by Ted Halstead
The sound of the engine changed tone to a low-pitched growl, and a sharp “thunk” announced the MiG-29K’s landing gear had been lowered.
Simultaneously, the plane’s speed dropped until it felt as though it were almost standing still. Evidence that it was not was right in front of him, as the carrier went from “postage stamp” to “how can something this big float?” in less than two minutes.
The jet was on the ship’s deck seconds later, and stopped so suddenly Grishkov could feel his teeth clack together. So, he thought, the arrestor cable problem appears to have been fixed.
An hour later, Vasilyev’s MiG-29K had also landed without incident and they were aboard a Mil-8 helicopter on the way to Dhahran Airport. They had both been issued headsets, and shown the switches to use to communicate with only each other or also the pilot.
Turning the switch that with the noise of the helicopter’s operation ensured privacy, Grishkov asked Vasilyev the question he’d been thinking about the entire flight.
“It’s obvious you have no great love for either Saudi Arabia or Iran. Yet here we are, about to risk our life for the Saudis. If there is a war between them, which side should we hope will win?”
Vasilyev grunted. “First, I make a great distinction between the Saudi and Iranian governments, and their people. Saudis and Iranians, like all people around the world, are for the most part just trying to live their lives. Brutal criminal codes and oppression of women are not unique to those two countries, though it is true both are worse than most. It is also clear that most Saudi and Iranian men support both policies.”
Vasilyev paused, clearly thinking carefully about his answer. “Both countries have been accused of supporting terrorists. The Saudi government has provided funds and weapons to the terrorists fighting the Syrian government, and our troops supporting it. Years ago, they did the same for terrorists fighting the Afghan government, and our troops supporting them.
Since then, wealthy Saudi individuals have funded Al-Qaeda, terrorists fighting the Americans in Iraq, and the Taliban in Afghanistan. Of course, most of the September 11 attackers in New York were Saudis.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “The Iranian list is at least as long. Funds and weapons to Hezbollah in Lebanon, the Houthis in Yemen, Hamas in the Gaza Strip and yes, terrorists fighting the Americans in Iraq. Iran’s attack on the Israeli Cultural Center in Buenos Aires in 1986 killed one hundred fifty people. But this brings us to one key difference between the two. Some Saudi support for terrorists comes from its government, but most of it comes from the Saudi elite. Every terrorist action traced to Iran was directed by its government.”
Grishkov frowned. “Does that make it better or worse?”
Vasilyev smiled. “I would say, more dangerous. Governments have access to greater resources than even the wealthiest individuals, particularly petrostates like Iran. There is evidence the Saudis have begun to rein in some of their wealthy princes, and are consolidating more power in its government.”
Grishkov nodded. “Like a few years ago, when some of them were involuntary guests at the Riyadh Ritz Carlton.”
Vasilyev laughed. “Just so. But meanwhile, Iran has been developing nuclear weapons and providing Yemeni rebels with ballistic missiles, which have been landing on Saudi cities. No missiles are landing on Tehran. Also, the Iranian government has repeatedly and publicly promised to destroy Israel. We know the Iranians have nuclear weapons, and so do the Israelis.
Where would a nuclear war between them end?”
Grishkov nodded. “Very well. Particularly since Iran plans to start a sneak attack with nuclear weapons, I agree it makes sense to support the Saudis.
Now, since you’ve shared so many terrible memories, let’s have something funny.”
Vasilyev arched one eyebrow. “Funny?” he said, and paused. “Very well, I do recall visiting one Russian in a Saudi prison soon after his arrest who I noticed immediately smelled strongly of alcohol, but did not appear to be intoxicated. When I asked him why he had been arrested, he was quite embarrassed and explained he had gone a bit overboard with a traditional expatriate recipe. It consisted of fruit juice, sugar, and fruit cut into small pieces, which would then be placed into a container and left to ferment to produce alcohol. Illegal, of course, but as long as it was produced and consumed at home unlikely to come to the attention of the authorities.”
