The Coward's Way of War (32 page)

Nicolas ran through a brief outline of what the Russians had done to India-1 to turn it into a deadly weapon, and then proceeded with his statement.  “We worked to trace the money – she was paid over twenty million dollars, which she intended to use to establish a new identity once she fled Russia – through a number of cut-outs and banks.  It wasn't an easy task, but with some help from the State Department we were able to trace it back to its origin.  The money came from a secret account established in a reputable Swiss Bank many years ago, one that had over seven
billion
dollars stowed away for a rainy day.  We had to bring immense pressure to bear on the Swiss to go further, yet they eventually agreed to disclose what they knew.  The account belongs to Prince Mukhtar of Saudi Arabia, a man we
do
know about.  He is no friend to America.”

He smiled at their reactions.  It had surprised him when they’d finally broken through the network of lies and deceptions, but it made a certain kind of ominous sense.  Prince Mukhtar was not only the Minister of the Interior – with the responsibility for internal policing and security – of Saudi Arabia; he was also one of the most outspokenly anti-American Saudis in public life.  Given the nature of Saudi Arabian society, where it was rare for someone to be plain-spoken and blunt, Prince Mukhtar had to feel his outrage deeply.  The FBI had noted that ever since he had taken his position, cooperation with the Saudis had dimmed and faded out of existence.  The Prince had no interest in working with the Great Satan. 

“Based on all this, we feel that we can make some conclusions,” he concluded.  “The disease was purchased using Saudi money and transported to Saudi Arabia, where it was turned into a weapon and used to infect a young man, perhaps without his knowledge.  That man came to the United States and brought death with him.  The Saudis have committed an act of war on a massive scale.”

There was an immediate outburst.  The President waited for several seconds and then tapped the table sharply.  “Does the government of Saudi Arabia know about this?”

“Madam President,” Nicolas replied, “Prince Mukhtar is
part
of the government of Saudi Arabia.  This is roughly akin to the State Department setting off to start a war without informing the rest of the government, perhaps more so.  This is a WMD attack mounted against American soil, carried out by agents of a foreign government.  This is an act of war.”

“Then we nuke them,” the Vice President said.  His words somehow chilled the air.  “Our policy is to use our own WMD against anyone who uses WMD on us.”

“Not every Saudi is guilty,” the Secretary of State pointed out sharply.  “If we nuke Saudi Arabia, we will kill millions of innocents along with the guilty.”

“We will also destroy oil fields that keep what remains of the world economy functioning,” the Secretary of the Treasury added.  “And
that
doesn't include the costs of sending radioactive dust drifting over the Middle East.”

The President looked over towards General Tom Spencer.  “Tom,” she said, “can we put together a military option in a hurry?”

Spencer nodded slowly.  “We have troops and pre-positioned equipment in various locations in the Middle East,” he said.  “We could fly in other forces from the United States; hell, we had planning for that underway when we thought that we would have to deploy to Europe and fight the Russians.  We have three carriers and a MEU nearby and, again, we can start shuttling reinforcements into the area.  We would certainly be able to claim NATO support under Article Four of the NATO Treaty, although I don’t know how much our allies would be able to deploy in a hurry.  What do you want the troops to achieve?”

“Invasion and occupation,” the President said, flatly.  “I intend to give the Saudis the same ultimatum I gave the Russians; cooperate with us or get crushed.  If they refuse to cooperate, I want to take their country and take the people we want by force.”

“We will need some time to build up our forces to the required level,” Spencer said.  “My office has contingency plans for a hasty reinforcement of positions in the Middle East, but Henderson’s Disease will have thrown all of our plans out of shape.  You may wish to delay any threatening messages until we can rush at least some reinforcements out there.”

The Vice President snorted.  “They’re not going to risk attacking us, are they?”

“They might,” Nicolas said, before he could stop himself.  This level of the conversation was well above his pay grade, but he knew the area far too well.  “The Saudi Government cannot roll over and play dead for us; their own people would overthrow them and that would be the end of them anyway.  They will try to deflect us and stall us – and then they will refuse to cooperate past a certain point.  We’re not talking about someone with Bin Laden’s connections; we’re talking about someone who is so deeply enmeshed within their local power structure that he cannot be separated from the state.  They cannot hand him over to us without destroying the fragile consensus that runs their country.  It would be a sign of weakness in the eyes of some pretty bad enemies.”

The President looked around the table, her eyes dark and cold.  “General, you are authorised to begin deploying reinforcements towards the Middle East,” she ordered, calmly.  Nicolas sensed the ice under her words and shivered.  “You will draw up plans for an invasion and occupation of Saudi Arabia, to be launched when – if – the Saudis refuse to cooperate.  You are to make it clear to local commanders that the Saudis are to be considered a hostile force and treated as such, with ROE that allows them to shoot first if they feel that they are under threat.

“The State Department will coordinate with our NATO allies,” she continued.  “We will make it clear that we expect logistical support at the very least, if not outright military support.  Twist as many arms as you need to so that that point is made clearly.  Remind them of the Bush Doctrine and inform them that we intend to cite it for our Middle Eastern allies.

“One week from today, I will deliver an ultimatum to the Saudis,” she concluded.  “The ultimatum will give them no room at all to evade, or to deflect our demands.  It will make very clear
exactly
what will happen if they reject our terms.  And if they refuse to cooperate, they will have war.”

What is loyalty to one
’s country, really?  When the chips are down, it is me and mine first, always.  And when one’s faith in one’s country is gone, what do you have left?  Anarchy and tribalism.

