Countdown to Mecca (21 page)

He'd tried to sleep on the plane but one thing after another had kept him awake: details about the plans, yes, but also an annoying article that
The New York Times
was planning to publish about him in a few days. It wasn't actually about him. In fact, of the three thousand or so words in the advance copy the Army Press Corps forwarded, only about one hundred and fifty were directly related to him, and a good portion of those might even be said to be neutral.

But the intent was clear: the writer declared Brooks “one of the new old-guard, a contemporary replica of obsolete neo-liberals, neo-conservatives, and borderline lunatics who believe religion is the greatest threat to life in the 21st century.” The writer then quoted from a Brooks speech several months back. “Islam is at war with the West, whether we want to realize it or not.”

It was an accurate quote, and though presented in a way meant to make him seem like a borderline lunatic, was in fact probably the truest thing in the story. Brooks inwardly sighed.
If only the fourth estate was filled with more people like Jack Hatfield,
he thought. Hatfield would have communicated the fact that Brooks was not a lunatic, borderline or otherwise. Hatfield would have known, and reported that, while Brooks had spent his entire adult life in military uniform, he had worked hard to keep his perspective as wide as possible. He'd studied art and voraciously read history. The final stages of the Eastern Roman Empire were a special interest, and had been since his second year at the Virginia Military Institute when he was fifteen.

He had written a paper on the fiasco of the Angeloi dynasty for an independent study project at West Point. Later, at command school, he had produced a three-hundred-page report on the Fourth Crusade—analyzing the social aspects as well as the military ones. He was equally at home talking about how a Roman sculptor carved a statue as how a modern army moved to battle.

This broad background made Brooks acutely aware of the danger Islam posed to the West. The administration was particularly blind and stunningly inept, but even the president's firmest critics were mostly unaware of the deep movements of history that were taking place. Analysts focused on regime change in one country and popular movements in another, while completely missing the deep radicalization that had swept Islam and informed every aspect of Muslim life. Jack Hatfield would have understood all that.

“Sir?” came the softly accented voice of his event coordinator.

Brooks looked to his right to see Peter Andrews, whose pale skin, blond hair, and gauzy white suit almost blinded him. Brooks said nothing, just kept walking. The sooner he was out of this direct heat, the better. Even though he wore his summer uniform, there was just so much it could do to counter this sort of intensity. There may always be a breeze in Jerusalem, but it was
hamsin
—hot wind from the desert.

“General Morton returning your call, sir,” Andrews said lightly, his eyes veiled as he handed up the military smartphone.

At first Brooks considered playing tit for tat—making Morton call back again since he wasn't there for the original call. But considering the reason for Brooks's call, he decided to get it over with.

“Thank you, Peter,” Brooks said, taking the rectangular, armored device. It looked like many other smartphones, but was far more powerful and protected. It looked, in fact, like a small war turtle. “Stay close.”

“Of course, sir,” Andrews responded, his voice teetering on the edge of obsequiousness, before lowering his head and slowing in step so he seemed to melt away from Brooks.

“Monty,” Brooks said, using the nickname only he used, with just a touch of forced bonhomie. “What took you?”

“Your call surprised me, sir,” Morton replied, sounding like he hadn't slept for days. There was, after all, a ten-hour time difference, and Andrews had called at three
A.M.
San Francisco time. “I wanted to make sure I hadn't missed anything on the list you gave me when you went to the airport.”

“And had you?”

There was a pause. Brooks imagined Morton wracking his brain. “Not that I could find, sir.”

Brooks smiled. It was a somewhat sadistic smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Good man. No, I didn't call to say you missed anything, or even to add anything to the list. I just wanted to tell you ‘good job.'”

There was another pause. Brooks could imagine Morton reacting as if the ranking general had given his subordinate a “playful” punch in the gut. “Oh. Uh. Well, thank you, sir.” Brooks continued as if Morton hadn't said anything. “And to say, since I'm on my farewell tour, farewell to you.” Brooks imagined Morton's face going ashen.

