The Coward's Way of War (53 page)

He looked over at Prince Mukhtar, who was devouring a chicken as he discoursed on the inevitability of the infidel defeat and the coming new world order, one where Islam rose up from the ashes and established a caliphate over the entire globe.  Like so many of the prince’s visions, it was completely divorced from reality, but his audience was drinking it up like the finest of fine wines.  They wanted to hear the affirmation that they were on the right side.

Prince Ibrahim shook his head tiredly.  The war news was going from bad to worse.  The decision to pull troops away from the Iraqi border to face the Americans had given the Iraqis a clear run to King Khalid Military City.  The city’s fall had marked the collapse of resistance in the north, with the Americans regrouping and pressing down south to link up with their Marines and their heavy armoured forces.  He knew that it was only a matter of time before the Americans finished regrouping and started advancing towards Riyadh, intent on finishing the war.  The defenders gloated of the high price in American blood they would claim, but the Americans didn't even have to take the city to destroy it.  They could just surround it and wait for the population to starve.

“The Shia will be exterminated from the earth,” Prince Mukhtar declared.  Iran had remained neutral on the issue of the war in Saudi, but rumour had it that they’d privately offered the Americans whatever help they wanted.  Prince Mukhtar believed the claims.  He viewed the Shia as treacherous upstarts who couldn't be trusted, not even slightly.  If the Americans hadn't overrun the Shia-populated sections of Saudi Arabia, there would have been an attempt at genocide.  “Iran will be cleansed and returned to our domains.”

The meal went on and on, an endless succession of dishes, each one more elaborate than the last.  There was enough food to feed much of the city, yet it was all being eaten – or thrown away – by the leaders.  Prince Mukhtar simply didn't care about the population.  They were there to die for his cause, or fight for it.  It was madness, yet there was nothing he could do to stop it.  He took a bite of the final dish, a toffee pie so sweet that his teeth hurt after one bite, and pushed the rest of it aside.  By the time they were allowed to move into the next room, he felt truly unwell.

“Your Excellency,” General Abdullah said, “you have to make a decision.”

Prince Mukhtar looked over at him, waiting for the General to explain.  Whatever sound military sense the General had possessed in the past, it had all been pushed aside to serve his new master.  He’d ordered his men into suicidal battles at Prince Mukhtar’s command, egged on by the fiery sermons of the religious policemen and the guns at their backs.

“The Americans are advancing on this city,” the General explained.  “We no longer have any reserves to throw into the battle, except one.  The forces defending Mecca can be ordered to march to this city.  They may arrive in time to save us.”

“The Islamic World will not allow them to take this country,” Prince Mukhtar declared.  “We cannot...”

“The Islamic World is dying,” Prince Ibrahim said, in frustration.  A gasp ran around the room at what was, to them, literal blasphemy.  “Who is going to stop the Americans?  Egypt is convulsing and dying; Iraq is on their side.  Do you think that Jordan will seek to stop them?  The King of Jordan is already seeking to curry favour with the Americans, claiming that his family has the right to rule Mecca.  And Iran...Iran is not going to lift a finger to help us.”

He stared down at the Black Prince.  “We either stop the Americans or we retreat from this city,” he said.  “There is no other choice.”

Prince Mukhtar stared back at him for a long moment, and then looked over at the General.  “Pull the regular defenders out of Mecca and send them east,” he ordered.  “The defence of the Holy Cities will remain in the hands of those prepared to die for it.”

***

“
It's confirmed, General,” the intelligence officer said.  “They’re pulling most of their armoured units out of Mecca and marching them up to Riyadh.”

“Curious,” General Brent Roeder said, studying the display.  A new line of red icons had appeared, tracked by UAV drones and orbiting satellites.  The Saudis had massed a powerful force to defend Mecca, but now they were sending it away from the city.  He felt a predatory grin crossing his face.  He’d been warned that Mecca was not to be badly damaged, if only for political reasons, which meant that the Saudis had enjoyed a degree of protection denied to them elsewhere.  Now...now they were out in the open and vulnerable.  “I wonder why they’re risking their sole remaining striking force.”

He looked down at the main display, his mind automatically interpreting the icons and presenting him with a full picture.  Almost every American vehicle or aircraft was constantly feeding a report of its status into the network, allowing him to monitor the overall progress of the invasion with ease.  No commander had every enjoyed such a degree of command and control – at least outside a computer game – and the temptation to micromanage was overwhelming.  He fought it down, knowing that even though it looked perfectly understandable from high overhead, the ground truth might be a little different.  Back in the Iraq War, the early version of the system had shown American units standing still, but not the battles they were fighting against enemy forces.

If he’d been against an enemy who enjoyed full-spectrum dominance of the battlespace, he would never have sent his tanks and smaller vehicles into the open, not when they could be hammered at will by the enemy air force.  The Saudis no longer had a working air defence network; the few remaining radars they had were picked off almost as soon as they lit up.  The drones patrolling high overhead hit them at once.  They had to know the danger, so why were they doing it?  It crossed his mind that it could be a trick, yet what was the point?

“Get the air liaison officers to draw up strike plans,” he ordered, finally.  “If they’re going to give us a clear shot at their armoured units, I think we should oblige them.”

He looked over towards the Iraqi liaison officer.  “And after this is done,” he added, “we can go after Mecca.  You and your men will have the honour of liberating the Holy Cities.”

The Iraqi grinned.  The Islamic World would have had a fit if American troops had gone into the Holy Cities – not that anyone cared any longer – but Iraqi troops were good Muslims, better than the Saudi troops had been.  And many of them wanted payback for what the Saudis had done to them.

