Countdown to Mecca

by Michael Savage

  Military targets weren’t enough for the bastards. By the end of the year, civilians were being slaughtered in marketplaces, bazaars, main roads. It had become a religious war as well as one against the United States: Sunni versus Shiite, and vice versa.

  Iran was fanning the flames, and American troops were a target for both sides. But the core of the problem was Islam itself: a pre-Medieval religion that had not only never adjusted to modern realities, but was now being driven back to its most violent roots by ignorance and strife.

  Brooks saw then that there was no hope for redemption—no chance that the religion would purge itself of its worst attributes and become a positive force for its adherents. It had entered a fatal downward spiral, like the Byzantine Empire or the American Indian ghost dancers or the German Nazi Party. There was no hope except for self-annihilation.

  The reasons were complex, but one look at the center of the Dome of the Rock provided the most obvious clue: superstition and ignorance were ridiculously hard to overcome. Once they reached a critical mass, there was no hope.

  The only question was how much of the rest of the world would they take with them. Strike now, and at least there was some hope that the United States and a portion of Europe would miss the worst of it. Wait five years—when Iran would have nuclear weapons, when Saudi Arabia would have clandestinely imported some Pakistani bombs, when perhaps even Al Qaeda or Hezbollah would have access to them—and the toll would be far, far greater. The war had to start now, and it had to start on the West’s terms. If the West would not take preemptive action—and not even a competent administration was ready to contemplate it, let alone the boobs they were saddled with—then it would have to be started for them.

  Still deep in thought, Brooks walked outside the building. There was much to do, and yet he felt the overwhelming urge to reflect and contemplate. There were two parts to him; he was a man of action and yet a thinker as well. The two sides were constantly at war. It was that way for Patton as well. His diary showed it clearly.

  “General, you’re going to want to leave for the airport soon if you want to stay on your schedule,” said Colonel Ashlock.

  “True,” said Brooks. “Peter, why don’t you go on ahead and make sure the vehicle is ready?”

  Peter Andrews considered pointing out that the vehicle would certainly be primed and ready to go. Instead, as always, he looked behind and beneath Brooks’s words to see what the general actually wanted him to do. The event coordinator smiled thinly, turned, and engaged the security detail—six soldiers from Ashlock’s command, and two from Brooks’s—in a detailed conversation as to what their duties were here, on the way to the airport, and then at the plane.

  Even so, Brooks kept his voice so soft Ashlock had to lean toward him to hear.

  “We’re at T-minus two days,” Brooks reminded him. “Are you sure your command is ready?”

  “Absolutely, General.”

  “Arrange for a helicopter to be at your base,” added Brooks. “You’ll need to be mobile.”

  “I have a pair of Chinooks coming for an exercise the night before,” said Ashlock. “They’re due to arrive at 1300.”

  “Push them forward to the morning, no later than 1100,” said Brooks. “I want a margin for error. I’m not sure how far to trust the Israeli brothers.”

  Ashlock gave him a look of concern, but then nodded.

  “If anything happens to me,” added Brooks, “enact all of the contingencies, one by one.”

  “I will not fail you,” said Ashlock.

  “Good. Now let’s move it along, Colonel,” said Brooks loudly. “I’m due in Riyadh in a few hours. I’m having cocktails with the ambassador. I never realized how much work it was saying good-bye to an old command.”

  31

  Fifty Thousand Feet Over the Atlantic

  Heading East

  Jack had too much time to think, plan, work, and worry on the flight to Riyadh, but at least the time was spent in comfort. Doc had secured a Gulfstream 650, which had already set around-the-world speed records. So the powerful engines on this sleek beast would cover the eight thousand miles at nearly the speed of sound.

  Jack sat at one of the four comfortable workstations. The cabin was the longest, widest, and tallest of any private business jet he was ever in, and normally he would have enjoyed it, but its details weren’t as important to him as their mission. Thankfully, the time passed quickly. Jack saw to a hundred details, but fretted over missing a hundred more.

  He was stepping into the heart of darkness, filled with people who’d like to see nothing less than America in ruins. That and their God was all they lived for.

