Hunter Killer (35 page)

“Arnie, we still have not examined how bad it will be.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. With one-fifth of the world’s oil suddenly gone missing, you’ll have to start finding enough for the United States to operate normally. You’ll go to Central America and South America and Kazakhstan for that. Then you have to open up some new and heavy drilling in Alaska. That way you look like a man who at least has a grip.”

“I do have a grip.”

“Okay. But there’s more to it. This Saudi Arabia business is going to rumble on. And that may mean some countries are taken right to the brink—Japan, India, and Germany being three of them. And then, when the Saudis begin to put their oil industry together, there will be a rising swell among nations looking once more for that cheap, plentiful product. And right now I see us at the back of the line.”

“You mean if this Nasir guy can sell it without us, he will?”

“Precisely. And that means you have to take a very aggressive stance right now.”

“Meaning…?”

“You have to do some serious ranting and raving. Whatever happened in Saudi Arabia, it was planned, planned very seriously. And whoever the hell planned it understood the consequences to the rest of the world.”

“Do you think it was this Nasir character?”

“I think he was right in the thick of it. I think he knew it was happening, although I cannot be certain he was the precise culprit. Still, in general terms, the prime suspect in any murder is always the person who stands to benefit most from the crime. And that’s surely our man Nasir.”

“Well, Arnie, he’s never going to admit that, and we’re never going to ask him.”

“No. But someone helped him. Some outside agent.”

“As I recall, that was the King’s view when I spoke to him a few hours before he died.”

“Did he give any indication who that outside power might be?” asked Morgan.

“No, he did not. But I remarked that it sounded like a devil on the outside and another on the inside.”

“How did he react to that?”

“He seemed almost resigned. Told me he was no longer certain whom he could trust.”

“Since he’s now dead, that was a rather prophetic remark.”

“It surely was, Arnie. But how do you propose I proceed in this aggressive stance you wish me to take?”

“Sir, you must locate the country that made possible the overthrow of the Saudi royal family, which precipitated this crisis. That way we have a target, a political whipping boy, someone we can rail at, even attack. All of which will demonstrate that, in Paul Bedford, the United States has a President who will not put up with this subversive bullshit, which does so much harm to so many millions of people.

“We are often accused of being the world’s policeman. And a lot of people do not like that. But when someone commits a massive crime, on an international level, everyone waits for the policeman to arrive. And they wait for him to deal with it.”

“You mean I have to deal with this—find out what happened, on behalf of the dead King?”

“That way, all criticism of you will evaporate. You’ll deflect it to the guys who committed the crime. And if you’re smart, they’ll take the rap for everything. We’ll just look like the good guys, the victims who went in search of truth and, afterwards, perhaps revenge.”

“Jesus. I like it, Arnie. I like it very much. By the way, do you have any idea which country was Prince Nasir’s partner in crime?”

“I don’t know. But if I had to put my last dollar on anyone, it would be France.”

“FRANCE!”

Admiral Morgan revealed his suspicions and the suspicions of the National Security Agency. He talked about the missing submarines and the likelihood that the Saudi oil installations had been slammed by cruise missiles delivered from below the surface of the ocean. And he talked of the apparently inspired decision by the French to divest itself of reliance on Saudi oil several months before.

He reminded the President of the sheer impossibility of a successful attack on well-defended mainland oil fields in the desert kingdom. And he concluded, “Only from the sea, Mr. President, only from the sea.”

“And they could not be Saudi Navy submarines or missile ships?”

“The Saudi Navy does not have submarines.”

“But when I left the U.S. Navy, twenty-something years ago,” replied Paul Bedford, “they were just getting brand-new ones from the Brits, weren’t they?”

“They were. But it all fell apart…mainly because they had no expertise in these ships…and much of their coast is surrounded by shallow water, especially on the Gulf side. Anyway, it never happened. But the NSA is certain that whoever fired the missiles at the oil fields fired ’em from underwater. But it was not from a Saudi ship.”

