Lethal Trajectories

by Michael Conley

  The reporters hammered away on the exact timing of the succession and the contingencies that could move it to an even earlier date. Somewhat exasperated, Burkmeister said, “Look folks, this really isn’t rocket science. I plan to resign my presidency no later than twelve noon on Saturday, October fourteenth. Now that’s the latest it will occur. If, for health or other reasons, it seems advisable to move the date up, then that’s what I’ll do. That’s as specific as I can get, and we’re not going to take any more hypothetical questions on it.”

  The Beltway obsession with winners and losers became the next focal point. While both men were committed to answering the questions in a forthright manner, it was hard to feed the hungry beast.

  “My entire cabinet,” Burkmeister declared forcefully, “has agreed to continue to serve at the pleasure of the McCarty administration, and there will most assuredly be complete continuity in government to mitigate any challenges in the transition to new leadership. I am proud of my cabinet and know the vice president shares my same high regard.” Clayton gave a solid nod of affirmation.

  “My long-time personal friend and chief of staff, George Gleason, has agreed to stick with me until I leave. He will then retire to get reacquainted with his beautiful family.”

  “Mr. Vice President” asked an overeager reporter, “have you made a decision yet on your chief of staff, and can you comment on your nomination for your vice-presidential replacement?”

  Clayton mused, Here I am, only one day into this thing and I’m already confronted with the nepotism issue. What the hell, I’ll have to answer it sooner or later, so why not now?

  “Yes, I have made a decision on my new chief of staff, and no, I have not decided yet on my recommendation for my replacement.”

  “Care to elaborate on your chief of staff, Mr. Vice President?”

  “Sure,” Clayton declared, “I have asked one of the smartest people I know, and a person I’ve known all my life—my brother, Jack McCarty. I’m still working on my vice-presidential replacement and have nothing to report at this time.”

  Burkmeister, obviously sensing Clayton’s discomfort, chimed in, “Folks, you can’t imagine how difficult and lonely the president’s job can be or the number of hours the chief of staff spends with the president. I was blessed to have my good friend George Gleason by my side, and I advised the vice president he should keep that in mind in selecting George’s replacement. I believe he made a great selection.”

  Clayton was surprised there were no follow-up questions to that at all, but he suspected it would become news fodder later. The next question was surprising only in being asked so late in the conference.

  “Mr. Vice President, you are in the unique position of not being a member of either major political party. Do you plan to align with one of the parties, or do you hope to hold a coalition together as an Independent? Can you comment on the direction you will be taking?”

  “Those are great questions, but ones I’m not fully prepared to answer at this time. I deeply respect and support the policies of President Burkmeister, and I see no reason to change anything right now. It may even be advantageous to avoid ties to the rock-hard dogma of either party. That said, I’ll look for the best minds in all parties to craft policies that seem best for the country.” He paused for a moment to think about what he was about to say.

  “These are difficult times for America and the world; the questions you’ve asked reflect that. The Chunxiao Incident and its economic ripple effect; skyrocketing gas prices; and now the illness of our president and the succession that will follow—these are the issues that really count. Bottom line, these aren’t Democrat, Republican, or Independent party issues, they are American issues. It’s time to put party squabbles aside and concentrate on what’s best for the American people. President Burkmeister’s shoes will be hard to fill, and I’m going to need all the help and support I can get from all parties and, most of all, from the American people, whom I’ll do my very best to serve.”

  25

  Hart Senate Office Building

  26 September 2017

  Senator Tom Collingsworth’s office door was closed, and he was taking no calls. Hugo was on his second double shot of scotch, and the senator might have been one or two up on him before they sat back to regroup from this crushing blow. He wondered how the fates could be so cruel as to allow Burkmeister to go and die at a time like this.

  “Senator,” Bromfield said, slurring a bit, “the president has now become a martyr. We can’t attack martyrs. We can’t even attack that commie lover McCarty because he’s the new knight in shining armor here to save the nation. We have at least two immediate problems to address. First, we need to put the kibosh on our resolution to censure Burkmeister, and that will take some doing because I’ve already sent it around to members of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.”

  Collingsworth groaned. When the media found out what he was about to do to Burkmeister, it would be his own bloodbath. Even his sympathetic friends in the senate—and there were precious few—would drop him like a hot potato.

  “Second, Senator, we’ll have to pull the plug on our arrangement with Wellington Crane.” It broke Hugo’s heart to say it, but he didn’t know what else they could do.

  “Let’s give Wellington a call and see what he has to say about it,” the senator replied. He clicked the intercom on and shouted for his secretary to track down Crane. Senate staffers were proficient at catching their prey, and within minutes Wellington Crane was on the phone.

  “Wellington, my friend, thanks so much for getting back to me. Hugo and I just finished watching the BM boys do their grand finale together, and we were interested in your take on the news. Where does it put the Save America tour?”

