“All targets illuminated,” he reported. He could hear the sound of jet fighters in the distance. “Come and get them, boys.”
The Saudis opened fire as the American jets swarmed closer, firing a mixture of SAM missiles and gunfire into the air. Some of the gunfire looked to be random from his point of view, for the Saudis didn’t seem to be using their radars. It was a smart choice under some circumstances, but with the base a target, it was largely meaningless. King Khalid Military City was going to be bombed anyway, even if they kept their radars turned off. He couldn’t see if they hit anything, but in the end, it hardly mattered. The American bombs had started to fall.
When humanity had first learned how to fly, bombing had been a very imprecise science and – despite exaggerated claims – had consisted mainly of dropping the bombs by dead reckoning and hoping for the best. A large target – like London, during the Blitz – was fairly easy to locate; a tiny target like a single building was almost impossible to locate and hitting it would be nothing more than a matter of luck. As technology had advanced, it had become possible to target bombs more accurately, bringing them down right on top of their targets. There were still accidents, still moments when the bombs lost their locks and hit the wrong targets, but overall the USAF could devastate an enemy target without causing much collateral damage. When media and PR considerations had become more important than tactical considerations, precision targeting had become vitally important. A single accident could ruin the entire war effort.
Justin wasn’t too concerned as the first bombs started to explode. King Khalid Military City was a massive military base, not a genuine city. There were few civilians in the base to be caught up in the explosions, even under the less restrictive ROE the US had incorporated after Henderson’s Disease. The entire base was a legitimate target. The only reason it hadn’t been smashed to powder was that it could be pressed into service by American and Iraqi forces, the latter of which were now massing on the border and preparing to advance.
“I think we pasted them,” McDonald said, as the fighters withdrew. The Saudis kept firing after they were gone, although Justin had no idea just what they thought they were doing. Perhaps it was to make them feel better, or perhaps their clerics were making the men continue firing, although it was completely ineffective. Indeed, it was hurting them; a bullet fired now couldn’t be fired against the American military when it finally reached the city. “The brass is going to want some post-damage assessment.”
Justin shrugged. The Saudis had tightened up their security after the war had begun, making him reluctant to risk running his people through the base again. He’d been tempted to repeat the Saudi trick of sending commando groups through the main gates and opening fire, but he didn’t have the numbers – or the mindset – to risk his men on a suicide mission. The team would assess the damage for CENTCOM and the President, yet they’d be doing it at a distance. Even so, it was clear – just from the fires blazing away in the distance – that the flyboys had hit something vital. The base’s use as a military centre had been reduced.
His lips tightened as he watched the Saudis scurrying like ants, trying to put out the fires and repair the damage. There was no way to know just how badly they’d been hurt, though, not until they captured the complex. The fighter jets had hit them, but what had they hit? He’d been on the ground during operations in Iraq and knew that even direct hits didn’t always destroy the target, or inflict lethal harm. If higher authority took the destruction of the base’s facilities for granted, they might be in for a nasty surprise.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “I guess they will want to know what they hit.”
***
The Americans had designed and built his base, which suggested – very strongly – to General Mujahid that they would know exactly where to hit to do the most damage. Accordingly, he'd taken the precaution of moving his command and control centres around and hiding them in harmless storage buildings, buildings he’d deduced the Americans would probably want to use themselves when the base fell. The clerics hadn’t been so keen on moving out of the luxury compartments provided for senior officers, but they wouldn’t have had a chance to regret it. The Americans had blown up that building and, quite by accident, done the Saudi defenders a vast favour.
He scowled down at the map, updated with information from spotters and intelligence operatives. The Americans were advancing west out of Kuwait, heading directly for his base and crushing everything that got in their way. Despite the vast sums of money Saudi Arabia had spent on its military machine, their training didn’t come up to American standards and they’d never been taught how to combine their arms. The Americans had broken the defensive line near Kuwait and just kept moving, rather than allowing themselves to be drawn into city fighting. He hadn’t been given any official access to reports from the coast, where the American Marines had stormed ashore over the last two days, but he’d been watching American television and the news didn’t look good. The coastal cities had been blockaded and the Marines were advancing north to link up with their allies.
“General, that was the commander of the 7th,” one of his aides said, putting down the phone. He’d resorted to using landlines, rather than the American-designed communications system that – it had taken two days to realise – served to do nothing more than inform the Americans of his intentions. “He is intending to attack the American spearheads and insists on being sent all available air support at once.”
General Mujahid scowled. “Tell him to remain in his concealed positions and engage the Americans when they come into range,” he ordered. The blunt truth was that he no longer had any aircraft to send, at least not enough to make a difference. American aircraft and helicopters ruled the battlefield now. “I want him to…”
“General,” another aide said, this time with a hint of panic. “The Iraqi Air Force has just crossed the border and is attacking targets along the defence line!”
