Hunter Killer (34 page)

Everything went to plan for six rooms. At the seventh, Jacques Gamoudi kicked open the door, and from inside someone threw a hand grenade out. It hit the opposte wall and clattered to the floor. Gamoudi wheeled around and, with his arms outspread, crashed everyone to the floor, or at least everyone he could grab—six of the eight.

When the grenade detonated he lost two of his best men instantly. The rest of them climbed to their feet coated in dust, some of them cut and bruised. As they did so, a second grenade flew out of the seventh door and clattered to the floor.

Again Jacques Gamoudi saw it and again he spread his arms, this time hurling the whole scrum in through the door opposite, and slamming the heavy door closed, just as the grenade blasted the corridor to pieces.

Suddenly this was serious. The men seized a huge piece of furniture and rammed it against the door, just to buy them a few minutes. They were short of guns, four of them still lying in the rubble outside. They had no more grenades left, and there were six of them essentially trapped until someone could open one of the high windows eight feet above ground level.

They had no idea how many opponents they had in this remote interior passageway. They knew the palace was surrounded, and they knew that General Rashood was gutting the upper floor for the King’s guard. But they themselves were trapped, with only two guns and not much ammunition.

They did not dare shout for assistance, because there seemed no need to alert the opposition as to where they were. Whichever way they looked at it, this was the hunter hunted. And Le Chasseur took a very moderate view of that.

The one useful aspect of this reception room was the wide serving area at the rear—a massive marble-and-granite slab behind which they could take cover, even under heavy fire. The trouble was it would be almost impossible to fire back against a determined enemy, since that would require them to stand up against a white-marble background.

Their only chance was to cower there until the guards moved in, then hope to take them in close-combat fighting. Everyone carried a combat knife, and they all knew how to use them.

They could hear the huge doors being shoved open, the massive chest of drawers being edged inward. Gamoudi ordered his men to the floor, behind the marble serving counter.

They awaited their fate, which was not long coming. When the door was open less than two feet, six men, five of them uniformed and all of them armed, slipped into the room and opened fire at the space above the granite slab.

No one moved, until the commander signaled them to fan out and advance down the eighty-foot-long room. In English he called out, “Come out, all of you, with your hands held high…
COME OUT! IN THE NAME OF THE KING!”

No one moved, and then the commander spoke again. “Should you decide not to come out, my men will throw three grenades behind that counter. We will retreat out of the door, and you will die. ALL OF YOU! NOW COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS HIGH!”

And then, much more quietly, he added, “The King wishes to see those who would be his enemies. I will count to ten before the grenades are tossed in among you.”

There was absolute silence in the room. Privately, Jacques Gamoudi thought they might catch a couple of the grenades and hurl them back, but even he doubted they would be able to catch all three.

“ONE…TWO…THREE…FOUR…”

Suddenly there was a slight movement at the doorway, and with one leap the terrifying figure of General Rashood entered, a black mask protecting his nose and mouth from the choking dust and cordite in the corridor, his machine gun spitting fire in a long sweep right across the line of palace guards. Rashood aimed high, as he always did, at their backs. No one had time to turn and see their executioner.

It was like a firing squad. Nothing less. And one by one the guards slumped to the floor, bullets riddling their heads and necks, blood seeping onto the white marble.

The air was clean in here, and the General pulled the mask down from his face. He walked to the line of men he had shot dead in cold blood. He ignored five of them and he walked straight to the man who wore no uniform, but who, like the others, was facedown on the floor, the back of his head blown away.

He kicked the man over and stared down, directly into the unseeing eyes of a familiar face. Prostrate at General Rashood’s feet lay the body of the King of Saudi Arabia. He may have lived like a Pasha, but he had died like a Bedouin warrior, his machine gun primed, facing his enemies. Except for the one who had shot him in the back.

“Jésus,”
said Jacques Gamoudi, as he walked across the room.

“Am I glad to see you.”

“Yes, I expect so,” replied Rashood, in that clipped British accent of his, honed in the portals of a distant Harrow School. “But I owe you one. And I’d never say you weren’t damned useful in a French bistro. Me, I tend to excel in royal palaces.”

And with that he hurled his arms around his fellow commander. Between them, they had, after all, just conquered the largest country on the Arabian Peninsula.

SAME DAY
, 4:00
P
.
M
.

Prince Nasir stood before the cameras and made his inaugural broadcast to the people of Saudia Arabia from one of the smaller palaces a mile from the former royal residence. He described the death of the King, which had occurred during the People’s Revolution, which had been so long in coming.

