Oil

by Jeff Nesbit

  The X37B had been handling missions for the National Reconnaissance Office almost from the first prototype. Speculation had been rampant in the press that the unmanned mini-shuttle was some sort of space weapon. The truth was that it was infinitely more valuable as a deployable, movable spy sensor platform in space.

  Combined with other electronic intelligence and news-gathering technology, or ELINT, that had progressed rapidly since the Second World War, the X37B could do very interesting things from a low orbit once it had a fixed target.

  And right now, when the air force could not position planes anywhere near the house in Zahedan, where Bahadur was meeting with bin Rahman, the X37B was doing an awfully good job of listening in from its position in low orbit directly over the house. A highly engineered narrow-beam antenna, among other things, had given the ability to instantly pick up a mobile device call.

  Bahadur had placed a call to Tehran on a highly secure mobile phone. The encryption didn’t matter. The call had been picked up and transmitted back from the X37B instantly.

  It was clear from the electromagnetic data that bin Rahman was not heavily armed. In fact, he was traveling with virtually no protection whatsoever. But it was the very brief call from Bahadur to Tehran that had set Truxton on edge.

  “General, I have news,” Bahadur had said the instant the call had connected.

  “I understand. So the meeting went well?” the person at the other end had said. Truxton, and the analysts at his side, had assumed it was General Zhubin.

  “As well as could be expected,” Bahadur had answered.

  “And the news?”

  “Not what we had expected.” Bahadur had paused. “Actually, not what any of us could possibly have expected—except perhaps our president.”

  “Our president?”

  “Yes, it is…something the president has spoken of on many occasions. It is what he has predicted. But I must confess, it makes no sense to me. I have never believed in the prophecies that speak of someone who can remain in hiding for hundreds of years. And I fail to see how this person can somehow emerge from the Jamkaran Mosque, as our president believes.”

  There was a deepening silence as the person at the end of the line began to realize what Bahadur must have been speaking about. “I see. So you will share the information—how such a thing might be possible—with us when you return?”

  “I will. But I have called to ask permission to bring our guest with us.”

  “To Tehran?”

  “Yes, to Tehran,” Bahadur had said. “He wishes to deliver the momentous news to the president himself. He is quite certain that it is a development our president has anticipated for several years. “

  “So he is unable to return to Pakistan, then?”

  “Not if he wishes to live. I, at least, am quite certain he wouldn’t make it much farther than the border. I’m sure our guest believes much the same thing.”

  “But surely, we do not wish to bring the same sort of wrath down on our heads?”

  “That won’t happen while the peace talks are underway.”

  “And of course, our president will want to hear this news firsthand, in person.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well then. We will await your arrival.”

  The entire conversation had been cryptic and difficult to understand. But Truxton was convinced he understood the news that bin Rahman intended to deliver in Tehran.

  Iran’s president, Nassir Ahmadian, had shockingly delivered a speech at the United Nations, during which he predicted the imminent return of the Twelfth Imam. With leaders from around the world listening in rapt attention, Ahmadian had asked God to hasten the reappearance of the Promised One—a “perfect and pure human being”—who would fill the world with justice and peace.

  He’d also said he believed that his mission on earth was to pave the way for the return of the messianic Twelfth Imam, who would only come back in the midst of an apocalypse.

  Ahmadian had, in fact, spent $17 million to refurbish the Jamkaran Mosque, where the Twelfth Imam was said to emerge when he returned after remaining in hiding for hundreds of years. Much like the Jewish people placed notes of prayers to God at the Western Wall on the Temple Mount, faithful Shi’a Muslims had dropped notes of prayers down the well at Jamkaran for the Twelfth Imam for years.

  Ahmadian seemed to genuinely believe in the return of a hidden imam who’d gone into “occultation” in the ninth century—and would return hundreds of years later with the Jesus of the Quran. What’s more, he’d apparently convinced his Cabinet officials to sign a pledge—delivered to the well at Jamkaran—that they would work to assure the return of the Twelfth Imam. There were many prophecies that were popular to the masses. One well-known myth told of soldiers carrying black flags from the north and white flags from the south who would take control of Mecca, ushering in the era of the Twelfth Imam. Many, including Ahmadian, believed that worldwide violence and chaos were also necessary precursors to the return of the Twelfth Imam. Ahmadian had made no secret of his commitment to do everything he could to usher in the era of the Twelfth Imam.

  Truxton had read much about Ahmadian. In part, he’d done so because he wanted to know what drove the man. But Truxton, a Christian in a quiet fashion, was genuinely perplexed by what appeared to be an insane doctrine that Ahmadian followed.

  Right now, Truxton didn’t like what he’d heard. If his guess was right, bin Rahman had just informed Iran’s leadership that he had concrete news of the return of the Twelfth Imam, alternately referred to as the Mahdi.

  That, Truxton knew, was impossible. There was simply no way a long-dead religious leader from the ninth century could suddenly spring to life. But evidently Ahmadian believed that such a thing was possible. And millions of pious believers in Iran and elsewhere—both Sunni and Shi’a—believed in the eventual appearance of a Mahdi.