  A God they didn’t understand any better than they understood respect for women, Jack thought.

  But, for now, they worked, watched, and waited for the red, white, and blue to lower their guard … just enough.…

  Sol had arranged for a line of credit and Jack took a medical insurance policy in case any of them were injured or something went seriously wrong. He then discovered that to get a visa to visit the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, he needed a sponsor. That was not as easy for him to arrange. Who was he going to use: a journalist, a cop, an FBI agent, or an ex-CIA man? But Sol just smiled, said “Leave it to me,” and paid a considerable bribe to take care of the paperwork.

  “Not that it’s called a bribe,” Sol told him when Jack pointed out the unfairness. “It’s an ‘expediting fee.’ That looks much more comfortable in the company books.”

  When Jack still shook his head, Sol had just shrugged. “Makes the world go round, Jack, and you’re going halfway around the world. Better be ready for anything.” Jack hoped he was, and went over every contingency he could think of. He thought so hard and so long about it, in fact, that it ultimately put him to sleep, visions of mushroom clouds dancing in his head. When he woke up with a start, he found Doc leaning over him, his big paw on Jack’s shoulder.

  “Glad you could catch some shut-eye,” his lanky old friend told him. “You’ll need it. We’re starting our descent into Riyadh.”

  Doc was wearing a dark tan suit made from a linen/silk weave. As per Boaz’s instructions, he wore a long sleeve shirt and tie, which was considered appropriate in Saudi Arabia. Under no circumstances should they show their knees, sport gold chains, and certainly not wear crosses. Since neither had any intention of doing any of that, they felt safer.

  Jack glanced out the nearest window to see Riyadh’s domed, octagon-shaped airport looking like a fried, sunny-side-up egg on the flat desert surroundings below. He quickly headed to one of the sleeping quarters to change into his own dark poplin suit, and slip on the versatile leather shoes Ric had acquired for him.

  “You’ll need to be ready for anything,” Sol’s assistant had told him, “yet still dress according to the Saudi dress etiquette. So the suit can breathe, is very durable, stain resistant, and there are eight interior pockets for security.”

  By the time he was ready, the jet was ready to land. Jack strapped himself in next to Doc, and they exchanged a look of determination and support.

  “Stay loose,” Doc advised.

  Arriving in Saudi Arabia on a private jet was nothing like coming in on a commercial airliner. Jack and Doc were met on the tarmac by a plainclothes customs agent, who treated them as if they were potential clients looking to spend millions. The check of their bags—one each—was perfunctory. Doc’s camera was removed but not turned on, and Jack’s laptop wasn’t even acknowledged. Jack barely had time to taste the tea the man’s assistant offered in the customs office before they were cleared through.

  “Pretty nice to a bunch of foreigners whom they don’t know,” Jack murmured as they followed the customs agent to the exit.

  Doc smiled. “The prince’s people probably told them who you are,” he theorized. “They’re going to roll out the red carpet so you make him look good.”

  The men stepped out onto the bronze stone of the airport’s handsome interior, admiring its g
old-paneled columns and the many sunlight-infused cathedral ceilings.

  “Our car will take you into the city, if you wish,” said the customs official.

  Before Jack could reply, Doc nudged him, then pointed at a small, nut-brown man wearing an immaculate white robe that covered him from neck to ankles; brand-new leather, open-toes sandals; and a red-and-white checked headscarf with a neatly knotted rope holding it fashionably in place. The man—in what was called a thawb robe, a ghutrah scarf, and an agai head rope—was holding a small, beautifully lettered sign reading HATFIELD.

  Jack raised his eyebrows at the long and powerful reach of Sol Minsky. “Thank you,” he told the official, “but I believe our ride is here.”

  “As you wish,” replied the customs man, who almost bowed as he took his leave—watching the three until he disappeared back into his offices.

  The diminutive, nut-brown-colored man put his hand out as if it were a spear when the two Americans approached. “I am Jimmy,” he said in a deferential, accented tone. Jack shook it, impressed with his solid muscles. “You are Mr. Hatfield.” Jimmy looked at Doc, sticking out his hand again. “And you are Mr. Matson.”

