The Saudi Oil Gambit

By Reginald Nelson

If only you knew what a scary place the world can be...

A Saudi terrorist cell is plotting to bring America to its knees. They have their hands on a nuclear device and they want to cripple our oil reserves to keep America needing Middle E

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647538538

Reginald Nelson

Reginald Nelson is a pen name, an alter ego and the hero of this book series. The character development of Reggie involves similarities to the actual author. He is a dentist and a pilot. The similarities between the author and his alter ego pretty much end there. The author loves sports, especially pickleball and skiing. His hobbies include model ship building and woodworking. The author is happily married. He and his wife love international travel, reading great novels and writing. This is the third book in the INCISOR series involving Reginald Nelson, his best friend Ashonte' Black, Lance Wood and their wives.

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PROLOGUE

THE ALASKAN WILDERNESS

There was a frigid chill piercing through the night air. The bitter cold was beginning to penetrate through his heavy coat and into his bones. Carl pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Leaning back on a smooth, icy-cold boulder, he marveled at the effects created by his fire as the flames danced into the ink black night. He loved sitting around a remote campfire, worlds away from any hint of civilization, and watching the campfire perform for him - and only him. Carl paused for a moment to take in his surroundings and wonder at his new found luck. He had finished dinner and would be turning in soon. The warmth of his sleeping bag would keep him comfortable throughout the night. As Carl took in the dark and forbidding surrounding, he pondered his past.

From the age of eighteen Carl always wanted to fight. He had enlisted in the armed forces at his first opportunity after his birthday. He first thought that he would spend his life fighting for his country, the good old U.S. of A. He loved the army. He loved the discipline. He loved the training. Most of all he loved the toys.

The army trained him to be a one man killing machine. Living with pain was to become a natural part of his life. From freezing cold climes to the scorching heat of the desert and all the atmospheres in between, Carl could cope and blend in like a chameleon. These were some of the survival skills he had learned. The army seemed to have an endless supply of advanced and exotic weaponry that was placed easily at his disposal. With his Special Forces designation, Carl felt like he had a license to kill and so many ways to affect that kill.

When he had time to think, all of his myriad avenues of reaping death on a foe would be boggling to most minds. So many times, though, there was no time for thought. Instinct…and decisive action…is what made him so lethal. He was the best at his craft. He was so happy.

Then, the unthinkable happened. A left-wing oriented Executive Branch of the government was elected by the people. Carl’s Commander-In-Chief quickly moved to reduce the size of the military and cut off the toys. With no active overt foe, it was easy for the President to propose reductions in the number of fighting men and women, and to propose budgetary restrictions on the weaponry.

Carl felt like his world had been torn from around him. The army was the only life he had known as an adult. It was safe to operate within the structure that was the army. He had the sense that he was being shelved like so many of the toys he had come to love. All of the indicators told him to get out, but what was he to do? Carl only understood and excelled in one art – killing.

He did what so many of his comrades in arms did. He resigned his commission and became a mercenary…selling his elite skills to the highest bidder. Unlike the army of the United States, these budding armies were ragtag forces – sometimes children – forced to fight for bully dictators with no military background or skill. These forces often fought against unclear or undetermined foes. But the dictators all seemed to have an endless cache of money. Where’d all that cash come from?

Carl attempted to stay above whatever the conflict of the day was and only focus on the killing task at hand. He was the best at his job! He continued to excel as the number of dead attributed to his handiwork climbed.

There weren’t always wars that interested Carl, so he would advertise his services in specialty publications that catered to the displaced men of war. He would also find job offers in these rags. Often the work was beneath his level and ability, but the money was good.

This job was one of those…

The ad in the Soldier of Fortune magazine claimed that good money could be had for only a month long commitment. It talked about the need for wilderness and survival skills in an extremely cold environment. Carl found himself intrigued as he re-read the advertisement. There was a PO box to send in a resume’. He wrote to them and waited for a response.

The response came in the form of a phone call. He was ordered to appear at a particular location and time. Carl was quite taken aback because his telephone number was unlisted. These must be powerful people to have tracked him down and to have found his unlisted phone number.

Carl appeared at the appointed time and place to find a deserted storefront in an equally empty, ramshackle neighborhood. The adjacent facades looked like they had seen many functional years, but those years were a long, long time ago. Now this block looked ready for the bulldozer and wrecking ball. Carl had a thought that it would be kind to put these old buildings out of their misery…as he had done with so many human lives.

