“You’re going to tell me it’s Sakani aren’t you? Better known as The Butcher. The most unhinged man on the continent.”
“That failed coup attempt a year ago? He thinks we orchestrated it.”
“Did we?” Chris asked.
“Nope,” Frank finished the rest of the drink and pointed at the full one in front of Chris. Chris shook his head and slid it over to the man. “Not this one. But he’s convinced we’re after him and now, reports have it that he’s tipped over a bit.”
“Tipped over?”
“Insane, maniacal. Some say he’s started talking to people who aren’t in the room. Some of them are long since dead.”
“Gotcha.”
“Yeah.” Frank inhaled slowly. “Could be nothing. Could be the end of civilization as we know it.”
“I don’t know,” Chris said doubtfully, “I mean, he’s too far away for a tactical nuke to hit us here … right?”
“That’s the only reason we haven’t stormed in and blown him off the map.”
“So,” Chris finished his drink and sat his empty glass down, “what exactly is Landsdowne’s role in all of this? We know he gave the transport details to the Turkish agitators, but why?”
“I have no idea,” Frank said, staring into Chris’s eyes. “I was hoping you could shed some light on that.”
Chris held his hands out, palm up. “I got nothing, man. I wish I did.”
Another silence fell between them.
“What now?” Chris finally said.
Frank looked over his shoulder and waved at Lindsey. “I’m going to find out what this is we’ve been drinking.”
“So you can order another?”
“Hell no,” Frank snorted. “So I can be sure never to order another one ever again.”
Overhearing them as she walked up, Lindsey said, grinning, “it’s Bruichladdich. Very strong Scotch. Not for the faint of heart. Would you like another round?”
“Not on your life,” Frank said.
He continued to banter with the bartender, but Chris Collins was a thousand miles away, thinking about his old buddy who used to have a preference for strong whiskey. He wondered if Ned was doing okay. He had no way of knowing then that his friend was about to become tangled up in the nuke scare in a terrible way.
4 Leavin’ On A Jet Plane
Whiteville, North Carolina, USA
Ned Henry pulled the cork from the dark green bottle with a pop that echoed across Lake Waccamaw, slicing through the quiet, early-morning mist. His sister glared back at him under her camouflage bucket hat and mouthed the word, “really?”
He shrugged and whispered, “Sis, it’s six-thirty in the morning. If you expect me to work in these conditions, I’m going to need a mimosa.”
Haley sat back and reeled in her line with an exasperated sigh. “So much for catching lunch.”
Ned tapped the overflowing champagne bottle against a plastic cup filled halfway with orange juice. “Got all the sustenance I need right here.”
“You’re an animal. Nobody puts the orange juice in first.”
Haley laid her pole aside and nodded toward his expansive belly jutting out between the open buttons of his Magnum P.I. Hawaiian shirt. “Anyway, it looks like you’ve got more sustenance than you need.”
“Very funny,” Ned said, sipping the drink, then adding more champagne. “Want one?”
Haley shook her head, but a wry smile was already drifting across her face.
“Why not,” she said. “When in Rome, right?”
“We are far from Rome, Haley, but who am I to correct UNC’s newest doctor of global studies?”
He handed her a red solo cup filled to the brim, spilling some of the precious elixir on his hand. As his sister took the drink, Ned licked his own hand.
“Don’t want to waste that. That’s Dom Pérignon in there. Tres expensive.”
She sipped it and raised an eyebrow.
“No shit? I’m guessing you didn’t buy it then, eh?”
He leaned back and put a hand above his eyes, shielding them from the brightening dawn sun.
“Nope. It was a gift from the ambassador of something-or-other last year. And since the Director at the time wasn’t a big fan of champagne, it sat in the break room fridge for a while. I just figured it should go to a good cause and my baby sis getting all doctored up at UNC seemed like a worthy event.”
“It’s just a masters, Ned. I’m looking at the doctorate programs for next fall.” She let the words hang for a second before adding, “when I get back in the States.”
Ned almost did a spit-take, but it was Dom Pérignon, so he managed to hold it in. “Um, what do you mean, back in the States?”
“That’s why I brought you out here. To tell you I took a job.”
“You took a job? Okay, that’s good, but what do you mean? Are you going overseas?”
She took a large gulp of her mimosa.
“I am. Leavin’ on a jet plane.”
Ned waited for her to elaborate, but when it became clear that she wasn’t going to, he huffed and stood up. The boat sloshed back and forth, nearly sending him for a swim. He gathered himself and sat back down, waiting for the waves to settle. He realized the early-morning booze was already affecting his balance.
“Choppy out here,” he said sheepishly.
Haley raised an eyebrow.
“Sis, I’m proud of you. I really am. But, seriously … overseas? You know how I feel about that. My job gives me an intimate look at just how crazy things can get. At least tell me you’re going to a civilized country with a real government?”
She cleared her throat, ignoring the question.
“Ned, you know I’m a big girl, right? I can take care of myself.”
“But you don’t—”
She held up a hand to interrupt him. “And I’ve done my homework on this. It’s a six-month contract and pays pretty damn well. I’ll make enough to cover almost all of my doctorate.”
