Jack Coughlin - Clean Kill

Swanson fiddled with a pen in his shirt pocket, then glanced up at the prince. Decision time. He had to maintain the trust of both the king and the prince. If he lied about the nuke, they would find out about it sooner or later anyway, and that bond of trust would be destroyed. It was too much of a risk.

“Please tell His Majesty that I can neither confirm nor deny anything about my missions. If he wants to press the matter, I am sure that another call to President Tracy would set him at ease. It would be good to remember that Khobz was under siege and your army base there had already been attacked with an ambush. Who is to say what might have happened if that fight went the wrong way?”

Prince Mishaal turned and brushed his uniform. Dust flew off in small puffs. “I guess anything is possible, Gunny. The main thing is that the weapon was bagged safely. Now let’s do this one.”

While Joe Tipp and Mishaal went through the paper drill, Kyle grabbed the gun case from the trunk of the Mercedes and hustled up the ramp.

Sybelle was once again waiting at the bulkhead. “You okay? We heard about this Ebara clown going down.”

“I’m good.” He put down the gun case.

“Good. Because we’ve got a big problem,” she said, holding out a clipped-together computer printout.

“How big?” Swanson asked, taking the papers and beginning to read.

“Oh, about the size of the Chinese army.”

BEIJING, CHINA

T HE DIMINUTIVE G ENERAL Z HUChi sat at the end of a long table, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette, while his staff took him through their Power Point presentation. An array of three large clocks hung on the side wall, set to the matching times in Beijing, Saudi Arabia, and Washington. It was eleven o’clock on Saturday night where he sat and the diversionary moves were to get underway at first light on Sunday. He would give the American satellites plenty to absorb and by this time tomorrow, the bandit leaders of the breakaway province of Taiwan would be frantic.

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.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

H ALFWAY AROUND THE WORLDin 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.”