Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  He walked down three flights of stairs, deep into the underground bowels of the palace, to the secure briefing room. There, his three younger brothers were waiting, along with four of their closest advisers: the commanding general of their military forces, the communications czar, the foreign minister, and, most important of all, the head of state security and palace police.

  The underground command center had cinderblock walls and a bare cement floor. It was crowded with banks of telephones and computers along three sides and several large maps along the back wall. Several command consoles sat in the middle of the room, each with a square metal desk and a row of three or four telephones. A ten-foot plasma screen illuminated the front of the room. But the screen was a deep blue; all it showed was the time, the seconds and minutes ticking by on a digital clock in the center. There were no windows in the command center and only one exit, a heavy steel door along the east wall. Although the room had been designed to accommodate the king’s entire security staff, there was no one there besides Al-Rahman’s three brothers and his top advisers, all of them waiting around a dark conference table. They stood when the king entered and remained standing until he had walked to the head of the table and sat down. His three younger brothers sat at the far end of the table. The advisers sat on each side. To the king’s immediate right was General Abaza, head of the state security and palace police.

  Out of all the men in the room, General Abaza was the king’s most trusted counselor, the only man he could truly depend on, the only man whom he didn’t suspect he might find standing at the foot of his bed one night, a grim look on his face, a long knife in his hand.

  Abaza was a large man, brawny if not particularly bright, and with the instincts of a badger huddled in the back of its cave. Leave him alone, and he was OK. Crowd him, and he would fight you to the death. General Abaza and Al-Rahman had known each other since they had been in primary school and by the time they had reached adolescence they were best friends. The general had proven extremely loyal over the years. Of course, he owed everything he was or ever would be to Al-Rahman, but both men understood that, so the relationship worked.

  King al-Rahman smiled as he thought of how he had recently tested the general. It was simple, yet brilliant, and he was proud of the plan that had been carried out just three nights before.

  A group of hooded men broke into General Abaza’s home. Brandishing rifles and swords, they rounded up the general, his wife, and four children and herded them into the basement, all the time screaming obscenities and flashing their guns. The children howled in terror. His wife nearly fainted in fear. After gathering the family in a back room, the men pulled back their hoods to reveal painted faces in black and red camouflage. They looked like raging devils, their eyes circled in dark rings, drops of blood dripping from their painted lips. The men stood over the terrified family, all the time screaming and shoving, giving Abaza no time to think, no time to analyze, no time to wonder who they were or what was going on.

  The leader moved forward and grabbed the youngest child. Looking into the general’s eyes, he lifted his sword. “Prince Abdullah al-Rahman has killed our king!” he yelled. “He poisoned him. We know that. And he killed the crown prince as well. Now we are going to kill him. And we are going to move tonight. Are you with us or against us? You’ve got five seconds to decide!”

  Abaza stared, his eyes wide in terror, his mouth dry as sand.

  “Who will you die for!” the terrorist yelled. “Are you loyal to Al-Rahman, or are you on our side? Pledge you will help us kill Al-Rahman, or you and your family are dead!”

  Abaza’s Adam’s apple bobbing like a bubble in a sea, his eyes wide in terror. Then he bowed his head, took two steps forward, and dropped to his knees. “I cannot betray him,” he muttered. “If you are going to kill us, I only ask that you kill me first.”

  The leader raised his sword over the general’s head. Abaza’s wife screamed. The children cowered in the corner and covered their heads. But the swordsman only grunted, then laughed and fell to his knees. He moved over to the general and took him in his arms. The general looked up, staring into the man’s eyes.

  The man rubbed his face, removing part of the camouflage, and removed the black wig. It was Al-Rahman, the new king. His eyes danced with delight.

  “So, you are with me, General Abaza?” he laughed to his friend.

  The general stared in disbelief then dropped his head into his hands in gut-wrenching relief.

  “Good. That is good. You have won my respect, General Abaza. You have won my trust, too. I will never forget you and what you have shown me tonight.”