  Wellington responded with bravado and clear disdain for their weak-kneed response. “If you’ll pardon the cliché, Senator, we are going to make lemonade out of this lemon. In time, we’ll be in a far better position to get our story across with a commie liberal like McCarty in the driver’s seat than we would have with Burkmeister. Think about it, man! Burkmeister is the nominal leader of your own party. As long as he’s there, the best we could hope to do would be to garner a fringe share of the Republican Party and maybe some undecideds. We’d be attacking his judgment, of course, for bringing a commie like McCarty into the White House, but it would only be a deflective blow. Now, we’ll have the real thing to attack. What’s more, we’ll blast away at the McCarty brothers. I’ll make them look like Al Capone and his gang before I’m through—mark my words!"

  “I see your point, Wellington, and it’s a good one,” Collingsworth replied, a new glimmer of self-confidence rising in his voice. “Initially, we’ll have to lay low. Anything negative we say will look almost anti-American. I may take some hits, though, if the press picks up on the censure resolution I was preparing against Burkmeister.”

  “Correction, Senator, you were not preparing a censure resolution against President Burkmeister the person, you were preparing it against the administration’s policy of not honoring a longstanding treaty with Japan. You were questioning a one-sided policy favoring China in the Chunxiao Incident, and that’s a perfectly appropriate thing for you to do in your role as chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Wellington, that’s a distinction I must be sure to make. Can you help me on this one?”

  “Consider it done, Senator. In fact, I’m going to assume the mainstream media will get wind of your censure resolution, and I’ll beat them to the punch by covering it on my radio program today. You’ll look like a hero after I’ve finished spinning out the patriotic motivations behind your action. I’ll also tell them how you have withdrawn the resolution in hopes all Americans will put aside their differences and work together in these troubling times.”

  “Genius, Wellington, sheer genius,” said the senator. “What about the Save America tour? How will we handle that?”

  “I see no problem
with that whatsoever. I’ll tell my audience that good Americans need to work together in tough times like this, and for me that means staying home and reporting the news as accurately and honestly as I can. I’ll tell them it’s not my intention to give the McCarty administration a free ride if I see things that are obviously wrong, but that we need be patient and give them every benefit of the doubt.”

  Once again, Bromfield marveled at Crane’s ability to manipulate his way out of what could have been an embarrassing development—true genius, he thought.

  “What’s more, I’ll tell them that Senator Thomas Collingsworth would not think of leaving his post at a time of such great peril to the nation. What do you think, Senator, will that work?”

  “Absolutely, Wellington, absolutely,” replied the rejuvenated senator. Bromfield calculated the potential of postponing the tour for a few weeks and found the resulting data comforting.

  “Now, I have to be honest with you boys,” Crane said, “If my gut instinct is correct, and it always is, I think it’s only a matter of time before that pinko McCarty screws it all up. We don’t need to attack now. He’ll self-destruct, and when he does, both parties will desert him and he’ll quickly lose his Independence Party base. One can only imagine who he’ll nominate as his vice-presidential replacement, but that could be the event that triggers our move against him. For now, though, we are all just patriotic Americans doing whatever we can to help.”

  “Thanks so much for your insights, Wellington,” said the grateful senator, “Your perspective is right on. Hugo and I will do what we can on our end to hold true to the values of your Pax-Americanism.”

  “Correction, Senator,” the great one responded with condescension, “our Pax-Americanism.”

  After hanging up, Hugo Bromfield shifted into high gear, retooling the campaign to reposition Tom Collingsworth as a nonpartisan warrior interested only in what was best for America. If in so doing it bolstered his own position of power, so much the better. You’ve got to love America, thought Hugo.

  26

  American Embassy, Riyadh

  27 September 2017

  Ambassador Winston Thurgoode woke up at three thirty in the morning to a staccato noise he couldn’t identify. Fighting a sleepy stupor that comingled his subconscious and conscious thoughts, he struggled for clarity. A loud knock on his bedroom door provided a focus for his efforts.

  “Yes, who is it?” he mumbled.

  “Sir, Gunny Sergeant James Malloy, sir, in charge of the mid-watch security detail.”

  “Come in, Sergeant,” he said, groggily reaching for his bathrobe.

  “Sir,” said the stocky twenty-year Marine Corps veteran charged with guarding the U.S. Embassy on this fateful Wednesday morning, “There’s an uprising of some sort taking place in Riyadh. You must accompany me immediately to the secure room.”

  Thurgoode, grateful his family was back in the States, responded, “Sergeant, would you call the communications center and have a direct call put through to the Situation Room in the White House?” He tripped as he clumsily put on his shoes and then tore down the long corridor to the secure room with the sergeant right behind him.

  Despite his immediate action, a communications glitch delayed his call to the White House for close to thirty minutes. I must remember to fix that once all this is over, he thought, then realized that it might be due to the rioters. He hoped his decision to circumvent the State Department and go direct to the Situation Room would not cause a problem, but this certainly looked like a Code Red emergency. While waiting, he gathered what additional information he could and was horrified to contemplate what appeared to be happening.

  “Sir, we’re connected,” the sergeant finally said.

  “Is this the watch officer?” Ambassador Thurgoode asked. “Please inform the Situation Room that the royal palace in Riyadh is under attack as we speak. Our Consul General’s office in Jeddah also reports heavy fighting near several governmental centers, and we’re checking now with our sources throughout Saudi Arabia to determine how widespread the fighting is. It looks now like a major insurrection is underway.”