“You know that old saying, ‘if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is’?”
“It’s all legit, Ned. My professor at UNC told me a partner university abroad contacted them to offer me the position. My doctorate will be paid before I even start, plus when I get back I’ll be able to get a sweet Jeep.”
“Oh, well,” Ned slapped a hand on his knee and said, “there you go. As long as you make enough to get a Jeep. Jesus, sis. This is not a game. There are places where pretty American girls disappear from the planet on a daily basis.”
“Dammit, Ned,” she said. “I’m not a baby anymore. You can’t protect me forever.”
“But that’s what dad told me to do before he…”
His words trailed off. Jack Henry had died when Ned was thirteen. Haley was only eight at the time. Ned’s eyes stung. He then realized why Haley had used the ‘leaving on a jet plane’ reference seconds earlier. The John Denver record had been their dad’s favorite song, and one the family had listened to on road trips many times.
Haley put her cup down and waddled over to Ned. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pecked him on his forehead.
“You have protected me, big brother,” she said. “But now it’s my time to fly, to stretch my wings. I didn’t get a masters in global studies to cruise around Lake Waccamaw forever.”
He swallowed and smiled. “Fair enough. I guess you’re right. But I did hear the museum is hiring.”
“It’s a museum of natural sciences,” Haley said, shaking her head. “They have a couple of stuffed owls and a metal dinosaur skeleton. I think I’m a bit past that now.”
Ned leaned over and reached into a nearby ice chest. He pulled out a Milky Way candybar, unwrapped it and took a big bite.
“I know, sis. You’re right.”
“Is that your breakfast?” she laughed. “Mimosas and chocolate?”
He bounced his eyebrows up and down.
“Breakfast of champions.”
She poked him in the belly,
stood and picked up her rod. She flung the line out expertly and sat back in her seat.
“You know, there’s a reason you can’t button that shirt, right?”
“I do,” he said, defensively. “I accidentally bought an extra medium instead of an extra large.”
She laughed and reeled her line in slowly.
“So,” he said between bites, “where is it you’re headed? France? Spain? Or somewhere exotic like Bali? That place is crazy. I want to stay in one of those cabanas on the water someday.”
Haley hesitated. Ned could see she was debating whether or not to lie to him. He knew his sister well enough to guess when she was lying or at least omitting some of the truth. He saw in her eyes she had decided on a less-than-truthful answer.
“Venice,” she said. “I’m going to Venice. Always wanted to ride on one of those gondolas.”
Ned sighed. It was a tough decision whether to call her out and tell her he knew she was lying, or to let her keep something from him. He decided this was too important.
“Uh huh.” He shook his head. “And I’m Douglas Pratt. Where are you really going?”
Haley gazed out across the water.
“Okapi,” she finally said, through tight, thin lips. “But it’s just six months and there’s a team taking care of me. They told me security is super tight and it’s totally safe. We’ll be in and out before anyone knows we’re there.”
“Hell no!” Ned jumped up from his seat at hearing she planned to head to the hottest flashpoint on the planet. The boat rocked violently and he lost his balance.
He flopped into the calm water, sending tidal waves out in ever-expanding circles. His soaked, matted head poked up and he shook the water away from his eyes. He jerked a finger up and pointed at her.
He started to protest again, but he could see the determination in the set of Haley’s jaw. She wasn’t backing down. Plus, being authoritative wasn’t easy after he’d just taken an involuntary swim.
“At least let my new security agency protect you?” he said as he bobbed. “I mean … Chris’s new agency.”
“Ned. I know how good Chris is. And I know how much he depended on you when you worked at Langley. But if you and your friend have to go with me to hold my hand, I’d rather just stay home.”
“Not a bad idea,” Ned mumbled as his sister reached her hand out for him. Then he added: “it’d better be a damn sweet Jeep.”
5 World War III
Langley, Virginia
The polished wood of the long, rounded desk had been so diligently buffed to a mirror shine that it reflected the stern faces of the people sitting around it. The operations room assigned to the Special Activities Center at New CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia was illuminated by spotlights that created shadows in corners while bringing attention to the faces of people who were there to make decisions of vital importance. It was as if the lighting had been designed to remind them that the whole world could be changed by the choices they took in that room.
Given the magnitude of their responsibility, none of them should have been thinking about personal vendettas with others around the table, or allowing their pride to get in the way of reason. However, with great power comes great ego. Gargantuan decisions could bring glory as well as failure, and people tend to focus on the possibility of the former instead of the latter. It was like a pride of hyenas jockeying to be the alpha dog.
The CIA had not been covered in glory in recent months. There is an entire department that downplays or squashes bad news, but sometimes, bad news gets out before damage control can get to it. The exposing of the former Director, Helen Miller, as a traitor had damaged the agency’s reputation so catastrophically that it would take years to repair. In panic, the Director of National Intelligence had then approved a replacement who had been seen as a safe pair of hands due to his experience. Unfortunately, it had turned out that he had reached the age where life experience gives way to reduced motivation and reduced brain power.
