“But my brother, I don’t—”
The king raised his hand, indicating for the other man to be still. He raised his other hand beside him and extended his palms. “Yes, yes, I know what you are going to say. But what if . . . what if there was a way, a final way to destroy the U.S.! What if there was a way we could get the entire world to hate them as much as we do? What if we could get the world to hate Israel and the U.S.! What if we could unite every people against the most powerful nation on earth! And what if we could even get their own people to hate and resent their government!
“Can you imagine such a war? The entire world united against the great whore and her little sister, the Israel pigs. Imagine it, brothers! Then, if you can truly imagine it, if your minds are strong enough to contemplate that it can be done, then consider what I have told you and stand up and follow me!”
The king turned suddenly and walked out of the room.
The underlings watched in silence a long moment, then stood and followed the king.
Washington, D.C.
It was Sunday afternoon. Ammon was waiting in the hallway of the church, just outside the bishop’s office. Dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, he was feeling pretty good. Though not the first suit he had owned, it was the first one he had ever paid for himself, and it suddenly hit him: He was getting old. In three months he would turn nineteen; shortly after that, he’d be gone. Not just gone away for the weekend or the summer, he would be gone for good. His mission would mark the true beginning of his own life.
He couldn’t have been more excited.
Then he glanced at the empty chair next to his.
The door opened, and the bishop stepped into the hall. “Hey, Ammon, thanks for coming,” the white-haired gentleman said.
“Thanks for inviting me, Bishop Sanders.”
“This is very exciting, you know. We’re going to start on your mission paperwork. This is it! The real show!”
“I’m excited. I can’t wait. I am ready to go!”
The bishop shook his hand and smiled, then looked up and down the hall. “Where’s your brother?” he asked.
Ammon shook his head, embarrassed. “He isn’t here,” he said.
“Did you remind him about the appointment?”
“Yes, Bishop, I did. But my brother’s been kind of a conehead the past couple weeks. Sometimes he doesn’t think. He’s got this girl, and she’s got him whupped. It’s a bad case. Worst I’ve seen. He forgets a lot of things lately.”
The bishop smiled, but a look of concern passed over his eyes. “Well, then, I’m just going to have to do a better job of reminding him,” he said solemnly. Then, switching gears, he clasped Ammon by the hand and pulled him along, saying, “Come on in!” They walked through his office door.
Chapter Thirteen
Al Hufuf Military Weapons Storage Complex
Eastern Saudi Arabia
One of the king’s private helicopters was waiting on the asphalt at the end of the circular drive on the east side of the presidential palace. It was a monstrous machine, American made, with deeply tinted windows and black paint with gold trim around the cockpit and along the smooth tail. Two powerful engines sat just behind the midsection, their chrome exhaust ports glinting in the afternoon sun. A set of small steps had been extended from the aft cabin door, and a line of military guards stood at attention on both sides of a narrow stretch of deep blue carpet that extended from the steps. Two military pilots were waiting, one of them watching the palace anxiously. As the king emerged, he nodded. The other pilot hit the start button, and the twin turbine engines started to turn. The pilot moved the throttles to idle, and the engine caught, emitting a sudden roar from the jet engine exhausts. As the engines rolled up, the rotors started
to turn. By the time the king was climbing in the cabin, the helicopter was ready to go.
The king’s men followed quickly, half a dozen steps behind. They hurried into the cabin and sat down on the reclining leather seats situated throughout the interior of the helicopter. A steward lifted the collapsible steps and quickly disappeared behind the forward bulkhead. The massive chopper lifted into the air before the men even had a chance to buckle themselves in. It turned immediately east, flying over the palace grounds, kicking up biting pieces of dirt and sand in a swirl of hot air.
Overhead, a flight of two Royal Saudi Air Force F-15s circled at fifteen thousand feet. The lead pilot, one of the king’s four dozen cousins, kept a close eye on his radar while his wingman, half a mile behind and to his right, watched the low flying chopper make its way east.
