Lethal Trajectories (48 page)

He taxied into position and, cleared for immediate departure, fired up the mighty dual engines for takeoff. Once airborne, he climbed quickly to his assigned altitude and set a course of zero-niner-zero degrees that would take him over the Gulf. Upon reaching the Gulf, he reached down and opened his special package: ten pounds of high explosives. He activated the timing mechanism, set to detonate five seconds after he pushed a button atop it. Upon reaching his rendezvous checkpoint, he throttled down and set a course of one-eight-zero degrees for Dhahran before descending to an altitude of three thousand feet.

Flying low and slow, he was now established on a Mode I ejection trajectory. He was ready now to commit to his plan.

Seconds later, he issued his first radio call to air traffic control. “Mayday. Mayday, Mayday, Royal Saudi Air Force F-15 Bravo, off northeastern coast with triple fuel-boost failure. Cause unknown. Experiencing flameout of both engines, going down. Mayday.”

Seconds later, for added authenticity, he shouted out, “Mayday, Saudi F-15 Bravo, Mayday. Fire in cockpit, I’m burning….” He activated the bomb and then pulled the handle on his Aces II ejection seat. The explosive cartridge propelled him to about two hundred feet above his ejection altitude. Seconds later, as his main parachute deployed, he sadly watched the F-15 he had loved like a brother explode in a fireball.

As he started his parachute descent to the murky waters of the Persian Gulf, his mind was in overload.
Will Ali Jabar believe I died in a fiery jet explosion, or will he get suspicious and change the dirty bomb locations and code frequencies?
Straining to see the water below, he wondered,
Will the American submarine be on station at the prearranged coordinates to pick me up? Or will I flounder at sea until I’m picked up by my own air-sea rescue forces. Then what?

His anguished mind churned right down to the very second he hit the water. As the water closed over his head, his misgivings were wiped away by survival instincts. Releasing his harness, he swam toward the surface, willing his powerful athletic body to disregard the pull of the sea. He almost shouted for joy as he bobbed to the top and drew his first breath of sea air. He did shout when he saw a Navy Seal team waiting in a rubber raft less than a hundred meters away.

The Seals whisked him out to an American nuclear submarine, which delivered him to the USS
Gerald R. Ford,
operating some forty kilometers offshore. He was then transferred to the flight deck for a carrier-based plane bound for Bahrain.

Everything happened with remarkable speed.
The Americans are a marvel of military efficiency,
he thought as he was driven to the Fifth Fleet Headquarters under heavy guard. He arrived in Bahrain even before Dhahran Air Control reached General Ali Akbar to report the loss of Major General Al Mishari.

General Ali Jabar’s first reaction to any news was always the same:
How will this affect me?
Aabid ibn Al Mishari knew everything about the dirty bombs—far more information, Ali Jabar now realized, than Al Mishari had a need to know. But there was nothing he could do about that now. Moving the dirty bombs and changing protocols would require coordination with Prince Hahad ibn Saud, head of security, and this would mean admitting that he had divulged top-secret information to an unauthorized person. Ali Jabar imagined what would happen when his rival advised King Mustafa of the sudden need to scramble the protocols. Mustafa was a stickler on security, and a breach of this nature was likely to cost him far more than his command.

As always, Ali Jabar’s instincts for self-preservation trumped everything else, including national security.
Why worry?
he reassured himself.
Al Mishari was a trusted officer, and his jet was blown to smithereens anyway. Dead men don’t talk. No one need ever know.

V
ice President Elizabeth Cartright, exhausted from her trip, sought relief in the easy chair in her VIP villa at the Pearl Harbor military base. The morning sun shining through the French doors of her balcony was soothing, but it was the caffeine jolt of three cups of coffee that readied her for the prearranged call with her boss. She hoped for a couple of hours of free time after the call and a short ceremonial visit to shake off the jet lag and fatigue.

She grabbed the phone on the first ring and was cheered by the familiar voice on the other end. “Good morning, Elizabeth,” said Clayton McCarty, “I hope everything’s well with you and our Pacific friends. It’s been a grueling trip, I’m sure.”

