The Oil Fields Are Burning

[Kylan]

New York City, New York

“The question is,” Director Mark Clevenger said pacing at the head of the conference table, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up passed thick forearms, “Is when to strike. Obviously the public isn't ready for this yet. It will never be ready. If we hopped onto the market band-wagon today, right now, we'd be crushed. It doesn't matter that our technology is superior. The bastards at the IU would do what they've been doing for twenty years. ” Clevenger bent forward and pounded his fist on the table, “Destroy the opposition over night.”

The twenty-seven board members and majority shareholders of SoftFuel sitting around the mahogany conference table were silent. Impassive. The director was right. He was always right. Mark Clevenger was the Napoleon of corporate tacticians and the shareholders respected him for that. Business was a game of chess for him. He made his moves with the entire game board in view and already analyzed. Clevenger knew what he was talking about. The director didn't need yes-men and he didn't need no-men. He needed a sounding board. That's why they were there: for him to bounce ideas off of.

Clevenger eased into his chair and quietly poured a cup of coffee. Screw the doctor. Screw decaf, he thought to himself as he drank deeply from the mug. And screw my heart palpitations. Caffeine would be necessary today. Making plans for a war was tiring stuff. Clevenger knew.

He set the mug down and massaged his temples. “Something has to be done. If we ever want our fuel cells available to the world, something needs to be done. And none of this 'government sponsorship' crap. We need to take matters into our own hands. You know how much money we've got collecting dust and interest right now? One point six billion. We can do practically anything with that much money.” He took another sip of coffee, “But even with all that cash we still can't stop the Iranian Unity from crushing us. No one can. People broke apart OPEC only to have Iran go all expansionist and take over every middle eastern country with major oil wells within it's border in the Oil Wars. Now the middle east is the Iranian Unity. Therefore they own over half of the world's oil. We all thought OPEC was bad. This is much worse. They control the oil market. They have a bona fide monopoly going on. Anytime that a new fuel source or oil retrieval technique comes into play, the IU lowers their prices dirt cheap and no one wants to buy the more expensive energy source. So that company goes out of business. And then the oil prices shoot right back up without the competition. Classic. This will happen to us when we market our fuel cells. Why wouldn't it?”

Clevenger rose back to his feet – mug in hand – and made his way over to the wall window over looking the chaotic streets of New York. The cars were like ants – skittering around downtown frantically, going here, running there - and he was a giant. A single foot could smash them all. Smiling at the comparison, Clevenger watched his reflection in the glass, “Can anyone tell me what they would do in a situation like this?” Silence. Of course not. He was the one who sat at the head of a table. He was the one who ran a company. He was the multimillionaire. How should they know? “No takers? Well, I know what I would do.” Clevenger turned around and drained his mug, “Fight. Fight for supremacy. Destroy the UAE.”

Marty Mather, a majority shareholder of his, snorted, “Is that coffee Irish? Get ahold of yourself, Mark. The IU's a country. We are a company. How would we fight the richest country in the world? We have no military. We have no ambassadors. No treaties. Nothing.” Murmurs of agreement passed around the table.

Clevenger smiled, “Money can buy any gun,”

“I'm really hoping you meant that figuratively, Mark.” Mather said.

Clevenger's smile only broadened.

“You mean you want us to attack the IU. With guns and bombs?” Tim Brody, another shareholder said incredulously, “I thought I'd never say this. You're insane.”

“In the battle of Thermopylae, three hundred spartan soldiers killed twenty thousand Persian invaders-”

“I don't want a history lecture, Mark. This is different.”

“Not really.”

“Really.” Mather returned, “Besides, every spartan at Thermopylae was slaughtered. So they killed a couple thousands of Persians before they died-”

“Even if we 'died', Marty, the world would be a better place. No more monopoly. Fair fuel prices.”

Marty rolled his eyes, “Don't give me this 'for the good of mankind' crap. You're not a hero, Mark. None of us are. We're survivors. We're exploiters. We're businessmen. We steal from the poor and kill babies. It's just what we do.”

Clevenger turned back towards the window and continued to watch the flood of taxis circle around SoftFuel's base. He knew what was best for the company. He knew his one-chance-in-a-million plan would work. It had to work. This would be the takeover of a lifetime. It didn't matter what Board members said. It was by his sweat, his blood, his back that SoftFuel was formed. He wasn't crazy. He was a visionary. Corporate war. He smiled at the thought. There was a first time for anything. SoftFuel would survive.

Like a father, Clevenger knew what was right for his baby.

“Do any of you know what the fuel market is worth right now? Do you know how much money the UAE brings in every year. There's a reason why they are the richest country in the world. Oil really is black gold.” He paused, waiting for them to answer his rhetorical question.

“Seven trillion dollars, boys. Seven thousand billion. Every year.”

The sounding board was silent.

