The Coward's Way of War (41 page)

There was a tap on the door.  “Your Excellencies,” the Black Prince’s male secretary said, “the American President is addressing her people.”

“Turn on the television,” the Black Prince ordered.  Strangely, no one objected, not even Mullah Bihar.  He had long claimed that television was the work of the devil and used to corrupt Muslim minds, although that hadn’t stopped him recording his sermons and distributing them around the world.  “Let’s see what the American
woman
” – he made the word an insult – “has to say.”

The screen showed President Handley standing on a podium, in front of the American flag.  Prince Ibrahim saw her face and winced inwardly.  Unlike the other men in the room, he had actually met the American President and sensed the underlying strength and determination that shaped her character.  In Saudi Arabia, a woman who had been widowed would find her position weakened, for she would still be dependent upon her male guardian.  President Handley had not only recovered from the death of her husband, but had gone on to win the most coveted political position in the world.  It was not the mark of a weak person.

“My fellow Americans,” President Handley said.  Her voice was hard, uncompromising.  “Ever since we discovered that we had been attacked – attacked in a manner befitting none other than a coward – we have asked ourselves one question.  Who did this to us?  While the emergency services struggled to bring Henderson’s Disease under control, the entire law enforcement and intelligence services of our country was put to work answering that question.  It took time; time to find suspects and time to locate proof, but the question was finally answered.

“We know, now, that the person who infected our country with this poisonous seed was a Saudi National, working for elements within the Saudi Government.  We found his dead body and traced it back to his superiors.  We know where the disease came from and we know what they did to it to make it a weapon.

“I sent a message to the Saudi Government, demanding that they hand over the suspects and cooperate completely with our investigation,” the President continued, her voice tightening.  “We received no response.  The Saudi Government chose not to reply.  They have rounded up American and European citizens and taken them into protective custody – or, put bluntly, taken them as hostages and human shields.  They are preparing for war.  The man responsible for the attack has become the
de facto
leader of Saudi Arabia.

“I speak now to the people of Saudi Arabia, who are personally blameless.  We are coming to occupy your country, to remove your government and – eventually – replace it with one that will ensure that your country never becomes a threat to the world again.  While you have time, remove your government and prepare for a peaceful transition of power.  We will come when we are ready and your military will be unable to stop us.”

Her voice darkened.  “Understand this,” she added.  “We have been attacked in the most foul and underhand manner.  We will not operate under the restrictive rules we embraced in Iraq.  We will respond to any attacks with all our power and fury.  You have been warned.”

Prince Mukhtar threw his glass of water at the television screen and glared over at the General, ignoring the President’s words.  “General,” he ordered.  “You will launch Plan Mohammed at once.  Hit the Americans as hard as you can.”

The key to winning a war, as they say, is speed, mass and firepower...and
the poor bloody infantry who actually have to take and hold the ground below their feet
.

- Command Sergeant Justin Herald

Saudi Arabia/Kuwait

Day 37

King Khalid Military City was buzzing with activity, more activity than the base had seen since the United States military had been ‘invited’ to redeploy its troops to Qatar and Kuwait – and later Iraq.  The Saudi military had kept the base up and running, of course, but with the massive logistics challenges faced by the Saudi military machine, the base had been allowed to decay.  Now, thousands of soldiers, guardsmen and foreign volunteers were deployed to the base, being formed into units and deployed towards the Kuwaiti border.

General Mujahid scowled as he stared down at the American-designed Blue Force Tracker display.  Unlike many other senior officers in the Saudi Army, he actually had a fairly complete military education, a result of having been bundled out of the country and into exile for a few years, following an act that had disgusted even the hardened Princes of the House of Saud.  He’d spent some of those years in various American training centres, learning how the Americans had built up their military and deployed it to war.  He’d even spent a very quiet couple of months learning from the Israelis, something that would not have looked good if it ever came to light.  Israel didn't even appear on Saudi maps. 

The problem was that the Saudi Army was ill-prepared for war.  The border was long and – thanks to the American-designed and operated GPS system – perfect for manoeuvre battles where tanks encountered and defeated enemy tanks while outflanking fixed defences.  The Americans had surprised the Iraqis back in the Gulf War by crossing terrain that the Iraqis had believed impossible to navigate or traverse with a massive military force and there was no intrinsic reason why they couldn't do the same to the Saudis.  Worse, the Iraqi Army was highly motivated, competent and had good reasons to want a little revenge against Saudi Arabia.  There was no way to know for sure, but he would have been quite prepared to bet that the Iraqi Army was plotting a far heavier contribution to the invasion than anyone had publicly admitted.  And General Mujahid – and King Khalid Military City – would be at the top of their targeting list. 

He scowled down at the instructions he’d received from the government and wondered how he was to carry them out.  He’d helped develop Plan Mohammed, yet he hadn't bargained on having to use it almost at once, not without a third of the units that had been earmarked for the invasion of Kuwait.  The government wasn't interested in excuses, however, and nor were the black-clad paramilitaries patrolling the inner streets of the military city.  He knew what they were, even though they wore no conventional uniform; Prince Mukhtar’s personal troops, trained and supplied by the Ministry of the Interior.  They would enforce his orders, supported by the clerics who had appeared to replace the clerics who normally operated on the base.  Their preaching was firing up the men, convincing them that it was their duty to fight the Great Satan, yet any General worth his salt would have preferred thinking troops.  He’d deployed the best he had forward, but would it be enough?

