143

 

156 MILES FROM THE MEXICAN BORDER, 4:30 P.M.

Bravo Squadron of F-22s tracked the yacht. They stayed out of sight. They didn’t have to worry about the yacht’s radar. They had been informed that the radar and the GPS had been disabled. If the captain was any good, he would have kept a written log and would be plotting their course the old-fashioned way, with a map and a sextant to sight from landmarks on shore, but many captains, especially the younger ones, had neglected that skill.

The Secretary of the Air Force, SECAF, rang Canning.

“We have the target on radar.”

“Good job. What does POTUS say?”

“On my way to discuss that now. The Storm of the Century’s heading in and we’d like to do the dirty and get the hell out.”

“Let me call POTUS, see if I can expedite,” replied Canning, putting in the call.

Canning was put through immediately.

“Sir, I would like to know when you will give SECAF permission to take out the yacht Zephyr. This ARk Storm is coming in fast and hard, and he wants to do the deed and be gone. If it’s all the same to you.”

The president frowned at the phone. “It’s not all the same to me. We’re talking about the yacht Zephyr with a crew of thirty. We’re talking about the yacht Zephyr owned by a very rich and prominent Saudi. A major strategic ally.”

“All of that, sir. All of that,” replied Canning, a shot of acid stabbing his guts. “And he’s a Shia Saudi, sir, not a Sunni. I think you’ll find there’s quite a difference in how the death of one would be met to the death of the other.”

“Don’t lecture me on Middle-Eastern sectarianism, Canning. I’m well aware of the subtleties.”

“And so where does that leave us, sir?” Canning persisted. “And the squadron. With the ARk Storm bearing down on them.”

“I’ll ring you back,” declared the president. He hung up and made a call to Saudi Arabia. He mentioned the name, heard the slow machinations, the thought process. The man he spoke to was a Sunni. He made the decision expected by the president.

“We in the Kingdom wish to eliminate extremism wherever we find it,” said the man. “Do what you must. You have our support, though of course we shall have to make a bit of a fuss. In public.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

The president ended the call. He rang Canning.

“Hold off!” he ordered. “For the time being. Zephyr might sink. I’ve had briefings from SECNAV, from the Hazards people. Like you say, the storm’s a bitch. Save us from having to shoot a yacht with multi-jurisdictional citizens out of the water.”

At the price of the F-22s and their pilots, wondered Canning? “But we have a window,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice as bland as the president’s. “Sir. We’ll have to decide soon before Zephyr gets close to the Mexican border.”

“And we shall. But I live in hope that fate will intervene,” replied the president. “We have three hours, I believe.”

“Three hours at the current average speed of the yacht. But the further she runs from the storm, the faster she can go, so we have to assume we have less time. Perhaps two hours thirty or less.”

“Perhaps … But my point remains.… That’s the difference between us, General Canning. You get to play War. I get to play Politics. And War. The latter only if I have to.”