The Assassins

by Oliver North

  “But once again, Dan, where would they get the weapons?” asked the President, preparing to end the conference.

  The Defense Secretary pursed his lips, then asked rhetorically, “How about the Russians?”

  Mount Weather Emergency Relocation Facility

  ________________________________________

  Bluemont, VA

  Monday, 15 October 2007

  1450 Hours Local

  Prince Arshad Ali Akbar-Salah was taking it all fairly well, Newman thought. The Marine Brigadier General had been dispatched to meet the young Saudi prince when he arrived at the Pentagon LZ aboard the VH-60 that had picked him up at the Naval Academy.

  Before reboarding the helicopter for the thirty-minute flight to Mount Weather, the twenty-one-year-old midshipman had exchanged his uniform for jeans, a dark blue flannel shirt, and a nondescript Navy windbreaker. Aside from the regulation academy haircut, the Saudi prince now looked much like any other college junior.

  Newman, the prince, and his Naval Academy roommate, Ken Carlton, were sitting in what appeared to be a comfortable, well-appointed apartment—except that they were nearly a thousand feet beneath the crest of Mount Weather. The sign outside the “apartment” door read: “VIP Suite 3.”

  The three men had already enjoyed a late lunch prepared by stewards in the galley a level above them. The two midshipmen, seated on a comfortable couch, and Newman in a leather easy chair, were now in the “living room” of the suite watching the afternoon news. As the television went from the latest on the situation in Saudi Arabia to a commercial, Carlton asked Newman, “Have you ever been here before, sir?”

  “Only once,” the Marine brigadier responded. “I came here on an inspection shortly after joining the Department of Homeland Security.”

  “I had no idea anything like this existed,” the midshipman continued. “How many places like this are there?”

  Newman paused a moment and answered, “Enough so that we can relocate all of the functions of the federal government in an extreme emergency. But we probably can't say much more than that.”

  At this the Saudi smiled and interjected, “I'll bet you don't have too many foreigners as guests.”

  The Marine, smiling as well, responded, “That's certainly true. But the cover for this place got fairly well ‘blown’ after 9/11. This was the ‘Undisclosed Location’ for the Vice President. It's actually been around since the Eisenhower administration built it to withstand a Soviet nuclear attack.”

  At this, the smile left the prince's face and he suddenly became serious. “Other than what we have seen on the news, is there any other word on my mother, father, or my sisters?”

  Since being dispatched to pick up the prince, Newman had been provided with regular updates, transmitted by the DHS Ops Center to the ERF Communications suite a hundred feet below them in the heart of the underground warren of concrete tunnels. In the hours since they had arrived at the mountain bastion, the two midshipmen had seen couriers delivering messages in sealed envelopes to their escort. And all three of them had watched rebroadcasts of the State Department's spokesman rejecting the “ultimatum” issued by the “Islamic Brotherhood.”

  Newman chose his words carefully, calling the prince by the name that his classmates used. “There has been no official confirmation, Arshad. Our embassy in Riyadh is surrounded by angry mobs, there are quite a few wounded inside, and we have very little verifiable information. As we heard just a few minutes ago on TV, your country's entire diplomatic mission in Washington, and those in London, Paris, and Berlin, have asked for asylum. Our government has promised to notify me immediately whenever we learn anything about your parents, siblings, or the rest of your relatives in Saudi Arabia.”

  “But it doesn't look good, does it?” said the prince.

  Again, the Marine paused before answering. “No, it doesn't. I'm not going to lie to you, Arshad. As of an hour ago, our government has been unable to confirm that any members of the royal Saud family are still alive—except you. That's why we're here.”

  The young man leaned back in his chair and said nothing. Carlton reached over and pressed the prince's arm as Newman watched in silence.

  The briefing paper on the young Saudi prince described him as an “enigma” to his family and countrymen. While the licentious lifestyle of most Saudi males was legendary, the ambassador's oldest son was clearly cut from a different bolt of cloth. He was widely respected at the Naval Academy for his diligence, academic performance, and athletic abilities. Though his father was one of the wealthiest men on the planet, Arshad lived the same austere existence as any other midshipman. The only exception from the usual rules that he had ever requested was that he be allowed to keep Ken Carlton as his roommate after “Plebe Year.” His request had been quietly granted.

  Because the prince had asked that his Bancroft Hall roommate be allowed to accompany him when he was hastily evacuated from Annapolis, Ken Carlton's background had also been included in the documents Newman had inside his locked briefcase. In those briefing papers, the Chicago native was described as a “natural athlete and leader” and “academically proficient”—as reflected by his 3.7 grade point average—only one tenth of a point lower than the prince's. Newman had also read that Carlton was the leading halfback on Navy's varsity football team, the vice president of his class, and the leader of an Officer's Christian Fellowship Bible study.

  After a long silence, Carlton asked, “Can I call home and tell my folks where we are, sir? I usually e-mail them every day and they'll be worried about both of us. Arshad has been a guest in my parents' home many times.”

  “You can call home on that phone right there,” Newman replied, pointing to a telephone on the table beside the couch. “But please don't tell them where you are, simply that you are in a safe place.”

