“The docs in Kuwait say that old warhorse is going to live to fight another day,” said Middleton and immediately changed the subject. “You up to date on this London attack?”
“Yes, sir. Watched some at home and read the
“Got no fuckin’ intel,” snorted Middleton. “Once again, billions of dollars thrown at them, few laws to confine them anymore, and the spooks still come up short. How come TV cameras can always be there when the intel professionals can’t?”
General Middleton turned the sound down and made a quick telephone call to the Pentagon central command post that was monitoring the emergency in England. He asked for the casualty count, grunted, and hung up. “Less than a hundred and fifty dead so far, from the dirty bomb explosion to the stampede of people trying to get away, but a bunch of people are hurt. The royals were safely evacuated up to Balmoral Castle in Scotland. Lizard, show her what you’re working on.”
Freeman pulled a chair up to a small computer terminal and clicked some keys, and a chart replaced the news report on the television screen. He folded his arms and rocked back. An oval-shaped blob of red designated the most saturated area of the attack, then faded into bands of orange and yellow that followed the wind pattern. “The initial public panic kept things in gridlock for a while, and the authorities were prompt in swinging the emergency units into action. Traffic control, quarantines and showers, getting people into clean zones. Thanks to the warning from that fire chief, the first responders were in protective gear when they moved in, and they probably will have saved hundreds of lives when all is said and done.”
“The Brits’ 9/11,” said Sybelle. “Worse than the World War II bombings.”
Middleton was grim. “They picked on the wrong country. Not only are we their big brother and will kick the crap out of whoever did this, but the Brits are a tough bunch. They won’t knuckle under. Ask Hitler.”
The Lizard was out of his chair, moving nervously about the room as he spoke. “I did some statistical analysis to get a grip on what kind of biochem agent was used in the attack and found something I did not expect. Look.” He pointed a finger at the scarlet oval of maximum devastation. “Look at the very defined edges of this red zone. The material is very concentrated here, as would be expected.” Then he fanned his entire hand out over the other colors. “But the other bands of contamination are extremely narrow.”
Sybelle caught it, for like all Force Recon Marines, she had been schooled in biological, chemical, and nuclear warfare. The weak point of any chem attack is atmospheric dispersion, for the moment the toxin goes into the air, it begins to dissipate and grows weaker until it is of no significance whatever. That is why prime targets for such attacks are normally underground or very confined areas, such as in subways, where the effects can be contained and multiplied. “The wind didn’t carry it far!”
The Lizard stood and looked at her with a smile, a teacher gazing on a prize pupil. “Exactly.” He slapped the top of the television set. “This looks like something new, a heavier-than-air gas that somehow morphs into a sticky liquid on contact with the air. The contamination readings at the center of the attack are still strong right now, many hours after the explosion. This stuff preserves its lethality even in open air.”
“In other words, it stays at home and does what it’s made to do.”
Middleton nodded agreement. “Yep. And that is why we have to be worried. I think this attack was just a field trial. Imagine if huge containers of this stuff went off in the middle of a big city. The death toll could be enormous.”
Sybelle went to a sideboard and poured a cup of coffee, then cocked her head toward Middleton. “Every intel service in the world has to be working on this, and the Brits have to be going all out. Has anybody come up with anything?”
“Nobody has claimed credit yet. No demands have been made. All of the usual idiots are cheering, but none are raising their hands as being responsible because if they do, they get wiped out.” Lieutenant Commander Freedman read some notes on his computer. “The explosion came from a truck in the press area, and the chemical canisters were attached to a second truck. The police identified both as belonging to a rental company out of Scotland called Edinburgh All-Media.”
Middleton was bending a paper clip into different shapes, and it popped apart as he pulled on it. He tossed it aside. “Damned media again. That girl stuck a microphone in the fireman’s mouth just as he realized what was really happening.”
Sybelle wouldn’t buy his anger. “Wasn’t her fault, sir. The terrorists wanted this to be as public as possible, which is why they picked the press that was covering the wedding. It sent a warning straight into the living rooms of millions of viewers. Poor Kimberly Drake will always be the face of this disaster.” She felt a shudder as she recalled the horrible death of the reporter on live TV.
The general stood and looked out the window. “Okay. You’re right. I’m just trying to add it all up in my head. Get your stuff together, because we have to be at the White House in thirty minutes for a national security briefing on this attack and whether it may be related to what we are doing in Iran.”
Sybelle asked, “And exactly what are we doing in Iran, sir?”
“You will find out soon enough. Swanson’s taking another team in, and he wants you over there to ramrod the operation from Camp Baharia. The Lizard is setting up a flight, and you are out of here in a few hours.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” she replied, thinking:
KINGDOM OF BRUNEI DARUSSALAM
Ambassador Richard Taffe was a professional diplomat who had been entrusted by the United States government with the crucial position of ambassador to one of the smallest, richest, and most strategic countries in the world. It was not a gift position awarded to some political party loyalist or to the friend of a friend of the president. Instead, whoever held the post had earned his spurs through years of experience in the diplomatic world. Taffe peeled off his sweaty orange shirt after a morning round at the Royal Brunei Golf and Country Club in Jerudong Park and concluded once again that the years spent in Nigeria and Bangladesh and Jordan had paid off handsomely for him. What was there to dislike about Brunei?
A Malay club boy in pressed black shorts and a white tunic buttoned at the collar brought him a stack of fresh towels. The ambassador wiped his face and chest, rolled the towel into a ball, and tossed it into a hamper ten feet away.
“He shoots! He scores!” called his playing partner for the day, Zul Jock Matali, a senior officer in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade. “Nothing but net.” It had been a good day, and the ambassador had beaten Matali three-and-two in match play. Now they would shower and dress and have lunch in one of the club restaurants and talk about oil.
Brunei was attached by land to Malaysia but floated on a sea of proven oil reserves rated at about 1.35 billion barrels. The country shipped 206,000 barrels every day, and a great deal of it sailed across the Pacific Ocean to the United States. Taffe’s primary job was to keep that black gold flowing.
Taffe took a sip of chilled water from a bottle that had almost magically appeared at his side. There was only one thing to really worry about in this little land where, true, nobody voted, but nobody paid taxes and the country had zero external debt. Oil money did that. The problem was not the human trafficking that masqueraded as migrant labor from other Asian countries, because who really gave a shit? Even human rights groups couldn’t keep track of it. Just don’t call attention to what was, in reality, a booming slave trade. Neither was there any problem with the mandatory death penalty for drug smugglers, which Taffe’s people handled quietly when some stupid American kid got nailed trying to bring in dope in a backpack. There was no official arrest, so there was no trial or death sentence, and the tourist was just turned over to the U.S. Embassy, which sent him home on the next plane. At all costs, keep the black oil flowing.
The real diplomatic problem in Brunei was that the nation’s religion was Muslim. The common law could be overruled in some cases by sharia law, and the sultan himself was the official defender of the faith. The same royal family had run the little country for six centuries, even after it was spun off as an independent nation by the British Empire. They displayed some enlightened leadership in spending great wads of cash on improvements and allowing
