The Saudi-Iranian War

by Ted Halstead

None of these arguments had worked.

  So, Kazem and everyone else who had been forced to look for new jobs after the JCPOA had been approved had rejoiced when the Americans had walked away from the deal in 2018. Especially the ones who hadn't been as lucky as Kazem, and hadn't been able to get work making some use of their skills. And even more so for the ones who hadn't managed to get work at all.

  But it hadn't worked out quite the way Kazem imagined. There were still politicians hoping that the Europeans would eventually defy the Americans, in spite of threats against anyone trading with Iran. Russia could offer little but weapons, but the Chinese would buy all the oil Iran had to sell and there was little the Americans could do to stop them. On condition, the Chinese had told the Iranian government privately, that it did not resume a full-scale race to obtain a nuclear weapon.

  So, threats to resume weapons-grade uranium enrichment? Certainly.

  Maybe some enrichment out of view of the International Atomic Energy Agency inspectors? Sure. How about some ballistic missile testing?

  Absolutely.

  What about rehiring Kazem and everyone else who had been fired in 2015 and finally getting Iran enough nuclear weapons to keep it from being pushed around by the Americans, Saudis, or anyone else ever again?

  Well, no.

  Kazem sighed and looked around his office at the University of Tehran. He knew he'd been lucky to get a job here as a full professor of nuclear physics.

  Not because he had any doubt about his qualifications. His mother and father had both studied at an American university, and so he had been born in the US. That gave him the US passport he needed to study at Michigan State University, to his surprise the school with the top nuclear physics program in the US, and some would argue in the world.

  Of course, MSU didn't teach anyone how to build a nuclear weapon. With the knowledge of the science behind one, though, the challenge was really to make the most effective use of the plutonium or highly enriched uranium needed to create a weapon.

  Kazem smiled sourly at the University of Tehran motto, engraved on a sign in his office — "Rest not a moment from learning".

  That was really what bothered him about this job. He was certainly helping his students learn, and that was good. But now that he had been separated from the concrete, tangible results of what he knew, he felt as though he would never learn anything more himself.

  If only, Kazem mused, he could do something to change that.

  Dammaj Valley, Yemen

  Captain Jawad Al-Dajani was pushing the tanks of his M1A2 platoon as fast as they could go, which on the dirt road they were using wasn’t very fast.

  Still, he was optimistic. The RSAF Typhoon that had spotted the missile being readied for launch had already dropped its ordnance load on another target, and by headquarters’ calculation it would take longer to reload, refuel and return than for his tanks to reach the launch site.

  Jawad was determined to make sure that HQ’s calculation was correct.

  He smiled grimly as he thought about the Typhoon pilot who had tried to take out a missile launch site the previous week with his cannon. After hearing about the incident Jawad had looked up the cannon’s specifications out of curiosity, and had been impressed by what he read. The Mauser BK 27 gas-operated cannon fired a 27 mm round at a selectable rate of fire ranging from one thousand to seventeen hundred rounds per minute. Though mounted in many different aircraft, the BK 27 in the Typhoon was a special model that used a linkless feed system to improve reliability.

  Jawad had nodded as he read that Mauser had later become Rheinmetall, the same German company that had made the cannon in his M1A2 tank.

  Well, he thought, who could blame the Typhoon pilot for wanting to try it out once on a live target?

  Unfortunately, it ran straight into an ambush. The Houthis had an Iranian-supplied truck-mounted Herz-e-Nohom, a compact radar and electro-optically guided mobile air-defense system based on the Chinese HQ-7, itself a copy of the French Crotale, both of course unlicensed. Hit during its attack run while it was pointed straight at its ground target objective, the Typhoon had no chance to recover before it slammed into the Yemeni earth.

  Jawad just hoped its explosion took a few Houthis with it.

  As they neared their objective, Jawad spoke over his headset to the rest of his platoon, reminding them to stay vigilant against ambush. Multiple missiles had been launched out of this valley precisely because most of it was difficult to access, and it was still close to the Saudi border. More than one Saudi tank had already met its end here.

