The Coward's Way of War (40 page)

“We have spent millions of American dollars on those contacts,” Prince Mukhtar hissed.  He paced the room, swinging his arms from side to side as he walked.  He had always been a big man, but now he seemed to loom over all opposition.  “Why are they not helping us in our hour of need?”

Prince Ibrahim stared at him...and then understood.  Unlike many other senior members of the Royal Family, Prince Mukhtar had never been out of the country and had had as little to do with foreigners as possible.  His xenophobia – fairly typical for a conservative Saudi national – drove him to think of outsiders as criminals and cowards, hardly a match for a good Saudi man.  Outsiders were infinitely corrupt, willing to sell their own mothers and daughters – and even sons – for a hint of Saudi largess.  In normal times, he might even have had a point; Saudi Arabia
had
bought love and support on the world stage.

He closed his eyes, remembering the eyes of his senior wife – the only part of her body he could see under the veil – just before she boarded the jumbo jet for France.  He’d assured her that his contacts in the French Foreign Ministry would ensure that they landed safely; they’d assured him of that over the communications network.  The women and children had trusted their husband and he’d sent them to their deaths.  He had no way of knowing exactly what had happened, but the jumbo jet had been shot down and everyone onboard had been killed.  The thought kept mocking him when he tried to sleep; he’d killed his own wives and children, as surely as if he’d drawn a gun and shot them down where they stood.

A strange calm came over him and he looked up at the Black Prince.  It was a sense that his life no longer mattered, a sense that perhaps his time was up and all that mattered was going out in a manner pleasing to God.  It was strange to think that he might have rediscovered his faith, and the acceptance that his life might be over, at the end of a life enlivened by wine, women and song, but perhaps it was appropriate.  He imagined, as he felt a smile creeping onto his face, that it was how the suicide bombers and insurgents had felt, just before they’d gone out to die.

“Because we never commanded their loyalty,” he said, calmly.  The Black Prince clenched his fists, but said nothing.  “We had to operate behind the scenes.  We filled Western – American – media programs with subtle propaganda to shape their opinions, pushing them to believe that what we showed them was true.  We ensured that our version of events was the one put in front of the American public.  We told them that the Israelis were the darkest of demons and that their Palestinian enemies were on the side of goodness and hope and they lapped it up like soup.  We slanted the news in a manner that benefited us.

“But our influence was so subtle that we cannot direct events as we might choose,” he added.  “The journalists and even editors could be influenced, yet never permanently, never forced to toe the line so completely that other viewpoints didn’t slip in.  When the American military blundered, our influence ensured that they would be attacked far more than they deserved, but it became increasingly hard to prevent many journalists from speaking their minds.  Even our allies at the State Department couldn't stop the truth from blurring through.”

He’d deliberately tried to confuse the Black Prince, but now he had to be direct.  “The plague infecting America is something that strikes at every last American,” he said.  “Their media must lead the charge against the perpetrators of the attack; their democratic politicians must demand action, or they will be removed come the next election.  They feel that we are responsible and it therefore becomes harder to steer opinion towards our side, or even to control events at all.  The journalists have seen people – including their own families – die at our hands.  The editors cannot prevent them from writing the truth as they see it –
and the truth they see is that we launched a weapon of mass destruction against the United States
!

“There’s a difference between hard power and soft power.  Hard power comes out of the barrel of a gun; soft power comes out of the media and cultural influence...and all we had was soft power.  We could influence American public opinion and we did, yet when events shifted so badly against us, we couldn't prevent them from demanding our blood.  My contacts in the State Department and all the think-tanks we sponsored to influence opinion will not take my calls.  I think that they will be trying desperately to hide their links to us, knowing that their own superiors – desperate for political cover – will be calling for investigations.”

He shrugged, wondering if Prince Mukhtar was about to have a heart attack.  “The same can be said for most of the other countries in the world,” he added, mischievously.  “They are no longer interested in listening to us, or in treating us as anything other than a rogue state, one that carried out a biological attack against them.  There will be no help from the outside world.”

A single tap on the remote brought up a live report from Al Jazeera.  “The Iraqi Government today confirmed that the Iraqi Military would be committed to operations against Saudi Arabia and would be tasked with securing the Holy Cities of Islam,” a woman’s voice said.  The camera panned over cheering crowds in Baghdad as the Prime Minister spoke to the nation.  “Saudi Arabia, blamed for the biological attack slaughtering millions of Americans, has not yet commented on the charges brought against the nation, but reports have reached us that senior government officials have been fleeing the country...”

“Turn it off,” the Black Prince snarled.  “Do you believe that the Americans intend to invade?  Really?  Their leader is a
woman
!”

Prince Ibrahim smiled behind his beard.  He’d enjoyed the company of many Western women over the years, finding them to be more...accommodating than women from his own country, who had been taught to always obey their husband and never contradict him in public.  The Western women, wives of political leaders or even politicians in their own right, had been smart and interesting – and, often, more determined than their husbands for them to succeed.  The Black Prince had married four typical Saudi girls from very conservative stock.  The odds were that he never spoke to them if it could be avoided.  Prince Ibrahim had never even seen the girls since they had vanished into his cousin’s palace.

“The Americans were willing to invade Iraq,” Prince Ibrahim reminded him.  “That...
woman
has ordered her troops to fire on American citizens who might have been carrying Henderson’s Disease, just to prevent the disease from spreading further.  After that, do you believe that she will not hesitate to launch an attack on us?”

“She is a woman,” the Black Prince repeated.  “She lacks the sure guidance of a man.”

“Then let us pretend that her Vice President is really the power behind the throne,” Prince Ibrahim snapped.  “Would that make a difference to you?”

