The Saudi-Iranian War

by Ted Halstead

  Farhad nodded. “So you used the approach that allows the weapon to detonate on impact.”

  Kazem smiled. “Correct. It took a lot more work and ended with a device heavier than the other two, but just like you, I didn’t want to send anyone on a suicide mission.”

  Neda‘s eyes widened as she realized this was absolutely not some theoretical discussion. They were going to use three nuclear weapons in an attack on Saudi Arabia.

  Neda was so distracted that she didn’t notice the hairbrush on the nightstand until she knocked it off. It fell on the tile floor with a clatter. Her heart in her throat, Neda walked silently to the wardrobe, burrowed into the spot she had chosen and closed its door after her.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and the light snapped on. Neda could hear Kazem’s footsteps move closer to the wardrobe, and the spot that had seemed so safe just moments ago now left her feeling naked and exposed.

  Neda closed her eyes.

  A thump was quickly followed by a startled oath from Kazem. Neda guessed, correctly as it happened, that Shiri had come to her rescue. Neda prayed that Shiri would take the blame for the dropped hairbrush. As Kazem’s footsteps started to retreat, Neda mentally retracted all of her earlier unkind thoughts about Shiri.

  Neda‘s heart felt as though it had stopped as soon as Kazem’s footsteps did. She then heard a sound she recognized as Kazem opening his briefcase, which he always kept locked. This was followed by a faint whirring and beep that told her Kazem had turned on his laptop. A few minutes later, the sound of the bedroom light being snapped off and the door closing told Neda it was safe to emerge from the wardrobe.

  At last, a stroke of good luck! Neda could see that though he had pulled the lid partway down, Kazem had not turned off the laptop. She carefully lifted the lid up, and with her background in nuclear physics saw enough to recognize the document on the screen for what it was — information on the operation of a nuclear weapon.

  Neda had kept a USB flash drive on her key ring ever since her student days, replacing it whenever a newer model struck her fancy. The latest measured slightly less than an inch long, but could still hold 64GB of data.

  Thankfully the Chinese had never paid much attention to international sanctions, so such items were freely available in Iran.

  In moments Neda had transferred the handful of files in the laptop’s documents folder onto the USB drive. She then carefully folded the laptop screen back to exactly where it had been when Kazem left it, and returned to her listening perch at the bedroom door, which she eased open just a crack.

  Kazem shook his head and sat back down across from Farhad. “Your aunt’s cat. I have no idea why she bought it. All it does is eat and cause trouble.”

  Farhad laughed. “I could say the same of some people I know.”

  Kazem smiled tightly. “It does remind me, though, that we need to wrap this up before your aunt gets home.” Holding up a USB flash drive, he said, “I had originally planned to give this to you later, but it occurred to me that you should have some time to study its contents. The documents on it detail the operation of the nuclear devices we will be using. Since you will be leading the team detonating one of them, you must become thoroughly versed in its contents.”

  Farhad accepted the USB drive, but was clearly troubled. “Uncle, when you say ‘we will be using’ surely you do not mean…”

  Kazem interrupted him with an impatient wave of his right hand. “That is exactly what I mean. At least one of these teams needs a real expert on it. I don’t know what communication will be possible, if any, between the teams once the attacks have begun. But I know if I stay here on this couch in Iran you will have no hope of reaching me from the Saudi’s Eastern Province.”

  Farhad bent his head, clearly overwhelmed. “Uncle, I and all who follow me will never forget what you are doing to make our mission a success.”

  Kazem grunted. “Admiration I don’t need. Proper planning to give us all a fighting chance to make it back home to Iran I do. Let me walk you back to your car, and we can discuss the transport of the weapons from storage.”

  A few minutes later, both Kazem and Farhad were gone. This time Neda had taken the precaution of ensuring that a cafe in her neighborhood would be open, so she could spend enough time there to avoid returning right on Kazem’s heels. No, she reminded herself again, Kazem was no fool.

  Just a monster, willing to kill thousands.

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Grishkov swore as the car he had driven from the airport to the traffic light they were now waiting to turn green was struck by the car behind them. The first startled oath became much more descriptive as continued taps on the car’s rear bumper slowly moved them into oncoming traffic.

  Grishkov was astonished to see that Vasilyev was smiling.

  “Truly,” Vasilyev said, “I learn more from you on every mission. I would not have thought that anatomically possible.”

  “Well, I think you’ll find this a lot less amusing in a few seconds once the idiot behind us finishes pushing us into traffic,” Grishkov responded. To accent his point, the drivers crossing in front of them were beginning to honk and swerve.

  Still smiling, Vasilyev said, “You don’t understand. It is your fault for having stopped at the red light at this left turn only lane. The driver behind you wishes to go straight, and after this vehicle is struck by an oncoming car will probably have a clear way to do so.”

  As the force of repeated taps on their car pushed it further into the intersection, Grishkov snarled, “Enough!” After putting the car in park and applying the emergency brake he had just reached for the door handle when the light turned green.

  Vasilyev now said soberly, “Remember the mission.” A vein in Grishkov’s temple was throbbing quite alarmingly, he noted.

