The Saudi-Iranian War

by Ted Halstead

  When one of his men had called over Barazi to a console because of what he called “suspicious activity” at the Salwa Resort at first he thought the Qataris might be up to something. There had been no official announcement that construction of the resort was going to resume, and his force was only about six kilometers away.

  Then this morning he had heard uproarious laughter at one of the consoles carrying the drone video feeds, and quickly joined the crowd clustering around the image. Barazi had joined the laughter as the man ran forward, arms waving, while red paint and construction materials were scattered across the Qatari desert.

  Once the laughter died down, though, Bazari had wasted no time ordering the drone to rejoin the others watching the Leopards in Doha. They would still have the drones check on the Salwa construction site when they brought them back for refueling, and when they sent them back to Doha. But unless they saw something unusual, the drones would not linger.

  It was obvious that the Salwa Resort was no more a threat than the Leopards parked quietly in Doha two hours away.

  Salwa Beach Resort, Qatar

  Guardian Colonel Bijan Turani grinned as he saw Captain Dabiri jump down from the truck. “Dabiri, good to see you! How was your trip?”

  It was immediately obvious that Dabiri was uncomfortable on multiple fronts. This was his first trip outside Iran. Like many, he had joined the military in part because he sought a stable, orderly life. Bijan smiled to himself as he thought of the English word “regimented,” used as a synonym for stability. Called upon now to carry out a covert military mission in a foreign country, Dabiri’s life had become much less stable. He had to wonder, with good reason, whether he would make it back to his wife and children in Iran.

  Well, Bijan thought to himself, that’s the chance you take when you put on the uniform.

  And it was clear that Dabiri missed his uniform. In his new role as Bijan’s supposed boss. he also wore khakis and a polo shirt, just even nicer ones.

  There was no avoiding the awkward role reversal, since Dabiri had been needed in Iran to oversee the testing, packing and shipment of the howitzers and their ammunition, while Bijan had to get the warehouses ready for their arrival.

  Dabiri nodded, visibly reminding himself that he was supposed to be Bijan’s boss.

  “Everything is good. I have the last of the construction materials we’ll need for the first phase in this truck.”

  Fuad had walked up as Bijan and Dabiri talked, and now Bijan turned to him.

  “Fuad, let me introduce you to my boss, Mr. Dabiri.” Bijan then turned to Dabiri and said, “Fuad and his men have done great work so far. I recommend we bring them back as soon as we’re ready to start on the next phase of construction.”

  Fuad’s consternation was so clearly shown on his face it was almost comical. “Bring us back? But I thought we were going to be working for weeks…”

  Bijan nodded vigorously. “You will, you will. But my boss, here, needs time to review our plans on site and make decisions about priorities with the engineers. He expects to need about three days, but it might be a little longer.

  I will call you on your cell.”

  Fuad nodded, clearly unhappy.

  Bijan pulled out a large brown envelope stuffed with Qatari currency. “The rials in this envelope should be enough to pay you and your men for the work you have done so far, as well as the next three days. You and your men should head back to Doha, to get some decent meals and rest. There will be plenty of work for all of you to do when you get back.”

  Now Fuad was grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you, sir! Very generous of you! I will be waiting for your call!”

  Half an hour later, Bijan and Dabiri were alone with the rest of the men of Artillery Group 22 selected for this mission, his supposed “engineers.”

  Together, they walked through the closest of the two warehouses.

  Dabiri shook his head as he looked from side to side, and then up to the blue plastic sheeting high above. “When I gave you the specifications you asked for to make this attack work, I thought that would end it right there.

  I’m amazed that you were able to get these up so quickly.”

  Bijan laughed. “Don’t thank me! It’s all due to prefab components and construction crews used to working hard and fast. That foreman you just met told me that he pulled his workers out of 2022 World Cup construction projects in Doha in 2018 after the worker death toll topped a thousand. He looked online at other major sporting events and saw that the previous record for the number of construction deaths was held by the Russians for the 2014

  Sochi Winter Olympics, who lost sixty. I am proud to say that in putting up these warehouses, we matched the British record for construction deaths for the 2012 Olympics. Zero.”

