The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

And they were far from convinced that Crown Prince Saud should be king.

  * * *

  On the outskirts of the great city, at the end of a tree-lined road that abruptly stopped at a cement barricade and steel fence, behind a cement wall with hidden guard towers and razor wire on top, the crown prince of the House of Saud had one of his three dozen homes. One of the richest and most powerful men in the world, future king of Saudi Arabia, Prince Saud was a large man with dark eyes and broad shoulders and short, curly hair. He was forty-seven, but looked younger, though there were days he felt very old. Educated in the West, including a BA from the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard, the crown prince was decisive and sharp-tongued with his subordinates, but warm and easily manipulated by his family and friends.

  The prince sat quietly at the end of an enormous mahogany table. To his side sat the American general. They were the only two men in a room so large it could have accommodated a group of a hundred or more. Brilliant tapestries, some five hundred years old, hung on the walls, the floor was imported Italian tile, and the door frames were rare and unnamed woods shipped from the Indian forest. The ceiling moldings were gold plated, and crushed glass had been mixed with the pastel paints on the walls, giving the room a brilliant radiance from the desert sun that reflected through the twenty-foot windows.

  The general stared a brief moment, taking in the beauty of the room. The prince didn’t notice. He had a lot on his mind. He needed a smoke, and he fidgeted nervously as he tapped on his pack of American cigarettes, but he didn’t light up out of deference to his friend.

  Moving his chair across the tile, the prince leaned his arms on the table. “Coffee?” he offered.

  The general shook his head. How many times had they been through this before?

  “I’ve got some beautiful teas I’ve brought in from Oman. The leaf is so thick, it will, how do you say . . . knock your feet off.”

  The general smiled. “I think you mean knock your socks off, Prince Saud. And no tea, but thank you.” He smiled again, knowing the prince was teasing him now.

  “How about a Coke then, General Brighton?”

  “Yes. That’d be great.”

  “Diet? Caffeine free?”

  “Regular Coke is fine.”

  “Oh, you sinning fool!” the prince scolded, trying to hide the smile on his face. “Get you away from Sara and you really cut loose! Next thing you know, you’ll visit my kingdom and take home another wife!”

  “I doubt it, Prince Saud,” the general replied. “You know Sara. I don’t need to say any more.”

  “Yes, yes, General Brighton,” the prince finally smiled. “I do know your wife. If all men were so lucky! And frankly, good friend, I don’t understand how she fell for you. You are like a sweaty Bedouin camel herder who somehow married a princess. Despite all your failings, God has smiled on you.”

  Neil Brighton only nodded. He knew it was true. “And how is Princess Tala?” he asked.

  Saud nodded happily. “Beautiful as ever! And did you know we were expecting another son?”

  Brighton smiled happily. “Congratulations!” he said.

  Prince Saud clapped his hands. “Thank you,” he replied. He touched a hidden button under his desk, and an Indian lad hurried into the room holding a silver tray over his head. He poured a soft drink for the American and tea for his master, then laid out a silver tray of sugar cookies and pastries and hurried from the room.

  The crown prince studied his friend and smiled with satisfaction. “How long has it been, Neil?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Crown Prince Saud,” Brighton replied, unable to call the prince by his first name. He thought a moment. “Sometime just before we liberated Iraq,” he then said.

  The prince grimaced slightly at the use of the word liberated. Well, maybe. Depending on who one was talking to. He sipped at his tea. “You are too busy now, Neil,” he said over his china cup. “We never have time to talk! I used to see you regularly until you earned your first star.”

  “Life has picked up a little; there’s no doubt about that.”

  “And you have grown so quiet, my good friend. Tight-lipped and secretive. Are you never going to tell me about what you do now?”

  “Your Highness, you already know. I work for the NSA. Long days, piles of paper work, endless meetings, buckets and buckets of mindless reports, huge egos and office politics more bloody than war. There, that’s my job. Not much exciting to tell you—I assure you of that.”

