(Wrath-03)-Son Of The Morning (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  Power was their opium, and they were as addicted as any group of men in the world.

  So though they grunted in false agreement, their eyes remained dull and dim. The king could lie to them if he wanted, but it didn’t change anything. They knew what they had done and they knew why they had done it.

  Al-Rahman stared at his conspirators, then jabbed his finger at the air. “There is a tide, a stinking tide, that rises in our world. We have seen it in Iraq. We’ve seen it in Egypt and Lebanon. It’s starting to belch up in Libya, Pakistan, and Iran. And we’ve got to staunch it before it goes any farther.”

  “Yes,” the youngest prince answered. “We must stop it now.”

  The other men remained quiet, though they nodded their heads.

  “The stench of democracies seems to lift everywhere. It is evil. It is vile. And it is not Allah’s will. It is not the will of Allah for these people to govern themselves. That is why Allah provided royal families. That is why Allah provided Holy Law. That is why Allah provided religious leaders and gave them power. We are the protectors of Mecca, guardians of the most sacred shrine. It is our responsibility, it is our duty, it is our right and our power to stop the flow of democracies in this part of the world. That is the will of Allah. And we will see Allah’s will done!”

  The men fell silent. None of them dared to speak. The youngest prince stared at his brother, and then lifted his chin. “Our father,” he started saying.

  It was a mistake. The king exploded, leaning across the table, his eyes growing yellow with hate. “My father,” he screamed, “was an evil, foolish man! He was going to decapitate our kingdom. He was going to give it to them!” Al-Rahman stabbed his finger, motioning to some unseen being. “He was going to take my birthright and give it away. But Allah will curse him. I have the seen a vision of his hell. He is there. He is burning. And you will not speak his name. You will not mention our father. I will not hear his name again!”

  The young prince fell back, pressing against the back of his chair. The king’s eyes burned through him, practically searing him with their heat. Al-Rahman’s hatred was almost a buzz, a deadly sense of blackness that seemed to suspend in the air. The young prince glanced at his brother, and then dropped his eyes to the floor.

  Al-Rahman remained suspended, leaning on the table, his knuckles clenched and white from the weight of his hands. He stared at his brother, then slowly stepped back to his chair. He moved his eyes around the table, taking in each of the men. “My father was a traitor. My older brother was too. They were traitors and fools. And we will never speak of them again!”

  The room remained silent until General Abaza answered simply. “Yes, my Sayid,” he spoke for the men. All of them eagerly nodded. It was a fine plan, indeed.

  Al-Rahman was silent a long moment. He stood at the table, leaning toward his men. “The battle against democracies has grown bitter, my friends. Bitter as acid. And we are losing, you must know.

  “And this thing, this idea, this cancer of freedom they call democracy is a looming crisis that we cannot ignore. If we don’t strike at the root, then we are only fooling ourselves. We can run around chasing sprouts of democracies until we die of old age, dashing from one nation to another, trying to kill each new bud. We can run around, fighting battles in several nations throughout the Middle East, from Jakarta to the West Bank and everything in between. But while we run around on the surface, the problem is taking root under our feet. After watching the problem, I am sure of one thing. We can’t kill all the buds until we kill the mother plant. And we have to kill the mother before she sprouts any more.”

  The room fell into silence until the youngest prince spoke again. “But my Blessed Brother, if we are able to cut off their oil . . . .”

  The king raised his hand suddenly. Blessed Brother. Where had that come from? He’d never been called that before. It was a new name. A good name. He liked that a lot.

  The younger prince paused, then dared to go on. “My brother, if we cut off all oil shipments through the Persian Gulf, we would hit the Americans where it would hurt them the most. As you have said, our oil is the fuel that drives their economic machine. Without it, they are helpless. They would be brought to their knees. They would crumble like a tower built out of sticks on wet mud. We are sitting on the fuel the entire world needs to survive. If we cut off that power, we can show them where the real power lies.”

  Al-Rahman nodded, but his eyes remained firm. “There is no time, brother. Things are changing too fast. The race is on, and we are losing, so we have to be quick. We have to be bolder, more ambitious, more willing to take dangerous risks.

  “So yes, we could cut off their oil, and we will do that, no doubt. But there is another way, another plan that is even more beautiful. So listen to me, brothers, come and listen to my plan.”

  The seven men all leaned forward. They were listening, yes.

  King al-Rahman turned toward his foreign minister. “More than life itself, what is the one thing that you want in this world?”

  The minister didn’t hesitate. They had discussed this before. “I wish to see the world cleansed of the Jewish state,” he replied.

  “Yes. That is right. That is our mission from Allah. And there is only one way to do that. Can you tell me what it is?”

  Again, the answer came quickly. The minister knew the king’s thinking, and he regurgitated it nearly verbatim. “We must destroy her evil mother, the betrayer of Muslim nations, the mother of all whores, our greatest enemy, the United States.”

  King al-Rahman nodded. Although his lips turned into a tight smile, his eyes remained dull and black. “Yes. And I hope you can see that, brothers, for it is so clear to me. We can never eradicate Israel as long as the United States exists. The Americans will stand by the Jews, even at the risk of losing their lives. Evil binds together, and they are bound with strong cords. And worse, we cannot eliminate the rotting stench of democracies until we eliminate the United States. Can you see it? Can you? Do you believe it is true?”

