The Mahdi, page 26
“Is the security adequate?” Kim asked.
“More than adequate, sir,” his bodyguard replied. “This is one awesome little battleship. It has monitors that would do a destroyer proud.”
“Good. And our exposure?”
“From a silenced small boat or an attack launched quietly from the shoreline, sir. Small odds either way, given our preparation and coverage. An airplane attack could be a problem, but only if they hit us on the first pass.”
“Fair enough,” Kim said. “Now that we’ve confirmed all is well with security, I think we can agree to respect one another’s confidence regarding this meeting. It’s not exactly aboveboard, is it?”
The others nodded, and the four men took their seats in the canvas-covered teak chairs placed around a small, round slatted teak table.
Kim gestured toward Cuchulain. “Bedouins, with you in the lead, scored an incredible win over one of the best armies in the world, but I don’t know how or to what ultimate end.”
“I barely know myself, sir,” replied Cuchulain.
“You can trust that I understand the ongoing shitstorm in the occupied territories,” Kim continued, “and you seem to have won this round. Now you just need to mop up, as unpleasant as that may become. But what does the world’s smartest woman say about this problem given her success in miniaturizing the force of EMP?”
Elliot laughed. “She dodges it. Says there are too many dependent variables that won’t hold still.”
“God’s truth.” Kim took a sip of his wine and leaned back. “I have spent my career reordering dependent variables to suit a purpose.”
Elliot nodded. “Me too,” he said. “And I’m not the smartest person in the world.”
Kim turned to Alex. “Tell me what you think you have that would interfere with Israel’s recovery of the West Bank lands.”
“I don’t need help with the West Bank fiasco. I can make that happen,” Cuchulain said. “The problem is larger.”
Kim nodded. “It seems to me that there is more at stake than the West Bank situation. What more do you want?”
“Now there’s the question,” Mac said.
Elliot said, “To cut to the chase, Alex and Caitlin have discovered a new approach to warfare. It’s like having a cannon that will shoot accurately a mile farther than anyone else. As a result, you own the battlefield, writ large.”
Kim shrugged and nodded. “Got it,” he said. “Go on.”
Cuchulain leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine, looking at the western horizon. “The win in Gaza was an introduction, a demonstration. It worked, and now I’m not sure what to do with it. Careful planning is required.”
Kim listened to his explanation of the two separate but related advancements they had implemented in their most recent venture: effective combat communications and weaponry. What he heard was astounding. Powered by a heuristic AI chatbot in development for more than a decade, Cuchulain and his crew were able to penetrate every connected entity in Israel, monitoring phone calls, listening in at meetings, and reading correspondence. The entire written and spoken record of every organization in Israel was at their disposal. The chatbot, known as Emilie, could disable every entity in Israel in any electronic and kinetic way possible, destroying individual pieces of electricity-dependent equipment as instructed, by overloading them.
“But what you describe takes enormous amounts of computing power,” Kim protested.
Elliot picked up a strange-looking phone and held it in front of him. “Ten or so years ago, Caitlin O’Connor managed to put a quantum computer on a cell phone, and she has been learning to use that power ever since. We have hundreds of them. That’s how she figured out the EMP downsizing. That’s how she has been facilitating the education of Morocco’s children. These phones can do everything at once and never break an idle.”
Kim looked at Elliot. “As you promised, Elliot, this is a worthwhile meeting for me. I’m stunned. Governments everywhere are racing to field an operating quantum computer, and the NSA has had one for ten years! Why am I just hearing of this?”
“The NSA doesn’t own a quantum computer,” Cuchulain contradicted. “Caitlin O’Connor does. The NSA doesn’t know how she can do the things they pay her to do. Emilie does quantum mechanics and acts as a launching base for solutions—a bit like a COBOL compiler or a smart server making life easier for the coder.”
“So you’ve decided to bless me with this earthshaking knowledge of quantum success, even if it happened ten years ago. Why tell me? Why now?”
“You’re in the death business. You’re the chairman of our armed forces. You need to understand what’s going on,” Elliot replied. “And you can’t understand it if you don’t know about the Kphone.”
