“You are a good son! I am proud of your efforts and soon you may come home, if that is your wish. But be careful! For if there is another group who may have taken an interest in our business, you may be under surveillance,” the minister shared with his second oldest son, Hassam. His first son, born to his first wife, would have had this assignment had he not have been killed in Afghanistan some years earlier fighting the Americans and their war on terror.
“Father, it was good to have seen you and mother last week. I want to thank you for that. I will do my best not to let you down!” the voice stated, and then the line went dead.
The young man had a good heart, his father mused, if only he hadn’t been so careless as to approach the king’s daughter and then to actually touch the young woman. He knew better; it had been his youthful emotions that had overwhelmed his teachings and upbringing. But their customs and religion did not allow for youthful indiscretions, and if he had not been the king’s nephew, son of his brother, he would have been beheaded for this transgression.
Al-Ghazi held no illusions about his son’s situation. It was his usefulness in the holy war against the West that was the reason he was still alive. After the transgression, he had been sent to Europe and America for school and training in international banking. He fit in well with the infidels, and he had provided dozens of contacts who continued to pay big dividends to the Royal Family. Once the king had decided that he had suffered enough or had proven his worth enough, he would be allowed to return to Saudi Arabia where he would be wed to the daughter of the king in a quiet, private ceremony, and then placed on “in country” exile with his new bride in some out of the way corner of the kingdom. It was not completely his son’s fault. The king’s daughter had dropped her veil and spoken with him. This had brought great shame to the king, and that was the other reason that his son was traveling the world and the king’s daughter was locked in the women’s compound, never to seen by her father again.
Once the West has fallen, surely the king would forgive Hassam and allow his return. Surely his role will be rewarded by his brother, and he will forgive his impetuous daughter, then Hassam can marry the king’s daughter, and they will provide him with grandchildren. Yes, life will be sweet after the West is crushed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It took an hour to get through to the boss, who was stateside when Ron called.
“Clarett here,” the boss answered in a quiet, soft tone.
“Wow! What a difference!” Ron quipped, responding to Clarett’s new phone manner.
“What? You think it sounds wrong?”
“Not wrong, just different. I wasn’t sure it was you for a second,” Ron replied.
“Well, Carrie thought that I sounded like I was totally pissed at the world answering the phone and that I should be more businesslike now that I am in the private sector,” he grumbled.
“I think she was right. It’s not the military anymore. We’re corporate security now,” Ron agreed.
“Yeah, so, enough chit chat. What’s up?” he inquired.
“We’ve run into a few problems down here, and we need an immediate evac for Pam and Mike. Our little foray into the villa turned into a free-for-all, and they both were hit in the dust up. Mike took one in the shoulder and Pam in the thigh. We’ve been able to stabilize them, but we can’t get any medical help or supplies here due to Garza’s connections with the government and his private army covering every hospital, doctor and pharmacy for two hundred miles. Got any ideas about how to get them out?” Ron asked.
“Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll get back with you. In the meantime, do your best to take care of them and stay safe!” Clarett said, hanging up and then quickly dialing another number.
After the phone rang several times, Steven Howard’s secretary answered; after another minute Steven came on the line. “Good morning, Chip. What can I do for you today?” he asked chirpily.
“Hey, Steven, I need you to do us a favor,” Chip started out.
“Oh, what kind of favor?” Steven asked cautiously, while trying to make his voice sound dramatic and mysterious.
“I need you to make a few calls for me,” Chip replied in a no-nonsense tone.
“Oh? And just who will I be calling?” Steven inquired with more Vincent Price-like drama in his tone.
“Cut the crap, Steven. This is important. We’ve got two people injured in Costa Rica, and they’re under fire and we need to fly them out ASAP!” Chip’s voice took on the old general’s tone.
“Oh, right. Okay!” Steven’s tone became all business. “I’ll know who to call, and I’ll get back with you in few minutes with instructions. While you’re waiting for me, get a plane in the air headed for San Jose. Jesus, Chip, I thought you were calling with just everyday stuff. I didn’t mean to joke around. Sorry about that!”
“Just make the calls, and do it now! Every minute counts! I’ve already got the corporate jet underway before I called you. Get them clearance before they need to land,” Chip barked.
“I’ll get it done,” Steven replied.
An hour later, the boss explained to Ron what had been arranged. Steven had called the president of Costa Rica and requested that his corporate jet be allowed to land so that he could have two of his junior executives flown back to the States for medical treatment. Steven explained that they had been down there to do some rock climbing while on an Eco Tour vacation and had fallen. Both had extensive injuries, and he wanted a specialist to check them out in Houston as soon as possible.
The president of Costa Rica was more than happy to accommodate Steven’s request, since they’d been friends for several years, and Steven’s Kilauea Corp. provided the computer systems and software for their government. Plus, the president’s political party used Kilauea Corp. systems, as well. Not to mention that Steven had provided a rather large campaign contribution or, as Steven like to call it, a bribe, to get the contracts.
The corporate jet was to land in just under two hours at the airport in San Jose, where it would avoid customs and go directly to a small hangar at the far end of the airport. There the plane would be on the ground only long enough to refuel and slip Pam and Mike on board.
