Hunter Killer (2005)

by Robinson Patrick

  “But a half hour ago, you thought this would be impossible, without getting caught.”

  “I do not think that now,” replied the senior commander of COS. “I believe we could smash the Saudi oil industry with missiles and frogmen from those two SSNs. And never be detected.” Gaston Savary stood up. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I have been entrusted to conduct this study on behalf of the Foreign Minister and the President himself. I would be grateful, Admiral, if you would stay for the second part of our discussions. I have enjoyed listening to your views and I think you may have more ideas to give us.”

  Savary was not the first high-ranking French official to single out the forty-six-year-old Georges Pires as a top-flight military intellect, a career officer who may yet find himself in the Palais Bourbon as a member of the French Parliament.

  “Honored sir, I assure you,” replied the beefy Commando Chief, whose splendid family summer home, for three generations, was situated on the waterfront of St. Malo, less than 100 miles from the great French naval base at Brest. The Navy had always been his life, although he had found time to be married twice and divorced twice before his fortieth birthday. There was a slightly roguish look to Georges Pires, but his rise to high office in the principal assault section of the French Navy had been exceptionally swift.

  Savary continued. “Well, General Jobert, perhaps you could outline for us anything you may know about the Saudi military defenses—on land, I mean.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jobert said. “Let me switch on this big-screen computer, and I will tell you what I know, which is fairly standard but will show you the size of the task.” General Jobert stood back and used an officer’s shiny wooden baton to point to the map of Saudi Arabia. “They have an overall strength of around a hundred twenty-six thousand,” he began. “That’s the four elements, Army, Navy, Air Force, and the Royal Saudi Air Defense Force. They don’t have regular garrisons. The army is widely dispersed, but its strength is concentrated at four large military cities, built at huge expense in the 1970s and ’80s with the assistance of the United States Army Corps of Engineers. The first one to note is right here…Khamis Mushayt, in the mountains of the southwest, about 100 kilometers from the Yemeni border.

  “The second is up here at Tabuk, which protects the northwest of the country—in particular these routes that lead in from Jordan, Israel, and Syria. A third site, Assad Military City, is at Al-Kharj, 100 kilometers southeast of Riyadh, right in the middle of the desert. That’s where the Saudis’ national armaments industry is located.

  “But the really big one is right here, facing the border area toward Kuwait and Iraq, right outside this city marked here—Hafa al-Batin. This is the King Khalid Military City. You can see it’s sited, deliberately, near the Trans-Arabian Pipeline (TAPLINE), which connects the big southern oil center of Ad Damman with Jordan.

  “King Khalid is huge. It houses something like sixty-five thousand people, military and civilians. It’s got everything—cinemas, shopping arcades, power plants, mosques, schools, the lot. It’s built in the shape of a massive concrete octagon, with several smaller octagons inside it. Right outside the main complex they have a hospital, a racecourse, maintenance and supply areas, underground command bunkers, and the anti-aircraft missile sites. Gentlemen, you will not be attacking the King Khalid military base.”

  “What’s the surrounding country like?” asked Admiral Pires.

  “Absolutely wide open desert, swept by radar, no cover. We’d be facing the Saudi missiles and artillery.”

  “Can they shoot straight?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Are they all like that?” asked Gaston Savary.

  “Not quite so bad. But none of them is likely to be easy. Not for a small group of Special Forces. To tell the truth, Gaston, I can see no way for any small group to take, and force the surrender of, these strongholds. The Saudis have excellent communications and air cover. In the end, we would not have a chance.

  “And in addition they have a well-armed National Guard, which is specifically tasked with defending the oil installations. The Saudis are not stupid. They know those huge complexes represent their lifeblood, and they’ve protected them very thoroughly.”

  “What’s their Air Force like?” Admiral Pires asked.

  “Very modern,” said Jobert. “Well-equipped. U.S. and British fighter bombers. F-15s, Tornadoes. Strong offensive capability. They also have airborne surveillance and tactical airlift capability. In brief, the Royal Saudi Air Force can move people around at will, they can see from the sky, and they have a serious strike force.”

  “My notes from Prince Nasir say the Air Force bases may be vulnerable,” said Savary.

  “Well, maybe. But they have two substantial air wings—that’s the F-15s and the Tornadoes. And they are divided into strike force air bases at each of the four military cities. It’s a bit confusing, but they call the base at Khamis Mushayt the King Khalid Air base. Same name as the place in the north. See? Down here by the Yemeni border.”

  “That King Khalid must have been some kind of a leader,” said Savary. “Half the country’s named after him. But this is the air base Prince Nasir mentions. He plainly thinks it’s vulnerable.”

  “We need to have a very careful look,” said General Jobert.

  “Very careful indeed. Because it must be obvious to each of us that the consequences of any French soldier being caught, captured, or even killed would be absolutely calamitous for France. The Americans would immediately surmise we had blown the oil fields, and there’d be all hell to pay.”

