J Saint - Collateral Damage

He cleared his throat and smiled at the crowd gathered in the luxurious room. "First, I thank you for coming. And I thank my good friend, Saleem Al-Jabar, for my welcome and accommodations here at Burj Khalifa and the Armani Hotel." Andreas nodded to the oil-rich investor who had contacted him the moment his helicopter had landed in Dubai this morning. "Considering recent unfortunate events and the international energy crises we are facing because of them, I and the employees of GreenWorld Corporation have committed to working twenty-four/seven in order to bring GXP technology to the world faster than previously planned." Andreas continued on, explaining GWC's purpose-at least what of it the public was allowed to know-then he opened up to answer the pre-submitted questions he deemed appropriate. "Number sixteen."

The reporter, a doughboy with wire-rims and stubby fingers, stood, chest puffed with pleasure at being the first to speak. "Why not supply GXP immediately?"

Because everyone hasn't suffered enough yet, Andreas thought with a smile. He wanted desperation. He would be their savoir. "We're working with regulators and suppliers to speed up the process. GXP's projected launch date wasn't until next year," he told the crowd, though he knew two years ago, he would be launching the biofuel now. "Fortunately we are efficient and ahead of schedule with production and hope to make a difference in the suffering soon." He called out the next reporter's number.

"What makes GXP any different from other biofuels trying to fill the oil gap?" Unlike doughboy, this reporter had shark potential. No more questions from FVX Newsroom. Andreas wanted doughboys.

"Excellent question and one that will be answered completely a few days from now on the live tour CNN will make at GreenWorld Corporation's main facility in Peru. I encourage everyone to tune into the broadcast. But to explain briefly, GXP has double the energy power of oil at a third of the cost and next to minimal carbon pollution. It is the perfect fuel." Andreas saw Saleem exit the press conference, likely to assure their evening meal was being perfectly prepared.

After five more questions Andreas posed with George before handing his son to his nanny and then traveling ten meters per second to the 122nd floor. He joined Saleem at the newly opened atmoshphere, the ultimate dining experience at the top of the world. Moonlight had turned the Persian Gulf into a sea of silver and the nighttime cityscape of Dubai was like a magnificent scattering of jewels amid the desert sands.

Andreas surveyed the elegance with a critical eye, debating if gluttonous energy wasters like the Burj Khalifa would have to come down in order to preserve the world for George and his kindred. He'd hate to destroy such perfect luxury; perhaps he could confiscate it for his personal use.

He also knew why Saleem had sought him out this past year. The man was a gofer for UAE's president Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan, a man smart enough to know that staying on top in the future meant he couldn't have all of his golden eggs in the oil barrel.

"My friend," Saleem stood and greeted him.

Andreas returned the salutation and gave a slight nod of respect. When it came to international relationships, Andreas already knew from his drug-lording, if a man bows too low he should expect to get his head chopped off. "It is good to see you." Saleem waited until Andreas took his seat. An array of hot teas-cardamom, saffron and mint-along with delicate finger food waited on the pure linen and silver adorned table.

"Yes. The Sheikh sends his best as well. He wishes to spare no expense to see to your comfort."

"Thank you. I am honored. Tell him my thoughts are with him during these turbulent times. I can't quite believe what has happened."

Saleem nodded. "We are not surprised. Something like this has been expected since Bush declared war on Islam with his Iraq invasion. Greed and not some ideology of freedom drives American tanks and guides their warheads. Already, our investigation of the terrorist attacks on Qatif and Dukhan last night are producing clear evidence of the culprits. The streets of Israel and the US will flow with the blood of the dead and dying."

Andreas sat forward, forcing shock to stiffen his features as he bit back a satisfied smile. "What evidence? I believe hands down that Israel would act with such viciousness. But it is incomprehensible the US would. To destroy the worldwide oil market? That would be suicidal. Are you sure?"

Saleem shrugged. "We shall see. This does bring me to why I asked to see you on your visit to Dubai. I will be more blunt than ever before. The Sheikh would consider it a personal offense should the US or any of its allies have any part of your company or the production of GXP. He wants you to know that no amount of money is too high for him to either purchase your company and GXP, or to assist you in its production. What you have accomplished in the Peruvian soil can also be done upon Arabian sands."

Andreas sat back and smiled. The gloves were off, and the fight amid the ruling super powers was about to get dirty.?Excelente! He was a true genius.

Saleem Al-Jabar aka Rashid (Rash) McGuire furrowed his brow into a worried frown as if he was insecure about his audacity. Living deep undercover for Uncle Sam didn't often have a reward, but this time he was sure he'd hit on the right target. Andreas was a little too over the top, a little too giddy, a little too willing to be led. And somehow just a little too familiar to him. He'd seen this man's eyes before, though everything else was wrong. Rash suspected that something was rotten somewhere besides Denmark and he aimed to find it. Now if he could just remember who in the hell this guy was and what he might be up to now, then Rash mightWhat? his conscience demanded. Look into having a real life? Even after ten years the failure gutting his soul was all consuming. He didn't deserve a life. He turned his attention back to his prey and made a slight subservient motion with his hand. "Was I too blunt, my friend? Let me pour you some tea. And, please, let us continue with our meal and I will better explain the Sheikh's sentiments."

Fayetteville, North Carolina.

"You know what to do."

Jack's voice mail. Lt. Col. Roger Weston hung up the phone, leaving zero evidence that he didn't know where Jack was, and silently cursed the man for putting him in this position. Jack left AMA to go AWOL and Weston was currently IGNORING protocol he was sworn to uphold. Why in the hell had he told the hospital admins that Jack was with him, and to stand down in filing an official report?

You know why, you SOB, his conscience quipped, lashing out from the bed of guilt it had been lying in for weeks now. He scrubbed his hands over his face, sure he had to be losing his mind. He wasn't alone in that. Ninety percent of the world was with him and the other ten percent were on the brink. Global paranoia was fueling an east to west societal meltdown on an apocalyptic scale, as if all sanity hinged on the toppling oil market.

Anarchy was but a slick away.

The roots of what was happening now went deeper than that the recent events. Years deeper. Worldwide, the insidious misinformation seeded by religious and political factions over time in their agenda-driven rather than principle-guided campaigns had now bloomed and no one was capable of seeing reason.

It pained him to include the stars and stripes he served in that crime. But he had to. The US held some responsibility for leading the world down this path. They sure as hell hadn't fought it in the very least, nor had they been any sort of a lit beacon to shine through the maelstrom of lies.

It used to be simple. There was good. There was bad. And a man knew where he stood without politically correct bullshit clogging up the pipes. Now the lines were so blurred, nobody knew where they were. Or who they were in some cases.