Grishkov nodded, clearly puzzled.
Vasilyev smiled. “Well, our friend was a bit too ambitious. He bought a plastic one hundred liter trash can and filled it with the recipe I mentioned.
Oh, and it had metal clamps on either side of the lid. Which he engaged. The fact that fermentation was complete was announced by an explosion at 2AM which resulted in calls from all his neighbors to police, who genuinely believed there had been a terrorist attack. When they arrived, his guilt was undeniable. Not only did the apartment and our unhappy compatriot reek of alcohol, bits of chopped fruit were splattered on nearly every surface. I think it’s unlikely he received a refund of his cleaning deposit.”
Grishkov laughed. “What happened to him?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “He got off pretty lightly, mostly because we took an interest in his case. I remember the Ambassador saying no Russian should lose a body part just because he wanted a drink. So, he forfeited his salary, paid a fine on top of that, and after a few months in jail was deported back to Russia.”
Grishkov nodded. ”OK, not bad. Now, here’s a challenge. Tell me something funny about Saudi Arabia in ten words or less.”
Vasilyev grinned. “I can do it in three, and I actually have one more funny story after that.”
Grishkov made a “come on” gesture with his hands.
Vasilyev, still grinning, said, “They import sand.”
Grishkov’s answering expression provoked a gale of laughter from Vasilyev that Grishkov was finally forced to join.
Rubbing tears from his eyes, Grishkov said, “OK, that was funny, but now you’re going to have to explain how that could possibly be true,” pointing down. They had reached the Saudi coast, and indeed there was nothing visible but sand in every direction except the Gulf.
Vasilyev nodded. “On my first trip here I was told this, and refused to believe it. A friend of mine took me to an office building, and we walked outside to its back. Then, he told me to press my fingers against its surface.
Nothing happened. He shook his head, and told me to press harder. To my astonishment, my fingers began to sink into the building! It seems that cement requires sand coarser than what is to be found in the Kingdom’s deserts. Decades ago contractors could get away with this, but the government had put a stop to the use of substandard construction materials by the time I arrived. After all, inspections to detect the practice were not difficult!”
Grishkov smiled, and shook his head. "And your second story?"
"Well," Vasilyev said, "I had read an official report about Saudi steel production and been surprised at the numbers. You see, world trade in steel is governed by many agreements, and the Saudis only need so much steel for themselves. I wondered, where does it all go? So, I visited a steel factory to talk to its manager. I'd noticed when I drove in that there were piles of rusting steel lying outside the factory, so I started by asking about those.
The manager explained that they were no problem, because once the piles of steel rusted it was easy to run them through the plant again, and cheap to do since the natural gas they were using for fuel would have been flared off if they weren't using it. He was puzzled when I asked whether such 'recycling' was counted as new production. Of course it was, he said."
Grishkov laughed and shook his head. "But we Russians can hardly be too critical of such tales. I have certainly heard many over the years."
Vasilyev smiled and nodded, and said, "I must tell you my favorite. Just after the USSR's collapse, there was a big push to convert military to civilian production. So, a factory that had produced military jet fighters was now to make milk
ing machines. Old equipment was removed, new machinery installed, and in less than a year they were turning out milking machines."
Vasilyev paused and smiled, then continued, "There was just one problem.
A government ministry in Moscow still controlled allocation of all metals used in industry, and had not yet changed the ones used by this factory when production began. So, aerodynamics aside, the factory was producing milking machines with metals capable of standing up to the stresses of supersonic flight."
Grishkov frowned, and asked, "How long before the mistake was fixed?"
Vasilyev looked grim and replied, "Not before a German businessman bought the entire first years' production of milking machines, had them exported to Germany and melted them down for the titanium, vanadium and other rare metals they contained. He cleared a profit of triple what he spent to buy and melt down the machines. On the bright side, control of metal allocations was removed from the ministry."
