Lethal Trajectories (7 page)

Burkmeister felt a sudden chill and was hit by a powerful wave of fatigue; for a moment he actually wondered if he could walk away from the Rose Garden under his own power. Calling on a reservoir of inner strength, he said, “I think that will be all for now. We’ll keep you advised and wish you all a good day.” With that, he slowly walked back to the Oval Office and immediately summoned Dr. Toomay.

After quickly examining the president, a concerned Doctor Toomay said, “I’ve arranged for you to take a battery of tests at Walter Reed this afternoon, Mr. President—the usual blood workups, urine tests, and so forth, and I have asked that they do some ultrasounds, CT scans, and a liver biopsy. This will all be done discreetly, of course, and if something should inadvertently leak out, we’ll say your general health is good and you were in to check out some flulike symptoms. For all we know, that might be all there is.”

That is not completely true,
Toomay thought, but he didn’t want to unduly alarm the president. He could not help but be alarmed by the president’s yellowed skin, loss of weight, fatigue, stomach and back pains, and generally run-down condition. He learned long ago to never jump to a medical conclusion until all the data was in, but in his heart of hearts he had a premonition that was almost too unpleasant to even imagine. The president, he knew for sure, was a very sick man.

W
ellington Crane was particularly cheerful as the news of the Chunxiao Incident started to filter in. The stock market had plunged since the opening bell, and the world was losing its grip as the details became known. As always, the eyes of the world were turning to the United States for leadership, and he knew he could count on the BM boys to screw everything up. A crisis always supercharged his ratings, and he had scooped all other news media sources on Chunxiao yesterday.

Crane knew he could position whatever the BM boys did as ineffective in contrast to his own brilliant economic and political theology, which he called Pax-Americanism. The Pax-Americana philosophy was quite simple: what was good for America was good for the world. And who was in a better position to define what was best for Americans than Wellington Crane?

His listeners loved the way he cut to the heart of an issue, defined the sides, and took a stand. For multitudes of confused Americans hungering for answers, he provided a no-nonsense clarity that eliminated all gray areas. His authoritative declarations and stamps of approval were all anyone needed to make a decision, he felt, and he carefully cultivated this codependent relationship with his listeners.

He often wondered what he loved most about himself. Was it his annual income of over $50 million? Was it his power to mold public opinion, influence policy, and decide who should win or lose elections? Whatever it was, Wellington knew he was the complete package, without peer.

He was proud to call himself a self-made man. Born into a middle-class family in Louisville, Kentucky, the lights went on for him in junior college, where he had auditioned for and been given a one-hour weekly radio show on the school’s privately owned radio station. He dubbed his little soapbox
Wellington’s World
and quickly recognized his talent for engaging and enraging audiences while capturing market share. He craved power and attention and parlayed his talent into a succession of bigger and better jobs. He hit pay dirt when a major Atlanta-based media conglomerate offered to syndicate his show nationally while giving him the latitude to push the boundaries of acceptable broadcast practices. Never content with the status quo, he expanded his scope by forming the Wellington Crane Freedom Foundation to Promote American Values. The foundation provided unlimited opportunities to push his pet causes and make a few bucks—actually, lots of bucks—but, hey, that was the American way.

As he headed back to the war room, he shouted, “Get me a cup of coffee, Amanda.” It was time to prepare for another show.

As always, he checked his underground hotline before scanning the news services. The vast network of strategically placed informants on his payroll often provided him with scoops and insights not available to others. He was thrilled to see the hotline blinking and immediately picked it up and returned the call. He greeted his informant and asked, “What do you have for me?”

“Mr. Crane, I’m calling from the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and have information that might be of value to you.”

“I’m all ears,” Wellington replied excitedly.

“A very sick-looking man with a towel over part of his face was just admitted to the hospital under heavy Secret Service protection. That man is President Lyman Burkmeister. They whisked him away immediately to the VIP suites.”

“Are you sure it was him?” Wellington asked, not wanting to look like a boob by airing false information.