  The crown prince huffed in sarcastic reply. “I think that’s not true, my good friend, General Brighton. Fifty years ago, maybe, but not now, not in these times, not with the battles raging against rising tides. You’re the military liaison to the White House National Security Advisor. You are the tip of the sword! Everything runs through the NSA. Every proposal, every war plan or decision is vetted through you. It is a very important position. High visibility. Very fast track. You personally brief the president almost every week. I’d say, my good friend, you are on your way to the top. Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs. Doesn’t that have a good ring?”

  The general didn’t answer, but picked up his glass.

  “I think you are involved in quite important decisions that you can’t talk about,” the prince gently prodded.

  Which was exactly why I brought you here, he quickly thought to himself. If you will just listen! If you will read between the lines. If you will think and remember what I tell you today!

  The prince tapped his pack of cigarettes as he thought to himself. “How are your sons?” he then asked. “Twin sons! Allah, peace and mercy be His Name, has blessed you. How old are they now? They must almost be men!”

  “They will be nineteen this winter,” Brighton answered. “And Sam—you remember him, our adopted son—he is in the army. I am proud of all of my sons.”

  The prince smiled happily. “I’m sure that you are. I am happy for you and Sara. You are good parents, I think, even in your old age.”

  Brighton laughed. “Remember, Your Highness, I am only two years younger than you. And you don’t seem to be slowing down in your parenting despite your old age. Didn’t you just tell me Princess Tala was about to have another son?”

  “Yes, yes . . . well, it is one of the responsibilities of a king to assure a crop of future princes for the kingdom. I’m just doing my job. As the crown prince of the House of Saud, the royal line runs through my veins, so I have an obligation to produce future kings. And though I have eight daughters, yes, I have only three sons, which is hardly enough. All of my younger brothers have many more sons than I do.”

  The crown prince stared at the general, an intense look on his face. Listen to me, Neil! See the look in my eyes! I can’t say it out loud, so remember my words. I have only three sons. My brothers have many more. My oldest son will be the next king, but only IF they let him live! And I need him to live, Neil, for my plans to succeed. I promised my father, but I will need my son’s help, for it will take more than one lifetime to bring democracy to this land.

  * * *

  General Brighton watched the prince carefully as an uncomfortable silence developed. The prince was thinking of something. He sensed it and frowned, not knowing what to say.

  The prince stared at him a moment, then sipped at his tea. Is this room also bugged? Brighton wondered to himself. Do they listen here as they listen everywhere else?

  Brighton pushed his chair back from the table to cross one leg over the other, then brushed his hand through his blond hair. “You know, Prince Saud, for a short time at least we had the most exquisite decoration hanging over our fireplace at home. A silver and gold emblem of the House of Saud. Two crossed swords and a palm tree. It was simply the most beautiful thing we ever owned.”

  “You enjoy it!”

  “Of course.” Brighton shook his head as he thought of the gift from the prince. He had been required to appraise it before turning it over to the government. Three hundred thousand dollars worth of gold, silve
r, diamonds, and pearls! He shook his head again. “It was too much, my good friend!” he said.

  “Are you kidding? To celebrate the coming of age of your sons. It was too little, I assure you, and but the smallest token of my affection for you and your wife. When a man reaches adulthood, it is reason for celebration. I just wanted you and Sara to know I was thinking of you.”

  The general sipped his soda. “Thank you again, Your Highness. Still, you are too generous. And of course you know, I had to register the gift with the Pentagon Ethics Division. They actually own it now; it is the property of the U.S. government. They let me keep it for a while, but it is not really mine. Conflict of interest. I hope you understand.”

  “I understand, I understand. I even suspected that might be necessary. When you retire, I will send you another one just like it that will truly be yours.”

  “Your Highness, perhaps it would be better . . .”

