No one spoke. No one could speak, but most hoped and prayed that this was some terrible dream. Surely we’ll wake up soon; we must wake up—this can’t really be happening.
And so the course was set, their journey too frightening to contemplate. The President didn’t know what to think, but in the final analysis, he’d faced this problem head-on. He’d delivered nothing less than the absolute and complete truth, without compromise. When your back’s against the wall, integrity is all that matters.
Lucky Strikes Out, 12/10/2014, 1945 Zulu, 11:45 A.M. Local
Gate 2 Security Guard Shack,
Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory,
Livermore, Calieornia
Mamood Abdul moved swiftly, silently, through San Francisco on his divine mission from Allah. He was a Muslim extremist, pure and simple, who believed that killing Americans, especially those living in the big city, was God’s will. Methodical, patient, and dangerous, his view of Americans was developed during his ten-year period as a cab driver in the Newark/New York City area. He’d learned through experience that life on big city streets was cheap, and devoutly believed that people living in the city had traded their souls, their humanity, to the devil for the almighty dollar. As a result, they were no different from rats or vermin and he felt the world was better off without them.
Dressed as a truck driver, Mamood’s appearance was unremarkable. His most distinguishing features were his bushy black hair and beard. Reared by the Iraqi state with no family influences, Mamood had never known his father or mother. His religious and spiritual needs had been filled by the Muslims when he was young and impressionable. Educated only through the fifth grade, anything he lacked in formal training, he made up for with perseverance—the man would not take no for an answer and he wouldn’t quit.
Mamood was perceptive and patient; he learned by observation, always waiting for the right opportunity.
Mamood drove his rental car west down Interstate 580 to Livermore, California. Once at Livermore, he drove to the Livermore Laboratory to scope out the area firsthand. Livermore Laboratory was a sprawling collection of office, warehouse, and laboratory buildings spread across a square mile area, much like a college campus. Operated jointly by the University of California, the Department of Energy, and the Strategic Defense Initiative Organization, Livermore’s bread and butter was Star Wars software. Livermore had programmed the SDI satellite armada, and had software maintenance and test responsibility as well.
Compared to the large main laboratory buildings, Mamood found Guard Shack 2 tiny, a small brick building positioned a few hundred feet from the main complex. Anyone who walked in or out of the Livermore Lab complex from the north side parking lot was funneled past Merchant Lucky in Guard Shack 2. With clear glass on all four sides, visibility into the guard shack posed a problem of timing for Mamood, but he could work around it. He noticed the many trees around the guard shack limited visibility from the laboratory complex. After watching the guard shack from the parking lot for about half an hour, he also noticed that no one paid any attention to the security guard as they left the complex. Employees displayed their ID badges for the security guard’s approval when they entered the complex, but when departing, they bolted out of the building like wild horses racing to their automobiles, focusing only on their rat race home. Mamood decided that he must enter Guard Shack 2 during a shift change when Merchant Lucky was alone.
Mamood recognized Merchant Lucky from his photograph, sitting alone behind his computer terminal. He knew the first shift left Livermore at 3:15 and that’s all he needed to know. His controller had taken care of nearly all the details and Mamood need only execute.
Using American Express to solve all his travel problems, Mamood’s controller ran his assassination company out of Newark like a small business. His controller provided a travel and information package which included, in code, everything that Mamood would require for an efficient operation. Travel plans, tickets, car and van rentals, cash advances, lethal gasses, weapons, poisons—all sorts, and an information package containing everything available on Merchant Lucky, including photographs and maps of the Livermore area.
He rented a small EZ haul truck, then drove around the lab, circling the complex until a rush of outbound traffic announced the first shift exodus. Mamood drove cautiously against the flow of traffic into the parking lot outside Guard Shack 2.
Merchant Lucky noticed an EZ haul truck pulling into the mammoth north parking lot and concluded the driver must be lost. They didn’t take any deliveries through Gate 2 and most drivers knew that.