“The global media and talking heads are jumping up and down, shouting about ChatGPT and OpenAI,” Cuchulain said. “Yet even without considering the speed of the Kphone, these new technologies are infants in a huge market. We need to enlighten the Jewish intelligentsia about our new capabilities in AI and communications disruption, without scaring them into action. And we need you and the Department of Defense to sit back and watch for now, not get involved.”
“Interesting,” Kim said.
Alex smiled. “Yeah, it’s not much of a fair fight.”
“So you’re telling me that your people can front-run any Israeli planning on how to conduct war?”
“And fuck it up in any way they choose,” Elliot pointed out.
Mac sat forward in his seat. “This is gunpowder, Josh. It’s the tank. This changes the game of war, for as long as that advantage exists. And it is a big, big advantage.”
Kim stared into Cuchulain’s intense eyes. “And the question is?”
“The question is, What, therefore, shall we do?” Cuchulain replied.
“What, indeed.” Kim paused for a moment. “But what, other than taking a neutral stance for now, do you need from me?”
“I’d like to figure out how to mitigate the damage to Israel as we sort things out,” Cuchulain said. “They need new leadership. Once they get it, I’d like to leave them with a society to lead, because regardless of what some Muslim leaders might believe, it is a valuable society. But Israel’s current leadership appears to be digging in for the big fight. The latest word from Emilie is that they plan to send special ops troops to American soil to do their bidding.”
“Probably Sayeret Matkal,” said Elliot, “and as you know, they are very good.”
“We need to figure out how much damage Israel can tolerate, and, by implication, how much we should tolerate.” Mac pointed to Cuchulain. “Sheik Kufdani here represents Islam in the negotiations, and they seem to be in the catbird seat.”
Kim turned his sharp gaze on Cuchulain once more. “You’re an American,” he said quietly. “You’ll do as your country asks.”
Cuchulain’s lips turned up into a wicked smile. “Of course, I’m an American,” he said. “That’s why we’re sitting here discussing things. But I have no intention of taking orders from you or from the US. That ship has sailed. I’m also a Muslim Arab by birth. I have a Moroccan diplomatic passport. I am the appointed leader of the Bedouin nation, which represents a million people. I represent the people of Allah. If you need to negotiate with Islam right now, I’m it.”
Elliot waved a hand as if to cut through the tension. “It may be useful to remember that Alex is not only trying to restore humanity to his people, but also trying to develop a plan that works for all.”
“I’m all ears,” Kim said.
Cuchulain shrugged. “Given our original commitment to react to Israeli violence in a tit-for-tat fashion—they do something bad, we do something bad in return—we Muslims are behind in the game. That is the state of things today. They attacked us in Gaza, and we handed them their marching papers.”
“But the Palestinians and Bedouins have no infantry, no armor, no fighters, no helicopters, no navy, so true tit for tat is not possible,” said Mac.
“That’s right,” Cuchulain continued. “We humiliated them, however, and continue to do so in the daily news, so they will no doubt try again to punish the Muslims. They control essential services for the Palestinians, such as fresh water and electricity. I can imagine them shutting off those services and letting Palestinians sit in the dark, thirsty, can’t you?”
Elliot nodded, sipping from his wineglass. “And it seems likely that they will rush into absorbing the West Bank into Israel without compensation to its rightful owners.”
“Yes,” Cuchulain said. “We have seen zero movement from the Israeli government on our demands, despite the damage and humiliation we have shown ourselves capable of causing. So, as promised, we will up our game and engage the rest of Israel.”
“You have already made such a plan?” Kim asked.
Cuchulain’s face darkened. “At some point soon, we will destroy Israel’s infrastructure in a way that makes life more difficult for their people. Of course, we could destroy their airports, their mass transportation and delivery system, their gas terminals, and their fuel supplies. Then we would disable the Iron Dome system, and the rockets from the Syrians and Iranians would be free to start falling on the population centers.”
“That’s not a plan,” Kim said, his voice rising slightly. “That is Armageddon for the Israeli people. Unacceptable.”