The latest intelligence reports lay in front of him – printed out after someone had pointed out that the Americans might have hacked into the computers they’d sold Saudi Arabia – and he picked them up, skimming through the latest from spies within Kuwait and Qatar.  The Americans continued their deployments, shuttling troops in, mating them up with the pre-positioned stockpiles and pushing them out to the border.  An entire MEU and three carrier battle groups lurked out to sea, close enough to rush in and land their Marines anywhere along the coast.  General Mujahid had spent time at Camp Pendleton, in the United States, and had a healthy respect for the US Marines.  They were tough opponents, rarely defeated.

In theory, going by the numbers, the odds were even.  In practice, he wasn't so sure.

If there had been time, he would have insisted on training and more training, for the Saudi Armed Forces had almost no practice at operating as a single unit.  Indeed, they had been
discouraged
from learning, even to the point where suggesting it was enough to blight an officer’s career.  The House of Saud knew that an integrated military was one step closer to a military that might decide, one day, that their political masters could be removed safely.  As it was, coordinating the operation was going to be a nightmare.  The Americans were going to hurt them badly.

He looked out of the window, down towards the parade ground.  The preachers were speaking now, reassuring nervous young men that Allah had a plan for them and would forgive their sins if they died in battle.  It was an old story, hardly exclusive to Islam, but there was a nasty twist in the tale.  The presence of fanatical foreigners and the black-clad troopers would prevent anyone from changing their minds.  They would have to fight and win – or die.  And anyone who retreated would be shot in the back.

And there was no longer any time to delay.

General Mujahid picked up the phone and tapped a single number into the secure device.  “This is the boss,” he growled.  He wasn't foolish enough to use a device that the Americans might be able to intercept, not before it was too late.  “Execute Plan Omar.”

And may Allah help us all
, he thought, as the first messages went out.

***

Hidden safely in a hide that concealed them from the naked eye
– and almost every kind of sensor known to human technology – Justin Herald and his men stared down towards King Khalid Military City.  The Saudi base was massive – like many bases in America, it was the size of a city – yet between the Special Forces and the satellites orbiting high overhead, the United States had excellent insight into the base.  Indeed, several of the team had donned Saudi military uniforms and walked right
through
the city, taking advantage of the organised chaos to pick up what intelligence they could.

Justin frowned as he peered through the scope.  The Saudis were definitely preparing for war, even if their security wasn't all that it should be.  They’d tracked hundreds of tanks, armoured fighting vehicles and infantry transports as they’d been pulled out of storage, checked and then dispatched towards the Kuwaiti border, carrying thousands of soldiers with them.  It all looked ramshackle to Justin’s eye, but he had to admit that the Saudis weren't doing too badly with what they had on hand.  A flight of helicopters took off, weapons pods slung below their stubby wings, and he followed them with his camera, transmitting the images up to the relay satellites in tiny bursts of encrypted data.  Front-line American equipment, operated by men and women who had trained for years, could barely pick up the microbursts, even knowing what to look for.  He had every confidence that the Saudis would be unaware that his team was even there, let alone that they were tracking every move the Saudis made...

A flash of light caught his eye and he looked towards the base’s more secure regions, just in time to see a missile launch itself from the ground and head towards Kuwait.  He blinked, half-wondering if the missile had been launched by accident, before a second missile was launched from the base, followed rapidly by a third.  The Saudis had bought the missiles years ago, he recalled; they’d never fired them in anger.

“Alpha-Boss, this is Paradox,” he snapped, keying his radio.  The defenders in Kuwait would have to be warned as quickly as possible.  “We have multiple missile launches from Target Gamma; I say again, we have multiple missile launches from Target Gamma.”

He put the radio aside and peered down towards the base.  It was suddenly swarming with soldiers, with additional helicopters lifting off and heading eastwards, towards Kuwait.  The missiles were vanishing in the blue sky, racing towards their targets.  For better or worse, the war had begun.

“Acknowledged, Paradox,” the radio said.  “Remain where you are; await orders.”

Justin scowled, but said nothing.  What was there to say?

***

“
So we are fairly confident that we will successfully occupy all of Saudi Arabia by the end of the month,” the briefing officer said.  Mija listened impatiently as he spoke on, an emotion she was sure was shared by most of the other reporters.  As always – according to the older hands – hurry up and wait was the military order of the day, with the reporters being held in Kuwait rather than being dispatched to their units and allowed to report back home.  They had been given briefings on all kinds of topics, but few had been genuinely interesting.  “WE do not...”

He broke off as sirens began to howl.  “Incoming,” a voice bellowed, through loudspeakers.  “Incoming!”

Mija felt a wave of panic as a hand knocked her to the ground.  “Start crawling towards the shelters,” a voice hissed in her ear.  She glanced over at a stern face – a man who had made history through being semi-permanently embedded with a military unit during the Surge in Iraq – and nodded, following several of the other reporters towards the door leading into the bunkers.  They'd been warned that if the base came under attack, they had to stay low and stay out of the way.  Several reporters seemed unwilling to move and the older hand swore at them.  “Move, you stupid fucking idiots!”