“Do you realize that if our fuel cells got a fair chance in the world market, the flow would be re-directed from the IU's treasury and we would be the ones earning that nest egg?” He shook his head. The shareholders held their breath behind him. Seven trillion. A lot of money. Each of them silently wondered what he or she would do with a slice of such a sum. A company of their own. An island. A yacht. No, make that three. Whatever Clevenger had in mind suddenly didn't seem so crazy. He was right.

As always.

“But how would we do it,” Marty said, shaking his head, “Thermopylae is one thing. The Iranian Unity is quite another.”

“Not really.”

“Enlighten us, boss. What could you possibly have in mind?”

Mark Clevenger returned to his seat at the head of the table. “What is said at this table, stays at this table. There is no talking about this to spouses. Not to reporters. Not to your kids. Not to your dog. If anyone doesn't have the guts to follow through with what I order from this point on should leave now and had might as well sell his shares. Because he is not on this board anymore.” Clevenger eyed the group, waiting. Waiting for the weak to leave. Tim Brody sighed and stood.

“You're crazy, Mark. This is crazy. I don't know what the hell you're thinking.” He fingered his briefcase for a moment, eyebrows arched, looking at the director in disbelief. He shrugged and headed for the door, “I'm out.” Chairs scraped across the granite tiling and two other men followed Tim. Four more left the table. Another three. Seventeen board members left.

Clevenger stared at them expectantly, “Anyone else?”

Silence.

No one else.

“Good,” He said shortly, “You are the lucky ones. I'm about to tell you how a seventeen men can break down the richest country on the planet and earn several trillion dollars while they're at it.” Clevenger poured another cup of coffee, smirking at the smell. Good, caffeinated stuff. He would need it.

“Like I said,” he grinned, sipping his coffee, “The question is when to strike.”

****

Tenancingo, Mexico

In a swift erratic jump, the red-tailed hawk caught the vole; wings outstretched, eyes gleaming. Fresh meat. The small animal wriggled in the hawk's talon, squealing. It's small furry body was arched in pain, head twisting, limbs flapping like some obscene rag doll's. Save me, it seemed to scream. To this the hawk replied, No hope. No hope. Tightening it's claws as the bird prepared to fly, the red-tail shattered the vole's bone system in it's vice grip.

And emotionless, the hawk shrieked and took flight.

Ali Kemal watched the hunt with a smile, sitting on a small bench outside of the dusty catholic church, overlooking a near-empty streetway with several cars and bicycles parked along the side. All dusty. Everything was dusty here. Everything was washed-out. Like an old western movie. Dull colors, bad actors. Normally, these dusty western roads would have been filled with sweaty boys playing soccer, or sweaty men playing cards, or sweaty women buying food. But it was empty this morning during mass. Everyone was sitting in the church behind him. Undoubtedly, making the pews dusty.

So Ali closed his eyes and replayed the hunt. It had been beautiful. Exquisite: the way the little animal had arched it's spine in death. The pain that had resonated from the vole was like a high to him. Nature's cocaine. The blood that had welled up beneath the talons, the bones that had broken, the frantic screams. The whole package. For Ali, there was something irresistible about another person's pain. Intriguing and mysterious. But beautiful. Always beautiful. Death was like a dance, but their was no pattern, no specific moves. Impromptu. Like a painting, like a poem. Ali shuddered as he imagined the vole in his clutch, squeezing it slowly, so that the life and the pain oozed out. It felt good. He felt ten feet tall. Turned on by the silent screams.

I am the hawk.

And for that reason, I am trapped in this sleepy Mexican town, surrounded by oblivious farmers, staying my hand, waiting. Ali Kemal was always waiting. Waiting for a job. Waiting to exercise his talents. His passion. Each and every day, he waited to play the part of the grim reaper again. And waltz to the seductive dance of dying. In this town, for these people, Ali put on a mask. The mask of a rich but quiet Turkish eccentric. They didn't know his real face was a skull.

I am the hawk.

Footsteps thudded on the veranda planking as a man came up beside him and leaned against the church wall. Ali did not look up at him. There was silence for several moments as the both of them stared out into the road.

And then the man asked, shoving a box of camels at Ali, “Cigarette?”

Quietly, Ali accepted a cigarette, pulled a lighter from his own pocket and lit up. Without a word. Without looking at the man's face.

Some more silence.

“Did you hear the Cubs and the Yanks played last Saturday?” The man finally asked.

“Really? What was the score?”

“It was a tie.”

Ali smiled to himself and pulled on the cigarette. A job. Finally. “You may sit down, Mr. Clevenger. It's been a long time.”`

“The hell it has,” Mark Clevenger said taking a seat on the bench. He glanced around the street and church, “Nice place you chose. Quiet. Obscure. Hard to find. Had to go through seven people to get to you.”

Ali frowned, “Seven? That's all.”

“It's enough. Trust me.”

“Tell that to Interpol.”

Clevenger shrugged and tapped out his own cigarette, “I have a job for you, Kemal.”

“Ah, like the good old days.”

“Not like the good old days. This project will be the biggest, highest paying you will have ever taken on.”

