AL-TAIF, SAUDI ARABIA
KYLE SWANSON 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.
SWANSON FOUND JAMAL 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.”