“Thank you, sir,” the Iraqi said. 

Isn't it funny how the Iraqis are willing to
work with the Americans?  What did the United States bring to their country, apart from freedom and democracy?

- Prince Mukhtar

Near Mecca, Saudi Arabia

Day 50

Mushad Ali was not a happy man.

Long ago, when he had been younger and fitter, he’d joined the Saudi Arabian National Guard and risen to the rank of Lieutenant.  It had been a good few years, but he’d grown disillusioned with the corruption within the system, so eventually he’d handed in his resignation and taken his wife – and their four children – to live in Mecca, hoping to rediscover his faith.  He hadn't succeeded, although he had discovered that foreigners performing the pilgrimage to Mecca were quite happy to buy souvenirs, including items that Mushad would not have willingly had in his house.  He hadn't thought about his military service in years until the Americans had started threatening war and he'd been called back up to the army.

Despite being a Lieutenant, he’d found himself placed in command of a company and told to secure Mecca East Airport, a small airport to the east of the Holy City.  The company he’d been given was mostly composed of reservists and retired soldiers like himself, although there were a handful of young firebrands among them who seemed happier at the thought of dying for their country than making others dying for
their
country.  Their attitude annoyed Mushad, as did their sloppiness and indiscipline, but it seemed he could do nothing about it.  The zealots who had taken over the defence of Mecca had seen to that.  The only common ground he had with the younger men was a love of football, even though it had been years since he had played himself.  Too old and too fat, his wife would have said.

He slapped his belly as he watched the airport, thinking about his wife.  It had been an arranged marriage, of course, but he had grown to love her dearly.  Outside the home, he was master, yet inside she ruled her husband and children with a rod of iron.  She was far smarter than she let anyone apart from her husband realise, something that he thought was rather a shame.  She could have gone far; indeed, had the Prophet’s youngest wife not been a great scholar in her own right?  If the younger firebrands had had their way, sadly, all women would be neither seen nor heard. 

Two days ago, there had been armoured vehicles helping to guard the airport and he hadn't been alone, but now it was just his company.  They’d taken the precaution of driving vehicles onto the runways – once the final aircraft had left on suicide missions – to block anyone from trying to land, yet there was very little else they could do, apart from patrol and hope that the war passed them by.  The leader of the young firebrands spent his time haranguing everyone else on the justified use of violence against the Great Satan, the Lesser Satan and the Little Satan, as well as the proper way to act in all situations.  Wasn't it nice, Mushad thought with calm amusement, to be so young and certain about everything?

He turned as he checked the final guardpost, even though no one had even tried to visit the airport since the war had begun.  Mushad was privately surprised that the Americans hadn't bombed them already – the firebrands had claimed that it was a divine blessing – but he wasn’t complaining.  He had already decided that if the Americans drove up to the airport, he would surrender rather than see his pitiful company be slaughtered.  Some of the rumours that had reached the men – they weren't allowed to watch television, which might have given them a more accurate impression of the war – were horrifying.  The Americans weren't interested in taking prisoners.

A sound echoed through the air and he blinked, turning to follow a black speck as it raced across the sky, heading towards Mecca.  A few seconds later, another aircraft joined it, and another, filling the air with the sound of their engines.  Mushad would have liked to believe that it was a Saudi aircraft, avenging the damage inflicted on the country, but he knew better.  They had to be American fighter jets.  He started to run towards the hanger he’d converted into a command post – he was sure that the terminal would be the first building to be targeted – when other, much larger aircraft appeared in the sky.  They were flying so low that he felt as if he could reach up and touch them.  The rumble of their engines drowned out everything else.

As he stared, tiny black specks started to fall from the aircraft, heading down towards the ground.  Mushad watched in disbelief, convinced that the Americans were finally bombing the airport into the ground, before the specks took on shape and form and became men.  The Americans were dropping parachutists onto his airport.  The vehicles they’d used to block access couldn't stop that!  Mushad reached for his rifle, intent on shooting as many as he could, but stopped before his fingers touched the trigger.  What good would it have done?  If they surrendered, they could go home to their families and survive the war. 

The parachutes opened, slowing the descent of the black-clad men just before they hit the ground.  Shooting broke out as some of the firebrands opened fire, only to be shot down themselves by the invaders, who didn't hesitate to gun down anyone who looked even slightly threatening.  Mushad dropped his rifle and raised his hands, only to be knocked to the ground by a burly man with an Arabic appearance.  His hands were wrenched behind his back and a plastic tie was used to secure them, before his attacker left him lying there and ran on towards the terminals.  Isolated bursts of shooting echoed out, but all resistance was swiftly and brutally quashed.  Mushad lay there, not even daring to move, until two of the men marched over to him, removed everything on him that could be used as a weapon, and pulled him to his feet.  They pushed him towards one of the hangers, where he saw the remains of his company.  He’d started with ninety men; now, only forty had survived the battle.  All of the firebrands were dead.

His captors pushed him to the ground and growled to him – in Arabic – to stay there and remain out of trouble.  Their voices shocked him, for that was not an American accent; it was an
Iraqi
accent.  Mushad had met a number of Iraqis in his career, including a couple of Saddam’s officers who had sought refuge in Saudi Arabia and the accent was unmistakable.  Now he knew what he was looking for, he could see other signs, including different uniforms with Arabic markings on the side.  The force that had captured the airport knew exactly what it was doing.  Ten minutes after they’d captured the remains of his force, they’d set up defensive points at the gates and had started moving the blockades away from the runways.  As Mushad watched in horror, a massive transport aircraft lumbered out of the sky and started to disgorge an entire army.  The aircraft carried tanks, guns and hundreds of fighting men.