A light above the door only came on five minutes before he was due to report. It was the only light on the block. Carl knew this because he had arrived early and had thoroughly ‘cased’ the block for any possible traps set for him. As he entered the building, the light over the door went out. Unless there were others watching – and he had seen no one – nobody would have seen any human activity on that particular block that night.

Once inside, he was ushered through the dark to a back room. One dimly lit bulb hung over a square table and two chairs. The chair facing him was occupied by a man who identified himself as Joe. Carl doubted that the name was accurate because Joe had very dark skin and heavy facial hair which was jet black. He guessed that the man was from the Middle East, but origin did not matter. Money did! Joe had two other men with him, the man who had met him at the door and another. They took up positions at Joe’s shoulders. Carl sized up the men and planned a defense in his head – if it would become necessary.

Carl took the other chair and an envelope was slid over in front of him. Joe then explained the job. Carl was to appear at the Anchorage, Alaska airport on April 14th, rent an SUV and drive to the spot indicated on a map in the envelope. He was then to hike five days into the wilderness area known as the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. There would be a campsite, also indicated on the map. The campsite would be fully stocked with three week’s worth of food and water, and other necessary supplies.

If Carl had cared to do his homework, he would have discovered that the wilderness area into which he was to hike and camp was located adjacent to the National Petroleum Reserve on Alaska’s North Slope. The amount of oil available in this one reserve would end America’s dependence on foreign oil.

Carl was to establish the campsite and then take the next ten days to dig a hole ten feet deep by six feet wide. No power tools were allowed…the hole must be dug out by hand. On the 29th of April a package would arrive by air and be lowered into the hole. Carl would then have ten days to fill in the hole, dismantle the campsite and hide any evidence that humans had been present at the campsite. He then had five days to depart, find the SUV, return to the airport and disappear.

For his troubles Carl was to receive $100,000.00. That amount of money seemed ridiculous to Carl for what they were asking him to accomplish. He was to go on a one month camping trip, dig a hole and fill it in and receive more money than he ever made in a year! Nobody was even to be killed! He was still contemplative, wondering what the ‘catch’ was, when half the money, $50,000.00 in unmarked $100’s, $50’s and $20’s was slid under his nose. A promise of the other half of the money, paid upon completion of the mission and return to this location on May 15th at the appointed time, was all Carl needed to ‘seal the deal’.

Now, as he sat in front of the fire, Carl marveled at the ease of this job. The flight, the car drive, the hike and digging the hole had all gone off like clockwork. The hole lay off in the distance with a GPS locator at the bottom of the hole. The peaceful silence of the desolate night was shattered when Carl heard a ‘thump, thump, thump’ sound in the distance. A sound he had encountered many times in combat. It was the telltale sound of an approaching helicopter. As it neared, Carl recognized the sound imprint of a Russian Mi – 24 Hind Krokodil attack helicopter made famous in the Russian – Afghan war. The copter was a marvel as an attack platform and conjured fear in all who heard its approach. Carl jumped to his feet and looked skyward with trepidation. There was no moonlight to silhouette any flying shape that night. His mind knew that there was to be a delivery by air but he did not know by what vehicle. He instinctively reached for his sidearm and scrambled for cover as the helicopter hovered overhead. It stayed motionless for a brief period, and then was quickly gone with the thump, thump, thump receding in his ears.

The black sky and absence of running lights on the helicopter didn’t allow for any visual contact. The event over, night and its normal sounds closed in around Carl. He let out a long sigh of relief and holstered the weapon. He expected a fitful night of sleep from this interruption.

The next morning Carl began the task of filling in the hole. As he peered into the hole he spied a wooden crate with Cyrillic symbology on the outside. With no command of the Russian language Carl wasn’t in a position to translate a single word. Had he been able to interpret the wording, the mission would never have been completed. Carl, ex-army Special Forces, never would have allowed a nuclear warhead to be placed on American soil. He could not fathom why anybody would care to bury anything in this cold wilderness area. But he also knew that he wasn’t being paid to understand. Only to complete the mission at hand with no questions asked.

As it was, Carl finished his task. He was always good at following orders. He returned at the appointed date and time to claim his other half of the money. He was paid and spent the next few weeks enjoying his small fortune for only a month’s worth of effort and looking forward to his next ‘gig’. Maybe the next job would involve killing…

PART I

CHAPTER

1

I am a den tist.