“I-I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You've done a good job in extraordinary circumstances, Monty, but since I'm off-site I wanted to let you know that your services will no longer be required. We'll be taking it from here.”

Morton knew what this meant. It was the big kiss-off. The words were grateful-sounding, but their meaning was we don't trust you anymore, so you're on your own. After the Levi Plaza fiasco and what triggered it, he supposed he had it coming, but still.…

Morton's next words were dull, painfully flat. “Of course, sir. Whatever you say.”

“Good,” Brooks concluded briskly. “You're part of history now, Monty. Congratulations, and good luck.”

“Thank you.”

Brooks was going to end the call in the middle of Morton's comment, but then he heard, “Oh—excuse me, sir?”

Brooks brought the phone back to his ear. “Yes?”

“After you left, Jack Hatfield contacted the office, requesting an interview.”

Of all the things Morton could have said, this was the only one that kept Brooks listening. “Hatfield. Really?” That appealed to Brooks, not just the platform but the interest of a man like that. Then he remembered where he was and what he was doing. It wouldn't work. Not now.

Sensing his hesitation, Morton pressed, “He said, ‘Anytime, anywhere. Even there. Even tomorrow.' He left a number.”

“Did he? Give it to Andrews,” Brooks snapped. “We'll take it from here. And again, Monty, thanks.”

“Thank you, sir,” Morton said, but Brooks might not have heard it, since he was already handing the phone back to Andrews.

“Take down the information,” Brooks instructed. “Arrange it. Anytime, anywhere possible within our schedule. I must talk to this man before the main event.”

“Yes, sir.”

Andrews took the phone. He listened to Morton. Andrews's eyes only glanced sharply at Brooks when he heard who it concerned. Even if Andrews were bold enough to debate the wisdom of this, now was not the time. Colonel Tristan Ashlock was already greeting Brooks at the edge of the helipad.

“General, good morning sir,” Ashlock said, saluting.

Brooks returned Ashlock's stiff salute, then nodded and gave him a warm smile. He liked the colonel a great deal. Ashlock was from a long line of American patriots—the sort of man, who, in an earlier generation, would have at least a general's star on his shoulder by now, if not two. He had served in Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan, but, though he had several medals—including a Bronze and Silver Star for valor—he had committed the unpardonable sin of speaking his mind to his superiors, and had languished until Brooks found him two years ago.

Ashlock was now the commander of Brooks's special radar unit at Mt. Keren in Israel. His X-Band Radar was aimed at Iran, keeping a watch on the missile launching area some two thousand miles away. The base, five miles from the Egyptian border, represented the only American ground presence in the entire region. Or at least the only acknowledged one. Special operations units were, in fact, working in every country—some with the governments, some decidedly not.

Ashlock had an important role as the plan went into effect; he would report a contact made by his X-Band Radar. Brooks believed he would be even more important in the months and years that followed. Unlike the now-discarded Morton, he was exactly the sort of officer who excelled in war. If anything happened to Brooks, Ashlock would pick up the reins.

“They're here,” said Ashlock, nodding past Brooks. “I gather there are problems.”

“There are always problems, Colonel,” said Brooks. “Where's our car?”

“This way, General.”

Ashlock led Brooks across the sand-swept macadam to a trio of command trailers. The hum of their air conditioners was so strong the ground vibrated. Brooks, already soaked in sweat, considered going inside for a few minutes to cool off. But he was already running late and had much to do. A Humvee and a white suburban stood on the far side of the trailers. Brooks told the two men he'd brought with him as his security detail that they would take the Hummer; he, Andrews, and Ashlock would ride in the SUV alone.

Ashlock drove out of the small base down a series of switchbacks onto a hardscrabble road that ran in the general direction of Egypt. After about five miles, he turned onto a dirt road that paralleled Route 90. Though they could have made better time on the highway, video cameras monitored the road and Brooks preferred to have as little record of his movements as possible.

Somewhere north sat the Negev nuclear plant. The entire world knew that Israel had used it to manufacture nuclear weapons but pretended they didn't for the sake of peace. Self-delusion was a wonderfully powerful drug with only one known antidote—reality.

