The Scorpion's Gate

by Richard A. Clarke

  “No, my care is seldom that lethal to my patients.” Ahmed smiled. “My prescription is early prevention. The new army would follow you, and you already run all of the police. Use that power while you have it. Use it for the good of our people. They have not yet been fully liberated. If the people are with you, really with you, they will keep the scorpions away.”

  “Inshallah,” Abdullah said as he embraced his brother. The two men walked back into the Golden Tulip, holding hands. The bodyguards went with them, in front and behind. On the table in the patio, they left the remnants of the mezza and the hammour. Abdullah had placed the blue UN report inside his robe.

  “Come upstairs with me and meet my team that has been spending all day looking at the Aramco books. Tell them some of your theories.” Abdullah guided them toward the elevator. Off the main dining area of the rooftop restaurant was a private room with a floor covered in carpets and pillows. An incense burner in the corner let off a sweet smell. When Abdullah entered the room, the men who had been sitting in a circle on the floor smoking water pipes all rose to their feet.

  Abdullah walked the circle formed by his men, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, introducing them one by one to his brother, the doctor-spy. “So you have examined the security of our oil company and you have examined its books,” he said, seating himself on the floor amid a pile of pillows. “What have you found? Did the Sauds suck all the oil out and take it with them to California?” A servant brought Abdullah a fresh water pipe and helped him light it.

  “No, Sheik, even the Sauds could not steal it all,” Muhammad bin Hassan replied, evoking the laughter of the men. He had been a partner in a major accounting and consulting firm in London, and had returned after the revolution at the request of the man with whom he had played football as a boy in Riyadh, Abdullah bin Rashid. “Our declared reserves are 290 billion barrels. Another 150,000 to 200,000 lie in the fallow fields.”

  “I’m sure that’s a lot, ’Hammad, but what does that mean? How does it compare with everyone else?” Abdullah asked as he exhaled the apple-flavored tobacco smoke.

  “It means we have over one-third of the world’s remaining oil, another third is elsewhere in the Gulf, and the final third is spread around Russia, Venezuela, Nigeria. But ours is the cheapest to produce. It just comes bubbling up from right below the sand. Russia and America have to spend huge amounts to find it in their countries and raise it from under the ice or on the bottom of the sea. It is their demand and their cost of extraction that has driven the price to ninety euros a barrel. Our oil is also cheap to refine, whereas so much of the rest of the world’s needs costly refinement.

  “The current rates of consumption are also in our favor. China and America each import over ten billion barrels a year and climbing. Here is the key: almost every other oil producer has pumped all the cheaply extracted oil and can see the day when they will have pumped it all. At our current rate of production, we have over another hundred years of oil. When everyone else has run out, we will still have plenty for ourselves and plenty to sell.”

  There were smiles around the room, except for Ahmed, who looked to his brother for permission to speak. “Ahmed, what do you think of this good news?” Abdullah asked.

  “With respect to Muhammad, I am not sure that it is actually good news,” he said tentatively. The smiles froze.

  “Let’s not talk of today and tomorrow,” he went on. “Let’s imagine us back in our grandfather’s time. Let’s say he was a camel dealer, which he actually was, Abdullah’s and my grandfather. If there had been a pestilence among the camels elsewhere and they had all died, and he still had his camels in good health, would he not fear that the other tribes would come to steal them?” There were nods around the circle.

  Ahmed warmed to his tale. “And unknown to our grandfather, there would also be those abroad who would see this as an opportunity to import Land Rovers and teach the other tribes to drive them instead of camels. So even if Grandfather fought hard and spent a lot of money defending his camels, in a little while no one would want them because they would all have Land Rovers and Mercedes.” The men laughed.

  “So what is your point, Ahmed, you who drive a BMW these days, I am told?” Muhammad asked, looking at Abdullah.

  “Your scorpion fears: go ahead, brother, explain them to us,” Abdullah encouraged.

  “My point is that the remaining oil will attract all sorts of scorpions, like America and China. We will be a target and a pawn in many games. Meanwhile, some of the other countries will finally be developing alternatives to oil, and after they have waged war in our land to get their oil, they will not need the last fifty years’ supply. It will be worthless, like camels.”

