, one for a Lear jet, and the other for a helicopter. In the back pages of his diary he also penciled in two other companies which supplied similar aircraft -- these he would access if the current firm failed him for some unforeseen reasons. Back-ups were essential and well illustrated by the Iranian hostage situation fiasco code named Eagle Claw. The operation resulted in eight American deaths and total humiliation on the world stage. This was largely due to equipment failure, inclement weather and most important of all, lack of efficient back-up. Had a second independent stand by team been available the operation could well have been a great success for the US. Kazeni was determined to learn not only from their own mistakes, but those of the enemy as well.

  He had considered tendering the companies between each other for the best offers, but eventually discarded the idea. Time was short and money was not a problem in the devious world of the BIB.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  White House, Washington

  David Bourne dropped a heavy brown envelope in the vice presidents ‘IN’ tray, smiled slightly at his superior, and left the room without a word.

  Jenkins finished his coffee, peered around the office area, then carefully slit open the envelope with his silver letter opener. He browsed slowly through the photocopied material stopping at a recent communiqué. He cursed, openly repeating the ‘F’ word several times, the bastards were still cutting him out of the loop. He wasn’t sure if this was the ingrained treatment most vice presidents got when placed in charge during a presidential absence or not. It was akin to a locum doctors position, where people always avoided making an appointment with a locum MD whenever their favourite doctor was on leave.

  The only other option was almost certainly personal and he didn’t really care about the reasons, he had his own way of dealing with such things. Contempt was best stemmed by an equal and opposite dose of the same thing and when combined with Fabian like tactics, it was devastatingly successful, the only problem with this approach was that it became addictive, and was the quickest way to a life of self corruption.

  In any case, he much preferred being treated with contempt, it tended to clear the air of bullshit and gave him a reason to be irascible. He shrugged off this latest dose of human nature and
continued his monitoring.

  Most of the info was outdated and run-of-the-mill stuff, but occasionally a gem would be found among the rubble. He stared at the penultimate page from the end. It was an update of the presidential motorcade route in Sydney. A thoughtful Australian commissioner of police had added an extra notation to the security listing.

  Apparently, one security barrier at the airport exit end of the cross city tunnel would be briefly removed to allow a group of US and Australian service veterans to cheer and wave farewell to their president in a more personal way. A hasty apology was given by an inspector Jarvis, who pointed out that the vets would be fronted by a row of federal police right up until the moment the presidential motorcade passed by, then the police line would break allowing a gap of several metres to allow both president and veterans to wave to each other. A fifteen second window would be allowed before the police line closed again, thus quickly sealing any possible breach of security.

  Jenkins chuckled inwardly, if there was a weakness in security it was always a human one, and humans were wonderfully predictive in their behaviour patterns. He thought about president Garner and his policy of consultation and appeasement with allies -- such sentiments often lead to a similar policy with enemies, and a president with a conscience, was indeed a president with a liability.

  Not everyone in the world had a politically correct conscience which bothered them, such exotic sentiments were a rarity in the Islamic militia. In a US president -- it could be fatal.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The motorcade passed along Circular Key with the US president smiling profusely at his chief of staff, Jack Magnus, and national security advisor, Ellen Monard, sitting along side him in the back seat of the second car. The conference had hammered out several crucial agreements, the main one being the use of nuclear force against Iran. In the event of nuclear hostilities by Iranian government all parties had agreed after concerted lobbying that the United States would have total carte blanche in the use of nuclear weapons and would be supported by the heads of all governments present.

  ‘Well I must say that went particularly well Mr. president...total agreement between heads of state...must surely be a first in the history of the civilised world.’

  ‘You’re damned right it did Jack...they know we’re right. If we don’t all pull together and stand up to these bastards the free world is lost.’

  The president smiled profusely and lit up a cigar, even though he didn’t smoke, which immediately provoked a severe coughing fit. He looked through watery, bloodshot eyes, at Ellen Monard.

  ‘You know Ell’ I kept this cigar especially for this sort of occasion, the First Lady gave it to me for Christmas last year...it was a purely symbolic gesture for my success as president,’ Ellen gazed at it with a mixture of wonder and horror -- it was the biggest gold banded Cuban cigar she’d ever seen.

  ‘I’m determined to smoke it if it kills me,’ Ellen shook her head in unison with Jack Magnus and immediately saw it as a possible threat to the presidents health and security.

  ‘Excuse me sir, but you should have kept it in it’s display box, that is definitely a museum piece,' Garner tried to laugh through a choking fit.

  ‘I hate to say it sir, but it probably will kill you,’ Ellen had often considered that presidents had too much personal power for their own good, and needed a firm hand to guide them from time to time. She was pleased to see Garner dressed in his finest blue suite, with gray ultrafine pinstripe, of all the suites in his vast wardrobe this one suited him the best. A stellar performance could be expected from the president simply because he was wearing his favourite attire.

  It was true, over many years of experience in the public gaze, she had learned that clothing was critical, one had to feel the part, and this could only be achieved if clothing and personality complimented each other perfectly -- it was interactive psychology at its best.

