The Coward's Way of War (44 page)

“The Saudis decided to kick off the war without waiting for us to get ready,” the PRO said.  He might be a REMF – it had taken her several requests to find out that it stood for Rear Echelon Mother Fucker, a general term for someone who never went near the fighting and therefore considered himself an expert – but he knew what he was talking about.  “They launched an air and missile attack on our bases and are sending troops towards the border.”

Mija followed him into the command centre and stopped dead, surprised by the flurry of activity.  Operators sitting at computer screens were chatting away into their headsets, trying to coordinate a response and find out just what had been hit and how bad the damage had been, while senior officers were trying to project an air of calm.  Junior officers were running around, carrying messages and reporting to the senior officers, some seeming to be on the verge of panic.  The scene looked completely chaotic.

The PRO pointed towards the big screen and Mija winced.  She had no idea what half the icons on the display meant, but it was clear that the Saudi Army was advancing on the Kuwaiti Border – or at least she assumed that that was what the red icons meant.  They seemed to outnumber the blue icons gathered along the border.  Streaks of light flickered across the display, representing...what?  She couldn't understand what was going on.

“The Saudis are throwing what looks like most of their armoured forces against Kuwait,” the PRO said, with an air of calm dispassion.  It didn't seem to affect him at all.  “The Saudi Air Force is currently taking something of a pounding” – he pointed to a mixture of blue and red icons over Saudi, near Qatar - “but they’re fighting back hard.”

Mija swallowed several responses that came to mind and studied the display.  It looked as if the American and Saudi aircraft were practically on top of one another, but as she stared, it became apparent that the display was showing the entire country and there were tens of kilometres between the opposing fighter aircraft.  One great mass of blue icons was clearly visible in the Gulf, while a smaller mass of green icons could be seen on the other side of the water, in Iran.

“Ah, Miss Cat,” the General said.  He waved her over to where he was sitting, surveying the display with a lordly eye.  “Please, take a seat.”

Mija blinked.  “General,” she said, “shouldn't you be giving orders or something?”

The General grinned at her.  “My subordinates along the border know what they have to do,” he said, seriously.  “I could try to direct their operations from here, but I don’t know the ground like they do, so all I can do is set priorities and let them work on meeting them.  It’ll just cause confusion if I attempt to distract them at this distance.”

“I see,” Mija said.  She didn't want to ask the next question, but there was no choice.  “General...does the Saudi decision to strike first mean that we are losing the war?”

“Hardly,” the General said.  His face turned suddenly serious.  “Back in World War Two, there was a very bloody battle fought out in France, when Allied forces invaded to begin the task of destroying Hitler and his regime.  The battle was a great victory, but had it been fought now...well, the news media would have called it a defeat and demanded withdrawal from France, ignoring the fact that the only way to make the world safe was to crush Hitler’s regime in its lair – or, for that matter, that we won!

“This is not a defeat for us, not by any means,” he added.  “Yes, they’ve hurt us, knocked us back on our heels, but we have plans for dealing with it.  We will push them back and then continue the invasion...and in some ways I’m rather pleased that they chose to attack us.”  He smiled at her expression.  “This way, we get to kill their tanks and armoured vehicles in the open, rather than digging them out of the cities.  It works in our favour.”

***

“
The air strikes were a great success, General,” the radio operator reported.  “They destroyed all of their targets and shot down a number of American aircraft.”

General Najd frowned as the force of American-built Abrams tanks advanced towards the Saudi-Kuwait border.  If it had been up to him, the tanks would have been rumbling
across
the border when the first air and missile strikes were launched towards their American targets, but the high command had disagreed.  The Americans might just launch a spoiling attack against the Saudi formations, disrupting their attack.

“Good,” he said, dryly.  He knew all about inflated claims from the RSAF.  The vast number of Princes – and other well-connected pilots – made any real post-battle assessment very difficult.  The teams he had watching CNN and FOX – and Al Jazeera, even though that was officially forbidden – would probably end up with a more accurate picture of what the air force had done to the Americans, if anything.  “Do they give details?”

“Apparently they have not finished processing the data,” the operator said.  General Najd snorted, a sentiment that was echoed by the remainder of his staff.  “They are just claiming that the Americans got hurt badly and that we could finish them off with one bold stroke.”

General Najd scowled, but said nothing as the tanks continued to rumble towards their targets.  He might not have been able to bring his forces into a nearby jump-off position for the invasion, yet he had been able to bring up some mobile SAM units – all American-built, apart from a handful of French systems – and plenty of handheld Stinger missiles, giving his force some protection from American aircraft.  The RSAF was supposed to be providing top cover, but so far he hadn't seen a single aircraft devoted to their protection, unless he counted the attack helicopters sweeping ahead of his force.  The American aircraft would go through them like a knife through butter.

“We keep moving,” he ordered.  Whatever his doubts, it was too late to back off and withdraw.  The Americans would be tracking them from orbit and guiding their own armoured units to intercept the Saudi tanks.  Their only hope was to crush the American 3
rd
Infantry Division before it could deploy. 

***

“
I see four, maybe five tanks,” the spotter said.  “They’re advancing, as bold as brass.”

“They probably think we’re going to run,” Lieutenant Douglas Baird growled.  After the attacks on the FOB, the tank platoon had been ordered to advance towards pre-selected positions, where they would wait for trouble or for the rest of the division to begin its advance towards King Khalid Military City.  A lanky man who bore an uncomfortable relationship to the Tenth Doctor from
Doctor Who
, Baird was determined to prove himself before his junior officers.  “I wonder what else they’re bringing to the party.”