The map updated as reports started to come in, revealing that a new front had been opened in the war. He'd known that the Iraqi troops were massing on the other side of the border, but the Iraqis hadn’t moved, despite their declarations of intent. He’d had half of his armoured force deployed to face them, yet as the days had worn on, he'd been forced to pull out his tanks and guns and send them to face the Americans. The Iraqis had just been biding their time and, now, had unleashed the might of their army against Saudi Arabia. And, after all the reports about Saudi involvement in the Iraqi insurgency, he doubted they would be showing mercy.
“The defence line has just become untenable,” he muttered, wishing that he had someone to tell him what to do. The lines on the map were becoming clear, warning him of two enemy forces advancing on his base, advancing on him. He couldn’t stop one of them, let alone both, which meant that abandoning the base and falling back into the interior was the smartest choice. It was also impossible. Even if he could have pulled his forces out of the line and start a fighting retreat – where American air power would catch them in the open and smash them like bugs – the clerics would never have allowed it. Their men were swarming all over the base, enforcing everything from proper dress to discipline under fire. “I don’t…”
Another aide looked up. “General…”
General Mujahid stared at him blankly. “What?”
“General, the Israeli Air Force just launched a series of attacks on our forces,” the aide reported, clearly terrified. Shooting the messenger was an old tradition in the Middle East, one that had hampered many a despot from realising that his time was up. “The Jews are coming to lay waste to the world!”
“Do not panic,” General Mujahid snapped, although he felt panic bubbling up within his chest. If the Israelis had launched an air attack, then could the might of their army be far behind? He found himself considering the issue, wondering what had happened to Jordan…but in the end it hardly mattered. All that mattered was that the entire northern front was going to disintegrate. “Get me
…”
“Air raid,” someone shouted. “There are enemy aircraft incoming!”
“Get to the shelters,” General Mujahid bellowed. The Israelis were good, almost superhuman; their intelligence service could probably pinpoint their exact location and direct the IAF to destroy it. “Get to the…”
***
Captain Saul Schwartzman grinned as the American-built McDonnell Douglas F-15E Strike Eagle roared towards its targets, daring the Saudis to throw anything into its path to stop it. The Americans had pounded the Saudis so hard that only one of their AWACS was still flying, protected by most of their remaining front-line fighter jets. Schwartzman was rather surprised that the Americans hadn’t knocked it down yet, but with an invasion underway most of the American air assets would have been deployed to support their advancing army and Marines. And besides, without the aircraft to take advantage of what the airborne radar was seeing, it didn’t matter if the Saudis saw them coming.
He glanced down at his targeting indicators and smiled again. The mission had been carefully planned at first, but with the disintegration of the Saudi IADS the planners had moved it up a bit, unleashing the IAF against a nation many Israelis regarded as the true enemy. Saudi money had funded terrorist groups and rewarded suicide bombers, Saudi-owned media institutions had spread black propaganda about Israel to the world…the Saudis had even tried to prevent the invasion of Iraq by linking it into the endless struggle between Israel and Palestine. And now they’d committed effective genocide against the United States. Schwartzman had no objections to flying beside the Americans in war against such people; the only question in his mind was why the Americans hadn’t dusted off their nuclear weapons and turned Saudi Arabia into a giant sheet of glass.
There were a handful of Jordanian aircraft in the sky, but otherwise the skies were clear of hostile or suspect aircraft for quite some distance. Israel and America had delivered what amounted to an ultimatum to Jordan, warning the King that he could either keep his forces out of the battle and on the ground, or they would be crushed without further warning. A third of the IAF was currently orbiting near the border, providing a very visible threat to anyone in Jordan who thought that assisting the Saudis was a good idea, while the remainder had flown over the country and headed into Saudi. He smiled as they came up on their targets – a series of Saudi bases – and broke up into strike forces. The Saudis would see them coming, but they wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
“This is base,” a voice said, over the radio. “You are cleared to attack. Good hunting.”
***
General Mujahid was halfway into the bunkers when the Israeli aircraft roared overhead, dropping their bombs on the Saudi positions. After the Americans had weakened the defenders, there was little left to stave off the Israeli attack and the Israelis bombed at will. A bomb came down too close to his position and exploded, sending him falling down the stairs and crashing to the bottom. The force of the impact broke his neck.
With his death, the planned defence of the north-east came apart.
***
“The Americans are losing,” Prince Mukhtar proclaimed, later that evening. “We are winning on all fronts.”
Prince Ibrahim fixed him with a look. “You must be using a very different definition of winning,” he said, as dryly as he dared. The reports had been clear, despite a great deal of whitewashing and face-saving. The Americans were winning on all fronts. Their Marines had secured the coastline and their heavy armoured forces were landing, reinforcing their units that were already pressing up towards Kuwait. He was mildly surprised that they hadn’t tried to launch a direct attack towards Riyadh from Qatar, but the logistics would have been tricky, to say the least. “The Americans are pushing us hard.”