For those of you still reading, there is something strong to be said about your fortitude! Dentists never make the top ten lists of the world’s favorite people. We conjure up feelings of fear and loathing in many individuals, some of whom have never even had a dental visit! So, if you are still with me, welcome to my story. I hope to paint for you a better image than was displayed in Marathon Man or Little Shop of Horrors.

I have been a dentist for over thirty years. The lion’s share of those years have been spent being what society created. I worked the typical four day week that doctors work, made an above average income (many considered me wealthy…I did not) and suffered from one of the three ramifications which my profession wears as its badge of courage.

Dentists are said, as a profession, to have the highest rate of alcoholism, suicide and divorce of any of the professions. Physicians, as a group, struggle with alcoholism and prescription drug abuse. Other professional groups have their downfalls, but for now I want to focus on my profession. Many pundits claim various reasons for these sequelae attached to dentistry. I feel that it is because we are constantly violating a person’s personal space, to be able to work in their mouths. Also, dentists work, every day, on people who have fear in their eyes. Even a ‘good’ visit is uncomfortable. Just try lying on your back and holding your mouth open for an hour. Did you like it? Of course, not. The classic statement I have heard for thirty years now is, Nothing against you, Doc, but I hate you!

The part of my life that succumbed to my profession was my first marriage. My childhood sweetheart, and my hometown honey, became a whole bunch of other adjectives besides ‘sweetheart’ and ‘honey’. As that first marriage moved on in years, she became unbending, unyielding and just downright mean. In fact, the worst of all of the invectives that can be conjured up, no matter how base, that are aimed at ex-wives are truly appropriate and accurate this time, with this woman. The divorce was twenty years ago. She has made my children and me pay ever since, and there is no end in sight!

I am now in my mid fifties. I have paid the price of a mostly sedentary life, because I am seated while I work on patients, and find myself overweight and out of shape. I want to lose thirty pounds to regain the fighting physique I had in my twenties. A patient of mine stopped me after we finished his dental procedure and said, Reggie, I mean Dr. Nelson, did you know that there’s a new gym, offering some martial arts classes. Do you still do that? He had remembered me talking about karate at a previous visit.

My mind carried me back many years to high school. I have only lost one fight…ever. Early in my sophomore year a ‘punk’ was talking badly to a girl, and making her cry. I told him to stop. He then turned on me, wailing with both fists. No warning. I ducked my head down and let him pound on the top of my skull until he was finished. The scene reminded me of television broadcasts of golden glove boxing events, where they seem to throw hundreds of punches at each other with no ill effects. The top of my head was just fine, and if there was anything to hurt it would be his hands from punching the top of my head, and my ego because I was not prepared for this attack. He finished punching the top of my head and left, I straightened up and went about the school day, as if nothing had happened, and swore to myself that I would never be caught defenseless like that, again.

Our family gathered every evening during the school week for dinner around a large round kitchen table. My two younger brothers and I told about our days at school. I explained to mom and dad about the attack at school. I asked them about self-defense classes. My parents were amenable to karate classes, once they heard about my day and the attack. My father told me that he had two insurance agents working for him who taught self defense at night at a particular karate school in town. I joined that school because of these two instructors that my father knew. I hadn’t studied about the different martial arts styles – Japanese vs. Chinese – or about the different martial arts practices – Judo vs. Jujitsu vs. Aikido vs. Karate - but I learned later that I had picked wisely for me.

The Japanese philosophy of combat is to counter your enemy’s energy – or ‘Chi’ - by a direct defense against their assault, and that your energy, because of your superior training, will overcome your opponent’s energy. The Chinese philosophy is to redirect the energy of your foe, analyze its strengths, weaknesses and vulnerability and then to mount a counter attack to subdue your attacker. The school I joined taught a Kenpo style of karate with strong southern Chinese influence. The style involves rapid-fire moves, combined together in succession, that are designed to overwhelm your opponent. The style of karate is derived from kung fu and other martial arts found in the cultural melting pot of Hawaii. The concept of redirecting your opponent’s attack, studying his weaknesses and then mounting your counter attack made sense to my way of thinking.

