by Ted Halstead
Abdul shook his head. The conversation in the Brussels cafe where he’d talked so casually about overthrowing the Saudi monarchy with Farhad Mokri seemed to have happened years ago. Now in a matter of minutes, it would become a reality.
When Farhad had explained to Abdul that the strike they had originally planned against Saudi oil production simply wouldn't work, and that instead they had to attack Riyadh, at first he had resisted the idea. Then, as they had discussed it further, Abdul finally agreed it was the only way to be absolutely sure of ending the royal family's control. The price would be terrible but it had to be paid, especially since there was no guarantee that all three experimental devices would work, or for that matter that any would.
Abdul also agreed that everything depended on a coordinated strike. Once one of the devices detonated, security all over the Kingdom would ramp up automatically. In particular, Saudi air space would certainly be closed to all but military traffic.
Farhad had explained that the bombs’ designer had told him the approximate time to detonation for each device. When he'd pressed the designer for a more precise answer, Farhad had told Abdul with a grin that the man growled, “What part of ‘experimental nuclear weapons’ isn’t clear to you?”
Abdul walked up to the pilot, who he only knew as “Mohammed” and who he also knew had been selected personally by Farhad. Farhad had tried to convince Abdul that the pilot’s motives for wanting an end to the Saudi regime were even better than his, but Abdul was determined to see this through to the end, though he knew it was almost certainly a one-way trip.
Abdul had spent several frantic days making sure that the assault teams were in place to get both of the other two nuclear weapons to their targets. If this one worked, though, it would extinguish the Saudi royal family in a single blow.
Abdul had seen brave men lose their nerve in the face of certain death, and had tucked a pistol in his jacket in case Mohammed had a sudden change of heart. Of course, there was a brief delay built into the device’s detonation mechanism to give a plane time to escape the blast radius.
But they weren’t flying a plane, not even a turboprop. No, they were in an old, slow cargo helicopter. That would certainly have every missile and plane the Saudis had pointed at them once the weapon went off, even if the blast didn’t catch them. Assuming they waited that long to open fire.
So, Abdul wasn’t expecting to survive this mission, and if he had any sense neither did the pilot.
One thing Abdul did know from experience, though. People always instinctively struggled to survive. If Mohammed had a choice between a bullet from the man sitting in the seat next to him and outrunning both a nuclear blast and the entire Saudi military, Abdul was sure he’d pick the latter.
Walking up to the pilot, Abdul asked, “How long before we can take off?”
Mohammed looked up from his clipboard. “The cargo is loaded and is now being secured. I’ve already received our flight clearance, so we should be ready to go in ten minutes, which will put us right on schedule. So, you can go ahead and take a seat,” he said, pointing at a rolling staircase propped next to the open door on the helicopter’s copilot side.
Abdul nodded and headed for the stairs. Sure enough, only a few minutes after he’d figured out how to strap himself into the seat’s flight harness while being sure he could still reach the gun in his jacket, Mohammed’s head appeared on the opposite side. He said nothing, but just sat down and started to flip switches and levers, while the hangar doors opened and a motorized cart began pulling them forward.
Then Mohammed startled Abdul by leaning towards him and yanking on his flight harness at multiple points, until he was apparently satisfied and began putting on his own harness. Seeing that Abdul was puzzled, Mohammed laughed and said, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to be doing maneuvers this old girl was never designed to perform. Having your body fly into my lap would probably interfere with that.”
The Chinook was now out of the hangar, and a few minutes later they were on a cargo runway. The cart detached, and once it was well away Mohammed started up the Chinook’s engines. Mohammed was pleased to see that the engine started immediately, and within seconds they were airborne and soaring upwards on a course that would quickly take them away from the busy airport.
Now Mohammed had to speak quite a bit louder due to the engine’s loud roar.
