by Ted Halstead
“I believe this plan has an excellent chance of success,” the Crown Prince repeated stubbornly, as Suliman searched in vain for the words to convince him it was actually suicidal.
“We’re going to have six Typhoons go at that missile launcher from every point on the compass simultaneously, and launch the instant they’re within Brimstone 2 range. Once we’ve destroyed the launcher, we can use our air assets to obliterate the invaders long before they make it to Riyadh,” the Crown Prince said, again pointing at the graphic he’d had the staff prepare to illustrate his plan.
It was an impressive graphic. It showed six planes converging on a single point from every direction, and then the point representing the missile launcher obligingly exploding.
Suliman doubted very much that the launcher’s commander would be waiting quietly while six fighters approached.
The problem was that the Crown Prince was not in fact a fool. But he was trained as a tanker, not a pilot. What made him so dangerous was that, even more than other royals, nobody had ever dared tell him he was wrong.
Suliman tried one more time. “Your Highness, we don’t know what model that launcher is, or what missiles it’s firing. The only pilot to survive its last attack said the missile that came at him was faster than anything he’d seen in Yemen. I fear it could be capable of shooting down all six planes before they’re able to launch.”
The Crown Prince shook his head stubbornly, and Suliman knew he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “The Typhoons can go faster than sound even without afterburner, correct?”
All Suliman could do was nod. It was true that Typhoons were in the very small group of fighters that could “supercruise” at faster than Mach 1.
“So, the launcher may have time to attack one Typhoon, or even two. I see no way that any launcher would have time to attack all six, let alone shoot every Typhoon down before they can launch their Brimstone 2 missiles. And Prince Khaled did prove that these launchers aren’t invulnerable, correct?” the Crown Prince concluded triumphantly.
“Yes, sir,” Suliman said stoically.
“Very well, then,” the Crown Prince continued, “let me know when the attack is underway. I don’t have to tell you that speed is of the essence.”
Suliman mutely saluted, and left the conference room. He knew many of his fellow pilots were about to die.
He just hoped that one of them would manage to make the sacrifice worthwhile.
Less than an hour later, they were all back in the command center. This time they were looking at a large LCD display that showed the position of each of the six Typhoons, as well as a graphic representing the Triton’s view of the invaders’ current position. As planned, the Typhoons were converging simultaneously on that position, and Suliman felt a rush of hope as he saw that their coordination was close to perfection.
Data next to each Typhoon showed their speed and distance to the target, as well as their estimated time before launch. Then, just as planned, each Typhoon cut in its afterburners and went to its maximum speed of Mach 2 for the last one hundred kilometers before reaching the launcher. Suliman nodded and began to think they might just pull this off. It really was hard to see how all six Typhoons could be stopped before reaching the Brimstone 2’s launch range of sixty kilometers.
No sooner had Suliman finished the thought than six new graphics appeared on the display, representing missiles fired by the invaders’ missile launcher. The number next to each graphic kept rising, until finally settling at a figure that stopped Suliman’s heart.
Mach 10.
Suliman heard the Crown Prince shout “No!” and pound his fist on the table, but his eyes remained riveted to the screen. He had already done the math in his head, and the Typhoons' only chance was decoying the missiles.
That chance was low, but not zero. Suliman had seen to it that the Typhoons on this mission were equipped with some of the first self-contained expendable Digital Radio Frequency Memory (DRFM) jammers they had received. He had been with Prince Khaled for an impressive demonstration in the UK where a drone had deployed one and successfully decoyed an AMRAAM. Prince Khaled had ordered a dozen, and then had them installed in his personal Typhoon squadron for testing.
Since these DFRM jammers were ejected from the same 55 mm port used to deploy flares, only a minor software upgrade was necessary to use them.
They were supposed to operate for ten seconds, so ejection timing was crucial.
It turned out Suliman’s hopes were in vain. In quick succession, the missile and Typhoon icons winked out all over the display, until the only one still showing was the dull red icon representing the invaders.
