by Mike Maden
The Estrella had arrived at the Millennium Oil refinery on the Texas Gulf Coast loaded with a shipment of gasoline from PEMEX, the state-owned petroleum company of Mexico. Millennium was experiencing a shortage of summer-blend gasoline for its distributors and had made the emergency purchase after a recent spike in market price. It was a pretty standard run and the Estrella had made the exact same trip several times earlier in the year, though not always to the Millennium facility. BP, Marathon, Valero, and several other refineries were located in the Houston port area as well.
When Captain Norquist confirmed that his Grand Cayman bank account had received a deposit of $50,000, he gladly turned a blind eye to the twenty-eight unregistered civilian passengers and the unmarked crates of cargo they had hauled on board his ship. He assumed it was another drug and guns shipment; he’d had this arrangement with the Bravo organization for years. The Estrella had special passenger and storage compartments fitted out for just such transactions. The passengers always stayed clear of the crew on the short voyage, and the crew knew not to venture down to where the mysterious passengers were located. His ship was never inspected on the Mexican side because Bravo owned the Veracruz port authority. Clearing customs on the American side wasn’t much more difficult. It was just a matter of timing the unloading with the shifts of the customs officers who were on the Bravo payroll. Security on both sides had been something of a joke for years now.
A brilliant orange sunset greeted the Estrella as she docked in Texas. Once her lines were secured and the marine loading arms attached to the Estrella’s cargo manifolds, the unloading procedures began. The marine surveyor was already on board gathering samples from the cargo tanks to test for purity.
The captain stepped into the cargo control room along with his first officer and radioed in to the loadmaster person in charge (LPIC) onshore. The order of tanks to be emptied, their flow rates, and the destination tanks on the tank farm were all agreed to and soon the gasoline began to flow.
During the gulf crossing, the Bravo soldiers and their Quds Force officers remained well hidden belowdecks. They used their time to change out of civilian clothes into their combat gear. The officers also had the men break down, clean, and reassemble their weapons to keep their anxious young minds occupied.
After an hour, Captain Norquist checked his watch and decided it was time to go. The eager redheaded mistress he kept in Houston would be waiting for him in her cherry red Mercedes SL convertible down in the port parking lot. They would go out for a couple of thick rib eyes at Charley’s Steakhouse, and then he would spend the evening with her at her downtown condo, messing the sheets up for the better part of the night. They’d grab breakfast at their favorite diner first thing in the morning and then she’d drive him back just in time to cast off and set sail back to Veracruz. They were both creatures of pleasure and routine, and it had been a mutually satisfying arrangement for the past five years.
He turned over the control-room responsibilities and the overnight watch to his extremely competent Filipino first mate and headed for his small private cabin. At forty-eight years of age, Norquist still cut a dashing figure, like an old Hollywood leading man, with just a hint of silver in his thick blond hair. He didn’t bother changing into his civvies because his mistress said she loved him dressed like a sailor in his crisp white captain’s uniform.
Norquist stepped into his bathroom and ran the water in his small steel sink. His mouth watered; he could already taste the succulent slab of beef he’d soon be tucking into at Charley’s. He leaned over and splashed his face with cold water, then rose up just in time to feel a hand slap his forehead and yank his head back, exposing an enormous Adam’s apple. Norquist didn’t even feel the razor-sharp blade slice open his throat, but he heard the tremendous gush of air escaping out of his lungs through the gaping wound, and his dimming eyes caught sight of the arterial spray spattering against the mirror. The last thing his unconscious mind registered was the sound of his own body thudding against the steel deck.
* * *
The Quds Force commandos and their Bravo recruits were clad in black from head to foot, their faces hidden beneath balaclava masks despite the suffocating humid night air. They burst into the port control room and slaughtered the port technicians with suppressed semiautomatic pistols, then remotely opened the valves on the massive port storage tanks, emptying thousands of gallons of gasoline and oil, flooding the storage yard. They had already slapped magnetic demolition packs to several of the tanks and set the timed detonators to blow with just enough time for them to make their escape.