Grishkov shook his head. “So, you are depressing me, and we have wandered too far off topic. Where is the Kingdom headed? Forward, or back?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “Forward, but slowly. Abolishing the religious police a few years ago was a positive step, as was allowing women to drive as long as their nearest male relative gave permission. The government has recognized for some time that the economy needs more female workers if they are to reduce the Kingdom’s reliance on foreign workers who are becoming more difficult to afford. They have begun to develop solar power, an area where the Kingdom should be a world leader, as it is already in desalination. They have investments worth billions in America, Europe and Asia. In short, the Kingdom has much going for it.”
Grishkov nodded. “But…”
Vasilyev smiled. “Yes, but. Saudis are willing to tolerate a certain amount of repression, since many believe the alternative is the chaos we now see in countries like Syria. But for how long? Will tanks prove the right long-term answer to unrest among the Shi’a community in the Eastern Province? The Saudis have subsidized the spread of a radical Wahhabi version of Islam around the world. If the Kingdom does continue in its recent more moderate direction, is that money they will regret spending? So, many questions remain. On the whole, though, I am optimistic about the Kingdom’s future.”
Grishkov grunted. “Good. I’d hate to think that we’re risking our lives for nothing.”
Vasilyev laughed, and clapped Grishkov on the shoulder. “Never, my friend! Those desalination plants are sure to have thousands of people in and around them. And, of course, there is always our duty to Mother Russia.”
Though he was still smiling, Grishkov knew that Vasilyev was absolutely serious. Grishkov nodded, and they rode the rest of the way to Dhahran airport in silence.
Chapter Thirteen
Salwa Beach Resort, Qatar
Guardian Colonel Bijan Turani was pleased. Both warehouses were finished on schedule, complete with blue plastic sheeting in place of roofs.
His foreman Fuad was supervising the crews using a combination of forklifts and brute force to stack wooden crates in the warehouses according to the instructions he had given. The work had been going well, but now as he expected Fuad was striding towards him with a frown on his face.
“Boss, the work is going well, and everything’s on track. Just one question.
None of the crates have the contents marked, and some of them are really heavy. Can you give me some idea of what’s in them?”
Bijan nodded. “The heaviest are probably the ones containing metal pipe we’re going to use to complete the water transport system. Some others have machinery, like pumps. I’m supposed to be getting a list, but like I said earlier my boss says don’t open anything until he gets here.”
Fuad visibly relaxed. “That explains it then. Well, we’ll just carry on until your boss gets here. I guess we’ve all got one, right?”
Bijan smiled. “I don’t see any royalty around here, do you?”
Fuad laughed, and went back to yelling at his crew, who had taken his momentary absence as an opportunity to rest. The truth was, Bijan didn’t envy them. It was blazing hot, and he was sure that the crates were indeed heavy.
Bijan had learned long ago that small objects and distant movement were most easily detected with peripheral vision. He used that knowledge now to confirm the presence of the visitor he’d been expecting. A small surveillance drone. It could be American, but probably not. Their drones flew high enough that they were usually impossible to spot. No, this one was almost certainly operated by the Saudis, and he’d bet money that the men watching its feed were with the blockade force just on the other side of the border.
Perfect.
Now, time for a little theatre.
Bijan entered a single word text into his phone. The phone of the driver of a nearby truck, one of the soldiers of Artillery Group 22 Bijan had accompany him from Iran, buzzed a few seconds later. Less than a minute after that, the truck’s engine ground into life, and it began moving towards the nearer of the two warehouses.
The truck’s right front wheel struck a rock partly covered with sand, causing it to lurch and send several of the wooden cases it carried flying out the back, where they landed on the rocky ground hard enough to burst open.
That’s how it would have appeared to the drone, anyway.