For the next several minutes everyone sat in stunned silence. Suliman was sure that he was not alone in saying a silent prayer for the brave pilots who had just given their lives for their country.
“How can this be?” the Crown Prince finally asked. “We think these invaders are probably Iranian. How could they have missiles that can fly at Mach 10?”
Suliman nodded and replied, “You’re right that we never dreamed any of our enemies could have such a missile. The only one I’ve even heard of is a Russian missile called Kinzhal, but I’ve only read about it being deployed on one Russian bomber, the Tupolev 22, and one fighter, the MiG-31K. I’ve never heard that it has been adapted for use in a missile launcher, or that the Russians have sold it to anyone, least of all the Iranians.”
The Crown Prince nodded absently, and then appeared to make a decision.
“General Suliman, I want you to take over planning for the air attack on the Qatari ground force, and the intervention we expect from the Qatari’s air force. Be sure to continue coordination with the Americans on their Tomahawk strike against the Qataris. I will plan an armor attack against the northern invaders,” the Crown Prince concluded.
“Yes, sir,” Suliman said with a salute, as he rose to carry out his orders.
Well, he thought, if the deaths of the Typhoon pilots at least got the Crown Prince out of planning air operations they weren’t entirely in vain.
Now, he thought as he punched the elevator button, I have to show that I can do better. Then he thought about the results of the last attack and shrugged.
I can hardly do worse.
Chapter Twenty Four
Shahid Rajaei Research & Training Hospital, Tehran, Iran
Colonel Arif Shahin had believed Grand Ayatollah Sayyid Vahid Turani when he told him he thought Acting Supreme Leader Reza Fagheh might attempt to have the current Supreme Leader assassinated. The Supreme Leader was in a coma following a stroke, and once his guards were ordered away would be an easy target. The first step would be to move him out of the hospital where doctors were just marking time before his death.
The next would be to kill him, probably by doing little more than removing the respirator that had helped the Supreme Leader breathe ever since his stroke. Then it would be easy to claim that he’d been moved “for his security,” and simply hadn’t survived the move.
So, the first step was to see just how secure the Supreme Leader was. For example, could an armed man wearing an Iranian Army uniform with the rank badges of a Colonel come within firing range?
It was late evening, so Arif wasn’t surprised that only a single nurse was on duty in the hospital lobby. He was annoyed, though, when in response to his request for the Supreme Leader’s room number she simply gave it to him.
True, Iranian Army uniforms with Colonel insignia weren’t on sale in stores. That didn’t mean one would be that hard to get.
Arif took the elevator to the Supreme Leader’s floor, and exited to find… no guard. So, the only guards would be at his actual room.
“Hey, who are you? You’re not supposed to be here at this hour!” Arif turned his head right and saw the source of the sharp voice, a short but attractive middle-aged nurse whose expression at the moment was anything but pleasant.
Finally, Arif thought, someone competent. Aloud, he said “My name is
Colonel Arif Shahin, and these are my credentials,” holding up his Ministry of Defense ID. “I have been ordered to check on the Supreme Leader’s security precautions. May I ask your name?”
The nurse looked at him suspiciously and said nothing, simply holding out her hand towards his ID. Arif suppressed a smile, as well as the thought that he was really starting to like this woman, and handed his ID over for her inspection.
Only after a careful review of the ID, including holding it up to compare the photo on it with Arif, did she finally hand it back.
“You are regular Army. Why are you checking on the Supreme Leader’s security, which is handled by the Pasdaran?” the nurse asked.
Arif looked down the hall, and saw that there was nobody in sight, or hopefully within hearing. Looking at the nurse, and the spark of intelligence he could see in her eyes, he quickly decided that nothing but the truth would do.
“We think there could be a threat to the Supreme Leader from within the Pasdaran. Obviously I’m not speaking about whoever is guarding him at the moment, but a person or persons unknown who may gain access to the Supreme Leader, we believe soon.”
