by Jeff Nesbit
Postmortems would likely tie the truck’s contents to the IRGC efforts in Iran to secure nuclear weapons capabilities from North Korea’s scientists. The speculation would be that the Jundallah terrorists, with US backing, had secured the cargo on the black market inside Iran.
The operatives had received their orders directly from the Saudi crown prince himself, without an intermediary. The handoff of the cargo had come to them from the personal plane of the crown prince. Just one pilot and one technician had been aboard that flight.
“So how do you figure?” the other operative asked.
“Obviously, we take out Iran’s greatest hope, the Azadegan oil fields,” the first operative said. “If this works, they won’t be able to go anywhere near these fields for years.”
“Okay, fine,” said the second operative. “But that’s our primary mission. What are the other two?”
“The US will be blamed for the attack. Everyone, Iran included, knows that the United States has been supporting Jundallah financially since 2003…”
“The United States denies that,” the second operative countered.
“Yeah, right.” The first snorted. “Like we haven’t been supporting al Qaeda all these years to keep them away from the kingdom.”
“True.”
“The American CIA might as well have planted the bombs themselves when Jundallah targeted Iran’s Revolutionary Guards Corps at the mosque and killed all those people. Every high-profile bombing inside Iran that Jundallah is responsible for has the Americans’ handprints all over it. This will be no different.”
“Perhaps,” the second operative said. “We shall see. So what’s the third?”
“China’s national oil company has put a considerable amount of financing into Azadegan already. The Chinese will go crazy after this. They’ll go right after the United States.”
“How do you figure?”
“They’ll assume Jundallah secured the nuclear components— and the portable device that can set something off—with US help. No one in their right minds will imagine Saudi Arabia had a hand in it.”
“But we do have a hand in it. The world may think we haven’t been quietly working on a portable nuclear device that can be deployed.” The second operative gestured toward the back of the truck. “Yet, here we are, with precisely such a device.”
“Yes, but the markings are North Korean and old, forgotten Russian parts. There’s no way, not in a million years, that anyone will be able to trace this back to the kingdom. At best, it will come back to Iran’s sloppy acquisition of nuclear technology. At worst, China will accuse the US of aiding and abetting Jundallah in their violent opposition to the IRGC. In neither case will any of this come back at us.”
“Nothing is impossible,” the second operative said evenly.
“Which is why we’re being careful now—and why we’ve always been extraordinarily careful to mask any efforts to explore nuclear capabilities all these years. We don’t have facilities, and we don’t have nuclear scientists.”
“But we do have people who can deploy something that’s already been built,” the second said.
“Precisely. We don’t need to build or invent. We only need to acquire. And as we’ve seen, money can buy almost anything.”
The two operatives drove in silence toward the Iraqi border. Once they were inside Iran, it wouldn’t be difficult to get to the Azadegan oil fields and deliver their cargo.
From there, they’d travel to the southern tip of Iran in a second vehicle coming from a different, undisclosed direction. From there, they’d board a speedboat that could safely carry them away from the scene.
The covert operation was bold but fairly easy. Covering their tracks was the most difficult part. They just needed to ensure that everything left behind after the blast pointed directly at the North Korean nuclear weapons technology and then to the US support for the Jundallah organization that had previously bombed IRGC soldiers.
If they did their jobs right, no one would suspect—or blame— the Saudis.
The two operatives had no interest in the geopolitics of the moment. They didn’t care that the decision had been made by the Saudi king and crown prince to retaliate against Iran’s complicity in the attack at the Saudi Aramco complex. All they knew was that they had a job to do and that they needed to do it well and carefully.
They slowed the truck as their GPS coordinates told them they were crossing over into Iran. But there was no real need for undue caution. The land looked the same, on either side of the border. They maintained a safe, easy speed to Azadegan.
Once there, they drove to the point on their handheld GPS devices that, they were told, the blast from their cargo would have maximum impact. The first operative parked the truck, while the second climbed into the back to make sure that nothing had become dislodged on the trip there.
They checked and double-checked the two cell phones that would serve as a primary and backup trigger. Everything was ready. Even better, they’d only seen a couple of other trucks in the region as they’d made their way to the pre-chosen location.
The two operatives walked away from the vast Azadegan oil field complexes. Nearly an hour later, they were met by the second vehicle, with a single driver. Once safely on board, they headed toward the southern Iranian coast.
“So, is it time?” the second operative asked as they raced away from the massive Azadegan oil field.
“It is,” said the first.
He dialed the number on the primary cell phone. The number rang. An instant later, there was a muffled blast in the distance and a small mushroom cloud spread heavenward.
“It is done,” said the first operative. “We are avenged.”
42
The Capitol Building
Washington, DC
Jennifer Moran dreaded these meetings with the Gang of Eight at the Capitol building.
First, there was the necessity of meeting in the sound-proofed, bomb-resistant, windowless room in the basement of the Capitol building. Then there was the smallness of the room itself.
While the eight congressional leaders were not allowed to bring aides to these briefings, the room barely accommodated nine or ten people. It was very close quarters.