All students begin as white belts, learning basic punching and kicking moves, then learning to put the moves together into choreographed sequences called Katas. The lessons involved defensive techniques because karate is not to be used for aggression. I loved learning and advanced rapidly. I found that I was soon fighting competitively – Komite. By my senior year in high school I was a third degree Brown Belt and the Rocky Mountain Komite champion. I was the best competitive fighter in a six state region! Once that word got out, nobody messed with me. Only once, on a date, was I even approached and confronted. A group of six Hispanic thugs sauntered up to us, while we were walking along a downtown Denver sidewalk after attending a movie in one of Denver’s old, grand theaters. The two of us were recounting scenes in the movie and our different views of the actors. We were talking about going to a local diner for a late night snack. My date didn’t even see the approaching gang, but the hairs on the back of my neck were beginning to prickle, and I knew that they were up to no good. The obvious leader of the gang of six, acting all tough and mean, planted himself right in front of me, and poked at my chest with his finger. He demanded my wallet and ‘the wench’, leering at my date. I looked over the gang of six and quickly assessed that the others were obviously following his lead. I took him out with one ‘whipping branch’ punch to his temple. He crumpled to the pavement, and the others scattered – melting into the night. One punch – no sweat! Watching the thugs run away, I realized that, even though these Denver gangs travelled in packs, most of them were cowards. The word also quickly spread at my high school about my encounter, and anyone who thought about messing with me chose instead to give me a wide berth.

Once I became a Brown Belt, I taught some karate courses – mainly to overweight businessmen and to my fraternity brothers in college. After my freshman year in college I dropped any efforts to continue my training in the martial arts.

Now, with a patient reminding me of my past exploits, I realized that it had been over thirty years since I had thought about or used karate in any venue. The last time I ever used a karate move was during my junior year in college. I was privileged to attend an Ivy League school in Hanover, New Hampshire. I went there to race for the school on the ski slopes. Downhill racing was my specialty in high school, but growing up in Colorado, I was spoiled. The snow in Colorado is the best in the world. The snowfall in New England never amounts to much, and turns to icy conditions very rapidly. Bottom line – I, and many of the racers I knew from the Colorado circuit, could not handle the ice on the ski slopes of the mountains in New England. The maintenance crews at the Dartmouth Skiway would actually water down a race course the night before a big race, so that the snow/ice pack would last through the 125 racers that competed on race day. I quickly left the Ski Team and chose, instead, to head up the Ski Patrol for the three winter seasons I lived in Hanover and attended college.

My Ski Patrol legacy was that I handled the only death at the Dartmouth Skiway. A Hanover High racer was training without his helmet (the racers were required to wear helmets in competition but not for training). He caught a slalom pole with his ski tip, rapidly spun around backwards, caught an edge, fell backward and whipped his head on the ice at a very high rate of speed. The first patrolman on the scene radioed to me at the top of the mountain. I jumped into my skis and whisked down the slopes with a toboggan in tow. When I arrived at the accident scene, it looked like the victim’s head had been caved in on the side that had impacted the ice, and he was only taking a reflex breath every 20 – 35 seconds. This is called agonal breathing, which is caused by cerebral ischemia. This is a telltale sign that the brain is not functioning. I immediately began CPR. My Ski Patrol partner and I placed the high school student into the toboggan that I had brought to the accident site. I continued administering CPR, while my partner steered the toboggan down off of the mountain. I had to walk down the mountain backwards in my ski boots, administering CPR to this youngster in the toboggan, while we removed him from the slope and delivered him to the ambulance. The ride out to the Skiway from Hanover is twenty minutes, and the ambulance had already arrived by the time we exited the slope. That will give you a sense of how long it took us to get down the mountain. I had never experienced such sheer exhaustion, and literally collapsed in the snow when the paramedics took over at the bottom of the hill. They transferred the high school youngster to their gurney and placed him in the back of the ambulance, while continuing the CPR that I had begun. The ambulance rushed off and sped its way to Hitchcock Memorial hospital, in Hanover. The high schooler didn’t make it, and was declared dead after attempts were made at the hospital to save him.

The emergency room physician told me later, at the coroner’s inquiry, that the impact had not caved in the side of the young man’s head as I had thought, but had actually blown the high schooler’s brain out the other side of his skull so as to expand the bones outward. He said that the impact had to be tremendous to cause that type of trauma, and that there was nothing that anybody could have done to save him. The hospital did not declare the youth as DOA at Hanover Memorial, so I and my Ski Patrol team were off the hook. Helmets became mandatory at all times for all of the high school racers in New England, after that incident. It is so often a tragic occurrence that promotes positive change.

