Legacy - 42. A Difference of Opinion - Paul Manning

“Check!” the Palestinian Prime Minister called out after taking one of my knights. The two of us were playing a game of chess to pass the time while Altaf took an early afternoon snooze. Although I was never a major fan of the game, that I could play it at all was something of a miracle to me, even after all the years since I was cured of my Down’s syndrome.

A broad smile took over my face as I moved my king into the position he’d vacated and called out, “Check mate, my friend.”

“How in the . . . world . . . did you do that?” the Prime Minister asked with incredulousness. “I never even remotely saw that coming.”

“That’s just it,” I replied. “I saw your moves a mile away and took advantage.” The truth was that I did, in fact, foresee his moves well into the future of the game. In being able to anticipate his moves, I could plan around them and maneuver him as I wanted.

As we set up the next game, the Prime Minister continued the discussion we’d been having all afternoon about how some of the world’s great powers might have been involved in David’s assassination. He wasn’t willing to share with me everything he’d shared with Altaf, but that didn’t stop us from discussing things ‘in theory’.

“Both China and India have large, indigenous, Muslim populations,” the Prime Minister began again, “and the Taliban come closer to achieving an outright majority in Pakistani elections all the time. All three countries are major economic powerhouses in the global economy now. The last thing any of them needs is a border war, particularly when all three face significant threats from within. A low-grade war between the Israelis and the Palestinians helps focus hatred elsewhere.

“China hasn’t exactly been successful in its efforts to integrate Muslims into Chinese society, particularly as nationalism has only blossomed in the face of Tibetan autonomy . . .”

“China didn’t exactly have a choice,” I noted. “Even without the threatened sanctions, the grassroots boycott of all things manufactured in China by much of the Western world was taking a huge toll on the Chinese economy . . . and on ours, for that matter. It was in everyone’s best interest to find a peaceful resolution to the conflict.”

“And the resources needed to continue the crackdown after the failed Tibetan revolution were having a much greater impact on the Chinese military than was generally known at the time,” the Prime Minister agreed. “What China needed was a way to save face while giving Tibetans what they wanted . . . their freedom.”

“We brokered the deal that both sides so desperately needed . . . as did we,” I concluded. “Everyone came out a winner in the end.”

“Except for China’s indigenous Muslims, who then wanted their freedom too,” the Prime Minister countered.

“I can’t argue with that,” I agreed, “and the situation in neighboring India is perhaps even worse.”

“Indeed,” the Prime Minister agreed. “The native Muslim population has only grown relative to the Hindu population, not to mention the many Pakistanis that have fled to India as things have become increasingly dangerous at home. As a result, India has gained a substantial, rather affluent, Muslim population.

“But that’s only part of the problem,” the Prime Minister continued. “Even as the middle class has grown, fueling the largest economic expansion in their history, the vast majority of the population remains impoverished. India hasn’t been able to feed itself for years because ever increasing amounts of farmland are lost to growth in the cities . . .”

“And they have a billion and a half mouths to feed,” I added. “America is having enough difficulties with a population approaching a half-billion. I can’t imagine how India managed all those years with far less arable land.”

“Subsistence farming served them surprisingly well but, as land became ever more scarce, the trends seen elsewhere came into play as millions fled en masse to cities that couldn’t cope. The ‘new untouchables’, they called them.”

“But what does that have to do with the Middle East?” I asked.

“The billion who live in poverty scarcely matter when it comes to Indian politics,” the Prime Minister explained. “Not that they don’t matter as people and they could certainly overwhelm the economy, but the Indian government has been very effective in suppressing their power. The Muslim population, on the other hand, is active in politics. The government has far more to fear from a couple hundred million relatively affluent Muslims than from a billion impoverished Hindus.”

“There is no doubt that China, India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, for that matter, have an interest in what happens in the Middle East,” a bleary-eyed Altaf agreed as he entered the room. “Together they hold more than a third of the world’s population. A major war between any two of them or a civil war in one of them, particularly with three of them being nuclear powers, could lead to global war. Still, this all seems highly theoretical.”