Hamid Nezhat led the team out of the main gate, careful to run in full view of the security cameras high up on the lampposts illuminating the parking lot. The Quds commandos all lugged the antiquated AK-47s and RPG-7s even though they had trained on superior German and Israeli equipment back in Iran, but it was necessary for the show.
Nezhat spotted a red Mercedes convertible shot to hell in a reserved parking space. The long, busty torso of a woman had tumbled out of it, her corpse half trapped inside the car while her upper body twisted out and her bright red hair splayed like a fan on the hot asphalt. Wide, green, lifeless eyes stared unblinkingly at a hazy night sky. A pity and a waste, Nezhat thought to himself. What he could do to a woman like that.
Two big Chevy panel trucks were parked haphazardly near the Mercedes and Walid Zohar, Ali’s Azeri sergeant, stood in front of the first one. He was dressed the same way as the rest of the team and also had his head covered.
“No problems, brother?” Nezhat asked in Spanish as his men loaded into the two vans.
“One guard at the gate, neutralized. Roads are clear.”
“Good.” He checked his watch. “Seven minutes to clear out.” He slapped Walid on the shoulder and the two men crawled into the big van, Walid taking the driver’s side. Nezhat was pleased. Phase one of the plan had been a complete success. Phase two would be even more spectacular, he thought, but also far more difficult to execute. He glanced back over at the Mercedes. He prayed that one of the virgins waiting for him in heaven was a big-breasted redhead like that one.
32
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Myers stood up from behind her desk and checked her watch. It was nearly 10 p.m. “The meeting begins in two minutes.”
“Then you should go. We can discuss this matter later,” Strasburg said, remaining seated. His arthritic knees were particularly troublesome lately.
“You spoke about timing, Doctor. I’d say this tragedy starts the ball rolling on our plan, wouldn’t you?”
“Perhaps.” Strasburg polished his glasses with the silk pocket square from his elegant Savile Row suit. “But it’s not without its risks.”
“It’s a simple risk-versus-reward calculation. The reward is clearly greater than the fallout if we fail,” Myers said. “We can’t just keep swatting bugs, especially now that they’re swatting back. It’s time to drain the swamp.”
“Your critics will accuse you of ‘nation building,’ an activity you promised never to engage in.”
“I have no interest in nation building. What I want is a free and democratic Mexico, governed by and for Mexicans. Tell me a better way to accomplish that goal than what I’m proposing and I’ll take it.”
Strasburg shrugged with a smile, defeated. “I can’t.”
“Would you be willing to contact Cruzalta? Make the inquiry on my behalf?”
“I think it would be more persuasive if it came from you, Madame President.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Well, it’s time for me to go. Will you be joining me?”
“I’d rather be waterboarded. With your permission, I’d prefer to make a few phone calls from here.”
“Of course. Make yourself at home.”
Dr. Strasburg had been in the Oval Office faithfully serving presidents of both parties for over forty years. Maybe I’m the one who should be asking his permission to use the phone, Myers thought to herself as s
he headed for the Situation Room.
Time to find out if the world really had come to an end.
The Situation Room, the White House
Organized chaos.
The room was packed despite the late hour. Too many people, Myers thought to herself. Who are they? What are they even doing here? A dozen department, agency, and committee heads sat around the table in a carefully choreographed pecking order. Congress was on summer recess, but the bigwigs had hung around or flown back in just for this meeting. Seated behind their bosses in a row of smaller chairs were the senior staff members of each high potentate, and standing off to the sides and behind the senior staff were the young junior staff and assistants. The room burbled with a hundred whispered conversations and urgently tapping keyboards.
Some of these people were a strange breed of adrenaline junkie who just wanted to be in on the action. Others were simply afraid to not be in the room, for reasons of ego and perception. All of them wanted to be near the seat of power.