And he stressed that the late King and his enormous family had done nothing but plunder and spend the vast treasure beneath the sands—the treasure that belonged to everyone, not just to members of one family.

He railed against the closeness of the King and his immediate family to the United States, and how it was so much more natural for Saudi Arabia to forge alliances with closer and more traditional allies like France.

He pointed out the long history of cooperation between the two countries, and told the nation that he was already speaking to the French President in order to formulate a plan to rebuild the oil industry, which he deeply regretted had been the first casualty of the popular uprising. It was indeed a consequence of years of reckless living and massive incompetence by the royal family.

Where was the King when our great industries came under attack? The Crown Prince spread his arms apart in a gesture of mock confusion.

But throughout the broadcast, Nasir gave a message of hope and optimism. He swore to help Saudi Arabia regain its former position of wealth and influence, with a fair share of that wealth for every Saudi family. Not just one family.

He at last came to the words that everyone wanted to hear:
In accordance with our ancient laws, as Crown Prince, I have assumed leadership of our country. I have taken my vows with the elders of the Council. And I have sworn before God to uphold our laws…I am both your humble servant and your proud leader, King Nasir of Saudi Arabia.

SAME DAY, WEDNESDAY, MARCH
24, 7:45
A.M
. (
LOCAL
)
THE WHITE HOUSE

Kathy Morgan, sitting at the wheel of their new Hummer, swung the civilian version of the U.S. Army’s fabled Humvee straight into the West Wing entrance to the White House. Next to her sat her husband, Admiral Morgan, whom the guards saluted. Whenever the great man visited Pennsylvania Avenue it was like General Eisenhower returning to the beaches of Normandy. No one caused quite the same ripple of admiration.

He said good-bye to Kathy, who was having breakfast with her mother at the Ritz-Carlton, and headed toward the main West Wing entrance. The Marine guard stared at the enormous bunch of daffodils, saluted Morgan, and held open the door to the West Wing, inside which the Secret Service detail, on direct orders from the President, dispensed with the requirement for a visitor’s pass and escorted the Admiral straight to the Oval Office.

Admiral Morgan, as he had done for so many years, walked briskly past the President’s secretary, tapped on the door, and walked straight in.

The President stood and gaped at the daffodils. “Morning, Arnie,” he said, smiling. “Hey, you got the blossoms. And you’re right on time, as ever.”

“End of the morning watch, eh?” replied the Admiral, mindful of the fact that the former Lt. Paul Bedford was immensely proud of having once served as navigation officer in a U.S. Navy guided-missile frigate.

The President chuckled. But his smile did not last for long. He buzzed his secretary and asked her to find someone to put his daffodils in a vase.

Then he said, “Sit down, Arnie. I’ve sent for some coffee. You want anything to eat?”

“No, thanks, sir. Coffee’s fine. Guess we’re talking about this Saudi Arabian bullshit, right?”

“We sure are. Just this morning the goddamned phone has never stopped ringing. Things are moving real fast. You heard any of the latest news?”

“Not as much as you have,” replied Morgan. “Last thing I picked up on the radio was extreme fighting at the Saudi military city of Khamis Mushayt, and that the people of Riyadh appeared to be marching on the royal palace.”

“Both correct,” said the President. “But I hear now that the Khamis Mushayt Air Base has fallen, and so has the big Air Force station right next to it.”

“Anyone say to whom it fell?” asked the Admiral.

“Ask not to whom the base fell,” quipped the President. “Because we don’t know. And neither do they. But the sucker fell, all right. Our air attaché in Riyadh reckons they lost half the Saudi Air Force.”

“We got one shred of evidence of an outside foe?” asked Morgan.

“Nothing,” said Paul Bedford. “If this is some kind of a war, it’s one of the most secretive ever conducted. No one has the remotest idea who’s doing the attacking.”

“Guess someone does,” mused the Admiral.

“And whoever that might be,” replied the President, “they sure as hell know what they’re doing. I’ve been looking at the stats on Khamis Mushayt. It’s a huge and remote place. And no one even knows what happened. But they all say one thing…it’s a one hundred percent Arab matter…conducted from inside the country.”

Morgan nodded. “It just may be a little more complicated than that,” he said. “Any news from Riyadh? I heard on the radio the Saudi Army may have turned on the King.”

“Well, there’s some rumor the aiport’s fallen to an armed assault force,” said the President.

“Do we know where the King is right now?”

“No one seems to know. But I have spoken to him. And he was not under attack at the time.”

“Is he in the royal palace?”

“I don’t know that. I guess he doesn’t want anyone to know where he is.”