  And Al-Rahman had meant what he said. Abaza was now his most trusted adviser, the only man in the room he knew he could trust with his life.

  Al-Rahman glanced at the general, giving him a knowing look, then turned back to the others. Standing, he lifted a finger and held it menacingly in the air. “Brothers,” he said, “my father has passed. The kingdom is secured. We have saved our people, our family, and most importantly the Holy Cities of Allah from an unspeakable catastrophe, a disaster that would have set us back four hundred years.”

  The king’s men grunted in false agreement. It was a cynical rationalization, and each of them knew it. They weren’t in this for religion, their nation or Allah. They were in it for the power—the power and the money. It was simple as that. They wanted to control their people. They wanted to control the hundred trillion dollars’ worth of oil under their sand. They wanted to control the significant events in the world. They craved to have other nations adore them, or, if they didn’t adore them, then to fear them, it mattered not which.

  Power was their opium, and they were as addicted as any group of men in the world.

  So though they grunted in false agreement, their eyes remained dull and dim. The king could lie to them if he wanted, but it didn’t change anything. They knew what they had done and they knew why they had done it.

  Al-Rahman stared at his conspirators, then jabbed his finger at the air. “There is a tide, a stinking tide, that rises in our world. We have seen it in Iraq. We’ve seen it in Egypt and Lebanon. It’s starting to belch up in Libya, Pakistan, and Iran. And we’ve got to staunch it before it goes any farther.”

  “Yes,” the youngest prince answered. “We must stop it now.”

  The other men remained quiet, though they nodded their heads.

  “The stench of democracies seems to lift everywhere. It is evil. It is vile. And it is not Allah’s will. It is not the will of Allah for these people to govern themselves. That is why Allah provided royal families. That is why Allah provided Holy Law. That is why Allah provided religious leaders and gave them power. We are the protectors of Mecca, guardians of the most sacred shrine. It is our responsibility, it is our duty, it is our right and our power to stop the flow of democracies in this part of the world. That is the will of Allah. And we will see Allah’s will done!”

  The men fell silent. None of them dared to speak. The youngest prince stared at his brother, and then lifted his chin. “Our father,” he started saying.

  It was a mistake. The king exploded, leaning across the table, his eyes growing yellow with hate. “My father,” he screamed, “was an evil, foolish man! He was going to decapitate our kingdom. He was going to give it to them!” Al-Rahman stabbed his finger, motioning to some unseen being. “He was going to take my birthright and give it away. But Allah will curse him. I have the seen a vision of his hell. He is there. He is burning. And you will not speak his name. You will not mention our father. I will not hear his name again!”

  The young prince fell back, pressing against the back of his chair. The king’s eyes burned through him, practically searing him with their heat. Al-Rahman’s hatred was almost a buzz, a deadly sense of blackness that seemed to suspend in the air. The young prince glanced at his brother, and then dropped his eyes to the floor.

  Al-Rahman remained suspended, leaning on the table, his knuckles clenched and wh
ite from the weight of his hands. He stared at his brother, then slowly stepped back to his chair. He moved his eyes around the table, taking in each of the men. “My father was a traitor. My older brother was too. They were traitors and fools. And we will never speak of them again!”

  The room remained silent until General Abaza answered simply. “Yes, my Sayid,” he spoke for the men. All of them eagerly nodded. It was a fine plan, indeed.

  Al-Rahman was silent a long moment. He stood at the table, leaning toward his men. “The battle against democracies has grown bitter, my friends. Bitter as acid. And we are losing, you must know.

  “And this thing, this idea, this cancer of freedom they call democracy is a looming crisis that we cannot ignore. If we don’t strike at the root, then we are only fooling ourselves. We can run around chasing sprouts of democracies until we die of old age, dashing from one nation to another, trying to kill each new bud. We can run around, fighting battles in several nations throughout the Middle East, from Jakarta to the West Bank and everything in between. But while we run around on the surface, the problem is taking root under our feet. After watching the problem, I am sure of one thing. We can’t kill all the buds until we kill the mother plant. And we have to kill the mother before she sprouts any more.”

