Invasion USA Read online

A policeman, seeing the speeding car, recognized the driver as Prince Azeer Lal Qambar, so he breathed a quick prayer that no one would be injured, and he did nothing. It was not healthy to run afoul of the family that ruled Qambari Arabia.

  Azeer Lal Qambar was forced to slow down, and then come to a stop. There was a wreck a few blocks ahead, and all traffic had come to a standstill.

  Azeer honked his horn a few times, more in anger and frustration than any real belief that the traffic would become unsnarled. When the traffic remained at a standstill, Azeer became impatient, and he left the road and began driving down the sidewalk.

  Several sidewalk merchants had spent several minutes earlier in the day very carefully displaying their wares on colorful rugs. They watched in helpless and frustrated dismay as the royal prince drove over their merchandise, destroying much of their inventory.

  When Azeer reached the location of the wreck, he left the sidewalk and drove between the wrecked cars and the green crescent-marked ambulance that was there for the injured. Two EMTs were carrying an injured man on a stretcher, but when Azeer roared through, they had to drop the stretcher in order to get out of the way. Azeer skirted just around the dropped stretcher as he honked his horn impatiently, then sped away, leaving the traffic congestion behind him.

  When Azeer reached the palace, he was greeted by his father, the Sultan Jmal Nagib Qambar.

  “Azeer, I see that you are back from your vacation. I trust it was enjoyable?”

  “Yes, Father, it was very enjoyable,” Azeer replied.

  “I am glad you are here,” the Sultan said. “I want you to meet with the American ambassador. He is here to talk about your trip to America.”

  “Father, why do we not tell the Americans to leave Qambari Arabia?”

  “My dear son, without the Americans’ appetite for our oil, we would be nothing but another wandering tribe, trying to survive in the desert. We need the Americans, and they need us. It is like the lowly tickbird and the majestic camel. Neither likes the other, but neither can survive without the other.”

  “Which are we, Father? The tickbird, or the camel?” Azeer asked.

  Excusing himself, Azeer went into the office of foreign trade. He was the head of foreign trade, a position he occupied by appointment from his father. In truth, it was merely a position created for him. He knew nothing about foreign trade, didn’t understand such things as tariffs, or money exchange, or the balance of trade. He did know that, because of the oil, America bought a lot more from Qambari Arabia, than the QA bought from the U.S.

  It was an attempt, on the part of the U.S. government, to narrow the gap in trade that was the purpose of this meeting. The American ambassador was here to extend the formal invitation from his government.

  “Prince Azeer, how delightful to see you,” Ambassador James said, standing to greet Azeer as he entered. “You have been on vacation I hear.”

  “Yes,” Azeer said without elaboration.

  “I trust you had a good time?”

  “I had a very good time.”

  “Good, good,” Ambassador James said. He removed a folder from his briefcase. “Here is the official invitation from my government for you to make a fact-finding visit with regard to trading agreements. There are letters of introduction to everyone you might need to see, as well as pre-clearance for customs and that sort of thing.”

  “You are most kind,” Azeer said.

  Ambassador James grinned obsequiously. “In our fight against terror, we have had no better friend in the region than Qambari Arabia,” he said. “This is just a means of expressing our gratitude toward you and the Royal family.”

  “Thank you,” Azeer said. “I will walk you to door.”

  It was a dismissive comment and Ambassador James picked up on it at once. He started toward the door. “Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions about anything.”

  “I will,” Azeer replied. “As you said, the friendship between our two countries must be nourished.”

  As James started to leave, he saw a newspaper lying on the table by the door. Although the paper was printed in Arabic, the photo on the front page, above the fold, told the story. It showed the terrified face of a prisoner who was about to be beheaded. There were five hooded terrorists standing around him. Four were holding AK-47s, the fifth, behind him, was holding a knife.

  “I haven’t seen that news release,” Ambassador James said. “Would you read the caption to me?”

  “Of course,” Azeer replied. Picking up the paper, he began reading. “Bernie Gelb of Miami, Florida, an employee of Energy Resources, was beheaded yesterday by the Jihad of Allah. In a statement released by Jihad of Allah, it was stated that ‘the Jew was executed for crimes against Islam, the heresy of Zionism, and violating the people of Iraq by aiding the American invaders.’”

  “Invading? He was helping to restore electricity for the people of Iraq, for crying out loud,” the ambassador said.

  “Yes, but not all understand the benevolence of America,” Azeer replied, putting the paper back down.

  “A ghastly thing, to behead someone.”

  “Yes,” Azeer replied. “Much evil has been done by both sides in this war.”

  “How goes the investigation into the rape and murder of Amber Pease?”

  Ambassador James was referring to the daughter of Lieutenant Colonel Amon Pease, the commandant of the Marine guards of the American Embassy.

  “I am told that our police are working on the case,” Azeer replied. “These things take time.”

  “We have given you several good leads,” Ambassador James said.

  “We appreciate your help,” Azeer said. “But it will be necessary for our police to develop their case. I’m sure you know how it is.”

  “Yes,” James replied, suppressing his frustration. “I know exactly how it is.”

  Ambassador James left the meeting nearly boiling over with rage. There were eye-witness accounts as to who the rapist was, and those reports had been given to the government of Qambari Arabia, but they had done nothing about it. And, that was as far as he could go. He knew the United States’ relationship with Qambari Arabia was a delicate one. It was his understanding of just how delicate it was, that earned him this appointment.

  Redhi, Qambari Arabia

  The markings on the side of the yellow bus read, in both English and Arabic: AMERICAN DEPENDENT SCHOOL.

  There were eleven students on the bus, ranging in age from six years to sixteen. All were children of the American employees and servicemen attached to the embassy. Fourteen-year-old Amber Pease had been a part of the group until six weeks ago, when she was kidnapped, raped and murdered.

  Amber had not been taken from the bus, but as a precaution, a U.S. Marine now rode the bus with the students from the embassy quarters to their school in the morning, and from the school to their quarters in the late afternoon.

  It was late afternoon now, and the children were all returning from the school, laughing and teasing with each other, looking forward to the weekend that was coming up. An embassy party was planned, not only for the adults, but also for the kids, and the party was the subject of speculation and conversation.

  “We’re supposed to have a surprise,” eleven-year-old Tamara Gooding said. Tamara’s father was an attaché to the embassy. “I wonder what it will be.”

  “I know,” Terry Goodpasture said. “It’s the new Harry Potter movie.”

  “No way! It hasn’t even come out yet!”

  “Way! We’re getting it early.”

  Two blocks away a man sat at a sidewalk café drinking a cup of coffee. When he saw the school bus approaching, he opened his cell phone, dialed a number, and pushed send. He had done this many times before, in order to be able to time when the signal would get through to the phone he was calling.

  He heard the other number ring, one short ring, just as the bus passed a kiosk. At that instant, a huge ball of fire erupted from the kiosk. The blast ripped into the
side of the bus. By the time the sound of the blast reached him, and the others at the sidewalk café, the bus had overturned. Fire and oily smoke roiled up from the wreckage.

  Smiling, he closed the telephone and walked away.

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2006 by William W. Johnstone

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-1808-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Pinnacle and the P logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.