by Tony Bulmer
“The United Nations? I am sure their help, if you could call it that, will be most valuable. But have we not been in this position before Prime Minister, bowing down before the Great American Satan, like slave girls in the market place?”
“Must you thrust your cursed sense of foresight at me now General, in this time of great national crisis? If you seek an admission that I should have listened to you more closely, then you have it. The question is; what can we do now? You know as well as I that we are powerless against America’s unholy warmongering.”
“Perhaps I should consult with the men of the mountains Prime Minister and effect a response to this slight to our national pride.”
“What are you thinking General? The mountain men are a law unto themselves. Creating such a debt would be most unwise. Who knows what price they would demand in return.”
“You are quite right of course, Prime Minister. It would be reckless and foolhardy to seek direct help under such circumstances. But given the right budget, I am sure that I might effect a response from our many allies.”
“More money General? The budget for national security exceeded its limits many months ago. There is only so much I can authorize, without questions being asked. The American auditors have been most rigorous in their attentions. Accusations of impropriety have been made. We must be cautious; the Americans suspect we are using their own money against them. They cannot back up these accusations of course, but if the full truth were to come out—”
“Calm yourself Prime Minister. The Americans desire to buy influence exceeds all measure of common sense. They will continue to bankroll us through fear. And you can be assured that my people will continue to perpetuate that fear for many years to come. However, such efforts come at a price—as well you know.”
“It would seem General that there is no end to your expenses. I would have thought you had siphoned off quite enough from the security budget to cover any and all expenditures. Perhaps you would like me to snatch away bread from the food bowls of the poor, so that you might further fund your life of extravagance?”
The general gave an unpleasant laugh. He sucked on his cigarette one last time then ground it out into a large onyx ashtray. “You are in no position to lecture me on matters of budgetary restraint Prime Minister. You perhaps forget that I receive word of every rupee your administration spends. What would your cost conscious American friends say if they knew of your art collection, your Swiss bank accounts, or your palatial homes around the world?”
“You have been spying on me General?”
“Of course Prime Minister. Spying is my job. I am very good at it—something you would do well to remember.”
“You dare to threaten me?”
Again the general laughed. “You bleat like a washerwoman. If you seek respect, act like a man, work with me against the American Jackals.”
There was a long poisonous silence, then finally the Prime Minister said quietly, “What assistance do you need General, aside from the provision of unlimited funds?”
The general tossed a fresh cigarette into his mouth and snorted contemptuously. “I thought you would never ask.”
52
Lauren Whitaker
Lauren ran like crazy through the darkness. The stars blurred. Dark trees encroached, and all around a thick curtain of grasping vegetation pressed in upon her. Moving ever closer, the angry sounds of pursuit echoed through the orchard. Distracted, she tripped and fell onto the broken ground. She, tumbled, banged her head and quickly rose. The world swirled. Her knees trembled, yet she forced herself onwards. The wet grass was getting deeper and more reed-like now, the ground squelching underfoot. She felt the filth oozing between her toes. The ghastly feeling came with a horrible swamp-like smell that drew in around her, pursuing her every step. She scrunched her face, almost crying out from the sheer horror of it all. A filthy foreign swamp, with bugs and insects swarming the air—who knew what other horrors might lurk unseen in the cloying darkness? She paused. Looked around in desperation. The thick reeds were shoulder high now and the stinking mud was rising ever deeper—clutching at her ankles. Perhaps she was heading towards a lake, or a river? Ahead of her, there came a noise—a splashing, slithering sound that froze her blood. Snakes! Of course there would be snakes out here—there had to be—But what kind of snakes? The kind that lay in wait for their unsuspecting prey, before striking fast and squeezing tight in a slow, deadly embrace? Or maybe they were sharp-fanged snakes, their jaws dripping with poisonous venom?