  “It sounds to me as if the destruction of the oil fields is several times more important than everything else put together,” said Admiral Pires. “Just imagine. The lifeblood of the people suddenly gone. An entire nation, the majority of whom can never even remember poverty, suddenly facing the fact they could all be back on camels. No oil, no wealth, no more prosperity. I think the nation would go into shock.”

  “That’s Prince Nasir’s view entirely,” said Savary. “He thinks the armed forces will have no will to fight. Who for? A penniless king no longer able to pay them?”

  “More like a dead, penniless king,” said Admiral Pires. “Because if this goes ahead, the Saudis will plainly rally to the cause of the Crown Prince. Especially if he promises to end the patronage of the royal princes and to put the country back together. Let’s face it, he’s the military’s only hope.”

  “That is all true,” said Jobert. “The collapse of the Saudi economy would be an earth-shaking experience. But there still has to be an armed attack to subdue the Army and the Air Force, then to capture the main palaces in Riyadh and take out the King and his principal ministers. In the end, you always have to win it on the ground.”

  “According to Prince Nasir,” said Savary, “the feeling against the King is so strong, the people are so angry, they would rally to the cause of anyone who could lead them to victory over the royal family. And Crown Prince Nasir is extremely popular.”

  “Which leaves us with two tasks,” said Admiral Pires. “Number one, to get into the King Khalid Air Base and either take or destroy it. Then, almost simultaneously, to capture Riyadh and remove the King of Saudi Arabia from office.”

  General Jobert smiled. “One thing, Admiral. Taking the air base needs to be so decisive it will cause the entire military city at Khamis Mushayt to cave in, and then cause the other three military cities to decide there is nothing left to fight for.”

  “With Prince Nasir on the television appealing for calm, assuring everyone he has everything under control, it just might work,” said Admiral Pires. “Just so long as the collapse of the oil industry has the shattering effect we think it will.”

  “The thing is,” suggested Savary, “this whole operation has to look like a totally Arab matter. It will simply appear that the Crown Prince has pulled off a palace coup d’état. For the good of the people. And that may be an end to it. It just so happens that Prince Nasir chose France
to help his country get back on its feet. America does not enjoy sole rights to everything it wants, you know.”

  “So long as no one gets caught, eh?” muttered the General.

  “Precisely that,” responded the Admiral. “So long as no Frenchman is ever discovered anywhere near the action.”

  “And who, precisely, does the President have in mind for an operation like this?” asked the General.

  “Oh, he’s never even thought about that,” said Savary. “He just wants to know if we think it is possible. At this stage no more.”

  “Do you have the feeling that if we say yes he will start thinking about it very, very quickly?”

  “I do,” replied Savary. “And we may as well have a few answers. So let me ask a question: King Khalid Air Base—who goes in, us or an Arab force?”

  “Oh, that would have to be a French assault force,” said the General. “I doubt anyone except us, the Brits, the Americans, or the Israelis could possibly pull that off…but it seems so incongruous to have a French force, out there on its own, attacking that Saudi air base.”

  “There would have to be some Arab involvement,” offered Admiral Pires. “Maybe a 2/IC, or a couple of locals, men who understand command and may know the terrain, and speak Arabic.”

  “I see that,” said Savary. “I see it very clearly. We could provide the force, if we approve the plan. But Prince Nasir will have to provide some leadership or, at worse, some high-level advice.”

  “I don’t know that any Arab army has the kind of man we are looking for,” said the Admiral. “We need a skilled Special Forces operator with a sound knowledge of high explosives, close combat fighting, and making detailed plans.”

  “I don’t think they have anyone to fill that bill,” said the General. “And anyway, how the hell do we get in there? We can’t suddenly drop sixty parachutists into Saudi Arabia. Too high a risk.”

  “Then they’d have to come in by sea,” said Admiral Pires. “But it would be difficult by submarine. The SDV holds only a half-dozen. A ferry service like that would take hours and hours. And they couldn’t swim in. Too far. Too dangerous.”

  “That’s the kind of problem that gets solved by an Arab who knows the territory,” said Admiral Pires. “And understands what’s required. The kind of Arab who probably doesn’t exist.”

  “I know of one,” said Savary.

  “Oh? Who?” asked General Jobert.

  “He’s the Commander in Chief of Hamas. Name of Gen. Ravi Rashood. From what I hear, he’s ex–British SAS. He could do it. The Americans think he’s pulled off some terrible stuff these last few years. He could take the air base.”

  “But would he?” wondered the General. “Why would he?”

  “Because he’s a fanatical Muslim fundamentalist,” replied Savary. “And he hates the Americans, and he wants them out of the Middle East forever. And he knows that without Saudi support and Saudi oil they would have to go. I think you’d find General Rashood more than willing to talk, but I think you’d have to pay him, and Hamas, for the privilege of his involvement.”

  “Hmm,” said the General. “Interesting.”

  “And now,” continued Savary, “For the biggest question of all…who commands the Saudi mob in Riyadh? Who recruits, organizes, arms, and rallies thousands of citizens who hate the King, but have no idea what to do?”

