The Saudi-Iranian War

by Ted Halstead

  A sudden roar of multiple engines from the other side of the hill, followed by the brilliant glare of spotlights, announced the arrival of the Iraqi Army.

  Grishkov had to squint to see through the sudden glare, but counted at least five Humvees mounting M-2 .50 caliber machine guns and spotlights, as well as two Bradley Fighting Vehicles. Iraqi flags were flying from all of them.

  Grishkov had seen many cannons larger than the 25mm variety mounted on the Bradley. He thought to himself that it had to be perspective. They looked so much larger pointed in his direction.

  The man with the loudspeaker mounted to one of the Bradleys quickly made it clear he was not their target.

  “Iranian forces at our border. Retreat immediately. The intruders in our territory will be arrested and tried under Iraqi law. Any attempt to interfere will be met by force.” This message was given first in English, and then what Grishkov correctly believed was Farsi.

  Neda would tell him later, very bad Farsi with a heavy Kurdish accent.

  A voice shouted back something in Farsi. The answer was a burst from one of the M-2s that kicked up rock and dust close enough to the Iranian troops to send a clear message, but without killing or injuring them. The professional in Grishkov admired the placement of the rounds, while another more human part calculated their survival chances if the Iranians responded.

  Low. Very low.

  With much shouting and yelling, the Iranians moved back as two of the Humvees moved forward. Without waiting for an invitation, Grishkov, Vasilyev and Neda climbed aboard the two vehicles, which quickly reversed and sped to the other side of the hill. Minutes later, they could hear what Grishkov recognized as a Kazan Ansat-2RC light helicopter. It was even better to recognize the familiar white, blue and red Russian insignia on its side. They were all quickly aboard, and Vasilyev was yelling in his ear to be heard over the noise of the engine, “How badly were you hit?”

  Grishkov shook his head and answered, “The armor took the worst of it.

  What about you and Neda?”

  Vasilyev grinned and said, “We are better at ducking!”

  Grishkov smiled back, not because he was amused but to give Vasilyev some reassurance that the round’s impact really hadn’t been so bad.

  The pilot yelled back, “Make sure you stay strapped in. We’ll be doing evasive maneuvers as soon as we reach the Syrian border that will continue all the way to base. Anything that flies in a straight line in Syria doesn’t fly long.”

  They had to stop at the Syrian military base south of Al-Hasakah to refuel.

  Grishkov started to admire how neatly and professionally the facility had been laid out by the Syrians, and then stopped himself as he remembered one of his briefings. The Americans had pulled out of this base, built to fight ISIS, just the previous year.

  Chapter Twelve

  Khmeimim Air Base, near Latakia, Syria

  Grishkov had been impressed as they approached Russia’s primary air base in Syria at its size and scope, which exceeded that of many of the bases he had used in Chechnya. Originally built to support one thousand airmen, it now had nearly double that. Russian bombers, fighters, and transports of all sizes came and went with dizzying regularity. Grishkov had identified Su-24, Su-25, Su-34, Su-35, IL-76, AN-124, and Tu-214 model aircraft, and he hadn’t really been trying.

  All three of them were immediately taken to the base hospital, where Grishkov found himself stripped and flipped onto his stomach with a speed that had doubtless saved many lives in the past. It did remind him, though, of a comedian he’d watched on TV who said “Russian” and “gentle” went together like “German” and “easygoing”.

  Grishkov had laughed, because he wasn’t wrong.

  The doctor told him to turn around, and shook his head as he stripped off his plastic gloves. “You should write a letter to the manufacturer of your body armor. Aside from a deep bruise, I see no sign you have suffered any other injury. Even the bruise is not as bad as I expected.”

  He paused. “I can offer you nothing for the bruise but painkillers.”

  Grishkov grunted. “I’ll take a bottle of aspirin.”

  The doctor nodded. “Good choice. An effective anti-inflammatory and it avoids turning you into yet another addict. I’ve seen opioids kill more good soldiers than the terrorists we’re here to fight.”

  Grishkov nodded back. He’d seen drugs do the same in Chechnya.

