Hunter Killer (30 page)

The only other inherent risk in this evacuation was the all-seeing eye of the U.S. satellites. But the urgency of removing the evidence of French Special Forces overrode this, and Ravi Rashood decided that the risk of American detection was worth taking. In any event no one could possibly have detected the nature of the copter’s cargo.

In contrast, the helicopter that would fly Ravi Rashood and his three bodyguards to Riyadh was brand new and had been flown into the military city the previous day by a two-man Saudi Army crew loyal to Prince Nasir. When it landed in the capital, it would be in the grounds of the palace of the Crown Prince.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH
24, 0100 (
LOCAL
)
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

The satellite pictures coming in on the link from surveillance were at once definite, but almost impossible to believe. The United States now had vivid pictures of all the oil installations ablaze in Saudi Arabia, but these new images were incredible.

They showed with immense clarity that the mighty Khamis Mushayt Air Base, home to almost eighty fighter-bombers, had effectively been taken off the map. The base, which sits five miles east of the military city, was on fire, the lines of aircraft blazing, the hangars collapsed with burning aircraft plainly still inside.

Lt. Commander Ramshawe, who had been in his office for seventeen hours, stared at the images and for the second time checked his map. No doubt about it, that was Khamis Mushayt okay, and it had been hit by an immensely powerful enemy.

Jimmy Ramshawe could compare it only to the Israeli drubbing of the Egyptian airfields in the 1967 war. It was simply not believable, right here in the year 2010, that some country, somewhere, could go to war with Saudi Arabia unknown to the rest of the world. It could not happen. But he, Ramshawe, was right now staring at the evidence.

“No,” he said loudly. “No one could have done this, except the Saudis themselves. And that of course is bloody silly.”

He called the duty officer at the CIA and spoke briefly to the Middle East desk. They were as bemused as he was. They were receiving reports from field agents in the Saudi capital that there was further unrest in the streets, but nothing to suggest a bombing raid in the south comparable to World War II Dresden.

Then he called Admiral Morris and awakened him with the words, “Sir, I think someone just declared war on Saudi Arabia. They started off by flattening one of the biggest air bases in the country. Took out eighty fighter-bombers at Khamis Mushayt.”

“They did?” answered Admiral Morris a little sleepily. “And now I guess you’re going to tell me French Combat Command sent in a squadron of Mirage 2000s and let ’em have it.”

“Er…nossir,” replied Ramshawe. “I thought their new 234 Rafale fighter jets were much more likely.”

The Admiral chuckled, despite the seriousness of the subject. “Any intelligence anywhere on this? CIA got any clues?”

“None, sir. No one has. It just happened, apparently. Right out of the blue. But of course we need to link the destruction of the oil fields on Monday to the demolition of the air base on Tuesday.”

“Whoever did it…well, it’s the same guys, right?”

“Plainly, sir. But this is a helluva thing, sir. The CIA told me the Pentagon is recalling all the senior brass as we speak. President’s in the Oval Office by o-two-hundred.”

“Gimme a half hour, Ramshawe. I’ll be right there.”

The Lt. Commander replaced the telephone and looked again at the pictures. He wondered what was happening at the military base. According to the CIA latest on the Net, there was some evidence of a firefight inside the main entrance. But nothing to indicate a bombing raid on the air base.

He sat back and thought, as quietly and as carefully as he could.
If no one bombed anything and the Saudi Army is still in place, this must be an inside job. But we’ve just about established no one could possibly have blitzed the oil fields, except from a submarine. And the Saudis don’t have one. Tonight’s stuff was too precise for missiles, those lines of burning aircraft were sabotaged. Otherwise there’d be visible craters. And it only takes one man to blow up a fuel farm.

No counterattack activity from the Khamis Mushayt military base…So far as I can see, this is an internal Saudi thing. But they’re sure as hell working with someone else. And I think that someone is France.

There was of course a gigantic flaw in his reasoning. He knew only too well the military and political chiefs would demand a motive. And so far as he could tell there was no motive.

But that doesn’t bloody mean there isn’t one,
he thought.
It
doesn’t bloody mean that at all. It just means there’s no obvious motive
.
Obvious to us, that is. And that’s entirely different.

He picked up the phone and asked someone to bring coffee for two to the Director’s office, not that there was any danger of anyone’s falling asleep.
This was a huge situation in the Middle East. And Christ knew where it would end.

Admiral Morris arrived and asked immediately to see any communication from the U.S. ambassador in Riyadh. But there was just a report about the unrest in the city, the mystery of the exploding oil fields, and reports of a military disaster in the south. Without U.S. satellite pictures, the ambassador knew less than they did.