  “How do I make the call?” Carlton asked. “There is no number pad for dialing.”

  “Just pick up the phone and tell the operator the number,” Newman replied.

  Carlton was reaching for the phone when FOX News' Shepard Smith interrupted a report on oil reaching $154 a barrel and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a FOX News Alert. My producer is informing me that there has been a large explosion in southeastern Saudi Arabia. We're going live to our chief Pentagon correspondent, Brett Baier—Brett, what do we have?”

  Newman grabbed the remote off the table in front of the couch and increased the volume as the image on the screen changed to the Pentagon pressroom.

  “Shep, we have just been informed by the Office of the Secretary of Defense that a large explosion has been observed in southeastern Saudi Arabia. I'm going to read this exactly as we just received it from the Pentagon Public Affairs Office moments ago.” Baier held up a piece of paper and read, “At 2300 Saudi Arabia time—1500 Washington Time—that's three p.m.—a National Reconnaissance Office satellite observed what appears to be a nuclear detonation in southeastern Saudi Arabia at 21 degrees north latitude, 54 degrees east longitude. The epicenter of the explosion is approximately seven hundred miles southeast of Riyadh, in the vicinity of the Saudi Arabia-Oman border. Based on the size of the flare, it is estimated that the yield of the device was between one hundred and four hundred kilotons. A radioactive plume is evident, indicating that the detonation occurred at or near ground level. Prevailing winds in the lower atmosphere indicate a probable high risk of near-term radioactive fallout east of the detonation to include Muscat, Oman, south to Duqm, Oman. Upper level winds indicate a mid-term radiation hazard to vessels and aircraft transiting the Arabian Sea, east to the Indian subcontinent including Bombay, Sholapur, and Akola, India. The Secretary of Defense confirms that the ‘Washington-Moscow Hotline’ was activated within three minutes of the suspected nuclear event …”

  The three men listened to the simple recitation in stunned silence as a map appeared on the screen showing the area of the world that had just been described. While they watched, the prince muttered, “That's Rub al Khali.
”

  Newman turned to him and asked, “What's that, Arshad?”

  The prince looked at the Marine and replied, “If they are right about where the explosion occurred, that's called ‘Rub al Khali’—it means the ‘Empty Quarter’ in Arabic. Nobody but a few Bedouins live there.”

  As Newman was about to ask more questions, there was a knock on the door. He walked to the portal and opened it to see one of the civilian communications technicians standing next to the armed U.S. Army sentry who had been posted outside the VIP suite since he and the two midshipmen had arrived.

  The civilian, clad in a blue jump suit, said, “General Newman, you're wanted in the communications center.”

  “Very well,” he replied. Then turning to the two men who were now standing he said, “Ken, better make that phone call sooner rather than later. I've got a feeling that the U.S. long-distance system is about to get very busy. The phone call will be monitored, so be careful not to reveal where you are. Please wait here for me. I'll be right back.”

  As Newman turned to leave he looked at his watch. It was 1520.

  Dirksen Senate Office Building

  ________________________________________

  Washington, DC

  Monday, 15 October 2007

  1905 Hours Local

  Senator James Waggoner was pacing back and forth in front of his desk, TV remote in hand. His skillfully trimmed and tinted mane of white hair was carefully combed and sprayed, and he was still wearing makeup from his fourth TV interview of the day. Two more cable news crews and a print reporter were waiting in his outer office.

  Waggoner had just switched the channel to C-SPAN's live coverage of the UN Security Council's emergency session on the crisis in Saudi Arabia when Ralph Monroe knocked on the door and entered. Before the “senior senator's” chief of staff could speak, Waggoner asked, “Are we ready for the next interview?”

  “Yes, sir,” Monroe answered, “but before I bring them in here, the White House is returning your call.”

  “Which call? I've been calling down there every half hour since that bomb went off four hours ago. Which line, Ralph?”

  “Line 5, sir,” the aide replied.

  The Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence returned to his desk and reached for the phone. Every line was lit up and blinking. He punched the button labeled 5, picked up the receiver, and said, “Senator Waggoner.”

  At the other end of the line an operator's voice said, “This is White House Signal, please stand by for the National Security Advisor.”

  A look of disgust appeared on the senator's face as he heard a click on the circuit and then, “Good evening, Mr. Chairman, this is Jeb Stuart. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you, but it's been very busy this afternoon as I'm sure you understand.”

  “Understand? Well no, I don't understand! I've been calling for hours, boy,” Waggoner began. “You people don't seem to know what you're doing down there and I'm just trying to help you out! This thing has been going on now for two days and all you can do is hold meetings, issue statements, and call on the UN for help. We've had a friendly government toppled, our supply of oil cut off, and now a nuke has killed God knows how many people and all you people can do is call another meeting—”

  “Now, Senator—” the National Security Advisor tried to interrupt the barrage.

  “Don't ‘now senator’ me, son,” Waggoner continued. “I didn't call for you, I called for the President. Now get your tail over there to the Oval Office or the gym or wherever the President is napping right now and you tell him that the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence is hopping mad and wants to talk to him—not to you, not the head of Legislative Affairs, not the Chief of Staff, not the Vice President—I want to talk to him, pronto. You got it?”

