There was another long silence. The jumbo jet didn't change course. “This is your final warning,” Jean-Luc said, feeling anger burning up within him. Did the Arabs not care what happened to others, as long as they reached France? Or did they believe that there was a cure in France? “If you do not comply, I will shoot you down.”
He pulled back, targeting an air-to-air missile on the jumbo jet. To the best of his knowledge, no modern jet fighter had ever shot down a jumbo jet before, although there had been some incidents during the Cold War. The French Air Force certainly hadn’t done so in living memory, although after 9/11 contingency plans had been drawn up in case of terrorists trying to do unto Paris what they had done to New York and Washington.
There was no response. The jumbo jet kept flying towards France. “God help you,” he said, and keyed the firing switch. The jet fighter lurched as the missile separated from its parent aircraft and raced towards its target. There was a long moment when he thought it would miss, just before it accelerated and slammed into the rear of the jumbo jet. A chain of explosions rocketed through the aircraft, sending the main body of the aircraft crashing down towards the cold waters below. It hit with astonishing force, sending up a massive wave of water into the air.
From high overhead, Jean-Luc gazed down at the burning wreck. There were no sign of any survivors. “This is Flight-74,” he said, keying his radio. “Target destroyed. I say again, target destroyed.”
***
“Thank you,” the political officer said. “You have served France well.”
The Base CO eyed him suspiciously. “My subordinate just shot down a civilian airliner and killed civilians,” he said sharply. “Why...?”
“That is a matter of national security,” the political officer said. “I suggest that you inform your people that the whole matter has been classified and any discussion will result in the harshest of penalties.”
***
Marianne DuPont scowled as she paced around the military shed, staring out towards the towering plumes of smoke in the distance. As one of France’s greatest investigative reporters – she had uncovered scandals that had upset the political establishment more than once – she should be doing more than just sitting on a military base, but the orders had been clear. In order to discourage further chaos, the media would only report the sanitised pap that the government put out, or else. A number of reporters had tried to violate the rules, only to find themselves cooling their heels in a very uncomfortable prison. Marianne had no intention of ending her career in jail, yet she was bored. And the officer who followed her around to make sure she didn't see something she wasn't allowed to see couldn't even hold up his end of a conversation!
“Bonjour,” a voice said. She looked up to see a middle-aged man, smoking a cigar and grinning from end to end. “How are you today?”
Marianne glared at him. “Bored,” she said. It was true. The kind of ‘news’ they were putting out could have been done by teenage interns, the kind who had fawned over her before the world had been turned upside down. “And yourself?”
“I have a present for you,” the man said. He passed her a single USB stick. “It is your latest and greatest scoop, my dear.”
Marianne took the stick, frowning. “You know that we’re not allowed to publish anything that hasn’t been cleared through the censors,” she pointed out, dryly. “Are you just trying to get me in trouble, or is this an attempt to get into my thong?”
The man shrugged. “I'm sure a smart girl such as you could see your way to publishing this without being...directly involved, if you know what I mean,” he said. Marianne shrugged back, refusing to commit herself to anything. “Believe me, the scoop is worth it.”
He walked away, leaving Marianne staring at the stick. Being a paranoid reporter, she carried her palmtop with her at all times, one loaded with the best security software money and illicit contacts within the French military could buy. She inserted the stick, ran several programs to ensure that it wasn't carrying a virus, and then opened the first document...and swore. The man, whoever he was, hadn't lied. The story would be her greatest scoop.
Carefully, she accessed the internet and started to upload the documents. Even if no one ever knew what she’d done, she would know. The answer to the greatest mystery in the modern world – the origin of Henderson’s Disease – lay in front of her. A single country, named for all the world to see.
Saudi Arabia.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Say what you like about the Kuwaitis, they have always been a loyal ally. After all, without us, Saddam would have swallowed them whole. That said, they’re about as democratic as the rest of the Middle East (excepting Israel) and that’s not very.
-General Tom Spencer
Kuwait
Day 30
“Get those items out now,” Doug snapped. “Load them onto the trucks and get them out of here.”
He scowled as the hot sun struck his face, despite the cream he had slathered over it before he’d gotten out of the barracks and assembled the work party. Army Prepositioned Stock-5 was one of the hotter places he’d worked and the desperate hurry to break the equipment out of storage and mate it up with the soldiers flying in from the states wasn’t helping. If there had been more time, everything would have been more organised, but as it was Doug and the other NCOs found themselves struggling to keep up with the crisis. The equipment had to be moved out and placed near the Saudi border, along with the troops to use it, before all hell broke loose. There was little official information, but the rumour mill was buzzing with speculation that the Saudis intended to invade Kuwait and Qatar before the US troops had finished their deployment. It was quite possible.
