Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (30 page)

“Yes, master,” Orazov said. “I shall keep close watch on the colonel. When you give the command, I shall strike.”

“He will be keeping close watch on you as well, Captain,” Zarazi warned him. “He and his men are skillful killers. They distrust you and all Turkmen.”

Orazov smiled confidently. “Do not worry, sir. He has great reason to fear us. I shall be alert and ready at all times.” He bowed again, then departed.

Wakil Mohammad Zarazi watched Orazov leave, then walked back to the large map of Turkmenistan and the surrounding region. Kerki: an easy conquest. Gaurdak: easy as well. Chärjew: not easy at all, their first encounter with Russian officers, and their first encounter with Turkmen regulars. But once Chärjew was taken, they could sweep across the Kara Kum Desert right up to the suburbs of Mary, the largest city in eastern Turkmenistan, with a force almost as large as Turkmenistan's itself. Even if the Turkmen government made a stand at Mary—Zarazi had no fantasies about being powerful enough to take that combined Turkmen and Russian stronghold—he would control nearly one-half of Turkmenistan's oil and gas reserves.

More important, he would control some of the richest land in Central Asia: most of the Amu Darya River plains located inside Turkmenistan, the Kara Kum Canal that ran across the Kara Kum Desert between Mary and Kerki, and the Gaurdak plains, which were extensively irrigated and which grew a wide variety of food and plant products, especially cotton. Even if he was forced to retreat east of the sixty-third meridian, he could still easily control the eastern third of the nation from Chärjew.

The excitement ran through Zarazi's body like an electric current. He could do this, he told himself. If he stayed faithful to God and ran this brigade with passion and relentlessness, he could become the undisputed warlord of eastern Turkmenistan, as powerful as the president. He could create a Pashtun stronghold, a haven for Taliban and their sympathizers from all over the Muslim world.

All he had to do was keep his men in line—or dead—starting with his former friend and fellow tribesman, Jalaluddin Turabi.

That same time

“Ladies and gentlemen, here he is, back from his very successful round-the-world travels! Please welcome to West Sacramento, the next president of the United States, Kevin Martindale!” The men and women at the table rose to their feet and clapped as the former president of the United States, Kevin Martindale, entered the boardroom, followed by two Secret Service agents. The large, ornate room echoed from the applause and cheers as Martindale strode to the head of the massive oak conference table, shaking hands with a few of the board members—retired politicians and military men—that he recognized. Behind them, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city of Sacramento sparkled in the clear, sunny winter afternoon, with the Tower Bridge, Discovery Park, the confluence of the American and Sacramento Rivers all presenting the perfect backdrop to this special meeting.

William O. Hitchcock, the president and CEO of TransCal Petroleum, added his applause to his fellow board members' after shaking the former president's hand warmly. He allowed the applause to continue for almost thirty seconds, then invited the board members to sit. “Members of the board of directors of TransCal, I need not remind you that the name of the enemy in our business is OPEC. But for every dragon that terrorizes the kingdom, there is a dragon slayer—and I am proud to say that America's dragon slayer is this man, the once and future president of the United States, Kevin Martindale.” Again Hitchcock let the applause run another several seconds, until Martindale finally held up his hands in surrender.

“While the OPEC ministers were publicly threatening to cut production to absolute bare minimums, President Martindale was meeting with each of them, securing special delivery and storage arrangements that will ensure TransCal's supply and distribution contracts for years to come,” Hitchcock went on. “With his help we have received very good assurances that prices will remain stable; that no member, no matter how large or powerful, will exceed the production limits; and that there will be enough markets and enough profits available to all, whether a member of OPEC or not. We are happy and proud that he is on our side, and we are honored to be able to support his drive to be only the second man in history to be voted back in as president of the United States after being voted out. My friends, please join me once again in welcoming home and thanking our good friend, Kevin Martindale.”