“‘Specially not the guys who just blew up his oil fields and his Air Force, eh?” replied Morgan.

“Right,” agreed the President. “’Specially not them.”

“Any sign of the King’s Army mounting a defense? He’s got a hell of an armed force, and a lot of very sophisticated equipment.”

“This whole thing seems like a series of devastating attacks—fast, professional, and very ruthless. Very military.” The President looked utterly perplexed.

It was a few minutes after 8
A.M
. Just then his secretary pushed open the door and walked over to the television set, which she tuned to CNN
World News
. “Sir, General Scannell just called to say it looks like the King of Saudi Arabia is dead. And he says the new King is about to broadcast.”

“Thank you, Sally,” said the President, turning with the Admiral toward the screen, where the anchorman was formally announcing the death of the Saudi ruler.

“The new King is fifty-six-year-old Nasir Ibn Mohammed al-Saud, a devout Sunni Muslim and a cousin of the slain King. He has been Crown Prince, heir to the throne, for almost twenty years and, like most of the Saudi royal family, he is a direct descendant of the founder of the kingdom, the legendary desert warrior Abdul Aziz, known as ‘Ibn Saud.’

“And now we’ll go live to Riyadh, where King Nasir is making his first address to the nation, and hopefully we’ll have some real information on how all this took place.”

The screen flickered, and suddenly the picture was of a robed and bearded Arab, his dress white, a red-and-white–checkered
ghutra
on his head, speaking to the people of Saudi Arabia.

The President and Arnold Morgan watched together as King Nasir announced his regret at the death of his cousin, but nonetheless confirmed that this had been a “people’s revolution,” launched by thousands of citizens who could no longer acquiesce to the profligate spending of their ruler.

He sent his message of hope for the future, but Arnold Morgan frowned when the new King pointed out that France was his nation of choice to help rebuild the Saudi oil industry on both the east and west coasts of the Kingdom.

It was well known that Prince Nasir had long been a reformer, a strict Muslim fundamentalist who would stand by the teachings of the Koran and most certainly would not tolerate the spectacular levels of spending achieved by the royal princes. He himself was a man of the desert, and he believed in the Bedouin way of life, not only for others but for himself. He was a man of prayer and abstinence, and he despised the godless and material ways of the Western civilizations. And above all he wanted the United States out of the Middle East, and with that an end to terrorism.

But first he wanted a legal, internationally recognized Palestinian State. It was clear that now, for the first time, the Palestinians had for an ally the most powerful nation on the Arabian Peninsula. And at the head of that nation stood a man who cared nothing for the United States, nor for Israel.

This was not good for the man behind the desk in the Oval Office. And it was not good for the United States, where gasoline was currently commanding nearly ten dollars a gallon at the pumps. And the President said so.

“Seems to me there’s only two parties doing well out of this,” commented Morgan. “France and that goddamned towelhead up there with his goddamned self-satisfied smile.”

“And his goddamned fleet of limousines, private jets, and servants,” added the President, smiling.

“Yeah, but he says he has no interest in all of that,” said Morgan.

“I know. But total power gets awfully addictive. And you cannot fault the lifestyle. He’ll get to like it.”

“Well, I really hope you’re right, Mr. President. Because if you’re not, and he really is a man of the desert, we’re in real trouble.”

“You mean no more Saudi oil?”

“Well, that. But also because Saudi Arabia has always been the missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle of the Muslim republics in the Middle East. Apart from the very small nations, we have always had Yemen, Iraq, Jordan, Syria, Kuwait, the Arab Emirates, Iran, Egypt, Libya, and most of North Africa. And, basically, you know where you are with all of them. They form one huge block of Islamic nations.

“But in the middle of them stands Saudi Arabia, which in modern times has always been neither one thing nor the other. No longer a fundamentalist Muslim nation, always a serious friend of the West, a group of devout Muslim princes, who own, literally, a fleet of the most expensive yachts in the world. Young men who profess devotion to the word of the Koran but live like Riviera playboys, at the King’s expense.

“Saudi Arabia, our friend and ally, has always been the one huge thorn in the side of the Muslim republics. The one nation that is always out of step, the royal family that plays both hands against the middle. In short, the Saudis are a pariah to those who wish for a great Islamic Empire stretching from the Red Sea to Morocco.

“And some very influential Muslims have long hated the sight of them—guys like old bin Laden, even Saddam, the Hamas leadership, Hezbollah, all the supporters of the
jihad
. They hate Saudi Arabia for its endless wealth, its willingness to work with the West, and above all, its refusal to back any Arab action against the nation of Israel.

