Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  The general bowed and nodded. He certainly would.

  The Arab king smiled. Half the money would be presented up front, half when the crate was safe in Shanghai. The two men stood and shook hands, and the deal was done.

  “Soon. Soon,” the king emphasized as the general walked away.

  The general left immediately to make the arrangements. Six hours later, he called the king with good news. He had taken care of everything.

  That night, in the underground bunker beneath the expansive airfield, a Saudi technician went to work attaching the barometric trigger to the firing device. His work was monitored at all times by three highly motivated Saudi military officers. The nuclear warhead was then carefully extracted from its box and put on a metal stand. A blanket of composite material, impossible to purchase on the open market, secretly built in a Malaysian factory outside of Kuala Lumpur, was wrapped around the warhead and heat-sealed with electric blowers. The composite material would absorb any leaking radiation from the warhead, making it impossible to detect for at least a few days.

  The warhead was sealed, and then carefully packed into a nondescript, reinforced wooden crate. Under cover of darkness, the crate was carefully put onto the back of a small military truck, carried across the airfield, and loaded on a Saudi military transport, which took off immediately.

  Ten armed guards, all of them dressed as civilians, accompanied the crate, never letting it out of their sight. They were some of the great king’s most trusted agents, but they worked under the clear threat of death.

  The Saudi transport flew across all of southern Asia, eventually landing in a busy airport on China’s western border

  From there, the crate was loaded into a Chinese civilian transport, one of the nondescript and undercover aircraft the general’s organization used every day. The steel and aluminum aircraft took off a little after noon and made its way east toward the glimmering city on the coast. En route, the aircraft stopped to refuel and change crews. After it had taken off again, the original crew members were driven to a deserted spot on the airfield and shot.

  Seven hours later, the aircraft touched down again. The new crew members were also silenced, and the crate was delivered to the general’s men in Shanghai.

  Shanghai International Airport, Shanghai, China

  It took less than a day for the crate to clear customs at Shanghai, and that was a record, for normally it would have sat in a warehouse on the south end of the airport for a week or ten days before its paperwork would move to the top of the pile.

  But a single call from a small brick-and-stucco office outside the fenced perimeter of the airport guaranteed that the crate would move through the international shipping terminal without delay.

  Two hours after the phone call came through, the crate was inspected, approved, and stamped for shipment to Taiwan via PacEx Express, the largest commercial air transport that flew out of Shanghai. The freight manifest indicated that the contents of the crate were offshore oil drilling bits and platform braces from a manufacturer in central China. The inspectors at the customs facility were not surprised to see that their inventory system contained a computer-generated request for the parts from a Chinese-owned supplier in Canada as well as a receipt for the parts from the factory.

  The crate was postmarked to Québec. Like most international package carriers, PacEx would make several stops along the way, including a stop in Taiwan, where the huge crate from China would be loaded onto another aircraft. That aircraft would in turn make stops in Honolulu; Los Angeles; and Washington, D.C., before ending up in Québec.

  The PacEx Express Airbus 300 lifted off the runway at Shanghai International Airport, its wheels dropping a few inches against their pistons as the aircraft elevated into the night air. The humid atmosphere, hot, wet, and steamy from the afternoon storms, created miniature vortices off the wingtips of the jet, misty horizontal tornadoes that funneled through the air and dipped toward the tarmac before fading away. The intricate maze of blue, green, and white airport lights receded as the Airbus climbed into the night. Onboard the aircraft were six crew members, four tons of mail, twelve thousand seven hundred small packages, each of them boxed in the bright green and yellow PacEx Express colors, and various larger boxes and industrial crates.

  The crate from China was packed in the rear of the aircraft and strapped down carefully.