The Black Prince didn't bother to reply.  “The people have awoken,” he said, his eyes glittering with fanatical brightness.  He waved a hand towards the windows, where the chanting of the massed crowds could be heard, even though expensive soundproofing.  The mob was marching the streets of Riyadh, demanding no surrender, even cheering for war.  The clerics had mobilised the mob to remind any Saudi Prince who might have had second thoughts that Prince Mukhtar enjoyed their full support.  “With their help, we will prevail and establish a new order across the world.”

Prince Ibrahim winced.  It didn't take a military genius to know that the American soldiers, even with the restrictive rules of engagement hammered down their throats by the media – at least partly because of his manipulations – would have plenty of experience dealing with untrained mobs.  They’d fought it out in Iraq for six years, against
very
well armed and determined opposition...and won.  The Saudi population hadn't had to fight a real war, ever.  The skirmishes along the southern border and the Gulf War – even the internal struggle against the jihadists – had never touched the lives of the ordinary Saudi.  Somehow, he doubted that the Americans would have much trouble smashing the mobs and winning the war.

“We have millions of volunteers pouring in from all over the Islamic World,” the Black Prince continued, slipping into a monologue.  Prince Ibrahim sat back and waited for him to finish, knowing that there was no point in interrupting.  The Black Prince’s rants had become increasingly common as he gathered real power into his hands.  “They will help us to defeat the Great Satan.”

“Doubtless,” Prince Ibrahim murmured.  Even if they did drive the Americans out...what would happen then?  The foreigners would hardly go home.  The one thing that the terrorists and the American public would ever agree on was that the House of Saud needed to be removed.  “And what if they don’t?”

“We have Allah on our side,” the Black Prince said, with all the conviction of the true believer.  “How can we lose?”

***

Two hours later, the inner council gathered in an underground bunker, built deep under the city.  Prince Ibrahim had pointed out that American engineers had helped build the bunkers and therefore their military probably knew all about it
, but the inner council had refused to vacate the bunker until the war actually began.  Prince Ibrahim had considered running, perhaps even trying to make it to the border with Jordan or even Egypt, yet he knew it would be suicide.  The two unsmiling bodyguards assigned to protect him had come directly from the Ministry of the Interior and it wasn't
his
body they were interested in protecting.

“The Army and National Guard are mobilising and being deployed to their positions,” General Abdullah said, once the customary small talk had dried away.  “We have had something of a problem with desertions and other...embarrassments, but the special units have started to deal with the problem and it is going away.  If we should be called upon to execute Plan Mohammed, we can execute it upon one day’s warning.”

Prince Ibrahim read between the lines.  The Saudi Government might have spent literally billions of dollars on the latest military equipment from America, Britain, France, Russia and China, but they’d been much less willing to spend money on training and forming a reliable army.  They knew that a trained and competent army could become a danger to the government; after all, both Iraq and Egypt had suffered army coups that had overthrown monarchies and put other governments in power.  The soldiers were, therefore, unenthused about fighting the United States and were deserting, only to be hauled back to duty by the Ministry of the Interior’s Special Detachments, who had permission to shoot deserters if they felt like it.  The clerics had been happy to provide firebrand preachers, who hectored the troops on their sacred duty to defend Islam, defend their country and drive the American infidels out of the holy land.  The National Guard – almost a second army in its own right – was more trusted, yet it too had had problems. 

“The Air Force is in better shape,” the General continued.  “We have most of the pilots training now, with supplies of weapons and fuel in excellent condition.  The ground-based defence system is up and running, with IFF transmitters ensuring that we do not accidentally shoot down our own forces.  Combined with AWACS aircraft high over the country, we can see far into Iraq and towards the American carriers as they make their way towards us.  We will see the Americans coming and meet them before they can do us any harm.”

“Allah is indeed great,” Prince Ibrahim said, tartly.  The last time the Saudi Air Force had fought in a war, it had performed poorly.  He’d read the official post-battle assessments and the – unofficial – reports submitted by American officers and he knew which set he believed.  “We will be able to see our doom coming towards us.”

“Allah will guide our fighting men to victory,” Mullah Bihar proclaimed.  He stroked his long beard as he scowled across the table.  A month ago, it would have been unthinkable for such a man – the Americans called him a terrorist, quite rightly – to sit at the highest table in the land, but the Black Prince had brought him into his inner circle.  “We have faith and we have weapons. We will not lose.”

Prince Ibrahim said nothing.  No amount of logic or reason could break through their skulls.  Some believed that there was no choice, but to fight; others knew that the Americans wouldn't be merciful if they fell into American hands.  Between them, they were going to lead the country to disaster and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He looked over at the Black Prince, who seemed to be smirking, enjoying his moment.  The one question he hadn’t asked – he hadn't dared ask – was if the American charges were actually true.  He had known that the Minister of the Interior was a fanatic, yet unleashing such a deadly virus was the hallmark of an insane mind and he hadn't thought that Prince Mukhtar was insane.

Or maybe he was.  Plan Mohammed was, like all good plans, simple.  The Americans needed their bases next to Saudi Arabia to launch their invasion, just as they had used Kuwait as a springboard for invading Iraq.  The Saudi military had long had contingency plans to invade the country’s neighbours – there were long-standing disputes with Kuwait, Oman, Yemen and Qatar – and those plans were being hastily dusted off.  If they could crush the American forces before they were assembled and launched into Saudi Arabia, there might be a chance to smuggle the Pakistani nukes into Saudi Arabia and force a draw.  If...if the Americans weren't so angry about the biological warfare attack that they didn't simply deploy their own nukes and turn the country into a pile of radioactive ashes.