Sugar

by L. Todd Wood

  Connor reached his new gate at O’Hare and found his flight boarding. The gate area was in a smaller section of the terminal, and no jetway was offered. Passengers were directed to exit the building, walk across the tarmac, and board the small turboprop aircraft. The ground crew kept the passengers far away from the stationary propellers. The aisle was narrow and the seats cramped. It was an older plane, and the tray on the seat in front of him was broken and rattled as the prop engines were started. The smaller plane was less comfortable but more efficient economically for the short haul. Current propeller aircraft consisted of a turbine engine driving a propeller; however, they reminded Connor of the old piston propeller aircraft of the past. Somehow a jet engine seemed safer. Connor didn’t care, he was tired. He took another prednisone.

  He was seated in back again, which was good because he could watch the entire aircraft. The man following Connor was the last one to board. He took a seat near the entrance. He didn’t look to the rear of the aircraft where he sat. Connor was happy. At least he isn’t near me. I feel like shit and need to sleep.

  The flight to Pellston, on the northern tip of the Lower Peninsula, was a short one, just about one hour. In any case, Connor shut his eyes. He awoke as he felt the plane descend and the flight attendant begin giving instructions; they were landing. He felt like he was flying in a bug smasher as the wind buffeted the small aircraft and they touched down hard and bounced several times. The thrust reversers loudly announced their presence and startled the passengers. Connor felt like they were going to veer off the runway in the crosswind. Now the fun begins. What to expect when I exit?

  He had called President Walker’s entourage and informed them of the problem. “Don’t worry about it,” they had told him. Well I am worried about it, thought Connor. Someone is following me that doesn’t look very nice, and I don’t know why. The flights had given him a chance to rest, so he knew he would have some time before he passed out from exhaustion. He knew his limits; hopefully those few hours would be enough.

  The turboprop rolled near the small terminal in Pellston. Again, there was no jetway. The terminal was a one room building of medium size. Connor was one of the last to exit and stepped gingerly down the stairs. He didn’t trust himself in his weakened state and held on tight to the steel railing as the stairs wobbled under his feet. The sun was making its way towards the horizon, and the air was noticeably cooler here and smelled of spruce.

  Well I wonder how this is going to go down. The guy is right outside the terminal next to a vehicle. I can see him. Someone met him here. I guess they plan to follow me from here via car.

  His cell phone rang. Connor answered, “Yes?”

  “Walk outside the terminal and turn right. There is a gate to the tarmac, open it and wait there,” the voice on the phone said. Connor slowly and deliberately did as he was told. He was in no hurry, conserving his energy.

  Soon he heard a low rumble. The sound was unmistakable. It was the purr of a Sikorsky helicopter, much different from the sound a Bell makes, none of the whap, whap, whap. The Sikorsky S-76 slid over the tree line and came to a tactical stop in front of Connor. The rush of rotor wash kicked up the loose dirt near the edge of the concrete field and peppered Connor with sand. The pilot must be enjoying himself, probably a Vietnam flashback. Maybe I’m flying with the Deer Hunter, he laughed to himself. The aircraft was black and unmarked. Connor quickly made his way to the door that had slid open and jumped in. He sat in one of the plush, leather seats. Several-tough looking guys around him stared but said nothing. The aircraft took off immediately and sped over the tree line. A crewmember handed him a headset. The man following him didn’t have a chance. Connor didn’t even bother to look back.

  The flight to Mackinac Island was fifteen minutes. The weather was calm and clear as they headed towards the island. Connor enjoyed the flight over the intersection of the Great Lakes and the view of the Mackinac Bridge. He could make out the bluff along the southern coast of the island as they approached and became concerned as the pilot began to slow the aircraft and put it into a landing configuration. Connor saw no airport.

  “What’s going on?” he asked over the intercom.

  “We are landing at the Grand Hotel,” the pilot answered. “There is a party waiting for you there.”

  “What the heck is the Grand Hotel?” Connor asked.

  “You’ll see,” said the pilot and pointed to the island.

  As the aircraft slowed and entered the approach, Connor saw what the pilot was talking about. He could make out a long, white structure along the bluff facing the straits. As they moved closer, he could see it was a long, wooden building the size of a football field. There was an enormous, wooden porch built facing the water. In front of the hotel was a beautiful, green lawn, spacious enough for them to land. I guess this is our helipad, he thought to himself.

  The Grand Hotel was built in the late 1800’s as a getaway for the region’s elite. The entirely wooden structure had housed presidents and world leaders for decades. It was a work of art and the scene of many weddings, parties, and important functions. The island itself did not allow motor vehicles apart from first responders. It was a quaint trip back in time; in fact, it was the scene for the eighties movie Somewhere in Time.

  The Sikorsky circled the hotel and then set up an approach to the grassy area into the wind. Upon landing, Connor could see the hotel guests watching the show from their balconies and on the enormous porch. I guess we are the entertainment today. Once they were safely on the ground, Connor exited where a serious man met him and brought him to a waiting vehicle. They must allow vehicles for former Presidents, he thought.