Mamood parked his truck in the area designated for visitor parking, just outside Guard Shack 2, in plain view of Lucky. Lucky watched Mamood cautiously approach the guard shack, looking lost and somewhat bewildered, walking against the onslaught of employees in full gallop toward the north parking lot. He knocked on the glass door to the guard shack, pointing to his map, asking for directions. Lucky signaled for him to enter, but remained seated. Mamood clutched a map in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in the other. Inside the newspaper, he carried a silent device developed by the Russian KGB—a compact lethal gas gun loaded with ricin. With an average lethal dose of only 1/5,000 gram, ricin was the untreatable toxin used in the Georgi Markoff umbrella murder. Once inhaled, the gas quickly produced all the symptoms of a heart attack, and was difficult, if not impossible, to detect in the bloodstream; a well-established method for inducing accidental death, used most often on older adults.
Mamood smiled as he entered Guard Shack 2; Merchant Lucky was alone. He quickly scanned the interior of the room for cameras. There were security TV monitors, but none monitoring the inside of the guard shack. Mamood’s heart pounded in his chest as he asked Lucky for directions to shipping and receiving. Spreading Mamood’s map across his desk, Lucky studied it for a moment to orient himself. When Lucky looked up to give the burly truck driver directions, he found himself staring into the open end of a rolled newspaper. Startled, Lucky gasped his last breath. Seeing his surprise, Mamood blessed Allah’s name and squeezed the trigger, releasing the invisible lethal gas in Lucky’s face.
Oil, 12/10/2014, 2030 Zulu, 11:30 P.M. Local
Emergency Cabinet Meeting,
Underground Bunker,
Baghdad, Iraq
Secretary-general al-Mashhadi (Mother) was perched like a restless hawk behind the lectern, surveying the faces of the Cabinet members as they watched the American President on CNN. Towering over the lectern at the head of the conference table, he looked gargantuan, shaped like the front end of a bus, with sandpapery skin and two dark reddish-black eyes that seemed to boast the Iraqi credo—Nobody hurts me unharmed. Behind his flint hard eyes beat the heart of a barbarian, and tonight he had the disposition of a rattlesnake. He was trying to cope with a kaleidoscope of feelings, from bewilderment to rage to exhilaration, all intertwined with overpowering fatigue. His complexion looked Indian, but under the dim light inside the blast-proof bunker, it was hard to tell. Whatever he was, there was a frightening presence about him.
He surveyed each Cabinet member for some moments, then found a kindred spirit, Colonel Nassar—the officer who created PAM—sitting at the far end of the table in the back of the room. He gazed at Colonel Nassar; he seemed so small and frail. All this destruction caused by such a little man, he thought.
After the American President disappeared from the TV screen, al-Mashhadi pointed the remote control toward the TV and turned it off.
No one in the room moved. No one, not even Colonel Nassar, could mentally accept what they were viewing. Iraqi President Kamel, Colonel Nassar, and the entire Iraqi Cabinet sat thunderstruck by the global chaos, by the fearsome power of Allah.
After silently brooding over their situation several minutes, al-Mashhadi decided to set his Islamic religious practices aside. He poured himself a drink, topping off his shot glass with gin—draining the bottle dry. “To PAM,” he murmured softly, raising his drink in toast. “Allahu Ak
bar." Gulping it down, he felt invincible, like he would live forever. Mother struggled to sort out his feelings. He felt the exhilaration that comes from revenge combined with an acute anxiety over the American President’s speech. In his soul, he’d always believed that Allah was greater than his enemies, but never imagined Allah would punish his own. Earlier today, approximately two hundred Iraqis had died in military and commercial aircraft crashes.
Slowly, the Cabinet members lifted their glasses to PAM, but said nothing.
There was more than a moment of silence before al-Mashhadi continued. “As we drink, the balance of power is shifting beneath our feet like desert sands. The world is grounded by their orbiting armada and the American President admits they are powerless against it. Inshallah (God willing), our time has come. Kuwaiti oil fields are ours for the taking.”
Sweat beaded across Colonel Nassar’s balding forehead as he breathed a silent sigh of relief. Until now, the Iraqi expert on PAM had feared for his life because he’d never projected, or even imagined, such arbitrary destruction and loss of life as this. PAM had crippled the Allied war machine as he’d expected, and more—much, much more.