Admiral Morris used a magnifying glass to stare at the photographs taken from 20,000 miles above the earth. “Clinical, eh?” he grunted. “All the parked aircraft, both main hangars, and what looks like the fuel farm. No bullshit, they only hit what mattered. And there’s no sign of general mayhem on the field or the runways. This wasn’t a battery of cruise missiles. Otherwise there’d be stuff all over the place.”

“They’re my thoughts,” replied Ramshawe. “This attack was made on the ground. And no one, apparently, saw anyone coming. Which sounds impossible. Those Saudi air bases are well protected, and this one stands right next door to one of the biggest army bases in the country. We’re talking thousands and thousands of armed men.”

“Jimmy. We’re not really getting anywhere…in this place you always have to work on the words of Sherlock Holmes…”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, only the truth remains,” Ramshawe replied.

“Precisely. So why don’t we spend five minutes eliminating the impossible?”

“Righto, sir…Number one, it was impossible for any attacking force to have blown up the oil installations in the middle of the desert. Number two, it was impossible for anyone to have blown out the tanker loading docks from the land. Number three, it was impossible for anyone to have obliterated the coastal refineries except with missiles.”

“All correct,” replied Admiral Morris. “How about number four? It was impossible to have bombed the Khamis Mushayt Air Base without being picked up on radar. And number five, it was definitely impossible for any invader to have reached that airfield with God knows how much explosives and blown every aircraft to pieces without a great deal of cooperation from forces inside the Saudi military. They must have had maps, diagrams, and time for recce.”

“Correct, sir. And how about number six? Whoever launched those missiles must have done so from deep water, otherwise they would have been detected. It’s impossible for the Saudi Navy to have achieved that.”

“So where does that leave us?” replied the Admiral, plainly not wishing to hear an answer. “It leaves us,” he said, “with one absolute truth. Somewhere inside the Saudi military there is a network of mutiny against the armed forces. It leaves us with a possible leader of that network, who may wish to seize power in Saudi Arabia. And it leaves us with an outside country willing to help that leader seize that power. And that’s gotta be a big enough country to own a Navy with a heavy submarine strike force.”

“Especially since two of ’em just went missing,” said Jimmy Ramshawe.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH
24, 5:00
A.M
. (
LOCAL
)
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.

President Paul Bedford had been in his office for most of the night, reading reports, talking to Admiral Morris, conferring with his defense staff, and wrestling with the burgeoning economic uproar the events in Saudi Arabia were causing the rest of the world.

The trouble was, no one, not even the Saudis, knew what was going on. Certainly not the United States Ambassador in Riyadh. But at five minutes past five, his personal assistant informed him that the King of Saudi Arabia was on the line. World leaders have no time frames. It’s part of the job.

President Bedford took the call instantly, greeting the King warmly, even though they had never met.

“Mr. President,” said the beleaguered desert monarch, an edge of humility in his voice, “I am afraid I am speaking to you under the most trying of circumstances.”

“So I understand,” said President Bedford. “And there seems to be a great deal of confusion about the culprits for these attacks in your country.”

“It would seem so,” replied the King. “But whoever may be behind this, we are suffering some very serious blows both economically and militarily. It is likely we will have no oil to export for a minimum of one year and possibly for two.”

“I certainly understand the gravity of the situation,” replied the President. “And it is difficult to know what to do, in the absence of a clearly defined enemy. Do you have any ideas who this might be?”

“Not exactly, although it would not be a great shock to find the leaders of some fundamentalist Islamic group at the back of it. However, I felt it wise to inform you that all of my senior advisers believe the main group must be receiving outside help from some other country. It simply would not be possible for all this damage to have been caused by an internal Arabian group. Equally it would have been impossible for an outside assailant to have inflicted the damage without internal assistance from the Saudi military.”

“I see,” said President Bedford. “That makes matters even more difficult, eh? A devil on the outside and another on the inside.”

“Precisely so,” said the King. “I therefore conclude that my throne is very severely threatened, and I am no longer certain whom I can trust.”

“And that’s why you have come to us?”

“The Bedouin way has always been to stay with tried and trusted friends,” said the King. “Your country represents the best friends I have had since coming to the throne. And now I appeal to you to help me in my time of need, as I have so often helped you.”

Paul Bedford knew the King referred to the several times the Saudis had pushed more oil on to the market when supplies seemed threatened by this or that problem in the Middle East and to the many times they had stabilized the markets when oil prices seemed to be rising too drastically. Saudi cooperation with the U.S.A. had worked well for more than three decades.

But he hesitated before answering. As a former naval officer, the right-wing-ish Democrat from Virginia understood the importance of clear-cut military objectives. It flashed through his mind immediately that he could not commit U.S. troops to fight some kind of a phantom.

