Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (8 page)

He took a deep breath and wondered for the thousandth time, “
Who am I kidding? I’m just a farm boy from Texas. What am I doing here?
”

He stood still for a moment, thinking on the passing years. Since his first assignment at the White House, so much had changed. The world was different now. So much had gone wrong.

At 45, Brighton was still tight and lean, with a strong jaw and laugh lines on the corners of his mouth, but over the past couple months his hair had taken on a hint of gray. His job was prone to do that. Truth was, he hadn’t slept a full night since returning to Washington, D.C.

The thrill of being a White House insider had long since faded away, suffocated by the stress of working in the most demanding environment on the planet. A military officer inside a very
civilian
White House. Staffers viewing him as an enemy at every turn. A boss who was as demanding as Genghis Khan, the weight of the world upon his shoulders. The world going crazy all around him. He remembered a time when working at the White House, the
White Thrill
as staffers called it, made up for the sacrifices he had to make. But those days were long gone, leaving little that he enjoyed about his job.

He glanced at the old English clock on the faux mantel. Almost midnight, and here he was, still dressed in his air force blues, the formal uniform he wore to work every day. As military liaison to the national security advisor, one of the most demanding jobs in the entire Department of Defense, he hardly had time to think. He took his secure cell phone with him to the bathroom, the shower, running, outside while working in the yard. He kept it by his bed at night. It was like his pants and underwear, he felt utterly naked without it. And it didn’t just ring with an emergency every once in awhile. It rang every day. Sometimes every hour. Nothing was as demanding as the job he held now; not flying fighters, not commanding a combat wing, not masterminding an air war—nothing compared with the pressures he dealt with daily. Eighty-hour workweeks were the norm. He was exhausted all the time. He knew his family was suffering. Surely his sons resent it! How could they not? But he didn’t know what to do.

His only comfort, his only consolation at all, was that his wife had assured him that he was doing what he was supposed to do. “
Don’t worry about me. I’ll take care of things at home. What you’re doing is important. I think it is part of the reason you were brought into the world. Besides, someone’s got to do it. And I really believe that no one else will do it as well as you
.” Sara had written the words of encouragement on a yellow slip of paper and tucked it in his uniform pocket one morning several months before. After reading the note, he had folded it up and kept it in his wallet. He was certain she didn’t even remember writing it, but during the most difficult times he found himself pulling out the wrinkled slip of paper and reading her words again.

He stretched, feeling the stiff fabric and the pressure of all the ribbon bars on his chest. He missed wearing his flight suits, they were much more comfortable, and he certainly missed flying, especially after days like today. His morning had started with a private meeting with his boss, the national security advisor, after which he had suffered through no less than 14 appointments, then ended with a reception at the Libyan Embassy, a typically stuffy and formal affair, the kind his wife enjoyed and he absolutely despised.

Then he remembered how beautiful Sara had looked in her black dress and suddenly the evening didn’t seem like such a waste. “
Sara, oh Sara
,” he thought to himself, “
when I asked you to marry me, did you know I would drag you from one corner of the world to the next? Did you envision the challenges of the life we would choose?
”

He wondered, supposing not. It had been a wonderful journey, but not without cost.

“Sometime soon,” he frequently promised himself, “things are going to change. Life will slow down.”

The general breathed deeply, knowing it probably wasn’t true.

He glanced at the clock again, then turned to check the wall safe and security system before turning off the lights. He had to get up in five hours and it was time to get some sleep.

As he was reaching for his bedroom doorknob, his secure cell phone started ringing, stopping him in his tracks. “Please go away!” he mumbled. “It’s late. I am tired. Let it wait until morning.”

But the STU-IV secure cell phone continued ringing and he turned to pick it up, noticing on the digital screen that the call was coming from the CIA. “Yes,” he said as he put the phone to his ear, the delay from the encryption providing a noticeable delay.

“Sorry to bother you, boss.” Brighton recognized the voice of a junior member of the security team. “Colonel Jensen and the night watch have a little problem with the PDB.”

Brighton shook his head. The
Presidential Daily Brief.
Every morning at the White House. The president attended.
No
screw-ups were allowed. None. No forgiveness. Another beast that had stolen his life away.

“Do we need to take care of it tonight?” he asked, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

“The watch supervisor said it can wait until morning, but they need you in by four.”