  Grishkov was given clean fatigues to wear, and then escorted to a small conference room where Vasilyev and Neda were already waiting. Vasilyev was wearing the same fatigues as Grishkov, but Neda was wearing a simple yet attractive dark blouse and skirt.

  Vasilyev smiled when he saw Grishkov was dressed the same way he was.

  “It appears we’ve both been drafted. Neda was luckier thanks to Alina. She radioed ahead to a Syrian contact in Latakia with Neda’s sizes, who brought her clothes to the base just this morning. I’ve been doing this work for a long time, and even I am impressed.”

  Neda smiled wistfully. “It is a small thing, but for the first time in many years, I feel hope that things may be about to change for the better.”

  The conference room door swung open, and into the room strode the commander of Russian forces in Syria, General Stepanov. Tall, bald, and with a trim muscular build he had been able to keep up in spite of his age, Grishkov’s first thought was, “I’d hate to run into him in a bar fight.”

  An aide followed behind, who quickly took up position at the far end of the conference table and turned on a small laptop. Vasilyev, Grishkov and Neda all started to rise from their chairs, and were impatiently waved back into them by Stepanov.

  Pointing at each of them in turn, he said, “Vasilyev, Grishkov, Rahbar.”

  They each nodded, and then Neda said softly, “Please call me Neda, General.”

  Stepanov scowled, as all the Russians present knew he would at the interruption. He then visibly reminded himself that he wasn’t speaking to one of his soldiers, nodded and said, “Very well. I understand your English is good, so we will speak in that language.”

  Glancing at the file that had been placed in front of him, but leaving it unopened, Stepanov said, “I understand that you promised to give us further details on the planned attacks in Saudi Arabia once you were out of Iran. I am here to listen.”

  Neda looked thoughtful. “I must stress first that my husband’s part in these attacks is limited to the ones using nuclear weapons. There was to be a follow-up attack using conventional weapons of some kind, but I have no details on that.”

  Stepanov nodded impatiently.

  Neda took a deep breath, and said, “One nuclear weapon will be used against each of the two desalination plants that together supply Riyadh with nearly all of its fresh water. A third nuclear weapon will be used to contaminate Saudi oil reserves with radioactivity.”

  Stepanov shook his head. “This makes no military sense. Why cut off Riyadh’s water supply when you could simply attack Riyadh directly? As for contaminating Saudi oil reserves, I doubt there is a single impact point which could accomplish that mission.”

  Stepanov paused. “I know you overheard your husband making these plans with a terrorist operative, and I know your husband was the head of Iran’s nuclear program. But is there any proof that these weapons really exist?”

  Vasilyev’s outward demeanor didn’t change, but internally he groaned. So their mission ended. Stepanov wanted nothing to do with anything that would take resources from his mission in Syria. He would use the fact that there was no proof Iran had nuclear weapons to justify doing exactly nothing.

  Then to the astonishment of everyone, Neda reached inside her blouse and pulled out a USB flash drive, the one measuring less than an inch long.

  “Full technical details on each weapon are here, as well as my husband’s notes on how each were to be used in the attacks. I am a nuclear physicist myself, and I can tell you that these devices should work.”

  Stepanov s
wung towards Vasilyev and quickly asked him in Russian, “Doesn’t the FSB search defectors anymore?”

  Before Vasilyev could answer, Neda said quietly in Russian, ”It’s not his fault.”

  Stepanov shook his head in disgust, and said to Vasilyev in English, “Her speaking Russian is another small detail not in her file.”

  Neda said quickly, switching to English, “I have just started to learn.

  Please, do not blame him or Alina. They could never have found the drive.”

  Neda paused, and blushed deeply. “It was not in my bra before. We women have many hiding places.”

  Stepanov grunted, and then pursed his lips, obviously thinking. He then gestured for the aide to bring him the laptop, and inserted the drive. A few clicks later, the screen was filled with schematics, and Stepanov’s frown had changed from angry to thoughtful.

  Stepanov looked up from the screen at Vasilyev. “Very well. Let us assume that everything here is true. What do you propose we do with this information?”