“Yes sir, I am. My girlfriend works VIP and confirmed it was him. You can take that to the bank.”

“Thank you for your good work. We’ll be sending you something you can take to the bank.”

Wellington hung up and took a moment to connect the dots. It all added up, he thought, recalling that more than one reporter had commented on Burkmeister’s sickly appearance in the Rose Garden. Eager to share this new detail with his adoring fans, he would once again scoop the major news networks.

It’s going to be a great day,
he thought. He would start with the headline news and then move quickly to the tantalizing new tidbit on Burkmeister. His guest today, Senator Tom Collingsworth, despised the BM administration and would surely liven up his show with a vitriolic outburst against the BM boys. Collingsworth could be a bit of a bore unless aroused by a provocative story or personal attack, but his temper was legendary. The trick was to ignite it and just watch the fireworks fly.

Wellington could have hugged Burkmeister for his reference to Collingsworth in the Rose Garden today. He would spin the president’s remarks to suggest that he had called Collingsworth a loose cannon and buffoon. It would be more than Collingsworth’s fragile ego could take; the senator’s explosive temper would do the rest. The cable networks would play back Collingsworth’s contentious remarks and grudgingly attribute the setting of the remarks to his show. Free publicity from his competitors—
Don’t you just love this country?
he thought.

P
rince Mustafa ibn Abdul-Aziz quashed an adrenaline rush as he impatiently awaited the arrival of his conspiratorial brothers. Much had changed in the last twenty-four hours, and timetables would have to be revised. The global preoccupation with the Chunxiao affair had to be a divinely given omen, and he was eager to assess their readiness for an attack.

Pushing back from his desk in their ramshackle headquarters, he took a healthy gulp of bottled water and pondered the new opportunities. The desert winds were now at their backs.

As Deputy Foreign Minister of the Gulf Cooperative Council, he was supremely confident in his skills as a shrewd geopolitical strategist. He understood the dynamics of global power and used his position on the GCC to gain a strong upper hand in OPEC.
It is not rocket science,
he thought,
if one only keeps three things in mind: oil is the key driver in the global economy, OPEC is the dominant player in this dynamic, and Saudi Arabia and its GCC allies are lead players in OPEC.
A change in any category, Mustafa knew, could disrupt the entire power dynamic.

One threat was the challenge posed by a nuclear-armed Iran to Saudi leadership in OPEC. He worried about Iran’s growing partnership with Iraq and detested the support Iran gave to the Houthi rebels in Yemen and Shiite groups in Bahrain. It heightened his fear that a Shiite-based alliance would crowd out the Monotheism he practiced.

Still, his greatest concern remained the continued presence of the Western infidels on Saudi and Middle Eastern land. Their unacceptable presence needed to be dealt with while there was still time. The fatwas against infidel influences were ineffective decrees, and the only way to rid Saudi Arabia and other nations of the corrosive effects of the satanic infidels was a jihad against all apostates and infidels.

After two years of arduous planning, he was confident that his small group was ready to launch their coup against the Saudi government and initiate a jihad. He knew an army of sheep led by a lion would defeat an army of lions led by sheep anytime, and his lions were more than a match for the corrupt Saudi government. Like a lion, they were waiting to pounce, and Chunxiao could well be the catalyst for action.

The first to arrive was Mohammed al-Hazari. He was Mustafa’s teacher, mentor, and coconspirator and one of the more influential Monotheistic mullahs. He had a powerful voice in all policy issues relating to the educational system that ran Saudi schools, selected the teachers, controlled the curricula, and molded the minds of young people—including those of Saudi princes and future leaders. His influence was enormous, and Mustafa admired him greatly. The remaining conspirators arrived soon thereafter, and Prince Mustafa convened the meeting after the appropriate prayers were said.

“My brothers,” Mustafa said forcefully, “we have long planned and waited for a favorable opportunity to launch jihad against the infidels. The incident in the East China Sea could well be the diversion we have sought. Dawn does not come twice to awaken a man, and I now want to assess our readiness to strike.”

