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  Weather forecasters predicted a sunny, warm day with gentle waters in the Taiwan Strait and the South China Sea. The tide tables were favorable. During the next forty-eight hours, the detailed planning of the Combined Staff would put in motion what would be the biggest show in the world, albeit a brief one.

  Thousands of troops would march in long columns and hundreds of armored vehicles and trucks loaded with everything from gasoline and ammunition to food would crowd onto the roads, heading toward the loading points. Helicopters would mass and squadrons of fighter aircraft would be armed and in the air flying protective cover missions.

  At ports all along the China coast, the complex process of loading a huge military force onto more than two hundred ships, including the commandeered merchant vessels, would begin. It would be intentionally slow and careful, so as to be seen in full. Missile sites would be activated and military radio channels would stay busy. Television crews would be allowed into selected staging areas, but no questions would be answered. The foreign reporters would draw their own conclusions.

  That was the easy part. It was all a massive feint; nothing was going to happen in the Taiwan Strait or the South China Sea. Even so, the gigantic movement was excellent training, a dress rehearsal for the eventual day when such an invasion really would be undertaken.

  A staff planner tapped a key to change the computer screen and another slide colored the wall screen, a light blue background with arms of gold olive branches surrounding a North Pole view of the globe-the emblem of the United Nations. On Sunday, the Chinese representative to the UN would demand a meeting of the Security Council on Monday morning to lodge a formal protest about recent behavior of Taiwan, acts that the government of China considered aggressive and warlike. Again, it was part of the deception, but the other governments of the world could not take the chance that an angry China was ready to take Taiwan by force.

  “That will mark the end of Phase One,” the planner announced, leaving the UN symbol lingering on the wall.

  The general stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and adjusted his glasses. His eyes moved around the impassive faces of the other ranking officers at the conference table. “Very well,” he said. “Issue the appropriate orders to begin Phase One.”

  The room erupted into activity as the other commanders and the staff members hurried off to launch the intricate process. Zhu Chi loosened his tie. He would get some sleep now and meet early in the morning with Jiang Julong, the party chairman of the Central Military Commission. They would discuss issuing final approval for the next step.

  The way it presently stood, the UN delegate would not talk at all about Taiwan during the special emergency session on Monday, other than claiming the huge military moves purely an internal matter. He would say it was just a military exercise concerning national defense. That was the truth, but it would be seen as a lie, and would cause even more excitement. At the end of his address, the diplomat would shift to a different subject: the immediate need for the United Nations to place an international peacekeeping force in Saudi Arabia to secure the vital resources of that nation. The kingdom was in the throes of a rebellion and now there were rumors of nuclear weapons. The United Nations must intervene!

  By then, Chinese planes would be in the air to start Phase Two.

  48

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  H ALFWAY AROUND THE WORLD in a different time zone, it was only approaching noon on Saturday at the White House. President Mark Tracy picked at the tuna salad that had been served at his Oval Office desk. He would be unable to eat much of it. He had too many other things on his mind, a perfect storm of international events that still might end with a nuclear holocaust if not carefully handled. He had on tan slacks and a blue golf shirt, casual weekend clothes, as if he was awaiting a tee time. In reality, he had not played golf in weeks. Being president had a way of wrecking a social schedule.

  “Let’s do the Saudi thing first,” he said. “This Ebara guy is dead. Where does that leave the attempt to overthrow the government?”

  CIA Director Bartlett Geneen was on a small cream-colored sofa in front of the president’s desk. As always, he was wearing a crisp white shirt and a dark suit and tie. He also had pushed his tuna salad aside after a few bites. He scanned a summary in his folder and said, “We think the coup attempt is in real trouble. King Abdullah is still having to deal with some hot spots, but without the incendiary presence of Mohammed Abu Ebara, the coordinated attacks we saw earlier have stopped entirely and military support is evaporating.”

  The President breathed a sigh. “That’s what he told me in our call a little while ago. He seemed pretty confident. Plans to turn the tables and put the clerics in a box to get some modernizing social reforms going in his country. Try to curb the hate. That’s a good thing.”

  Geneen cleared his throat before bringing up something that was out of the ordinary run of the intelligence community. “Along that line, one of our best ground agents in Saudi Arabia has been co-opted into some secret operation run by the Pentagon, working for something called Task Force Trident.”

  Tracy feigned innocence. “Really? Isn’t that General Middleton’s special ops group?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Did you ask the general about it?”

  “I did. He said to take it up with you.”

  “Hmmm. Strange. I’ll talk to him. Now what about the Saudi nuclear weapons? We have four of the five, right?”

  Geneen was jolted by the brushoff. He was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency and recognized that he was being kept out of the loop. Then his eyes widened behind his round glasses and a little smile creased his lips. Ebara! They nailed Ebara! Sometimes it is best to be kept in the dark, particularly if he was ever called before Congress to explain certain things.

  “Yes, sir. We have retrieved four of them, sir. One more to go.”

  “I let King Abdullah off the hook on the secret that we had put the one in Khobz in safekeeping. I did not give any details, which he did not really like, but rather than protesting, he kept his eye on the big picture and was relieved that it was not in terrorist hands. Abdullah was a terrific diplomat and I think I’m going to enjoy working with him as a head of state.”