Back to my last use of karate. One weekend during my junior year, I found myself without a date all weekend long, and behind in organic chemistry. I took the weekend off from partying, and was studying in my dorm room on a Saturday night. Usually this was unheard of. There were always parties at Bones Gate fraternity and the beer flowed freely. Bones Gate was founded in 1806 as a secret pugilist society, in which the brothers would gather weekly to spar and drink gin, which was banned from the college at the time. In 1901 the group joined Delta Tau Delta, a national fraternal order. It now had legitimacy and was included with the other eligible fraternities that occupied the outlying buildings around the campus. In 1960, the local chapter split from the national order because of its continuing policy barring membership of minorities. In 1962 the Gamma Gamma chapter of Delta Tau Delta became Bones Gate, once again, as a tribute to all the members who had were killed in all major American wars since 1929, including two whose remains are sealed in the concrete foundation of the house. The house was a rundown, three story New England manor home that had seen much better days and always smelled of stale beer. A passerby might call it a dump, but I loved my fraternity house, and most of the brothers who belonged. I would have lived in the house if I could have, but no beds were available. The structure underwent a major reconstruction in 2005 to bring it up to the minimum standards established by the College. I love the motto of the fraternity: This Gate Hangs High and Hinders None. Refresh, Enjoy and Travel On.

I matriculated into the last all male class at Dartmouth College. Women were plentiful on the weekends but scarce during the week. Many Dartmouth men had no clue how to treat women and Fast Eddy was one of these morons. Eddy was one of the fraternity brothers that I did not like.

I had seen Eddy and his girlfriend at several Bones Gate parties. He was always with the same girl, even though we had never been introduced. I assumed that they were heavily involved and the other guys left her alone. I couldn’t understand why such an attractive girl would want to be with Eddy. She was beautiful…and he was not! Fast Eddy also had a short temper and I didn’t approve of the way he would raise his voice to her, when they would be sitting in one of the booths in the fraternity basement, but I never said anything to him about his awful behavior. It was easier to ignore them and listen to a Rolling Stones tune blaring from the jukebox and watch the couples dancing next to the bar, or the antics at the beer pong table. This particular weekend was to be very different.

Toward midnight, his date came screaming down our dorm hallway and in through my open door. She cried that Eddy was going to kill her. I didn’t question how she got from the frat house to the third floor of my dorm. She was shaking, and crying from her toes. Through her sobs she related how a drunken Fast Eddy had literally chased her out of the fraternity and into the woods behind the house. He had fallen and she was able to run and barely escape his frenzy. She was so afraid of him that she had run out without her coat and purse.

I put down my books and attempted to comfort her. After a time, she eventually calmed down and I agreed to escort her back through the woods from my Lord Hall dorm room to the fraternity house so that she could retrieve her things. As we were walking, Fast Eddy came screaming through the forest, claiming that he would knock her head off! I pushed her off to the side and faced Eddy. He had a wild, crazed look in his eyes. I turned sideways in a protecting stance and then said, One step toward Trisha and I will put you down.

Eddy reached to the ground and grabbed a small branch that was lying, fallen by his feet. He then screamed, I’ll kill you! and attacked me, swinging the branch at my head. My karate training was such that, if I was attacked with a weapon and felt threatened with death, I was to respond with deadly force and kill the attacker. That thought briefly went through my mind, but I let it go. I quickly disarmed Eddy, breaking his arm in the process and with one punch to his solar plexus left him wheezing for breath, collapsed and writhing on the ground in pain and trying to cry out. He needed air in his lungs to be able to scream. Because of the blow, Fast Eddy could not take in a breath.

Trisha was afraid to continue on to the fraternity house and wished to return to my dorm room. I escorted her back through the forest to the dormitory. Once we got back, we sat on the couch as my adrenaline surge began to ebb from my body and my nerves calmed. Unexpectedly, Trisha reached over and kissed me, saying, You saved me from Eddy! Nobody has ever stopped him before.

I said, Its okay now – he won’t be around anymore tonight. We kissed some more and I sensed an urgency in Trisha as her kisses became more ardent – more exploring.

She suddenly stood up from the couch. I want to stay here tonight, Trisha exclaimed, and headed for the bathroom. I naively expected that Trisha simply felt safe in my room and that she’d stay on the couch. I began to unpack a pillow and blankets from their storage space next to the couch so that I could make up the sofa bed. As I was preparing the couch for our visitor, Trisha came out of the bathroom in only a bra and panties. I noticed that the two items matched and that they hugged her body tightly. And what a tight