Marc Cameron - National Security

Stoner snorted again. This guy knew a lot more than an ordinary bus driver. Rough Rider wasn’t the ship’s real name-the President had co-opted that one-but the folks lucky enough to serve aboard the Roosevelt still called her that from time to time. “Aye, sir, we’re on our way home from the Persian Gulf. You spend time aboard the TR?”

“Fair amount.”

Man, this dude was cagey. “May I ask your name, sir?”

“Holiday,” the 747 pilot replied. “Steve Holiday. I was likely retired before you graduated high school.”

Why did that name ring a bell?

“What squadron were you with before you retired, sir?”

“Flight Demonstration,” Holiday said.

“Captain Steven Holiday of the Blue Angels? That’s you, sir?”

“My friends call me Doc,” Holiday said.

“It’s an honor to fly the same patch of sky with you, Captain Holiday,” Stoner gushed in unabashed hero worship. “I had a model of your F-18 hanging from my ceiling when I was a kid. I still got a poster you signed at the Oshkosh air show. Wait until I tell the guys in my squadron.”

Stoner had dreamed of being a Blue Angel from the time he was in the seventh grade. He wanted to say more, but the radio squawked.

“I’ll be right back, sir. I’ve got HQ on the other freq.”

“Roger that, son,” Holiday’s voice crackled. It was breathless, as if he’d just finished a long run. “Glad you’re here, Marine.”

The USS Theodore Roosevelt relayed an encrypted patch from the Pentagon to the F-18 Hornet. Only five people were privy to the ninety-second conversation. By the time it was over, Brad Stoner thought he might cry.

“You… hangin’ in there, Captain Holiday?” Stoner’s throat convulsed.

“Roger that.”

“Listen…” Stoner shook his head, trying to focus on the instruments in front of him. “Sir…”

Holiday, ever the warrior-gentleman, saved the distraught younger pilot from having to explain himself. “Say, Brad… I did some thinking while you were gone…” His voice flickered like a failing light. “You might want to know that my good friend and first officer just passed away…” He coughed. “The way she went wasn’t pretty.”

“Captain-”

Holiday cut in. “They still strap a Slammer on those birds?” A Slammer was the AIM 120-the big sister to the Sidewinder Air Interceptor Missiles the Super Hornet carried at the end of each wing.

“They do indeed,” Stoner said in a reverent whisper. Holiday gave a ragged cough. “I gotta tell you, Brad, I never considered myself a coward, but I don’t relish the thought of dying like my friend just did… You hear what I’m saying?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Outstanding-”

“Captain Holiday, would you do me the courtesy of looking out your starboard window?”

Stoner maneuvered his F-18 twenty yards off the jumbo jet’s right wing. He turned on the cockpit light, flipped up his helmet visor, and snapped a crisp salute. He held it for a long moment as tears welled in his eyes.

Across the dark void of sky between the two men, in the cockpit bubble of the 747, Navy Captain Steven “Doc” Holiday returned the gesture.

“A small favor, Brad?”

“Name it, sir.”

“This is gonna be awful hard on my wife…” His cough was more ragged now. “If you ever get a chance… her name’s Carol. Tell her you met me once-and that all I ever talked about was her.”

“Aye…” Stoner couldn’t finish.

“Tallyho, Marine-” Holiday broke into a coughing fit and cut radio contact.

Stoner pulled back on the stick, gaining the altitude and distance he’d need to carry out the admiral’s order. On his console, a small light reading A/A-air to air-blinked red.

He’d never be able to tell anyone what he was about to do-nor would he want to.

7 September, 1100 hours Al-Hofuf, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

Sheikh Husseini al Farooq never traveled unless accompanied by at least two of his three most trusted men-and Zafir knew he was favored above all. Ratib and Jabolah had grown up with the sheik, and indeed these two men were considered family. But Zafir had proved his loyalty when he lost three fingers of his left hand saving the sheikh from an assassin’s sword. For the lowly Bedouin, Farooq reserved a trust beyond that given even to his closest brother.

At forty-one, Zafir was ten years the sheikh’s junior. Where the master was short and neat with finely chiseled, almost feminine features, the Bedouin was tall and unkempt. His black hair swept from a high forehead in a wild mane, revealing dark eyes that pinched into a permanent scowl. He looked as if he’d just ridden a fine horse to death only to walk the remainder of a long journey-every step in service of his master.

Today, he was dressed, as were Farooq and the other seven men at the meeting, in the dazzling white cotton dishdasha of a Saudi businessman. Unlike the others, Zafir’s face twitched and his body ached for the rougher robes of the Bedouin. He took a sip of strong coffee, letting the bitterness and familiar bite of cardamom soothe his nerves. As always, he kept a wary eye on all those near the sheikh.

Dictated by long tradition, Farooq, as the host, had ground the beans in front of his guest and served the coffee himself.

“The Americans are reeling,” the sheikh said as he served a tiny cup to Malik, a fat man from Baghdad. “They are full of self-righteous indignation over our little bombing at their shopping mall. But they believe bombing is all we know how to do. They believe us to be weak and ignorant.”

The men sat on quilted cushions around a low mahogany table piled high with fruit, flat bread, and al-kabsa-a dish of rice and spiced lamb. Malik had hogged nearly all the dates, though no one but Zafir appeared to notice.

“They think us inferior because we choose to live in a desert and keep control of our women where they cannot.”

Each man at the table nodded in somber agreement. Nassif, the dapper first deputy to the Saudi foreign minister sipped his coffee, but all there knew he agreed. A man of his standing would have never met with the sheikh unless they had already come to some accord. The fat Iraqi snorted over the last two dates he’d shoved in his mouth, highly offended that anyone would think him inferior.

Farooq continued, “The Americans are bad players of chess. They have failed to see the mall bombing for what it was, the push of a pawn. They believe their ultimate win is inevitable merely because they have the greater number of pieces on the board. And that is exactly what I want them to think. For now, we will play their game-”

“I have heard,” Malik, the Iraqi, interrupted, wiping thick hands on a linen napkin as his spoke, “that the Prophet-may Allah be pleased with him-forbade the playing of chess.”

Several of the men at the table, all adherents to the strict Wahabi sect of Islam, nodded in agreement. Nassif, the deputy minister, kept his thoughts, if he had any, to himself.

Haziz al Duri, a wealthy hotel owner from Riyadh, put a hand to his goatee. “Indeed Ali-may Allah be pleased with him-said chess was gambling-worse even than backgammon.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” the Iraqi shook his jowly face. “It was Ibn Umar-may Allah be pleased with him-who said it was worse than backgammon.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Farooq raised his hand and smiled meekly. Only Zafir saw the twitch in his left eye that revealed his true displeasure with the Iraqi. “Though I am certain chess has value to the mind and is indeed halal if it does not cause us to miss prayers or gamble, I speak here only of a figurative game. Perhaps we might save our discussion of such merits for a later time.”