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Market Forces
By
Tim J. Vickers
Faruq al-Rashid crouched in the back of the pickup next to the squat, grey warhead and gripped his new AK-47 with shaking hands. He blinked sweat from his eyes. I must not fail, he prayed, I must not fail. The truck crashed through the barrier fence and swerved towards the taxiways. Directly ahead, the huge Hercules transport loomed over the concrete, just like in the briefing photos. These men were astounding, Faruq thought, their planning accurate down to the last detail. The truck shot up the plane’s loading ramp and stopped in its cavernous belly. Faruq stumbled to the rear, to guard the cargo bay door. Unlike the cowardly mercenaries, he wore no mask. He wanted to be remembered as the man who destroyed Cape Canaveral. The black-clad figures of his colleagues darted around him as the plane taxied onto the runway and gained speed. Faruq sprayed an occasional ill-aimed burst from his rifle at the airfield and screamed insults over the howl of the slipstream. As the plane gained height, Faruq felt a crushing blow to the back of his head. His vision blurred. Everything went black.
- - -
Dave jammed an Iranian passport into Faruq’s pocket and heaved his limp body out of the fuselage. The white dot plummeted through the air and tumbled onto the runway. Over the heavy rumble of the closing door, Dave shouted back towards the cockpit. “Frank, Chen, the patsy’s in place. Set course for the real target.”
He walked back to the truck and turned on the scrambled transceiver. “This is Earth Liberation Front 1… Operation Enforced Kyoto is go. We are clear of the airfield. Watch for oil prices shooting up in about thirty minutes.”
- - -
Keith Bannerman cut the receiver and grinned at the men around the table. “Our deniable environmentalists are airborne.” He waited for the chuckles to die down. “The news is about to hit the fan, guys. Get our candidate prepped with that ‘bomb them into the stone-age’ speech. I want dignified grief and righteous fury in time for the early-evening bulletins. The mullahs nuking Disneyworld, ten days before the primaries; it couldn’t be more perfect.”
Mr Steerson grunted and Keith looked at him attentively. When a platinum-level donor spoke, you listened. “How long Bannerman?”
“Twenty-five minutes, sir.”
Steerson nodded curtly, pulled out his cell phone and dialled, “Yes... All OK... In twenty minutes.”
- - -
Sir Markus put down the phone and turned to the other executives. “Our ‘disposable assets’ are in transit. The value of our South American oilfields and defense interests will be posting considerable gains in about twenty minutes. It’s going to be a seller’s market.” Smiling, he settled back into his chair. “If this goes as planned, gentlemen, I think we’ll make a killing”
In her anonymous cubicle downstairs, Li Xing listened to the tinny noise of the executives’ laughter over the radio bug. She turned off the earpiece and sent an encrypted e-mail to her contact. A few more keystrokes sent copies of the company’s passwords to its competitors and wiped her computer. Li then slipped on her coat, calmly walked out of the building and merged into the lunchtime crowds.
- - -
Inside the Hercules, the roar of the engines rose and fell as the plane bounced through turbulence. The magical kingdom was spread out below, glinting innocently in the clean midday sun.
“Four minutes guys. Arm the device.” Frank glanced over the instruments. The autopilot was locked, almost time for the parachutes.
Chen stepped quietly into the cockpit behind him. “Change of plan, sir.” His knife flashed into Frank’s neck.
Lieutenant-Colonel Chen settled into the co-pilot’s seat and re-read the ditching co-ordinates on his cell phone. After he’d sunk the plane in deep water, he was instructed to rendezvous with a freighter bound for Shanghai. The agent sighed; it would probably be a long night floating in a dingy. However, oil price stability was a vital part of the ten-year economic plan. His duty was clear; he would save Disneyworld for the Glorious Revolution.
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