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Authors: Keith Douglass
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frequency that was on the radio in the aircraft. Then he folded out the antenna and set it so it would pick up a satellite. A moment later the set beeped. It had locked on to the satellite.
“I’m calling the president of the United States. I have your wife as my house guest. Let’s talk.”
There was an immediate response. “This is Wally Covington, director of the CIA. What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want, Director, it’s what you want, which is the return of Mrs. Hardesty. How shall we handle that?”
“The long-standing policy of the United States is that we do not negotiate with terrorists.”
“Of course, and I respect that. But we are not negotiating, we’re talking about some way we can reach a mutual agreement. That’s much different than negotiating. Why don’t you put together a package of mutual benefits and call me tomorrow about this time. Don’t worry. We’re in a safe place with plenty of luxury items and are looking forward to a marvelous dinner. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Before there could be a reply, Badri switched off the SATCOM. Remarkable piece of equipment. He knew about it, but had never seen one. Encrypted messages were shot out in a hundredth of a second so nobody could triangulate the signal unless they were tremendously lucky at three different positions at once. He headed back for the house. He stopped and looked around. This was a beautiful country. So green, so moist. Not at all like most of Iran. He laughed softly. The little nation could keep its green, he’d rather take their diamonds. As a sideline, of course. He and his ten top non-coms from the Iranian army had arrived two months ago awaiting the right time to attack. They had come in peace to restructure and energize the New Namibian Army. It would be a big job.
As they worked at it slowly, they waited for the signal from Tehran that the time was getting close. Then the long-delayed announcement was made that the American First Lady would be visiting New Namibia, giving the date and time and arrival runway. Made to order.
This morning he had taken forty of the Namibian army men out on a field exercise. He said they would be protecting the airport from an invading force. None of the New Namibian soldiers had any rounds in their rifles, and all of the Iranian soldiers had live rounds and spare magazines for their submachine guns. They had shot out the tires on the big plane, then the fifty troopers surrounded it, and then the Iranians had blasted open the plane’s main entrance door.
Yes, it had all gone as scheduled. Now, the entire forces of the United States would be concentrating on one project—recovering the First Lady, unharmed, unsullied, in good spirits, and happy. Badri would do everything in his power to keep her for as long as possible, thereby fulfilling his official mission. He thought of the colonel’s silver oak leaves he had on his uniform. When he returned to Iran he would be promoted at once to bird colonel, and perhaps get his own brigade to lead in the war.
Yes, the war. War was still man’s grandest and most outrageous game. A murderer who killed for sport and the challenge of the chase was playing a game. But for small stakes, his own life. On the other hand a general, a president, a dictator, played with hundreds of thousands of men’s lives, sometimes of millions of civilian lives, and to win was the only satisfactory outcome. In this war, he was sure that Iran would win.
While he was here, he would visit the diamond mines and do what he could to steal as many of the uncut diamonds they had produced as he and his men could carry. He wasn’t greedy. If he could scoop up twenty million dollars’ worth, he would be happy. Yes, this whole operationwas moving on track and on schedule. He hurried into the house where he would find the best standard band radio that the old man owned. There should be some war news soon from Iran. Maybe it would happen first thing in the
“I’m calling the president of the United States. I have your wife as my house guest. Let’s talk.”
There was an immediate response. “This is Wally Covington, director of the CIA. What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want, Director, it’s what you want, which is the return of Mrs. Hardesty. How shall we handle that?”
“The long-standing policy of the United States is that we do not negotiate with terrorists.”
“Of course, and I respect that. But we are not negotiating, we’re talking about some way we can reach a mutual agreement. That’s much different than negotiating. Why don’t you put together a package of mutual benefits and call me tomorrow about this time. Don’t worry. We’re in a safe place with plenty of luxury items and are looking forward to a marvelous dinner. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Before there could be a reply, Badri switched off the SATCOM. Remarkable piece of equipment. He knew about it, but had never seen one. Encrypted messages were shot out in a hundredth of a second so nobody could triangulate the signal unless they were tremendously lucky at three different positions at once. He headed back for the house. He stopped and looked around. This was a beautiful country. So green, so moist. Not at all like most of Iran. He laughed softly. The little nation could keep its green, he’d rather take their diamonds. As a sideline, of course. He and his ten top non-coms from the Iranian army had arrived two months ago awaiting the right time to attack. They had come in peace to restructure and energize the New Namibian Army. It would be a big job.
As they worked at it slowly, they waited for the signal from Tehran that the time was getting close. Then the long-delayed announcement was made that the American First Lady would be visiting New Namibia, giving the date and time and arrival runway. Made to order.
This morning he had taken forty of the Namibian army men out on a field exercise. He said they would be protecting the airport from an invading force. None of the New Namibian soldiers had any rounds in their rifles, and all of the Iranian soldiers had live rounds and spare magazines for their submachine guns. They had shot out the tires on the big plane, then the fifty troopers surrounded it, and then the Iranians had blasted open the plane’s main entrance door.
Yes, it had all gone as scheduled. Now, the entire forces of the United States would be concentrating on one project—recovering the First Lady, unharmed, unsullied, in good spirits, and happy. Badri would do everything in his power to keep her for as long as possible, thereby fulfilling his official mission. He thought of the colonel’s silver oak leaves he had on his uniform. When he returned to Iran he would be promoted at once to bird colonel, and perhaps get his own brigade to lead in the war.
Yes, the war. War was still man’s grandest and most outrageous game. A murderer who killed for sport and the challenge of the chase was playing a game. But for small stakes, his own life. On the other hand a general, a president, a dictator, played with hundreds of thousands of men’s lives, sometimes of millions of civilian lives, and to win was the only satisfactory outcome. In this war, he was sure that Iran would win.
While he was here, he would visit the diamond mines and do what he could to steal as many of the uncut diamonds they had produced as he and his men could carry. He wasn’t greedy. If he could scoop up twenty million dollars’ worth, he would be happy. Yes, this whole operationwas moving on track and on schedule. He hurried into the house where he would find the best standard band radio that the old man owned. There should be some war news soon from Iran. Maybe it would happen first thing in the
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