  As the aircraft lifted into the air, the pilot, an English gentleman who had earned a whopping three hours of combat flying time during the First Gulf War, climbed to five hundred feet, and then pulled the nose skyward to an angle of ten degrees. The copilot glanced at his instrument panel. The three lights depicting the main and nose landing gear turned momentarily red as the gear finally tucked into the belly of the jet. A solid thunk could be felt as the gear locked in place on their hydraulic arms. “Gear up,” he announced.

  With the gear up, the leading edge slats at sixty percent and the engines at full power, the aircraft climbed quickly through one thousand feet while maintaining a perfect heading of two hundred seventy degrees.

  “Departure, PacEx 687 is with you, passing through one thousand for nine thousand feet,” the pilot spoke into the tiny microphone attached to his headset. His accent was only one of many in the skies, for the Asian airways were filled with accents from all over the world, some barely understandable over the busy radios.

  The departure radar controller answered immediately. “PacEx 687, direct to Ryukyu, climb to flight level one-two-zero. Switch over to my channel on one-two-four point six.”

  “Direct to Ryukyu, up to one-two-zero, switching to you on one-twenty-four point six.” As he spoke, the pilot nudged the aircraft to the right, banking to 20 degrees. He was so smooth on the controls that the copilot didn’t even notice the turn.

  “Slats and flaps retracted,” the pilot called back.

  The sound of the rushing wind over the aircraft began to abate as the wings became a clean airfoil once again. The huge aircraft passed through a thin layer of smog and cloud around one thousand four hundred feet, creating another series of wingtip vortices. The pilot concentrated on flying the aircraft on the heading.

  * * *

  Below, the East China Sea slipped into view, the moon illuminating the whitecaps against China’s eastern shore. As the Airbus passed over the coast, the air became very clear, providing the cockpit crew members with an unlimited view. The lights along Shanghai’s shoreline snaked north and south, millions of flickering candles illuminating the night. As the aircraft turned, the towers of downtown Shanghai moved into view. The web of lights from the high-rise office buildings reached up for the aircraft, concrete barriers stretching into the sky. They looked dangerously close, as if they were scraping the jet’s wings. It was a visual illusion that took the copilot’s breath away. He reached absently up and touched his cockpit window, superimposing his hand over the outline of the buildings. Beneath the skyscrapers, the curving lines of the highways flowed continually with light. Shanghai never slept. It was the hub of so many international corporations, organizations doing business in virtually every corner of the earth, that there was not a time when business was not being done. No time to sleep when there was money to be made.

  Continuing to climb, the Airbus turned on the heading. The lights along the Chinese shoreline faded in a thick bank of fog that had blown in from the sea. The pilot sat back, adjusting himself in the seat. The aircraft engines created a comforting and powerful drone. It was a three-hour flight to Taipei, and he expected to enjoy it.

  At 2:35 A.M. local time, PacEx 687 passed over the international reporting point called Ololo Teypa. After making the required radio call, the copilot noted the time, heading, fuel, altitude, airspeed, and outside temperature in the flight log. The Airbus was cruising at thirty-three thousand feet and five hundred twenty knots. The skies were crystal clear, unusually so, with a deep Milky Way spreading overhead and Venus so bright it looked more like an orb than a star. Visibility was thirty
miles or better, but the night was very dark, for the half-moon had just set. There was no visible horizon between the sea and the sky, only a complete, sullen blackness between the stars and the water.

  Inside the cockpit, the two crew members took turns “flying the aircraft,” which consisted of nothing more than monitoring the instruments before them. Neither pilot had touched the controls since leveling at thirty-three thousand feet. The autopilot held the course, altitude, and airspeed with precision. The copilot, who was “flying,” stared into the night, glancing at the displays every sixty seconds or so.

  The aircraft landed at Taiwan’s international airport at 2:58 A.M. local time.

  The crate with the nuclear warhead was the first thing unloaded from the jet.

  As the crate was unloaded from the belly of the jet, a digital timer clicked on. The internal GPS searched, and then locked onto the orbiting satellites, determining its position down to a few feet.

