Destiny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Herb’s face got serious. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said. “I must care about you a lot more than I thought.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Herb,” she said, moving her hand higher, until his face blushed and he leaned his head back with a deep sigh and began to move his hips against her.

  Mike Post knocked and entered Ben Raines’s office without waiting for a reply.

  Ben glanced up from his desk and leaned back, stretching his arms over his head and shaking his head to get the kinks out. “Hi, come on in, Mike.”

  “Good morning, Ben.”

  “Glad you dropped by,” Ben said, looking back down at the mass of papers on his desk. “I’m getting awfully tired of flying this desk. I hope you have some news that might mean action.”

  Mike nodded. “I certainly do. Remember that memo we got about the attempt on Claire Osterman’s life last week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, my contact in Canada just radioed me that some Arab types have purchased several hundred acres in two different locations up there.”

  Ben raised his eyebrows. “Why would they do that?” he asked.

  “Wait until you hear where they are,” Mike said. “The first is near Yarmouth in Nova Scotia near the coast of Maine, and the second location is on Vancouver Island near the west coast of Washington.”

  “You think they’re gonna use those places as staging areas to gather troops for an eventual invasion of the U.S.?” Ben asked, a skeptical look on his face.

  Mike took a seat opposite Ben’s desk and began to fiddle with his pipe. “That’d be my first guess.”

  Ben shook his head. “I can’t believe this Desert Fox or whatever his name is would have that many troops or that much war matériel to think he could mount a successful invasion of the U.S.”

  Mike stared at Ben through clouds of smoke that smelled faintly of cherry blossoms. “I don’t think you appreciate the situation in the Middle East, Ben.”

  Ben leaned back and steepled his fingers in front of his face, resting his chin on his fingertips. “Enlighten me then,” he said.

  “The entire region’s economy was centered on the oil fields in Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Iran, Kuwait, and some other smaller states in the region. After the big war, the U.N. took over running the oil fields so the oil could be distributed evenly across the world.”

  Ben nodded. “I know that, Mike, but the people were compensated for the loss of oil revenues, weren’t they?”

  Mike shook his head. “Not nearly as much as before the war, and the money was spread out among all the population of the region, not with the majority going to the few ruling families as it had previously.”

  “So, you’re telling me we have a few pissed-off royal families and a lot of angry common people to deal with.”

  “More than a lot,” Mike said, “several million at the very least, most of whom are accomplished guerrilla warriors.”

  “But what about the war matériel they’d need for such an undertaking?” Ben asked. “Where would they get the tanks, ships, airplanes, bombs, and all the stuff necessary to wage war?”

  Mike shook his head. “It’s my guess that several of the old elite families have banded together, pooled the money they’d stashed in Swiss banks, and put it in support of this Desert Fox, Abdullah El Farrar, in hopes he can do enough damage to make the U.N. relent and give them back control of the oil fields.”

  “So, you think he’s got plenty of experienced troops, enough money to buy whatever equipment he needs, and the will to try and take over the U.S.?”

  Mike nodded, exhaling smoke from his nostrils. “I do.”

  Ben leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, and stared at Mike. “And what would you suggest we here do about it?”

  Mike shrugged and shook his head. “I’m just a lowly intelligence-gatherer,” he said with a wry smile. “Planning strategy is up to you higher-paid generals.”

  Ben’s shoulders slumped. “And unless President Osterman asks for our help, we’re in no position to do anything to prevent this El Farrar from carrying out his plans.”

  “That’s about the size of it, General,” Mike said, his face suddenly sober.

  “Mike, I want you to get in touch with whomever you can in the U.S. that might show some sense and let them know what we think is going on.”

  Mike laughed out loud. “And just who might that be, Ben? I’ve tried a couple of times to let Osterman’s government people know what this Arab has in mind, but they would rather bury their heads in the sand than do anything about it.”

  Ben pursed his lips. “Perhaps I could set up a telephone link with Claire and tell her personally. She’s usually paranoid enough to take precautions, even if she doesn’t quite believe our motives are pure.”

  “Why are you so concerned with what happens to Claire Osterman?” Mike asked.

  “Because a stable government to our north is to be desired, even if it is run by a megalomaniac like Claire,” Ben said. “Hell, almost twenty percent of our budget this year is going to help the U.S. keep its head above water and provide essential services to its citizens. Can you imagine what would happen if this Arab zealot manages to create even more chaos up there?”

  Mike nodded. “It would probably mean another war between us.”

  “Correct,” Ben said, “and that is something we just don’t need right now.”

  Ten

  It took Abdullah El Farrar and Mustafa Kareem and their men a little over three days to travel from Indianapolis to the port city of Yarmouth in the province of Nova Scotia. Crossing the border between Canada and the U.S. was uneventful. . . the guards didn’t even bother to check the back of the van, just waved them through.

  Once in Yarmouth, they traveled an additional ten miles to the compound where Farrar had his men gathered for the incursion into the U.S. Hastily built Quonset huts housed twenty thousand men, who’d been brought to the island on large transports and off-loaded at night using smaller boats so as not to alert the Canadian authorities to their presence.