Paralyzed with fear, Lauren reached out into the darkness with every sense she had. She parted the reeds very carefully, expecting to hear the sound again, and yet hoping with every fiber of her being that she wouldn’t. She tried to swallow, but her dry, adrenaline charged mouth would not allow such a luxury. She realized with shock that her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She turned her palms upwards and looked at them with disbelief. How could this be happening? Was she losing her nerve? It was almost as though the rifle she had snatched away from the scrawny sentry was still reverberating in her hands. Her minds eye conjured the horrible arc of fire as the bullets cut into the night. She had just killed a man. Killed him quite by accident, but killed him none-the-less. Or had she? There had been no sign of the sentry’s corpse, and therefore no evidence of her heinous crime. Why was she being so hard on herself? Perhaps he had crawled away in the long grass, embarrassed that a woman captive had stolen away his precious rifle. In her heart she knew it wasn’t true. She had killed him for sure. She had mown down an unarmed man with a machine gun. How would God ever be able to forgive such an act of wickedness? She would be condemned by her actions, doomed to a life of guilt and an eternity of spiritual punishment.
Lauren tried to focus. She struggled to put the nightmare into a perspective that she could deal with. But her brain was short-circuiting with the endless horror. What in the hell was she going to do? How in the world was she ever going to get out of this? She had to be strong, bold decisive. Trouble was, she didn’t feel any of those emotions right now. All she felt was fear and hopelessness. She scrunched her face tight, drew her shaking hands into fists and told herself—you can do this, you can make it, you can come out the other side—You are a survivor.
Behind her, in the orchard, the sound of excited voices was growing ever closer. He fear had cost her valuable minutes. If she allowed the terror of the unknown to consume her now, she would be doomed, just a surely as if she had been bitten by the most poisonous snake of all.
Through sheer sense of will, Lauren forced herself to move onwards. There was no going back, and to move forwards, even deeper into the swamp would lead to the kind of problems she could well do without. Her fear stricken mind was moving once again—she could do this—there was no doubt that she could. She was a strong resourceful woman, who had climbed to the very pinnacle of the most voraciously perilous dinner party circuit in the western hemisphere. If she had the smarts to beat her way past the D.C. social set, then she could out wit a gang of malodorous ruffians. Glancing about her, Lauren decided that she would skirt the swamp in a clockwise direction. To the left there was a definite glow on the horizon. A sudden hope rose within her, the glow might mean there was civilization of some kind—a village perhaps? Somewhere she could hide out and seek refuge? The soft glow might also be an illusion of course, a reflection crated by the shrouded moon. The excited voices were getting ever closer now. She could hear the men hacking their way through the thick reeds with machetes. Lauren turned and strode out towards the glowing horizon. She had nothing to lose now—nothing at all.
53
Villa of General Faz Huq, Islamabad, Pakistan.
“You are to be congratulated General. You have redeemed yourself with a most imaginative play.” Zhàn Tao’s sharp, angular face appeared larger than life on the general’s widescreen. Tao’s cruel eyes burned with some dark inhuman power. The general shifted uncomfortably. It was almost as though Zhàn Tao could read his mind. Th
e general suppressed a shudder, he had to concentrate, dismiss the thoughts, lest his true feeling be discovered. Even if the accursed Chinaman could not read minds, his spies were everywhere. No part of the world was safe from his far-reaching power. His vast wealth corrupted and destroyed everything it touched.
Tao’s great power made the general sick with envy. The omnipotent Chinaman thought he was a god-king, an emperor, an ancient pharaoh of old. What gave him the right? The general knew that if he were patient, he would get the chance to wrap his fingers very tightly around the Chinaman’s neck. How cathartic and fulfilling that would be—to throttle the life out of him very slowly—until his bodily fluids oozed. The general felt the excitement rising hard against his trousers. Almost climaxing with pleasure, he imagined the words of hatred rolling from his lips as he completed the deed. He felt a wild compulsion to cry out now. Let the words tumble from his lips. But that would never do. Such rash indulgence would spoil everything. Instead, the general restrained himself. He gave a short curt bow of respect. “The plan progresses to schedule Excellency. The Americans have been slapped down once again, but very soon they will be hurting more than they ever imagined possible.”
