The Coward's Way of War (36 page)

The principle problem in deploying troops across the world was, as always when military operations were concerned, logistics.  Like the British Empire before it, the United States had global responsibilities, yet it took time to respond to a crisis.  When Saddam had invaded Kuwait, the only troops the US had had on hand were Airborne soldiers; good light infantry, but unable to stop tanks.  If Saddam had invaded Saudi Arabia once he’d overrun Kuwait, the analysts had declared, he would have crushed the defenders and occupied the entire country.  The United States would have had to accept a mad dictator in control of Saudi’s oil reserves, or somehow find a way to defeat him without using Saudi as a base.  It just took too long to move heavy armoured divisions around the world.

To solve that problem, the United States had prepositioned vast quantities of supplies in bases around the world, such as APS-5.  The base held hundreds of tanks, armoured fighting vehicles and other transports, as well as millions of rounds of ammunition and everything else a military force needed to keep going.  Every year, opening and unloading the bases was exercised, yet no one had ever anticipated having to cope with preparing for war in the midst of a massive national crisis.  The troops stationed in Iraq might have been pulled back into Kuwait, yet the remainder of the invasion force had to be brought in from the states.  There were so many holes in the 3
rd
Infantry Division’s roster that Doug suspected the commanders would need much longer than they had to sort out the mess.  Some soldiers were missing, or deployed in the States, or had simply deserted.  It was a terrifying mess.

He glanced up as a flight of helicopters roared overhead, heading for the deployment area closer to the border.  The Kuwaitis disliked the Saudis – the Saudis felt that they were the natural leaders of the region, something that annoyed the smaller Gulf States – and feared that the Saudis had nurtured thoughts of invasion themselves.  They were happy to cooperate with America in any way possible, although sometimes at arm’s length.  Years after their country had served as the base for invading Iraq, it was serving as the base for another invasion. 

Doug shook his head as his men started to bring out the pallets one by one, each one containing enough ammunition supplies to keep the unit operating for a few days.  Ammunition consumption was something of an endless dispute between officers holding combat commands and supply officers, for ammunition consumption was
always
higher than planned.  Doug remembered serving under a particularly green lieutenant who had followed orders and taken only the ammunition he’d been allocated, without fighting for additional supplies, only to discover that his unit had shot itself dry.  They’d had to pick up enemy weapons and press them into service.  He still had nightmares about what might have happened if the ORF hadn’t rescued them before they’d run out of enemy weapons too.

“Make sure you secure them onto the trucks,” he ordered, as the vehicles backed up to receive their deadly cargo.  A few hours of driving and they’d be at the FOB, where they would be distributed to the newcomers and training could begin.  He looked over at a line of Marines marching past, carrying their own weapons, and smiled.  Whatever disputes might exist between the Marines and the Army, they were both glad to see each other during a firefight.  “Don’t forget to carry your personal weapons with you when we leave the base.”

He knew he sounded like he was nagging them, but he felt that there was no choice.  Not too far from where they were, a team of Marines had been relaxing in the waters when a truck had drawn up and terrorists had jumped out, firing on the helpless Marines.  Only their CO had been armed and he’d returned fire, but several Marines had been killed or injured in what was supposed to be friendly territory.  Even Kuwait, as pro-American as it was, harboured the enemy.  No one could be trusted fully.

As the truck roared to life, he stared into the west, towards the Saudi border.  No one had said anything officially, but he
knew
that the Saudis had mounted the attack that had claimed his wife, as well as anything reassembling a normal life.  When the invasion began – and he knew that the American public would not settle for anything less – he intended to be out on the front line.  The godless bastards would pay for what they had done.

***

“
Bloody weather,” Sergeant Jack McDonald muttered.  “The wankers are probably hoping that we’ll get caught in a sandstorm or something.”

Command Sergeant Justin Herald couldn't disagree with the SAS soldier, who’d served in the desert for years.  The helicopter was flying alarmingly close to the ground as it roared towards the Saudi-Kuwait border, an experience that mirrored similar training exercises back in the United States.  The only real difference was that this
was
real.  If they fell into enemy hands, God alone knew what would happen to them.  It was, he supposed, preferable to hostage rescue in the United States.

“No argument,” he said.  “What’s the news from London?”

“Bloody rioters on the streets, demanding a cure we don’t have,” McDonald growled.  The United Kingdom might not have seen as nasty a burst of uprisings as France or the Netherlands, but the violence had been quite bad enough.  Justin suspected that the riots were being organised, perhaps by the man believed to be responsible for Henderson’s Disease.  The riots in Europe meant that fewer European troops could be spared for deployment to the Middle East.  “The PM’s hard-pressed, but he has confirmed that we’ll be going in with you.”

Justin nodded in relief.  The United States had maintained a heavy SF presence in Iraq since the invasion and several other countries had contributed their own people.  The British and Australian SAS/SBS teams had been joined by Polish GROM and even elite units of the French Foreign Legion.  The publics of several countries would have been quite surprised to discover that their forces had served in Iraq, a country that many of them had regarded as quite the liberal cause.  Justin had no time for that curious and morally perverse form of pacifism, for he’d seen Iraq.  The elite had lived in luxury while the poor had been forced to grub for what little food they could find.

“I don't know what else is coming, but they’re going to send what they can,” McDonald added.  “They wouldn't tell me anything else.  Security, don’t you know?”