APS-5 was a massive complex of warehouses, normally guarded by armed and very dangerous American troops. One of the soldiers Doug had under his command had joked that it was rather like the old hangers that Mulder and Scully had used to wander through, although he had then loudly bemoaned the absence of Scully. Doug couldn't really blame him; Kuwait might be one of the more liberal Middle Eastern states, but it was still medieval and barbaric to American eyes. The nightlife was pathetic. He glanced over at a team of engineers working on an Abrams tank they’d brought out of storage, before sending it away towards the tank transporter waiting in the distance. Allies or no, the Kuwaitis wouldn't thank the Americans for sending a massive tank out on their road network, chewing it to pieces under its treads.
The principle problem in deploying troops across the world was, as always when military operations were concerned, logistics. Like the British Empire before it, the United States had global responsibilities, yet it took time to respond to a crisis. When Saddam had invaded Kuwait, the only troops the US had had on hand were Airborne soldiers; good light infantry, but unable to stop tanks. If Saddam had invaded Saudi Arabia once he’d overrun Kuwait, the analysts had declared, he would have crushed the defenders and occupied the entire country. The United States would have had to accept a mad dictator in control of Saudi’s oil reserves, or somehow find a way to defeat him without using Saudi as a base. It just took too long to move heavy armoured divisions around the world.
To solve that problem, the United States had prepositioned vast quantities of supplies in bases around the world, such as APS-5. The base held hundreds of tanks, armoured fighting vehicles and other transports, as well as millions of rounds of ammunition and everything else a military force needed to keep going. Every year, opening and unloading the bases was exercised, yet no one had ever anticipated having to cope with preparing for war in the midst of a massive national crisis. The troops stationed in Iraq might have been pulled back into Kuwait, yet the remainder of the invasion force had to be brought in from the states. There were so many holes in the 3rd Infantry Division’s roster that Doug suspected the commanders would need much longer than they had to sort out the mess. Some soldiers were missing, or deployed in the States, or had simply deserted. It was a terrifying mess.
He glanced up as a flight of helicopters roared overhead, heading for the deployment area closer to the border. The Kuwaitis disliked the Saudis – the Saudis felt that they were the natural leaders of the region, something that annoyed the smaller Gulf States – and feared that the Saudis had nurtured thoughts of invasion themselves. They were happy to cooperate with America in any way possible, although sometimes at arm’s length. Years after their country had served as the base for invading Iraq, it was serving as the base for another invasion.
Doug shook his head as his men started to bring out the pallets one by one, each one containing enough ammunition supplies to keep the unit operating for a few days. Ammunition consumption was something of an endless dispute between officers holding combat commands and supply officers, for ammunition consumption was always higher than planned. Doug remembered serving under a particularly green lieutenant who had followed orders and taken only the ammunition he’d been allocated, without fighting for additional supplies, only to discover that his unit had shot itself dry. They’d had to pick up enemy weapons and press them into service. He still had nightmares about what might have happened if the ORF hadn’t rescued them before they’d run out of enemy weapons too.
“Make sure you secure them onto the trucks,” he ordered, as the vehicles backed up to receive their deadly cargo. A few hours of driving and they’d be at the FOB, where they would be distributed to the newcomers and training could begin. He looked over at a line of Marines marching past, carrying their own weapons, and smiled. Whatever disputes might exist between the Marines and the Army, they were both glad to see each other during a firefight. “Don’t forget to carry your personal weapons with you when we leave the base.”
He knew he sounded like he was nagging them, but he felt that there was no choice. Not too far from where they were, a team of Marines had been relaxing in the waters when a truck had drawn up and terrorists had jumped out, firing on the helpless Marines. Only their CO had been armed and he’d returned fire, but several Marines had been killed or injured in what was supposed to be friendly territory. Even Kuwait, as pro-American as it was, harboured the enemy. No one could be trusted fully.
As the truck roared to life, he stared into the west, towards the Saudi border. No one had said anything officially, but he knew that the Saudis had mounted the attack that had claimed his wife, as well as anything reassembling a normal life. When the invasion began – and he knew that the American public would not settle for anything less – he intended to be out on the front line. The godless bastards would pay for what they had done.
***
“Bloody weather,” Sergeant Jack McDonald muttered. “The wankers are probably hoping that we’ll get caught in a sandstorm or something.”
Command Sergeant Justin Herald couldn't disagree with the SAS soldier, who’d served in the desert for years. The helicopter was flying alarmingly close to the ground as it roared towards the Saudi-Kuwait border, an experience that mirrored similar training exercises back in the United States. The only real difference was that this was real. If they fell into enemy hands, God alone knew what would happen to them. It was, he supposed, preferable to hostage rescue in the United States.
“No argument,” he said. “What’s the news from London?”