  The room fell into silence until the youngest prince spoke again. “But my Blessed Brother, if we are able to cut off their oil . . . .”

  The king raised his hand suddenly. Blessed Brother. Where had that come from? He’d never been called that before. It was a new name. A good name. He liked that a lot.

  The younger prince paused, then dared to go on. “My brother, if we cut off all oil shipments through the Persian Gulf, we would hit the Americans where it would hurt them the most. As you have said, our oil is the fuel that drives their economic machine. Without it, they are helpless. They would be brought to their knees. They would crumble like a tower built out of sticks on wet mud. We are sitting on the fuel the entire world needs to survive. If we cut off that power, we can show them where the real power lies.”

  Al-Rahman nodded, but his eyes remained firm. “There is no time, brother. Things are changing too fast. The race is on, and we are losing, so we have to be quick. We have to be bolder, more ambitious, more willing to take dangerous risks.

  “So yes, we could cut off their oil, and we will do that, no doubt. But there is another way, another plan that is even more beautiful. So listen to me, brothers, come and listen to my plan.”

  The seven men all leaned forward. They were listening, yes.

  King al-Rahman turned toward his foreign minister. “More than life itself, what is the one thing that you want in this world?”

  The minister didn’t hesitate. They had discussed this before. “I wish to see the world cleansed of the Jewish state,” he replied.

  “Yes. That is right. That is our mission from Allah. And there is only one way to do that. Can you tell me what it is?”

  Again, the answer came quickly. The minister knew the king’s thinking, and he regurgitated it nearly verbatim. “We must destroy her evil mother, the betrayer of Muslim nations, the mother of all whores, our greatest enemy, the United States.”

  King al-Rahman nodded. Although his lips turned into a tight smile, his eyes remained dull and black. “Yes. And I hope you can see that, brothers, for it is so clear to me. We can never eradicate Israel as long as the United States exists. The Americans will stand by the Jews, even at the risk of losing their lives. Evil binds together, and they are bound with strong cords. And worse, we cannot eliminate the rotting stench of democracies until we eliminate the United States. Can you see it? Can you? Do you believe it is true?”

  A heavy silence fell over the room. The youngest prince moved nervously in his seat and diverted his eyes. King al-Rahman cleared his throat, keeping his eyes boring into him.

  “But how, my dear king?” the young prince finally said. “You are talking about the most powerful nation in the world! The most powerful nation that has ever existed since the first man walked this earth. And you say we can destroy them. It is not possible, I think!”

  “Yes, it is, my little brother. And not only is it possible, but it is possible now.”

  “But my brother, I don’t—”

  The king raised his hand, indicating for the other man to be still. “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 United States? 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 United States? What if we could unite everyone against the most powerful nation on earth? And what if we could even get their own people to hate and resent their own government?

  “Can you imagine such a war? The entire world united against the great whore and her little sister, the Israeli 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.

  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 to the other pilot. The other pilot hit the start button, and the twin turbine engines started to turn. The pilot moved the throttles to idle, jet fuel poured into the combustion chambers and the engines caught, emitting a sudden roar from the jet 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 brothers and advisers 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 helicopter lifted into the air before the men even had a chance to buckle themselves in. It turned immediately east, flying over the palace grounds, pushing a swirl of leaves and biting sand through the 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 helicopter 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 fly in a helicopter without fighter escorts overhead. The king searched the sky carefully, eager 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 helicopter landed 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. But 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 much else. But looks were deceiving. Most of the facility had been built undergr
ound and 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 ten stories below ground.

  King al-Rahman 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 television. “Our deliverance,” he muttered lustily. “Our great gift to our people. Our great gift to the world.”

  The men didn’t respond, their eyes wide. And though they didn’t understand yet, all of them sensed an overwhelming power in the air.

  Their world was shifting right under their feet. They could smell the revolution in the air.

  The king moved 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. Look at these warheads and do the math in your head. 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.”