“Yes, quite,” Cuchulain replied in an even tone. “I’d like Israel to survive, but not as a theocracy. Staging that effort is the hard part. We may need your help.”
“We’d like you to sit down and think through the rough pieces with us, then join us in keeping the president on the rails,” Elliot suggested.
“It’s worth a try,” Kim agreed. “But no promises.”
The four men continued to chat for several hours over crab enchiladas and plenty of drinks, about important things, as well as all the little things they had in common. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Cuchulain stood and stretched.
“I’m going to let you guys figure out how to solve the rest of the world’s problems,” he said. “I’m having dinner tomorrow with the Saudi deputy ambassador and the director of the Arab League, so I’ll need my beauty sleep.”
Cuchulain turned and shook Kim’s hand.
“It was fun getting to know you a bit, sir. We’ll no doubt run into each other again—if Sayeret Matkal doesn’t get me first.”
The four men chuckled, but Kim recalled that comment instantly when, just after 2:00 a.m., a quiet, insistent knock came at his door. Kim snapped awake and opened his stateroom door.
“Threat scope’s flashing,” Cuchulain said, scowling.
Despite all of Kim’s security precautions, something was approaching Old Fashioned.
OLD FASHIONED, CHESAPEAKE BAY
THURSDAY
IN HIS SMALL STATEROOM NEAR THE STERN OF OLD FASHIONED, KUFDANI had awoken a little before 2:00 a.m. Having gone to bed so early, he knew there was no getting back to sleep, so he dozed and watched the crew and the scope through his cracked stateroom door.
When the scope started to flash, he popped alert.
He was up and moving within seconds, heading for the command center, where Jimmy, Charles, Snake, and General Kim’s bodyguard had been alternating duty: two men watching the equipment, two men snoring on bunks.
Twelve-gauge pump shotguns were racked beside silenced rifles with night scopes and fifteen-round magazines sticking out from them like blackened teeth. Jimmy had taken special care in organizing the goodies stowed against the wall, labeled in green, yellow, and black: an array of spears, two late-model Stingers, swimmer’s ears to blow the eardrums out of anyone submerged within two hundred yards, a variety of explosives—even a Coochmore at the bottom of the stack. Four compact Kimber .45-caliber pistols hung on web belts with matte black seven-round magazines secured on the webbing, just beyond the bulkhead.
Jimmy took a shotgun. Kufdani grabbed one Kimber and then another for good measure. Each of the others took a scoped rifle.
Kufdani stole a moment to be grateful that he’d spoken to Jerome before going to bed. Caitlin and LuAnn would be well protected in Tangier—suddenly more secure there than if they’d decided to return overseas to the colonies.
It was a move they’d considered, especially now that Caitlin had acquired new, secure transportation from the NSA. As Brooks had explained to Kim the previous night, LuAnn had handled the sale-leaseback deal for Kufdani. “It’s one of yours,” he’d said, “a C37B that was modified for our former president’s wife. Sixty percent of it belongs to Kufdani, the lessor.”
“That’s not going to work,” Kim had replied. “I know that plane. I tried to get rid of it. Too many secret tech goodies to let it run around unsupervised.”
“According to LuAnn,” Brooks had said, “it comes with a crew of eight, all active Air Force, for which you will be reimbursed by the NSA. I suggest you vet that crew, as Caitlin is in weapons mode—all excited about the new C37 electronics. They could learn a lot.”
“The NSA thinks what they do is what drives the nation, so they just sell our airplanes to meet their needs,” General Kim had said. “We paid over $50 million for that thing! But I suppose this Gulfstream 550 is off the Air Force books and no longer a C37B, which is another thing off my list.”
So at least Kufdani, keeping his head low while duck-walking along Old Fashioned’s deck to the bow, wasn’t distracted by concern for his true love in Tangier. He heard someone moving on the deck above him and bumped his knuckles against Brooks’s door.
“Heads up,” Kufdani said quietly.
Brooks stepped into the passageway behind Kufdani. “Fuck,” he said. “That didn’t take long at all.”