“OK. I’ll be there.” He glanced at his watch. Then he remembered. “No, no, I almost forgot. I’m leaving for Saudi Arabia day after tomorrow. I’ve got briefings with the guys at the Pentagon in the morning to wrap up a couple things before I go. You’re going to have to call my deputy.”

“Of course, sir. The watch supervisor must have forgotten. I’ll give Colonel Hampton a call.”

“Tell him I’m sorry, but he’s going to have to handle it.” Brighton wasn’t worried. Important as it was, the PDB was one of the least of his concerns. “Anything else?” he asked.

“No sir. Sorry for bothering you. Have a good trip, sir.”

“Thank you, Patty. Good night.” Brighton hung up the phone.

He had barely turned out the light again when the secure cell phone started ringing a second time. He stared at it in anger. “Brighton!” he said abruptly as he jammed it to his ear. He hadn’t noticed the call was coming from the White House.

“Major General Brighton?” a communications specialist asked.

“Yes.”

“Sir, this is Sergeant Bendino at the CIC communications center. I have a call from Prince Saud, crown prince of Saudi Arabia. We have traced and authenticated the phone number to verify it is coming from Riyadh, but voice recognition has not confirmed his identity. He wants us to patch him through.”

“Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal?”

“Yes, sir. That is who he says.”

“Then of course, patch him through.”

“Sir, do we need to notify the operations desk?”

“No, Sergeant Bendino. I suspect this is a personal matter. I have known the crown prince for a very long time.”

“Yes, sir. But you realize, of course, that as with all communications with foreign heads of states, these communications will be recorded and monitored.”

“I understand, sergeant. Now please patch him through.”

The secure satellite line clicked and then buzzed and then fell silent again. “Neil?” he heard the prince’s deeply accented baritone.

“Your Highness! How are you? I hope everything is OK?”

“OK? Yes, of course. Everything’s fine.”

Brighton considered the differences in time, knowing it was early morning in Saudi Arabia. “It’s good to hear from you, Prince Saud. It’s been a long while.”

“Too long, general, too long. Listen, I know it is late there, and I don’t have much time, but I heard you were flying over to meet with some of my air force leaders. I would hope we could get together. Nothing special, just an hour or two to catch up on, how do you Americans say it . . . older times?”

“Old times, Prince Saud.”

“Old times. Of course. Anyway, could we try to get together?”

“I’d be honored, your Highness.”

“Excellent, Neil. Now listen, I’m going to be in Medina for most of the week, but I’m going to fly back to meet you in Riyadh. I’ll have my people give your staff a call and work out a schedule. Will that be all right?”

“Of course, Prince Saud. Whatever you want. But let me ask, is this important? Anything formal? Do I need to do bring my staff or do anything to prepare?”

The line was silent a long moment, and Brighton could hear the prince breathe. “Nothing important, Neil,” he finally answered, “It is a personal matter. That is all.”

The general sensed the hesitation and was about to press but the crown prince spoke before the general could say anything. “Same number at the Pentagon?” Prince Saud asked.

“The switchboard will always get you through.”

“OK, then my friend. I look forward to seeing you.”

The phone clicked and went dead and the general pocketed the secure cell phone in his pants. He turned again for the bedroom door.

During the millennia that passed since Balaam had been cast to earth, he had claimed many souls; a million, perhaps ten million, he really didn’t know, for once he had destroyed them he never thought of them again. And though he and his fellow fallen angels had mastered the art of destruction, it was not always easy, and this one lesson they had learned: never give up. Everyone had a weakness. Even the great could fall. Think of Cain. Think of Judas. Think of King David and a million other souls. Many of the strongest had been taken and everyone was fair game.

Through the years, Balaam had seen it all until he reached the point where there was no pain or disappointment, no depravity or torture, no betrayal, hate or hurt he had not mastered. He had been there and cheered when Cain had lifted the stone. He had witnessed Abel’s blood flow and learned the power of greed. Soon after, he and the other fallen angels realized the astonishing power of lust and its incredible potential to destroy. It was a short step from lust to far greater sins. Soon, there was no aberration or depravity they had not introduced to the world.