  Jawad’s platoon took a sharp bend in the road that suddenly made their objective visible in the clearing ahead. There was the missile!

  Very quickly, Jawad saw that the missile was in fact a decoy made of metal drums and painted cardboard. He thought bitterly that a Houthi with a welding torch and some auto body experience had probably slapped it together in a few hours.

  Jawad was wrong. It had taken two Houthis a full day to make it, and the help of three others to put it in place.

  Jawad immediately ordered his platoon to search for the anti-tank missile he knew was waiting for them. He knew better than to order a retreat back the way they had come, since outrunning a missile in a tank was… unlikely.

  This time, Jawad was right.

  The Houti crew of the 9K115-2 Metis-M were in a camouflaged position, that for good measure was also dug-in so only the missile launcher and their heads were exposed. The Metis-M was designed in Russia and produced in Iran under license, so the crew also had the latest missile made for the launcher, the Metis M1. This model increased armor penetration from the original Metis M missile’s eight hundred to nine hundred fifty millimeters.

  The Metis-M had a well-deserved reputation for lethality from its use in Syria and Lebanon, where its victims included Israeli tanks. Today it would add an Abrams tank to that tally.

  The missile only needed seconds to travel from its launch point to the M1A2 tank directly behind Jawad. Like the original Metis M, the M1 was also wire-guided. It served well to allow its operator to direct the missile precisely to its target.

  The Abrams tank took a direct hit, and immediately stopped and burst into flame. Its hatch flew open, and two crew members tumbled out, one of them on fire. The other crew member was able to put out the flames, and both of them stumbled as far away as they could get from the burning tank.

  This was an excellent decision. Within seconds either the fuel or the ammo, or perhaps both, inside the Abrams exploded with enough force to turn the tank on its side.

  Though the wire was useful in guiding the missile, and was too thin to be easily seen by the enemy, a sharp eye could spot it. Jawad’s eyesight was excellent, and so was his gunner’s. Moreover, a faint smoke trail led from a point in the bushes in their left flank to the destroyed tank.

  The Metis-M crew were in the middle of reloading when they came under fire from both cannon and machine gun fire from the three surviving tanks.

  Most of the rounds missed. However, only a single hit from Jawad’s M256

  120 mm smoothbore cannon was more than enough to ensure that no other missiles were fired at his tanks.

  Confirmation that Jawad had hit the anti-tank crew came when the three remaining Metis-M missiles exploded simultaneously, creating a fireball that easily eclipsed the gouts of earth thrown up by the impact of the other rounds.

  It gave him some satisfaction.

  But Jawad knew it wasn’t going to bring back his two dead crewmen inside the burning Abrams tank.

  Next time, Jawad swore to himself, it was going to be different.

  University of Tehran, Tehran, Iran

  Kazem Shirvani scowled at the knock on his door. He had almost finished preparing his afternoon tea, and did not welcome this break from routine.

  "My office hours are posted on the door! Come back in half an hour!"

  To his astonishment the door opened, but his annoyance changed to a smile when he sa
w that it was a relative rather than a student.

  "Farhad, come in! Sorry not to give you a better welcome, but I had no idea you were coming! The last I heard from your father you were still in Europe." The cocked eyebrow that accompanied his last statement told Farhad that Kazem was actually asking a question.

  "Uncle, a pleasure to see you as always. I have just arrived, and in fact am seeing you even before visiting my father," Farhad said with a broad smile.

  Kazem smiled back, but it was clear Farhad's statement had come as a real surprise.

  "I was just about to have tea. I hope you will join me?" asked Kazem in a tone that made it clear he expected only one answer.

  Farhad laughed. "You know I'll say yes. You make it exactly the right way

  — black, hot, and plenty of sugar. Green tea and aragh — you can keep it!".