“Good morning—or should I say good afternoon—to you, Mr. President,” she replied. “And yes, visiting Beijing, Tokyo, Seoul, and Melbourne in six days left little time for sightseeing, but it’s been productive.”

“That’s good, Elizabeth, and your constant updates were helpful to us all. Can you give me a quick rundown on where we stand as of this moment? I’m heading off to a cabinet meeting in fifteen minutes, so it will have to be brief.”

“Sure, Mr. President. As I had indicated in an earlier report, China, like us, is about to feel the full impact of the oil embargo as their strategic petroleum reserve runs dry. It’ll be a shock to the system that’s sure to shake up the Politburo, and Lin Cheng is worried.”

“I can appreciate that,” replied the president, sounding alarmed. “We’re also tapped out; in about another ten days we will no longer have any SPR oil left to draw down. It’s going to put a brutal hurt on our economy.”

“On a brighter note, Mr. President, Lin Cheng was most grateful for your willingness to take an aggressive position in support of China’s resolution to change the exclusive economic zone definitions in the UN later this month. He really bent over backward to be accommodating.”

“That’s good to hear, and I was pleased he gave you a little ammunition to take with on your subsequent visit to Prime Minister Sato in Tokyo. How did that go?”

“Yes, he was gracious, Mr. President. Lin Cheng’s offer to drop all reparation demands against Japan on Chunxiao and China’s willingness to work out a fifty-fifty split on all oil and natural gas generated from the Chunxiao field,
regardless
of where it fell under the new EEZ definitions, went a long way toward mollifying Sato. Still, Sato said he would agree
not
to vigorously oppose the new EEZ definition only if the United States would provide strong assurances that Japan’s oil supply, to the extent oil is available, will be maintained.”

“That’s a tougher proposition,” the president replied, concerned, “but I’m sure we can at least offer a strong statement of our intent to do what we can to help Japan.”

“I think he understands our dilemma,” Elizabeth replied. “He offered an accurate assessment of our depleted SPR reserve and had no illusions about what that will mean in terms of our ability to help Japan. Still, their energy situation has never fully recovered from the 2011 tsunami and nuclear meltdown, and he’s looking for help in other energy supply areas such as coal, liquid natural gas, and uranium. I told him we would have more wiggle room to help in these areas.”

“That’s good,” the president responded, relieved, “I assume that there have been no second thoughts from those countries since you left them. Will South Korea and Australia aggressively back us on our EEZ position, or will we get only lip service?”

Elizabeth pulled open the window shade with her free hand, capturing more of the glorious sunlight, before answering.

“Australia certainly will. As one of China’s major trading partners, they’ll do what they can to accommodate China. They’re far more concerned with Mustafa and the disastrous effects his embargo is having on the global economy. Australia is almost at a point where they would favor an attack on Mustafa, thinking he couldn’t take out
all
of his oil fields—figuring that having even a few Saudi oil fields in production is far better than what we have now.”

“How about South Korea?” the president asked.

“South Korea will go along with China’s EEZ definition, but only if China leaves open South Korea’s fishing rights in the Yellow Sea and East China Sea. Further, they want to negotiate directly with China to have them put a muzzle on North Korea. Frankly, I’m not totally sure what that means at this point.”

Elizabeth paused, realizing she had been doing all the talking. After an awkward silence, the president said, “I don’t know how your Pacific Rim trip could have gone any better, Elizabeth, but nice job. Will you have any time to enjoy the Hawaiian sun before your return?”

“Very little, Mr. President,” she replied tiredly. “I’ll be filling in for Thurmond Thompson at a dedication ceremony on the base in a little while, and I hope to catch a couple hours of sun before our departure later this afternoon.”

“I hope you do, and I’d say Thurmond owes you one. Have a safe trip back, and I’ll call you on your way back if anything unexpected develops.”

K
ing Mustafa took his seat near the end of the runway to observe the low-level fighter-bomber demonstrations about to take place at the Dhahran Air Base. He had promised General Ali Jabar months ago he would visit the Royal Saudi Air Force Third and Eleventh Air Wings based in Dhahran and was making good on his promise. Though thrilled with the reverberating thunder of the low-flying jets, he still felt the presence of a bothersome pall in the air.