  “I know one thing,” said Admiral Pires. “You need a top-class soldier for that. And top-class soldiers become well known to many people. In all of France, it might be impossible to find such a man, who had the right qualifications and a properly low profile. Those kinds of leaders become public figures. And one sight of this man, leading an attack on the Saudi royal family, would end all of our chances of anonymity.”

  “You speak wisely, Admiral,” said Savary. “But there must be someone. A trained fighter somewhere who has been in combat yet has not reached the highest rank. Someone who has perhaps retired in recent years. Someone who would perhaps consider undertaking such an operation for, say, ten million U.S. dollars. Enough to allow him to live his life free of all financial worries.”

  All three men grew silent. Savary seemed to be at a loss, but the two military men pondered the problem, each of them running their minds back over a working lifetime in the armed services.

  Eventually, surprisingly, it was Savary who spoke up. “There was such a man, you know, who worked for my organization, Secret Service, the DGSE. I never met him, because he was mostly based in Africa, rose to be deputy regional director of a large area—northern, sub-Saharan, and western Africa. He operated out of Dakar.”

  “Did he have combat experience?” asked the General.

  “And how,” replied Savary. “I believe he started off in the Foreign Legion. And I think he distinguished himself in Chad, that battle against the rebels at Oum Chalouba, 1986. He was decorated as quite a young officer for conspicuous bravery. I’m not sure what he did after that, but he definitely joined the Special Forces.”

  “Do you remember his name?” asked Michel Jobert.

  “Yes. He was Moroccan by birth. Gamoudi. Jacques Gamoudi. Had some kind of a nickname, which for the moment escapes me.”

  General Jobert ruminated. “Yes, Gamoudi. I think I’ve heard that name. He was involved with COS, after his service in the Legion. But I can’t remember precisely what he did.”

  Jobert walked over to a computer desk at the far end of his office and keyed in the information he had. “This ought to come up with something,” he said. “It’s an amazing piece of software, gives detailed biographies of all French serving officers of the past twenty-five years.”

  They waited while the computer buzzed and whined. Then the screen brightened. “Here he is,” said the General quietly. “Jacques Gamoudi, born 1964 in the village of Asni, in the High Atlas Mountains. Son of a goatherd who doubled as a mountain guide.”

  “Hell, that’s a big step. Moroccan farm boy to a commission in the Foreign Legion before he was twenty-two.” Admiral Pires was baffled. “Those guys can’t usually speak French.”

  “Looks like he had some kind of sponsor. Man called Laforge, former Major in the French Parachute Regiment. He was wounded in Algeria, 1961, medically discharged. Then he and his wife bought some kind of hotel in the village, and young Gamoudi worked there. Looks like Laforge helped him join the Legion.

  “Jesus. There’s a copy of his original application form, Bureau de Recrutement de la Légion Etrangère, Quartier Vienot, 13400 Aubagne. That’s fifteen miles from Marseille. He went down there a few weeks later, in 1981, passed his physical tests, and signed on for five years.”

  “You’re right,” said the Admiral. “That’s a hell of a piece of software.”

  “Any sign of his nickname?” asked Savary. “I’d know it if I’d heard it.”

  “Can’t see it,” said Michel Jobert, scrolling down the computer pages. “Hey, wait a minute, this could be it. Does Le Chasseur sound familiar? There’s a bunch of mercenaries he led in some very fierce fighting in North Africa. According to this, they always called him Le Chasseur.”

  “That’s him,” said Savary, thoughtfully. “Jacques Gamoudi, Le Chasseur.” He flattened his right hand, and drew it across his throat. Which was a fair indication of the reputation of Colonel Gamoudi—Le Chasseur, the Hunter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ONE MONTH LATER, EARLY JUNE 2009

  The trouble with Le Chasseur was he had essentially vanished into the crisp, thin air around the high peaks of the Pyrenees, somewhere up near the little town of Cauterets, which sat in the mountains 3,000 feet above sea level, hemmed in by 8,000-foot summits. Snowy Cauterets was normally the first French Pyrenean ski station to open and the last to close.

  It was common knowledge that Col. Jacques Gamoudi had taken early retirement from the Army and headed with his family to the Pyrenees, where he hoped to set himself up as a mountain guide and expedition leader, as his father had done before him, in faraway Morocco.

&nbs
p; Indeed an inspired piece of guesswork by Gaston Savary had brought him, in company with Michel Jobert, to the town of Castelnaudaray, thirty-five miles southeast of Toulouse, where Le Chasseur’s military career had begun. Quartier Lapasset, home of the Foreign Legion’s training regiment, was in Castelnaudaray, and the young Gamoudi had spent four months there as a recruit.

  Savary and the Colonel had made extensive inquiries, and not without some success. But there were no details, only that Jacques Gamoudi, with his wife, Giselle, and two sons, now aged around eleven and thirteen, had headed east into the mountains, maybe four years previously, and had not been seen since—though a veteran Legionnaire Colonel thought he had heard that the family had settled near Cauterets.

  And now their staff car was winding its way through the spectacular range of mountains that divided France from Spain. They took no driver: Savary himself was at the wheel.