  In spite of this Garner looked tired and laid his head back, gazing out the window, taking in all the high barriers and lines of yellow fluorescent jacketed police. Occasionally he glimpsed curious pink faced members of the public gawking through restrictive barriers.

  The motorcade continued on the scheduled route to the Maritime Museum at Darling Harbour, passing a multitude of wine bars, a plethora of crowded restaurants, and several up market clothing boutiques. Aroma’s of all kinds flashed past his olfactory senses but unfortunately were lost on the over powering cigar stench pervading the car space. The president continued with the monstrous cheroot, taking short puffs and blowing smoke out of the half opened window, dispute polite rebuffs from his impatient security advisor. He finally turned to his chief of staff with a wistful expression.

  ‘You know...one day, I’m going to come here in cognitio, and give this place the tourist thrashing of its life. When you’re president you get to see nothing but police barriers, security staff and blurred faces. I just want to see the place for what it is...warts and all.’ The driver pushed a clean air button on the fascia panel and a near silent fan started to extract the remnants of the cigar smoke. The president looked askance at the driver as if the very action of cleaning his cigar smoke from the car amounted to the wanton destruction of a sacred substance. He was about to chastise the man, then thought better of it -- president Garner had taken a course in personal paranoia, and how to control such vexations in the face of annoyance. He turned away from the driver and induced a smile which spread across his face like butter on hot toast. The great trick with motorcades and the ever ogling public, was to actively enjoy it, regardless of how your actual feelings were.

  The crowds and cheering increased as the motorcade pulled onto the Darling Harbour concourse and slowly made its way to the Museum. American flags abounded with blotches of Australian flags thrown in, providing a glitzy, polka-dot background. A sense of excitement pervaded the president’s limousine and the president continued to smile behind an increasing feeling of sickness in his stomach. ‘Why did stomach disorders have to be so bloody debilitating,’ he mouthed under his breath -- which immediately made him think of his other great affliction the common toothache ?

  He instantly brushed it off for the second time, it was the very last thing the USA’s top statesman needed at such an important occasion. He pointed at one of the main museum buildings; he remembered the steel and stone edifice from brochures he’d studied back in the States. The car stopped and Garner alighted, swaying slightly, as the cigar smoking incident took its toll on his brain cells. Determined to make a good impression, he strode up to the Museum entrance, surrounded by a bevy of security men. He felt secure, cocooned with his own human shield, who helped to prop him up, even though his guttural senses were now riding him ragged.

  He clung discreetly to his two lateral security agents just in case his visceral reactions got the better of him. A vomiting spree in public was a dreaded faux pas to any politician, especially a US President, and to be avoided at all costs. A discrete water proof vomit bag, carefully folded, had been placed in his side pocket for easy retrieval; but only to be used as an absolute last resort.

  Ellen Monard along with a handful of agents brought up the rear keeping close to the president’s back, shielding him from possible assault from behind. Monard pushed her head forward whispering discreetly in the president’s ear.

  ‘Breath in deeply sir, the air is fresher around the harbour area, it’ll clear the cigar smoke from your lungs,’ Garner did as he was told and breathed in heavily sticking out his chest in the process. His face took on a gray pallor and slowly began to turn white. Garner continued putting on a brave front but realised the damage was done and an incident wasn’t too far away. The horror of the occasion was that he couldn’t turn back without creating a media incident; he had to go on.

  The only option left to him was self control. Garner knew it was possible to prevent regurgitation of the stomach content, but it needed intense control via self suggestion, which was the basis of all hypnosis; but in s
pite of this, sooner or later, the body would probably have its way.

  If he could control himself until he managed to get back to the reinforced presidential vehicle; he could throw up for all he was worth. Many underlings would be all too please to clean up after the president; it would be a memory worth saving for the grand kids... ‘Believe it or not...I cleaned up after the president of the United States!’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Police Security HQ

  Commissioner Clement Chester sat watching the CCTV coverage dressed in his serge blue uniform with rank insignia and ribbon medals, adding a bit of class and a splash of colour to an other wise drab control HQ. The room had been stripped of a swag personnel for the presidential visit in order to give maximum control and coverage at street level. President Garner had picked a bad time to visit Sydney, but he wasn’t to know, that several hundred police had resigned in the last six months over unfair work loads and pay disputes.

  The whole event would be a battle of police manipulation, extracting personnel from one place, and using them to plug up another more demanding area. It was a vexatious case of robbing Peter to pay Paul. Chester switched from one camera to the next as the presidential party progressed. His mobile buzzed and he pressed the answer button.

  ‘Hello HQ...Chester here..’

  ‘Commander Denison, district four sir...we have a problem...two of the tunnel distributor air exhaust vents are not working.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Near the airport turn-off sir.’

  ‘Good, that’s some way off yet, the presidential party has just entered the Maritime Museum, so you’re looking at another hour or so before they get anywhere near the turn-off. Get the RTA workmen onto it...keep me informed.’