On board the plane were two doctors and two nurses who would begin treating Mike and Pam the moment they closed the door and it began to taxi for takeoff. With luck, neither Mike nor Pam would be any worse for wear, despite only having received minor first aid for the last thirty-six hours. The plane’s departure happened as planned, leaving Tom, Ron and Alex to the task at hand—the demise of one Fast Eddie Garza and his two top lieutenants.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Robert (Bob) Westlyn was used to riding in the bumper to bumper traffic that was the signature trademark of Washington, D.C. as he made his way out of town toward Richmond, but he wasn’t used to being the driver who had to deal with it.
For more than twenty-six years, he had been chauffeured around town—eighteen as a senator and eight more as the director the CIA; but now as a private citizen, he was forced to drive himself, unless he wanted to spring for the driver and the car, which he did not. He’d have to talk with Steven about a perk for his new position as the International VP for Security at Kilauea Corp.
Bob had taken a commuter flight from Ashville to Washington with a short taxi ride to the parking garage where he kept his personal car. He kept the car there for just such times and for his wife’s occasional luncheons. He hadn’t wasted time trying to reach Steven or Chip because what he had to report was so explosive. In fact, it was the missing piece to the puzzle they had been working on for the last three months. He didn’t feel it was safe to talk about it over the phone, no matter how secure anyone felt it was. His contacts in the Middle East had just dropped this bombshell on him last night via an encrypted e-mail, and he felt the faster the information was acted upon, the better.
What Bob had forgotten in his haste to share the information (which wasn’t in keeping with his normal character) wa
s that the business world had its share of espionage, just like the world of international politics did. So when he arrived at Kilauea Corp. headquarters in Richmond, Virginia, he parked his car in the visitor’s parking lot and walked casually in the front door. It was his first trip to the headquarters, and no one knew he was coming. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been in quite as big a hurry, he would have called ahead and been informed to use the parking garage around the back with its secure entrance that didn’t allow the public to view the comings and goings of the corporate execs. Or perhaps, Steven might have even sent a car for him at the airport, which would have saved him the traffic hassles.
Had he been thinking about who might be curious about who was coming and going at Kilauea Corp., he probably would have arranged a more secretive meeting place, but that was to become hindsight; the reality of this current situation was that his error would come back to bite Steven in the ass, as well as Bob.
Two men sitting in a Ford Crown Victoria—the standard government issued car for all manner of spooks—across the street from Kilauea Corp. headquarters watched as Bob Westlyn exited his Cadillac and began walking toward the building. They took his picture, recognizing he was the former head of the CIA. The photo was transferred electronically, instantaneously, back to the office of their boss, Roger Bascome, as they waited for instructions. They didn’t have to wait long. Before the front door had even closed behind Bob, they received a text message telling them to search his car and plant GPS and listening devices in it.
The two men walked slowly across the parking lot, acting as casually as possible, until they reached Bob’s Cadillac. They quickly produced a Slim Jim, popped the door locks and slipped inside. They then rifled through the interior and looked for anything that might be of value to their boss and installed a GPS locator beacon. When finished with their search, they quickly walked away.
Unknown to them, Kilauea Corp. security cameras caught the whole act of breaking and entering and had it downloaded onto a disc before they had made back to their car. Upon learning that the car belonged to a high-ranking Kilauea Corp. security VP, they sent a copy to Steven Howard’s office immediately. They didn’t call the local police, though, because that was Mr. Howard’s call; they did, however, make three copies of the disc and sent them to separate corporate offices in order to keep a record of the B&E if the first one was somehow stolen or destroyed. It was one of Steven Howard’s standing security orders, which would serve Steven, Kilauea Corp. and the country well in the future.
Once Bob had cleared security upon entering the building, he found himself almost rushed to the top floor and Steven Howard’s office. There he found Steven, holding court with his usual staff members as they worked on a consumer grade PC that Kilauea Corp. was set to introduce in less than sixty days. It was when Bob overheard a concern about hackers trying to access the Kilauea Corp. computer system in Ogden, Utah that he realized that he had made a mistake by waltzing in the front door. He realized that Bascome and Starks must have men watching Steven and the Kilauea Corporation World Headquarters, if for no other reason than he was one of their most vocal critics. Having seen him enter the building was only going to add fuel to their continuing plots to discredit Senator Bains, Howard and Kilauea Corp. Shit!
Steven walked across the room and stuck out his hand to Bob and greeted him as if he were a relative stranger as his staff exited.
“Good morning, Mr. Westlyn. How good of you to stop by. I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad coming in from Washington?” Steven offered cheerily, not showing any sign of his displeasure that Bob had come to Richmond, but no warmth at seeing him, either.
“I’m not really used to driving in this much traffic, but I managed,” Bob replied with only a hint of a smile on his face.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Steven asked politely.
“Oh, no. I won’t take up too much of your time. I just needed to speak to you privately for a few minutes,” Bob answered.