  A heavy silence fell over the room. The youngest prince moved nervously in his seat and diverted his eyes. King al-Rahman cleared his throat, keeping his eyes boring into him.

  “But how, my dear king?” the young prince finally said. “You are talking about the most powerful nation in the world! The most powerful nation that has ever existed since the first man walked this earth. And you say we can destroy them. It is not possible, I think!”

  “Yes, it is, my little brother. And not only is it possible, but it is possible now.”

  “But my brother, I don’t—”

  The king raised his hand, indicating for the other man to be still. “Yes, yes, I know what you are going to say. But what if, what if there was a way, a final way to destroy the United States? What if there was a way we could get the entire world to hate them as much as we do? What if we could get the world to hate Israel and the United States? What if we could unite everyone against the most powerful nation on earth? And what if we could even get their own people to hate and resent their own government?

  “Can you imagine such a war? The entire world united against the great whore and her little sister, the Israeli pigs. Imagine it, brothers! Then, if you can truly imagine it, if your minds are strong enough to contemplate that it can be done, then consider what I have told you and stand up and follow me!”

  The king turned suddenly and walked out of the room.

  The underlings watched in silence a long moment, then stood and followed the king.

  THIRTEEN

  Al Hufuf Military Weapons Storage Complex, Eastern Saudi Arabia

  One of the king’s private helicopters was waiting on the asphalt at the end of the circular drive on the east side of the presidential palace. It was a monstrous machine, American made, with deeply tinted windows and black paint with gold trim around the cockpit and along the smooth tail. Two powerful engines sat just behind the midsection, their chrome exhaust ports glinting in the afternoon sun.
A set of small steps had been extended from the aft cabin door, and a line of military guards stood at attention on both sides of a narrow stretch of deep blue carpet that extended from the steps. Two military pilots were waiting, one of them watching the palace anxiously. As the king emerged, he nodded to the other pilot. The other pilot hit the start button, and the twin turbine engines started to turn. The pilot moved the throttles to idle, jet fuel poured into the combustion chambers and the engines caught, emitting a sudden roar from the jet exhausts. As the engines rolled up, the rotors started to turn. By the time the king was climbing in the cabin, the helicopter was ready to go.

  The king’s brothers and advisers followed quickly, half a dozen steps behind. They hurried into the cabin and sat down on the reclining leather seats situated throughout the interior of the helicopter. A steward lifted the collapsible steps and quickly disappeared behind the forward bulkhead. The massive helicopter lifted into the air before the men even had a chance to buckle themselves in. It turned immediately east, flying over the palace grounds, pushing a swirl of leaves and biting sand through the hot air.

  Overhead, a flight of two Royal Saudi Air Force F-15s circled at fifteen thousand feet. The lead pilot, one of the king’s four dozen cousins, kept a close eye on his radar while his wingman, half a mile behind and to his right, watched the low-flying helicopter make its way east.

  Turning to his window, the king glanced up at the sky, thinking of his brother lying at the bottom of the sea. In his death, his brother had taught him one final lesson. Never fly in a helicopter without fighter escorts overhead. The king searched the sky carefully, eager to know that his escorts were there. But he couldn’t see the fighters. They were too high and too small.

  Fifty minutes later, the helicopter landed on an unmarked landing pad in the middle of the Al Hufuf weapons storage facility. It was a peculiar complex—high cement and concertina-topped walls, layers of security with wire, and guard towers every fifty feet or so. And there were dozens of military police, some in the open, some hidden behind protective walls. But inside the triple fences, there was not much to see: a few low brick buildings, open sand lots, roads large enough to support heavy convoys, two rows of cement bunkers half-buried in gravel and sand, a small supply building, and not much else. But looks were deceiving. Most of the facility had been built underground and the complex was much larger, and far more important, than it looked from above.

  A small military escort was waiting, five military Humvees surrounding two black Mercedes SUVs. The king rode alone in the first vehicle. The other men crammed into the second SUV. The convoy rode through the military compound to the headquarters building, a long, single-story brick building. The men got out, entered the building, and took the elevator ten stories below ground.

  King al-Rahman stood before the group in a small conference room. Behind him, a 28-inch television emitted a pale, gray light. Reaching under the table, the king tapped a button that activated the video equipment, and the television screen came to life, showing a live video feed from one of the nearby underground bunkers. The bunker was a large room and brightly lit. Cement floor. Cement walls. No visible entry. No guards. It appeared spotless, almost sterile, with not a smudge on the floor or speck of dust in the air. Sitting in the middle of the room were five lead-plated crates. The king’s men stared at the screen. They did not understand.

  The king broke into a sinful smile as he looked at the television. “Our deliverance,” he muttered lustily. “Our great gift to our people. Our great gift to the world.”

  The men didn’t respond, their eyes wide. And though they didn’t understand yet, all of them sensed an overwhelming power in the air.

  Their world was shifting right under their feet. They could smell the revolution in the air.