Colonel Nassar contemplated their situation along with the chiefs of the Iraqi Air Force, Army, and Navy. A multitude of issues raced through the colonel’s mind. Would the Americans link PAM to Iraq? Possible, but not likely. Would the Iraqis have enough time to mobilize an invasion force and attack Kuwait before the Allies eliminated PAM? He couldn’t say. There were simply too many variables.
The diminutive little colonel stood and spoke first in a voice that was barely audible. “We have two significant problems.” The entire Cabinet leaned forward in their seats, straining to hear the wiry little man speak. “However, our risks can be managed. First, the Allies will not rest until they find the saboteurs; therefore we must cover our tracks. Second, we’re not ready for an invasion of Kuwait. Our Army must prepare and this will take time. The Allies could eliminate PAM and restore their orbiting armada before we occupy Kuwait.”
Iraqi President Kamel had lived much of his life in America, and he knew Colonel Nassar spoke the truth. Through an alcoholic haze, Iraqi President Hessian Kamel al-Tikriti opened another bottle and filled his glass. This was the only way he knew to hide his doubt concerning his decision to deploy PAM, and clearly there was no turning back now. “So this disastrous catastrophe comes down to a problem of covering our tracks.” President Kamel gazed around the room in disgust at his slovenly, drunken, party of God. “No battles, no glorious victories for Allah, only the rancid stench of death.” All the military chiefs were present, most huddled around the conference table under a thick cloud of cigar smoke, reveling in the catastrophe they’d brought on the infidels. Looking through the smoke, the President saw the fire of revenge still blazing in their eyes.
Calmly blessing Allah’s name, the sad-eyed chief of military intelligence replied, “Our revenge is complete, Excellency. The Maronites (enemies of Allah) have suffered grievous losses. Our losses were significant, but small by comparison.”
“And what of our agents?” the Iraqi President seethed. “What if they’re discovered? Have you any idea what that would mean?”
“Inshallahthe chief of military intelligence responded cautiously, “they are already dead.”
President Kamel gulped down his drink, then spoke in a caustic voice. “No trail.” The icy stare he gave the chief of military intelligence conveyed the sincerity behind this order. The intelligence chief acknowledged with a grimace.
“Allahit Akbar," al-Mashhadi mumbled after he guzzled down another drink and sat down directly across from Colonel Nassar. He wondered if any of the encrypted e-mail messages he’d sent Lucky could be traced. He didn’t think so, but he decided to have the crypto sergeant look into it. Much of his adult life, al-Mashhadi had lived for this day, had lived to revenge the Gulf War. Now, with his revenge complete, his thirst was insatiable. He wanted more.
“Colonel, how long do we have before the infidels eliminate PAM?” al-Mashhadi asked as he studied the clear liquid contents in his glass.
“A few days at least, maybe months. We do not know. No one knows, but Allah has delivered us. Our time has come.” Colonel Nassar was smart and shared one thing in common with al-Mashhadi. Under his deceptively delicate facade beat a barbarian’s heart. Although quiet, soft-spoken, and physically small, hard work had made him wiry and tough.
The face of Iraqi President Kamel was acutely downcast—one could even call it mournful. He buried his face in his hands and murmured, “There you have it—chaos for oil.” The Iraqi President had never felt so impotent, and he could feel the acid burning in his stomach from the frustration. This sequence of events was out of his control. Any protest he might raise would be perceived as weakness and fall on deaf ears.
“No matter how great the preparation,” al-Mashhadi said slowly. “Nothing ever seems to work out the way it’s planned.” Al-Mashhadi leaned forward on his sledgehammer fists, pushed himself up from his chair, and announced, “Allah is with us. There’s no turning back now.”
Still thunderstruck by the global chaos, their tongues still, the Iraqi President and Cabinet ministers offered no resistance.
Al-Mashhadi sat down and drummed his massive fingers The Day of Retribution on the table. After a few moments thought, he spoke to the overweight army chief. “How long before we invade Kuwait?”