Turning to his window, the king glanced up at the sky, thinking of his brother lying at the bottom of the sea. In his death, his brother had taught him one final lesson. Never again would he fly in a helicopter without fighter escorts. A helicopter was completely defenseless when attacked from a jet. So the king searched the sky carefully, anxious to know that his escorts were there. But he couldn’t see the fighters. They were too high and too small.
Fifty minutes later, the chopper set down on an unmarked landing pad in the middle of the Al Hufuf weapons storage facility. It was a peculiar complex—high cement and concertina-topped walls, layers of security with wire, and guard towers every fifty feet or so. And there were dozens of military police, some in the open, some hidden behind protective walls. Inside the triple fences, there was not much to see: a few low brick buildings, open sand lots, roads large enough to support heavy convoys, two rows of cement bunkers half buried in gravel and sand, a small supply building, and not a whole lot more. But most of the facilities had been built underground; the complex was much larger (and far more important) than it looked from above.
A small military escort was waiting, five military HUMVEES surrounding two black Mercedes SUVs. The king rode alone in the first vehicle. The other men crammed into the second SUV. The convoy rode through the military compound to the headquarters building, a long, single-story brick building. The men got out, entered the building, and took the elevator to the tenth floor below ground.
* * *
King Abdullah stood before the group in a small conference room. Behind him, a 28-inch television emitted a pale, gray light. Reaching under the table, the king tapped a button that activated the video equipment, and the television screen came to life, showing a live video feed from one of the nearby underground bunkers. The bunker was a large room and brightly lit. Cement floor. Cement walls. No visible entry. No guards. It appeared spotless, almost sterile, with not a smudge on the floor or speck of dust in the air. Sitting in the middle of the room were five lead-plated crates. The king’s men stared at the screen. They did not understand.
The king broke into a sinful smile as he looked at the TV. “Our deliverance,” he muttered lustily. “Our great gift to our people. Our great gift to the world.”
The men only stared, their eyes wide. Though they didn’t understand yet, every one of them sensed an overwhelming power in the air.
The very world that they lived on was shifting right under their feet. They could smell the revolution in the air.
The king moved forward until he was standing next to the screen, his face eerily illuminated by the subtle light. “The objects you are looking at,” he explained in a low, even tone, “are five nuclear warheads. Fifty-seven kilotons. One-hundred fourteen million pounds of explosives each. There are five. You stare at those weapons and do the math in your head, and then tell me, my brothers, that we can’t bring our enemies to their knees. Look at those weapons and tell me we can’t do what we want.”
The men fell into a stupor. It was not what they had thought. Things were moving too fast. “Where did you get them . . . ” the foreign minister muttered. The king waved him off. No time to go through that. It didn’t matter anyway.
The minister leaned against the back wall, his face turning dark gray. His mind raced, trying to absorb everything. The king. The crown prince. Both of them killed. A new king among them. A new direction. A new track. And yes, King A
bdullah al-Rahman was a strong man, but he was also as driven and ambitious as any man in the world. And now this, now these weapons . . . it was a terrifying prospect. He sucked a deep breath, giving his mind time to think.
The room was deadly quiet. The men only stared. It was all they could do. After a full thirty seconds of silence, the oldest prince breathed. “When?” he asked dryly.
Abdullah hesitated. He didn’t know. “Soon,” he finally answered. “A few months. Maybe more. I haven’t decided, and the timing is critical.”
The younger prince shook his head. “No, King Abdullah!” he muttered in terror. “It would be suicide. You will destroy the kingdom. You will destroy Medina and Mecca! I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it is suicide.”
Abdullah moved toward him, his lips pulled back in a sneer, his hands clenching, his breathing labored and fast. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been telling you?” he demanded. “Haven’t you understood anything?”
“But brother, if you attack the U.S., their position is clear. They will retaliate. They will kill us. They will destroy the entire Middle East. They will not absorb a nuclear detonation on their country and not retaliate.”
