The Scorpion's Gate (6 page)
The Secretary of Defense emitted a sound, “Pfffft,” as he flipped through his briefing book.
“Well then, thank you, Russell. Now the bombings in Bahrain. NCTC?”
National Counter Terrorism Center Director Sean Peters described the techniques used in the attack on the hotels in Bahrain, the effects, and a possible culprit. “Most likely Iran’s Qods Force, or Jerusalem Force, a combination covert-operations and special-forces group that has been active in bombings in Bahrain and elsewhere in the Gulf for years,” Peters concluded.
“Nonsense! Dr. Caulder, I despair of these supposed intelligence briefings. It wasn’t the Iranians.” This time the SECDEF actually pounded the table. “Ron, tell ’em. After all, they were trying to kill you.”
From the back bench behind Secretary Conrad, Under Secretary Ronald Kashigian cleared his throat and stood. The thick glasses and buzz-cut hair made Kashigian look like a college basketball coach. “Well, I was in the hotel as it was attacked. And our intelligence people assume I was the target.” Red was rising into his ears. “They, the experts in the region, say this was definitely the Islamygians... Riyadh.” Kashigian sat back down.
“We are convinced, Billy,” the Secretary of Defense said, stabbing his finger in the air at the National Security Advisor, “that this al Qaeda regime in Riyadh is sending a message to King Hamad in Bahrain to kick the Americans out, or else they will destabilize the place with bombings like these. These people are not satisfied with just their fanatical caliphate in Saudi Arabia; they want to export their revolution throughout the Gulf !”
Dr. Caulder, a former University of Chicago professor who had stepped in as National Security Advisor six months ago after his predecessor had suddenly died of a stroke, asked meekly, “Who do the Bahrainis think did it?”
The NCTC Director stood at his seat along the wall, said, “They don’t know, Dr. Caulder,” and sat down.
“Well then, moving on, maybe we can agree on, what is it, Exercise Bright Star? General Burnside.”
“Burns, sir.” The handsome and relaxed Air Force four-star had spent a career flying and was now the second most senior military officer in the United States, the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Bright Star is a CENTCOM exercise series with the Gypoes, ah, the Egyptians, going back over twenty-five years.
“It lapsed for a while and in recent years has only been carried out on a small scale, but now with the revolution in Saudi, Cairo is interested in a show of force in the Red Sea, to demonstrate to Riyadh that Egypt has the full military support of the United States, just in case the Islamyah government is thinking about exporting their revolution to Egypt.
“We plan the largest amphibious operation in recent history, the largest airborne drop, and one of the largest bombing exercises we have ever had. Three MAUs, Marine Amphibious Units, will go ashore at three points along the Egyptian Red Sea coast, about fifteen thousand men.” He used a laser pointer to put a red dot on the flat screen. “Two brigades of the 82nd Airborne will drop in behind the beachhead, about nine thousand personnel. The target areas will be softened up by Air Force B-1s and B-2s from CONUS and by Navair from the
Bush
and the
Reagan
battle groups in the Red Sea.
Bush
and the
Reagan
battle groups in the Red Sea.
“The Marines and Airborne will link up with the Egyptian First and Second Armored Divisions and then move up the Nile Valley in a combined operation to demonstrate interoperability. All of this will be done in a way that allows the folks in Riyadh to see on TV and through their sources what the awesome firepower of the United States of America can do.” General Burns turned off his laser.
“Any questions of General Burns? No? Then thank you all. If I could ask everybody to leave except the principal or acting principal from each agency,” Dr. Caulder said.
“I’ll meet you in the car, Susan.” MacIntyre turned from the table and whispered to his analyst, who had been back-benching behind him.
After the shuffling had settled down, National Security Advisor Caulder turned to the Secretary of Defense. “What was it, Henry, that you wanted to talk about in a smaller group?”
Tall and broad-shouldered, Conrad, dressed in what appeared to be an expensive double-breasted suit, radiated overflowing energy, fidgeting in his seat. “Well, it’s just very sensitive, you know, Billy,” Conrad said in a softer tone than he had used to the full house. “The reason I was so adamant, MacIntyre, I’m sorry, is that we have sources, really good sources, inside the PLA, the Chinese People’s Liberation Army.