The portly general cleared his throat and tried not to stammer. “As you know, our war plans assume we have air superiority. We planned that the Kuwaiti ground forces would be softened up by our airpower before we began our mechanized ground assault. We won’t enjoy air superiority, but neither will Kuwait, and we’ll have the benefit of surprise. We’ll revise our attack plan to deliver a fast-moving, mechanized thrust that’ll drive the Kuwaiti Army into the Gulf.”
“I asked how long before we invade?” Al-Mashhadi was determined. The gaze from his glassy black eyes penetrated the smoke-filled room.
“The duration of the war must be short, one week or less. Speed and preparation are our linchpins. In the past, we’ve planned one massive, overwhelming strike. Knock ’em off balance, then drive them into the sea before they can react. Assuming our missiles and aircraft are useless, 150,000 men, one thousand tanks . . .” The general paused, furrowed his brow, then decided to dig in and stand his ground. He turned to the Iraqi President in protest. “Excellency, this is nonsense! I must study our revised plans before I commit to an attack date. Rapid occupation without airpower—this requires a significant change in our war plans, a major shift in strategy and thrust. I’ll deliver you our revised plans tomorrow, but I expect we’ll require at least twelve weeks to prepare.”
Suddenly, like a great ocean swell, al-Mashhadi’s gigantic hulk rose up and grabbed the corpulent army general by the braided lapels on his uniform, then slammed him hard against the concrete wall. In an acidic, menacing voice, he muttered, ‘There is no alternative. No discussion. Occupy Kuwait city by Christmas.”
The heavyset general gazed upward into al-Mashhadi’s thick-lidded eyes. Al-Mashhadi tightened his grip on the lapels and brought the general’s fleshy face to within an inch of his own. The Iraqi army general smelled the stench of al-Mashhadi’s breath and considered going for the small graphite revolver he kept concealed in his pocket. The general decided against it. There would be another time and a better place. Perhaps a sniper’s bullet inside Kuwait city, yes, that could be easily arranged.
“Kuwait city—Christmas day,” the army general seethed quietly. His voice was restrained, but sounded loathsome.
Al-Mashhadi released the general, who glared at him with a mixture of contempt, rage, and fear. As in any meeting of the Iraqi Cabinet, fear won out, so he straightened his coat, turned, and walked out the bunker door.
Regroup, 12/10/2014, 2130 Zulu, 2:30 P.M. Local
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado
Bleary-eyed and alone in the Crow’s Nest video confer
ence room, Mason read a brief report concerning the accidental death of Shripod Addams. He was in a daze, still shaken by the mind-boggling events of the day, all the staggering losses. Mason had ordered his staff to get some sleep then organize into shifts. As he reread the message, Craven walked quietly into the room.
“Shripod Addams is dead,” Mason sighed as he passed the message to Craven.
“I heard,” Craven said somberly. “Damn grisly way to die. Sounded like a fluke accident, but you never know.”
Struggling to keep his eyes open, Mason rubbed his temples. “We don’t have much to go on, just that gum, but we’re going over his apartment with a fine-toothed comb.”
There was silence while they tried to make some sense of it, but it was impossible. The shock of the disaster had numbed their minds. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.
Craven placed both his large hands on Mason’s shoulders as if to say, / understand. Two years Mason’s senior, Craven had precious few peers. Some in the military had feared him, many had envied him, many more had wanted his job, but not Mason. Craven thought Mason’s leadership inspirational. Mason made you feel good about yourself, about others, about life. Above all, he couldn’t be bought. He was a man of principle and integrity. He stood up for what he believed in, he had courage, and Craven respected him for it. He had admired Mason’s independence for thirty years, and now wanted to give him something in return. Craven removed the five-star shoulder boards from his uniform. “These meant the world to me and I want you to have them.” Craven, who was very powerful, was sometimes surprisingly gentle. “I know they’ll be in good hands.” Mason accepted Craven’s shoulder boards without an exchange of words. There was no need to speak. Mason loved the man; his eyes said it all.
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