Zhàn Tao’s thin lips grew tight. He didn’t smile, but a cruel wave of pleasure edged very briefly across his jade like face. He nodded very slowly and thoughtfully, then said, “Your endeavors will be richly rewarded. In addition to this, you will be bestowed the new title of Proctor of the Subcontinent, a realm that will extend from the northern mountains of Afghanistan, to the southern most tip of India. I trust that you will be honored to carry out this most demanding position, once the new Humanistian future is upon us?”
“Indeed Great Leader. I look to the future with much excitement.”
“As well you might. Our forces are poised to subvert the world economy. I trust the final device is in place?”
“Preparations are highly advanced Excellency. As we speak, my agents are making preparations for the initiation of the final device.”
Zhàn Tao’s, sharp little teeth appeared menacingly between his lips. “Your efficiency has been duly noted General. Your role in the new future of mankind will be a historic one. Many years from now, the school children of the world will sing songs of your glorious achievements, and all across the Humanistian subcontinent of Asia, great statues will be erected in honor of your noble contribution to the advancement of the new age of mankind.”
“Your generous words honor me with their praise Excellency.”
Zhàn Tao stared, his face devoid of even the slightest emotion. “You have spoken with the puppet of the Americans Kalam Khan?”
“Indeed. The Prime Minister suspects nothing. He is contemptible in his ignorance.”
Zhàn Tao nodded, once, twice—his thin lips twisting slowly. “The hour is at hand, General. Very soon, the false leaders will slip into the ignominious realm of the past. They will be irrelevant, forgotten, washed away by the new rising age of Humanistian leadership.”
General Faz Huq took a quick swallow and beamed with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, hoping desperately that the rapacious black eyes of Zhàn Tao were unable to read his mind.
The widescreen uplink fizzled and went black.
The general fumbled for a cigarette, tapping one out with difficulty from his jeweled cigarette case. He popped his lighter and felt the soothing wave of toxicity flood through him. Just a few short days from now, those American Jackals would be banished into the realm of perpetual ruination. The so-called civilized countries would fall like dominoes soon after, and then he would give the Chinaman a taste of real cruelty, show him just exactly who was the master of the world.
There came a sharp rap on the study door. General Faz Huq allowed himself a long luxuriant pull on his cigarette before calling—enter, in the imperious voice he was reserving for when he was master of all mankind.
His valet entered, wringing his hands together in a gesture of agitation, suggesting that he was about to make an overture that extended outside his vast repertoire of social experience. The valet’s face twisted with discomfiture. “There is a young lady to see you sir.”
The general frowned immediately. “I don’t believe I ordered a young lady. In fact, I am certain that I didn’t. What manner of young lady are we talking about exactly?”
The valet raised a white-gloved hand to his mouth and gave a gentle cough. “A most unusual one, if I may say so General.”
“Unusual or not, I have no desire for the company of the female sex this evening, send her away. If she complains or makes comment, dispose of her in what ever manner you see fit, I have matters of great importance that I wish to consider in the company of my opium pipe.”
The valet gave a patronizing half smile. He cocked his head very pertly, in a way that suggested that he might be about to shake it in disagreement. Again he raised his white-gloved hand and gave a gentle cough. “The young lady in question is an American lady. She claims to be the wife of American Secretary of State Truman Whitaker.”
The cigarette almost fell out the general’s mouth. A savage hacking cough rose up within him. Eyes watering, he fought it. Then, as lightly as he could manage he said, “Send the lady in. I would be delighted to receive her.”