  His hands blurring and with a new stream of invective Grishkov put the car back into drive, released the brake and executed the left turn nearly fast enough to set the car on two wheels. With the high-end American owned hotel that was their destination now a few blocks in front of them, Grishkov snapped, “Are you going to tell me that was normal?”

  Laughing, Vasilyev said, “Consider yourself welcomed to Saudi Arabia.”

  Ten minutes later, they were checked in to the hotel, and Grishkov was frowning as he sipped his black coffee in a cafe in its ground level. It was mid-afternoon on a weekday, and they were in the back corner of a nearly deserted establishment.

  Vasilyev peered over his cappuccino and smiled. “Something is bothering you. Care to share?”

  Grishkov shrugged, but if anything his frown deepened. “Well, I’m no expert in these matters. But here we are in an American hotel. They have sold billions in weapons to the Saudis. After Iraq seized Kuwait and its oil, if it hadn’t been for the Americans everyone knows the oil just a few hundred kilometers south in this country would have been next. And without their support, the Saudis could never continue their campaign in Yemen.”

  Grishkov paused, and looked expectantly at Vasilyev.

  Vasilyev’s smile simply broadened, and he took another sip of his cappuccino.

  Now Grishkov’s frown became a scowl. “Fine, I’ll come right out and ask.

  Why aren’t we working with the Americans on this? They certainly have greater resources and more contacts in this country than we do. Or am I wrong about that?”

  Now Vasilyev’s smile disappeared, and he put down his cappuccino.

  “You are not wrong. Of course, the decision about whether or not to work with the Americans, or for that matter the Saudis, was made far above our level. Probably above Smyslov’s, and considering the stakes possibly by the President himself. So, I can only speculate about why we are dealing strictly with unofficial contacts during this trip.”

  Vasilyev paused and looked at Grishkov, who nodded acknowledgment that he understood what would follow was only Vasilyev’s best guess.

  “You are correct to think that the direct approach would have many
advantages. Your police training has taught you to look for the most effective solution to a problem, and sharing all we know with both the Saudis and the Americans would appear to be just that. But, there are many possible negative consequences as well.”

  Vasilyev picked up his cappuccino and took a sip while he gathered his thoughts.

  “The first problem is our friendly relationship with Iran, at least as far as military sales go. Though we do not believe the attack is sanctioned by the Iranian government, what we have learned so far suggests that the organization planning it includes multiple Iranian government officials. So, if the attack is not stopped, we may be blamed for assisting it.”

  Grishkov gestured impatiently. “That makes no sense. If we were involved with the attack, why warn its target?”

  Vasilyev nodded. “I understand your confusion. However, consider that so far we don’t even know the specific targets. The vague warning we could provide now could be dismissed as an attempt to evade responsibility, particularly if the attack is not prevented.”

  Grishkov paused, and then shrugged acknowledgment. “But I am sensing that even if we learn of the targets, we may not automatically tell the Saudis and the Americans.”

  Vasilyev smiled broadly, and nodded vigorously. “You are a quick study, my friend. Yes, even then there would be problems. Do you imagine we would be free to intervene in this matter if the Saudis and Americans knew about it? Even if we weren’t escorted to the first flight back to Moscow, any supposed joint effort would just be a way to track our every move. How likely would our success be then? And how likely do you think it is that our President would leave the solution to this problem in the hands of the Americans?”

  Grishkov grimaced, and shook his head.

  Vasilyev laughed. “Yes, exactly. Add to that the possibility that the plotters may have ears within the Saudi government that could tell them about our warning. Though I doubt they do within the American government, remember that their security is truly very poor.”

  Grishkov nodded, and said simply, “Wikileaks.”

  Vasilyev smiled. “Just so. Can you believe a low-ranking officer was able to put thousands of highly classified documents on a USB drive, and simply walk out with them? And that the documents had no encryption to slow down their distribution on the Internet even a little?”

  Vasilyev paused, and lowered his voice. “We must also acknowledge that after certain recent actions by our government, some Americans may not believe our warning would be… well-intentioned.”

  Grishkov shrugged. “Everything you have said makes sense. But at some point we may have to call on the Saudis for help, yes?”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Yes. We will hardly be able to take on a well-funded and highly capable terrorist organization on our own. We have agents in place throughout the Kingdom, and there are Saudi officials we consider reliable. But we are not to contact them unless we have actionable intelligence, and then only if we cannot deal with the matter ourselves.”

  Grishkov glanced at his watch, a metal specimen that was obviously far from new. Vasilyev smiled and gestured towards it.

  “That looks like a Sturmanskie. Is it original?”

  Grishkov shrugged. “I have no idea. The pilot who gave it to me in Chechnya said it was the most valuable thing he had. I tried to refuse, but he insisted.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “You saved his life, I suppose?”

  Grishkov frowned, obviously annoyed. “I told him I was simply doing my duty, but he wouldn’t listen. I finally accepted the watch just to be done with the matter.”

  Vasilyev laughed. “Well, you’ve obviously taken good care of it since then. Did you know that’s the same model watch Yuri Gagarin wore when he became the first man in space? Or that for years they were only available to Soviet Air Force pilots?”