“These sources tell us that there was an order given to the PLA and its navy to prepare to send, secretly, a division of infantry to Saudi using roll-on/roll-off cargo ships and, get this, Air China 777s. The movement is to be protected by a Chinese navy expeditionary force, including two of the new aircraft carriers, accompanied by their cruisers with their new antiship missile, and their subs.
“The naval movement will be couched as a show-the-flag thing, with port calls in Perth, Pakistan, and then in the Saudis’ ports.
“ ’Course it will scare the shit out of the Gulfies, I mean the smaller Gulf states, and Iran and drive the Indians bonkers, which is good for us, but all in all this is a bad deal. Red Chinese infantry in Saudi. Their fleet in the Indian Ocean for the first time.
“See, this is why I don’t think it’s impossible that they will deliver the nuclear warheads to accompany MacIntyre’s missiles. When there are lots of Chinese troops in country, they can deliver the nuclear warheads for the missiles because they think we won’t bomb a bunch of Chinese troops.
“They are bucking up this I-Salamie regime when it is new and weak, just to get long-term access to all the oil they got there.
“Here we are depleting the strategic oil reserve, freezing from Michigan to Maine, because we sanctioned Saudi oil. Paying top dollar in the spot market, where we are probably buying the Saudi oil anyway but getting it from middlemen. We’re pumping Alaska dry, dealing with the very people who told us to get out of Iraq, and the Chinkos are going to lock up Saudi oil in long-term deals protected by their goddamn army!”
Once again, the Secretary had silenced the Situation Room.
“When is this supposed to happen?” Deputy Secretary Cohen asked meekly.
“Sometime in March,” the SECDEF answered without any hesitation. “We may have to confront them, block them from getting their troop ships into the Gulf.”
Deputy Secretary Cohen had had enough and slapped her hand on the conference table. “There is absolutely no legal authority for you to do that, Henry. It would be an act of war to embargo military shipments, like the Cuban Missile Crisis, which almost ended in a nuclear war. What the hell are you after, a war with China, a nuclear war?” she asked.
“There is a draft finding, which I wrote,” Conrad responded. “It’s now on the President’s desk. It will order us to overthrow those murdering, fanatic pretenders in Riyadh. We could add the naval embargo to that decision package. We need to act before the Chinese take over. The Chinese will back down in the face of firm U.S. action. They know we could sink their entire fleet in an hour. And the Indians would help us, too.” Secretary Conrad slammed closed his briefing book.
“Dr. Caulder, I know of no such finding,” said Cohen, almost quivering with anger as she turned with indignation to the National Security Advisor.
“That’s because you’re not cleared for it, dear,” Conrad sneered as he got up from the table and pushed his way out of the Situation Room.
The National Security Advisor turned to Rose Cohen and said, “It’s not under active consideration, Rose. That’s why he’s so mad.” Dr. Caulder then quickly followed Secretary Conrad out of the Situation Room, leaving his briefing book on the table and calling, “Henry, wait up.”
“Well, I guess that means this meeting is over,” Rusty said to no one in particular. Kashigian, who had stayed when the other backbenchers left, brushed by MacIntyre, bumping his shoulder. “Don’t get in the way of this, MacIntyre. Otherwise you and your boss Rubenstein will be on the wrong end of history, if you know what I mean.”
“I have no idea what any of what you just said means, but it sounded like you threatened me,” MacIntyre said in a loud voice so that others could hear.
“Just swim in your own lane, okay?” Kashigian said, and he spun about as he left the Sit Room, moving quickly to catch up with the SECDEF and the motorcade waiting outside.
The Situation Room conference room was suddenly empty. MacIntyre headed over to the Mess, where he stood at the take-out window and ordered two frozen yogurts. Balancing the two cups on a tray and his briefing book under his arm, he walked outside past the Secret Service guards, and headed over to Susan Connor, who was standing next to the black Chrysler on West Exec.
“Rusty, it’s February. Who the hell eats ice cream in February?” Susan blurted out.