  The prince waved a dismissive hand. “Please, Neil, it is a tiny thing to me and I want to do it, okay? Now, instead of worrying about the complications of gifts and ethics, let’s pretend for a while, okay? Let’s pretend we’re fighter pilots again. Let’s pretend we don’t have the weight of the world on our shoulders. Let’s pretend that time hasn’t changed us and that the world is more simple and less cruel, like it was before. Let’s pretend we are back at fighter pilot school, back when you weren’t so impressed that I came from the royal family and I was more impressed with your flying. And please, will you not call me Your Highness, at least for a while? When it’s just you and me, and no one else is around, can we go back to the way that it once used to be? Let’s go back to our call signs. I’ll call you Gameboy and you call me Sultan, okay?”

  The general laughed suddenly. He had a vision, a quick memory of their days back in flight school when they were young students learning to fly the F-15, a couple of young and cocky lieutenants screeching like thunderbolts through the skies. They felt like the Greek gods. They had the power of flight. Nothing could destroy them. They were invincible!

  Both men smiled as they relived their private memories; then the prince spoke, “General Brighton, over the years, you have always been a good friend. We see each other so rarely, but when we do it always seems like nothing has changed.”

  The American general nodded. “I was thinking the same thing on my flight over. It’s been, what . . . more than twenty years since we first met in Phoenix. Remember that place, Prince Saud? I used to complain about the heat, you complained about the cold, playing golf until midnight with those stupid glow-in-the-dark balls, then staying up to study until 3:00 a.m. We were lieutenants. Life was simple. Those were truly good days.”

  “Yes, we didn’t have so much responsibility; that was for sure. Now here I am, the crown prince, and you, one of the youngest generals in your air force. We both carry heavy burdens. It’s not quite like the old days, when the only thing we worried about was crashing into each other or running out of fuel.” The prince fell quiet, then added, “You know, though, I pretty much have proven I am a better pilot than you.”

  The general had to laugh. “Oh no, not this conversation again!”

  “No, no, really, General Brighton. Think back to when we first met. As I recall, you made a pretty big deal about how American fighter pilots were the best in the world. I took exception. Now I think it’s time to lay down our cards and see what we have.”

  Brighton looked down and pressed the dark blouse of his air force blues. “You know, Prince Saud, we’re never going to settle this until we go head-to-head, until we strap on a jet and call ‘fights on’ in the air.”

  “No, no, no . . . that’s not true. We have twenty years worth of flying to back up our claims. Now let me see . . . how many enemy fighters have you shot down?”

  “Not fair, Saud! I was working on General Schwarzkopf’s staff during the Gulf War. No one was more disappointed not to be flying than I was!”

  “Yeah, yeah, my sympathies, okay. Now back to my question. I’ve had two confirmed kills. Really had three, but the gun camera jammed so I couldn’t confirm that last kill, and you know the rules—no gun camera footage, no kill. Either way, I’m not selfish; I’ll let the other one go. So let’s see, that’s two, really three, and you have . . . ah, how many enemy jets have you shot down in your career?” The prince’s voice trailed off, but his eyes twinkled brightly.

  The general shifted in his seat. His face remained calm, but he clasped his hands tight, as the competitor inside him started to rise.

  The prince looked for the white knuckles. He knew his friend well. “Okay, okay, let’s not talk about that,” he said. “You’re right, that wouldn’t be fair. I mean, it’s not your fault you were forced to be Norm’s staff boy when the big show came to town. Let’s take another measure, ah . . . flying hours. I’ve got almost three thousand. More fighter time in the Eagle than any other pilot in the entire Royal Saudi Air Force.”

  “Got you there, Saud,” Brighton replied. “I’m pushing almost 3,500 flying hours.”

  “Really! That is impressive.” The prince settled back in his chair. “But you know, of course, I’m not including any of the time I’ve logged as an F-15 instructor pilot. Can’t count sitting in the back seat, watching some lieutenant jerk the control stick around. That’s not real flying, keeping some insane student pilot from killing himself. Real pilots fly. Watching flying doesn’t count! Now Neil, you’re not including your instructor time, are you, because if I were to do that, I’d be up around 3,600 hours.” Again, the prince smiled. Touché. Game and match!