  Vasilyev said carefully, “I think we should inform the Saudi government, and leave the response to them.”

  Stepanov’s answering smile had no warmth in it at all. “Very sensible, and what I plan to recommend to Moscow. Why do you think they will refuse?”

  Vasilyev shrugged. “There may be concern, if the attack is successful, that the Saudis may believe we were involved and warned them too late only to avoid blame. Our weapons sales to the Iranians might cause them to think this, and maybe even to ignore our warning. They are currently very busy in Yemen.”

  Vasilyev glanced at Grishkov. “We have already discussed these possibilities.”

  Stepanov nodded. “I’m sure you have. Other options?”

  Vasilyev frowned. “The FSB has assets in the Kingdom that could be activated and used to try to stop these attacks. It would be best if we could be there to lead that effort, but I don’t think there’s enough time to get us to the Eastern Province.”

  Stepanov nodded. “Any other options to stop the attacks?”

  Vasilyev hesitated. “First, I should say that I believe the attacks on the desalination plants are real. They are primarily targets of opportunity, since they are just on the other side of the Gulf from Iran. Small boats smuggling contraband, primarily alcohol but also drugs, land cargos on the Saudi coast daily — or I should say, nightly. Some are caught, most are not. I think a small boat will land the two weapons to be used on the desalination plants, and local Shi’a enemies of the government will help carry out the attacks.”

  Stepanov’s eyebrows rose. “You call them ‘enemies of the government’?

  Here in Syria we find the term ‘terrorists’ shorter.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Yes, General. They are terrorists planning to kill thousands of innocent people, and must be stopped. But it is important to remember that the attackers will be people with real grievances, who are highly motivated.”

  Stepanov grunted. “Yes, we have seen this in Syria too. Just when we think the war is finally over, it flares up again. But you said that you believe two of the attacks are as described here,” waving at the laptop’s screen. “What about the third?”

  Vasilyev shook his head. “I agree with you that contaminating all or even most of the Kingdom’s oil reserves with a single nuclear weapon is impossible. Whatever the idea’s origin, it can only have been proposed to Neda’s husband as a way to persuade him to provide the weapons.”

  He turned to Neda. “Your report to Alina said that he would have refused to hand over the weapons if they were going to be used on cities.”

  Neda’s face twisted, and a bitter laugh emerged. “Yes, that monster is fine with killing thousands. But he draws the line at tens or hundreds of thousands. I think he’s just thrilled that all of his years of work are going to be put to use. The devil’s use,” she said, spitting on the floor next to the conference table with a vehemence that took them all by surprise.

  "So,” Vasilyev continued, “that leaves the question of the real third target.

  I think there can be only one answer.”

  “Riyadh,” Stepanov said flatly.

  Vasilyev simply nodded.

  “And you think it will be delivered by air,” Stepanov said, “which is why you wanted my only two Su-57s.”

  Vasilyev nodded again.

  Stepanov sighed in exasperation. “The Su-57 has a range of fifty-five hundred kilometers, and that can be extended with additional internal fuel tanks. But for every fuel tank I add, I have to remove an air-to-air missile.

  And I will have to add tanks, because Riyadh is about two thousand kilometers away. So even if I send them one at a time with extra fuel tanks, it will be pure luck if we stumble across the attackers. That’s assuming we can even identify them. And the Saudis don’t penetrate the Su-57s’ stealth features.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Neda has already told us that all three devices were experimental and designed for testing, not fully finished bombs ready for mounting on an aircraft. So, the delivery aircraft will be either a cargo plane or helicopter. It will almost certainly be coming east to west. It will be much slower than the escort aircraft, which will have to either throttle down, or more likely orbit around it.”

  Stepanov shook his head. “Such a pattern would surely be noticed by the Saudis.”

  Vasilyev shrugged. “Assuming they saw it. I am sure you have seen the report that the Iranians have purchased two J-20s.”

  Stepanov scowled. “I have. If you’re right about this, then I’ll be putting up one Su-57 with a reduced missile payload against two of the best fighter aircraft the Chinese have got. Not a great deal for our pilot.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “A challenge, yes. But I see no reasonable alternative.”