But today’s briefing to the Gang of Eight at the Capitol would be especially difficult. There were so many conflicts breaking out at various parts of the globe that she didn’t even know where to begin.
The event that had triggered the requirement to meet at the Capitol was the most recent attack in southern Iran. The highly classified intelligence briefs, which she would share with the leaders at the Capitol today, placed the blame for the attacks on the radical Sunni Jundallah terrorist group that opposed Iran’s leadership.
But Moran wasn’t convinced. And there were doubts expressed in both the CIA and NSA briefs as well. It was too easy. She and others felt that Jundallah was an easy patsy.
The problem was compounded by the fact that a few rogue members of Jundallah had swiftly, almost gleefully, taken credit for the nuclear terrorist attack through posts on the mVillage network. This always happened with attacks of this sort. Everyone was always quick to take credit—whether they were responsible or not.
But that was only the beginning of her problems. She also felt compelled to bring the congressional leaders up to speed on the fastmoving developments elsewhere. At least two of the congressional leaders had already asked her about the follow-up actions to the Saudi Aramco attack.
They’d also demanded to know the American response to the attack against West Qurna in southern Iraq. Between the near-simultaneous attacks on oil fields or complexes in Aramco, Iraq, and Iran, the congressional leaders had told her in confidence that they felt like the desperate threat to oil on a global basis had triggered the most severe threat to US interests in the Middle East in a generation.
“What will the president do?” one of them had asked her in a confidential communiqué as a precursor to today’s briefing. “I
s he prepared to send troops back into Iraq to protect our oil interests there?”
But the big question that half of the congressional leaders had posed to her and the White House was the obvious, growing challenge to the peace process. Saudi Arabia had laid the blame for Aramco at Iran’s doorstep. It was hard to tell who would ultimately take credit, or blame, for the attack in Iraq, but both Iran and Saudi Arabia were engaged in furious, back-channel finger-pointing.
And now, with the Jundallah incident, Iran was blaming Saudi Arabia—even if the Saudis could plausibly deny they were behind it.
Moran walked into the room. The Gang of Eight, all but one of them men, was already seated.
“So was it Jundallah?” one of them asked even as Moran was removing her coat and taking a seat at the head of the briefing table.
“We don’t know yet,” she answered. “The NSA and CIA briefs are in your—”
“We’ve seen them,” one of the congressional leaders interrupted. “But we want to hear it from you. What’s going on here, Madame Secretary?”
“Yes, are we seeing the beginning of an armed conflict between Iran and Saudi Arabia?” demanded another, pounding his fist on the table angrily to emphasize his point. “Is this the Shi’a-Sunni war we’ve all been afraid of for years?”
“And is the president prepared to stand tough with Iran in the peace talks?” asked another. “He’s been lukewarm in his support of Israel in the past, as we all know. Will he shield Israel when the Arab world inevitably blames it for one or more of these attacks?”
Moran took a deep breath. At times like this she longed for the day she could retire from public life and just play board games with her grandchildren. Very soon, she thought. Soon I will be free of these egotistical maniacs.
“We are looking at each and every possibility and course of action closely,” she said calmly. “We have recently redeployed our naval assets to the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, and the northern waters of the Persian Gulf in the event that any of these conflicts escalate.”
“Fine,” said one of the leaders, “but what will the president do if one of these conflicts gets out of hand?”
“And what will he do now to deal with the collapse of the global oil economy?” asked another. “The price of crude is going through the roof. Every business in America—not to mention homeowners and drivers— is going to scream bloody murder at us to do something about it.”
“We can’t control crude oil pricing or the price of a gallon of gas, as you all know,” Moran said soothingly. “Let us be realistic, at least in this room. What you all say to your constituents is another matter. But in here, we need to see the picture clearly, without bias.”
“Well, that picture is awfully bleak,” offered a fifth leader, who’d been quiet. “So do you have any sort of plan in mind?”
“Actually,” Moran said, “I do have some good news. And for at least half of you in this room from the other party, you will likely welcome it. The former vice president from a previous administration who sits on the board of Aladdin Oil has informed us that the new refinery in the Negev is going live even as we speak. They will be refining oil from the Shfela Basin near Jerusalem any moment. The technology is proven, the refinery is built, the Ashkelon-Eilat pipeline is now a two-way pipeline, and the Ceyhan terminal in southern Turkey is ready to start taking shipments from the Caspian Sea oil companies as well. We’re at a point where we don’t need to rely on the Arab states.”
“Thank goodness for that!” one of the leaders said loudly. “At least someone is doing something. Raney always said this thing would work, both here and out west with our own deep oil shale reserves. So we have a shot at dealing with this, even if the Arab states blow sky-high.”
“See?” Moran said with a broad smile. “I told you that at least half of you would find this welcome news. Now, some of us still see massive environmental unknowns in this oil shale technology. It’s proven, but we’re somewhat uncertain on the risks.”
“Oh, come on!” one of the leaders said, his face red. “Let me guess. The EPA is going to slap a newfangled regulation on the refining process out west, just because they don’t understand the heating process. And right when we need the ability to pull this oil out ourselves. We need this technology, and this oil.”
