"What's the worst-case scenario if this thing explodes into war?" the president asked as he rubbed his temples with his fingertips.
Lakeland removed a sheet from the pile in front of him and read aloud. "The Israelis or the Saudis attack the other side. As the battle rages on, Iraq again moves against Kuwait. Iran, fearing Iraq will grow in power, sends troops across the Strait of Hormuz to attack Oman and the United Arab Emirates, thus securing access to the Persian Gulf."
"The entire Middle East would then be at war," the president said, shaking his head as if wishing he could toss off the problem.
"That's about the size of it," Lakeland agreed.
"Get the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in here, posthaste," the president said. "I want an immediate redeployment of a sizable contingent of United States troops to the Middle East. Next, call the ambassadors for Israel and Saudi Arabia. Let's see what we can achieve with diplomacy tempered with the implied threat of military intervention."
"Very good, sir," Lakeland said as he rose and raced from the Oval Office.
"One last thing, Robert," the president said as Lakeland paused at the door to the Oval Office. "Get Benson from the NIA to explain to me what this Islamic Sword is. I want to know who we're dealing with."
"Right away, sir," Lakeland said as he rushed off.
Jake Long peered through the microscope Temple had set on a table next to King Khalid Well No. 47. The oil sands under magnification were retrieved from deep inside the ground. They glowed with an eerie incandescence.
"What the hell is this stuff?" Long asked.
"I think it's an oil-eating microbe. And it's reproducing at an alarming rate," Temple said.,
"It must have been injected from that tank my crew removed from the wellhead," Long said. "That tank had no business on this well, I can tell you that."
"That would be my guess," Temple said as he walked toward the helicopter. "I'd better contact my office."
Once inside the helicopter, Temple reached his office on the radio. 'This is Temple. Get me Farouk Aziz, please," he shouted to the radio dispatcher. Long's roustabouts had removed the sampling tool from the wellhead and were now running the color camera down the pipe leading from King Khalid Well No. 47 to the main pipeline. Meanwhile, Long had finished his inspection of the tank his crew had removed and was stowing the tank in the rear of his truck.
"This is Farouk, Tom. Did you find out what was wrong with the well?" Aziz said seconds later.
"I believe the well was injected with what I think is an oil-eating microbe. The sands are completely dry, with no oil residue whatsoever. It is as if someone cleaned them in a giant washing machine."
"Could you have made a mistake?" Aziz asked. "Might it be something else?" Temple said quietly, "We'll test to be sure, but time is very critical."
"What do you think we should do?" Aziz asked.
"The microbes were introduced from a tank hooked to the wellhead. The first thing to do is have crews fan out and check all the wells," Temple said.
"That will take days," Aziz noted correctly.
"The design of the tanks is such that the microbes can only be injected when the well is off gas pressure. That means as long as they are pumping, we have time."
"What do you mean?" Aziz said.
Temple watched from the helicopter as Long raced toward him.
"It appears that the tank was designed so that when the wells quit pumping, the gaspressure relief valve opens and allows the microbes to enter the well." In his office in Riyadh, Aziz stared at a huge wall that listed the oil fields scheduled maintenance.
"We have a problem, Tom. That entire field is scheduled to come off-line so we can run a cleaning plug through the delivery pipeline."
"When?" Temple asked.
"About fifteen minutes from now."
"You have to stop it, Farouk," Temple said.
He heard Aziz shouting hurried instructions across the room at the same instant Long arrived at the helicopter.
"The microbes are in the pipeline," Long said, panting from the exertion of running across the sand.
"Farouk," Temple shouted, "the bugs are in the pipeline. You have to destroy the line."
"How soon?"
"Right now," Temple replied. "Blow that son-of-a-bitch sky high." In a massive air-conditioned underground hangar at Saudi Military City in the sandy hills outside Taima, a flashing red light and whooping alarm filled the vast space. A hydraulically operated rear vent door opened at the same time two technicians attached an auxiliary power unit to a jet. Off to the side in the ready room, General Sultan Saud stared through the window at the jet preparations as he spoke on a red-colored telephone. While his mission was still being described to him he punched his choice of armaments into a computer keypad on the wall next to the telephone. He watched through the window as two teams consisting of a pair of men each began pushing carts containing missiles from a weapons locker. Each of the two teams was responsible for one wing of the jet.
"Inshallah," General Saud said when the telephone call ended. Racing to a dressing room, he quickly got into his Nomex flight suit. Carrying his helmet under his arm, he pulled on his gloves as he walked onto the hangar floor. The two teams of weapons specialists were attaching the last pair of air-to-ground missiles to the far edge of the wings. As General Saud reached the bottom of the ladder to the cockpit he paused. Turning to the specialists, he spoke.
"This is not a drill. We are live fire. Remove pins and arm the weapons." Silently the specialists saluted and continued their tasks. Saud climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and waited as his crew chief unhooked the ladder. Moving to the front of the jet, where Saud could see him, the crew chief signaled that it was clear to start the plane s engines. A hum was followed by a whirring sound that gave way to buzzing, then a blast as the jet fuel ignited and spun the turbine.
The crew chief motioned for the front door of the hangar to be opened. Set on hydraulic rams, the door shot up and locked in place. At a signal from the crew chief one member of the weapons specialist team pulled the chocks from the wheels of the jet then ran to the far walls to stay clear of the jet blast. With a salute from his crew chief General Saud edged the throttles forward on the jet. The plane rolled across the hangar floor, through the door and down a slight rise. Gaining speed quickly, Saud lifted into the air. The entire process from telephone call to liftoff had lasted but a few minutes. Once airborne, General Sultan Saud banked his British-made Tornado fighter to the left and dropped low over the desert. Cruising at an altitude of less than one hundred feet, he had to be aware of his terrain. Far off in the distance he could just make out the thin metal ribbon that was the pipeline.
"I have a visual on the pipeline. Go or no go?"
"It's a go," the control tower at the military city said. Flicking his fire control button, Saud activated his weapons system. He watched as the image of the pipeline appeared in his heads-up display. General Saud carefully aligned the crosshairs until the pipeline was framed in the display. As soon as the light indicator flicked green, showing the missiles had locked on the target, Saud pushed his firing button with his thumb.
Twin Phoenix missiles streaked from his wingtips. On impact they blasted a ten-yard hole in the pipeline. Saud passed over the pipeline and reviewed the damage. Banking again, he observed a replay of the missile strike through film shot from his wingtip cameras. There was no oil visible on the ground.
He banked again, passing over the hole in the pipeline and stared at the ground one last time. No oil was being spilled on the ground from the jagged hole.
"I'm still dry," Saud radioed back to his base. "I'm moving twenty miles farther down the line. I'm down to two missiles. If I don't strike oil this time, alert the ready one plane to lift off."