There could be no such complaints about the man who had now taken the reins...the third Director in the space of just a few months. At 62, Dean Hart was fully in control of his faculties while benefiting from his years in the field. He had served with Force Reconnaissance in Iraq during the First Gulf War, before completing decades of successful service with the CIA, including as part of the highly clandestine Special Operations Group.
Hart looked every part the veteran that he was. Thanks to the gnarled and leathery nature of this skin, his face presented like a saddle that had spent long winters hung on a stable wall, but his perfectly tailored suit reminded everyone who dared look at him that he took pride in his appearance, just as he took pride in everything else he did. His hair, like his physique, was still tight and precise. No matter anyone’s experience or ego around the table, when he spoke, they listened.
While everyone else was seated, he leaned on the table with his fists clenched and his head forward, staring into pairs of eyes to confirm everybody was paying attention.
“As you are all aware, we are dealing with two issues. One is the embarrassment of our weapons having been taken by rogue Turkish officers. It already appears that their coup will fail, and the most successful part of any of it, from their point of view, was taking weapons from the United States. Overpowering Marines and taking what they wanted like it was a cheap carjacking.”
The only sound in the room was the sound of Frank McDougall’s labored breathing. He’d had a few too many rounds last night and wasn’t doing a great job of hiding it.
“The other problem we have is the crazed dictator in Africa,” the Director continued. “He has his shiny new toys and he will be very excited to use them.”
Hart handed out dossiers to the five other people around the table.
“This lunatic spends most of his life jacked up on amphetamines. By all accounts, he doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t most days. But he has some very capable and very dangerous generals around him.”
Agents leafed through the pages of the dossiers, looking at evidence of torture, mass executions, and the burning of an entire village because a journalist from there had spoken out against the regime.
“This is what he does to his own people,” Hart said, clapping closed his copy of the dossier and flinging it on the table.
A square-headed guy with a scar under his left eye raised an open palm, indicating that he was about to speak. James Huskey.
Frank McDougal rolled his eyes.
“This man is insane,” Huskey told the room, sounding like a teacher exasperated with a mediocre class. “There’s no doubt about that. So, what do we do? Negotiate? Expect him to meet us halfway then stick to the terms? We know how that goes.”
“We take him out,” added a woman whose blonde highlights were battling wispy gray strands of hair. Ann Brown. “He has total power. If he falls, the whole stack of cards falls.”
“We take him out,” Huskey agreed. “That’s the....”
Hart interrupted, his voice slightly raised.
“You sound confident. Easy to be confident sitting here isn’t it? But think about this. The man almost never leaves his palace. That place is guarded like a military compound. He never leaves for diplomatic engagements abroad. We can’t get to him in Geneva, or Paris, or Rome. The only way to assassinate him would be to recruit someone from among his staff. Or his family. That would take months or even years.”
“So there’s only one option then,” Huskey interjected, jabbing his finger out for emphasis. “Intervention.”
“We are not dealing with terrorists here,” Frank McDougal replied, his deep voice demanding attention. “This would be an attack on a government. Officially sanctioned, that would be known as a war. You wanna go to war again?”
“It would be over in weeks. Days.”
“That’s what they said about Iraq. And Afghanistan.”
“The whole point of intervention would be to get our weapons back, or disable them, and s
top him from using them, but if we intervene with boots on the ground he will use them anyway. And he has connections to China. Infrastructure projects that are China’s way of taking control in the continent. We could be talking World War III.”
“That’s what they say every time we take action,” Huskey retorted. His tit-for-tat sarcasm didn’t go down well with Hart.
“We always need to talk about the worst case scenario,” the Director told the room. “The most likely scenario, if we don’t contain those weapons, is that they are used on regional targets, inflicting horrific injuries on American citizens and the local population. People think they know what nuclear weapons do, but once they see it in HD on 24/7 rolling news it’s a whole new story. The world will say we made weapons that burn flesh from bones then failed to stop them being used on our own people.”
There was a moment of silence as the gathered experts contemplated the seriousness of the situation.
“How the hell did this happen?” Brown asked anyone and everyone. It was a rhetorical question uttered in anger, as all in attendance knew the answer already. “The hack on the Pentagon. Details of the weapons transport got to the Turkish traitors early enough for them to make their plans. Troops on the ground should not have known about it so early. And…,” she added, turning towards McDougal, “the hack was orchestrated by the piece of scum who is now locked up. Landsdowne. Your buddy, Chris Collins, helped to nail him.”
Frank said nothing, wondering where she was going with this.
“What’s your point?” Huskey asked.
“Landsdowne wouldn’t pass information like that to the Turkish traitors as a favor. He’s powerful, has connections everywhere. He also hates his own country since the FBI pinned him for fraud a decade or more ago. He did three years in Lieber Correctional Institution. He must have played a part in making sure those weapons ended up in the hands of someone who hates us as much as he does.”
“If you’re suggesting we get Chris Collins involved, forget it,” Hart told her. “Even if you’re right, we don’t need to waste our time asking that damn poster boy for his insights into Landsdowne’s connections and motivation. It’s not going to get us our weapons back.”
Sahara Dawn Page 3