- Sergeant Al Hattlestad

New York, USA

Day 26

Doug, lying on the couch, barely heard the knock on the door, or the irritated jangling of the bell.  He knew that he should get up and wash himself – it had been days since he had had a shower, or even a shave – but he couldn't motivate himself to move.  He’d drunk far too much and yet he still could not forget, or even numb the pain.  The couch was surrounded by a small army of empty bottles, a lifetime’s supply of fine wines that Lindsey had collected over the years, all of which he had swallowed down as if they were water.  It hadn't been enough.

When he’d seen the pustules forming on his wife’s face – he could have sworn that he actually saw them materialising in front of him – he’d tried to deny it, but it had been impossible.  He had wanted to take Lindsey home and look after her himself, yet that too had been impossible.  The doctors had gently pushed him out of the recovery centre and taken his wife away somewhere.  No one had been able or willing to tell him where she’d gone, but his imagination had suggested all kinds of possibilities.  The doctors wished to experiment on her to find a cure, or perhaps they’d simply given her a lethal injection, knowing that there was no way to save her and no way to prevent her from dying in agony.  The more he’d drunk, the more likely some of the darker possibilities seemed to his mind.  He’d even found himself considering plans to take his gun and force the doctors to tell him the truth.  If he’d been able to summon up the motivation, he might have done just that. 

He caught sight of the picture on the wall and winced, turning away from it.  In his drunken state, it seemed almost as if the picture was talking him, his wife’s face mocking him for having failed her in her most desperate hour.  The children – he’d sent his real children to stay with a friend, along with their babysitter – seemed to have turned their faces away from him, while his own face gazed down reprovingly.  He couldn't face meeting his counterpart’s accusing stare.  The bottle of expensive whisky in his hand felt real, the only thing that felt real to his mind, and so he brought it to his lips.  His parents had taught him that drinking straight from the bottle was hardly the mark of a gentleman, but he no longer cared.  He just wanted something to numb the pain.

“I hope you’re not going to just quaff that down,” a voice said.  Doug was too drunk to be surprised, half-convinced that he was just delirious.  “That whisky would probably be best drunk in moderation.”

Doug felt a hot flare of anger as the newcomer’s voice echoed through his head.  “Fuck off,” he said, crossly.  It was so hard to think straight, not without his wife.  “I quit.”

“You would do better to quit drinking,” Captain Nicolas Little said, reaching over and taking the bottle from Doug’s hand.  “A bottle of thirty-year-old Scottish Whisky is not exactly something to be drunk like a cheap French wine, is it?”

“I said fuck off,” Doug said.  “Just leave me alone.”

Little shrugged, looming over him and staring down into Doug’s face.  “You were due back at the FOB four days ago,” he said.  “I have covered for you as long as I could, but...”

“Who cares?”  Doug demanded, angrily.  “You don’t have to cover for me.  Just leave me here to die.  I don’t care any longer.”

“They’re starting to shoot deserters,” Little pointed out.  “If I report you missing, or absent without leave, they will eventually log you as a deserter and when you are caught, you will be shot.  You don’t deserve to die that way.”

“I’m a fucking traitor to everything I ever believed in,” Doug snapped.  He wanted to shout, but his mouth was too dry.  “Let them kill me.  God knows I deserve nothing less!”

Little removed a second full bottle from the couch and then some of the empty ones, putting them out of reach.  “You’re not a traitor,” he said, tartly.  “You are a good trooper and always have been.  Why are you punishing yourself like this?”

“My wife worked at the hospital centre,” Doug said, angrily.  It felt good to get it out of his system, even though part of his mind was reminding him that he had gone far beyond the limits for talking to one’s commanding officer.  “That bastard Johnston took her hostage.”

He waved a hand towards where the television set had been.  He’d watched the Reverend Johnston and five of his men being publicly hung in Washington, raising a glass to the President and the men who had strung the terrorists up, before one of the talking heads had appeared on the screen and started to prattle on about how the BAM had deserved understanding and sympathy, not death.  Doug had hurled a full bottle of expensive wine at the set and smashed it beyond repair.

“She was called up to report for duty, just like me,” Doug said.  It was growing harder to remember his wife as she had been, not the young girl she had been when they had first met, or even as the loving wife and mother she had grown into.  The few arguments had been horrifying, yet he would have sold his soul for the chance to argue with her again.  “I shouldn't have let her go.  I should have told her to remain with the kids.  If I had known what was going on, I wouldn't have let her go to the hospital.”

His CO said nothing, waiting for him to continue.  “And she started to work with the patients and the stupid assholes in government didn't even bother to think that it might be a good idea to give her the vaccine against Henderson’s Disease, did they?  They gave it to me because they thought I was good at shooting my own fellow countrymen, but did they give it to the people who would certainly be exposed to the damned plague?  No!  And then the fucking nigger fucks break into the hospital, take her and her fellow nurses hostage and get her infected with Henderson’s Disease!  And they won’t even tell me what they have done with her!”

He caught Little’s hand and pushed it away from his shoulder.  “She did her duty, just like me,” he said, bitterly.  “She did her duty and it killed her.”

“She might not be dead,” Little pointed out.  “With proper medical treatment...”

Doug glared up at him, uncaring of the difference in their ranks.  “Tell me something,” he sneered.  “Have you heard of a single case of someone surviving Henderson’s Disease, even one?  I haven’t – and if someone had, they would have shouted it to the world, just to convince the little people that the disease can be beaten.  The best they can do for an infected person is to prolong their agony.  And I can't even hold my wife’s hand as she falls into the arms of Lady Death!””