“They could have set off a cache of dynamite and found some way to amplify the effect.”
“The North Koreans set off the dud WMD’s and then used it to sell their inferior wares to gullible terror groups. This could be the same thing.” Robinson chirped, “Exaggeration could be at work here. Part of it is true and other parts are exaggerated.”
“One never knows. I doubt any of this however; I want this to be explored. We are in a new era here and the possibility of cheap theatrical tricks is now to be considered at every turn. Who best here can find someone to explore this?”
Deshano made a gesture.
“OK, Larry — ASAP.”
Deshano scribbled a note on a spiral pad. “Consider it done, Mr. President.”
Mustafa Mahdi — this was a man who understood raw power and all its trappings. The son of a Puntland illiterate fisherman witnessed firsthand the contempt of Arab and European dumpers who had turned the fishing grounds into a cesspool destroying the Somali catch. He was often tormented with the memory of his father’s death, murdered aboard an Iranian freighter that had spilled tons of waste into the fishing grounds on a night he wished he could forget. It was more than murder. The screams echoed endlessly like a broken record. He joined several of the militias where he learned to kill or be killed. The body count became endless, almost a nightmare, a blur of forgotten faces.
Always his face was etched with the scars of the past. He seemed frozen with a permanent scowl; “perhaps born with it,” said anyone who had ever met him. He had a way of making anyone near him uncomfortable. Most were intimidated merely to be in close proximity. To be near him for any length of time was to toy with terror. It would creep over you like some blood sucking demon lurking in the shadows of hell creeping out of a Dali landscape. All of this was no act. Something evil burned within.
He was tall and slim like most Bantu and was dressed in a tailor-made black suit open at the collar. From behind the Ray-Ban Warrior’s he surveyed the familiar brownish blue water that stretched endlessly. His black-as-coal hair rippled like a cresting wave as the sea breezes caressed his body. The face was covered in Bantu fashion with a veil made of white muslin wrapped round a half dozen times. Gold jewelry hung from his neck. Ruby and diamond rings adorned his fingers.
Today he piloted a custom jet propelled 38 foot speed boat of his own design he called the Queen of the Indian. His crew of B-Wasy Somali Marines was reputed to be the most powerful, most sophisticated, ruthless pirates the world had ever known. Armed with AKM assault rifles, RPG rocket launchers and semi-automatic pistols they were the new generation — a generation of pirates with an ancestry of thieving that stretched beyond anyone’s memory. This was their haunt, the hunting ground where they roamed endlessly like piranha hungry for a quick meal. Once found, there would be no mercy, no remorse. Like shark infested waters, all others would flee for their lives, as everyone knew that no quarter would be given nor taken.
Off to the northwest a faint glimmer of smoke gave away the position of a shipping vessel. Mahdi focused the barrels of the binoculars and exclaimed to his crew, “We have found them!” and did a 6o degree turn and ran full throttle toward the horizon.
“Willy, what is your take on all this?” inquired the president.
“I think we need more information more than anything else.” Bumgardner straightened the handkerchief that peeked respectably from his vest pocket. “We need future scenarios drawn up and studied. I’ll get recommendations from my think tank. Off the record we may want to keep a closer eye on the coastal waters in that area. The Fifth Fleet is already there to keep the Indian Ocean secure. We keep supercarriers close enough to handle problems in the Strait of Hormuz. In a few months you will need to give a directive about what we should do if Iran launches IRBM’s at Israel. Everything should be planned well in advance. We could watch Israel disappear before our eyes if we are not ready.”
“Let’s move on to another concern. I can tell you I was not crazy enough to believe al-Wahhab when he claimed they were producing plutonium for peaceful purposes.”
“In all fairness, Mr. President, we all knew there would be a day of reckoning eventually, when nothing substantial was ever done to stop them. It has taken them nearly a decade to reach this point.”
“We were all distracted by Saddam and the Iraqi war, Pakistan and Afghanistan; the disputes in Israel and Gaza, the West Bank, Yasser Arafat, and the rest of it. Bush should have gone to the heart of it and invaded Iran and taken out Ayatollah. Then we would not be in this mess.” He clasped his hands on his chin and sat back in the leather chair.
“Why was it so large? Why not smaller, like the North Koreans?”
“They bought the best talent and wanted to make a show of it. Our info indicates the Chinese were providing most of the talent. In the end they were lucky. The whole thing could have fizzled. It is possible they had failures that they would not care to advertise.”
“How long before they can fit one of these into one of their IRBM’s?”
“That is anyone’s guess right now. I have my staff working on that very question.”
“How about a ballpark guestimate?”
“I really have no idea. If I had to speculate, I would say somewhere between three months and two years. It’ll take three months to produce more plutonium. Not much can happen till they have it.”
Landenberger muttered, “They’ll probably make a big show of launching IRBM’s in the next month or so.” He pointed to the next item on the agenda. “Let’s move on. Robinson had quite an experience in Venezuela with the coup and made us look like we were on top of things….”
“I was merely lucky or unlucky depending upon how you look at it.”
“You did very well — sitting there with the new president while he calmed the country. You appeared in coverage worldwide. Did you know that?”
“Well no.”
“I applaud you. You sized up the situation, stuck your neck out a bit with the carefully worded endorsement, and in the end you hit a home run.” Landenberger clapped his hands. “Everyone give Robinson a hand.”
While the Cabinet gave the ovation, he added, “It is the only thing that has gone right this week! Herald, I want you play this up at the news conference.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” He scribbled a note on a yellow legal pad. “Mr. President, I know the White House reporters are going to ask about the sanctions and will probably point out that the countries behind this action are mostly those who do not trade with Iran and that the effect upon Iran’s economy will be nil.”
“I see. I think you can tell them that ‘although that may be somewhat correct; the president would disagree as to its effect.’ Get some figures together about the impact it will have and throw that at them.”
“Sounds like an excellent suggestion, Mr. President, and on the Venezuelan matter—”
“You may make the official announcement that we officially recognize the interim government and anticipate a friendlier relationship with them.”
“That’s it for today we will see all of you — oh, one more thing. Houston, please stay for one more minute… meeting adjourned.”
When the Cabinet members had exited, he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I want you to make a little trip to Somalia and see how the Red Cross and the multinationals are doing. Just two or three days should do it — nothing really on my mind — simply curious of your take on what is going on there. We’ve seen some unusual activity at the airport in Mogadishu. We have the entire Fifth Fleet down there and I am wondering if we might need more there.”
“That sounds fine. I’ll take Ken Fegan with me if that is OK with you, Mr. President.”