As they climbed through the hills, Brooks caught sight of a pair of flatbeds parked along the nearby highway. The trailers had carried tanks, which were maneuvering somewhere farther south. It was one more reminder of how serious his business was. A series of cutbacks brought them up to a hilltop crowned by a dirt parking lot. Half a dozen vehicles sat in the lot—a Renault Duster, a pair of pickups, a Mercedes sedan, two small Toyotas.

Ashlock parked, the tires of the SUV nudging against the white rocks that marked the lot's boundaries. Brooks got out of the vehicle and the trio all started down a winding dirt path at the eastern end of the lot. There was no need to tell the guards to wait in the lot; they had been here before and knew the drill.

An archaeological site sat about fifty yards from the summit. A sideless tent was located just below it, adjacent to a small cave carved into the hill many millennias before. The men Brooks had come to see were waiting beneath the canvas top. Three were European—one from France, two from Germany. One was Chinese—Taiwanese to be more specific—though he claimed he did not recognize the distinction, let alone admit the legitimacy of the government currently occupying Beijing.

Two others were Israeli—Isaiah Varda, who had met Brooks and asked for the meeting, and his brother Haisd Varda. Each represented about a dozen or so other members of the conspiracy, all personally recruited by Brooks, and all working toward the same end for years.

Brooks glanced at Andrews and gave him a slight nod. Andrews nodded back, smiled slightly, crossed his arms, and stayed where he was. Brooks then looked to Ashlock with an expression that said, “Here we go into the lion's den.”

“Gentlemen, so good of you to come on short notice,” declared Brooks as he stepped over to the pockmarked table in the center of the room. The only seats were two folded canvas camp chairs on the ground. Brooks wasn't about to take one if no one else did. “I understand Rabbi Varda has some points he wishes discussed at this very late, very critical date.” Brooks examined the faces one by one. All met his gaze, but only the Frenchman, Lepeur, was anything but dour. “So tell me, Rabbi.” Brooks fixed his stare on Haisd. “What do you want?”

The rabbi got right to the point. “Israel should not be bombed. Nor should Mecca. Strike Riyadh and Tehran.”

“Riyadh?” asked Brooks, registering surprise. He'd expected Tehran, the capital of Iran, but not the Saudi capital.

“The two government centers,” continued Haisd. “Destroying Mecca will leave no center to the Muslim faith. The war will never end. They'll have no reason to quit. We'd have to kill every last one of them.”

“That does not sound like a problem to me,” said Lepeur. “It's our goal.” The Frenchman was a physicist—the one member of the inner circle who was. Perhaps because of his scientific background, he tended to see things in a very binary fashion; they were black or they were white. It was a refreshing worldview.

“It's not our goal,” counted Isaiah. “The idea is to eliminate the extremist threat to the civilized world, but by destroying Mecca we instantly turn the peaceful into extremists as well. By destroying the center to their religion, you're telling them it's total war. A war of complete annihilation.”

“Exactly what we want,” repeated Lepeur.

“I don't agree,” said Haisd, shaking his head.

“I too understand your point,” Brooks contended. “But there are no half measures with a weapon of mass destruction. You, of all people, know that. Otherwise, why bother to use it? We have to hit their biggest target and kill as many as we can because, after the war begins, the West will have to keep it conventional.”

“Is that what you think?” Isaiah said. “You honestly believe the Muslim government of Pakistan will sit on their own nuclear arsenal if Mecca is destroyed?”

“They can deliver their weapons no farther than India,” said Herman Friedrich, one of the Germans. “They will be bit players in the war that follows.”

“And Riyadh and Tehran will be destroyed at that time,” said Ashlock.

“If it comes to that,” said Friedrich.

Brooks studied him, trying to decide whether he had changed his mind about siding with the Israeli brothers or not.

The rabbi resumed his argument. “During the Second World War, Americans avoided bombing the Japanese emperor's palace in order to avoid destroying the cultural center to their lives. It was a wise move.”