“Bloody rioters on the streets, demanding a cure we don’t have,” McDonald growled. The United Kingdom might not have seen as nasty a burst of uprisings as France or the Netherlands, but the violence had been quite bad enough. Justin suspected that the riots were being organised, perhaps by the man believed to be responsible for Henderson’s Disease. The riots in Europe meant that fewer European troops could be spared for deployment to the Middle East. “The PM’s hard-pressed, but he has confirmed that we’ll be going in with you.”
Justin nodded in relief. The United States had maintained a heavy SF presence in Iraq since the invasion and several other countries had contributed their own people. The British and Australian SAS/SBS teams had been joined by Polish GROM and even elite units of the French Foreign Legion. The publics of several countries would have been quite surprised to discover that their forces had served in Iraq, a country that many of them had regarded as quite the liberal cause. Justin had no time for that curious and morally perverse form of pacifism, for he’d seen Iraq. The elite had lived in luxury while the poor had been forced to grub for what little food they could find.
“I don't know what else is coming, but they’re going to send what they can,” McDonald added. “They wouldn't tell me anything else. Security, don’t you know?”
“True,” Justin agreed. The Geneva Conventions aside, they all knew that torture was a very real possibility if they were captured by the enemy. Allied servicemen had been tortured and then executed in Iraq, Afghanistan and all the other little countries where the war on terror had been fought. There were still unanswered questions surrounding POWs taken during the Vietnam War, or even a particular American pilot who had vanished during the Gulf War. Some had believed that he was still held prisoner in Iraq, but his remains had been found after the invasion, leading Justin to suspect that he had been interrogated and then simply executed. If they were captured, they would be tortured...and eventually they would be broken. “Ah.”
The helicopter was slowing down and hovering now, heading down towards a tiny dirt village near the border with Saudi Arabia. Justin braced himself as the helicopter touched down, hurling himself out of the opening hatches and onto the sandy ground. The others followed him; twenty-one men, a combination of Delta Force and SAS soldiers. It was a mixed team, normally a recipe for disaster, but they’d trained together over the years.
“Advance and be recognised,” a voice barked, seemingly from nowhere.
“Kevin, you stupid bastard,” McDonald thundered. “It’s me!”
“Oh, right,” the voice said. “And there I was thinking that it was the ghost of that guy who wrote novels that got me into the SAS.”
Justin snorted as they were escorted into one of the buildings, which turned out to be a concealed storage point for five unmarked jeeps and a small arsenal of equipment. The small base was used for highly-classified cross-border raids against terrorist bases in Saudi Arabia, although it had been years since it had actually been activated. The SAS had sometimes used it as a training area, but now it was actually going to war.
“Everyone snatch some rest,” Justin ordered, once they’d checked the weapons and equipment. They’d check again just before they left. “We have a long trip ahead of us.”
The thought echoed through his mind as he found a comfortable spot and settled down for a nap. The entire SF establishment was on the move, infiltrating hundreds of the best soldiers in the world into Saudi Arabia. And, with the new ROE, there would be no such thing as mercy. The SF would get to go completely wild on their targets, backed up by a formidable arsenal of technology and weapons, some right out of science-fiction. He thought, briefly, of Martin Prince, back in America, but peering through the drones and advanced surveillance systems hovering over the battlefield. And then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
***
“Welcome to Coalition HQ,” Lieutenant David Toback said. Mija took his hand and shook it firmly, noting that the Public Relations Officer was young and reasonably handsome – and photogenic. The United States Armed Forces had been caught off-guard by media warfare and had stumbled, while the terrorists and insurgents had excelled at presenting their side of the story to the world, but the army had caught up swiftly. The terrorists still had an unfair advantage – there were far too many people who accepted everything they said at face value – yet the army was putting its own story out there. “I understand that you had a long flight?”
“Yes, thank you,” Mija said. The journey out of New York and overseas had taken longer than she had expected, but then, the week she'd spent training hadn’t been wasted. Being an embedded reporter was harder than she had realised. Only a small number of reporters had accepted the conditions
– she couldn't disclose anything until it was cleared, even where she was or what she was doing – and not all of them had passed through the training course. “They wouldn't let us get off the plane at all.”
“The Europeans are in a bit of a mess at the moment,” Toback agreed. “If you will come with me...”
He escorted her to a small jeep and invited her to sit beside him as he started the engine and drove away from the airport towards a cluster of buildings in the distance. The area seemed to be swarming with military officers and soldiers, with regulars, Marines and National Guardsmen working together and preparing for war. They paused to allow a line of Bradleys to drive past, heading towards the gates and out of the camp, the grim-faced soldiers mounted on them looking around as if they never expected to see the camp again. A couple saw her and waved cheerfully, but most of them just ignored her. She looked up as a flight of aircraft passed overhead, heading towards the border and Saudi Arabia. It looked as if the war was about to begin. She caught a whiff of something unpleasant and felt her insides churn, before Toback drove them away from the stench and towards the buildings. She didn't even want to guess at what the smell might be.
The Coward's Way of War Page 28