  The ride to the cottage was only a couple minutes down the bluff from the landing area. The weather was pleasant with a cool breeze coming off the Great Lakes.

  The word cottage was a serious understatement. A grand mansion was a better descriptive term. The house was a large, three-story, wooden home with wide, expansive porches surrounding the exterior with French doors leading to the inside. Connor’s vehicle pulled into the parking area behind the house, and he was led into the home through the rear doors. The guards stayed outside.

  Connor was shown to the study, where windows overlooked the water and the bridge—the longest suspension bridge in the world. There was tea and coffee waiting for him in the empty room. The interior design was straight from the late nineteenth century. He waited, looking out the window and the beautiful juncture of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron.

  The president walked in ten minutes later. He bounded over to Connor and extended his hand in friendship.

  “Connor, you look like hell. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “Well for starters, I have cancer. It’s a very treatable form of lymphoma. I’m almost done with the chemo but it’s a bitch, I have to say. Other than that, the love of my life, whom you introduced me to, has disappeared, and I believe our security has been compromised. I don’t know how or why or who for any of this. How’s that for starters? Oh and by the way, my best friend Peter has been arrested by God knows who. So you tell me, Mr. President, where do I go from here?”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your illness and Natasha. I had no idea. You can call me you know. I did introduce you two.”

  “I did call you, sir, just a little late I guess.”

  “Well, we’ll deal with your illness and your girlfriend in a minute. Tell me about your friend. That interests me more than anything you have told me so far.”

  “Peter Quinn is a longtime confidant, brilliant guy. He’s an energy analyst for a large hedge fund in New York. Lately he’s been involved with some new fracking technology being tested in Louisiana. Someone definitely does not want this information to become reality in the industry. They have been harassing him and the drilling company for some time now. Again, I have no idea who.”

  President Walker stepped to the window and looked out over the straits. He said nothing for a few moments lost in thought. Then he t
urned to Connor. “I’ll make some calls and see if I can find out about Peter, that is who is holding him. But what I am about to tell you does not leave this room, okay? This is between you and me. Capiche?”

  “My lips are sealed, Mr. President.”

  “Before I left office, I was briefed on some intelligence that my energy task force had been working on. We had been actively trying to get all of the new fracking technology approved and out into the private sector so we could develop this gold mine of energy we are sitting on as a country. I believed it would help with our economy, help with unemployment, and also help with our national security. Why should we be sending trillions of dollars overseas for oil to people who want to kill us? We saw how the currency issues affected us, and I wanted to use our newfound energy reserves as an economic weapon if you will.”

  Connor was listening with all ears.

  “Well, we found as we were exploring granting the go-ahead to several technologies that were in development, the protests and radical environmental response rose dramatically. There were obviously some well-funded backers of this response to our efforts, so we did some spying. We found that there were indeed well-heeled and foreign backers to the fielding of this technology. As we dug deeper, we found the money trail led to the Middle East. Much of the support these people were getting was coming direct from accounts in Dubai. Before I could get to the bottom of all this, well, I wasn’t reelected. So right now I’m in the dark.”

  “That’s astonishing, Mr. President. You are telling me that some well-funded entity in the Middle East is behind the growth of the anti-fracking movement in the United States? That a foreign entity is attempting to control our energy policy as a nation?”

  “Not trying, already is,” responded the president.

  “But why would they go to such lengths to interfere with our internal affairs?”

  “Think about it, Connor, we have sent trillions of dollars overseas to many adversarial countries to pay for our oil addiction. Someone doesn’t want that to stop. Someone with a lot of money. They don’t want the spigot turned off. If we develop our own energy resources, that’s exactly what will happen. The money flows will stop. And with less money they will have less power. It’s all about power in the end.”

  The realization hit Connor between the eyes. He was dealing with a very serious adversary now indeed. His fear for Natasha now was at the front of his mind. How had they gotten to her? Did this Middle Eastern entity have someone on the inside?

  Suddenly he felt very tired. “Mr. President, I have to lie down for a while. Is there somewhere quiet I can relax? I only have a few good hours in the day before the fatigue kicks in, and I’m past my witching hour. Very soon I will turn into a pumpkin.”

  “Of course, Connor. My assistant will help you and show you to a room. I want you to stay here for a while, you’ll be safe. We can talk after you rest. Good to see you again.” They shook hands and the president left the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Connor awoke four hours later in the early evening, wondering initially where he was. He groggily sat up in the extremely comfortable, antique Victorian bed. The mattress and pillows were the perfect combination of firm and soft. He felt as if he had been sleeping on a cloud. There was still light coming through the window. Almost as if on cue, there was a knock on the door and the attendant peeked in. “The president will see you on the porch when you are ready.”

  “Thank you,” replied Connor. My aren’t we efficient.