He glanced down at the terminal and allowed himself a grin.  The Saudis hadn't realised it, but their Force Tracking system was giving away their location to the American forces, who hadn't hesitated to take advantage of it.  Baird had been warned that the Saudis could be running an elaborate bluff – he’d heard plenty of horror stories from the older sweats about how deceptive and treacherous the Arabs could be – yet it seemed rather implausible.  The commander of the enemy force might have well have painted bulls-eyes on their own tanks.  Once the USAF returned to CAS operations, the Saudis were going to get a pasting.

“Target the lead tank and load antitank rounds,” he ordered.  The briefing had made one point clear; the Saudis might have Abrams tanks of their own, but they didn't have the special armour protection of their American counterparts and would, therefore, be killed easily.  They had been warned not to get overconfident, yet Baird couldn't see how the Saudis intended to win.  The Kuwaitis alone would have given them a bloody nose.  “Prepare to move us when they start returning fire.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said.  He felt the tank vibrating beneath his feet as the engines rumbled to life.  The Saudis might be able to pick them up on an IR scope, but it was already too late.  “We’re ready to move.”

“Fire,” Baird ordered.  The tank shuddered as it launched the first round towards the enemy tank.  “Reload and target the second tank; fire at will.”

The tankers of the Second World War would have been astonished to discover just how rapidly an Abrams – even with a half-trained crew – could fire on the enemy.  The main gun was already rotating to come to bear on the second target when the first shell struck home, smashing through a Saudi tank and sending it up in a massive fireball.  Baird had no time to feel sympathy for the crew as his tank fired again, hitting the second enemy tank and bringing their column to a halt.  The third enemy tank was struggling to target the American position when it too was hit, sputtering to a halt before exploding.  The fourth Saudi tank fired a shell back towards the American tank, but it was so badly aimed that it flew right over their heads.

“Get us back,” Baird snapped.  The driver was already gunning the tank, pulling them out of their position and sending them careering back, just before a shell impacted right where they had been.  Clearly, at least one of the Saudi crews had been paying attention on the training ground.  “See if you can hit the bastard who...”

“Got him, boss,” the gunner said, as another Saudi tank exploded.  Baird saw the enemy turret rising up into the air before crashing down to the ground.  “My, he was a quick one.”

“Incoming enemy rounds,” the radio crackled.  “They’re shelling your positions.”

Baird nodded.  “Keep firing,” he ordered.  The other tanks in the platoon were adding their own firepower to the mix, hammering the softer Saudi vehicles as well as the tanks.  He rather suspected that seeing their best and brightest hit so hard would convince the Saudis to back off and surrender, but if they were anything like the Iraqis, perhaps not.  The old sweats had plenty of tales of enemies who had been forced to fight the invading Americans at gunpoint.  “Call in and see if we can get some support from aircraft.”

He saw a Saudi helicopter disintegrate in a sheet of flame, struck by a missile launched by American soldiers.  He had no doubt that the USAF’s aircraft were already on their way.  Now the Saudis had come out of cover, they would be hammered and trapped, rather than be allowed to fall back into their cities.  They would have the choice between surrendering or dying in place.

***

“
Watch your back,” Doug snapped, as he led his men towards the enemy.  The company had been moved up to the front lines just after they’d beaten off the enemy soldiers who had tried to storm the base, where they’d been ordered to provide support to the tankers covering the Kuwaiti Border.  The Kuwaitis weren't that keen on massed tank battles in their country and were therefore urging the Americans to fight as far forward as possible.  At least there was a contingency plan for such a battle.  “Keep your heads down and don’t be afraid to shoot!”

There were some chuckles from the older sweats as Saudi artillery began crashing down all over the battlefield.  Doug wasn't sure what they thought they were shooting at, but their shooting wasn't very accurate.  The same couldn't be said for the American gunners to the rear, who used their radars to track the Saudi shells back to their launchers and bombarded them until they put the guns out of action.  The more Doug considered the battlefield, the more he realised that both sides had largely lost control, for the Saudis were feeding in men and material without regard for losses.  He saw a flight of American aircraft – the ugly Warthogs, loved by American soldiers and feared by everyone else – passing overhead, before opening fire on the Saudi positions.  A pair of Saudis fired missiles back towards the American planes, but the Warthogs launched flares and vanished back over the horizon.  Neither of the aircraft were hit.

He caught sight of Saudi infantrymen and used hand signals to order his platoon into firing positions.  The Saudis didn't look too happy to be there, but they were advancing in good order, holding their weapons as if they knew what they were doing with them.  They wore proper uniforms which clearly marked them as soldiers, much to his relief.  At least one group was playing by the laws of war.

“Fire,” he snapped, and squeezed his trigger.  A single shot echoed out and knocked down one of the Saudis, leaving the others to dive for cover as bullets exploded all around them.  They weren't too bad either, he noted, using the remains of Saudi tanks and vehicles to provide cover and concealment.  He picked off a second soldier who showed himself, then led half of his men into newer firing positions, throwing grenades to force the enemy to keep their heads down.  One of the grenades triggered an unexploded fuel tank and the enemy scrambled to get away from the blaze, where they were mercilessly shot down. 

Another flight of American aircraft – attack helicopters, this time – roared overhead, heading towards the Saudi positions.  The Saudi line was breaking as they bombarded the remaining tanks, sending the Saudis rolling backwards despite the best their officers could do.  A line of black-clad men appeared from nowhere and charged the American position, only to be scythed down by machine guns mounted on the tanks and supporting units.  Many of the men literally disintegrated under such fire.  A handful survived long enough to start crawling backwards before it was too late, but with their injuries Doug doubted they’d last long.  He spied a man who’d been shot pretty badly and found himself considering a mercy killing, before remembering the last sight he’d had of Lindsey’s face.  The Saudis deserved to suffer.