  Kazem nodded and said nothing, but he was actually pleased. Aragh was a collective name for a wide variety of beverages made from flowers that in other countries would have been called herbal tea. Kazem's reaction to its taste was similar to his hearing Iran's nuclear weapons program had been shut down.

  As he poured the tea, he asked, "Well, your father said you were at a conference in Brussels. What did you think of Belgium?"

  Farhad smiled. “Quite pleasant. Excellent food, particularly the mussels.

  Really outstanding coffee. But none of that is why I was there."

  Kazem nodded. "Yes. How was the conference?"

  Farhad paused, and was immediately annoyed with himself. If he didn't trust his uncle, he should have never made this trip back to Iran. Besides, without his help the plan would be over before it began.

  "I actually wasn't at a conference. I was meeting someone who agrees with our view that Iran needs to take its rightful place in the Middle East. And in particular, that we should have custody of the two holy places."

  Kazem's eyebrows flew upwards, and he said, "Well, yes, you were right to say 'our view'. But while you were speaking with this mysterious friend, you should have included our views on world peace and the immediate reversal of global warming. An end to world hunger would be nice too," he added tartly.

  Farhad just smiled. “Uncle, believe me when I say that I was initially just as skeptical. However, my friend and the organization he represents have the resources to make this plan a reality."

  Kazem nodded. “Let me guess. This is where I come in."

  Farhad laughed. “I'm not asking you to do anything. First, I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

  Kazem shrugged. “Ask your questions. I'll even promise that all my answers will be true. If I don't think you should know something, I'll simply refuse to answer."

  Farhad nodded. "Fair enough. You told me the last time we talked that one reason you thought ending our nuclear weapons program was a mistake was that we'd made more progress than anyone knew. Did we succeed in building a nuclear weapon?”

  Kazem hesitated, and then nodded.

  Farhad nodded back, and said, “Good, good. Did we make more than one?“

  Kazem scowled, and this time Farhad thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, though, he nodded sharply.

  Now Farhad leaned forward. "Uncle, how many do we have?"

  Kazem shook himself like a man coming out of a trance. “Before I say anything else, I want to know what you're planning, and who else is involved.

  You're not going to attack Mecca and Medina, are you?"

  Farhad didn't have to feign his shock. “Certainly not! That would be insane and a sacrilege."

  Kazem leaned back in relief. "Good. I would not relish having to tell my brother that his son had taken leave of his senses." Then his eyes narrowed.

  "So, what exactly do you propose?"

  Once Farhad had outlined the plan to attack the Saudi oil reserves and its two largest desalination plants, followed by an attack with armored forces on

  Riyadh, he could see that Kazem was thinking intently.

  "So, your plan would require three nuclear weapons," Kazem said.

  Farhad nodded. "Yes. The two desalination plants are both on the Saudis'

  Persian Gulf coast, but they are about a hundred kilometers apart. I'm not an expert, but I don't think a single weapon could destroy both."

  Kazem nodded back. "Correct, these are weapons, not magic. Even a thermonuclear weapon would not destroy them both, and we only have fission devices. As it happens, we have three."

  A smile slowly spread across Farhad's face. "Uncle, surely this is a sign from God! To have exactly the tools we need to carry out his will…"

  Kazem made a sharp cutting motion with his hand. "God helps those who help themselves." It was one of the very few things he had heard while he was in the US, outside a nuclear physics classroom, that he agreed with completely.

  "We have only tested these devices in computer simulations. All of them were rated as over fifty percent likely to work. But none of them made it to the ninety-five percent or better threshold we were aiming for, and all of the simulations assumed there were no mistakes in the manufacture of weapons components or assembly. All three are different designs. Oh, and our simulation software was provided by the North Koreans."

  Farhad winced, and Kazem smiled thinly. “Exactly. So, God may indeed be on our side. Or, as we have seen so often, he may be showing us again that he has a sense of humor."

