Invasion (49 page)

‘Of course,’ nodded Karroubi. There was a light tap at the door and an orderly

stood to attention in the outer office. ‘Your helicopter is on final approach, General.’ Mousa grunted an acknowledgment and Karroubi flashed up a salute as he
swept past.

‘Have a safe journey, General.’

‘Carry on,’ ordered Mousa. ‘And try not to get too wet,’ he smiled
, marching
from the room.

President Scott Mitchell peered through a frost-crusted window of the Presidential lodge and watched the departing
SUV as it wound its way out of the high-security compound. Further down the hill, a Blackhawk helicopter waited, its rotors chopping the cold air, the whine of its jet turbines echoing across the densely wooded slopes. The SUV’s brake lights bloomed
crimson in the darkness and then it was lost, sinking behind a thick stand of black birch that marched across the ridgeline.

Mitchell’s
recent guest, the British Ambassador to the United States, was in the back of that SUV, returning to the embassy on Massachusetts Avenue
in Washington, his request for assistance, any assistance, yet to be answered. He took a breath and turned away from the window, gratefully sinking into the deep cushions of the Jackson sofa.

White House Chief of Staff Zack Radanovich and Eliot Engle, the President’s National Security Advisor, sat on the opposite
sofa, waiting
patiently
as Mitchell dug into his trouser pocket and extracted a pill from a small plastic box. He popped it onto his tongue, then washed it down with the dregs of a cold pot of coffee perched on the low coffee table between them.

‘Blood pressure’s up again,’ he grimaced, setting the mug with the Presidential seal down. ‘Jesus, what a mess.’

‘We have options here,’ Radanovich pointed out. ‘Saying no is one of them.’ He wore charcoal grey trousers and a blue shirt and tie, the collar loose, sleeves rolled to the elbows. ‘The fact is, the old Europe has gone, and the UK with it. If we side with them, with Beecham, we undermine our position regarding Israel. That has to be our primary focus now.’

‘This isn’t a legislative government we’re talking about here, Mr President,’ the similarly dressed Engel added. ‘This is an administration staffed by a handful of government and military personnel running a country the size of South Carolina. They’re under
siege, their position is
completely untenable, and Khathami isn’t negotiating. In one respect, Zack is right; we have to give the Israeli situation our fullest attention, because that one has the potential for global disaster.’ Engle paused. ‘On the other hand, we can’t just ignore the situation in Scotland either. We have to do something.’

‘What are we giving them now?’

‘Satellite
data, mostly. Some low grade human intel from our assets
in

Baghdad. As much as we can without tipping our hand.’

‘Jesus, what a mess,’ Mitchell repeated, shaking his bald dome. He exhaled long and loud, stretching his legs out before him. ‘Brings to mind something I heard once, something my old law Professor at Yale said.’

‘What
was that, Sir?’ enquired Engle in his soft Tennessee
drawl.

‘He said, “Tell your grandchildren if they want to do business in Europe when they graduate, they’d better learn to speak Arabic.” Clever guy, old Harpenden. Saw the writing on the wall way back when.’

‘Maybe we should’ve hired him,’ Engle quipped. ‘Question is, can we afford to escalate things with Baghdad right now? Diplomatically, they’ve reached out to us, kept the channels open, left our embassies intact, repatriated US citizens from Europe-’

‘Not all of them,’ Mitchell growled. ‘Some are never coming home.’

‘That’s true,’ said Radanovich, ‘and
somewhere down the line they’ll pay. But we have to look at the bigger picture here, Mr President. Arabia has just inherited France’s nukes,
on top of the old Iranian weapons they already have, and the way Europe folded has given the Arabian military machine a huge confidence boost. Right now they think they’re invincible. How long will it be before they turn their attentions
towards
Israel? Any assistance we offer Beecham could give Khathami the excuse to make his move.’

‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Mitchell countered, but his words lacked conviction. Arabian
territory now stretched from the North Sea to the foothills
of the Himalayas. If the worst happened,
if old hatreds prevailed and Arabia launched against America’s only ally in the Middle East, then any retaliatory nuclear strike against Baghdad or Islamabad wouldn’t make any difference. The destruction of Israel would simply be total. He pondered the scenario for a moment, the tension in the room far below ground, the assembled military personnel, the loud snapping of plastic, the confirmation of the launch codes. The final order. Mitchell’s blood ran cold, and it was Engel’s voice that brought his attention back into the lodge.

‘You heard what the Ambassador said, Mr President. Beecham has offered us his support in that regard. They’re prepared to use their nuke subs under our command should things deteriorate. That’s gutsy talk for a guy who’s lost his country and is now staring down the barrel of a gun.’ He glanced at Radanovich.

‘The real question is, do we desert our friends when they need us most? If we do, what does that say about us?’

‘Damn it,’ breathed
Mitchell. ‘We can’t help one without compromising the other. What’s the latest out of Jerusalem?’

‘Sec State’s brief is right there,’ Radanovich replied, sliding a buff-coloured folder marked ‘RESTRICTED’ across the
table. ‘Right
now, Baghdad is maintaining cordial relationships with Israel. All diplomatic channels are open and the Knesset has been assured that Arabia harbours
absolutely no hostile intentions towards its neighbour. They’re insisting it’s
a European problem. Meanwhile, the IDF is on full alert and Israeli citizens are digging bunkers and stocking up on tinned foods. It’s a Goddam mess.’

Radanovich got to his feet, crossing the hand-woven rug to the hostess trolley. He poured three coffees into white enamel mugs emblazoned with the logo of the United States Marine Corps, avoided the sugar and cream, then placed the mugs on the coffee table. The President took his, watching his Chief of Staff sip the steaming liquid through pursed lips, noting the worry lines around the red-rimmed eyes, the runner’s frame that appeared to have shrunk even further over the last few weeks. Mitchell recognised the signs, the fear and stress that gnawed away at all of them.

‘You okay, Zack?’

Radanovich nodded, running a tired hand through his thick curly hair.

‘Israel will be next, Mr President. We
all know it. Fifteen hundred years of anti-Semitism doesn’t disappear overnight. Synagogues have been razed to the ground all over Europe. The Arabians are saying it’s localised, mob rule, whatever. But it’s clear what’s really happening.’ He set his mug down, his voice low, his hollow cheeks flushed with anger. ‘That’s how it started in Germany.
It’s happening again, I can feel it. It’s a Goddam nightmare.’

‘We hear you, Zack,’ Mitchell soothed, feeling the pain of the young New Yorker opposite him. Yet the reports coming out of Europe were ominous. Synagogues
had indeed been destroyed and, worse, there were rumours
of disappearances and deportations. How much of it was organised was impossible to say – all transport and communications
links between Europe and North America had been suspended – but Mitchell was publicly concerned and privately fearful.

Israel, naturally, had protested the loudest against the reports of religious violence, but those protests had fallen mainly on disbelieving ears, its delegation storming from the UN negotiations to the jeers of the Arabian members. She had no friends left, save the US, and was surrounded by her historical enemy, an enemy that had embarked on a conquest of Europe under the pretence of securing the safety and well-being of the ninety-two million Muslims who resided there. No wonder Zack, whose own family had survived the Holocaust nearly a hundred years ago, was scared. They
all were.

‘Israel
is expecting an attack,’ Radanovich warned. ‘They’ve been under constant assault
since 1948, but now they’re facing
impossible
odds. If the pogroms in Europe start all over again, if they so much as smell Arabia cranking up their missile programme, or making a move towards their borders, they’ll get the first punch in. That means we’ll be sucked into an inter-continental shooting war. Then it’s game over.’

‘Let’s pray that doesn’t happen,’ replied Mitchell.

‘Prayers might not be enough.’

‘Then keep a lid on the rumours,’ the President countered. ‘Do what you have to do. Call the media guys in, brief them, get them onside. We can’t let this
thing gain momentum Zack, or God knows where it will lead us. Besides, we have five million Muslims living right here in the US. That
gives us a fair amount of leverage with Baghdad.’

‘With respect, Mr President, you really think they give a shit?’