  Even more troubling to him than this, though, was the mere fact that al Qaeda’s operational deputy was meeting with one of Iran’s top military leaders. The Shi’a regime was fighting al Qaeda in several parts of the world. They were, in most respects, enemies.

  Yemen’s embattled president, for instance, had literally hired refugee al Qaeda mercenaries to fight the Shi’a Houthi tribe elements in north Yemen, near the Saudi Arabia border. On more than one occasion, the Saudis had successfully managed to keep al Qaeda elements at the throats of armed Shi’a rebels—and Iran proxies—in several countries.

  But war made for strange alliances and bedfellows. It had always been more than a little curious to Truxton, and others in the Pentagon’s leadership, that al Qaeda would have masterminded the September 11 attack against the World Trade towers in New York City in 2001. What seemed more likely was an attack inspired by Iran’s leadership— not al Qaeda.

  But here was proof that at least one of al Qaeda’s leaders was perfectly comfortable reaching out to Iran’s leadership in an effort to find common ground, whether religious, economic, or military.

  Truxton picked up the secure phone. He wanted to make sure there was no misunderstanding about what might be taking place in Zahedan. He asked to be connected to the Situation Room at the White House. “I need General Alton. As quickly as you can.”

  Truxton knew they had no choice but to allow bin Rahman to leave, unharmed, with Bahadur. It was unfortunate. But they would do everything in their power to keep track of him.

  But if bin Rahman promised news of a Twelfth Imam, then Ahmadian would listen. And there was no way to predict what Iran’s president would do next, should he choose to believe what bin Rahman had traveled down from the mountains of Pakistan to tell him.

  17

  The Gulf of Oman

  South of Chabahar, Iran

  Captain Bingham stood on the deck of the USS McCain and watched the plane take off from the supercarrier group he was assigned to. It was a magnificent sight to behold—the navy’s first-ever stealth fighter. Some day, he thought, I’ll have control of a ship with one
of those to call on.

  The pilot of the F-35 C Lightning II was out over the water and supersonic so swiftly that Captain Bingham had trouble keeping his eyes on it as it made the climb up and over Iran’s southern coastline. It was headed north, inland, toward Zahedan.

  Captain Bingham knew the pilot’s mission. Yet what no one in the supercarrier group knew just yet was whether he’d be given the ability to fire once he’d reached his target.

  The navy’s version of the F-35 stealth fighter had gone operational only in the past six months. As of yet, there were only a half dozen in service. This was the sole F-35 navy stealth fighter assigned to the Persian Gulf region.

  A fifth-generation stealth fighter, the plane would have little trouble reaching Zahedan. Iran had no ability to track or fire on this plane, Captain Bingham knew. He just wished he could see it in action.

  The F-35 pilot maintained radio silence for the flight of two hundred miles or so between the supercarrier group and Zahedan. There was no need to communicate anyway. This was an easy mission. The X37B was providing every conceivable piece of coordinate data he could possibly need.

  While he knew there was virtually no way Iran’s antiquated airdefense system could track him, he still kept an eye out for possible threats as he sped across Iran’s countryside. None emerged. He was south of the city of Zahedan in a matter of minutes.

  He took a hard right to buy some time and began a lazy arc to serve as a holding pattern. He wanted to make sure he didn’t fly too close to the city.

  He turned his mike on. “I’ve arrived at the destination. I’m ready for orders.”

  “Coming shortly,” the answer came back an instant later. “Hold for now.”

  “I’ll make a pass, and then circle back.”

  “Roger that. Keep the line open. We’ll have your orders momentarily.”

  The F-35 stealth pilot—the first in the navy’s history—continued a long, slow loop. He arrived back at the target area a minute later. He armed his missiles to be sure he was ready.

  “Is the target painted yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet. Hold.”

  “Roger. But weapons are going hot. I’m waiting on your command.”

  The pilot wasn’t sure whether he’d be firing at a car or a house. But in either case, he’d be ready. He’d prepared for a mission like this his entire career. Very few of his fellow fleet pilots even knew where he was and who they were going after. If he succeeded—and there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that he would succeed—they’d learn soon enough.

  As he worked the plane north again, toward the city, he took several deep breaths and steadied himself. He was ready. The southern edge of the city was starting to come into view. He checked the console. The weapons were hot. Two targets, both the car and the house, had been painted. He only needed confirmation of his orders.

  “Stand down,” the voice came across. “The orders just came through. We won’t be firing on the target today.”

  The pilot looked down, his face a grim mask. He could not believe what he was hearing. “I want to make sure I heard that right.”

  “Yes, you heard it right. Stand down. You are to return to the group. We will not be going after that target today.”

  “You’re serious?” the pilot asked, frustrated. “We’re going to let him go? Just like that?”

  “You have your orders. Stand down, and turn back.”

  The pilot knew better than to ask why over essentially open airwaves. He could not see any possible explanation for it. But he had his orders. He took a hard left and headed back south toward the carrier group. He wondered if he’d ever be given an explanation.

  18

  Camp 16

  North Korea

  You Moon was beyond despair. His country had reached a peace with the United States. His boyhood friend, Pak Jong Un, was the new leader of North Korea. He’d heard scattered, unconfirmed reports as well that Pak’s father had been murdered by the military.

