fighters had known and honored his father for many years. With his death, the eldest son had taken-charge, assuming the nom de guerre “Prince of Terror.”
Many of the followers of the father were unsure as to the suitability of the son, but those men now ranged around him facing the Koreans across the canyon floor had decided to follow the son of the one who had proved the strongest horse in recent memory. Perhaps he, too, would lead them forward against the Great Satan? Tonight he would prove – or not – his readiness for the task.
The last missile reached vertical and clicked into place.
The whine stopped. Silence filled the canyon.
One hundred meters up the canyon in a makeshift brush-and-rope corral, a young boy herding a dozen donkeys stepped backward, staring. Losing his footing, he stumbled and dropped into a sitting position, never removing his awe-struck gaze from the missiles.
Standing in a group close to the Arab were several dozen better-dressed men. These men formed the leadership council of the Baluchistan Taliban movement within Pakistan, the most powerful Taliban organization in existence, headquartered in Quetta, several kilometers east of the canyon.
Next to them watched another few dozen leaders of Islamist movements from neighboring Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Chechnya. What the son was doing was of deep interest to them all.
Cut over fifty meters deep by the erosion of the occasional but intense thunderstorms over millennia, the canyon was like uncounted others pointing south from the mountain ranges dividing Pakistan and Afghanistan, toward the Arabian Sea 500 kilometers distant.
From the corner of his eye the Arab noticed the Chinese colonel turn from the missiles.
Nodding to himself, Colonel Li looked across the men under his tactical command spread in a defensive line across the canyon floor. Ten fully-armed Special Forces operators of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, all combat veterans of various small wars or of infiltration missions to their sister country.
Before the Koreans: many times their numbers of equally battle-hardened warriors.
Behind the Koreans: six armed missiles poised for flight from their road-mobile launch vehicles.
Li’s watchful eyes swept expressionlessly across the Arab and his men. He had to deal with these people. He did not have to trust them.
Leading the team of DPRK Special Forces at the direction of the General Staff of the People’s Liberation Army of China, acceded to by the North Korean Head-of-State, Colonel Li held the responsibility for the final three steps of the unprecedented transaction: Delivery, targeting and launching of these six missiles and their thermonuclear warheads.
Needing the targeting coordinates to complete his mission, Li turned and walked toward the Arab.
The missiles had been sold by the leader of North Korea for desperately-needed cash to which the Arab had access in abundance. The People’s Republic of China had mated the warheads to these missiles. Even had the Prince of Terror known, he would not have cared about what the Chinese - Korean joint effort may have foreshadowed; strategic thinking was beyond him.
The Arab turned his back to the approaching officer. He had to deal with infidels in order to remove their stain from his native lands, from the lands of the Prophet, as was necessary to advance Jihad and achieve the Caliphate. But he also must show that he was their superior. Especially he must show to the older men watching that he and he alone, was the leader here.
Soon, very soon, the Prince of Terror thought, the infidels will be removed from the rightful lands of Arabia, from the presence of the followers of Muhammad. Across the world infidels will take their places as slaves to those who understand the glory of Allah. Or, as throughout history and as Muhammad commands, they will die.
Tonight it would begin!
2
Ramenskoye Airfield, Moscow
One month earlier
Friday, 8 March, 22:00 hours GMT (Saturday, 9 March, 02:00 Local)
Premier Fang Li Wong of the People’s Republic of China looked Russian President Alexander Scharanov in the eye across the broad conference table. The two men were alone in the room.
Fang was running out of time. The initial stages of the operation already had begun. He needed to assure Scharanov of his intentions. He must gain his agreement now. The two men had talked pleasantly enough over the past hours. Fang, however, had not been able to conclude his work.
“Mr. President,” Fang said, lighting another cigarette and sitting back in the hard chair of the airbase conference room. “This plan gives us both something we need. I assure you it is sincere.”
Both men spoke English, a difficult language to learn, but easier than either Russian or Mandarin. Given the shape of the world throughout their lives, English was the logical language of business. And of war.
Fang inhaled deeply and then studied the glowing ember at the end of his cigarette before reaching forward and killing it in the overflowing ashtray before him. Normally a steward at the airbase would have ensured a steady supply of clean service items. These talks however, were far too secret for mere stewards to attend – or even be aware of.
Fang had arrived late the night before specifically to conclude this arrangement. Outside of his senior staff, the senior members of the Politburo and General Hu, Commander of the People’s Liberation Army, no one knew he was here. He wanted to finish this business and return before he was missed. Before rumors began.
Coming to power many years ago, Fang had moved his country forward ceaselessly, moving hundreds of millions of his people from the poverty of rural China to the growing prosperity and jobs of China’s increasingly capitalist cities and economy. It was time to take the biggest step of all.
To do this Scharanov and he must reach agreement.
Unbeknownst to the Russian, time was of the essence. The next step already was in motion and could not be called back. To let that slip at this point in the negotiations, however, would be foolish. No one reaches the highest level of the Chinese Communist Party by being foolish.
For his part, President Scharanov knew that whatever decision he made would stand. Concluding this negotiation would be good for his great country. Many would not like it, he knew. They did not truly understand the issues facing Russia.
Scharanov looked down again at the map spread before the men. Various red lines criss-crossed it, lines crossed out and then re-drawn across other locations. The two men had been working for many hours.
Yes, he thought, this made sense. He pointed at the map, placing his finger on the line of a river.
“You want the Ob-Irtysh River line. I want the Yenisey line,” Scharanov said, pressing down on the map with an outstretched finger, looking up at Fang.
“You want the Ob-Irtysh money for the Yenisey line, Mr. President,” Fang replied. “That is not the offer.”
Scharanov lifted his finger. He sat back and looked his counterpart in the eye.
Fang said, “Is