  Dabiri smiled. “So, that plus the money I saw you handing over means they should be pretty happy.”

  Bijan shook his head. “That wasn’t the point. I could care less how happy there are. I do care that when they get to Doha, they won’t talk to anyone about how good they had it here, or anything else about this project.”

  Dabiri frowned. “Why not? Isn’t it human nature to be proud of success, and to want to share it with others?”

  Bijan smiled. “Maybe under normal circumstances. But nothing here is normal. Competition among expatriate workers for the best jobs is fierce, because they’re not just worried about themselves. Each worker has an entire extended family depending on them. Nobody will risk a good thing through careless talk. That would guarantee having other contractors turn up offering to do the same work for less.”

  Dabiri grunted. “And we don’t want anyone showing up while we’re putting together these howitzers.”

  Bijan nodded. “Yes. That would be… inconvenient.”

  Dabiri pointed at a large, six-wheeled truck, which had a trailer behind it. It was parked in the shade provided by the warehouse, and was covered by another large blue plastic tarp on every side except the one facing the warehouse entrance. There were several men inside the truck who appeared to be busy with something, but from the outside there was no sign of their purpose.

  “What is that truck doing here? Is there a reason they’re so close to us?”

  Bijan smiled. “Yes. It is a R-330ZH automated jammer. The Russians used it to great effect against the Ukrainians during the conflict there. Its purpose is to prevent the blockaders from calling for help once we begin our attack.

  And it is pressed up against the warehouse to keep it from being observed by any nosy drones, though we haven’t seen any since our performance a few days ago.”

  Dabiri nodded. “Yes, I heard about that. But is the equipment on this truck really able to jam all signals from such a distance?”

  Bijan shrugged. “Yes. But, in order to increase the effectiveness of its jamming, later this evening it will be driving closer to the border. Once at the spot we have selected, the crew will then deploy antennas from both the truck and the trailer. Finally, they will notify us that they are ready to cut off the Saudis’ communications. Of course, our frequencies will be unaffected.”

  Dabiri smiled. “So, we will have some chance of getting these howitzers moving before the Saudis arrive to return the favor.”

  Bijan nodded. “Perhaps. But we will have no guarantee of reaching safety, only of making it a bit harder for pursuing aircraft to locate us. The Qataris have no idea we're carrying out this attack, and so will have to decide very quickly whether to defend their airspace.”

  Dabiri frowned. “Shouldn’t we have told the Qataris, so they could have their defenses prepared?”

  Bijan shrugged. “I considered it. However, I thought it was nearly certain that they would either refuse to allow the attack to proceed, or that a Saudi spy would reveal our plans. I think there’s a good chance that the Qataris will scramble aircraft if they see Saudi fighter jets inbound. After all, for some time they have been the threat that provides the Qatari Air Force with its entire reason for existe
nce.”

  Dabiri smiled. “Colonel, I sincerely hope you’re right.”

  Bijan grinned. “Me too, Captain.”

  Salwa Beach Resort, Qatar

  Guardian Colonel Bijan Turani clapped Captain Dabiri on the shoulder as he walked up behind him in the warehouse. Dabiri had just laid down a tool he was using to adjust a fitting on one of the howitzers, and smiled tiredly as he saw Bijan.

  “We’re just about ready. And a full two hours ahead of schedule!” Dabiri laughed, and Bijan laughed along with him. A problem discovered with one of the howitzers only after they had nearly completed assembly had cost them precious time, as they had to disassemble it to make room for their only spare. They weren’t laughing with amusement, but with relief. Both of them knew how many soldiers were counting on their success.

  “Have you heard from the spotters?” Dabiri asked.

  Bijan nodded. “They’re all in place. The Saudis reinforced the blockade with additional tanks, just as we expected. The spotters report that the Saudis don’t move their tanks much during the day, and hardly ever at night.”

  Dabiri nodded. “Are they all M1A2 Abrams tanks?”