  He reluctantly got out of bed and looked for his clothes. For a few seconds, he panicked and thought someone was playing a prank on him, as they were not on the floor where he left them. His fear was resolved when he found them laundered and hanging in the bedroom closet. Efficient indeed! He put his pressed clothes back on and then checked his look in the mirror. I’ve definitely looked better. I look like a cancer patient. Maybe they feel sorry for me, hence the personal service. The adjacent bathroom had all the toiletries he might need, and Connor refreshed himself then headed out to find his host.

  The porch facing the straits was a short walk from his room. The president was sitting in a wicker chair, looking out over the water. The view was stunning at this time of the day. The sun was slowly setting behind the bridge and made for a fantastic vista. The temperature dropped slightly as the sun left the sky. Sea gulls swooped and cried as they strained to find a tiny scrap of food on the shoreline. The wind had picked up over the water, and the whitecaps were visible even from this far away. It made for an interesting contrast of colors, the blue and white water and the red setting sun. Even the lights on the Mackinac Bridge had come on. There was a slight breeze on the bluff, but it was pleasant. The president was smoking a cigar and seemed lost in thought, staring out into space.

  “Quite the view,” commented Connor to let the president know he was there as he sat in the seat next to him.

  President Walker turned towards him and smiled. “Yes, this is one of my most favorite places in the world. I used to come here as a kid, so it’s in my blood. I didn’t stay in this cottage of course but was here many times on the island just the same. I feel a certain sense of peace here, like this is where I belong. This was the epicenter of the fur trade you know, years ago. And we fought the British in the War of 1812 right here on the island. Fascinating history, I love it.”

  “I see how you could fall in love with this island. It’s very pleasant. I’d love to come back here someday when I could enjoy it. However, I’m still reeling over what you told me today. It’s incredulous but makes sense I guess.”

  “Well, I fear that we only know the tip of the iceberg. We don’t know what we don’t know, that’s the problem. It keeps me up at night, even though I’m no longer the president. How do you feel?”

  “Rested. I’ll be glad when these treatments are over. I just don’t have much energy these days.”

  “How are you going to get the next one? With people trying to find you? On the run, basically?”

  “I guess I’ll deal with that in a week or so.”

  “Yes, let me make some calls on that. We can figure out a solution. For now I want to focus on the issue we discussed. After you’ve rested for a couple days, I’m sending you on a trip. Hopefully you will feel a little better. I would send someone else, but my gut tells me you need to be on this one, as you may find information about your girlfriend as well. Will you be up for it?”

  Connor’s interest was piqued. “Of course. Why do you say that about Natasha?”

  “You are going to Israel. You are going to Tel Aviv. I have someone there I want you to talk to and get back to me. This person works for the Mossad. They have a better handle on what is going on in the region and may have information on your girl as well. And they will keep our meeting confidential and away from any other prying eyes. Like you, there are only a few people I know I can trust in this world. This person is one of them.”

  “Okay, I look forward to it. I’m strong enough. I am worried though about how to get my next treatment done. I also need new papers with a new identity; I am sure they checked the name I used on my airline trips the last couple days.”

  “Yes, I’ll handle that. Stay here a few more days and then you’re off. I’ll have everything you need. Want a cigar?”

  “No thanks, I’ll take a rain check for when I’m cancer-free.”

  A bell rang inside the house. “It looks like dinner is ready.” Connor and President Walker stood up and walked into the dining room.

  The sultan was reading again, absorbing the words, feeling them with his heart. He informed his assistant he wanted no visitors; he needed to think. He needed to be refreshed by the teachings of Islam. They always pointed him in the right direction, gave him the vision of what he must do. The events of the recent days were more troublesome than usual. He looked to the heavens for guidance.

  The Imams (scholars of the four schools of thought)-—may Allah have mercy on them-—agree that the caliphate is
an obligation, and that the Muslims must appoint a leader who would implement the injunctions of the religion, and give the oppressed justice against the oppressors. The Khilafah is the pillar upon which other pillars rest.

  He let the words sink in.

  “It is I who will rule the caliphate,” he said aloud. “I will join the nations of Islam. I will do what I must to ensure we have the financial resources to accomplish this task. Israel and the West will be destroyed. The Muslim nation will rise again and God’s people will inherit the earth. The caliphate will be restored!” He felt a joy that filled his heart as he spoke the words.

  The phone on his desk rang, it startled and angered him. He had requested not to be disturbed. “Yes,” he answered tersely.

  “He’s definitely with Walker; we tracked where the helicopter landed—the Grand Hotel on the island. Walker is there at the governor’s mansion.”

  “That complicates things for sure. We have to be careful.” The sultan thought for a minute as the voice on the other end was silent, knowing instructions would come. “I want you to come up with a plan to stop this man Murray. It needs to be plausible. Let me know when you have something.” The sultan hung up the phone as the call to prayer came over the speaker in his office. Prayer is the answer to all things.