“You know,” Moran said evenly, “if you all had just committed to clean energy technology sources like solar, wind, and geothermal a few years ago while we still had time, we wouldn’t be in this position right now where we have to allow unproven oil-extracting technology out the door.”
Thankfully, before the conversation degenerated into the ageold war between the two parties over energy security in the United States—a fight that had been stalemated for more than a decade over whether Congress would invest in clean energy sources or continue to protect the carbon-intensive, fossil-fuel energy sources like oil, coal, and gas—another leader raised her hand.
“So what is this we’re hearing about the Twelfth Imam?” she asked. “Is it true, these reports? Did Ali bin Rahman really meet with Reverend Shahidi in Tehran, and is that possibility real?”
“As real as we can imagine,” Moran responded, glad for the diversion. “We have no way of knowing the truth behind the news that bin Rahman delivered. But we know that Iran’s president certainly believes in the imminent return of the Twelfth Imam. So if such a person shows up, who’s to say how he is received? If someone calling himself the Caliph of God appears at the Jamkaran Mosque on the outskirts of Tehran, or in Mecca, who’s to say how he will be received?”
“So it’s a serious possibility?” the leader pressed.
“As serious as anything else we’re dealing with right now,” Moran answered. “Time will tell if bin Rahman has a person in his back pocket, and whether the world will buy that this person is the Mahdi, or the Twelfth Imam. We’ll deal with that if, or when, it presents itself.”
“Don’t you think the president should be preparing for that sort of event right now?” the leader asked. “I can’t imagine a more destabilizing event in the Arab world than the claim that some pan-Islamic religious authority has shown up in Mecca to lead a new series of revolts. The events of the Arab Spring might be considered child’s play if the Arab world gets stirred up by this sort of a figure.”
“As I said, we’ll deal with it,” Moran said firmly. “But I would argue that we need to take these things one at a time. At the present, we’re focused on stabilizing our national energy security. Then we’ll turn to the regional conflicts erupting in Iraq, Iran, and Saudi Arabia. After that, we’ll see if we have to deal with this Twelfth Imam character.”
“Fine,” the leader of the party that opposed the president said rather loudly. “But I will tell you this. We here in this room, all eight of us, talked among ourselves before you arrived. We plan to call an emergency joint session of Congress to deal with all of this mess if the president does not address it to our satisfaction.”
“We have this in hand,” Moran said firmly. “The president is the commander in chief, not Congress. We will act, in all of the various regional conflicts.”
“Yes, but we declare war—not the president,” the leader said. “And we also control the purse strings.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” Moran said. “I’m well aware of the War Powers Act and the fact that Congress approves our budget.”
“Good,” the leader said. “So please, convey our concerns to President Camara. We’re serious about this joint session of Congress. We need to see firm action on his part.”
43
Aqaba, Jordan
General Fahd’s inaugural broadcast was awkward, to say the least. He had no idea who might have been listening or how it would be received. He created the audio file, then posted it to a new mVillage account that would feed the many student-led accounts of gossip and political intrigue that careened around freely across the network.
His mVillage account, like the students, was private and ano
nymous. The Saudi royal family had no access to the mVillage network accounts, though they might have some ability to keep track of the actual mobile numbers.
But he didn’t care. It would be known soon enough that he was becoming the voice of an impromptu call for Day of Anger protests in Dammam, Qatif, Medina, Mecca, and even Riyadh in Saudi Arabia. Fahd did not care if they knew where the audio files had originated. Natal wanted the Saudi leadership to know that he was their voice, for his own reasons.
Fahd had promised Natal that he would become the voice of the disaffected in the kingdom. And he was a man of his word.
The words had been carefully scripted. Someone working for Natal in the White Army’s intelligence network had pulled files and pictures from mVillage accounts. They’d created a backstory for him, the concept of a new movement tied to the old kingdom of Hejaz, and even a new flag for the movement that was drawn from the old pan-Islamic Arab Revolt flag.
They’d even managed to dig up information recently filed on mVillage about the imminent return of the last, remaining heir to the old Ottoman Empire—a retired librarian named Mehmet Osman, who’d lived in exile in London nearly all of his days—who would make a special appearance in Mecca on the Day of Anger.
Fahd had no idea where any of this information came from, whether it was credible or not, and whether the Saudis would take it seriously. But he also knew enough about the paranoia that often swept through the ranks of the Saudi royal family that it wouldn’t take much to tip them over the edge and trigger an overreaction on their part.
The mere fact that a retired Saudi general, in exile but available, who’d once commanded the White Army, would broadcast a call to arms and uprising would almost certainly cause panic in Riyadh. This was precisely why Natal had selected Fahd for the task.
Perception would quickly become reality. No “Free the Kingdom Army” remotely existed as Fahd created his audio broadcast and launched it out onto the chaotic waters of the mVillage network. But Fadh’s urgent message about the need to unite the disaffected and oppressed minorities in Saudi Arabia would send the Riyadh leadership into a frenzy.
