Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (45 page)

Drexel lifted a trembling hand, then fell back on his chair, recalling his recent meeting with Al-Rahman in Saudi Arabia, his face turning as gray as the dark clouds outside. “Al-Rahman said . . .,” he was mumbling, barely able to speak. “Al-Rahman said you were going to move against Israel. You would use the weapons in Gaza.”

“Yes, we said all of that. And it was our original plan. But your country has grown too bold and ambitious, long-armed and powerful. Democracies are rising, sprouting all over the world. All of them are fed by your people. And if there’s one thing we can’t endure, it’s another democracy in the Arab world. We’ve got to act against these growing tumors before it’s too late. In order to do that, we’ve got to take your country down. Once we have forced it to turn inward, to focus on its own problems, then we can do what we want.”

Drexel fell silent, his brow wet with sweat. The prince watched him a moment, then stood up to leave. He patted Drexel’s bony shoulder as he passed. “You’ll get over it,” he said. “Now it’s time to get back to work.”

* * *

Drexel listened carefully. The elevator door down the hall slid open, then closed. The prince was gone, leaving Drexel alone in the huge office suite. The night slipped around him, the dim lights in the den illuminating his face in deep shadows, creating dark pits along the cheekbones underneath his deep eyes. Drexel stared at his aged hands, forcing himself to settle down, then leaned across his desk and picked up his cigarettes—a two-pack-a-day habit. Had been for almost fifty years. They said he’d die of cancer before he was old enough to retire, yet he kept skipping along, feeling healthy and strong.

But this thing . . . this ugly thing . . . he suddenly felt
very
old.

He pulled a cigarette from the thin pack using only his lips, sat back and lit up, and drew in a long drag.

They were about to unleash a
very
evil genie. Generations would pass before the final price would be paid. And it was his job to assist them, to give them advice, to help them anticipate and counter what the United States would do. It was his job to help them deal with the firestorm that was coming, a firestorm of their making, a firestorm
they
controlled.

He pulled another drag, feeling the bitter smoke fill his lungs, then leaned forward on his desk.

The war was upon him.

But the United States would fight back. The Americans wouldn’t just lie there and let the ashes of history be heaped on their graves. Yes, they had grown spoiled and immoral, but the entire world had, too! Who hadn’t turned rotten and decadent? Was there a single nation on this earth that wasn’t as weak as brown-paper pulp?

No. All of them were weak. There were no heroes anymore.

Still, the Saudi king and his brothers were underestimating his countrymen. It didn’t matter how much they paid him, he couldn’t change that. The United States was going to fight them, and Americans would fight for their lives.

And the United States could be a junkyard dog when it came time to fight. Americans could be ruthless and efficient once they had made up their minds.

Sitting in the semidarkness, Drexel couldn’t help but think of what one of his early partners had told him the first time they had plotted to bring down a foreign government. “If you go after the king, make sure that you have the weapons to kill him. Don’t just take a knife, take an Uzi and a shotgun and an M-60 Patton tank. Take every weapon you can assemble. And be ready to run.”

Drexel shook his head, flicking a piece of brown tobacco from the tip of his tongue.

His clients were going after the king. But were they powerful enough to checkmate the king before the king came after them?

He wondered. Yes, he wondered.

It could go either way.

Washington, D.C.
     

Neil Brighton woke suddenly, his heart slamming in his chest. He sat up, his face sweating, his hands clenched against the sheets.

He had dreamed it again.

A clear summer day. A billowing cluster of thunderstorms. The sky was so huge and he was so small. The storms turned black as lightning flashed from the sky to strike the ground around him. He felt a deep and sudden chill. Someone was walking toward him, but he couldn’t see who it was. The outline was familiar. Who was it? He couldn’t see! He lifted his eyes in time to see a white-hot burst from a nuclear explosion. The man was instantly swept away by the nuclear fireball.   

His breathing was labored, and yet Sara remained sleeping on her side of the bed, her face in her pillow, her hair spread across the white sheets. He sat there in the moonlight that illuminated the room, staring straight ahead, trying to focus his eyes. He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. The terror had not gone away.

The mushroom clouds. The young man.