“Even so, Arnie, that’s pretty scanty evidence. Okay, the French changed their oil-buying policy just in time. But that does not make them guilty of a crime against mankind.”

“No, of course not. But getting out of Saudi oil was a very fortuitous and unusual thing to do. And I admit we have no proof it was French submarines that fired the missiles. But there were two French Rubis-class ships in the area, and they have both disappeared. Either of them, or even both, could have done it. And there was no other submarine within thousands of miles with the same capability. Except our own. And I happen to know we’re innocent.”

“You sure you’re not still working here somewhere, Arnie?”

“Sometimes feels like it, I’ll say that.”

“Why don’t you consider coming back and working with me?”

“For about ten thousand reasons, the main one being the likelihood of my beautiful wife leaving me.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind…”

“No chance, Paul. But I quite like hovering on the outside, lending a hand and an opinion where I can.”

“Do you have any further opinion on French involvement in this latest catastrophe?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, I do. The NSA is working on a very curious satellite signal they picked up emanating from an area north of Riyadh, the night before the battle for Khamis Mushayt. Some kind of coded message the Brits picked up at that hotshot little listening station they maintain in Cyprus.”

“Why is that significant?”

“Because the transmission was in French. Coded French.”

“Yeah? I didn’t hear about that.”

“I don’t suppose you will until they crack it. The intelligence community, as you know, does not make a habit of boring the President to death with half-assed information. But I know they’re on the case.”

“Doubtless your young Australian buddy, Lt. Commander Ramshawe?”

“He’s the one, sir. Shouldn’t be surprised if someday he made the youngest NSA Director ever.”

“What does he think—about the overall situation regarding France?”

“He is absolutely certain the French helped the rebel Saudis. And there’s another part to this conundrum. Last August, two hit men from the Mossad made a valiant attempt to take out the Commander in Chief of Hamas, failed, and were both killed.”

“Is that significant to us?”

“Yessir. It is. Because they made their attempt in the French city of Marseille.”

“So? Where’s the connection?”

“Sir, Lt. Cdr. Jimmy Ramshawe wants to know what the C-in-C of Hamas was doing in a French city, plainly under the protection of the French government, six months before a bunch of towel-headed brigands took control of Saudi Arabia.”

“You mean, Arnie, in conjunction with the oil situation, France getting out of Saudi product? And the submarine possibility? And the French coded signal from Riyadh a few hours before the battle? Was the Hamas Chief involved in the command of the assault team? All that?”

“Now, sir, you’re beginning to think like an intelligence officer.” Admiral Morgan smiled. “And remember this point, above all else: when something absolutely shocking happens on a global scale, the solution is never down to one thing. It’s always down to everything.

“And Lt. Commander Ramshawe, personal assistant to our esteemed NSA leader, George Morris, believes he is building a very powerful case against France. And if he can nail ’em, that’s your way out of this whole goddamned mess. Because then you’ll attack the French verbally, shouting and yelling about their unfailing selfishness, their total disregard for anyone else.

“And you tell the world how they helped bring down the Saudi King entirely for their own profit. Never mind half the world falling into a blackout, never mind hospitals and schools closing down because of power shortages. Never mind stock market crashes, highways coming to a halt, the world’s airlines grounded through lack of fuel.

“They—the great, imperious, and haughty French,
la grande civilisation—
must go their own way, steering their own course along the road to prosperity. Gallic pricks. And you will step up to the plate and demand, with all the wrath and righteous indignation of the United States, that France be hauled before the United Nations to explain their conduct.

“You will once more look like the leader of the world. But trust me. You cannot sit here and hope to Christ this stuff goes away. Because it’s not going to.

“And if the French have really done this, sir—effectively taken Saudi oil off the world market, for their own ends—they deserve every last kick in the ass we can give ’em.”

“Yes,” said the President. “That they do.”

SAME DAY, SAME TIME
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

Lt. Cdr. Jimmy Ramshawe would have been pacing his office, except the floor was such a complete mess with piles of paper he would probably have killed himself. As it was, he sat staring at transcripts of messages and wondering why he was drawing a complete blank on every lead he had on the shattering events in Saudi Arabia.