After the third round of applause died away and Martindale greeted each of the board members personally, Hitchcock escorted the former president to his office, which was only a bit smaller than the boardroom. Any walls not composed of glass to take advantage of the spectacular city views were covered with rare and beautiful artwork, the immense faux fireplace was New Hampshire granite and Italian marble, the furniture was rich Spanish leather and polished California redwood. Martindale settled onto one of the expansive sofas with a tumbler of orange juice and sparkling water; Hitchcock offered the former president a cigar and helped himself to ice water and a Davidoff. “Good to have you back in the U.S. of A., Kevin,” Hitchcock said as they lit up. “Your trip was more successful than we could possibly have hoped.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Martindale said. “I was happy to do it. I love the road, and I love confronting some of these Third World big shots. They think the world is scared of the name ‘OPEC,' and I love seeing them squirm in front of the other delegates.”

“Ten countries in less than a week. You must be whipped.”

“I've forgotten how much traveling charges my batteries,” Martindale said. It was true. He didn't look at all like a guy who had probably rung up a year's worth of frequent-flier miles in less than a week. “I'm ready to head on out again—as long as I'm not neglecting my national and state party obligations.”

“Don't you worry about the state delegations. We're coordinating all your appearances and fund-raisers,” Hitchcock said. “They know they have to be well organized and busting their butts before you'll even consider setting foot in their districts, and it's pumping up the candidates and the party committees to work extra hard to show us some impressive canvassing and donor numbers. They're gearing up well, but they won't be truly organized until the summer party convention. So we have a few months to go on the foreign-affairs track, and the press is lapping it up. Thorn is still nowhere to be seen on the radar screen, so the foreign-affairs field is all yours.”

“I just can't figure that guy out,” Martindale said, sipping his drink. “He's smart, tough, energetic—”

“He's all that, all right—but only on whatever planet he's really from,” Hitchcock said. “On this planet he's a zero. Don't worry about him right now. We have some other fish to fry.” He sat on the edge of his desk and looked seriously at the former president. William Hitchcock was young, very good-looking, and enormously wealthy, mostly from inheritances and an oil business that thrived on adversity. He was a newcomer in politics, but he attacked it with the same drive and take-no-prisoners attitude he applied to dealing with all problems in business—use every weapon in his arsenal to win.

The former president was his newest and by far his most potent weapon. Kevin Martindale wanted badly to reenter politics. But his fiasco with his not-so-secret mercenary group known as the Night Stalkers made political contributions dry up quickly. Whispers around Washington said that the former president was financing and leading a group of ex-commandos called “the Night Stalkers” on vigilante and mercenary missions all around the world. But rather than being considered a Robin Hood with his band of merry thieves, Martindale and the Night Stalkers were considered homegrown American terrorists. Enter William Hitchcock. As a partner in an African oil cartel, Hitchcock had hired the Night Stalkers to investigate and stop a Libyan incursion into Egypt, and he saw firsthand the power, charisma, and energy Kevin Martindale possessed. Their goals meshed perfectly: William Hitchcock wanted political influence, and Kevin Martindale needed financial backing for another run at the White House.

“What's up?” Martindale asked.

“A potential shit storm in Turkmenistan,” Hitchcock said.

“Let me guess: The Russians are squawking that you're moving too quickly, and they want you to give up some of your fields. No problem. After what my Night Stalkers did to Sen'kov's plans in the Balkans, the Russians won't give us any hassles.”

“I
wish
it was the Russians! I've already got their payola money in the budget,” Hitchcock said. “We've got Taliban problems.”

“Oh, shit, that's not good,” Martindale exclaimed. “Threatening your pipelines?”

“A small band of insurgents from Afghanistan kicking ass and taking names. They're knocking down Turkmen army bases, capturing weapons, and recruiting followers faster and easier than the Pied Piper,” Hitchcock said. “Problem is, the Turkmen government isn't doing anything to stop them. In fact, I think the government might secretly be supporting them.”

“And the Russians would love to see the Taliban blow up some of your facilities.”