“Altaf, I would have thought that you of all people would understand,” the Prime Minister countered. “America is undergoing substantial change, too, as the Spanish speaking population is rapidly approaching majority status and the Asian population is growing, but America will cope. America is and always has been diverse. That is America’s strength.

“You were born in Pakistan, however. You suffered at the hands of the Taliban. You know just how divided the Muslims really are and how they can only come together in the face of a common enemy. Until now, that enemy has been the Jews. If there is peace in the Middle East, the only thing that could keep the Muslims from fighting each other would be a war with India or China. Neither Pakistan nor Bangladesh, however, could afford such a war. All four countries have much to lose from peace in the Middle East.”

“Gentlemen, never underestimate the power of greed,” I chimed in. “You’re assuming a purely political motive. As with all things there are winners and there are losers. There are trillions of dollars riding on the Middle East peace agreement. Not many political leaders would risk war with the United States, no matter how serious their troubles at home.

“For those who profit from conflict in the Middle East, however, the prospect of war with the U.S. actually opens up new possibilities for profit. They don’t care how many thousands, millions or billions are killed in the process. As long as it doesn’t degenerate into all-out global thermonuclear war, they stand to profit handsomely.”

“Sadly you are correct, Detective,” the Prime Minister responded.

“Something tells me Trevor has made heads or tails of the data by now,” I suggested.

“Except that Trevor’s no longer the National Security Advisor,” Altaf reminded me.

“Fuck, I forgot about that!” I exclaimed, but then I added, “But knowing Trevor, he’s still managed to be actively involved in the investigation. The President can fire him, but he’s still better connected than anyone in the intelligence community.”

“That’s certainly true,” Altaf agreed, but then added, “I feel so helpless here. I should be in the thick of it instead of wasting away, holed up in this Godforsaken place.”

“On the contrary, my friend,” the Palestinian Prime Minister challenged, “you are very much in the thick of it as you say. You could hardly be more in the thick of it. You’re right at ground zero and if anything is going to happen, one way or the other, it will start right here.”

“I know that . . . I just don’t like being in the dark,” Altaf admitted. “It’s the not knowing that’s so difficult.”

“Checkmate,” I called out again. This time I’d out-maneuvered the Prime Minister in scarcely more than a dozen moves.

“That’s the third game he’s won,” the Prime Minister said as he looked at Altaf. “It’s almost as if he can read my mind, or see the future and anticipate what I’m going to do, long before even I know I’m going to do it.”

If only the Prime Minister knew how close he was to the truth, but then Altaf got a very intense look on his face as he almost seemed to be looking right through me. “Paul,” he began, “I’ve heard rumors you can ‘see’ things.”

Wow, what a time to bring up my special abilities! I myself had been wondering why I’d seen nothing to even hint at who was behind David Reynolds’ murder. Indeed, I’d felt nothing. The murder of someone so close to me should have left me with a sense of foreboding weeks before his assassination and I ought to have been having graphic visions ever since. I’d gone through far more with total strangers than I had with David. Although I’d seen that he would one day be buried in Arlington Cemetery, his untimely death came as as much of a shock to me as it was to anyone and I’d ‘seen’ nothing since. Was it possible that I was too close to David but, if so, why did I have that vision of his funeral all those years ago?

Altaf was still staring at me, waiting for an answer, but I was clueless as to why I was so totally in the dark, even now. Further, the last thing I wanted was for it to be common knowledge that I had visions. I didn’t want others to question my abilities as a detective and, more importantly, for every investigation I’d ever conducted to be called into question. I needed to tread very carefully.

“Gentlemen,” I began, choosing my words with great care, “I cannot confirm what you may or may not have heard about my ‘methods of investigation’. Suffice it to say that I know no more than either of you when it comes to the matter of David Reynolds, nor our current predicament. Indeed, I probably know a whole lot less.”

“That’s too bad,” Altaf replied, but then he asked, “Are you absolutely certain you haven’t seen anything, no matter how seemingly insignificant or unrelated it may be?”

“Trust me, Altaf,” I replied, “I would tell you anything if there were anything to tell. The only other time I felt so helpless was the time I had my falling out with Sam.”