  Doc shook, while placing his other hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, then his elbow, while looking deep into Jimmy’s dark eyes. The Middle Easterner seemed to be made from solid, petrified wood, and by the crinkles around his eyes and mouth, could be any age from forty to a hundred and forty. “That’s right,” Doc told him as he leaned down and whispered, “and your reputation precedes you.”

  Jimmy grinned. He was missing a tooth at the front. “My brother, Doc—he says you need translator. I am best terp around.”

  “You are, huh?” Jack said dubiously.

  “Ask SEALs,” Jimmy told him. Jack looked at Doc, who nodded.

  “If Doc says you’re good, that’s good enough for me.” Jack checked his watch, and started toward the airport terminal exit. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait.” Jimmy took hold of his arm and held him back. “Let me go first. My brother says you have trouble. You don’t take chances. I go first.”

  The translator began walking. Jack looked at Doc, his face impressed.

  “I think he’s going to work out pretty well,” Jack decided.

  Jimmy led them to a big, light tan Toyota Sequoia SUV.

  “Isn’t that a little obtrusive?” Jack wondered.

  “We’ll be going all over the place,” Doc reminded him. “Best to be ready for anything.”

  “You wanted unobtrusive?” Jimmy asked, beaming as he opened the back hatch with the key fob. “I was offered a Hyundai first. I got this for same money.”

  “Did you bribe the salesman?” Jack asked as he went around to the passenger seat while Doc stretched out in back.

  “No, no. Not a place for bribes,” said Jimmy. “I just say I get good car or I cut his balls off. Easier than bribe. Where to?”

  “We’re on a tight schedule.” Jack said. “We have to get to the port before the Flower of Asia docks.”

  “Good idea,” said Doc. “But I think we have enough time to make one stop first.” Jack looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “You sure?”

  Doc nodded solemnly. “I’m sure.”

  Jimmy nodded, started the engine, and made their way out of the airport. Jack, who had never been to Riyadh before, found it interesting, to say the least.

  “What’s the giant bottle opener?” he asked, crooking his thumb at the big building in the center of the city.

  “The Kingdom Centre,” Jimmy informed him. “Biggest skyscraper in Riyadh. Third tallest building with a hole in it in the world.”

  “With an A-hole in it?” shot back Doc. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Jimmy laughed. He might not understand all of the subtleties of English, but he had a good command of curse words and off-color humor, thanks to the SEALs.

  He was also a good driver, navigating Riyadh’s streets with ease. The traffic was far sparser than Jack had imagined—lighter even than the financial district in San Francisco on a Saturday afternoon in February. Jimmy made his way to a residential section on the eastern side of the city where the narrow, tangled roads made it easier to make sure they weren’t being followed.

  Then he scouted Doc’s directions to a faded yellow house about midway down a block of clay-brick buildings. It was in a dim corner of the city, south of the Ad Dar Al Baida district. Two kids were playing with a soccer ball in the dusty front yard. Their faces were smeared with sweat, but they wore brand-new Reeboks and shiny basketball shorts in the latest U.S. style.

  “I need Ahab,” Doc told them in English.

  Jimmy started to translate, but the kids had already heard what they needed to hear. They darted into the house. Less than thirty seconds later, a thin man with a grizzled face came out. At least two decades older than Doc, which was saying something, his shoulders were stooped and his leg dragged. He held a small gym bag like a football against his side. Doc went over and hugged him. They said a few words that Jack couldn’t hear. Doc reached into his pocket and pressed a wad of American money into Ahab’s hand. Ahab nodded, and handed off the bag.

  “Acchay,” said Doc. “Thanks, and good-bye.”

  He went swiftly back to the car. “Go,” he told Jimmy.

  Doc opened the bag as Jimmy drove. There were two pistols, both .45 caliber Glock 21s, along with six filled magazines. There were also fake passports and other documents.

  “Just in case,” Doc explained as he divvied up the contents.