  The president looked at the digital clock on his desk. “Generals Turner and Middleton will be here in a little while so we can talk about China. Meanwhile, Bart, I’m going to make an important executive decision without informing Congress. Screw this tuna salad: I’m ordering us a couple of Philly cheese-steak sandwiches and a pile of greasy french fries. The prospect of nuclear war makes me hungry.”

  THE PENTAGON

  “Lieutenant Commander Freedman, you are a malcontent, a troublemaker, an irritating nerd, and an asshole. The entire intelligence community has its panties in a wad because of you.” General Bradley Middleton had to brief the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Lizard was not making things simple.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry. I’m right and they are wrong, sir.” The Lizard knew Middleton was only forcing him to prove his idea, one last time.

  “You got some pieces of paper, some pictures, some satellite intel, some fortune cookies, ANYTHING I can take before the Chiefs?”

  “No, sir, I cannot prove a negative, that something is not going to happen. Think in terms of the Sherlock Holmes story about the dog that didn’t bark.”

  “Can’t do that, Lizard. The Chiefs may want a little more than Holmesian deduction. Look. All the hard intel points toward an imminent invasion of Taiwan. On that we have pictures, sat data, the works.”

  Freedman was determined not to wilt under the pressure. “Yes, sir. All of it, sir. It is much too accurate and easy to come by. So it is false.”

  Middleton glared at him. “They cannot move all that stuff into place in secret. It’s right there in front of you, Liz. Plain as day and NSA traffic is showing orders are being given to start moving in a few hours.”

  Freedman’s eyes drifted for help to the large
bulk of Master Gunnery Sergeant O.O. Dawkins, who was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, watching the exchange. “The game, Liz,” Double-Oh gently coaxed. “Show him your game.”

  “Game?” asked the general.

  “Yes, sir. I have been running some private war game scenarios. Not the usual Red Team versus Blue Team stuff, but trying to figure out how the Chinese can beat the distance problem in getting to Saudi Arabia.”

  “Now tell him how you win, Liz.”

  “Right. Yes. I win…I won…by eliminating the distance as the determining factor. Squeezed the map tighter.”

  Middleton rolled his eyes. “Speak English, for Christ’s sake.”

  “What the lieutenant commander is trying to say, sir, is that this invasion of Taiwan has everything out there for public viewing except long-range bombers and airborne troops. Those would be absolutely needed to carry out such an operation, and are nowhere to be found. Liz believes that about the time the loaded ships are ready to leave the China coast, a whole shitpot load of big airplanes is going to head up toward Saudi Arabia from bases in the Sudan, Yemen, Ethiopia, and Somalia.”

  “Is that it, Lieutenant Commander Freeman? Is that how you squeezed the map?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s it. I cheated.”

  The general clapped him on the shoulder and went out the door, into the wide, polished halls of the Pentagon to find General Hank Turner, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  49

  AL-TAIF, SAUDI ARABIA

  K YLE S WANSON CROSSED HIS legs and puffed out his cheeks in a sigh of exasperation, and the invisible clock that had been quietly bugging him for the past few days was now clanging in his head. He tied the boot laces. Let’s go, he thought, throwing a questioning look at Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid.

  Mishaal was at the front of a spacious briefing room at the huge base, where officials of both the Saudi and U.S. military forces were conducting a real-time teleconference with counterparts in Riyadh and Washington. Swanson, as only a gunnery sergeant, was not even at the big table with the senior officers. Kyle would not have been there at all if he had a choice, but the king had ordered Mishaal to lead the meeting, and since the prince was not going to let Swanson out of his sight again, he almost dragged him into the room.

  He was in a straight-back chair against the wall, watchful and anxious, taking everything in. Bored. All of this talk had nothing to do with his assignment. He wanted to get up to Riyadh with the prince and lay his hands on that final nuke. Every minute spent sitting in a conference room was another minute wasted, with the mission still unresolved. They were so close, just a few hours. Let’s do it!

  Nevertheless, he had to admit that the sudden burst of intel about a possible invasion by Chinese troops merited this sort of attention by those in charge. The emergencies were not over, and in fact, were escalating. Although the rebellion was calming and the collection of the nuclear weapons was all but done, Beijing had decided to come and play in the sandbox.

  The decisions to be made concerning that situation had nothing to do with him. It was high above his pay grade, which was why everyone else in the room was so tense: it was above their pay grades, too.

  No one had considered the possibility that another country would try to seize the oil fields outright. The Saudis had warned the Americans not to try it, at the risk of an armed confrontation. If China came in, the Saudis would surely resist. Then the U.S. would be certain to offer help to Riyadh from the nearby U.S. fleet and aircraft. Would Beijing force the issue? Would Washington take that step? And what about this possible invasion of Taiwan? A sense of paralysis was taking hold because the series of emergencies had taken still another turn for the worse.