Crisis was the time when the presidency became paramount in importance, primarily because a singular voice and singular mind were more effective in the short, intensive time frame of a national emergency. Congress usually dithered at times like these, seldom mustering more than nonbinding resolutions and patriotic proclamations. There was nothing decisive about 535 men and women organized into committees designed to ensure their incumbencies in perpetuity. Who in her right mind would turn to a madhouse of caterwauling whores like the U.S. Congress when real decisions had to be made?
“Bill, let’s bring this meeting to order now, please.”
Donovan gaveled the room to order like a circuit court judge. Voices hushed. Lights were lowered. A big digital screen flashed satellite images of what was being called the Houston catastrophe. Huge gouts of fire raged in the night above a dozen large circular tanks in the overhead shot. A burning tanker ship—the Estrella de la Virgen—was half sunk next to the dock.
“As you can see here, it appears that an attack on the Millennium Oil storage depot in Texas City, Texas, occurred some three hours ago. Firefighting units from seven municipalities, along with Houston Port Authority firefighters, firefighting tugs, and oil-fighting specialists, have all converged. Police, army, and National Guard units have been activated and deployed for security and evacuation.”
“Has anywhere else been hit?” Myers asked.
“Not that we’re aware of. We’ve alerted every storage facility and refinery in the nation and additional security personnel have been deployed.”
“Where are the attackers now? Any captured or killed?” Early asked.
FBI Director Jackie West answered. “They’ve gone to ground. No bodies, no clues. We have a massive search under way.”
“Who’s responsible?” Senator Diele demanded.
Donovan nodded to his assistant running the laptop. Port security-camera video flashed on the big media screen. Two dozen armed men wearing black combat fatigues and black hoods running, shooting rifles, or planting bombs were displayed in a wide variety of camera angles. The video was alternately black and white, night vision, wide angle, or close- up, depending upon the make, model, age, and location of the security camera.
Donovan narrated. “You can see the assailants. Military dress, no insignia, AK-47 assault rifles, and RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenades. A few carry sidearms. My guess is that they’re all male. But with their faces and bodies covered and no audio available from any of these cameras, we’re unable to determine the nationality or affiliation of these terrorists.”
Director West discreetly answered her vibrating smartphone. She frowned.
“Bill, I’m sorry to interrupt. Can you pull up the al-Jazeera website on your laptop?”
Donovan’s assistant nodded and tapped a few keys. Moments later, the live English-language broadcast appeared. It was the jungle video showing the Bravos in their masks and uniforms and brandishing their weapons and repeatedly shouting, “Burn them all down!”
The attractive Lebanese-American news anchor read her teleprompter. “To repeat, members of the Bravo Alliance have posted this video to our website claiming responsibility for the attack on the Houston oil refinery early this morning, local time. They claim it was in retaliation for the attempted murder of the Bravo family by Israeli assassins hired by the American CIA. They also condemn the illegal mass assassinations of the Castillo crime syndicate carried out by the administration of President Margaret Myers earlier in the year.”
“Shut it off, please,” Myers asked.
“What was that about Israelis and assassins?” Diele asked.
“It’s bullshit,” Early said.
Jeffers turned to the treasury secretary. “On a different subject, what’s this attack going to do to the stock market when it opens tomorrow?”
The treasury secretary read from her smartphone. “Dow futures are already down five hundred points, and oil is spiking to over $120 per barrel on the open spot market.”
It was the oil price that worried Myers most. The fragile economy, still limping along at 1.5 percent annual GDP growth, was barely above stall speed and could easily tumble into a tailspin if those prices didn’t come back down quickly. The cost of just about everything—especially food, transportation, and utilities—all depended upon the price of oil. More important, consumer spending accounted for 70 percent of the nation’s economic activity, and high fuel costs robbed the average consumer of what little discretionary income was available.
