An autopsy was requested by the physician, but the president of Pakistan turned down the request. Following local tradition, the body was cremated before sundown that day.
* * *
The Saudi prince in Dhahran smiled when he was informed of the news. He waved his advisor out of his office and immediately picked up the phone. “Get my money back,” he commanded. “I want every dime.”
* * *
Dhahran, Saudi Arabia
Three weeks later
Prince Abdullah, oldest surviving prince of Saudi Arabia, sat in the center of his office, an opulent and oval-shaped room with gold-plated walls, muraled ceilings, and diamonds imbedded in the molding around the windows and floors. His desk was huge. Three computers and a row of telephones were positioned to his left. A seventy-inch flat screen TV, the satellite dish tuned to CNN, was built into a wooden console to his right. A wall of huge windows, twenty feet high, looked out on the expanse of desert to the east. The sun beat through the windows, forcing the air conditioner to run overtime and the new crown prince to work in his shirt sleeves to stay comfortable.
One of the most aggressive sons of his father, a possible patriarch of his family, a family that was on the rise, Abdullah was a great empire builder, just like the sultans before. Living in a world of power, ambition, and pride, he believed in predestiny, and from the time he was young, he knew he was chosen. It was as simple as that. His father didn’t believe him, nor did all of his kin, but he had proven them wrong, proven it again and again.
* * *
There was a soft knock at his office door and, after a respectable pause, the American was escorted into his office. The crown prince stood up from his desk as he approached.
“Drexel, good to see you,” the prince extended his hand. The American walked toward him and shook it weakly. “Prince Abdullah,” he greeted, his voice raspy and thin.
The crown prince studied his guest. He is growing tired, the Saudi thought as the old man approached. He looks wrung out and defeated. We need to keep a close eye on him.
While appraising his visitor, the prince kept an easy smile on his face. He pointed to an arrangement of seating chairs, and the two men sat down. Black coffee was ready, and the prince poured for his American guest. The cavernous office was quiet.
“You are ready?” Drexel Danbert asked as he sipped at his coffee.
“Yes, my good friend.” The prince sat back and relaxed against his leather chair.
The two men stared at each other, each playing his best poker face.
“Before we get started, I’ve got something to show you,” Abdullah said. He opened a packet and threw half a dozen photographs on the table: mothers wailing in front of a smoky wall, children in various poses of death, small boys, even babies, all of them shot in the head or the chest. Drexel picked up the photos, his face unemotional, his pale eyes puffy, his hands shaking and weak. “Ugly work,” he offered. It was the only thing he would say.
Abdullah held another collection of photographs in his hand and he tossed them on the table as well: American choppers. U.S. soldiers. Weapons. Hard faces. Smoke and burning houses. The Rangers walked through the village and stood over the dead. Though grainy and tilted, the images were clear.
“This is the story I want you to put out,” Abdullah said. “U.S. soldiers are to blame for the assault on Agha Jari Deh. They were looking for al Qaeda. When the villagers didn’t cooperate, they punished them. We have witnesses. Testimony. Everything you will need. Al-Jazeera will run with the story when I give them the word. You take it from this side. You know what to do.”
The old man studied the photos, then nodded his head. “They’ll deny it, of course.”
“Of course they will. And eventually they’ll prove the U.S. was not involved, but it will be too late; the damage will be done. Remember, good friend, the truth doesn’t matter that much anymore. Those who hate the United States will believe it, no matter what evidence is eventually revealed. The New York Times will front page the story for five weeks, at least. It will weaken the administration and divert them from their work; there’ll be hearings in Congress, special investigations, the whole bit. And remember, Drexel, all we’re after is another chip in the wall, another crack in the foundation, and this certainly gives us that.”
The old man picked up a photo showing a dead child on the street. A U.S. soldier stood behind him, smoking a cigarette while talking to his comrade and pointing away. The image was clear enough, he could read their name tags. Sanchez and . . . Brighton? Maybe Bingham; he couldn’t tell, but either way, it didn’t matter; they were about to be famous, their images slapped across every newspaper in the world.
“I’ll get some people on it,” he said, tossing the photograph on the table. “When will the story break?”
“Later tomorrow afternoon.”
“That isn’t much time.”
“It’s a big story, Drexel. It’s My Lai again. U.S. military atrocities make very good press, so it will be hard to sit on a story, if you know what I mean.” Abdullah’s voice was curt and sarcastic, but he smiled as he spoke.
The American sipped at his coffee. A few moments passed in silence. “On the other matter, you know, I’ve been thinking,” he finally said. “Talking around, getting a few opinions, talking in the abstract, of course, but trying to get a feeling for how this will be received. And I have to tell you, Your Majesty, that I believe you are walking on tenuous ground.”
“We know we are, Drexel. But you will take care of everything.”
The old man was clearly uncomfortable and shook his head hesitatingly. “I don’t know, Your Highness. We can do many wonderful things. We’ve done miracles for you in the past. We are very powerful—our partnerships span the whole of the globe; our friendships are personal; our contacts are cultivated and nurtured through both the good and bad years. But there is, after all, only so much we can do, and this plan is far more than we had ever envisioned. Destroy an entire nation! How would you suggest we manipulate the political consequences of that?”