“Thank you, Beth,” Steven smiled as he motioned for his assistant Beth to leave and close the doors to the office on the way out. By the time the doors had closed, Steven had returned to his desk where he quickly flipped a switch on a console that added white noise to his office that would foil any listening devices.
“Bob, what are you doing here?” Steven blurted out after he felt the white noise machine had kicked in.
“I know I should have called, and we should have probably met somewhere else, but this is too important to wait on,” Bob quickly replied.
“What is?” Steven asked, settling back into his chair, waiting for Bob to speak.
“Last night, a very good friend of mine in Egypt sent me an e-mail. It was fully encrypted, of course. And in this e-mail, he happened to mention that he’d had a very interesting piece of information cross his desk. This information was about four fuel air bombs. You know what a fuel air bomb is, right?” Bob asked. Steven simply looked confused, so Bob continued.
“Fuel air bombs are what they call thermobaric bombs. They use the air as one of their fuels to cause the explosion which creates over-pressurization equal to an atomic bomb’s pressure. The fuel air bomb literally sucks all the air from a given area and then mixes it with the other chemicals used in the bomb and explodes it. They were first used in World War II with very good success. But we’ve used them only sparingly since—the last time in the mountains of Afghanistan, the Tora Bora region—and they were extremely successful again, but the politicians were afraid that they would be seen in a bad light internationally. Ya know, for using that type of bomb on those assholes, turning them into vapor and all, so they stopped using it. They were afraid it was too powerful to use against such a primitive enemy.”
“Okay, I think I understand, but what has that got to do with us?” Steven asked.
“The bombs my friend was talking about are Russian made, and they are replacements for the bombs that blew up in Cuba a few months ago!” Bob explained.
“They’re what? That’s what happened in Cuba?” Steven excitedly inquired.
“Yes, the Russians had sent the bombs to Cuba to reship to the Middle East when the Cubans tried to change to the deal for a bigger cut of the money; but someone got stupid with the negotiations, and the Muslim terrorists blew up the ship on which the bombs were being transported. Presto! No more Cienfuegos!” Bob quipped.
“Damn! So the natural gas tanker story was just that—a story. But I still don’t get what this has to do with us?” Steven asked. He didn’t choose to share that he already knew all about the Cuban situation.
“Okay… Well, the bombs were meant for someone in the Middle East, but the first attempt at delivery failed. So the Russians shipped a second batch, and this time, they went through Egypt and my friend was told about them as a courtesy by one of his informers, who just happens to play both sides of the street.”
“So the information is coming to us through a double agent?” Steven inquired.
“A very good double agent! Which, by the way, is what most if not all of the agents in the Middle East are. The Arab mindset is different from ours; they tend place their loyalty in the people or causes that pay them the most money at any particular moment. Yes, there are some who will gladly kill themselves in the name of Allah, but luckily, they are a small minority.”
“Okay, go on,” Steven stated, not sure he could believe this.
“Anyway, I trust my friend. The information comes from one of his agents at the Port of Suez. The bombs were loaded on a small coastal freighter that took them to Djibouti, where they were off-loaded.” Bob stopped as if this was a big point, but Steven just sat there looking at him so he continued.
“Once there, my friend’s agent followed them to Somalia by truck, where they were put on another boat—not a ship, but a boat. A ferry, really—and they were taken to an island off the coast called Ar Rak. We had sent a sub to intercept a freighter coming from Kuwait with Al-Qaeda on board that was going to Bosaso, Somalia, which is
where the bombs met the boat for the trip to Ar Rak. The freighter that carried the bombs from Port Suez to Djibouti was the Emperor of the Sands—the same ship that the Rip Tide sank two days ago.
“My friend says that when the bombs arrived and no men from the ship arrived, it was mass confusion until someone from the local pirates took control and shipped them on to Ar Rak as was the plan.” Bob took a deep breath and let out slowly.
“Is that it?” Steven asked, not seeing the connection, if there was one, other than they’d gotten lucky and sunk the right ship and may have disrupted the terrorist’s plans.
“No! That’s not it!” Bob chided gently. “The bombs continued on from Ar Rak to four different countries in the Persian Gulf area: Kuwait, Bahrain, Oman and Qatar. Now, this is where it really gets interesting. The bombs were then loaded onto four freighters, all sailing under the Iranian flag. The strange thing is, none of the ships show up in any international registry, and all four ships are so poorly maintained, they’ll be lucky to stay afloat tied to the pier. In addition, my friend tells me a young Saudi has been seen at all four ports, and he seems to be in charge of the ships. So, my friend, not wanting to be left out of the game, had the Saudi followed when he left the country, only to follow the guy right to the Ministry of the Interior for Saudi Arabia. Only they don’t meet at his office or his home, but at a mosque in Medina.” Bob now smiled at Steven, obviously pleased with himself, so Steven smiled back as Bob continued.
“The young Saudi then goes to Cyprus, and he makes a large wire deposit. Bascome received money from the same bank and numbered account that this guy wired to.” Bob stopped and waited for the reaction from Steven, and he got what he expected.
Reprisal!- The Eagle's Challenge Page 12