54
USS Harry S. Truman, (CVN-75)
Detroit Jackson lay back very reluctantly in the gurney style sick bed and peered out from beneath the thick bandage that encircled his head. His eyes were a wild bloodshot red and his taught muscular frame bulged out of an ill-fitting hospital robe. He took a heavy breath, his lips twisting with dissatisfaction. Clearly, he wasn’t happy about being confined to bed. Nor was he happy about Karyn Kane sitting at his bedside gently making light of his enforced confinement. “Haven’t you ever had a concussion Kane?” He growled menacingly.
“I don’t take them. I give them out.”
Detroit Jackson gave her a look that dripped with irony. “You don’t say. How about you try that on the head-croaker, see how he likes chilling on a morgue trolley, while the rest of the world is swilling down cold ones in salute to our great heroism.”
“Don’t go pinning yourself a gong just yet. The Pakistanis are crying foul. They say we torpedoed their ship. They say we are in collusion with the Indian government and that the sinking of the Maharashtra was an act of war,”
“Act of war? You have got to be kidding. We could turn that open sewer they call a country into a glass lake any time we wanted. A lot of people I know reckon the world would be a better place for it.”
Karyn sniffed, and said. “Luckily your Sunday football buddies aren’t running foreign policy on the Hill, otherwise there wouldn’t be enough nacho’s to last until next Tuesday.”
“Don’t give me that Kane. Those festering goat carcasses in the Pakistani government have been jerking our chain for years. The only reason they ain’t French kissing those al-Qaeda loving Islamacists in public is they like our money too much. We cut off the green-backs and those filthy roaches will scuttle off into someone else’s larder—probably the Russians, or the Chinese.”
Karyn nodded. “You are probably right.”
“You know I am right.”
Karyn pursed her lips thoughtfully and said, “Question is, why did they go to the trouble of suckering us in to this play to begin with. Where is the pay off?”
“I’ll be damned if I know. They got themselves a bunch of pure born crazies running things over there in Islamabad.” Detroit sniffed. “Me and the boys don’t worry about who created the mess and why. We just ’copter into the aftermath with our mops and buckets and clean things up.”
Karyn nodded. “They blew up their own damned ship, so they could blame it on The U.S. Government. That doesn’t make sense—unless—”
“They are trying to raise pulses in the Jihadi community,” said Detroit flatly. “That punk you told me about—the one with the camera—that kind of sliminess has al-Qaeda written all over it. Those scumbags are proba
bly trying to knock themselves up one of their famous recruitment videos, so all their circle-jerking friends can sob about how oppressed they are.”
“You ask me, this whole ugly little mess has the stink of politics about it—this thing is way too crazy—even for those goons in al-Qaeda. Everyone bar the Russians is running around after these EMP bombs.”
“You have got to ask yourself why that is,” said Detroit darkly.
Karyn raised her eyebrows very fractionally. She palmed the hip flask of ice-cold Tequila Blanco into Detroit’s eager fingers. His bloodshot eyes prowled the room surreptitiously, then he raised the flask to his lips and took a lengthy chug.”
“Wow,” said Karyn. “All this laying on your sweet little ass has worked you up quite a thirst, hasn’t it big guy?”
“Go to Hell. I got hit in the head by a damn shipping-freighter. A Panamax shipping freighter at that.”
“You ask me, that is why that ugly looking tub is laying at the bottom of the ocean right now. That giant noggin of yours could sink the fifth-fleet if you turned your head quick enough.”
“Good job you got booze Kane, or you would be out of here so fast you would catch up with yesterday.”
“That’s real sweet. You drink my booze and cheek off to me like a slick-sleeve seaman on shore leave. I got myself a bedside manner—let me tell you. It comes natural. My mom is a doctor.”
“So what the hell did you join the Agency for? You got yourself that kind of background you could have yourself a real career.”
Karyn pulled a face. “Cute. I got myself a career. I take after my father.”
“He works for the agency.”
“Hell, no. Navy.”
“Figures.”
The lights in the sick bay suddenly cut lower.
“I guess you are going to have to throw another quarter in the meter,” rasped Detroit.