The nurse looked him in the eye for several moments, and then made her decision. She held out her hand and said, “My name is Roya Maziar, and I am the head nurse on this floor. At this hour, the only nurse on this floor. I am glad to see someone still remembers the Supreme Leader is here.”
Arif briefly and firmly shook Roya’s hand. He might find her attractive, but right now he had to focus completely on his mission. “Do you know how many guards are with him right now?”
Roya nodded, and said “Yes, one. They started with three, one by the elevator and two with the Supreme Leader. But, as the months passed and every treatment failed, that became first two men and a few weeks ago just one. Or I should say two, who each guard the Supreme Leader for twelve hours. The man there now has been on duty since noon, and his replacement will arrive at midnight.”
Arif asked, “Have you ever spoken to the guards?”
Her eyes flashing, Roya said, “No, but they have tried to talk to me. Each did so only once.”
Once again Arif found himself suppressing a smile. “Can you tell me anything else about their performance?”
Roya snorted with disdain. “They may be called guards by the Pasdaran, but in reality are no more than common thugs. As to this one’s performance, at this hour I think it’s likely he’ll be asleep.”
As a professional soldier, Arif was genuinely shocked by Roya’s casual statement. “You have seen this?” he asked.
“Seen it?” Roya replied. “Walk down to the end of the hall, and you will almost certainly hear it. The Supreme Leader is on a respirator and literally cannot snore. When he was first moved here all the other patients were cleared from this floor, so if you hear snoring, it’s the guard.”
Shaking his head, Arif did exactly as Roya suggested. He had walked no more than halfway down the hallway when he started to hear snoring. When he reached the open doorway, there was the scene he’d expected — the comatose Supreme Leader, and the snoring guard. The only additional details were that the Supreme Leader appeared far older than he remembered, and the guard’s head had actually rolled backward in his chair. Arif doubted that anything short of a gunshot would wake him.
Or, he thought grimly, help him sleep permanently.
Roya’s arms were crossed and she looked at him defiantly when Arif returned to her station. “So, was I right?” she asked.
This time Arif couldn’t help it, and did smile. “Yes, you were,” he said. “I appreciate your help with my questions.” There was a notepad on the station’s counter, and he quickly wrote down his name and phone number. “If anything suspicious happens at any time, day or night, please call or text me at this number. Please also share my name and number, and my interest in the Supreme Leader’s security, with nurses who are in charge here at other shifts.”
Roya nodded. “You are not speaking with the hospital administrators?” she asked.
“No,” Arif replied, shaking his head. “Since we believe the threat is coming from within the Pasdaran, we don’t want to alert them to our interest.
I feel sure you will not do so, but doubt the same can be said about your administrators.”
Roya nodded, and then hesitated. “If men come here to kill or abduct the Supreme Leader, they’re not going to want witnesses. How worried should I be?” she asked.
Arif looked at her soberly, and replied, “Remember, contact me at any time, day or night.”
United States Military Training Mission, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Technical Sgt. Josh Pettigrew was still trying to get used to being back behind a drone control console. Military police sent by the General in command of USMTM had arrested him, and escorted all his students to their quarters before they’d been able to do anything with the Reaper drones. He’d been locked into one of the MP interview rooms for hours, but nobody had ever shown up to question him.
Then, with no explanation he’d been taken back to his classroom where all his students were waiting for him, and told to await further orders. Finally they’d come, and left Pettigrew even more confused. They said he was to provide “all aid and assistance possible” to the Royal Saudi Air Force, and that he would supervise his students as they operated the Reapers they had just sold the Kingdom “as they carried out a mission of national self-defense.” For good measure, they said his students had now graduated, and were now to be considered fully qualified Reaper operators.
All US military orders specified the command authority that had issued them. These came from the National Command Authority. Pettigrew had heard of NCA orders, but never seen them. It meant they’d come straight from the White House.