  The king moved until he was standing next to the screen, his face eerily illuminated by the subtle light. “The objects you are looking at,” he explained in a low, even tone, “are five nuclear warheads. Fifty-seven kilotons. One-hundred fourteen million pounds of explosives each. There are five. Look at these warheads and do the math in your head. Then tell me, my brothers, that we can’t bring our enemies to their knees. Look at those weapons and tell me we can’t do what we want.”

  The men fell into a stupor. It was not what they had expected to be shown. Things were moving far too quickly! A smell of sickness seemed to seep into the air.

  “Where did you—” the foreign minister started.

  The king waved him off. No time to go through that. It didn’t matter anyway.

  The minister leaned against the back wall, his face turning dark gray. His mind raced, trying to absorb the terror of it all. The dead king. The crown prince. Both of them killed by Al-Rahman! A new king now among them. A new direction. A new track. And yes, King al-Rahman was a strong man, but he was as mindlessly ambitious as any man in the world. And now this, now these weapons. It was a terrifying thing! He sucked a deep breath, giving himself time to think.

  The room was deadly quiet. The men only stared. It was all they could do. After a full thirty seconds of silence, the oldest prince finally breathed. “When?” he asked dryly.

  “Soon,” Al-Rahman answered. “A few weeks. Maybe less. There are a few things yet to do, and the timing is critical.”

  The younger prince shook his head. “No, King al-Rahman!” he muttered in fear. “You will destroy the kingdom. You will destroy Medina and Mecca! I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it is suicide.”

  Al-Rahman moved toward him, his lips pulled back in a sneer, his hands clenching, his breathing labored and fast. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve been telling you?” he demanded. “Haven’t you understood anything?”

  “But brother, if you attack the United States, their position is clear. They will retaliate. They will kill us. They will destroy the entire Middle East. They will not absorb a nuclear detonation on their country and not retaliate.”

  King al-Rahman looked at him, his eyes on fire. “Oh, my brother, my dear brother, if you only understood. If you only knew what I know now, if you could only see what I see. It has all been so long in the making. And we are not alone. We have many allies; men are on our side, men that you don’t know about, unseen advocates and sponsors. There are many who will be working to ensure we succeed.”

  The younger brother shook his head. He was growing more scared, even angry. He trusted his brother, but he was not a fool. And he resented being dragged here, to this underground hole, to be shown a row of weapons that, if used, would only guarantee the kingdom’s destruction.

  His heart skipped, the spit in his mouth turning suddenly sour. “Brother, you know I love you,” he started to say. “But if you do this thing, if you attack the United States, then we are dead men. You must certainly know that. This isn’t good news. These weapons are not our salvation, they are our destruction, I’m sure.”

  The king glared at him a moment, angry thoughts rolling around in his head. The young prince looked away cautiously, seeing the emotion in his brother’s eyes. “King al-Rahman,” he mumbled, forcing himself to look at the king once again. “I trust you. You know that. I would die for you, my brother, you know that I would. Give me a knife, say the word, and I would thrust it deep in my heart. I would cut out my own intestines if you commanded me. But I have to tell you, dear brother, I simply do not understand what you’re thinking. I do not know your plan, but I am certain of this—if you choose to use these weapons, if you detonate an atomic warhead anywhere in the United States, they will find out who did it, and we will all be destroyed.”

  King al-Rahman stared into his eyes, then shook his head and showed a sudden smile. “Yes,” he answered tartly, “without the right preparations, we would be destroyed. If it was us against them, then I would be a fool.

  “But you see, Prince Mohammad, there is something more that we can do. Preparations. Arrangements. And before we use these weapons—and we will use them, my brother—we are going to change the
world in a magnificent way. We are going to realign every ally, every enemy and friend. We are going to change the geopolitical world in a very fundamental way.

  “Then, when we have completed our work, it won’t be us against them. It will be the United States against the world; it will be the United States against the Middle East, the Arab nations, every Muslim on earth. It will be the United States against most of Europe and Asia. It will be the United States against China and South America as well. It will be the Americans and their lapdog Israelis against the rest of mankind. And they will be the criminals. They will be the ones who are feared. It will be the Americans and the Jews who will be hated and despised.

  “When we are finished, the world will not only support us, they will see justice in our cause. Then they will not only allow it, they will help us see our enemies destroyed.”

  FOURTEEN

  Camp Freedom, Central Iraq

  Sam sat with Bono at the end of the dining hall table. It was early morning, and the two had just come back from patrol. Although they were not on the same team, they had been on the same mission, patrolling on the western edge of Baghdad, where there had been reports of insurgents recruiting from among the poorest neighborhoods. Both men were exhausted, their faces blacked with camouflage and dirt. The patrol had been fruitless, and all they had found were two dead Chechen soldiers, easily identified by their Russian boots, who had been bound, their faces covered, and then shot in the head. They were finding more of this kind of thing now, and it gave them a some hope. If the terrorists were killing each other, that clearly made their job easier; more, though, it indicated the growing divisions between the various terrorist groups. Although bound by their common hatred for the United States, they also hated each other, and it wasn’t unusual to find the results of their fratricide.