  The general struggled a moment, then shook his head and laughed. “Okay, you win, Your Highness. But let me add, even if I could beat you, do you think I would be so foolish? Show up the crown prince of Saudi Arabia? Can you imagine the diplomatic crisis such a lapse of judgment would create? I am not so foolish. So I will hold my tongue.”

  The prince laughed quickly, then stared at his glass. A still silence followed, and the splat, splat, splat of lawn sprinklers could be heard from outside.

  “Prince Saud,” Brighton said, “it’s good to be here. And it’s always enjoyable to remember old times with you. But I know there’s a reason why you invited me here. And though you have tried to hide it, I can see there’s something on your mind.”

  The prince lowered his eyes, then looked again at his friend. His face was suddenly serious, and Brighton could see the deep crow’s-feet that lined his dark eyes. The prince pushed up from his seat. “Come, let’s walk,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The two men stood and walked through an open glass door that looked out onto a garden which stretched for acres behind the villa. They walked through the garden slowly, following a rock path that led to a gushing waterfall.

  “The world is changing, General Brighton,” the prince said as they walked. “Indeed, in many ways it is too late—too much has already changed. You now have many enemies throughout the world.”

  Brighton glanced sideways at the prince. “Our friends are few, but that has always been the case,” he answered calmly.

  “No, Neil. This is different. From the east to the west, you are nearly alone. Europe hates you now unlike ever before . . .”

  “Old Europe, perhaps,” the general interrupted. “But the new Europe, the emerging Europe—they are on our side.”

  The prince shook his head. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter. Not now, anyway. And what I said is still true. Most hate you now for your strength and the impact you have. You are a drunken giant, a raging bear, and none of them can stand to see you so powerful. And the impact of your decisions! I don’t know if you realize how much influence you have. Your economy sneezes, and a dozen nations catch pneumonia. You develop a foreign initiative, and entire governments fall. You institute a new policy, and by the time it reaches your allies, it is the tip of a whip that snaps at their heads. You are so powerful, but also naïve. Like a clumsy giant, you wander across the globe, crushing everythin
g that falls under your feet without even looking down. Is it any surprise so many would like to see you brought to your knees?”

  Brighton considered a moment. “Perhaps. But a gentle giant is a better description, I think. And all this talk of the United States seeking world domination—it is completely absurd. It is only the rantings of societies who have failed and need someone to blame. Some people despise us; we know that is true. Old Europe. Many Middle Eastern nations. Dictators and tyrants. We have enemies. But there are still a few others who seem to be in our camp.”

  “Hmm!” the prince scoffed. “I wouldn’t be so sure. There are enemies rising, many foes in the world. And this is important, so you need to listen to me, Neil. There are many kinds of enemies one needs to fear. Those you know and can identify—they are the very best kind. You see them; you can study them; you can counter their moves. But there are other enemies, far more deadly—those who plot in secret places but hide in the light. There are friends, even loved ones . . .” Prince Saud’s voice drifted off.

  General Brighton watched him briefly, seeing the sadness on his face.

  Friends. Even loved ones. Why was he so afraid?

  “There are those,” Saud continued, “who harbor secret hates and ambitions, those who have taken to the darkness and feel comfortable in it now, those who seek to destroy freedom or anything else that is good.”

  The general came to a stop and turned to his friend. “What are you saying, Prince Saud?” he asked nervously.

  The prince looked around, then stared for a moment at the sky. “I am saying,” he concluded, “there is great danger lurking. Great danger to me, and great danger to you.” He lowered his face to look into the general’s eyes. “My father intends for me to transform the kingdom. You know that—we have discussed it. But there are many who would stop me. I don’t know how far they will go.”

  “You’ve got to be more specific,” Brighton prodded anxiously. “Are you talking of your neighbors? Syria? Iran?”

  “No! None of those! Those would be obvious. I’m talking of my family. I’m talking of your friends.”