Kemal smiled. A challenge. “Try me, Mr. Clevenger.”

Mark told him his plan. As he ended, a choir began to sing in the church behind them. The faint Spanish found it's way out the open double doors as Kemal brooded in silence. What Clevenger had in mind was crazy. The ten SoftFuel board members may have been right to walk out.

But I am the hawk.

“Will it work?”

“That, my friend, is up to you. If you choose to accept, that is.”

“How will it work? The politics of all this is beyond me.”

Clevenger took a drag on his cigarette and tapped the ashes off with a flick. “When the IU invaded three quarters of the Middle East in the Oil Wars, it was solely for profit. They recognized the massive income that forty or so oil fields could generate. They recognized they could become a world power over night. They wanted to expand. The IU also had the guts and the means to pull it off. Iraq fell, Kuwait fell, Oman fell, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Egypt. Anywhere that there was a drop of oil, they took. But that left numerous smaller unconquered countries scattered all around there borders: Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, the UAE, Yemen, Armenia -”

“Old news, Mr. Clevenger. Get to the point.”

“Patience, my friend. You of all people should know that.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“The same one that dumped you in the streets at five? Words of wisdom, alright.”

Ali only smiled.

“Anyway. It was only until recently that the IU decided they wanted a united Islam. A united Caliphate. One whole middle east. More expansion. They have called on the unconquered countries to hold a referendum in order to join their Unity.” Mark grinned and blew out a cloud of smoke, “But who would want to join those controlling bastards? Half of the unconquered countries refused to hold a referendum, and the other half had their citizens vote, but the proposal failed anyway. The IU is a dictatorship. The other countries saw as much. But now the IU is angry and is prepared to take the countries by force. Tempers are flaring. The atmosphere is tense. There's already been a bombing outside of an IU embassy in Armenia. The middle east is ripe for another war.”

The church-goers stopped singing. Ali flicked his camel into the street and sat back.

Clevenger continued, “To make matters worse, there's a man – Mustafa Sabradan: charismatic, rich, a wonderful speaker – who's come out of the wood work and is vigilantly preaching against the IU. He claims they're as bad as America, that they've adopted consumerism as their God. He's pretty much painting the IU as the devil himself. And he's wildly popular; practically all of Islam agrees with him. Thousands of people attend his public speakings. The Muslim public wants him as a Caliph to rule the middle east, not some power hungry oil sheik from the IU.” Mark stared at a wooden carving of the Virgin Mary above the church doors, hands crossed in front of her breast, face serene. “And that, Kemal, is where you come in. By assassinating Sabradan, the non-Unity Muslims will automatically assume that it was the IU who killed their precious leader. They will strike back. Sabradan operated out of Amman, Jordan and he and his members hold open conferences every Thursday evening. As soon as Sabradan is killed his followers will convene and discuss...the turn of events. You will be there that night and suggest the burning of the oil fields.”

“Starting a war. That is new.”

“A necessary war.”

Ali frowned, “It all seems so unreliable. So risky. It would be very easy for the project to fail.”

“Either way, you get a sizable pay check.” Clevenger paused., “Will you take the job?”

Ali Kemal glanced around the veranda and street. The sleepy Mexican town of Tenancingo. How he would miss it. “Of course. Expect Sabradan to be in the headlines by the weekend. And by monday morning the oil fields will be burning.”

Clevenger nodded and stood, straightening his jacket, “How can I contact you?”

“You can't.” Ali winked, “Too many bugs in the system. I'll contact you.”

The church bells rang – loud and reverberating – and a reedy organ started up inside the church. Like water behind a broken dam, the church-goers immediately began filing out - dusty, as always - and ignored the American stranger and the Turkish eccentric on the bench beside them. Too taken up by the spirit.

Mark shrugged and nodded again at Ali Kemal, “Good luck.” And without another word he promptly spun on his heel and disappeared around the side of the church.

Ali stared off into space, frowning to himself. Had he really just agreed to take that job? The project was madness: anyone in his line of work would have known that. Clevenger was foolish to the point of being insane. One man, one company could not start a war. Ali stood and made his way home to pack. But he was not so sure anymore. Clevenger had so much ambition. And his “perfect storm” scenario seemed as if it could possibly work. Besides, Ali thought, this was a chance to slake his thirst. To waltz the dance of death. To create beauty in ending a life. And it was beautiful. Always beautiful.

Ali was nodding now. Yes, this could work. He would make this work. In making his way through those seven contacts, Clevenger had been right to choose Ali Kemal for his war-starting. He was right to choose Kemal in altering history. To choose him to kill and enjoy the killing.

Because I am no ordinary assassin.

I am the hawk.

Part 1 of 3

[wackyacky]

i read it really liked it. characters are very believeable looking forward to the next part

[Jelax]

Sounds a lot like Tom Clancy, who happens to be one of my favorite authors. Its thick with real-world politics and is very intriguing. It will be interesting to see where this goes.