“That oil price will sound like music in the ears of OPEC. Russia, too,” the energy secretary added. The Oklahoma native was intimately familiar with petroleum economics. Her entire family was in the oil business, as was her husband’s.
She isn’t going to do too badly in this crisis, either, Myers thought.
“What we need is a decisive military response.” All eyes turned toward Senator Diele.
“Are you proposing an invasion of Mexico, Senator?” Early asked. “We could dust off Plan Green,” he said with an easy smile.
Plan Green was a plan to invade Mexico that was drafted by the American secretary of war in 1919 and had been recently republished. Surprisingly, it hit the New York Times best-seller list for nonfiction almost overnight.
“We do have current contingency plans for a Mexico invasion. Canada, too, for that matter,” General Winchell said. Senator Diele’s friend was dead serious.
“It wouldn’t necessarily have to be a full-scale invasion. But our lack of serious action sends a very powerful signal that we are weak. President Myers, with all due respect, your failure to provide a more violent and timely response to the El Paso massacre is partly to blame here,” Diele said.
The room erupted in debate.
“You’re out of line, Gary. Back it way up,” Senator Velázquez growled. The normally affable Texan had family in Houston.
“I apologize, Madame President, if I’ve offended you, but I hope you see my point. This attack was an outrage. Another Pearl Harbor or 9/11. It demands a swift and violent response.”
“An invasion of any size isn’t justified by this singular act, horrible as it is, but I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”
Myers turned to the secretary of state. “What do the Mexicans have to say about all of this?”
“President Barraza’s office has expressed his outrage and concern, as well as his support, but then again, so has Trinidad and Tobago, so I don’t know what it’s worth. I’ll be curious to see what the Mexican government’s response will be following this al-Jazeera report, but my guess is that they’ll just offer more of the same.”
“Is there any chance at all the Mexican government is behind this?” Greyhill demanded. He was skyping from an air force base in Greenland and clearly agitated.
“To what purpose?” Strasburg said, incredulous.
“Dr. Strasburg’s right. There’s no indication of official Mexican involvement,” Donovan added.
“They better damn
well be kicking down doors and taking names trying to get at these guys,” Diele insisted. “If we’re not going to kick some ass, somebody has to.”
“Right now we have an economic crisis on our hands. I have complete confidence in the Department of Homeland Security to find and arrest the bastards who did this,” Myers said.
Donovan sat a little taller in his chair. “Thank you, Madame President. We’ll catch them before they strike again.”
Myers addressed the rest of the room. “So for the moment, let’s focus on our options for tackling the economic issues. Suggestions?”
She sat silent as a sphinx as she listened to the options. Some were conventional, some out of the box. All of them had carry costs. None of them was a perfect solution. Factions began to form. Arguments broke out.
After an hour had passed, Myers held up the palm of her hand. The room silenced.
“Thank you all. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Would you care to share it with us?” Diele asked.
She stood, and gathered up her papers.
“I’ll be holding a little press conference tomorrow morning, Senator. Tune in, if you can. I think you might get a kick out of it.”
33
Gulf of Mexico, near the Texas coast
The stock market opened on Monday morning and immediately plunged over 650 points before the secretary of the treasury ordered trading suspended on the New York Stock Exchange “for reasons of national security,” an order the NYSE directors complied with happily and immediately. Unfortunately, the secretary had no such authority over the Asian markets, which had plunged precipitously the night before, and the European markets had jumped off of the same fiscal cliff as the rest of the world before trading was suspended there, too.
The price of oil was holding steady at $127 a barrel this morning, after a steep 30 percent increase in just twenty-four hours. The only reason the spot price was holding, according to Myers’s advisors, was that if the economies of the world really were going to crash—as it seemed they probably would at any moment—then the demand for oil would plummet, and the price would drop. It appeared as if the oil speculators were giving her some breathing room, albeit temporarily. The financial markets waited eagerly to see what she would do with the respite.