“Exactly. We need to convince the Turkmen government to fight these Taliban bastards, but without involving the Russian army. I know that your administration negotiated the original deal with Niyazov for those oil leases. Can you go back to Ashkhabad and try to convince the government to turn these Taliban assholes away?”

“That should be no problem,” Martindale said. “You realize that it might be in our best interests to make contact with the Taliban leaders themselves—grease their palms a little bit to keep them from just torching your pipelines?”

“I was hoping to avoid that . . . but, yes, I'll agree to it,” Hitchcock said. “The Turkmen think those Taliban insurgents won't dare take on the regular-army bases at Chärjew—that they'll just take over a few pumping stations in the east, collect some ransom money, and split. But these guys keep moving westward, and they're growing in strength. If they take Chärjew, they could gain control of almost half our facilities in Turkmenistan.”

“No problem,” Martindale said confidently. “I'll speak with Gurizev and find out what he has in mind. Knowing him the way I do, I'll bet he'll be crying to the Russians to stop the Taliban, but I know he'll take help—and money—anywhere he can find it. But unless I miss my guess, we won't have to rely on the Turkmen. Most Taliban raiding parties stay in the field just long enough to collect money for their tribes. We pay them enough, and they'll be gone like a puff of smoke back to whatever caves they came from.”

“So you'll go to Turkmenistan, then?”

Martindale looked a little apprehensive. “I'm not so sure that'll do any good,” he said. “The Turkmen don't like outsiders, especially Westerners, and they like their under-the-table deals done well beyond arm's length. Besides, frankly, that place gives me the creeps. I'd rather go in with a pretty strong security advance team.”

“No chance of Thorn providing anything like that,” Hitchcock pointed out. “What about your Night Stalkers?”

Martindale took a pensive sip of his drink. “Disbanded. They got beat up pretty bad in Libya before they finally slapped down Zuwayy. Thorn offered to return their military rank and privileges to them, and they took it. But that's exactly who I'd like to bring with me.” He nodded confidently at Hitchcock, trying to hide his feelings of dread. “Don't worry. I'll start the ball rolling from here—the threat of my coming to Turkmenistan should force Gurizev to cooperate. If necessary, I'll go to Ashkhabad and explain the facts of life to him. As for the Taliban, just be prepared to offer them some ‘protection money,' and they'll leave your pipelines alone. Of course, the fact that we're ‘forced' to pay protection money will be another strike against Thorn. After all, what kind of president will Thomas Thorn be if he won't send in troops to protect American economic interests overseas?”

“You don't think he would intervene, do you?”

“I don't see any evidence at all that he's inclined to do so,” Martindale said. “But he's got some tough advisers and military leaders working for him who could convince him otherwise. You never know with him. But I wouldn't count on Thorn doing a damned thing. If we can convince Gurizev to send some troops in, and at the same time pay the Taliban fighters some protection money, I think your pipelines will be safe.”

“Excellent,” Hitchcock said, the relief evident in his voice. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you, Kevin.”

“Just be sure my campaign war chest stays topped off,” Martindale reminded him.

“My pleasure . . . Mr. President,” Hitchcock said. “You won't have to worry about money as long as you're out there on TransCal's behalf.”

“Good,” Martindale said, finishing his drink and getting to his feet. The Secret Service agents immediately announced that their charge was on the move. “I'll get started right away. Put an extra three million in the operations account—that should be more than enough.”

“You got it. I'll be sure your campaign account has a few extra million in there for your ‘consulting help' on this as well,” Hitchcock said. He shook hands warmly with the former president. “It's a pleasure working with you, Mr. President.” As they shook hands, Hitchcock added, “I'm still open to heading your reelection campaign, Kevin, and eventually running your White House staff.”

“I know, Bill,” Martindale said. “But you don't know the White House battleground well enough yet.”

“TransCal has a hundred times more employees than the White House, and I run every aspect of the company,” Hitchcock said. “I can do the job. You've gotta give me the chance.”