“Not only that, but the Chinese are sending half their fuckin’ fleet into the Indian Ocean and probably to Saudi. That gives the Riyadh regime air cover, too, from the carriers. Maybe they plan to homeport one there to guard their sea lines of communication, their oil lifeline back to China. Who knows? Want some decaf to wash that down?” Without waiting for an answer, Conrad pressed an intercom and ordered the coffees.
“Maybe, just maybe, they are gonna give the Islamies nuclear warheads for the missiles they just sold them. Wouldn’t that be great, another nutty regime with terrorist ties and nuclear weapons? Can’t let that happen, Brad. No way, not on my watch. My predecessors watched the North Koreans, the Pakistanis, the Iranians go nuclear. The chances of one of those nukes showing up on Wall Street are getting too high.”
Finally, Admiral Adams got a word in. “I took the briefing on the Chinese navy and the sensitive intelligence about their plans. That’s a pretty good-looking fleet they’re sailing into the IO.”
Conrad shook his head. “Good-looking, yes, but inexperienced with blue-water combat. If I get the authority for you, can you put them on the bottom?” The Secretary leaned across the little table, almost into Adams’s face. The admiral thought he could smell the Heineken.
Adams paused briefly and then answered slowly, “If I can fire first and if I can find their subs, then I would have high confidence, assuming I had my battle group in the Indian Ocean and not bottled up in the Gulf.”
Conrad smiled broadly, liking what he was hearing. “CinCPAC has three subs tailing them in the South China Sea. So far, we know where their subs are and they don’t seem to know we know. Our subs will follow them into the IO and then they will be your assets,” the SECDEF said, clicking on one of the flat screens that showed a map with icons for ships scattered out along the Straits of Malacca. “Listen, Adams, your battle group and all of our Gulf assets will leave the Gulf and we will tell everyone you’re going to Bright Star in the Red Sea, but I want you to spread out a picket line to pick up their two battle groups. One may be heading to the Red Sea, the other to the Gulf. I don’t know how long it will take me to get you an execute order. It’s still on POTUS’s desk. Bunch of worry warts around him. New professor they got for Security Advisor…
“You won’t have any trouble carrying out this mission when you get the command from me, now, will you, Brad?” As he asked the question, the aircraft hit a pocket of turbulence and began to shake.
“Mr. Secretary, I have my orders from you to move the fleet and set up a picket line, and I can carry them out. For me to fire first, however, I will need an execute order from the National Command Authority. But if they go first, or if they get a few shots off with nuclear-armed cruise missiles, there may not be much of my fleet left. In either case, sir, it would seem that after such an exchange, nuclear or not, we will be in a war with China, which likely would go nuclear.”
Henry Conrad was silent for a minute. “You will get all the orders you need, Admiral. From the National Command Authority. As for China going to war with us, you let me deal with that. There is no way they’re going to be that stupid. We could eliminate their nuclear missiles in minutes and then fry their economy’s infrastructure, send them back to 1945. They know that.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Adams replied.
Conrad stood up. “Good, good. Now go get some shut-eye, if you can snooze on this bucking bronco.” The Secretary of Defense put his arm around Admiral Adams’s shoulders and escorted him to the door of the suite. “You see what it says on the door, Brad? NCA. National Command Authority. That’s a power that the President shares with the SECDEF. One of my predecessors tried to get rid of the title, and the CinC’s title, too, the regional commanders in chief. I brought them back. CinC. It has a nice ring, like CinCPAC.” Conrad winked at him. “CinCPAC Adams. That would have a nice ring, wouldn’t it? You’ll do a good job out there for me, Brad, won’t you?” Conrad slapped him on the back and turned away, walking back into the NCA suite.
Adams started to make his way back to his bed in the aft cabin, holding on to the wall as the plane continued to buck. In the narrow passageway between the two conference rooms, he stood aside to let a civilian come forward. As the aircraft shook again, both men were thrown against opposite walls. “Admiral Adams,” Under Secretary Kashigian greeted him.
“Mr. Secretary,” Adams replied, surprised that the man would recognize him.
“Did you enjoy your visit to Tampa? Great places to eat there. Although sometimes they’re too spicy, too hot. See you in Turkey, Admiral.” Kashigian headed off toward the National Command Authority suite.
10
“Iwill not give you red nuts,” Bardia Naqdi insisted. “If you want them red, you must do that yourself.”
“That will add greatly to our costs,” Simon Manley replied. “You must teach the South African market to eat them in their natural color. Do you know who it was that started dying them red? Huh? It was the Americans, not the Persians, not us.” Naqdi slapped the table.
Brian Douglas, playing the part of Simon Manley, looked at his business partner for a decision. “Well, Bowers, do you think we can educate our market to want natural?”
“I do, Simon. The South African consumer is very healthconscious these days, and if we tell them the red is dye, they won’t want it,” Bowers replied, looking up from his ledger of notes of the day’s discussion. “But it does raise the issue of aflatoxin, which as you know is a carcinogen. The EU has had problems with your pistachios exceeding the fifteen parts per billion limit.”
Naqdi threw both arms into the air. “Allah, save me! We Persians have been eating our pistachios for five thousand years of recorded history. Longer before that. Do you see us all falling over of your afla? Pistachios are for lovers. They were the Queen of Sheba’s aphrodisiac. When young lovers sit under a pistachio tree at night and they hear the nuts open, it ensures they will live a long life together, long and healthy, Mr. Bowers.”
“Very well, but we shall want written into the contract that we are not liable for any foodstuffs rejected by South African authorities on health grounds,” Bowers said while making another notation in the ledger.
Douglas looked at his watch. It was almost nine-thirty at night. “Right, then. Shall we go over the list for the first shipment? One thousand kilos of pistachios kernel, hulled, five hundred kilos peeled, five hundred kilos of sweet and bitter almonds, half and half, one thousand kilos of sultana raisins, two hundred kilos of dried figs. Twenty percent payment by wire upon contract signature and eighty percent upon our being notified by an agreed-upon freight forwarder that the shipment is in transit. Bale?”
“Bale, yes, thank Allah it was not more, I would have had to order in breakfast,” Naqdi joked, pointing at the remnants of the dinner they had consumed earlier in his conference room.
“Then we shall expect a contract brought round to the hotel in the morning?” Bowers asked, closing his ledger and rising from the table.
“Yes, and we shall expect a wire transfer to our bank by the end of the day,” Naqdi replied, walking the two South Africans to the door.
“The very next day at the latest,” Simon Manley assured, shaking Naqdi’s hand.
Naqdi opened the door out onto the balcony that overlooked the darkened warehouse, filled with piles of sacks and crates. The pungent smell of mixed fruits hung in the still air. The cool of the vast space helped to revive the men, who had been talking and smoking for almost six hours.