He spoke to the King gently, and with genuine concern. “I do of course see your point of view,” he said. “And if you wished an enemy to be driven from your borders you could most certainly count on the United States to be your first ally. Indeed we have a Carrier Battle Group in the Gulf at present, and we would not hesitate to send it to your aid…. But it seems to me neither of us has anything to shoot at.”

The King laughed, despite himself. “What you say is true,” he said. “I cannot see my enemy. But I know he is there. And I am very fearful of the next few days, for I feel he will strike at my country again.”

“And even if your enemy is Saudi, you have no idea of the capability of his foreign friends?”

“Indeed we do not,” replied the King. “But we believe they were sufficiently powerful to have destroyed our oil industry. Not one of my advisers believes that much damage was done by a group of internal terrorists.”

“No,” said the President. “My people at the National Security Agency are of the same mind. And my chiefs at the Pentagon, who are more cautious in their assessments of military action, are coming around to a similar view.”

“I have never before been in such a predicament,” said the King.

“I am threatened for my life, my country is threatened, and yet I do not know by whom. I badly want to call upon the help of my very powerful friends in the United States, but I am at a loss as to what they can do.”

“Sir,” said the President, uncertain what title to give the ruler of a desert kingdom. “I have in Washington a wise and experienced expert on foreign affairs. He was the National Security Adviser to the last Republican President. I will summon him to my office this morning and ask his advice and opinion. When we have discussed the matter in proper detail, I will return your phone call and give you the benefit of his knowledge.”

“You must be referring to the Admiral, Mr. President. Admiral Arnold Morgan? A very fearsome man.”

“Correct,” replied President Bedford. “Await my call this afternoon.”

It was the first and last time the two leaders ever spoke.

SAME DAY
, 0630
CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND

In the very early days of spring, Admiral Morgan indulged his hobby of harvesting daffodils. And as the first of the brilliantly yellow blossoms burst into life in the garden, he arose at an unearthly time and advanced with a long basket to harvest the first flowers from the 2,000 bulbs of varying specimens he had planted—or at least had had George, the gardener, plant—two and a half years previously.

And here they were, for the second year running, already forming the start of the wide yellow carpet he so admired. However, Morgan liked daffodils in the house more than he liked the garden to be a sea of golden daffodils.

He snapped them off with military precision and laid them side by side in his basket. Kathy said daffodils were the only flowers he ever picked because he liked the sharp, obedient
snap
and the way daffodils did not hang around requiring clippers or a second tug.

“They just happen to be Arnold’s kind of flower,” she told friends. “On parade in full uniform early in the morning, and
snap
! Into the basket. No bullshit.”

The parody was so witheringly accurate everyone laughed when she recounted the once-a-year exploits of the family horticulturist. “By April he’s had enough,” Kathy would say. “But he does like daffodils all over the house for a month or so.”

On this Wednesday morning, the Admiral was almost finished. He was on his way back, around the pool, with an enormous basket piled high with the magnificent blooms. As he entered the kitchen, the phone rang. He set the basket down, telling Kathy, “Splash these out right away.” Most people would have said, “Perhaps these should be put in water.” Morgan did not put flowers in water. He splashed ’em out.
God knows why,
Kathy thought.

He headed to the phone and groaned when it turned out to be “the goddamned factory”…
Just a moment, sir, the President would like to speak to you…

Morgan, who had been speaking to Lt. Cdr. Jimmy Ramshawe in the small hours, had been nearly certain this call was coming. And essentially he had been keeping his head down.

“Morning Arnie,” said President Bedford. “How’s retirement going?”

“Pretty good, sir. All things considered. Just been picking a few daffodils.”

“A few
what?
”

“Daffodils, Mr. President. Bright yellow guys. First coming of spring. You pick ’em at first light. You want me to bring you some, brighten up that goddamned dungeon you work in?”

President Bedford was momentarily stunned. The very image of Morgan prancing around a flower garden with an armful of golden yellow blossoms was just a little too much for him to grasp. An armful of hand grenades, maybe, torpedoes, possibly. Det-cord or even bombs. But daffodils? That didn’t sit real straight with the Virginian in the Oval Office.

Anyway, he simply said, “Gee, Arnie, that’d be real nice.”

“Now what can I do to help?” asked the Admiral, amused at how easy it was to throw the Commander in Chief off his stride. “As if I didn’t know.”

“You’re right, Arnie. Can you come in and see me? I just had the King of Saudi Arabia on the line. And, Jesus, I’m telling you that’s one worried guy.”

“I’m not sure I can help, sir,” replied Admiral Morgan. “But since your outfit provides me with a car and driver, the least I can do is come in and have a chat. See you in one hour.”

“Thanks, old buddy,” said Paul Bedford.