“Mr. President,” continued Arnold Morgan, “that all ended about ten minutes ago. This Nasir character just placed the last piece into that Muslim jigsaw.”

Paul Bedford stood up and walked the length of the Oval Office. “But what about the oil crisis, Arnie? What the hell’s going to happen about that?”

“Mr. President, you are going to get the blame for that.”

“ME? ”
exclaimed the Chief Executive. “What in the name of God has it got to do with me?”

“Everything. The American people are going to put up with a ten-dollar-a-gallon gas crisis—for a little while. And then you’re going to start hearing…
well, what the hell’s the President doing about it? Why doesn’t he negotiate with King Nasir? Why can’t he be like other Presidents, stay friends with Saudi Arabia?
”

“I guess other Presidents have coped with that.”

“Not quite,” said Morgan. “Because this one is going to smash the world economy. It won’t smash us, but it’ll go damn close. Inflation will run amok, corporations will go bust, and the stock market will cave in. There’ll be a run on the dollar, and our trading partners all over the world will be unable to pay us. This is a global financial crisis.

“And you, Mr. President, are going to be swept away in the torrent…a reviled figure in history…the President who let it happen…unless you do something about it. And damn fast.”

“But what can I do? Right here we’re dealing with a guy dressed in a sheet who wants to live in a tent in the desert. And he plainly wants nothing to do with us. And the fucking oil belongs to him.” The President was just beginning to get rattled.

Admiral Morgan climbed to his feet. He stared across the room at the loneliest man in the world, who was standing, hesitantly, beneath a portrait of George Washington.

Morgan clenched his fist, gritting out the words: “
LEADERSHIP
, Paul. You gotta raise your sights. Never mind the goddamned towelhead and his oil. You gotta stand up and say,
I’M NOT HAVING IT. NOT AT ANY PRICE. NO ONE HAS THE RIGHT TO SMASH THE WORLD’S ECONOMY. AND HE’LL EITHER NEGOTIATE WITH ME, OR I’LL KICK HIS FUCKING ASS!”

The President stared. But Morgan was not quite finished. He returned to his chair and said quietly, “And then, if we have to, we’ll take his oil away and send the tribal bastard back into the wilderness. Because any other course of action is ultimately unacceptable, to the world, that is. Not just us.”

“Arnie, are you saying I must be prepared to go to war with Saudi Arabia?”

“Sir, we don’t go to war in the Middle East. We merely crash down an iron fist. It might be on some desert chieftain who thinks he can murder hundreds of thousands of people. It might be on a guy who has too many military ambitions and too many weapons. Or it might just be a guy we happen to think is unstable and dangerous to his neighbors. Either way, because of the effect of oil on the world’s economy, we just cannot let some things go unchecked.

“And when some crazy prick under a palm tree thinks he can blithely wreck the economy of dozens of countries, just because he happens to have been born on some sand hill on top of a geological phenomenon…well, that’s when the oil becomes a
world
asset rather than a national asset. And that’s when we deem his stewardship of that oil has become remiss, and that’s when we move to stabilize the world once more.”

“Arnie, you should be sitting in this chair.”

“No, thanks, Paul. I’ve got my own.”

The President smiled. And there was one thought within him: W
hen this old warrior walks out of this office in a minute, I don’t quite know if I can cope with this.

Arnold Morgan read his mind. “Paul,” he said, “it’s all a matter a getting your thoughts straight. And you must be guided by a point of principle: If this Nasir character thinks he can screw up the world just because he feels like it, he’s wrong.”

The President nodded. “I sometimes think you forget I am the leader of a political party that stands to the left, and believes in freedom, help, and education for all the downtrodden peoples of this earth, including some of our own. It is not in our nature to go around crushing those who may seem to stand in our way. “

Morgan looked up and glared. “The left has never been right about anything,” he grunted. “Not about economy, not about the military, not about business, not about the rights of people, especially criminals, and not about geopolitics. The left and its useless ideals is why the Soviet Union and half of Europe just about went bankrupt. The left also brought China to its knees, and crippled Africa. The creeds of the left are not anything I’d have on my mind right now, if I were you.”

President Bedford smiled and shook his head. He knew what to expect when he asked Admiral Morgan to come in and talk; Attila the Hun with a bunch of daffodils. “I’m not at all sure what I should have on my mind right now,” he said.

“Personally, I think you should prepare yourself for the attacks on you, which are waiting to happen. And in my considered opinion, you’re about one week away from an onslaught against your policies in the Middle East. Paul, they’re gonna blame you for this oil crisis. Of course they’ll know you did not instigate it. But they’ll still blame you for not fixing it.”