  Jack told Doc to give Jimmy the pistol. “I’m sure he’s a better shot than I am.”

  Doc quickly agreed. “What, you think these were for you?” he joked. “There are licenses for the guns in the paperwork that each one of us has,” Doc noted, “but you have to be careful. If you’re carrying them in a mosque or a government building, the penalty is only slightly better than getting caught with one in New York City.”

  “What penalty?” asked Jimmy.

  “They’ll chop off your hand,” said Doc.

  Jimmy laughed. “No, no, actual penalty here is eighty-thousand-dollar fine and a month in jail,” he corrected, then shrugged. “But life in Saudi prison? Losing your hand might be better.”

  Jack steered the subject to something that intrigued him. “Who’s Ahab?”

  “Fellow merc,” Doc told them. “Originally from Delhi.”

  “Yes, yes,” Jimmy piped up. “You say good-bye to him in Hindu, yes?”

  “Yes,” Doc continued. “Ahab had been a cook for one of the larger mercenary outfits in Iraq, but was kicked out after he voiced suspicions about a young boy on his crew. The young boy was apparently a ‘special friend’ of the local supervisor. Week later, the kid walks into the mess tent, and blows himself up. Kills about two dozen locals, and two U.S. servicemen. Turned out the whole thing was an Al Qaeda setup.”

  “Let me guess,” Jack interjected sourly. “The supervisor remained in place. Firing him would have been ‘politically incorrect.’”

  “I would do more than fire him,” said Jimmy.

  “Someone did,” said Doc. “Not a week later they found him hanging from a rope. His face was battered and two ribs were broken, fingers, too. They called it suicide. I guess they were right in a way.”

  They stayed silent for a time as Jimmy drove to Abi Bakr As Siddiq Road, one of the main arterials in the city. This was a broad highway that took them from the business area to a section of sand-strewn lots that reminded Jack they were in the middle of a desert.

  “Reminds me of Baghdad,” said Doc as they passed a large expanse of open sand.

  “No checkpoints,” said Doc.

  “No IEDs, either,” said Jimmy.

  The buildings they passed were mostly new, and if you made allowances for the Arabic lettering, would have fit in the suburbs of any southwestern U.S. city—low-slung offices interrupted by the occasional condo complex and a smattering of stores. A more crowded residential zone lay to the we
st as they found King Fahd Road, but at least from the distance it didn’t look anything like the poor, crowded urban area Jack had envisioned. Riyadh was, in fact, a far cry from Baghdad, which Jack had visited twice as a cable host. Far more modern and far less crowded, it was as different from the Iraqi capital as the countries were.

  Part of the difference, Jack knew, had to do with oil revenue; Saudi Arabia had been blessed with massive oil reserves that made the gas cheap and the Kingdom better off than many other countries in the region. But it was not simply that; it was education and a willingness to accept some aspects of modernity. What might other countries achieve if they weren’t blinded by hate?

  And what might Saudi Arabia achieve if it weren’t hamstrung by medieval attitudes toward religion and society? There were no women drivers, and Jack was well aware that business and even everyday life was hamstrung by strictures that had become self-defeating hundreds of years before. But he wasn’t here to change the world. Just, hopefully, save it.

  “Come on, Jimmy, step on it,” he said. “We got a boat to catch.”

  Jimmy’s reaction took Jack completely by surprise. The driver made a sharp U-turn across seven lanes and headed back toward the intersection. None of the other cars on the road beeped or even moved out of the way.

  Jack turned to look at Doc, but Matson was intently talking on his phone. Then, to Jack’s increased agitation, Jimmy floored the accelerator and directed the Sequoia right back to where they started: the airport.

  32

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  The Gulfstream was refueled and waiting for them.

  “The port city of Yanbu’ al Bahr, five hundred and fifty miles to the west,” Jimmy explained, pointing as they headed for the G650’s door. “Six hundred and seventy miles via highway.”

  “Almost a ten-hour drive,” said Doc. “Minimum.”

  Jack looked at Jimmy in surprise. “Couldn’t you do it faster than that?”