Who was he? Why so familiar? Why couldn’t he see his face?

He had never suffered dreams. But now he had to wonder,
am I being warned?

For a long time he sat motionless, resting his face on his palms, staring at the dark floor. Finally Sara rolled over, and he looked at the clock. Almost four in the morning. Time to get up anyway. He had a meeting with the National Security Staff, and he had things to prepare.

* * *

General Brighton got a call on his office desk phone a little after ten in the morning.

“Neil,” a husky voice boomed through the nonclassified line. “Aaron Statskily. You got thirty seconds?”

Aaron Statskily, chief of staff of the Army, thin, bespectacled, a marathon runner who was awarded more Purple Hearts out of the Gulf War than any other man. He and Neil had gotten to know each other at War College, the interservice advanced training school for up-and-coming officers, then lost touch for a few years before hooking up again in Washington, D.C. Not close, but professional, they respected each other and spoke frequently.

Neil glanced at his watch. He had a 10:15 a.m. meeting at the Pentagon, and it would be tight, but the good news was that when General Statskily said thirty seconds, that’s about what he took. He, like General Brighton, was a man pressed for time, and he milked every second out of every minute he had.

Outranked by two stars, Brighton was deferential to his friend. “General Statskily, I always have time for you,” he said in a friendly tone.

“Cut the crap, Neil, I know how busy you are. You’re juggling more fur balls than a constipated cat.”

Neil smiled. Aaron Statskily created more awkward metaphors than anyone he had ever known. “OK,” he answered with a light laugh. “We both are busy, general. So what’s going on?”

Statskily coughed. “Professional courtesy.” His voice was not booming so much anymore.

Neil hesitated.
Professional courtesy
. He knew what that meant. Off the record. General to general. A private conversation among close friends. “Gotcha,” Brighton answered, sitting on the edge of his desk.

Statskily went on. “I got a call from Colonel Dentworth, an old friend who runs our manpower shop, you know, the flesh peddlers down at the Army’s Military Personnel Center. He told me something interesting. Seems some of the Cherokee guys have been looking at your kid. They’ve been watching him. They like him.” The general hesitated. “They like him a lot.”

“Really,” Brighton answered, feeling a sudden jab at his gut.

“Yeah. Sounds like they want to bring him into their group.”

Brighton gritted his teeth. But he kept his voice even. “Well . . .” he started to say. “That’s very . . . cool. Not surprising. Sam’s a very good soldier.”

“Apparently so. Now, I’m sure you know the reason I’m calling, but let me state the obvious. We want to know how you’d feel. You know the Cherokees. You know what they do. They fall directly under the National Command Authority, as you certainly know as well, since you’re the guy at the White House who tasks them. Which seems to raise a question: Is that going to be a problem for you? Would it make it more difficult for you to do your job, knowing your son is going to be assigned to the most aggressive and high-risk unit in the army?

“So I’m asking straight up. Do you want me to kill this? If you do, everyone understands. One word from you, Neil, and we put this thing to bed. Your son will never be disappointed because he’ll never know. Not so much as a whisper. You have my word.”

The four-star general fell quiet. Brighton stood and paced back and forth, pulling the extension cord with his hand.

The truth was, he was proud. Terrified, but proud. The Cherokees were the absolute best of the best. The tip of the sword. One in ten thousand soldiers were good enough to be a Cherokee. But what they did was
so
dangerous and
barely
legal. They operated in a
very
different world.

Could he deny Sam the opportunity at the most coveted assignment in the Army?

Doing so would make his work that much more difficult. But he knew he couldn’t stand in his way. 

Then he had one final thought.

Sara would have a fit if she knew that he had a chance to stop him and didn’t take it.

Ammon and Luke Brighton met for midmorning breakfast at one of the little fast-food places that lined the Student Center building on the campus at George Washington University. Ammon had just come from his first class and Luke had just come from the gym. They each bought a cinnamon roll, big as a saucer and with about a thousand grams of fat and sugar, then sat down at the one of the small tables in the hall. Hundreds of rushing students passed by them, but they concentrated on their food. Five minutes later, no longer hungry, they sat back and relaxed.