“No trouble, Mr. President,” said the Admiral.

EARLIER THAT SAME DAY
(
LOCAL
)
DIR’AIYAH, RIYADH

It was almost first light when Colonel Gamoudi’s mobile phone, direct from Prince Nasir’s palace, rang out among the ruins of Saudi Arabia’s former capital.

“Jacques?”

“Sir.”

“Everything’s go. Both bases at Khamis Mushayt fell in the early hours of this morning. The airfield and all the aircraft were destroyed. The military city surrendered at around o-three-hundred.”

“How about the other garrisons? Tabuk? King Khalid? Assad? Any word?”

“Yes. They have not surrendered. All three refused when the commanding General at Khamis contacted them and suggested this might be a good time to quit.”

“Okay. And does the Air Force have fighter jets in the air? Any sign of gunships?”

“No. I’m told Air Force morale is very low. Many princes have fled.”

“Any sign of significant troop movements from any of the other bases?”

“I am told absolutely not. They seem to have gone into ostrich mode.”

“Well, sir, you’re an expert on sand, so we’ll take that as definite.”

The Prince laughed. “You are very funny, Colonel, even at a time like this. But now I must ask you, when do we attack?”

“Right now, sir. This is it. I’ll call you later.”

The phone conversation had already been too long for guaranteed privacy. Jacques Gamoudi hit the disconnect button and strode out into the open space beyond the walls of the mosque. He called all five of his senior commanders together and told them to fire up the heavy armored division. “We pull out in twenty minutes,” he said.

Even as he spoke, Prince Nasir was on the line to the loyalists in the city, where thousands of armed Saudi citizens were preparing to march on the principal royal palace, behind the tanks.

And for the first time since 1818, the great crumbling walls of Dir’aiyah trembled to the sound of ensuing battle, as Jacques Gamoudi’s big M1A2 Abrams tanks thundered into life and began moving out toward the road, passing the dozens of armored trucks loaded to the gunwales with ordnance.

The noise was deafening as they started their engines and rumbled forward, in readiness to form the convoy that would take down the modern-day rulers of Saudi Arabia.

With only minutes to go before start-time, Colonel Gamoudi moved back inside the ruins of the mosque and pressed the buttons on his cell phone. This was his final check with a small detachment of French Secret Service operators who had gone into Riyadh three weeks previously to gather the final information Gamoudi needed for his assault plan. The Colonel trusted his Saudi intelligence, but not quite so well as he trusted French intelligence.

Michel Phillipes, leader of the detachment, had little to add, except that the King had ordered the National Guard to deploy from their barracks on the edge of the city, with tanks and armored personnel carriers. According to Phillipes, the Guardsmen had been tasked with protecting at all costs the Al Mather, Umm al Hamman, and Nasriya residential areas. These were the districts that contained the walled mansions and gleaming white palaces of high government officials and many royal princes.

But Phillipes reported that this had been a very halfhearted operation. A few units had deployed somewhat nervously, and immediately retreated behind the walled gardens. But other units had not deployed at all, many of their soldiers having disappeared quietly back to their homes.

He said that the early-morning city news had announced that the major banks would again be closed for the day. But so far as he could tell, the predictable rioting and looting had not materialized. In fact, all his team felt that Riyadh was unusually quiet for this time in the early morning, with the sun already glaring above the desert.

“Seems to us like the calm before the storm,” said Phillipes.
“Un peu sinistre,”
he added. A bit ominous.

There was, however, nothing even remotely ominous going on at Dir’aiyah. This was an army moving in for the kill. Weapons were checked, shells stored onboard the tanks, the Abrams crews climbing aboard. Engines roared, small arms were primed and loaded, ammunition belts slung over combat fatigues.

Every armored vehicle was prepared to open fire at a moment’s notice. The gloves were off here in Dir’aiyah, and at 0920, Jacques Gamoudi’s army rumbled out onto the highway and swung right for the capital, moving slowly, tank after tank rumbling down the dusty tracks from the ruins, truck after truck laden with trained Saudi fighters and hauling its warriors out onto the road.

And in the lead tank, his head and shoulders jutting out from the forward hatch, submachine gun in his huge hands, stood the grim-faced, bearded figure of the Assault Commander.

Jacques Gamoudi, husband of Giselle, father of Jean-Pierre, thirteen, and Andre, eleven, was going back to war. In his wide-studded leather belt he still carried his sheathed bear-killing combat knife, just in case today’s fight went to close quarters.

He had ordered a rigid convoy line of battle, three tanks moving slowly along the highway, line astern, followed by a formation of six armored vehicles moving two abreast…then three more tanks…then six more armored trucks…then three more tanks, followed by a dozen armored trucks.