  Stepanov grunted. “I don’t either.” He glanced at his aide, pushing the laptop towards him. “Prepare the necessary orders.” The aide nodded and began rapidly typing.

  “You were a bit hasty on one point,” Stepanov said, smiling at Vasilyev.

  Something about the smile made both Vasilyev and Grishkov… uncomfortable.

  “You said there wouldn’t be enough time to get you back to the Eastern Province in time for this mission. Particularly since there are no direct flights from Syria to Saudi Arabia, that would normally be true. However, you know that the Admiral Kuznetzov was ordered to the Gulf?”

  Vasilyev nodded.

  Stepanov continued, “But you may not have heard of the problems the ship had a few years back, when it lost an MiG-29K because of an arrestor cable problem, and we had to transfer the rest of the carrier’s planes to this base.

  After years in dry dock, and after many had thought repairing and updating it would be impossible, the carrier is now finally refitted and its problems hopefully fixed. But, we still do training for new MiG-29K carrier pilots at this base before they try landing on the Admiral Kuznetzov. So, we kept two MiG-29Ks. They are the UBR variant. Would you like to guess what makes them special?”

  Vasilyev sighed. “Two seats.”

  Stepanov roared with laughter. “Exactly! You are about to get to the Eastern Province very quickly indeed. Those orders have already been prepared, and your flight plan cleared by the Syrians and Iraqis. Once you’re aboard the carrier, a helicopter will take you to Dhahran Airport. It’s good that you both had multiple entry visas.”

  Vasilyev frowned and looked at Grishkov. “General, has the doctor cleared my friend here for a carrier landing?”

  Stepanov nodded. “He has, but I approve of your concern for your comrade. You should know that he may be a bit tougher than you realize. I have read his military record, and more importantly, talked to Colonel Geller.”

  Grishkov started, clearly taken off guard. “He is here? And a Colonel now!”

  Stepanov smiled. “He is assigned to this base. Yes, though he was a Lieutenant when you knew him in Chechnya, he has advanced quite rapidly since then thanks to battlefield promotions both there and here in Syria. I
spoke with him just before you arrived. I regret that he is now on a mission, and you will be gone by the time he returns. Still, he asked me to pass on his regards.”

  Grishkov nodded. “A good man,” he said.

  Stepanov pointed at Grishkov. “Your decision to reach for a bottle of aspirin instead of something stronger was just as important in my deciding to send you on this mission.”

  Turning back to Vasilyev, Stepanov said, “Your flight will not be too exciting until its end. Though the MiG-29K is capable of speeds up to twenty-two hundred kph, due to the need to conserve fuel you will be cruising at a mere fourteen hundred kph. The landing will be… exciting. But with luck survivable. Now, I assume you have some calls to make before you go?”

  Nodding to the aide who had just finished typing their orders into the laptop, Stepanov said, “Get them whatever they need before their flight.”

  Pointing to Neda, he said to the aide, “Prepare orders for her flight to Moscow, but keep her in comfortable quarters here on base for now. We may have more questions for her before this is over.”

  Stepanov stood and reached across the table, shaking the hands of both Vasilyev and Grishkov. “Good luck to both of you. God knows you’ll need it.”

  With that, he strode out of the room, and the aide handed Vasilyev a cell phone.

  Grishkov looked at Vasilyev and frowned. “How many assets does the FSB really have available in the Eastern Province?”

  Vasilyev shrugged as he picked up the phone. “We’re about to find out.”

  Approaching the Admiral Kuznetzov, Persian Gulf

  Grishkov looked through the cockpit glass at the tiny postage stamp floating on the water that the pilot had improbably advised him was the Admiral Kuznetzov. The pilot had strapped him in so tightly it was good that the mask fed him oxygen directly, since otherwise Grishkov wasn’t sure he’d have been able to breathe. The pilot had said it was to minimize the impact of landing, though Grishkov wondered whether it was really to keep him from touching the controls all around him. The truth was, if every lever and switch had been a poisonous serpent, it would have made no difference to Grishkov’s interest in touching them.