Al-Hazari, operating at his usual highly emotional level, said, “My brothers, we have been given a sign. This episode in the East China Sea will preoccupy the Western infidels for weeks to come. They will be ill-prepared to respond to the inevitable call for help they’ll get from the Saudi government about to fall to our victorious forces. We must now strike while the time is right.”

Prince Hahad ibn Saud, second-in-command of the Saudi Royal Guard Regiment, uniquely charged with protecting the House of Saud, replied, “It is too early to make our move because we don’t know yet how the West will respond. Our intelligence reports the American infidels have taken a wait-and-see position on this Chunxiao affair, and until we know they are fully committed to that area, we can’t guarantee they’ll keep their noses out of our tent in the early stages of our plan. That, of course, is the time in which we are the most vulnerable.”

Prince Ali Abdulah Bawarzi, Commanding General of the 15th Armored Brigade stationed ten miles south of Riyadh, said, “I would add that we have it from the most reliable sources that all American military units have been placed on a heightened military alert and that they have been instructed to watch closely for disruptions in areas of the world such as the Middle East. One can also assume they have alerted the Saudi government, and they, too, will soon go into a high state of alert.”

Nodding his head, General Aakif Abu Ali Jabar, chief of staff of the Royal Saudi Air Force, said, “Our intelligence picked up signals indicating that the American Navy’s USS
Gerald R. Ford
carrier group will soon redeploy from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific to bolster the American Seventh Fleet. If so, it would reduce American tactical airpower in this region, and that would certainly help our cause. We must wait, however, to confirm American intentions before making our move.”

Mohammed al-Hazari exploded at their overwhelmingly negative attitudes. “My brothers,” he cried, “we should all be willing to make whatever sacrifices are necessary to throw out the infidels and establish Allah’s rule throughout the Middle East. By overthrowing the Saudi regime and taking control of OPEC oil—the same oil that is used by the infidels to run their satanic economies—we can bring them to their knees. It will give us the power needed to wage a successful jihad. This Chunxiao thing, whatever you call it, is the sign we’ve waited for over the past two years. Now, my brothers, now! Now is the time to strike,” he shouted passionately, slamming his fist on the table.

The contentious argument that followed concerned Mustafa. Without doubt, they all wanted jihad, but as military planners, they could not ignore the practical realities of power. Passion and hope alone could not overthrow the infidels, Mustafa knew. Cold, hard power was the only thing the infidel swine understood.

It was not the first time a discussion of this sort had occurred, but the intensity and passion behind it took on a disrespectful tone that bothered Mustafa. He needed to get everyone back on track.

“My brothers,” he said, with all the propriety and respect he could muster, “we have been through so much together. In many respects, I believe you are all correct in what you are saying. We all agree that the time is near to strike. That is not in question, is it?

“Clearly,” he continued, “the Western powers will be preoccupied with events in the East China Sea, but it also seems clear they are not letting their guard down, at least for now. If, in fact, the Western powers become totally preoccupied with the Pacific, we will know then that our time has come to strike. It is difficult to know how these things will play out, but surely we can conclude events are moving in the right direction.”

He took a big drink of water and continued: “We must be prepared to initiate our plan within forty-eight hours’ notice or risk discovery from our stepped-up activities. That means our Unit 22 commando teams must be in position to take out key leaders and mine our oil fields with the radioactive dirty bombs, and our atomic bomb demonstration must be ready to go within thirty-six hours of launch time. General Jabar, will these weapons be ready to go on forty-eight hour notice?”

“Yes, Prince Mustafa, they will,” replied the arrogant and cunning general. “The dirty bombs are now encased with either cobalt-60 or cesium-137 particles. Once detonated with conventional explosives, a bomb will render the area around it a radioactive wasteland for decades. We have a sufficient number of dirty bombs to booby trap all of our main oil fields, with a few extras for use elsewhere—like, perhaps, targets in Israel.”