  Grishkov’s eyes widened, and he simply shook his head.

  Vasilyev nodded. “Yes, and the company that made them has an interesting history. The Soviet government bought two American companies in the 1930s. All of their equipment along with about two dozen former employees from Ohio were brought to the USSR to start our first watch factory. After they produced your watch and many others, the company went on in the 1970s to produce Poljot, the most popular watch brand of the Soviet era.”

  Grishkov smiled. “My father had a Poljot. He loved that watch. We buried him with it.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “And unlike many young people today, you do not rely on your phone for the time.”

  Grishkov snorted. “Certainly not. Phones are far less reliable. I have had many fail over the years. This watch has never failed to tell the correct time.

  And now it is telling me that the meeting with our contact is due.”

  Vasilyev smiled. “Well, as in many countries, how late he is will tell us much. In particular, how much does he need us, versus how much we need him.”

  Grishkov shook his head. “While we wait, I have to ask you how you could take that business at the intersection so calmly.”

  Vasilyev smiled. “Traffic here is far less dangerous now than during my first trip to the Kingdom, which was even before we opened our embassy.

  Then the rumor was that the death rate from traffic accidents was higher than the birth rate.”

  Grishkov stared. “Surely an exaggeration!”

  Vasilyev shrugged. “Perhaps. But the government was certainly concerned.

  For example, truly spectacular wrecks would be featured on the evening news. I remember one in particular where the voiceover said, as the camera panned over pieces of wood with Arabic lettering on them, ‘Yes, the driver of this Maserati drove right through this sign saying The Bridge Isn’t Finished Yet.’ The camera then zoomed to the scorch mark on the other side of the gorge as the voiceover continued. ‘Yes, the driver almost made it across — but not quite.’ Then the camera angle zoomed down about two hundred meters to the bottom of the gorge, where you could see pieces of a white Maserati scattered over a considerable distance.”

  Grishkov shook his head. “Come now, we have such stories in the news in Russia, and I’m sure in many other countries.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “True. Very well, imagine this. A TV program which begins with an Indian doctor on the top floor of a Riyadh hospital. He looks into the camera, and without preamble opens one of the windows. He then asks, ‘If you were in a big hurry to leave this hospital, would you jump? No?

  So, why are you driving double the posted speed limit inside the city? You need to stop doing this.’ He then walks down the hallway and stops in front of a door. ‘Let’s talk to some people who did not follow my good advice.’ He then opens the door to the quadriplegic ward.”

  “No,” Grishkov said, horrified.

  “Oh, yes,” Vasilyev nodded. “He then proceeds to ask the patients questions like ‘Are you sorry you drove double the posted speed limit inside the city?’ This program was rebroadcast multiple times.”

  Grishkov frowned. “It still doesn’t prove much. Whoever was in charge of programming may have had a family member killed in traffic and had that show produced.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Also true. I’m glad to see that some of my skepticism is rubbing off on you! So, picture this. After each serious accident, the dead and injured would of course be removed. However, instead of towing away the wrecks they would be moved to the side of the road and left in place for a week or so, as a warning to other drivers. One wreck even featured above it a fender dangling from a second-story balcony, where it had evidently been thrown by the impact. You couldn’t drive any significant distance without passing multiple instances of such examples.”

  Grishkov shrugged. “I saw none on our drive from the airport.”

  Vasilyev smiled. “Just so. As I said, it is far safer to drive now than on my first tour. And here comes the man we have been waiting so patiently to meet.”

  Chapter Six

  Doha, Qatar

  Prince Bilal bin Hamad looked at Farhad Mokri skeptically.
For this highly unofficial meeting they were in the offices of one of the many businesses controlled by the Qatari royal family, of which Prince Bilal was a high-ranking member. Bilal was wearing the same traditional white thobe and red-checkered ghutrah as nearly all other Qatari men, making him difficult to pick out from the busy office crowd. Farhad wore the slacks and dress shirt common for foreign businessmen visiting Qatar, and was equally inconspicuous.

  “Are you sure it will be possible to detonate three nuclear weapons against Saudi targets simultaneously? You say the loss of Muslim lives will be minimal, but will not tell me which places are targeted. Who will provide these weapons?”, Bilal asked, and then paused.

  “I have many more questions, but those will do for a start.”

  Farhad nodded, and said, “I can assure you that we can deliver on the attack we have promised. In fact, we can give you the best guarantee of all.

  Qatari tanks will not be expected to cross the border into Saudi Arabia until at least one of the nuclear weapons have detonated. The weapons are untested, and one or two may not work. But even a single nuclear explosion will be enough to create the chaos and confusion we need for success.”

  Farhad saw with satisfaction that he had scored a hit from Bilal’s reaction.

  He knew from it that it was a condition Bilal had planned to demand anyway.

  “As for the targets, you understand that for the security of our operations we cannot share them, even if you decide to participate in our plans. The same is true for the source of our weapons. However, I can guarantee that we are not targeting any Saudi city. We know that mass casualties would turn the entire Muslim world against us. War is not simply killing. It is truly about breaking the enemies’ will to resist.”