  Farhad nodded. "I understand, uncle. I will… restrain my enthusiasm. I know we are only at the beginning of a long road." Now Farhad leaned forward again. "Can you access the weapons?"

  Kazem scowled, but slowly nodded. “They require periodic maintenance, and I am one of the few people authorized to go anywhere near them. In fact, I am one of the few people who know they exist."

  Farhad smiled. “Excellent! Will it be possible to move them?"

  Kazem frowned and looked at his watch. "My office hours are about to begin, and if I'm even going to think about being involved in something like this a break in routine is the last thing I need. My wife will be visiting her sister later this evening. Come to see me at the house at about eight o'clock.

  And be ready to answer questions about your friend and his organization."

  "Yes, uncle. Absolutely!" His eyes shining, Farhad jumped up and left Kazem's office, nearly knocking over a student who had just been reaching his hand forward to knock on the door.

  Kazem shook his head as he watched him go. Was this really what all the years of work and study had been for?

  Tehran, Iran

  Neda Rhahbar had been really proud of her most recent plan. She really hated living as a woman in Iran, but escape had seemed impossible. Her family was solidly middle-class and completely traditional, even though most Iranians living in Tehran were not quite as conservative as those outside the capital. Even if her parents had not been deeply religious, they would have never allowed her to leave Iran.

  Her first plan had been to go to university overseas, marry a Westerner and never come back. Her parents had been smart enough not to simply say no to study outside Iran. Instead, they pointed out that the tuition for such study would be more than they could afford, and that she would not be admitted unless she learned a foreign language and radically improved her grades.

  They had been shocked when over the next two years Neda had thrown herself into her studies with a fervor they had never seen from her, and she became nearly fluent in English. Her mother had attempted to head off the conflict that was coming by arranging her marriage, but Neda had turned down anyone she suggested flat. Her long black hair, heart-shaped face and attractive figure had produced many suitors. But even though her parents were conservative, they had drawn the line at forcing their daughter to marry someone she didn't want.

  Finally, Neda's grades and her English ability had earned her a full scholarship at a British university. But her parents had still refused to let her go. Without her father's signature Neda could not obtain a passport, so no matter how much she screamed and cried and
called them unfair, she had still been stuck in Iran.

  Neda knew that sitting in the house as an adult would have guaranteed an arranged marriage. So, she had dried her tears and gained admittance to the University of Tehran, where she decided to study physics. Even though she had found herself attracted to several of the male classmates who tried to strike up conversations with her, she always remembered her goal was to leave Iran, which an Iranian husband would make impossible.

  Until she'd found what she thought was the answer to her dreams. In Neda's senior year, she had at first been annoyed by a substitute for their regular professor, who was out sick. This professor normally taught only graduate classes, and clearly considered her class a waste of his time. His name was Kazem Shirvani.

  But she had really had enough when he began to lecture them on the importance of learning English, since most of the cutting-edge research in physics was being done in the US and "even the work at CERN is written up first in English and then translated into lesser languages." Neda knew all about CERN, the Swiss headquarters for the European Organization for Nuclear Research.

  Neda had responded at length and in English, which she had improved to native speaker fluency through study at the British Council in Tehran, both in person and online. She made her points politely but firmly. The first was that CERN's other official language, French, deserved respect as well. The second was that the Americans had made a terrible mistake in abandoning the project to build a massive particle accelerator in Texas, creating the opening the Europeans had seized in building CERN.

  Kazem had laughed and agreed, and carried on with the class. Afterward he asked her to stay, and asked her whether she planned to apply to the graduate program in physics. The professor said that though French might deserve respect, a person with her knowledge of physics and English was someone Iran could not afford to waste.

  While they had spoken, he had mentioned he obtained his degree from Michigan State University. Neda had been puzzled, and asked how he had managed to study nuclear physics in the US when visas were normally denied to Iranians in such fields.

  That's when Kazem had explained that he had an American passport thanks to having been born there, though he had subsequently been raised in Iran.