  “Camels are not worthless!” one man called out in protest.

  “Ahmed, I respect you as a doctor but not as an economist,” Muhammad shot back. “They have been fooling around with alternatives for years. Their hydrogen fuel cells for cars take more energy to make the same power than gasoline-burning cars. They can’t fly their planes or sail their ships on hydrogen or solar power. Nuclear power creates radioactive waste that is dangerous. The American oil imports have gone up at almost two percent a year and the Chinese at over ten percent a year.”

  “Perhaps, ’Hammad, but Ahmed is right that if we end up being the only country with a large amount of oil, the scorpions will come for it,” Abdullah said slowly as he stirred the ash of his tobacco.

  “But that is where you come in,” Khaleed said. “You are now in charge of our defenses and I have complete faith in you. As a defender at football, I could never get by you to shoot on goal,” Khaleed teased, sensing that the conversation had grown too serious for this time and place.

  “If only our enemies were as easy to block as you were, Muhammad,” Abdullah joked back. “But maybe we should ask the doctor to develop a new scorpion trap like that American thing for the roaches—what is it?”

  “The Roach Motel,” one man offered in English. “They check in, but they don’t check out.”

  “Yes, but we don’t want them to get in, Jassim, that’s the point” Abdullah replied, laughing. “Ahmed, what we need you to develop is a gate to keep them out, a scorpion’s gate.” All the room laughed at the sheik’s humor, and as they did, Abdullah playfully threw his arm around his brother and whispered to him. “Think about it. I will think about what you said, about the UN report. You give me a plan.”

  The room settled down. “Now, Jassim, let’s hear your report on the security of the oil infrastructure and then we’ll talk about the workers who have replaced the Americans,” Abdullah said, laying out the rest of the night’s agenda.

  U.S. Central Command Headquarters

  MacDill Air Force Base

  Tampa, Florida

  “Attention on deck,” the sergeant barked as the CinC, the Commander in Chief of U.S. Central Command, entered the darkened war room. Forty-two officers, including admirals and generals, stood up from their seats in the little amphitheater. On the twelve large flat screens in front of them, computer displays showed the current status of forces in the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf, from the top of the world in the Hindu Kush Mountains to the bottom at the Dead Sea.

  “Be seated,” U.S. Army four-star general Nathan Moore mumbled, as he dropped down into the oversized chair reserved for the CinC. There was a shuffling and scraping sound as the officers were seated and pulled their chairs forward to the desklike countertops in front of each row. “We are delighted to be joined today by the deputy chief of staff of the Egyptian Armed Forces, Marshal Fahmi. Welcome, sir. We look forward to this week’s Combined Planning Conference and, more important, to the largest Bright Star exercise yet. Please, begin.”

  The basement Command Center of the United States Central Command was in a nondescript office building on an Air Force base sticking out into Tampa Bay. When Central Command was formed in 1981 to coordinate the few U.S. forces in the Middle East, no country in the region would permit Ame
rica to create a headquarters for the command. In frustration, the Pentagon had temporarily placed the headquarters at an F-16 base in Florida. Special Operations

  Command had also moved its headquarters onto the base. Now, three or four wars later, the F-16s and other flight activity at MacDill AFB had gone, but CENTCOM was still there. It also now had a sophisticated “forward” headquarters in Qatar and a naval headquarters in Bahrain, in the Persian Gulf (or, as the Pentagon calls it, the Arabian Gulf ).

  As a young Air Force officer walked to the podium, the CENTCOM logo (an American eagle flying over the Arabian peninsula) faded from the main screen and was replaced by a large weather map. What followed was a lot like the weather report on the International Edition of CNN. “Heavy rains continue in Mumbai...Six inches of snow in Kabul... Eighty-two and sunny in Dubai... Five-foot seas off Alexandria . . .” The audience, heads down, were examining their briefing books.