The two French submarines were still missing. And for the umpteenth time Ramshawe counted the hours since the missiles must have been fired—0100 local on Monday morning…
that’s sixty-five hours, and all that time the two missing Rubis, the
Perle
and the
Améthyste
, were moving away from the datum, probably at a dead-silent seven knots.

Ramshawe took his dividers and assessed where on the chart the submarine in the Gulf had fired her missiles, calculating that they had also landed and retrieved a team of frogmen…
somewhere up here, northeast of the Abu Sa’afah oil field…must have been somewhere up here, because they couldn’t make a getaway straight through the bloody oil field…they must have gone north.

He hit the buttons on his calculator, multiplying sixty-five hours by seven knots…
455 nautical miles…that puts him somewhere here, through the Strait of Hormuz, and about 120 miles southeast running down the Gulf of Oman. One more day, and she’s free and clear, steaming down the Arabian Sea in deep water—straight to the French naval base at La Réunion, unless I’m very much mistaken.

Ramshawe adjusted his dividers to appreciate distances in the Red Sea…
the second submarine fired at the same time, somewhere off Jiddah…and they also ran away making seven knots…455 nautical miles…that puts them in the narrowing part of the Red
Sea, off this long coastline of Eritrea and Ethiopia…one more day and they’re through the Strait of Bab al Mandeb, home free, running out of the Gulf of Aden…straight to La Réunion.

Ramshawe considered this was essentially a blind alley. The French would admit nothing, probably would not even reply to an inquiry from the United States. And yet he could not stay away from the possible routes of the
Perle
and the
Améthyste
.

“I just wish to hell one of the other leads would come up,” he muttered. “Maybe a little more on the Frog in the Desert. Maybe a fix on where his message went. If we could just find out who dined with Major Kerman that night in Marseille. Anything would help. And what about the new Saudi King confirming that the French were getting the cream of the rebuilding programs in the oil fields?”

Ramshawe felt he was on the right track. He was certain this was all to do with France. But like many another detective before him, he was just waiting for a break, just a tiny chink of light in some obscure corner that might one day illuminate the whole picture.

“Doesn’t seem much to ask,” he stated to the empty room.

“Just one small break for Jim, one giant leap for the industrial world.”

At 1100 local time, right there in the National Security Agency, he got it.

The CIA were just beginning to push through the system the firsthand reports from their own people in Riyadh. That included several field officers working for Aramco, several informants who worked for the agency out of local businesses, banks and construction corporations, and, of course, the serious professional operators inside the U.S. embassy.

Most of them were Americans, and all of them were passing back their accounts of the events in the capital city as it fell to the “forces of the people.” And there was little in dispute, since almost everyone described the military convoy led by the big M1A2 Abrams tanks trundling through the city, taking the ministry, taking the television stations, taking the airport and then the royal palaces.

There was of course the hair-raising account of the suicide bomber crashing into the King’s palace, and there were hazy accounts of the sporadic firefights inside the walls of the palace, and the burning of the two Chinooks that many people had seen fly over the Diplomatic Quarter. But it was the firsthand report from the veteran U.S. diplomat Charlie Brooks that instantly caught the eye of Lt. Commander Ramshawe. Because this was a man who had served the United States in many parts of the world, and understood the stakes. And what Brooks had written, from his vantage point along the direct route of the convoy, was nothing short of riveting. At least it was to Jimmy Ramshawe.

“All of the armored vehicles carried the insignia of the Royal Saudi Land Forces, and it was assumed we were watching a military exercise, except of course the presence of the Abrams tanks was unusual. However, I was struck by the presence of the commander who was standing up in the turret of the leading tank. He was a heavyset bearded guy wearing combat gear and a red-and-white Arab
ghutra
on his head. Like all of the other soldiers he was carrying a submachine gun and an ammunition belt across his chest.