“Glad to see you got over the Mr. MacIntyre thing. They’re yogurts, not ice cream, and after that meeting I wanted to cool down,” MacIntyre said, handing her a cup.
“They’re nuts, boss,” Susan said, taking the cup of frozen yogurt. “The whole damn Pentagon is nuts!”
The two got into the warm, waiting car. “The Pentagon is a building with about thirty thousand people. The Defense Department is about three million. Not all of them are nuts.” Rusty spooned the yogurt as the Chrysler and its two escort vehicles pulled out through the Eisenhower Building’s courtyard and crossed through a second courtyard to exit onto 17th Street. A Secret Service agent threw the traffic lights to red for the outside street traffic to stop as the lead Suburban pulled out of the gate.
“Well, their Secretary certainly is certifiable,” Susan chortled. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Welcome to the big leagues.” MacIntyre smiled. “You missed the best part. Secretary Conrad is so gung-ho to get the Sauds back on the throne that he is willing to risk a shooting war with China. In the next few weeks.”
“Where does he get off acting like God made him Viceroy of Earth?” Susan lisped, her tongue now frozen from the yogurt. “Where’d we get him anyway? Does he have pictures of the President and a goat or something?”
“He was a takeover expert on Wall Street. Buy an ailing company on the cheap, fix it, then sell it for a multiple of six or seven what he paid for it.” MacIntyre looked out of the car at the few tourists on the sidewalk, all trying to see what big shot was in the car leaving the White House. “Then he ran for Governor of Pennsylvania, where he’s from. Some Main Line blueblood, out to ‘help the people help themselves.’ Or so his campaign claimed. Supposedly turned Pennsylvania around, too. And he delivered the state to the President, along with three hundred million in Wall Street cash. The President thinks Conrad is brilliant.”
“What magic are you going to do?” she asked, again serious.
“As Otter told the boys of Delta Tau Chi, it’s time for a road trip.” MacIntyre took a big bite of the frozen yogurt as their car sped past the Corcoran Gallery and headed toward Foggy Bottom.
Susan Connor frowned. “Was that some kind of seventies reference?”
Returning to the Intelligence Analysis Center, MacIntyre went straight for his boss’s office to debrief him on the meeting. Sol Rubenstein was poring over a draft analysis on North Korea. Without looking up, he welcomed his young deputy with “So I hear you got into a little contretemps with the almighty Secretary of Defense.”
“Word travels fast,” Rusty said, plunking down into one of the two chairs next to the desk.
“I got good sources,” Rubenstein replied, coming around into the other chair. “Rosie called me from the car. She said you stood up to him, the son of a bitch. Good for you. Fuck him.”
Rusty smiled at the support from his boss. “I don’t believe his Defense Intelligence source about the Chinese. Selling missiles is one thing, but sending troops to prop up Islamyah, and then the nutty idea they would give them nukes. Shit, I don’t believe that Islamyah would even ask for that kind of help. More infidels in their holy land?” MacIntyre said, leaning toward his boss.
“I dunno, Rusty, I dunno. Stranger things have happened. It’s possible, it’s possible,” the Director of IAC mused. “Listen, if you were running Islamyah, wouldn’t you want some protection right now? Your weapons don’t work because the Americans all left and won’t send parts. Secretary Conrad is giving a speech a week about how bad the people in Riyadh are. The Iranians are screwing around in Bahrain again. Tehran’s got the Iraqis on their side now. Who knows?”
“I feel like there are an awful lot of moving parts right now, too many pieces on the chessboard, three-level chess,” MacIntyre suggested.
“There are. Lotta balls in the air at the moment. That’s when America needs really good analysis,” Rubenstein said, and then he sat up straight. “Here’s what I suggest you do. Fly over to London. They have smart guys there on this stuff, with good contacts, better than ours, stuff they don’t share through normal liaison channels with CIA. For someone of your rank, they’ll open up. Besides, it’ll give you a chance to buy Sarah something nice on Portobello Road. She’s into antiques, right?”
“You are well informed,” Rusty said, rising out of his chair. “Does someone of my rank get to fly first class this time?”
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