“You and Sammy Austin had a falling out?” Altaf asked incredulously. “I can hardly picture it. You two have always been so close . . . at one time I even thought you two might be a couple.”

Laughing, I replied, “Although I think Sam might have liked it that way, for me it was always about girls. Not that Sam and I didn’t do our share of fooling around like so many young teens do,” I added as I felt myself blush.

“What in the world happened that the two of you fell out?” Altaf asked in all seriousness.

My face took on a much more somber look as I remembered the conversation that nearly ended our friendship, and that caused us to not speak to each other for so many months.

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“I can only imagine the fireworks,” Altaf responded after I’d told my story. “Few on ‘The Hill’ are more outspoken when it comes to abortion than Congressman Sammy Austin. So what ultimately happened?”

“It was about seven months later that Sam called to invite Linda and me for dinner,” I replied. “Sam said he’d missed me terribly and he apologized for shutting me out. He asked to be my brother again, provided I agreed never ever to discuss abortion with him.”

“And you agreed?” Altaf asked.

“I’ve kept my promise to this day,” I answered.

“Sometimes being a true friend means knowing where not to tread,” the Palestinian Prime Minister chimed in, and I couldn’t have agreed more.

Just then, the ground shook and there was the sound of an explosion that seemed way too close for comfort. Palestinian soldiers and the Prime Minister’s guards rushed into the room shouting words that were incomprehensible to me, but Altaf and the Prime Minister knew instantly what to do as I was whisked away with the group.

“We’re under attack,” Altaf explained as we ran down a series of twisting corridors. I certainly didn’t need Altaf’s explanation to know that. The question to me was, under attack by whom? “We have to get out of here!”

Smoke filled the corridor as some of the soldiers fell back to protect us as we made our escape. I could only hope that there was a way out and that a safe means of escape was at hand. But then there was another explosion and the ground shook even more violently as dust and debris settled around us. The sound of automatic gunfire ahead made it clear our escape route was blocked.

“Come, this way,” one of the Prime Minister’s bodyguards, a black man of about forty, shouted at us in flawless English. “There’s no time.”

Out of instinct and in trust, we all followed the man as we doubled back the way we had come, then turned down yet another corridor, heading for what appeared to be a dead end. Before we reached the end, however, he pushed against one of the side walls, and it opened! Once we were all inside, the bodyguard carefully closed the wall back up, then turned and said, “They’ll eventually figure it out, but perhaps it will buy us some time.

Leading us down what seemed like three or four flights of stairs, we ran down yet another series of corridors until we reached yet another dead end, and another secret door. We descended more stairs and ran down even more corridors until we came to what, for all the world, appeared to be a freight elevator.

Opening the heavy doors, the bodyguard ushered us all inside the elevator - himself and three other bodyguards, the Prime Minister, Altaf and myself - then closed the doors behind us. He swung a heavy steel door closed from inside the elevator and secured it shut by spinning a large wheel. He pressed a button and I felt the elevator slowly start to descend. Another series of explosions reminded us of the precariousness of our situation but we continued our slow descent nevertheless.

After what seemed like an hour, but was probably no more than ten minutes, if that, the elevator came to a stop and the guard turned the heavy wheel and opened the vault-like door. Stepping out from the elevator, he reached to the side and flipped a switch, bathing the room before us in harsh white light. He then ushered us into the room and closed a heavy steel door behind us, which he secured with yet another large locking wheel.

Taking stock of our surroundings, it appeared that we were in a large living room, complete with plush chairs, a couple of sofas and some tables. A kitchen occupied a wall at one end of the room, with what appeared to be a refrigerator, a sink and a stove. A couple of doors led from the living room to what I would later learn were sleeping quarters and a communal bathroom. Not yet visible was a door leading from the sleeping quarters to a storage room that contained food rations, ammo and other supplies.

“Where are we?” Altaf asked, echoing my own curiosity.

“We’re in a reinforced bunker, about twelve hundred meters underground,” the guard answered. “Down here, we’re protected against virtually any kind of attack, be it nuclear, biological or conventional.”

“Who are you,” I asked.

“It would not be good for any of you to know my real name,” he replied, “but as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, I’m CIA. You can call me Mamood . . . it’s what everyone else calls me.