It was difficult to get accurate information out of the senior military officers, but he’d taken the precaution of having spotters seeded in the coastal cities and, thankfully, the Americans hadn’t bothered to cut the landlines leading out of the cities. The Americans were firmly in control and any resistance was harshly punished; they’d ordered most of the local population to remain indoors and out of sight. The groups of young men, armed by the clerics, who had set out to challenge the Americans had been unceremoniously slaughtered. They hadn’t stood a chance. The Americans didn’t seem to be taking prisoners.
And the Shia who lived along the coastline had welcomed the Americans. It was a betrayal that stung, even though Prince Ibrahim knew that it was hardly unexpected. The Saudi Government had treated the Shia like dogs, regarding them as little better than heretics and hadn’t hesitated to grind them into the dirt. Now the Americans had liberated them, the Shia were pledging their allegiance to the United States and offering them all the help they could possibly desire. It wasn't the only betrayal. Thousands of guest workers – little better than slaves, in the view of the average Saudi – had offered their own support to the Americans.
“We will defeat the Americans,” Prince Mukhtar insisted, as if it would come true if he repeated it often enough. “The might of the Arab world…”
“Is arrayed against us, or standing on the sidelines,” Prince Ibrahim said, wondering if a heart attack was a very real possibility. “The Iraqis are at war against us. Kuwait and Qatar are at war against us. Jordan has declared that it is willing to assist the Americans and even the Jews in this war. Yemen and Oman are at war against us; luckily, they cannot contribute much to the American war. The only ones not to declare against us are the UAE and Bahrain and the Americans are still using Bahrain as a base!”
He shrugged. “The Egyptians are having problems with rioters on the streets,” he added. “I don’t think they can help us, even without the other problem.”
Prince Mukhtar’s face darkened. Two hours ago, Al Jazeera had broadcast something that the Saudi Government had been desperate to conceal. Henderson’s Disease had reached Saudi Arabia, infecting dozens – perhaps hundreds – of people along the Red Sea coastline. There had never been a serious vaccination program in Saudi Arabia and the results were likely to be disastrous, even though Henderson’s Disease didn’t spread so rapidly in the heat. The chances were that it had come in from one of the foreigners who had come to fight to defend Mecca, although no one would ever know for sure.
“You might want to consider surrender,” Prince Ibrahim said. “The war is not going to be won.”
The ground rumbled. The Americans had bombed Riyadh from time to time, purely to remind the Saudis that they controlled the air now and could fly where they pleased. So far, they hadn’t decapitated the Saudi Government, but the Ministry of Defence and many other official buildings had been destroyed, leaving wreckage lying in the streets. The Saudi news services had claimed that many innocent civilians had been killed; the truth was that the Americans had been remarkably precise. Very few civilians had been killed by the bombing.
“I will not surrender,” Prince Mukhtar insisted. “If the Americans cannot be defeated by conventional warfare, there is always unconventional warfare, war by all means. We will not lose!”
Prince Ibrahim winced. He’d hoped that Prince Mukhtar would come to his senses, but that seemed increasingly unlikely. It was time to start thinking about contingency plans. If nothing else, he did have one advantage. He had nothing left to lose.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
When the chips are down, the key to success is strong leadership. That means grasping the nettle, no matter how much it stings, and pulling it out by its roots.
-President Paula Handley
Washington DC, USA
Day 41
It was a sombre group that rose to their feet when President Paula Handley entered the Cabinet Room, a gesture of respect that was not lost on her. The President hadn’t been sleeping well over the last month, even though the news from the war wasn't bad. Her country was dying in front of her and part of her wondered, even though she knew it was absurd, if she was going to be the last President of the United States of Am
erica. The entire country seemed to be rotting away.
“Gentlemen, be seated,” she ordered, as she took her seat at the end of the table. “I am expected to face the press in an hour, so we may have to cut this meeting short. General?”
General Tom Spencer nodded as he took control of the display. “We have been unable to locate any survivors from the Rueben James,” he said, as he displayed a map of the war zone. We deployed SAR parties to search for any survivors, but the frigate went up like a bomb and we do not believe that anyone could have survived. The Admiral in command called the search off at first light this morning, citing safety concerns. There were other people to rescue from the water.”
The President scowled. The remains of the RSAF – and a dazzling collection of private aircraft, including some very rare models – had been pushed into launching suicidal attacks on the American positions. Most of them had been shot down before they came near their targets, but a Hawk training aircraft had somehow managed to evade the overworked defences and slam right into an American frigate. The aircraft had been carrying plenty of high explosive and the resulting explosion had sunk the ship with all hands. A handful of other ships had been damaged by suicidal attackers, while ground forces had shot down a pair of jumbo jets that had attempted to fly towards Kuwait and crash into military bases there.
The Coward's Way of War Page 37