‘Don’t get me started,’ Mitchell
snorted, anger briefly replacing his unease.

‘They invaded Europe without giving a rat’s ass what we think, and now they’ve got Russia’s playing offence for them too. As for China, well, they’re not so much sabre-rattling
as waving a switchblade in Taiwan’s face. And all because of Khathami. Any influence we ever had in the Middle East evaporated overnight when that guy stepped up. Arab Spring my ass,’ the President scoffed. ‘The truth is, they think we’re a busted flush. Our disengagement from Europe and the Middle East has opened up this Goddam Pandora’s box and now we’ll be lucky if we get the lid halfway closed.’

His bones protested
painfully as he pushed himself off the couch and crossed to the stone fireplace, where a fire crackled brightly in the hearth. He selected a poker from a brass stand and teased the flaming logs, dislodging one and sending a shower of tiny embers billowing up the chimney.

Mitchell stared into the flames, where the fire burned brightest, the flame almost white. He was approaching
the end of his first term and the economy was at last recovering. His approval rating was holding steady and the media had finally called off the dogs, focussing instead on the corner that America had turned. Mitchell couldn’t take credit for the economic recovery; he was simply lucky enough to be in the right time at the right place. Wasn’t that the difference between success and failure in life? Good timing?

He was fortunate to have been elected just as the breakthrough
was made, when Arabia’s oil embargo suddenly no longer mattered, when he’d flown in the dead of night to the facility deep in the Nevada desert to witness the energy miracle, made possible by the tireless work of generations of faceless men and women after the crash of forty-seven.

Now, the lights were back on in California, the very tip of the energy revolution he’d been told to expect, the first of many still-classified programmes to be rolled out across the country that would change lives and re-shape history. But, once again, war had raised its ugly head in Europe, threatening that future for all. What the hell was the matter with the human race? Why did it have to be so Goddam destructive?

The heat of the fire wrapped Mitchell in its comforting embrace and warmed
his aching bones. At sixty-seven, he wasn’t getting any younger. He’d won the party nomination by a slim margin, the Presidency by even less, his campaign focussing on reigniting a patriotic flame, on extolling the conservative values of hard work and self-sufficiency, in the belief that America, above all others, was
God’s own country. No
one had been more honoured, more proud to serve, than Scott Mitchell on Inauguration Day. Yet, since then he hadn’t given the American people much opportunity to warm their hands around that flame of patriotism he’d talked so much about. America’s stock was low and it pained him.

His eyes wandered up to the oil painting that hung over the fireplace, a Leutze reproduction of General George Washington crossing the Delaware River. Mitchell understood the painting was more symbolic than an accurate historical representation, but he found it inspiring none the less, the moment when Washington led his troops in boats across the icy river to surprise and defeat the British at Trenton. The physical hardship back then was unimaginable, the sacrifices too numerous to mention. For Mitchell, the picture said more about the American spirit than any Independence Day speech or schmaltzy movie.

‘Mr President?’ prompted Engel from the sofa.

Mitchell stared at the tiny boats a moment longer, crammed with revolutionary musket men, the frigid waters breaking over the wooden bows. The solution lay there, right in front of him.

‘What were the figures the Ambassador gave us?’

Engle reached for a
printout
on the table. ‘The numbers aren’t concrete, but they’re predicting
initial casualties of over fifty thousand. Ten times that figure will become refugees in the first forty-eight hours, all heading north to avoid the conflict. The Arabians will squeeze them until their backs are against the sea and there’s nowhere left to run.’

‘Nowhere,’ Mitchell echoed softly. He studied the painting a moment longer, then turned and faced the men on the sofa. ‘For as long as I can remember, Britain has been a close friend and ally of the United States. It’s been a complex relationship, that much is true, but what isn’t in doubt is the history we share. The blood that ran through the folks at Jamestown runs through us both today, blood that’s been spilt on battlefields for centuries,
as friends as well as enemies. It’s my belief we’re bound by that blood. The United States is tied to Britain in fundamental ways that transcend politics. It’s a relationship we cannot ignore.’