“There’s a group of U.S. special forces upstairs protecting us,” he went on. “They’re trained to blend in with the Palestinian soldiers and hopefully won’t draw attention to American involvement. Unfortunately, it would appear they’re fighting an elite Israeli force and they got word to me that they are also fighting a contingent of Hamas.”

“Israel and Hamas?” the Prime Minister asked.

“The official story will undoubtedly be that Israel tracked us to this facility, where we were being held hostage by Hamas. They will have mounted a valiant rescue attempt but, unfortunately, we were all killed in the ensuing fight with Hamas.”

“What really happened?” I asked.

“Someone who knew of our location . . . perhaps the Turks, someone in NATO Command, or even someone back in the U.S., tipped both the Israelis and Hamas off. Someone wanted us dead.”

“With all this betrayal,” Altaf asked, “How do we know we can trust you?”

“Frankly, you don’t,” Mamood answered. “Believe me, you’re safe here but, if I were you, I’d certainly watch my back, regardless.”

Just then there was the sound of another explosion, following by the ground shaking and then the sound of an alarm. I was surprised we could feel the explosion all the way down here, particularly when the bunker was designed to survive a direct thermonuclear hit.

“Unfortunately, our innermost defenses have been breached,” Mamood explained. “Unless we seal ourselves off, they will come down the elevator shaft and blast their way inside the bunker. We need to stop them before they even know we’re here.”

Running to the kitchen facility at one end of the living room, Mamood opened the cabinet under the sink and seemed to reach behind the sink, turning something unseen to us and then pulling it down. The ground shook with yet another explosion, and then there was silence.

“I just activated a series of charges surrounding the elevator shaft, causing it to collapse. I also blew up the facility above us, incinerating anyone still inside. Unfortunately, we just lost some very good men . . . men who gave their lives to assure our safety.”

After a prolonged period of silence, my curiosity again got the better of me. “Is there another way out of here?” I naively asked.

“The elevator was the only way, in or out,” Mamood answered.

“So how will we ever get out?” I asked.

“We wait,” Mamood answered. “We wait until the Americans come and dig us out. Don’t worry, however. There’s a nuclear-powered generator and an air handling system that can last indefinitely. The water is purified and recycled, and there’s enough food down here to last the seven of us for more than a year if necessary.”

A year - a whole fucking year. We could survive a year if necessary while waiting to be rescued, assuming the world didn’t blow itself up in the interim. Even with all that, the one thought that came to mind was that I’d miss David’s funeral.

But the thought had scarcely entered my mind when the lights flashed as brilliantly as the mid-day sun, and then we were plunged into darkness as the whole room shook violently like nothing I’d ever felt before. I felt debris falling all around me and started coughing violently from the dust that had been kicked up into the air.

As quickly as it all began, it stopped. Other than the sounds of our occasional coughs, there was only silence. Eerie, oppressive silence and inky blackness.

“What the fuck just happened?” I heard Altaf ask, echoing my thoughts exactly, and Altaf almost never swore.

“We were hit by an electromagnetic pulse,” Mamood answered.

“Oh my God,” Altaf responded. “That means it’s gone nuclear!”

“Yes and no,” Mamood countered. “Yes, a nuclear device was detonated with all the ramifications involved, but the reason is more . . . personal. This shelter is enclosed by an enormous Faraday cage. Not even a bunker-penetrating weapon could have overcome that. This room was designed to withstand such a weapon.

“No, we were hit by a directed electromagnetic beam more powerful than any seen on Earth before. It’s a top-secret weapon possessed by no one except the United States.”

“Why would America attack us?” the Palestinian Prime Minister asked.

“It must have been Schroeder,” Altaf answered. “He’s crazy.”

“Not even he is crazy enough to do this,” I countered.

“Whoever it was,” Mamood added, “they obviously want us dead. Without electricity and air scrubbers, we have enough air for at most a few days.”

“How long before someone could dig us out?” I asked.

“Assuming they even knew we’re here and alive,” Mamood answered, “A few weeks at least.”

‘Great!’ I thought to myself. We were in total darkness . . . and we were running out of air.