  Kyle had read the brief, heard the experts, and knew the overall situation. The only thing he could contribute was lassoing that final nuke. Nothing he could do about China. Either the shooting would start or it wouldn’t. As the voices droned on, Kyle caught the prince’s eye and motioned that he would be outside. Five minutes. The big boys did not need him in the room. After all, he was only an enlisted man.

  S WANSON FOUND J AMAL LEANING against their Mercedes, smoking a cigarette and drinking a soda, killing time. Kyle didn’t smoke, but the cold drink looked good. “You got change for the Coke machine?” he asked.

  “Nope. The machine takes a U.S. dollar.”

  Kyle breathed some night air to flush out the smell of the stuffy conference room. He could see a sprinkling of stars above the bright lights of the air base. The glowing red box with the familiar logo was tucked into an alcove just inside the rear door of the building to help keep it cool from the desert heat. When he pulled a dollar bill from his tattered wallet, a small white business card came out with it and fluttered to the floor, landing face-up beside his feet. He glanced down: Chinese lettering.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, picking it up and turning it over to read the English translation in raised lettering on the other side. Swanson bought the drink, took half of it in a single long draught, and went back outside. “Where’s my sat phone, Jamal?”

  “Back seat,” said the CIA man, tilting his head to see Kyle better in the overhead light. Swanson got into the car and dialed in a long set of telephone numbers to make an international call.

  It was a commercial telephone number that started with the prefix of eight-five-two for Hong Kong, and then the telephone number itself. There were a lot of beeps and hisses as the call was bounced from carrier to carrier until it was answered. A cryptic, sleepy voice gave no greeting other than his name, “Henry Tsang.”

  “Hello, Mr. Tsang. This is Kyle Swanson. We met the other day on the plane going into Khobz. Got shot at together.”

  There was a pause while Tsang came awake and leafed through his memory. “Mr. Swanson. Why yes? How are your fiber optic sensor security systems doing?” There was humor in the question. The game was on.

  “Probably about as well as your accounting work.” Kyle heard a yawn. “We need to meet.”

  “Why? Are you here in Shanghai? This is a very busy time for me. Tax work.”

  Swanson gambled. “No, I’m not in Shanghai, and neither are you. Right now I believe you are standing in your pajamas in Riyadh. In fact, my guess is that you are some type of cultural attaché at the Chinese Embassy, or have some title that hides the fact that you are a deep cover agent. Like me.”

  There was a snicker of laughter. “Mr. Swanson, you have a wonderful imagination. We are James Bonds? Where are you calling from?”

  “The Saudi military base at al-Taif, where we have just removed the fourth of the five nuclear warheads from this country. Are you interested in some more information?”

  “Yes.” The voice downshifted to quiet and all business. “Tell me.”

  “Not over an open line. We should get together in Riyadh as soon as possible.”

  “Very well, Mr. Swanson. The Mediterranean Grill then, at the Marriott. I will have a table reserved in my name at nine thirty.”

  “Can we make it sooner? I’m only about an hour away by plane.”

  “I fear not.” The voice firmed up. That meant Tsang was going to check with his superiors back in China before doing anything at all. “Zero-nine-thirty is the best I can do.”

  “All right, then,” Kyle said. “See you there.”

  50

  JEDDAH

  J UBA AND D IETER WORKED with a sense of careful urgency while still in the villa, laying out the possibilities and honing their ideas. Two large flatbed transport trucks, drivers, a military escort, and official documentation from the Saudi government were at the top of their list.

  “Juba, what are you going to do with this thing once you get it? Is it just a decoy to lure in that Marine you want, or do you really want to set it off?” Dieter had his BlackBerry on the table beside a yellow legal pad and a leather-bound notebook filled with telephone numbers and bank accounts.

  “Does a vision of a final holocaust for Israel trouble yo
u? A destruction of the holy city of Jerusalem?”

  “No. I don’t care about the Jews one way or the other. I just don’t want to be nearby if you detonate it.”

  Juba said, “I don’t know for sure yet about actually employing the weapon. My main goal is to get Swanson into the kill zone. A ripe target site and a ticking nuclear bomb would solve a lot of problems.”

  “So it would be wise for me to stay away from Israel?”

  Juba stretched and yawned before answering. “That would probably be a very good decision.”

  Juba worked with the German’s superb computer set-up while Dieter called contacts on a secure telephone. Funds were transferred and messages were sent while the maid and the chef rushed about packing for the emergency escape. Almost all of the elements of the new plan fell rather easily into line, but there were a few stumbles along the way.

  The major general in command of the huge military base at Tabuk, in northwestern Saudi Arabia where the nuclear device was resting, had been following the news closely and his courage had wavered. The coup was collapsing and he did not want to be part of the long night of retribution that was sure to follow. So far, his name had been kept out of the plot and he decided to keep it that way.

  Dieter Nesch had no luck in getting him to cooperate on this final job, even after reminding the general that he had been well paid in advance and his task was not yet done. The general felt secure at his headquarters on the large but relatively isolated military base and refused to take part in any further element of the rebellion. He now had firm orders to turn the missile and the warhead over tomorrow at noon to a special collection team consisting of Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid and a United States Marine by the name of Kyle Swanson. He would obey those orders.