“What you got going today?” Ammon asked.

“Not a lot. Econ quiz. Biology lab. Some old, same old. You think Dad is still planning on meeting us down at the harbor for . . . .”

“No. He called me earlier. Said he couldn’t make it. Said maybe sometime next week.”

Luke scoffed. “Yeah, right. When pigs sprout wings and fly.”

“Don’t be angry at him, Luke. He’s doing the best he can.”

“I’m
way
more than angry, but I’m not angry at him. I’m angry at
them.
The ones who put him under so much pressure. They ride him like a bad horse. They keep whipping and whipping. One day he’s going to fall down. You can only ride a horse so long, spur it so many times, before it blows out its lungs.”

“Pretty graphic,” Ammon smiled.

“I feel graphic,” Luke replied.

“Still, don’t be ticked off at Dad. And don’t worry about him either. You and Mom worry too much. I can see that something sustains him. Can’t you see it too? He’s doing something very important, and the Big Guy knows that. I think he’ll be OK.”

Luke nodded, and then stood up quickly. “Got to go,” he said. “Econ quiz. I’m not ready.”

“So what else is new?”

“You need a ride this afternoon?”

“No. I’ll take the Metro.”

“OK. See you later, dude.”

“Good luck on your test.”

* * *

Luke had seen her before—many times, in fact. They were in the same freshman economics class, but then so were a couple hundred other kids. Sometimes he would see her at the gym where he lifted weights and she always ran. They passed each other in the hall, but they never spoke, for it seemed whenever he saw her she was never alone. He didn’t know where she was from, but it appeared that her entire high-school class had followed her to college. She was always surrounded by friends. But though they had never spoken, he had watched her. Icy blue eyes. Long, blond hair. Legs that didn’t quit. She was beautiful. And sophisticated. And
where
did she get that tan? She had a lot of money; he knew that from the way that she dressed. Those who had it, those who
really
had it—not just a few millions but much more than that—had a thing about them that was hard to hide. Assuming they wanted to hide it, which, of course, they never did. If money talks, then big money screams, and everything about her screamed like a high-pitched cry in the dark.

Luke was sitting on a bench outside the university library when she walked up to him. It was a brisk fall day and a cool breeze blew, taking the humidity and smog of the district and flinging it east. He was reading—cramming, really—for the upcoming economics quiz when her shadow fell over his textbook. He didn’t look up. She waited for a while, then, apparently growing impatient, she took a step to the side, formed the silhouette of a pterodactyl with her fingers, and flew the shadow across his page. Luke looked up, his eyes growing large. “Hey there,” he said, keeping the book open in his hands.

She smiled shyly. A pure act. “Hi. You look busy.”

Luke flipped the book closed. “Not really,” he lied. “Well, kind of,” he admitted. “I’ve got a test in a couple minutes.”

“Well, that’s
very
important. I’ll just leave you alone.” Her voice was soft and deliberate. She oozed confidence.

“Are you kidding?” Luke jumped up. “I mean . . .” he stammered. “It’s OK. I’ll do fine. In fact, it’s my economics class. We have it together.”

“Really?” she answered.

Luke slumped just a little.
Hadn’t she ever noticed me?

He nodded to the bench beside him. She dropped her backpack and sat down. “Luke Brighton,” he said.

“Alicia Debonei. Yes, it’s French, which is a coincidence, because so is my father, but please don’t ask.”

An introduction like that raised a lot of questions, which was her point, of course, but Luke didn’t bite. He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s cool,” he said.

Alicia crossed her arms in front of herself. Her forearms were slender, but her legs were long and strong. She wore a light blue halter top and a white skirt that was just a few inches too high and revealed distracting legs. She had on leather shoes with an insignia he had never seen before, though he recognized it as Italian; a diamond ankle bracelet that was obviously real; no earrings, but a couple of diamond and sapphire rings on her fingers; and a soft fabric headband made out of something . . . shiny, he had no idea what it was. Turning toward him, she flipped a strand of blond hair from in front of her eye. Her hair was a soft color, fine and silky. He stared at the movement, mesmerized just a moment too long. She met his eyes and smiled. He looked away.