  Next up was an Army one-star general, the J-2, head of CENTCOM’s intelligence branch. Because of the presence of the Egyptians, the intelligence briefing was short, devoid of the usual close-up satellite pictures the J-2 called “Happy Snaps” or the juicy intercepted messages with which he liked to punctuate his morning briefings. “And now to Bahrain,” the J-2 said as a picture of the ornamental main gate of Brad Adams’s headquarters flashed onto the main screen. Adams thought he could hear eyeballs click as, he was sure, everyone in the darkened theater looked at him. “Investigation continues into the identity of the terrorists who hijacked the liquid natural gas tanker Jamal in an apparent attempt to explode the ship inside the CENTNAV Administrative Support Unit, Fifth Fleet Headquarters. Initial reports indicate the hijackers were Iraqis, otherwise unidentified. Defense Intelligence in the Pentagon speculates that they were working for the Riyadh regime called Islamyah....”

  Sensing the tension in the room, the CinC interrupted. “Let me just say this about that, ah, episode: Admiral Adams’s team did an outstanding job stopping this attack, outstanding. Those SEALs and Marines... and, ah, of course, the Coasties who died, Captain Barlow, where is he?” The CinC looked around in the dark for the Coast Guard liaison officer. “Tremendous job. Thousands of lives saved. This is how to do force protection. Admiral,” he said, looking down the row of seats to where Adams sat with an Egyptian navy officer on his left, “you should be proud of how you trained your forces, drilled them, planned, so that you could get that sort of outcome without you even being there. Well done.”

  Adams swallowed. “Thank you, sir.” As the director of operations, the J-3, an Army two-star general walked to the podium to begin the Bright Star Exercise briefing, the officer on Adams’s right slipped a folded note under the Fifth Fleet commander’s briefing book. Unfolding it, Adams read, “Was that a compliment or a reprimand?” The author, Marine Major General Bobby Doyle, was the new director of policy and plans, the J-5. He had also gone to the National War College with Adams five years earlier, where the two had competed for the class tennis trophy. Doyle had won.

  “As you know, sir, the Bright Star series of U.S.-Egyptian exercises began in the early 1980s. . . .” The J-3 was proudly showing a short documentary film of the early exercises. He finally moved on to the plans for the upcoming operation. “Largest ever, incorporating amphibious and airborne insertions of multiple brigade-size American units, supported by bombers from CONUS and tacair from the carriers,” he said, pointing to symbols that were appearing on the large map of the Red Sea on center screen, “marrying up with Egyptian armor divisions and moving inland....”

  Adams had scribbled on Doyle’s note and passed it back: “And the horse you rode in on.”

  Reading the reply, Doyle peeled another page off the CENTCOM notepad on his desk and scribbled for what Adams thought was a long time. The J-3’s briefing was now diving down into details no one needed to hear: “ . . . sustained desert operations...two hundred and forty thousand tons...”

  Finally, Adams discreetly opened Doyle’s second volley, “U/me, Dinner, 2100, Colombia restaurant, Ybor City, already made resev. Civvies. Meet there.” Adams chuckled, thinking what the night would be like and whether his liver was up to it.

  “. . . Stryker armored vehicles, which will be offloaded from rollon/roll-off ships...” the J-3 droned on.

  A shaft of light stabbed into the theater command center as a door was opened from the basement corridor in the rear of the complex. Adams craned his neck to see who had shown up late, because whoever that was would certainly get the CinC’s wrath now or later. “Right this way, Mr. Secretary...” a young woman from Protocol was saying. A civilian picked his way down the row to an empty seat at the CinC’s left. No one stood, and the briefing was not interrupted, until the CinC realized that his guest had shown up. “Ah, Mr. Secretary, ah, let me introduce you to Marshal Fahmi here, who . . .” The J-3 halted while the VIPs in the room chatted.

  Adams turned to Doyle and mouthed the words, “Why is he here?”

  Doyle responded with a quick note reading, “Under Secretary of Defense Ronald Kashigian = Dr. Evil.”

  “Okay, okay,” the CinC said, hitting the microphone in front of his seat with his index finger, “let’s resume. General, you were saying that that fuel . . .” Adams felt an overwhelming wave of jet-lag fatigue and wondered how he would make it until a nine o’clock liquid dinner with Doyle. To stay awake, he stabbed his left palm with a pencil with the CENTCOM logo on it.