“I had a chance years ago to speak to a pilot who flew one of these Chinooks in Vietnam. He told me that the first ones to arrive were slow to start, and slow to build up power to takeoff speed. Pilots pointed out this was a problem in a combat zone, but nobody in authority cared. Until a lot of Chinooks started developing mysterious 'maintenance problems' that prevented their use. Finally, a senior officer got the company that made the Chinooks to send technicians to Vietnam, who quickly became guests on combat supply missions. Turned out one replacement part and a few adjustments did the trick.”
Abdul smiled and nodded. “Glad to see we’re in a proven aircraft. How will we launch the weapon?”
Mohammed pointed at a large switch in the center of the controls in front of them. “This switch lowers the cargo ramp. The weapon is secured in such a way that it won’t move in flight, but once I lower the ramp and angle the helicopter it will roll out.”
Abdul frowned. “You said we’re on schedule. Are you sure we have enough time to reach the target?”
Mohammed nodded. “Absolutely. We don’t have many Chinooks left, but this is the best one. It’s got parts from five other scrapped Chinooks in it, and I made sure personally that they were the best ones. It’s never failed me, and I know it’s not going to start today,” he said, patting the dashboard.
Abdul smiled and shook his head. He’d heard of pilots and sailors becoming attached to their craft, but hadn’t witnessed it before.
Abdul settled back and looked at the desert landscape passing by, and told himself to be patient. Success was only a short flight away.
Jaizan, Saudi Arabia
Akmal Al-Ghars looked like exactly what he was — one of the thousands of dark-haired, whip-thin Yemeni laborers here in the region of Saudi Arabia bordering Yemen. Even with the war, there were still many jobs no Saudi would do, so Akmal was still here.
For years, Akmal had been working as a janitor at Jeddah’s railroad station, which was one of the busiest in the country. Then had come the announcement that experienced volunteers were desired who were willing to work at a new railroad station in Jaizan, which would be at the end of a new line near the Yemeni border. Further south from Jaizan the terrain came in two varieties- “hilly” and “mountainous.” Neither Saudi Arabia nor Yemen had seen it as worthwhile to spend the money necessary to overcome those obstacles with bridges and tunnels, so from Jaizan the only way south was still by road. Of course, those with money flew to Sana’a from one of the Kingdom’s many airports.
Nobody else was interested in making the move to Jaizan, not even the two other Yemenis working at the station in Jeddah. Both of them were single, and had no interest in visiting parents in a country torn by civil war topped with regular Saudi aerial bombardments. To be fair, Akmal thought, they probably thought their parents would prefer the money they sent to seeing their sons. Travel to Yemen wasn’t cheap.
Just like those other Yemeni workers, every spare bit of his salary went straight to his family in Yemen. Especially since the start of the war and the collapse of the already shaky economy, remittances were one of the few reliable sources of income available in Yemen.
With his job at the railroad station, Akmal was more fortunate than most Yemenis. He didn’t have to worry that his employer might refuse to pay him, beat him, and have him deported if he complained. He had worked hard and been reliable, so that he had been given more and more responsibility. Now he supervised the janitorial staff at Jaizan station, and had recently been trained to perform minor mechanical maintenance tasks at the station.
Akmal appreciated the higher salary and the bene
fits that came with the promotion. He appreciated even more no longer having to clean the station’s toilets.
Though Akmal was Shi’a, for many years he had not had any love for the Houthis fighting the Saudis. Like many Yemenis, Akmal had seen the Houthis as bearing much of the responsibility for the current disastrous state of his country.
Until a Saudi air strike had killed his brother and his entire family. Akmal knew that none of them had been involved in the war, and that their deaths were impossible for the Saudis to justify.
After he attended the funerals, Akmal had contacted the Houthi leader in his brother’s village and asked how he could help. He had been surprised when the man said to keep his true feelings about what the Saudis had done to his family to himself, and to redouble his efforts to convince the Saudis that he was a model employee.