  You Moon knew, in his heart, that his desperate effort to reach out to his friend with a secret message from a hidden cell phone had somehow been instrumental in decisions that had led to the peace with the United States.

  Yet he was still a prisoner at Camp 16 in the northern mountains of his country. Nothing had changed—not for him and not for his friend and fellow prisoner Kim Grace, who’d given him the critical information about the terrible nuclear doomsday weapon they were developing nearby.

  Every day passed much like the previous one for both You Moon and Kim Grace. There was no news from the outside world. They’d confiscated his cell phone. And as punishment for bringing it into camp, the guards had cut food rations by a third for everyone in camp. Several of the prisoners were near starvation as a result.

  So what good did I accomplish? You Moon often thought in despair as he worked his fingers to the bone, crushing rocks in a barren field inside the desolate Camp 16 compound. It seemed to him, in an ironic variation on a very well-known saying from the Bible, that he had gained the world some measure of salvation, yet somehow had nothing more than his soul to show for it.

  Kim Grace often chided him when he would utter—or think—such things. “It is not God’s punishment of us,” she would say. “We grow and learn from our challenges. We become better people in adversity.”

  He loved Kim Grace dearly. She was like family to him, in many ways. But he could not, for the life of him, understand how she could possibly remain hopeful in the face of such absolute cruelty and unfairness. It made no sense to him.

  Camp 16 was, even in the midst of the peace progress with the United States, a place of utter horror. The guards were worse than they had been before the change in power. If anything, the military had tightened its grip on the people, based on what he heard from new prisoners who arrived at the camp almost on a daily basis. You Moon wondered how long it might be until they removed his boyhood friend from power, as they had his father.

  Just that morning, for instance, he’d managed to have a brief conversation with a man who had been the deputy mayor of a small town in eastern North Korea—until the military had stripped him from his post and shipped him off that evening to Camp 16.

  “Why?” You Moon had asked him.

  “I don’t know,” the man had muttered.

  You Moon could tell the man was still in shock—much as he’d been when he’d first arrived at Camp 16 in the dead of night—so he probed gently. “But surely, there’s a reason?”

  The man shrugged. “I put up posters of Pak Jong Un around the town. I delivered several tons of food shipments from several NGOs to the grocery store so people would have food, now that they’ve allowed those shipments again. I was doing what I thought was being asked of me.”

  “But anything else?”

  “I…I don’t know, really,” the man said, despondent. “I did tell the radio station to start broadcasting again, so people could hear news of the progress being made in Pyongyang.”

  You Moon shook his head. “Let me guess—you allowed news from the West in?”

  The man looked surprised. “Well, yes, it was Radio Free Asia, from the US. I assumed that with the peace talks going on with the United States—and the new leader who was working with the Americans on a permanent truce—that it would be all right. It seemed like things had changed…”

  “But they haven’t really, have they?” You Moon said quietly.

  “I guess not,” the man said glumly.

  “Which is probably why you’re here. The military has no real intention of loosening its grip on the country.”

  “So allowing the station to broadcast Radio Free Asia was a mistake?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “And nothing has changed? We’re still at war with the Americans, and our military is still running the country?”

  You Moon didn’t have the heart to tell him his own circumstances, or how betrayed he felt by his friend, now North Korea’s leader. “I would say
that it seems so,” he said instead. “I am so very sorry. Perhaps things will ease up in time, and you can return home.”

  What truly bothered You Moon, though, was that he’d heard nothing whatsoever from Pak Jong Un—even after he’d risked his own life to warn Pak about the threat to his life, and the nature of the threat confronting the country. You Moon was proud of what he’d done—but he simply could not believe that Pak Jong Un had not reached out to Camp 16 to free his friend.

  As the days slipped by in monotony without any word from Pyongyang or any movement toward his release from Camp 16, You Moon slowly came to the realization that his friend would never acknowledge his mistake—and never order the military to release You Moon.

  Barring some significant shift, You Moon now believed he would remain a prisoner in this awful place for the rest of his natural life.

  19

  Moscow, Russia

  The news was much better than he could have believed. Andrei Rowan did not believe in luck, but he was glad to see so many world events moving in his direction—and so many situations bending to his will.

  World leaders had badly misjudged the Russian prime minister for years. Dismissed by the global press as an overly ambitious, intellectual lightweight who’d been in the right place at the right time to jump to the very pinnacle of Russian politics, the truth was that Rowan was much closer to the likes of Stalin or Lenin than even his allies knew. His critics misjudged his aspirations to greatness at their own peril.

  Prime Minister Rowan had carefully plotted Russia’s return to superpower status for a very long time. Every move, from the grand to the mundane, had Russia’s return to greatness firmly at the center. Rowan believed, quite passionately, that the fall of the former Soviet Union was the greatest tragedy of the twentieth century. He meant to right that wrong.

  Rowan felt he truly represented the world’s best hope of checkmating the rich, imperialistic overlords who controlled so much wealth in countries like the United States. The concepts and tenets of Marxism were personal for Rowan. He believed them utterly and completely.