Once Pettigrew gave the orders some thought, he realized his next step should be to find out what the RSAF wanted him to do. While he was trying to figure out the right way to contact the RSAF, the problem was solved for him by the ringing of the secure phone on his drone command console.
Pettigrew picked up the phone and answered it. The voice on the other end said, “Sargent Pettigrew. My congratulations and thanks to you and your students on your success in stopping the attack on Riyadh. I am Suliman al-Johani, deputy commander of the Royal Saudi Air Force. Have you received your orders?”
“Yes, sir,” Pettigrew replied. “We stand ready to provide whatever assistance we can, sir.”
“Excellent,” Suliman said. “I understand you have four Reapers available, correct?”
“Correct, sir,” Pettigrew replied. “They’re fueled, armed and ready to go.”
"Very good,” Suliman said. “How are they armed?”
Pettigrew paused, and said, “Just a moment, sir.”
Pettigrew motioned to Mousa, who was the closest student. “Did you see whether anyone changed the loadout we did on the Reapers earlier today?”
Mousa shook his head, but Fadil replied, “I did, sir. No change, four Hellfires on each.”
Pettigrew pressed the hold button again, and said, “Sorry, sir. Just making sure I’m giving you the right answer. Each one has four Hellfires.”
Suliman asked, “Am I right to think you could add two Paveways IIs to each Reaper, on top of the Hellfires? Or replace the Hellfires with Paveway IIs?”
“That’s correct, sir. We’d need to use GBU-12 Paveway IIs which we’ve got here on base and are the 500-pound model, to stay under the Reaper’s maximum load, but that would give you the totals you want,” Pettigrew replied.
“Good,” Suliman said. “I want one Reaper to have two Paveways added to the four Hellfires, and the other three Reapers to have six Paveways and no Hellfires. Here’s where and when I want to have them deployed…”
Shahid Rajaei Research & Training Hospital, Tehran, Iran
Roya Maziar frowned as she heard the faint ringing of a cell phone. Since the Supreme Leader’s guard was the only other person on this floor to have one besides her, sh
e knew that’s who had to be receiving a call.
As far as Roya knew, no guard had ever received a call while on duty. She didn’t think that was because anyone was concerned about distracting the guards from their important work. On the contrary, she thought it was because nobody cared about the men sent to guard someone who had been in a coma for months, even if he was the Supreme Leader.
So why now?
The answer came a few minutes later when the guard emerged from the Supreme Leader’s room, stalked down the hallway, and without so much as a glance at Roya pressed the button for the elevator. It had not been called since Roya arrived for her shift, and so opened immediately. Just like that, the guard was gone.
For the first time since Roya had started working at the hospital, she was completely alone. The other rooms on her floor had been cleared when the Supreme Leader arrived, and a man in a coma obviously didn’t count as company.
Roya immediately remembered the officer who had said to contact him anytime if she saw anything suspicious. Well, she thought, this certainly qualifies. Roya sent a brief text explaining what had happened, and was pleased when the officer replied almost immediately that he was on his way.
After a bit more thought, Roya decided to call her friend Farzeen, who she knew was at the desk in the hospital lobby.
“Farzeen, how are you?” Roya asked first, as custom demanded.
“I am well,” Farzeen replied. Then, getting immediately to the point, she asked, “Wasn’t that the Supreme Leader’s guard who just walked past me?
And isn’t it going to be more than an hour until his replacement shows up?
And aren’t you all alone up there? Aren’t you worried?”
Finally, Farzeen paused for breath. “But I guess maybe that’s why you were calling me? Would you like some company? I can have the hospital security guard call if a patient shows up, and be back downstairs in a minute.”
Roya smiled. Farzeen really was a good friend, even if talking to her sometimes felt like trying to stop a runaway train. “Yes, Farzeen, that would be great. I’ll make us some tea. See you in a few minutes.”