When Akmal asked how this was supposed to help him avenge his brother’s family, the man had said simply, “The time will come.”
Apparently, after months of waiting that time was finally here.
A Yemeni man Akmal had never seen before had come to his tiny apartment, and given him a large package and instructions. The package had turned out to contain bombs made from a plastic explosive, and the instructions were on where to place them in the station to cause maximum damage. The instructions also said he would be told soon which time to set for detonation, along with the helpful suggestion that he be well on his way to Yemen by the time the bombs were set to explode.
At least that part, Akmal thought bitterly, I had already figured out for myself.
Chapter Twenty
United States Military Training Mission, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Technical Sgt. Josh Pettigrew hated the idea of a “teacher’s pet,” and made it a point to give all of his students equal time on the drones. In fact, if anything he would have been tempted to give some of the weaker students more time. Fortunately, the selection process had come through for a change, and even the weakest of this group would be able to graduate with the amount of flight time Pettigrew had planned.
Mousa was neither the best nor the worst of Pettigrew’s students, but instead solidly in the middle. Today he was at the Reaper’s controls as it did a practice patrol south of Riyadh, armed with two Hellfire missiles and two AIM-9X Sidewinders. His task was to locate the practice targets Pettigrew had placed earlier for the Hellfires, and successfully destroy them.
Pettigrew had still failed to come up with a way for his students to practice with the Sidewinders. Central Command was unwilling to provide enough target drones to give all his students the experience, which Pettigrew grudgingly understood. Target drones weren’t cheap. Anyway, he still loaded every Reaper mission with AIM-9X missiles, if only to get his students used to the idea.
“Target acquired,” Mousa announced, placing the display’s targeting cursor on the tank mockup Pettigrew had his enlisted team set up for this exercise. Pettigrew was impressed, because he'd had his men alter the tank’s outline with sand, the same way that blowing sand in the desert often did naturally. It hadn’t slowed Mousa down at all.
Murmuring behind him from the students observing the exercise told Pettigrew they were impressed too.
OK, so maybe Mousa didn’t belong in the middle anymore. Pettigrew was too modest to even think his students were improving so rapidly because they had an excellent teacher.
“Air contact within our patrol range,” Mousa announced next. For this exercise, they had a real-time data link to the powerful American-installed radars covering the Riyadh Air Defense Region. The display next to the ground attack monitor now showed a contact labeled as a Chinook helicopter.
Pettigrew said nothing, and waited to see what Mousa would do.
After a moment’s hesitation, Mousa typed rapidly on the keyboard connected to the air defense display. Instantly a line appeared showing the contact’s position and projected flight path, as well as its approved flight plan and clearance.
“Air contact is Chinook helicopter en route to deliver equipment for oil field maintenance. Flight plan is approved and contact is on course.
Returning to ground target attack,” Mousa said calmly.
Pettigrew nodded neutrally, but was actually suppressing a wide grin at Mousa’s performance, both to keep from distracting him and to accurately reproduce a real battlefield environment. He doubted he could have done better himself.
“Hellfire target lock,” Mousa said. Now the cursor on the display locked to the mock tank turned bright red and a rasping tone sounded. Mousa looked up at Pettigrew.
Pettigrew nodded, but Mousa did nothing. Again Pettigrew had to suppress a grin. This was his version of “Simon says.” He had drummed into his students that a nod was never enough to authorize missile fire from a drone, and obviously Mousa had listened.
“Permission to fire granted,” Pettigrew said.
After a final check to ensure that the Hellfire remained locked on target, Mousa pressed the trigger that would send the missile on its way. Less than a minute later, the mock tank was a smoking hole in the desert.
Pettigrew watched carefully, and saw with pleasure that Mousa had no difficulty correcting for the sudden imbalance between the weight carried on the drone’s left and right wings after the drone’s firing.
“Well done,” Pettigrew said, and this time didn’t bother hiding his smile.
