The Coward's Way of War (43 page)

“They’re mounting a fighter sweep,” one of the operators explained.  He was young and had been trained in America, where the USAF had mercilessly drilled hard-won lessons into the young trainees.  His qualification was rare in a country where it was possible, if one was a pure Saudi, to live without doing much of anything, but study the finer points of Islamic law.  “They intend to challenge our aircraft and force them to give battle, or run and hide while the Americans demolish their air bases.”

The cleric stroked his beard, clearly trying to come to a decision.  “And what,” he asked finally, “do you recommend that we do?”

“We have to break up their formation,” the operator said, silently giving the cleric points for not barking out impossible orders.  “We will order our own forces to form up and intercept the Americans as far to the east of Riyadh as possible.”  He frowned, studying his display.  “The Americans have slipped up and given us plenty of warning.”

“It was by the grace of Allah,” the cleric informed them.  He looked relieved, but then, any news was good news.  The handful of reports from the air strikes against American and Kuwaiti bases suggested that the Americans had taken heavy losses, although the experienced fighter controllers knew better than to take all the reports at face value.  “He will lead us to victory against the unbelievers.”

The operator shrugged inwardly.  His faith was pure enough, or so he thought, but he had also internalised the American doctrine that Allah helped those who helped themselves.  Charging into battle on the assumption that the Lord of the Universe would grant them victory was asking for trouble.  He started to fire off orders to the reassembling Saudi fighters, forming them up into formation...and praying under his breath that they would actually obey orders.  The jet pilots were, in many cases, junior members of the House of Saud and had a habit of ignoring orders they didn’t like, confident that their superiors would accept their disobedience.  A single case of disobedience could lead to the formation coming apart and the Americans tearing through the Saudi pilots like a knife through paper.

“The aircraft are forming up now and advancing towards the Americans,” he confirmed, as the display updated.  Between the AWACS and the ground-based stations, they were even tracking the stealthy American F-22 aircraft.  It wasn't easy to track them, but they were succeeding.  “I wonder...”

The cleric looked over at him.  “Drive the Americans out of our country,” he ordered.  “Get them out now!”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” the operator said.  He keyed a switch and sent the order.  “All aircraft; advance and destroy the American intruders.”

***

“
I think they saw us coming,” one of the pilots said, as the great mass of Saudi aircraft turned and advanced towards the American fighters.  Over five hundred jet fighters were about to engage in the greatest air battle since the Korean War, if the Americans hadn't had their own ideas.  “I guess they were peeking through the windows when we were drooling over our porn.”

“Shut up, Lombardi,” the fighter controller growled.  “On my command, all aircraft are to execute EGGPLANT.”

Edward braced himself as the two waves of fighters converged.  The Saudis seemed to be doing everything right, at least based on what they knew.  Their aircraft sensors were stepped down, drawing information from their controlling AWACS rather than lighting themselves up for American missiles.  It was a prudent action; indeed, Edward and his comrades had done the same.  The Saudis might even be welcoming the battle.  They would never have a better chance to inflict staggering damage on the USAF.

Even experienced observers could be caught out when two aircraft raced towards one another and the gap closed rapidly.  He looked up at his HUD, contemplating the missiles carried within the Raptor’s hull and just what they could do to the enemy fighters.  The Raptor had never been in real combat, never been matched against the greatest fighter an enemy country could produce, even though it was called the greatest fighter in the world.  The Eurofighters and F-35s racing towards them couldn't compete, at least not fairly.  He reminded himself to watch out for tricks.  Air combat...if it was fair, someone wasn’t trying hard enough.

“EGGPLANT,” the fighter controller snapped.  “You are ordered to execute EGGPLANT now.”

Edward checked his position and rolled his aircraft, turning in formation with the rest of his flight.  It hurt his pride to beat a retreat, even though it was merely a trick.  Even so, making a course change while flying in tight formation with other aircraft was difficult, even for the most heavily-trained pilots in the world.  Of all the ways to go, dying because he’d flown his aircraft into another American aircraft would be among the worst.

“Formation complete,” he reported, as the pilots settled out.  They were racing away from the Saudis now, daring them to follow the American planes.  He doubted that the Saudis would risk chasing them back to their carriers, but if they wanted to chase the Americans over land...he watched their formation, wondering what they would do.  Would they take the bait?

***

“
They’re running,” the cleric snapped.  He sounded delighted, all of his fear gone.  Victory always did that to an uncertain commander.  “Send our aircraft after them!”

“They’re falling back,” the operator countered.  One thing he did know about the Americans was that they were not cowards.  Fleeing for their lives was unlike the American military.  Normally, it was they who made people flee.  “They’re far from beaten and...”

“Send our aircraft after them,” the cleric repeated, sharply.  It was a command that couldn’t be disobeyed, not if someone wanted to keep breathing.  A handful of officers had been strung up for refusing to take the clerics seriously.  “Do it!”

The operator barked orders into the radio.  Seconds later, the mass of Saudi fighters hit their afterburners and rocketed after the American fighters, gloating over their success in scaring off the mighty American air force.  Surely, they told themselves, the Americans were nothing more than cowards, deterred by their determination to fight for their country and their faith.  The radio waves filled with their chatter, amplified by the clerics as they called blood and thunder down on their foes.  The operators tried, but they were losing control of their people, their words lost in the general rejoicing.