  Bijan scowled. “No. About half are M60s. I don’t know how the Saudis expected them to stand up to Leopards. There are also about a hundred armored personnel carriers with supporting infantry, a roughly half and half mix of American-made M-113s and the Saudi-produced Al-Masmaks. And, of course, dozens of supply trucks and fuel tankers.”

  Dabiri shrugged. “Don’t discount the value of the M60s. Any tank can get lucky. Plus, almost any shell at the right angle can knock off a tread. I’ve talked to a lot of tankers who fought in our war against Iraq back in the eighties, and they all said the same thing. Every tank is a threat — period.”

  Bijan smiled. “Well said. Are all of your men ready?”

  Dabiri nodded. “They are. Every howitzer crew is paired with a spotter, and we have tested our communications with each one. When it’s time, we will be ready.”

  The attack had been scheduled after moonset when the night would be at its darkest, and nearly all the blockaders asleep. To maximize their chances of destroying the entire Saudi blockade force, they had to take advantage of every variable.

  Fuad had been puzzled by Bijan’s request that ropes be attached to the blue plastic sheeting substituting for a roof, that would allow it to be quickly removed. He had been satisfied, though, when Bijan explained that he hoped the owners would follow Fuad’s advice to add a real roof to each warehouse, and that being able to remove the sheeting easily would speed that project.

  One of Bijan’s first lessons in getting people to do what you wanted was simple. Make people think you were doing what they wanted.

  The remaining minutes crawled by slowly, as the howitzer crews checked and rechecked to be sure each was ready to fire.

  Finally, the order was given, and in succession each howitzer fired its laser-guided Basir shell.

  2 Kilometers West of the Saudi-Qatari Border

  The first hint Colonel Abdo Barazi had that his unit was under attack was the explosion of the M1A2 tank next to his, followed by the M60 tank to its right. More tanks exploded in quick succession, but the only clue to the attack’s origin was the whistling of shells that seemed to come from straight overhead. Barazi had been asleep, and it took him precious seconds to gather his wits and recognize the attack for what it was. Part of that recognition was what it was not. No jets roared overhead. No shells slammed into the sides of his tanks from enemy armor.

  This was an artillery attack.

  But as shells continued to rain down, Bazari noticed something else. Every shell seemed to be finding its target. There were no gouts of sand rising into the air, even though some of his remaining tanks had started to move. As he saw again and again, even the moving tanks were being hit dead on.

  A sickening realization made Bazari press his eyes against the M1A2’s eyepiece of the gunner’s sight, where he saw the view displayed by the thermal imaging system. It showed a web of laser range finder images crisscrossing his remaining tanks. Bazari keyed his microphone to give the order to target the spotters at the end of each of those crisscrossing lines.

  An artillery round sliced through the turret’s top armor and exploded inside Bazari’s Abrams tank.

  Several of Bazari’s officers attempted to radio Army headquarters in Riyadh that they were under attack. However, the R-330ZH automated jammer proved effective, and it was not until much later when one of the surviving APCs had driven outside its jamming range that word of the attack finally reached Riyadh.

  All most of Bazari’s remaining officers could think to do was to flee as fast as their tanks could go. As one tank after another exploded, some tanks stopped and their crews tried to escape.

  None were fast enough. The spotters saw what they were doing, and made their tanks priority targets. Trained tank crewmen were targets nearly as valuable as the tanks they manned. And no matter how fast they ran, the lethal radius of a 155 mm shell’s explosion was far too great for their speed to matter. The fuel and ammunition exploding inside each tank hit by a Basir round created even more shrapnel, and ensured that no tank crewmen escaped the attack by running away.

  Once every tank was a smoking hulk, the armored personnel carriers were the next priority. Some APCs with alert crew were already out of range of the spotters, but the confusion had been great enough that some M-113s and Al-Masmaks could still be targeted. Without being told, the spotters knew to leave the APCs that were still parked for last. To be fair, some of those APCs weren't moving because they had shrapnel damage from the explosion of nearby tanks, while shrapnel had also killed and injured the drivers and crew of other APCs who had been sleeping in nearby tents.