  The National Security Advisor did not answer. He was seething. Though he held his temper in check, he finally spoke but his voice had a steel edge. “Rest assured, Senator, I shall apprise the President of your call. Could you tell me the subject matter? It may help expedite his response.”

  Waggoner instantly shifted to his more familiar “good ol' boy” persona. “Sure, son. You tell the President that in accord with Article I, Section 5 of our beloved Constitution, I want the Congress to meet immediately in secret session to pass my ‘Terrorist Threat Mitigation Bill.’ And you can tell him that I have the votes necessary to override his veto—in both houses of Congress.”

  “I shall pass it on to the President, Mr. Chairman,” Stuart responded coolly. Then, in a none too subtle reference to the senator's penchant for disappearing for hours on end with his “lady friends” or drinking buddies, he added: “Will you be reachable this evening?”

  “I'll be right here, son, doing my part to save the Republic. I have a few more press interviews to do about us not knowing who's running this ‘Islamic Brotherhood’ outfit.”

  “Yes, Senator, I saw your last interview on NBC. If you'll permit me, I can tell you that the President is none too happy about the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence telling our adversaries things they don't need to know.”

  “Well now, young fella, if the President is unhappy with me, please have him call and tell me so,” Waggoner said with a syrupy drawl. “Now y'all just run along and talk to your boss. I don't like to keep the Fourth Estate waiting.”

  Waggoner hung up the phone, looked at his chief of staff, smiled broadly, and said, “I think we got their attention. We do have the votes, don't we, Ralph?”

  “After the nuke exploded, there's no doubt about it,” Monroe answered. “There's not a member of Congress who hasn't had their phone ringing off the hook with constituents calling, demanding action.”

  “You have the bill in final form?” Waggoner asked.

  “Yes, sir, it's all ready to go,” Monroe responded.

  “Good. Call the mailroom and have a courier hand-carry a copy to the White House. Stamp the envelope ‘Eyes Only for the President’ from me. That should be all it takes to make our Chief Executive want to pick up the phone,” the senator instructed. He then added, “While we're waiting for the White House to call back, send out to the Capitol Grille for a bite to eat.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide said. “Do you want me to bring in the next camera crew now?”

  “No. Let 'em wait 'til I eat.”

  The Oval Office

  ________________________________________

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Monday, 15 October 2007

  2030 Hours Local

  By sunset, the President had spent more of the day in the Situation Room than in the Oval Office. The detonation of the nuclear device in southeastern Saudi Arabia had driven the price of oil over $225 a barrel and precipitated panic in several European cities. The London Stock Exchange closed early following the worst trading losses in its 205-year history. It was much the same in Paris, Geneva, Bonn, and Tokyo. When a report of the explosion was announced over the public address system at a soccer game in São Paulo, Brazil, several hundred fans were trampled in the ensuing melee.

  Secretary of State Helen Luce missed the Crisis Team meeting that convened in the Sit Room at 1930. She had been dispatched to New York City to urge the United Nations Security Council to act on a joint US/UK resolution calling for an “International Stability Force” to take control of Saudi Arabia. The President and the others in the Situation Room had watched the live feed from the United Nations as Secretary Luce made her brief but impassioned plea to the international body:

  “I call upon all nations to join the United States of America and the United Kingdom in condemning these actions, and to give no aid or comfort to those who are responsible. Already, on the heels of the initial terrorist aggression, other appalling actions have been triggered by these same unlawful elements. These also threaten the lives and property of a peaceful people and have placed others, thousands of miles away, at grave risk of sickness and death from nuclear r
adiation. Anarchy exists all across Saudi Arabia, while various outside terror elements seek to take advantage of the instability and chaos within the country. We must act now to keep this terrible tragedy from gathering momentum. We must protect the lives and property of those who are not able to protect themselves. And we must act swiftly and decisively.”

  She had completed her presentation just minutes before the President walked back into the Oval Office, accompanied by his National Security Advisor and Defense Secretary.

  As the President entered the room, the red phone on his desk rang once. He walked over to it, picked up the receiver and heard, “Mr. President, this is WHCA Secure Voice Operator. I have the Secretary of State on the line from her portable secure unit in New York.”

  “Go ahead and put her through, and tell her I'm with the Secretary of Defense and the National Security Advisor on a speaker,” the President said, activating the device beside the phone. After the usual clicking, pings, and whooshing noise, the three men heard the garbled but unmistakable voice of Helen Luce say, “Sorry to bother you, Mr. President, but the Security Council has recessed to go into executive session and it doesn't look good. We made our strongest case, but both the French and Russian ambassadors told me privately that they have been instructed by their governments to veto the resolution.”

  The weary President shook his head and visibly slumped in his chair, then said, “I'll call Putin and Chirac right now to see if we can move them. I'll also call London and ask Tony to do the same thing. You try to get hold of the Russian and French Foreign Ministers—though getting anyone over there in the middle of the night is going to be a problem.”

  “You're probably the only one who can move them now, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State responded. “Do you want me to stay here until the vote or head back to Washington?”