King Abdullah looked at him, his eyes burning bright. “Oh, my brother, my dear brother, if you only understood. If you only knew what I know now, if you could only see what I see. It has all been so long in the making. And we are not alone. We have so many allies; so many men are on our side, men you don’t know about, unseen advocates and sponsors. There are many who will be working to ensure we succeed.”
The younger brother shook his head. He was growing more scared, even angry. He trusted his brother, but he was not an incompetent fool. And he resented being dragged here, to this underground hole, to be shown a row of weapons that, if used, would only guarantee they were destroyed.
His heart skipped, the spit in his mouth turning suddenly sour. “Brother, you know I love you,” he started to say. “But if you do this thing, if you attack the U.S., then we all are dead men. You must certainly know that. This isn’t good news. These weapons are not our salvation, they are our destruction, I’m sure.”
The king stared at him a moment, angry thoughts rolling around in his head. The young prince looked away cautiously, seeing the emotion in his brother’s eyes. “King Abdullah,” he mumbled, forcing himself to look at the king once again. “I trust you. You know that. I would do anything for this cause. I would die for you, brother, you know that I would. Give me a knife, say the word, and I would thrust it deep in my heart. I would cut out my own intestines if you commanded me to. But I have to tell you, dear brother, I simply do not understand. I do not understand what you’re thinking, I do not know your plan, but I am certain of this—if you choose to use these weapons, if you detonate an atomic warhead anywhere in the U.S., they will find out who did it, and we will all be destroyed.”
Abdullah shook his head, showing a smile. “Yes,” he answered tartly, “without the right preparations, then we would be destroyed. If it was us against them, then I would be a fool.
“But you see, Prince Mohammad, there is something more we can do. Preparations. Arrangements. And before we use these weapons—and we will use them, my friend—we are going to change the world in a magnificent way. We are going to realign every thinking, realign every ally, every enemy and friend. We are going to change the geopolitical world in a fundamental way.
“Then, when we have completed our work, it won’t be us against them. It will be the U.S. against the world, it will be the U.S. against the Middle East, the Arab nations, every Muslim on earth. It will be the U.S. against most of Europe and Asia as well. It will be the U.S. against China and South America too. It will be the Americans and their lapdog Israelis against the rest of mankind. And they will be the criminals. They will be the ones who are feared. It will be the Americans and the Jews who will be hated and despised.
“When we are finished, the world will not only support us, they will see justice in our cause. Then they will not only allow it, they will help us see our enemies destroyed.”
Camp Freedom
Central Iraq
Sam sat with Bono at the end of the dining hall table. It was early morning, and the two had just come back from patrol. Though they were not on the same team (Sam’s immediate commander was the captain who lived in constant fear of taking his father any unhappy news), they had been on the same mission, patrolling on the western edge of Baghdad, where there had been reports of insurgents recruiting from among the poorest neighborhoods. Both men were exhausted, their faces blacked with camouflage and dirt. The patrol had been fruitless, and all they had found were two dead Chechen soldiers (easily identified by their Russian boots) who had been bound, their faces covered, and then shot in the head. They were finding more and more of this kind of thing now, and it gave them a little hope. If the terrorists were killing each other, that clearly made their job easier; more, though, it indicated the growing divisions between the various terrorist groups. Though bound by their common hatred for the U.S., they also hated each other, and it wasn’t unusual to find the results of their fratricide.
Sam rested his arms on the table, sipping a 20-ounce bottle of imported water from some unpronounceable desalinization plant on the eastern shore of Qatar. It tasted like saline solution, but Sam had grown used to it. It was cold and wet, and that was all he required anymore.
The chow tent was a little cool—it had been a cold night—but it was growing warmer as it became more crowded during the change of patrols, some on their way in, some getting ready to go. Bono was hacking into a huge pile of scrambled eggs and dry toast. He kept his fork moving while Sam sipped at his drink. They didn’t talk much until Bono was nearly through.