  Osama bin Araman, Farrar’s leader of his troops, met them in a large office on the edge of the camp. He served them Turkish coffee in tiny cups along with dates and other Arab delicacies.

  Farrar smacked his lips over the strong, bitter brew, and then he stared into Araman’s eyes. “Are the men prepared to do battle, Osama?” he asked.

  Araman nodded. “Yes, my leader. I have been conducting daily training exercises in terrorist tactics, explaining to them how to pick appropriate targets for their bombs and grenades.”

  “Have you divided them up into teams of fifteen to twenty men as I ordered?”

  “Yes, and I have with each team at least one man who can speak passable English.”

  “Good,” Farrar said, slipping a date between his teeth and chewing it as he spoke. “Then all is in readiness.”

  Araman nodded again. “We can have the men loaded onto the transport ship within ten hours, and the trip across the ocean to Portland, Maine, will take only another six or seven, depending on the weather.”

  He pulled out a map and spread it out on the table. “As you can see, my brother, there are no good east-to-west roads in Maine, so we will have to travel south along the interstate until we pass through Boston to Worcester. From there, the men can spread out both west toward Syracuse and south toward New York and Philadelphia. Once they have dispersed, there are many roads for the men to take and then they will be unstoppable.”

  Farrar studied the map. “Why not just take the men by ship all the way down the coast to New York City and land there?” Farrar asked.

  Araman shrugged. “It is possible, of course, but our ship would have to pass the Navy base at Bridgeport, Connecticut, Abdullah, and I fear that would be unwise. If one of the U.S. navy ships spotted us, they could call in an air strike from the nearby Air Force base at Dover, Delaware. I feel it would be much more dangerous that way, but if you prefer . . .”

  Farrar shook
his head. “No, Osama. I chose you to lead my eastern contingent of troops for your expertise and knowledge of these matters, so I will let you decide the course to take.”

  Araman inclined his head in a slight bow of thanks. “As you wish, my leader.”

  “How do you propose to land twenty thousand men in Portland and then transport them several hundred miles down the coast without alerting the U.S. authorities?” Mustafa Kareem asked as he perused the map over Farrar’s shoulders.

  “That would be impossible,” Araman answered. “My plan is to have several teams begin their terrorism in the city of Portland, attacking the governmental offices and local police stations in a coordinated manner. In the ensuing chaos, as the city bums and explodes under our attack, the rest of the men will hardly be noticed as they head southward.”

  “So, by the time the U.S. government responds and sends troops to quell the disturbances in Portland, our men will be safely on their way into the interior of the country.”

  Araman nodded, smiling craftily. “Yes, and after they separate into hundreds of smaller groups, each going their separate ways, they will be almost impossible to stop,” he said, spreading his arms wide.

  Farrar slammed his hand down on the map, a smile of admiration on his face. “You have planned our attack well indeed, Osama,” he said.

  “Thank you, my brother,” Araman said, dipping his head modestly at the compliment.

  Farrar stood up. “Mustafa and I must rest for now,” he said. “Let us plan to leave tomorrow night, so that we may land in Portland around midnight.”

  “Excellent,” Araman said. “Come, I will show you to your quarters.”

  Claire was sitting on the edge of the bed she’d prepared for Herb Knoff in her quarters when her secretary rang saying she had a phone call from Ben Raines on the long-distance line.

  “You want me to have it transferred in here so you can listen in?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. I think I’ll take a nap. I’m kinda tired.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, as one might a child. “See you in a little while,” she said.

  “Don’t let him talk you into anything you’ll regret,” Herb advised before turning over and pulling the covers up to his neck.

  Claire walked into her office next door and sat down at her desk. She took a deep breath, wondering what Ben Raines had to say to her, and then she picked up the phone.

  “Hello, this is President Osterman,” she said into the receiver, her tone frosty and official.

  “No need to be so formal, Claire,” Raines said. “It’s me, Ben.”

  “Ben Raines, the perpetual thorn in my side,” Claire responded. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing all right, for an old man,” Raines said.

  “Dare I hope this call is your way of telling me you’ve contracted a fatal illness of some sort?” Claire asked.

  “No. In fact, it’s more in the way of a warning to you that a fatal illness to you and your presidency may be growing just around the corner.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Claire asked, surprise in her voice.

  Raines had the temerity to laugh out loud at her suggestion. “No, of course not, Claire. I’m just calling with some friendly advice.”

  “Since when have we been friends?”

  “Since now,” Raines replied. “My Intel officer has some information you might be interested in.”

  “More bogeymen hiding out to do me in?” she asked with a sneer in her voice.

  “Well, if I’m not mistaken, we were right on the money about the attack that was planned during your speech, weren’t we?”

  “Yes, I have to give you that,” she replied grudgingly.

  “We have some new information from our friends in Canada that may be of interest to you.”

  Claire bit her lip; he was getting her interest now. “And just what is that?” she asked, leaning forward at the desk.