Next Kufdani knocked lightly on Kim’s door and heard the rack of a pistol slide before the door even opened.
He’ll do, Kufdani thought, smiling into the dark.
“We’re under assault,” he murmured as Kim joined them in the passageway, holding a 9mm Sig Sauer pistol. “I suggest staying down here for the moment. Let Jimmy and the others go see what these bastards are planning for us.”
Kufdani repeated the action at Mac’s door, and the bulk of Macmillan slid in beside them, a trench knife in his hand. “You didn’t hear about the folly of bringing a knife to a gunfight?” Kufdani whispered, pushing a Kimber at his mentor.
“Fuck you, Cooch,” Mac grumbled, pulling the slide back to check for a round in the chamber. He stuck the knife in his belt. “Life was good until you showed up.”
The four men reached the ladder to the main deck, and hid in the lower deck shadows just as the ship bobbed slightly.
Six unknown figures slid noiselessly over the stern rail, each wearing night vision gear and webbing, and carrying rifles with long tubes extending from their muzzles. One had small boxes in his free hand—enough explosive, Kufdani later discovered, to potentially reduce Old Fashioned to toothpicks. Another raised his hand and counted, then nodded and waved his colleagues forward.
Standing near the bow, almost unrecognizable in his night vision goggles, Jimmy triggered the remote in front of him and yelled, “Now!” The men of Old Fashioned dropped their head and closed their eyes.
A quarter-second later, the ninety-three flash cubes that earlier had been strung around the deck detonated at once, blinding the intruders. Each of the Old Fashioned men stepped out from the shadows and methodically fired into the six invaders, center body. A strange cacophony of pops and thwacks filled the salty air as the Heckler and Koch silenced rifles cycled through their magazines of 6.5mm Creedmoor rifle bullets.
After multiple rounds of ammunition were fired, Charles ran for the outboard rail, pulling something from his clothes. An outboard motor came suddenly to life, slicing the silence. But when Charles threw a grenade pack at the rigid inflatable boat accelerating away, it hit the boat’s large, silenced outboard motor and exploded. The pilot was thrown into the waters of the bay. Charles shot him once, then four more times, just to be sure.
Snake walked across the deck, inspecting the six bleeding bodies. He stomped on one man’s throat, then raised a hand to high-five Charles before the two men started rummaging through the dead intruders’ pockets. Jimmy stood behind them and grinned—P to the seventh power and all that, but mostly because his shotgun was unfired. It tended to do bad things to Old Fashioned’s rigging, things that took days to repair.
Several shots sounded from the shore: General Kim’s shore-bound security was cleaning up the escape route. Kim grinned and looked at Elliot. “I heard them fire the first shots, didn’t you?”
“I did, and I have witnesses,” Elliot said. “These poor blokes on the deck refused to surrender, and now look what they’re doing to my boat.”
“There really is no justice,” Kufdani said. “I guess I’ll have to help with the cleanup, but let’s get some good facial pictures first, before they get too pale. I’ll send the photos off to Caitlin. Maybe she and Emilie can identify them.”
“Send them to me, too,” Mac said, wiping blood from his hands. “The president will be fascinated. So will the CIA.”
Two hours later, the men sat together on deck, finishing coffee and freshly baked rolls. The deck had been swabbed of bloodstains. The bodies had been moved to shore and loaded into two of the Suburbans for a trip to the morgue and perhaps some answers. Kufdani had called to inform Jerome of the morning’s events, sent Caitlin the photos, and shared his suspicions about who was behind the assassination attempt.
Elliot rang his wife with the news that Jerome would escort her and Caitlin to inner offices with no windows facing Tangier harbor, if only for a few days. Edgie hadn’t answered his Kphone, but Emilie had alerted his security team to button him up too. They were now targets—all of them.
Kufdani thought it would be best for his sister to take a much-needed family vacation. “Go for a nice visit somewhere, and don’t leave any message or trails behind you,” he told Elena. Kufdani Industries would pay for everything. “Do it now,” he advised.