  The crate was then loaded onto a Boeing 757 aircraft that would fly it to the United States. Strapped to the side of the warhead, the internal computer and GPS receiver tracked its way across the Pacific Ocean. The tiny computer recognized the descent and landing at the three intermediate stops: Taiwan, Honolulu and Los Angeles. Then it tracked the aircraft’s course across the United States en route to Washington, D.C., recognizing the aircraft’s descent and approach for landing at Reagan International Airport.

  The coordinates of the target were already fed into the machine. When the package carrier began its descent into Reagan International Airport in downtown Washington, D.C., the barometric trigger would kick in. Passing through three thousand feet, the firing device would explode. The nuclear warhead would go into a final two-minute countdown.

  Five hundred milliseconds later, most of Washington, D.C. would be gone.

  SEVENTEEN

  Washington, D.C.

  Sara Brighton got up at her usual hour, which was early, and walked down the old wooden stairs to the high-ceilinged kitchen. Her two sons were still sleeping, and she stood alone by the sink, staring at the huge oak trees that lined her backyard.

  A sudden shiver ran through her and she snuggled against her own arms, wrapping them around her chest and holding herself tight. She’d been anxious all night. She’d been anxious for days. She’d fought it, but it would not go away, this feeling of dread, oppression and anxiety in her heart. She had felt this feeling before. It was a warning, she knew, and it was as clear to her now as the morning sun on her face or the cup of juice in her hand.

  She turned and picked up her cell phone and dialed her husband’s cell number. It rang only twice, and then went to his voice mail. She didn’t leave a message; it was at least the tenth time she’d called. She knew that the White House was jamming all incoming and outgoing cell phone signals—standard procedure when there was a national security crisis. It was irritating, but it was also the only way the White House could ensure communications security during a critical time.

  She hung up her phone, sipping her orange juice again. She hadn’t heard from Neil since the morning before, when he’d called very quickly just to see how she was. He couldn’t talk long. He had sounded utterly drained—not merely stressed, and not tired. He was far beyond that. He sounded used up. Worn out. Like a patch of thin cloth.

  It had been four days since the nuclear bomb had gone off over Gaza, four days of continual world condemnation of Israel and the United States, four days of panic in the stock markets, a flat-out collapse, four days of $300-a-barrel oil, gas shortages, military posturing, and a continuous stream of vile invective and hatred directed against the United States. It had come from Europe, Asia, Russia, China, South America, Africa, and, worst of all, of course, the Middle East. No one seemed willing to stand up and defend the Americans. They had no allies now—not even the United Kingdom, where the prime minister had already resigned, forced out of office, his personal relationship with the United States and Israel simply too much for his people to bear. And certainly not Germany and France, who declared their continued opposition to American and Israeli interests abroad. In Italy, the United States’ second closest ally in Europe, the prime minister had not been seen for two days, after narrowly escaping an attempt on his life. And he wasn’t alone. Many of the European leaders seemed to have gone into hiding, unwilling to be seen in public until things had settled down.

  The United States stood alone now, completely isolated from the rest of the world.

  Even within its own borders, there was an almost frenzied dissent. Two million protestors filled the streets of Washington, D.C. Anti-war vigils were held in every city nightly; calls for the immediate withdrawal of the military from the Middle East were issued from the Senate and House, action that would have no effect but to leave Israel alone, adding to its isolation. Having learned they were unlikely to persuade enough of the people through public protests, the anti-war activists were ready to try something new. Turning to the federal courts, they sought emergency decrees. It wasn’t hard to find willing judges. A federal court in California issued an order freezing all Israeli assets within the country as well as prohibiting international aid to Israel until the appropriate use of the money could be reviewed by the courts. Another federal judge in Massachusetts issued an emergency injunction opening the door for the federal courts to hold senior military commanders and even the secretary of defense as war criminals if it was determined they had colluded with Israel in the nuclear attack.