Their rejoicing, for the record, lasted exactly four minutes, seventeen seconds.

***

Captain John Drake had been surprised when he
’d been told what he would be doing in the opening hours of the war on Saudi Arabia, and surprised again when it seemed that the plan was actually working.  As someone who had lost a grandmother and several close civilian friends to Henderson’s Disease, he had had no hesitation in volunteering for the mission when it had been explained to him, but he’d doubted that it would come close to success.  The plan was simply too clever to work, for no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy.

His F-22 Raptor was the latest model, a highly-classified and extremely expensive fighter with extremely good stealth coating.  It was almost as stealthy as a B2 or an F-117, yet it could fly at supersonic speeds and hold its own against every other fighter in existence.  The expense had prevented the USAF from purchasing more than a handful of the craft, for the cynics had wondered what good it was when the USAF needed to concentrate on CAS for the men on the ground, but today it would prove its value.  The Saudis had literally no idea it was there.

It didn't seem to have occurred to them, but the USAF had designed and built the systems the Saudis were using to defend their kingdom.  There was no one else who knew the systems – and how to spoof them - so well, with the possible exception of the British or the French.  The planners had assured him that if he flew low and kept his weapons bays closed, the Saudis would be unable to track him as he flew into their country, waiting for his moment.  He pulled back on the stick and the Raptor rose into the air, heading right for its target.  The Saudi AWACS was a blaze of electromagnetic radiation on his HUD.  They might as well have painted a big targeting cross on their hull.

“Burn, you bastards,” he muttered, and keyed the firing switch.  For a brief second, the F-22 would be visible as the weapon bay opened and released a missile, but by then it was far too late.  “Lights out...”

***

The operator looked up in horror as the alarms sounded, revealing a missile that had someho
w appeared out of nowhere, but it was far too late.  The AWACS pilot hadn't been expecting any kind of attack and hadn’t even thought to prepare for evasive manoeuvres.  By the time the operator thought of shutting down the radars, the missile was already approaching the aircraft and refused to be deflected.  It slammed into the hull and detonated within the aircraft’s fuselage.  Explosions ripped through the craft before most of the crew realised that something had even gone wrong.

There were no survivors.

***

John smirked as the Saudi aircraft disintegrated, before popping off two more missiles at the Eurofighters that had remained with the AWACS, providing it with a totally illusionary protection.  Judging from the sudden change in the environment, the
other stealth fighters had also accomplished their parts of the mission, downing the other command and control aircraft.  The Royal Saudi Air Force had been blinded.

Ignoring the dying Eurofighters, he pulled his aircraft around and rocketed back towards Kuwait.  There would be other missions in the next few days.

***

The Saudi formation disintegrated as their command and control aircraft were wiped out of existence.  A properly integrated system would have tied them into the ground-based systems as well,
but the Saudis didn't seem to be prepared to adapt to the sudden chaos.  It wouldn't have helped them anyway.  American aircraft armed with HARM missiles were already streaking towards anything that showed even a hint of being a radar facility.  They would all be closed down by the end of the day.

“All aircraft, you are cleared to engage at will,” the fighter controller said.  Edwards smiled darkly as he pulled the Raptor around again, bringing his targeting systems online.  The Saudi pilots were no longer an organised unit, but a disorganised – and panicky - mob.  “Give them hell.”

War, I was told, is 99% boredom and 1% sheer fucking terror.  They were right.

-Mija Cat

Saudi-Kuwait Border

Day 37

“
I think the emergency is over,” the old hand said, helping Mija to her feet.  “That noise you can hear is the all-clear.”

Mija nodded and headed towards the door, which was opening and allowing the reporters to return to the briefing.  She stopped just as she left the shelter, her attention caught by a fire blazing away on the other side of the base.  Emergency vehicles were racing towards it, while helicopters were taking off and heading west, towards the Saudi border.  She caught sight of a twin-rotor helicopter and waved at the door gunner before the aircraft vanished into the distance, but she didn't see if the gunner waved back.  She cringed as a fighter jet roared over head, terrified that the Saudis had come back to finish the job, before realising that it had to be an American aircraft.  It wasn't dropping things on her head.

Pull yourself together
, she told herself, sharply.  The King of Saudi Arabia – or whoever was really in charge somewhere to the west – wasn't going to send the might of his armed forces to wipe out one reporter, even someone as annoying as Lois!  She looked over and saw a pair of men in BDUs running up to her, both hidden behind black sunglasses.  The leader demanded her ID and checked it carefully before passing it back to her with an apologetic smile.

“We’ve had some bandits within the secure perimeter,” he explained, by way of apology.  A brief crackle of gunfire rang out in the distance.  “That might be them being wiped out.”

“Bandits?”  Mija repeated, puzzled.  “How did they get into the base?”

“Kuwaiti army uniforms and a lot of confusion,” the other soldier said.  He pointed towards one of the buildings.  “I suggest you go check in with HQ and see what they want to do with you.  Wandering around a battleground is not conducive to long life.”

Mija took his advice and headed over to the building, which was guarded by armed soldiers who frisked her after checking her ID and asked her to wait while they figured out what to do with her.  Mija, who had been advised by the more experienced reporters not to argue when there was a war on, did as she was told and waited for nearly twenty minutes before a PRO appeared out of nowhere and waved to her.  She smiled up at him, genuinely pleased to see a Public Relations Officer.  He might know what was going on.