“We won’t destroy them. We will move them. There is an enormous difference, my friend.”
“But they will not be moved.”
“Then that is their choice. If they stay, they will die, but I cannot choose for them. We can’t make them be reasonable, though Allah knows we have tried.”
“They will not go away. They have nowhere to go. And even if they did, even if they were given other options, they would choose to die in their homeland. It is that important to them.”
“Again I will say it: I cannot choose for them.”
The American sat back in frustration. It was criminal and inhuman, and though he had sanctioned human suffering, this was crossing the line. He pressed his lips together, and his heart beat in his chest. “How many people will die?” he asked in a low voice.
The crown prince thought and then said, “That is not your concern. This is a conflict between nations, not a criminal case. You are my lawyer, but I am not a citizen of your country. I represent my own interest; I am a sovereign entity. So don’t confuse our relationship or overestimate your input here. You are to advise and represent, but don’t interfere or give counsel when it is not asked of you.”
The American understood and nodded his head.
“All right, then,” the prince continued. He paused and then said, “If it would make you feel better, I will tell you that it probably won’t be as bad as you think. The nuclear weapons are tactical in nature and are relatively small. What we are proposing isn’t much different from what has been done before.”
The lawyer shook his head. “How can you say that?” he cried.
The prince leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. He spoke with indignation, his voice sharp and on edge. “Dresden,” he sneered, “one-hundred fifty thousand civilians firebombed. London. Two hundred thousand. Twenty thousand dead in a single attack. Leningrad, three hundred thousand civilians killed in combat, another half millio
n starved. Berlin. Two hundred eighty-nine thousand killed in the last month of the Bolshevik advance alone, and who knows how many in the months before that? Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Poof!” The prince brought his fingers together and blew them apart. “A hundred thousand gone. Poof! Just like that.
“So get my point, Drexel? This is nothing new. War isn’t for the weak. And we’ve seen this before.”
The lawyer frowned and swallowed. The prince’s eyes flickered yellow and Drexel startled back. Something stirred inside him. Where had he seen that flicker before? He swallowed again, forcing himself to calm down. “Tell me, how many people will die?” he asked as he lowered his eyes.
The prince hunched his shoulders. “Maybe twenty-five thousand in the initial attack. Perhaps another twenty from the radioactive fallout.”
The old man stared at his coffee and tried to steady his hands. “And your target is Jerusalem?”
The crown prince sat back and laughed. “Jerusalem! Are you kidding? Do you think I’m stupid, Drexel? Don’t you understand me yet?” The crown prince whistled in disgust. Did this man understand anything?
The old man stared in confusion. “But if not Jerusalem . . . ?”
The prince waved an impatient hand. “My target is Gaza,” he said.
Drexel stammered and choked. “Gaza! You’re kidding! That’s a Palestinian city! A hundred thousand refugees live in the Gaza Strip.”
“I know they do, Drexel. And those who die will die as martyrs. And Allah will receive them unto his own.
“And remember, that is not all that is going to happen, my friend. Once we have destroyed the Little Satan, the Jews and other cockroaches who have stolen our sacred land, we will turn on their big brother, the Great Satan himself. That is our primary objective, everything else is only a prelude to that. With these weapons, these gifts, we will bring the Great Satan down. We will cut off his tail—that is the first thing we will do—but we will not stop our work until we have stabbed at his heart; and if you have lost sight of that objective, then you have forgotten our cause.”
“Where do you start, then, my master?”
“Where it hurts them the most. They are weak, and fat-bodied, and unable to take care of themselves. With these warheads in hand, I can cut off their oil. Not a drop of Saudi crude will move through the Gulf, not a drop of OPEC oil will flow to the States. And our oil is the furnace that drives their machines; they are powerless without it, nothing but a motionless car. They have so little of their own, and what little they have they have chosen to lock away, afraid of getting dirty, afraid of spilling a little oil. Fools! Silly women and stupid children, they are. What were they thinking to do this to themselves?
“The U.S. economy, like its soul, is a great paper temple.
It looks firm on the outside, but there are no stones in the walls. It is as hollow and fragile as a decomposed log. It’s an incredible web, but when one thread is missing, the entire structure falls down. Once we cut off their oil, it will collapse in the wind. It will take only a month before we see panic in the streets.
“And if you don’t believe me, Drexel, then consider the past. Think of what happened when we blew a few of their towers down! Think of the economic upheaval. It lasted three years. Now try to estimate what will happen when they lose most of their oil. It will be an economic devastation unlike anything since the last world war. No, it will be better, far better—there is nothing to compare. How long will it take before the food stores run short? Just-in-time inventory—what idiot came up with that? Most Americans are not able to feed themselves for a day; some of them won’t even drink water if it comes from a tap! So we cut off the oil, and the whole thing falls down. No fuel for their semis, no fuel for their ships, no fuel for their factories, hospitals, or trains. The grocery shelves will be empty long before the panic sets in! It will be instant hunger and chaos. What a marvelous thing!”