“You hear about the Lizards?” Bono asked, referring to one of their battalion’s other combat teams.
“What’s that?” Sam looked up.
Bono laughed as he leaned across the table. “A couple of their guys were working one of the checkpoints leading into the airport. Some fool comes speeding toward them, doesn’t even slow down. They fire the warning shots, take out his tires, you know that routine. At the last second, the guy steers the car toward them, opens the door, and bails out. They drop behind their cement bunkers, expecting a huge explosion; I guess little ol’ Lieutenant Ramirez nearly jumped out of
his boots. The car screams toward them, hits the cement barricade, and . . . that’s it. No car bomb. No big explosion. Nothing. The guys come out from behind the barricade, wondering why they aren’t dead. They see the Iraqi running away, but he’s gotten too far for them to shoot. Then they see the money scattered all around.”
“Money?” Sam wondered.
“Yeah. A couple hundred thousand. Cash. U.S. bills.”
“What? Why!”
Bono shook his head. “No one knows.”
Sam thought a minute. “So some crazy guy goes careening toward the checkpoint, refuses to stop, gets his tires shot out, steers toward the barricade, jumps out, and runs away, leaving behind a couple hundred thousand dollars in cash to spill on the ground?”
Bono nodded and smiled. “Yeah. That’s what I was told.”
“They don’t know what—”
“They don’t know squat, my good friend. Just another day in this paradise that we all call home.”
Sam shook his head in disbelief as a stranger approached them and sat down at Bono’s side. Though there was plenty of room at the table, he sat close to them. Bono looked up and nodded, then turned back to his eggs.
The man was dressed in dark jeans, heavy boots, and a tan jungle shirt. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with short black hair and overly dark skin from too many days in the sun. The stranger caught Sam’s eye, dipped his head in greeting, and turned back to his coffee, blowing over the hot brew. Sam studied him while he sipped. Who was he? Definitely not one of the civilian contractors from the States. Too lean. Too relaxed. Those guys all drove around with a target on their f
oreheads, and every one of them was as skittish as a chicken in a yard full of wolves. Support staff from the Civilian Affairs office in Baghdad? Maybe. But if he was, he was new to the country. It would take him a couple weeks to get that scared look in his eye, the darting pupils, the constant swivel, the unremitting suspicion that most of them couldn’t hide. Got to be CIA, Sam thought. Plenty of them around.
The man looked up and caught his eye again, then leaned toward him. “Sergeant Brighton?” he said, keeping his voice friendly but low. “I’ve come a long way to see you. Could we get away and have a quick talk somewhere?”
Sam hesitated. “And you are . . . ?” he asked.
Bono stopped eating and looked over. The stranger turned and nodded to him. “And you too, Lieutenant. I’d like to talk to you both.”
“What about?” Bono demanded.
The man extended his hand. “Colonel Gass,” he answered with a crushing grip. “Come on, men,” he said, pushing away from the table. “Like they say in the movies, I’m going to make you an offer that you can’t refuse.”
Washington, D.C.
It was a little after nine in the evening, and General Brighton was just getting ready to leave his office when his computer chimed, telling him he had another batch of email. He had already turned his monitor off, and he hesitated to turn it back on. He was supposed to meet Sara at a dinner party for the new Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, way out in Chevy Chase, and he was already more than an hour late. But he couldn’t resist.
Fourteen new email messages had been loaded into his inbox, but there was nothing so urgent it couldn’t wait until morning. Then he saw the last message, this one from Sam. It was short and ambiguous:
Dad,
Things are going well here. Nothing earth-shattering to report (or dangerous, Mom will be happy to hear).
Thought you might want to know that I had a very interesting conversation yesterday morning. Met a guy who made me a very tempting offer. It looks like all those days of playing cowboys and Indians when I was a kid will come in handy, if you know what I mean.
The Great and Terrible Page 65