“Now, let’s see if you can find the second target so easily,” raising one eyebrow in a broad hint that this time his men had done more than blow some sand on the target.
Mousa nodded, and swung the drone into the search pattern he had already planned prior to the exercise. The pattern’s quality and effectiveness would go into the grade Mousa would receive for this exercise.
Suddenly, a red light flashed on the communications console, and a buzz that made the drone target lock tone seem soothing sounded.
Pettigrew’s frown turned to astonishment as he read the announcement on the console.
“OK, everyone, we’ve been ordered to the closest bunker. Exercise is over.
Mousa, there’s no time to return the drone. I’ll take care of destroying it, and join you as soon as that’s done.”
Flying the drone into the ground should take less than a minute, and he was sure Mousa could have done it easily. There was no way, though, that Pettigrew was going to let him do it. Not after the news that a nuclear weapon had vaporized one of the Kingdom’s desalination plants, with who knew what to follow.
Mousa frowned and pointed at the display showing the track of the Chinook, which had just changed radically. “That helicopter had almost reached the destination on its flight plan. Now, though, it’s heading due north. That’s a course straight towards Riyadh.”
Mousa looked up. “Towards us. Is the Kingdom under attack?”
Pettigrew hadn’t wanted to explain what was happening until he had the students more or less safe in the nearest bunker. Now, though, it looked like he’d need to stay longer than he thought.
Pettigrew nodded. “Yes. A nuclear weapon has destroyed a desalination plant on the Gulf. You need to turn over control of the Reaper to me and head with the other students to the bunker. We don’t have much time.”
Pettigrew’s heart sank as he saw the expressions on the faces of Mousa and all the other students.
Fadil spoke first. “We may be your students, but we are also soldiers sworn to defend our country. We cannot hide while we are under attack.”
Mousa pointed at a notice on the communications display saying that Saudi airspace had been closed to all but military traffic. “Obviously this helicopter is ignoring orders to land immediately. As a Saudi soldier I have no problem firing on a target refusing to obey this order. As an American teacher, do you have that authority?”
Well, Mousa had a good point there. The kind of “independent thinking and initiative” that had led him here from Korea had helped him to decide automatically to attack the Chinook. But Mousa was right that he had
no authority to do so.
“OK, fine,” Pettigrew said, shaking his head. “Select one of your AIM-9X missiles as your primary armament. Then search for the Chinook based on the latest radar return. While you’re doing that, I’m going to slave the data link from the defense network to the Sidewinder. We’re going to launch as soon as we’re in any kind of range, and our chances of a good lock will go way up if we’re using ground-based radar.”
Mousa nodded, already turning the drone towards the Chinook’s latest course. Pettigrew was pleased to see that Mousa had increased the drone’s speed without any instruction from him.
After only a few minutes Mousa announced, “Target acquired.” Quickly and confidently Mousa designated and locked the target, and Pettigrew immediately said, “Permission to fire granted.”
The Chinook detected the Sidewinder’s attack less than a minute after launch. By that time the drone had flown close enough that it was visible on Mousa’s targeting display. The Chinook dropped altitude and began weaving, and to Pettigrew’s surprise flares began emerging from the helicopter.
This was good news, in a way. It took care of any small doubt Pettigrew might have had that this could be an innocent helicopter that had just lost its way. Ordinary cargo helicopters didn’t carry flare dispensers.
The flares didn’t work. Neither did the Chinook’s maneuvers. The Sidewinder had been designed to chase down jet fighters, and a cargo helicopter built in the 1960s was simply not a challenge.
The Sidewinder hit the Chinook in its engine exhaust, exactly where the designers would have expected its heat-seeking sensor to lead it. Because of its low altitude, the AIM-9x’s explosion was followed very quickly by the Chinook’s impact with the ground.
The cheers of Mousa and all the other students died in their throats as the image of the crashing Chinook relayed by the Reaper was replaced by an instant of brilliant light, and then total blackness.