  It had been four days of extreme crisis such as the world had never witnessed before. Not since—Sara didn’t know. There was nothing in her experience she could compare it with. Pearl Harbor, perhaps, but this was far darker. It was as if a suffocating blanket had been hanging and then suddenly dropped, draping the world in an uncertain cloud. This was a nuclear drama of a category beyond which she had anything to compare.

  She huffed in frustration, and then dialed her husband’s cell phone again. She got the same message and hung up the phone. Then she dialed his office number, but the White House switchboard picked up.

  “White House,” the operator said. “Is this an emergency?”

  “No, no,” Sara answered softly. “My husband works in the West Wing.”

  “Is this an emergency, Mrs. Brighton?”

  Sara hesitated. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Caller ID, Mrs. Brighton.”

  Sara knew it wasn’t as simple as that. The White House communications office was a very powerful office.

  “I want to speak to my husband.”

  “All of the national security staff have been sequestered, Mrs. Brighton. I’m sure you know that is standard procedure during a time of crisis, ma’am. Now, if this was an emergency, we could pass a message to your husband, but otherwise, the president is asking for your patience. He and the national security staff are working through some very difficult issues right now, and security is obviously one of their highest concerns. Communications will probably be limited for just a few more days. Meanwhile, the president wishes to convey his appreciation for the sacrifices of all of the families of the national security staff.”

  Sara huffed once again. “There is nothing I can do, then?”

  “No, ma’am, there is not.”

  “Could I send him a message?”

  “If it’s an emergency, ma’am.”

  “You already know that it isn’t.”

  “Then I’m sorry, Mrs. Brighton.”

  Sara started to say something, and then simply gave up. “All right, then, thank you.”

  The phone line went dead.

  Sara stared at the floor, the uneasiness building inside. She felt so alone, so helpless, so frustrated and scared.

  But she was no longer uncertain.

  She knew what she had to do.

  Having finally made a decision, she started to relax now for the first time in days. She moved quickly. Her sons’ bedroom was at the top of the stairs. She pushed their door open and pulled u
p the shades. Luke and Ammon groaned together.

  “Hey!” Luke protested sleepily, his head shoved between his pillow and the wall.

  Ammon lifted his head from his pillow and saw the look on her face. “What’s wrong, Mom?” he asked as he rolled out of bed. Luke turned and looked at her, then swung his feet onto the floor.

  “We’ve got to go,” she told them, her voice trembling now.

  “Go?” Ammon stuttered. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we are leaving. We’re going to get out of the city!”

  Ammon stood up and started pulling on his pants. Luke rubbed his eyes wearily, but didn’t move. He didn’t understand yet, and his face was confused. “That’s crazy talk, Mom. What are you planning to do?”

  “We’re getting out of the city—”

  “Have you talked to Dad?” Ammon interrupted anxiously. “Did he tell us to leave?”

  Sara shook her head. “They still won’t let me through to him.”

  “Does he know what we’re doing?”

  “No, he does not.”

  Ammon hesitated. “Are you certain then, Mom?”

  She stopped, her face pale as gray paper. She took a step toward him and her shoulders slumped. Moving her hand to her mouth, she tried to stifle a sob. She fought the overwhelming rush of emotion, but she couldn’t hold it in, her face growing tight in fear, her body heaving as she dropped her eyes. Ammon immediately walked toward her and pulled her into his arms. “It’s all right, Mom, it’s all right,” he said.

  She rested her head on his shoulder, and then suddenly pulled away. “Listen to me!” Her voice was firm now, though her eyes were wet with tears. “I don’t think that we have a lot of time. We’ve got to leave right now. Every minute we stay here, I get a bigger knot in my chest.

  “Ammon, take the Honda. It won’t hold as much stuff, but it’s much better on gas. Go down, fill it up. Take those red gas cans your dad has in the back of the garage and fill them too. If you can find something else to carry gas in, take it as well. Fill up the gas containers, then run to the grocery store and buy all the bottled water you can.”