  Though none of the trucks or fuel tankers had been deliberately targeted so far, many had been hit by shrapnel from 155 mm shells and exploding tanks.

  All of the fuel tankers as well as the ammo trucks produced secondary explosions when they were hit, killing dozens of sleeping soldiers.

  The maelstrom of exploding vehicles also took a toll on the spotters, in spite of being dug in and deliberately outside the Bashir round’s range. A round from an ammo truck ignited by an exploding fuel truck killed one spotter outright, while shrapnel from a tank hit as it fled wounded another spotter badly enough that he was rendered unconscious. Since there were no medics for the spotters, he never regained it.

  Each of the twelve active spotters were assigned to a particular HM-41 howitzer, with three dug in and available as a reserve. Once the two spotters failed to send a ”click” over their radios each minute to their howitzer crew, they were immediately replaced by the one-word command “active” sent by radio to a spotter held in reserve.

  The main challenge each spotter faced was avoiding the assignment of multiple rounds to a particular target. It wasn’t easy, because sometimes a target was lased by another spotter from an angle difficult for the first spotter to see. The problem became more serious as the number of targets shrank.

  However, the good news was that few Basir shells were truly wasted. Even when the same target was hit twice, more shrapnel was flung out by the second hit, and there were so many vehicles and men in such a small space that additional damage and casualties were almost inevitable.

  Of course, the spotters’ good luck couldn’t last forever. Omar Abu-Rabia was one of the surviving Saudi soldiers and a veteran of the fighting in Yemen, who had been trained at the US Army Sniper School at Fort Benning.

  Most of the Saudis fortunate enough to be selected for training outside of the Kingdom were either members of the royal family or closely connected through business or religious ties.

  Omar was an exception because he was an outstanding shot. He grew up firing his grandfather’s WWI vintage Lee-Enfield rifle, which he said the British officer who had given it to him as a present called “Smelly.” His grandfather spoke no English, so had never questioned the name. His grandfather
passed it to Omar after his deteriorating eyesight made use of the rifle more of a threat to those around him than whatever he was aiming it at.

  Omar used Smelly to great effect in defending his grandfather’s camel herd from packs of wild dogs and the occasional viper.

  Only after he was at Fort Benning did he finally learn from the oldest instructor there that the term Smelly had nothing to do with the rifle’s smell, but instead came from the acronym for Short, Magazine, Lee-Enfield. For some reason, that instructor was delighted to find that one of the students at Benning had grown up using a Lee-Enfield rifle, and took a personal interest in Omar’s progress from then on.

  The vehicle where Omar’s M-24 rifle had been stored had been destroyed, but he was finally able to find a rifle that would serve.

  The Barrett M-82 was intended primarily as an anti-material rifle for the destruction of targets such as parked aircraft, trucks and fuel silos. However, its .50 caliber round worked even more effectively on human targets, because its large size guaranteed incapacitating or killing the enemy soldier no matter where he was hit.

  Finding a night vision scope to mount to the Barrett took more precious minutes. Finally, though, Omar was ready to avenge his fallen comrades.

  He caught his breath when he looked through the night vision scope and saw the web of laser designations pointing to the remaining vehicles.

  Quickly, though, his training came back to him. Focus on the closest target first.

  Omar methodically worked his way through the spotters closest to him. A successful shot was easy to confirm, since the laser designator either veered wildly off its previous course or winked out altogether. Of course, it was possible that in the latter case he had only hit the equipment rather than its operator. As far as Omar was concerned it didn’t really matter, although the size of the Barrett’s round made him think it was likely that both had become casualties.

  Four of the spotters quickly fell victim to Omar’s accurate fire. However, he forgot one key part of his training. Since the spotters possessed nothing more dangerous than a beam of light, he considered it an unnecessary waste of time to move his position. After all, Omar appeared to be the only one doing something to stop the slaughter of hundreds of Saudi soldiers and the destruction of just as many combat vehicles, and there was clearly no time to waste.