“True,” Justin agreed.  The Geneva Conventions aside, they all knew that torture was a very real possibility if they were captured by the enemy.  Allied servicemen had been tortured and then executed in Iraq, Afghanistan and all the other little countries where the war on terror had been fought.  There were still unanswered questions surrounding POWs taken during the Vietnam War, or even a particular American pilot who had vanished during the Gulf War.  Some had believed that he was still held prisoner in Iraq, but his remains had been found after the invasion, leading Justin to suspect that he had been interrogated and then simply executed.  If they were captured, they would be tortured...and eventually they would be broken.  “Ah.”

The helicopter was slowing down and hovering now, heading down towards a tiny dirt village near the border with Saudi Arabia.  Justin braced himself as the helicopter touched down, hurling himself out of the opening hatches and onto the sandy ground.  The others followed him; twenty-one men, a combination of Delta Force and SAS soldiers.  It was a mixed team, normally a recipe for disaster, but they’d trained together over the years.

“Advance and be recognised,” a voice barked, seemingly from nowhere.

“
Kevin, you stupid bastard,” McDonald thundered.  “It’s me!”

“Oh, right,” the voice said.  “And there I was thinking that it was the ghost of that guy who wrote novels that got me into the SAS.”

Justin snorted as they were escorted into one of the buildings, which turned out to be a concealed storage point for five unmarked jeeps and a small arsenal of equipment.  The small base was used for highly-classified cross-border raids against terrorist bases in Saudi Arabia, although it had been years since it had actually been activated.  The SAS had sometimes used it as a training area, but now it was actually going to war.

“Everyone snatch some rest,” Justin ordered, once they’d checked the weapons and equipment.  They’d check again just before they left.  “We have a long trip ahead of us.”

The thought echoed through his mind as he found a comfortable spot and settled down for a nap.  The entire SF establishment was on the move, infiltrating hundreds of the best soldiers in the world into Saudi Arabia.  And, with the new ROE, there would be no such thing as mercy.  The SF would get to go completely wild on their targets, backed up by a formidable arsenal of technology and weapons, some right out of science-fiction.  He thought, briefly, of Martin Prince, back in America, but peering through the drones and advanced surveillance systems hovering over the battlefield.  And then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

***

“
Welcome to Coalition HQ,” Lieutenant David Toback said.  Mija took his hand and shook it firmly, noting that the Public Relations Officer was young and reasonably handsome – and photogenic.  The United States Armed Forces had been caught off-guard by media warfare and had stumbled, while the terrorists and insurgents had excelled at presenting their side of the story to the world, but the army had caught up swiftly.  The terrorists still had an unfair advantage – there were far too many people who accepted everything they said at face value – yet the army was putting its own story out there.  “I understand that you had a long flight?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mija said.  The journey out of New York and overseas had taken longer than she had expected, but then, the week she'd spent training hadn’t been wasted.  Being an embedded reporter was harder than she had realised.  Only a small number of reporters had accepted the conditions – she couldn't disclose anything until it was cleared, even where she was or what she was doing – and not all of them had passed through the training course.  “They wouldn't let us get off the plane at all.”

“The Europeans are in a bit of a mess at the moment,” Toback agreed.  “If you will come with me...”

He escorted her to a small jeep and invited her to sit beside him as he started the engine and drove away from the airport towards a cluster of buildings in the distance.  The area seemed to be swarming with military officers and soldiers, with regulars, Marines and National Guardsmen working together and preparing for war.  They paused to allow a line of Bradleys to drive past, heading towards the gates and out of the camp, the grim-faced soldiers mounted on them looking around as if they never expected to see the camp again.  A couple saw her and waved cheerfully, but most of them just ignored her.  She looked up as a flight of aircraft passed overhead, heading towards the border and Saudi Arabia.  It looked as if the war was about to begin.  She caught a whiff of something unpleasant and felt her insides churn, before Toback drove them away from the stench and towards the buildings.  She didn't even want to
guess
at what the smell might be. 

“There is a briefing for senior officers in twenty minutes,” Toback explained, as he parked in a reserved space.  Mija was amused to note that it looked just like an office block, if less amused to discover that the way in was barred by two MPs, who ran sensors over her body before allowing her to step inside.  “You have been invited to attend and bear witness.”

Mija shivered.  Back in the States, once she had signed documents forbidding her to talk without permission, she’d been told that there was clear evidence linking Saudi Arabia to the biological attack, Henderson’s Disease.  Once she’d swallowed that, she’d been told that barring a miracle, American forces would be invading Saudi Arabia and, if she wanted, she could join the invasion as an embedded media reporter.  She had been warned that it wouldn't be a pleasant holiday – she could have guessed that, but the military did seem to like pointing out the obvious – yet she knew that if she survived, she could write her own ticket.  There would be countless media companies bidding for her services.

The briefing room looked surprisingly makeshift, at least to her eyes.  There were several dozen chairs lined up on the floor, with a single podium and plasma screen in front of them.  Most of the chairs were filled with senior officers, many wearing different uniforms; she recognised USAF and USN officers as well as soldiers and Marines.  Several of them glanced in her direction, but most of the others were focused on the map displayed in front of them.  Saudi Arabia was covered in icons representing military bases and known military deployments.

“If I could have your attention, please,” a female voice said.  Mija looked up to see a young woman wearing an army uniform standing in front of the podium.  The army intelligence officer looked tough and utterly unwilling to compromise; indeed, if it hadn't been for her voice, Mija would have thought that she was a man.  “As yet, there has been no response from Saudi Arabia to our demands, but there have been reports of Saudi Princes and their hangers-on trying to get out of the country...”