  “We’ve received information that various Arab types have acquired substantial plots of land in Nova Scotia off your East Coast and Vancouver Island off your West Coast.”

  Claire didn’t speak for a few moments as she digested this latest information.

  “Are you still there, Claire?” Ben asked, wondering if the line had been disconnected.

  “Yes, but I’m wondering why they would do that,” she said, biting a fingernail.

  “You’ve never been slow on the uptake before, Claire. My guess would be they’re gonna use those lands as staging areas for an upcoming invasion of the United States.”

  “They wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s not such a far stretch, after a failed assassination attempt against the head of a country, to attempt to invade it later,” Ben reasoned. “In fact, it is my conclusion that the attempt to kill you was a prelude to just such an attempt.”

  Claire nodded slowly, though there was no one in her office to see it. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I can see your reasoning, Ben. But what I can’t see is why you would bother to give me a heads-up on it.”

  “Claire, I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I’ve always believed in the proverb ‘Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.’ ”

  She gave a low chuckle. “In other words, you’d rather deal with this devil than some Arab devils who might take us over, right?”

  Ben returned the laugh. “Exactly. That’s why we’ve agreed to help you rebuild your country after our last little . . . disagreement. A stable, prosperous country to our north is something we think will in the long run be better for both you and us.”

  “In that spirit of cooperation, do you have any suggestions as to how I should deal with this latest development?”

  “You don’t need me to tell you how to defend your country, Claire. You’ve been quite a capable leader in the past, and I see no reason to doubt your ability to deal with some rag-heads with aspirations of global aggression now.”

  Claire laughed again. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ben. I’d better ring off now. I’ve got to have a serious talk with some of my military personnel.”

  “Good luck, Claire.”

  “I’ll let you know what we find out, Ben.”

  “And if I hear anything further, I’ll be sure and keep you in the loop, Claire. After all, stability on this continent is something we can all agree is in our best interests.”

  “By the way, any idea who is behind this move?” she asked before hanging up.

  “A man by the name of Abdullah El Farrar, otherwise known as the Desert Fox.”

  Eleven

  The small port city of Yarmouth was practically deserted at ten in the evening when Osama bin Araman led his twenty thousand troops through the outskirts of town to board the transport ship anchored offshore.

  By midnight, the troops were on board and the ship was steaming southward toward Portland, Maine.

  At three in the morning, the ship anchored at the mouth of the Portland harbor. Fifteen rubber Zodiac boats fitted with electric motors were lowered over the side and filled with black-clad assault troops, all carrying Uzis with silencers on their barrels.

  There was only the slightest buzzing sound as the boats made their way toward the shore, two miles away.

  Captain Jerry Pike was busy preparing his forty-foot deep-sea-fishing boat for departure when the Zodiac bumped up against his starboard side, causing the vessel to dip and tilt slightly.

  “What the hell?” Pike mumbled, stepping over a pile of fishing nets and looking to the right.

  A bearded man carrying a short black rifle peered over the gunwale.

  “Who the hell are you?” Pike asked, stepping backward.

  “Nobody,” the man answered in guttural English, and fired his weapon.

  A slight puffing sound was washed away on the evening wind as three closely spaced holes appeared in Pike’s chest, blowing him backward to land sprawled atop his nets.

  Several more
men in black clothes swarmed over his boat and down the gangplank toward the dock, to move swiftly and silently toward the row of other boats lined up along the wharf.

  Within an hour, over a hundred deep-sea-fishing boats had been taken over and were on their way out to the transport ship to bring in the rest of Araman’s troops, the bodies of their captains left floating and bobbing on the waves of their wakes in the predawn darkness.

  It was still an hour before dawn when the troops arrived at the docks and separated into their teams of twenty men each. Araman had gone over maps of the city of Portland with the leaders of each of the groups, and they all had specific orders of what to hit and how to do it.

  Omar Sharak led his men down the street toward the closest police station, three blocks from the docks. Since it was still the middle of the midnight-to-eight shift, the station house was practically deserted.

  Sharak stepped through the front door and walked rapidly toward the front desk, where the desk sergeant sat snoring softly.

  He never awoke as Sharak put a bullet through his forehead, snapping him backward off his chair.

  Sharak’s men spread out through the station, and several muted shots could be heard as officers were killed where they stood or sat.

  Once the station was under control, Sharak methodically destroyed all the communications equipment, and then opened the locked and bolted doors to the weapons lockers. He took weapons he thought might be useful, including a stash of smoke and flash-bang grenades and canisters of tear gas.

  Once he’d taken what he might need, he piled the rest of the weapons and ammunition in the center of the floor, poured gasoline over it, and tossed a match onto it as he and his men ran for the door.

  Minutes later, it sounded like the Fourth of July as hundreds of cases of cartridges went off with a resounding bang, sending flames and smoke billowing upward and setting the entire building on fire.

  There were four radio stations and three television stations in the city of Portland. Araman had targeted all seven, intending to stop any word of the assault on the city from being spread over the airwaves.