“What is the matter, General Jabar?” Mustafa had asked earlier this morning. “You look concerned.”

“I regret to tell you, King Mustafa, that I have lost one of my most talented generals.”

“Who might that be?” asked Mustafa, feigning sympathy.

“It was Major General Aabid ibn Al Mishari, my chief of intelligence and inspector general. You have met him at larger military gatherings,” answered Ali Jabar.

“Yes, of course,” Mustafa said. “What happened to him?”

“He was making a number of surprise air-base inspections to assess their levels of combat readiness. He left the Hafar Al-Batan Base for Dhahran on an indirect route taking him over the Persian Gulf. He did this, apparently, to maintain an element of surprise—something I’m told he did quite often.”

“Yes, General, please go on,” Mustafa requested, growing impatient with Jabar’s rambling.

“While over the Gulf, Al Mishari changed his heading to Dhahran and dropped down to a lower altitude. It was then that he reported flameouts in both engines and shortly after reported a fire in the cockpit. Seconds later, his radio went dead. Since then, we have picked up debris from his F-15 in the Persian Gulf and can only assume he died a horrible, fiery death in his cockpit before crashing. That is why I am saddened, King Mustafa, but I do hope you will allow our aerial demonstrations to go on today.”

“But of course, General. I would want it no other way. I’m sure he was a fine officer and warrior of the faith, and we will dedicate the demonstration today to him,” Mustafa replied, eager to get it all over with and to start the scheduled meeting he needed with his high command.

“Yes, King Mustafa, we will do as you say,” Ali Jabar said with what sounded like relief in his voice.

After a long and drawn-out demonstration of air power, Mustafa convened his band of brothers to get on with the business at hand.

“I am concerned, Prince Hahad,” Mustafa said to his security chief, “by reports from your secret police that underground opposition cells were discovered in Riyadh and Jeddah. Are they isolated, or is this a part of a broader network?” Mustafa was sure that Prince Khalid was in some way behind this.

“We have arrested a number of suspects in both cities but have not been able to establish any connections, even after using aggressive interrogation techniques. We are sensing a growing discontent among sectors of the population over economic conditions, and opposition activities seem more related to these areas.”

“I can add to that, King Mustafa,” said the king’s favorite, Mullah Mohammed al-Hazari.

“Yes, my brother, please go on,” Mustafa respectfully replied.

“The ulema and religious police are working overtime to enforce shari’a law. Something is happening. After our initial cleansing operation and crackdown on infidels and apostates, there was a period of calm and order. I’m not sure if it’s our rising unemployment levels or other economic hardships, but people seem to be acting out more disrespectfully than we have seen before. We are enforcing more punishments
publically
as a reminder of the consequences of practicing evil ways, but it’s getting worse, not better.”

Nodding, King Mustafa asked, “What about you, Prince Bawarzi, what are you seeing?”

“The morale of our troops remains high, King Mustafa,” he proudly replied. “There have been disruptions in military exercises due to shortages of parts and malfunctioning equipment, but we carry on. We still have a significant parts inventory to draw from, but it gets worse each day as equipment ages and breaks down.”

“How about you, General?” Mustafa continued, worried by what he was hearing.

“We are starting to experience shortages in precision avionics and weapon control systems, Your Majesty,” Ali Jabar answered. “We have instituted crash programs to train our technicians, but we can no longer call on Western arms manufacturers for equipment and expertise and are feeling the pinch.”

Mustafa looked down on the report in front of him and the room fell silent. His mood swings were becoming increasingly volatile, and they were frightened.

“I also am troubled by the reports I am reading,” said Mustafa in a rare moment of candor. “Our geologists say we’ve done irreparable damage to the flow rates of several oil fields by cutting back so abruptly on production—that we’ll never produce as much oil as we have in the past. I’m not overly concerned because we’ll still get our price; the real losers will be the oil-dependent infidels and not us. I’m more concerned, however, with the oil storage problems we are having, and to this I have no immediate answer.”