  Ambassador Thurgoode called again at midnight, Washington time. By that time the president and vice president had been at the center of a huddle of advisers and intelligence experts for nearly three hours.

  “Mr. President,” Thurgoode reported, “a major coup is underway in Saudi Arabia. Word on the street is that the coup was instigated by Zionist and CIA-sponsored insurrectionists. Casualties are heavy, and virtually all the dead rebels are carrying American, Israeli, or British weapons.”

  “Any word from the palace?” Burkmeister asked.

  “We can’t reach anyone there, sir. And we’re hearing reports of heavy fighting throughout Saudi Arabia.”

  Thurgoode knew well what scenarios were playing out in the minds of those present in the Situation Room. If Saudi oil was lost to the world markets, the economies of the world would grind to a halt. He heard a muddle of confused conversation over the speaker before the president called for quiet.

  “All right, folks, we need to move on this,” the president commanded. “Clayton, please contact Secretary Thompson and have him reinstate the DEFCON 3 military alert. Admiral Coxen, I’d like you to stand the night watch here in the Situation Room. The rest of you, try to catch some sleep. We’ll meet again at 0700. Ambassador Thurgoode, thank you for your prompt action on this matter. Do you feel that you can maintain your presence at the embassy safely?” “Yes, Mr. President, I believe I can.”

  “Good. Someone will be standing by here for any updates you can supply.”

  “Yes, sir, and thank you, sir.”

  The streets of Riyadh were strangely quiet by Wednesday noon. Civilians had cleared out, and the sounds of fighting and machine-gun fire had subsided. One of the heavily armed Marines assigned to guard the embassy reported that sporadic bursts of gunfire appeared to be execution squads in action. A large plume of dark gray smoke hovered over the royal palace, and communications with the Saudi government were nonexistent. Military convoys clogged the streets, which echoed with the constant hovering of Royal Saudi Air Force helicopters. The American embassy remained unscathed, with the exception of a couple of wayward mortar shells, and the ambassador issued a warning to all American citizens in the country to stay locked in their homes or offices and to not go outside under any circumstances. At one thirty in the afternoon, Riyadh time, the ambassador placed another call to the Situation Room. “Admiral Coxen,” he said, “the situation here is surreal. Businesses are closed, television stations are down, the streets are deserted. It’s like being in the eye of a hurricane, knowing we are surrounded by chaos. We can hear intermittent small-arms fire, but otherwise we are in a complete information blackout.

  “However, there is a good possibility that the king has been killed or taken prisoner, probably along with other members of the Saud family. We can see helicopters and troop movements, but we don’t know who’s calling the shots. What we do know is that Americans and Israelis are definitely being blamed for the coup.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” said the admiral. “You have done an outstanding job of keeping us apprised of the situation. I’m afraid we don’t have any new information on who is behind it, though we have our suspicions. The NSC will be meeting shortly at 1500 hours your time, and we’ll keep you posted.”

  Mossad Headquarters, Israel

  27 September 2017

  Only a few hundred miles northwest of Riyadh, Meir Kahib, head of the Mossad, Israel’s Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, was brooding over the disturbing new intelligence reports he had received.

  The Israeli Army high command was monitoring the Saudi situation closely; the Knesset would be meeting in a special session later that afternoon. If Kahib had it right—if it was a takeover by Monotheistic-led insurrectionists—Israel would soon be in a state of war. And Israel would not lie back like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered. The Holocaust would
never happen again. The plan was simple, as it always had been: launch a devastating preemptive strike against their enemies. Meir Kahib was seldom wrong about such things, and he doubted this situation would be an exception to the rule. War was imminent.

  27

  Royal Palace, Riyadh

  28 September 2017

  The bone-tired coup leaders were in a festive mood as they awaited the arrival of their victorious leader, Prince Mustafa ibn Abdul-Aziz—now King Mustafa. The acrid smell of spent explosives, burned-out rooms, and mutilated bodies blanketing the royal palace heightened their sense of destiny. They had survived the carnage, and their meeting in the royal palace was designed to legitimize and demonstrate a sense of continuity in the new regime.

  King Mustafa was grateful for the exultant shouts of “Allahu Akbar!” when he entered the conference room.

  “Yes, my brothers, Allah is greater, praise Allah!” replied the smiling king with equal euphoria. “We have been watched over throughout our long struggle,” he continued in a voice brimming with emotion, “and we have exceeded our expectations. Fighting is limited mainly to the cleansing operation now underway. I would now like your progress reports and assessments of what needs to be done. Allow me to start with a report on Unit 22.

  “Unit 22 was successful beyond all expectation. The hit teams suffered casualty rates in excess of seventy percent, but this worked in our favor as their implied connection to the Zionists and CIA fostered the notion they were part of an overthrow attempt by foreigners. They were successful in taking out key leaders and commanders, and we anticipate the virtual elimination of all potential opposition leaders within a day. The Unit 22 teams assigned to plant the dirty bombs were successful. There was opposition on one of the Ghawar Field sites, but it was snuffed out on the spot. The dirty bombs are now in place.”