In fact, several more of the soldiers of Artillery Group 22 were inside the truck’s covered cargo bed, and as it deliberately hit the rock assisted the cases on their journey earthward. They had also removed the screws that secured their lids, so once they hit the ground their contents would scatter for some distance.
These contents were bricks, tile, and cans of red paint. And the cans had their lids loosened before being placed back into their crate.
Bijan had known that the Saudis would have to be curious about the resumption of construction activity at the Salwa Resort after years of inactivity, and would wonder about just what was being stockpiled in the newly built warehouses. As he ran towards the scene of the accident, yelling and waving his arms and trying not to grin at his overacting, he was barely able to resist the temptation to look at the drone’s reaction. Was it moving closer?
Half an hour later, Bijan had stalked off after “supervising” Fuad and his crew as they salvaged what they could of the bricks and tiles strewed across the desert floor. Thanks to the red paint, that wasn’t much.
Finally, he dared to look for the drone, first with his peripheral vision and then by sweeping his gaze openly in every direction. It was gone!
An outstanding result, Bijan thought to himself with satisfaction, for my first dramatic performance.
2 Kilometers West of the Saudi-Qatari Border
Prince Ali bin Sultan had told Colonel Abdo Barazi that he was placing his trust in him after thinking long and hard about who among his men most deserved it. And at first, Barazi had believed him. After all, the force at his command of forty-eight tanks was by far the largest single armored force under the command of a Saudi colonel. The fact that half of his tanks were M60s detracted only a little from that honor, because they had been carefully maintained and were ready for action.
Barazi had no illusions about how the M60s would fare against the Qataris’
Leopard 2A7s. For that matter, he knew that the Leopards even outgunned his M1A2 tanks. And that if the Qataris deployed all two hundred of their Leopards against his force, his command would definitely be overrun.
None of this worried him, for three reasons.
First, the Qataris would never sortie their entire armored force, leaving the country undefended. Bazari guessed half at most, maybe less.
Second, the entire Qatari armored force was stationed just outside Doha, two hours away from Barazi’s tanks, even at their top speed. Bazari had the Qataris’ tanks under drone surveillance 24/7, with rotating shifts of his best troops watching to see if the Leopards showed any sign of moving out from their base. They didn’t.
Well, it was clear that the Leop
ards were well maintained, and their crews were doing their best to become familiar with the new tanks in the large shipment they had received a few months ago. There was certainly plenty of training activity, and Bazari thought it was likely all the Leopards were now operational, though he'd noticed the most recent Leopards didn't have the same camouflage netting as the older ones. But there was zero indication that the Leopards were going anywhere, let alone planning to attack his force.
The last point, though, was the most important as far as Bazari was concerned. An attack by the Qataris would make as much sense as Danish tanks rolling across the German border. It just wasn’t going to happen.
Bazari really did listen when Prince Ali told him to take the Qataris seriously, and to prepare for a possible attack. He had ordered his drones to carry out surveillance of their Leopards, and no matter what wasn’t going to slack off on that. If they moved out of Doha he was going to be calling for air support, because Bazari knew he’d need it.
He’d also taken Ali seriously when he told him to keep his tanks moving, because as they’d had drummed into them in training, “a parked tank is a really big sitting duck.” Bazari had run exercises with his force, which he thought had really improved its readiness.
Then two things happened. First, the demands of the forces in Yemen slowed the delivery of fuel for his tanks. He still had all he needed in case of combat. But he no longer had a fuel reserve he could burn through in exercises, so he had to order a stop to them.
Next, he and all his troops followed the reports closely about the action Prince Ali’s tanks were seeing in Yemen. Barazi and his men cheered when Ali’s tanks finally managed to destroy a ballistic missile before it was launched against Riyadh. But it was hard not to wish that they’d been there, too.
It wasn’t long before that longing was transformed into a dark suspicion.
That maybe this command wasn’t such a great honor after all. That instead it was just a joke, a “check the box” exercise that Ali had given Barazi because any idiot could handle it.