  Colombia Restaurant

  Ybor City, Tampa

  Climbing out of the taxi on 21st Street a little before nine o’clock, the commander of the Fifth Fleet could have been a vice president for sales, in town for a convention downtown. He was alone and in a polo shirt that revealed a paunch. Usually he traveled with aides and bodyguards. Back in the States and in civilian clothes, he could be just like anyone else, not a three-star admiral.

  In the lobby, the maître d’ spotted Adams as soon as he came through the door. “Admiral, thank you for joining us. Right this way. General Doyle is already here in the Patio Room.”

  Adams was trying to figure out how he had been identified by someone who had never seen him before, but the host gave him no opening to ask. “Not busy this early in the week, so some of the rooms are closed, but you’ll have a very private table just behind the Dolphin.” They entered a bright Spanish-styled courtyard with a skylight roof as he continued, “A copy of a fountain found in the ruins of Pompeii. If you’ve never had it here before, I highly recommend our paella Valencia . . .” Adams spotted Doyle seated, chomping on a cigar.

  “I think you’re in violation of the smoking regulations, Dr. Evil, is it?” Adams kidded the trim Marine and gave him a fake punch as he sat down.

  “You kiddin’ me, boy? Ybor City is the home of cigars. They used to make a quarter billion a year here. Billion. Rolled on the thighs of virgins,” Doyle said, producing a Cohiba from a leather cigar holder for Adams. “For after dinner. Smuggled from behind the lines in Cuba. You know last time we really invaded Cuba, this was where the U.S. Army massed. Rough Riders and all, here in Ybor City, where the rail line from the north stopped.”

  “Illegal cigars. Now I really will have to put you on report,” Adams replied, taking the cigar. “Shall we try the paella? I hear it’s good here.”

  Forty minutes later, Adams was feeling full, but the wine had given him a second wind. Suddenly, there was music, and flamenco dancers came in through three of the four doors into the Patio Room. Doyle moved his chair around to sit next to Adams, apparently so he could watch the dancers, but as the music covered their conversation, the Marine asked, “You see anything odd about this Bright Star?”

  “Well, I gather it’s blowing the entire CENTCOM exercise budget for the year, plus some extra money from the Joint Chiefs,” Adams replied, watching the lead dancer. “Why?”

  “Why? ’Cuz it’s like my cock, it’s real goddamn big, that’s why.” Doyle chuckled. “No, really. This exercise is too big, too unnecessary, too re
al.”

  Adams took his eyes off the dancer for a moment and glanced at the Marine, who continued, “While you were snoozing during the briefing today, swabbie, General Ballsucker was ticking off some very interesting data. They’re bringing enough shit with them to conduct two weeks of sustained combat operations. Why the hell they doin’ that shit? You know how much it will cost to lift all of that out there?”

  Adams stopped looking at the dancer altogether. “You tell me.” “I got the questions, boyo,” Doyle said, leaning in closer to Adams. “Why do we and the Gypoes need to do a combined op? We expecting Libya to come across the Sahara to steal the fuckin’ Sphinx? “Why on the double-secret-handshake map of the exercise I saw yesterday is your battle group not gonna be in the Red Sea at all and instead is fanned out like a picket line in the Indian Ocean, huh, buddy?

  “Why is Dr. Evil down here for this exercise-planning conference this week instead of up in D.C. polishing the SECDEF’s shoes, or whatever he usually strokes for him? I’ll tell yah: because Dr. Evil and his friends from these think tanks believe the U.S. military are just a bunch of chess pieces that they can move around to implement their globaloney theories. They don’t understand that we chess pieces bleed, while they’re yukking it up on some bullshit Fox talk show.

  “And get this: why are my friends in SEAL Team Six playing the role of the reconnaissance force in the exercise and why does the team chief have detailed maps of the coast around Jeddah and Yanbu in his room at the BOQ? Got it now, Einstein?”

  Adams was trying to find his way through General Doyle’s logic. “SEAL Team Six is a national asset. It shouldn’t be in some regional exercise like this.” The admiral squinted at his old friend. “Jeddah and Yanbu are in the Red Sea, but that’s the wrong side of the Red Sea, that’s . . .” Now he realized what the Marine was saying. The flamenco dancers ended their number with a flourish. “Oh my God!” Adams let loose, just as the music ended.