The American didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say. “You’re going after the Americans?” he stuttered after a pause.
“The Americans and Israel! They are two evil nations, the greatest pox on the world. I will destroy them together or die in the cause.”
The Second Sun
The Second Sun
© 2005 The Shipley Group
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P. O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book Company.
Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stewart, Chris, 1960—
The second sun / Chris Stewart.
p. cm. — (The great and terrible ; v. 3)
ISBN-10 1-59038-486-5 (alk. paper)
ISBN-13 978-1-59038-486-2 (alk. paper)
eISBN- 1-60641-620-0 (eletronic)
1. Terrorism—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Stewart, Chris, 1960— .
Great and terrible ; v. 3.
PS3569.T4593S43 2005
813'.54—dc22 2005021136
Printed in the United States of America 72076
Publishers Printing, Salt Lake City, Utah
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my brothers—
the truest friends a man could ever have.
The Story So Far
In the premortal world, Lucifer and his followers reject the plan of the Father and wage war on the faithful, trying to win souls to their side. Jehovah and Michael lead the cause of the valiant, and Ammon, Luke, Elizabeth, and Sam are among the warriors who help to save many who otherwise would have been lost. Lucifer, enraged, vows to remember these great ones and to continue the fight for their souls in the mortal world.
And so the battle continues in the next estate. Lucifer and his minions, including the master teacher Balaam, whose pride was his downfall in the premortal conflict, wreak havoc on the inhabitants of the earth, snaring leaders of nations and stirring up hatred and bloodshed. Chief among their conquests is Prince Abdullah al-Rahman, second son of the king of Saudi Arabia. When it becomes evident that his father and older brother favor allying themselves with the democratic government of the United States, Prince Abdullah makes a pact with a mysterious stranger in return for knowledge of how to bring them down.
Meanwhile, in the Agha Jari Deh Valley of Iran, Elizabeth is born Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi, only child of Rassa Ali Pahlavi, grandson of the last Shah of Persia. Her mother, Sashajan, dies within twenty-four hours of her birth, but she lives a happy childhood, raised by a loving father. Everyone who knows her recognizes a special quality that she possesses, a sort of radiance or spiritual maturity that sets her apart. Lucifer’s followers find her, and the adversary sends one of his mortal servants to murder her, but she is protected by Teancum, a heavenly messenger sent by the Father to preserve her life so she can fulfill her mission on earth.
Crown Prince Saud, heir to the throne of Saudi Arabia, also finds the Pahlavi family. Recognizing how precarious his own situation has become, he forms a desperate plan to seek help from them if the need should arise. He also contacts his friend in the United States, Major General Neil S. Brighton, asking to meet him during his upcoming trip to Saudi Arabia.
General Brighton, newly appointed as military liaison to the National Security Advisor, feels the weight of his assignment and the price it exacts from his wife, Sara, and their twin sons, Ammon and Luke. The boys are doing all right, basically on course with mission preparations despite a lively lifestyle. Neil wishes he could say the same for Sam, the foster son he and Sara have adopted as their own. Sam’s abusive birth parents have made his road difficult, and even the love of the Brightons is not sufficient to give him a
testimony of God’s love for him. Instead of going on a mission, he chose to join the army, and now he serves in an elite Delta unit specializing in covert missions in the most dangerous regions of the world.
Neil Brighton travels to Saudi Arabia, and during his meeting with Prince Saud, a servant comes running to raise an alarm. A “Firefall” has been called—code for an assault on the royal family. Too late to help, Prince Saud learns that his wife and children have been assassinated, the first step in Prince Abdullah’s plan to take over the leadership of his country. Prince Saud flees with his second wife and his only remaining son, a boy of four, taking them by helicopter to Iran and consigning them secretly to the care of his distant cousin Rassa Ali Pahlavi, Azadeh’s father. On the way back, his helicopter is fired upon, and he barely has time to get a Mayday message out, pleading for Neil Brighton to rescue his son, before missiles destroy the chopper. Abdullah’s spies intercept the message, and the race is on to find the last son of Prince Saud. What no one knows is that Rassa has persuaded his powerful friend, Omar, to smuggle the princess and her child out of the region.
Soon the mercenaries of Prince Abdullah flood into the valley of Agha Jari Deh, seeking the young prince and the man Rassa. When Rassa refuses to surrender the boy, they burn him to death before Azadeh’s eyes and begin the grim task of killing all the young boys in the village, as well as any of the villagers who oppose them. Their work is interrupted by the sudden arrival of American soldiers—Sam’s unit—dispatched to help Prince Saud’s son. The Deltas frighten off the remaining enemy soldiers, but they are too late to do much good. Destruction and carnage are everywhere, and they hold out no real hope of finding the royal child they have come to rescue. After a quick assessment of the situation, the captain orders them back to the choppers, but on his way, Sam feels an impression that someone needs his help. He turns back to see Azadeh and feels instantly that he knows her somehow. As his platoon leader pulls him away, he calls to her to find her way to Khorramshahr, a refugee camp on the Iran/Iraq border, where he promises to have someone find her.
The Great and Terrible Page 50