Over time, Lucifer’s followers had developed a real love for the blood and horror of war. How many battles had they started, then watched the outcome with glee! Armies were their playthings, the cries of the dying sweet music to their ears. In his mind, Balaam could smell the smoke from the fires and the stench of dead flesh. He could hear the cries of broken mothers as their children had been tortured and taken as slaves.

In one particularly brilliant display, Balaam had convinced a young mother to sacrifice her own children to a pagan god, a moment they all remembered with particular pride. And they had called it religion! Even Lucifer had laughed. On another night, Balaam had laughed while Judas put a rope around his neck, promising the mortal he’d keep on fighting to the end of the world.

Looking down on the Iranian village from the hills up above, Balaam thought of all of the millennia that he had wandered the Earth, considering all of the changes he had witnessed. He had seen great cities rise and great nations fall. He had seen deserts grow out of marshlands and the seas flood their coast. But now Earth was growing old. He shook his head in anger and snarled a hot stench of breath. So much time had passed!

Short! Time was short! And still so much work they had to do!

Yet, as he stared down on the Iranian village, he felt the pull of something large. Something strong and great and powerful. Something that brought him great fear. It was here. Something dangerous lived in the village.

Someone who could hurt him.

He had to discover who it was!

The ground above the Agha Jari Deh Valley rose sharply to the west. There, on a rocky spot looking over the haphazard village, an ancient guard tower rose like an arm and fist from the ground. The tower was made of stone cut from the mountain and stood almost sixty feet above the sloping terrain. The base of the tower was some forty feet wide, the granite walls six feet thick, with a large and high-ceilinged room inside. A single metal door allowed access to the ground floor room and a narrow set of wooden stairs along the back wall wound up to the top of the tower. In ancient days, the tower was manned constantly to provide warning to the villagers when an attack was imminent. In the early years, or the lean years, when the population of the village was small, most of the village’s women and children could be crammed inside the base of the tower. There they would huddle while they listened to the sounds of the battle outside.

The tower, known as
el Umma,
or the community, had through the years fallen into deep disrepair. The huge metal door was nearly rusted off its hinges, and the steps were so dry and rotten they sagged mightily under even a little weight. But the tower was one of Rassa’s favorite places to think, and through the years he had retreated there many times to ponder and pray.

The day before Azadeh’s eighteenth birthday, he got up early and hiked the steep trail that led to
el Umma
. It was spring, but the hay was coming near to full, and his day would be busy for there was much work to do.

Rassa entered the tower just as daylight was beginning to break. Inside,
el Umma
smelled of mold and dust and ancient, rotting wood. Four-inch slits in the rock walls provided light to illuminate dimly his way as he climbed the stairs and every ten or twelve feet the walls were scorched and black from where oil-soaked torches had been attached to the walls, suspended by steel latches that were embedded into the mortar and stone. He climbed carefully, testing each step, though he was familiar with most of the weakest boards. The sun was just rising between two of the highest peaks when he emerged at the top of the tower. A round rampart with a short wall provided a barrier to keep him from stepping into space. Rassa knelt, facing Mecca, and bowed his head for prayers, then sat back and leaned against the tower, the rising sun to his back.

He kept his eyes open, looking out on the sea. The sky was clear, and a cold front had moved through in the night, clearing the air of haze and humidity. From where Rassa sat, he could see most of the eastern coastline of the Persian Gulf, the dark waters stretching north and south, lapping at the brown sands and dry foothills that made up the Iranian coast. The sea was hazy and gray, and sparkled in the rising sun. Looking north, he could clearly make out the oil platforms and pipelines that crossed the shallow waters of the gulf. Further out, he could see the drilling platforms and pumping stations of Khark and Ganaveh, the heart of one of the richest oil fields in the world. A row of tankers, perhaps four in all, lined up at the Bandar-e Bushehr offshore pumping station to take on their load. Even from this distance, he could see those that were already loaded with oil, for they sat much lower in the water than those that were waiting to be filled. After filling their holds with Arabian crude oil, the tankers would steam south and east, through the Straits of Hormuz and into the Arabian Sea. It would take the tankers several weeks to reach their destinations in Japan, Taiwan and the southern U.S. gulf ports. Rassa watched with only casual interest, for the Iranian oil fields meant very little to him. He benefited not at all from the incredible wealth that was generated through Iranian oil production, and because he had been watching the oil tankers since he was a child, there was little there he had not seen before.