The Coward's Way of War (61 page)

Spencer frowned.  “We have three options,” he said.  He ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke.  “We go into the city and occupy it by force; we wait for them all to drop dead of Henderson’s Disease; or, finally, we nuke the city now.”

“You have got to be joking,” Allen Ross snapped.  The Secretary of State sounded horrified.  “We cannot just nuke a city, even an enemy-held city.”

“I assure you,” the President’s Press Secretary said, “that public opinion would be behind the President if the city were to be nuked.”

“That isn't the point,” Ross said.  “If we destroy a city using a nuclear bomb, we will be pariahs and the entire world will turn against us.”

The Vice President snorted.  “This would be the world that has been infected with Henderson’s Disease?”  He enquired.  “Would that be the same disease which we traced back to that Saudi Prince in Saudi Arabia?  I think that no one in the world – no one we need care about, in any case – is going to bother even lodging a protest, even as a formality.  The Russians won’t want to annoy us, the Europeans will probably cheer us on and the Chinese have their own problems.  Who
cares
about global opinion now?”

Ross scowled at him.  “And in the next hundred years...what will happen then?”

The President tapped the table.  “Posterity can take care of itself,” she said.  “We are here to decide if we should use a nuclear warhead, or if we should wait for the city to die of its own accord, or if we should send American boys and girls into the fire to take the city.  The future can wait until the historians start writing it.”

“Madam President,” Spencer said, “if we were to force entry into the city, it is likely to be costly.”

He’d told her that before, but the rest of the Cabinet were hearing it for the first time.  The President watched and listened as Spencer outlined the probable cost, ending with the warning that the United States might end up having to care for millions of refugees.  Or, perhaps, helplessly watching them die as Henderson’s Disease tore their bodies apart.

Doctor Awad coughed when he had finished.  He’d been a new addition to the Cabinet, charged with overseeing the evacuation of America's cities and the eventual eradication of Henderson’s Disease.  The appointment wasn't strictly constitutional, but Congress had confirmed his position as a non-partisan member of the Cabinet.

“Madam President,” he said, “I understand the concerns about risking American lives in the city – or even concerns about allowing the city to die slowly when we can put it out of its misery.  The problem, though, is that we need access to Saudi records – and not just those that relate to Henderson’s Disease.  We could use their records to track where their money has been going over the years, to see just what they’ve been doing...”

“It’s not going to happen,” Spencer said, flatly.  “We do have scouts in the city.  The Saudis have been destroying vast amounts of paperwork, probably to ensure that we will never be able to trace where all the money has been going.  I understand your concern, Doctor, but we will not be able to save their documents from destruction.”

Ross stood up.  “Madam President, what you are talking about is mass murder, if not genocide,” he said, flatly.  “I will not stand by and watch as you destroy an entire city.”

The President’s eyes narrowed.  “Allen,” she said, sharply, “
the city will die anyway
.  They are infected with Henderson’s Disease and they’re far less capable of coping with it than we were.  They will all be dead within the week, perhaps sooner.  We would not only be putting them out of our misery, but theirs.”

“In that case, you can have my resignation,” Ross said.  “I will not be party to this decision.”

The President watched him leave the room.  “The buck stops here,” she said, in a tone that could have scarred glass.  “The final decision rests with me.  I intend to deploy a nuclear weapon and destroy Riyadh.  If any of you wish to resign over this issue, I will accept your resignations.”

There was a long pause.  No one spoke.  “Thank you for your support,” the President said.  “I will speak to the nation once the bomb has been dropped.  I would ask you all to remain silent until then.”

It was a dismissal, one clearly recognised as such.  The Cabinet filed out, or dropped out of the secure network, leaving the President alone.  She stared down at her hands, already imagining that she could see the blood dripping off her smooth hands and splashing down around her feet.  She was unique in the history of modern Presidents, for she had given orders that had led to American citizens being killed.  Once the crisis died down, she knew there was a good chance that she would be impeached and charged with gross misconduct while in office.  The public might cheer the destruction of Riyadh now, but later...who knew?

She shook her head.  She would do what she felt right and, as for the rest...God would judge her.

***

Major Keith Glass felt his heartbeat speeding up as he was called into the Oval Office.  He
’d been warned that there might be a need for his presence, yet somehow it had never seemed quite real.  The ‘football’ he carried – the black case containing the launch codes for launching America’s arsenal of nuclear weapons - was the single most important case in Washington DC.  He’d been told that he might have to defend the case with his life; indeed, that he would always be near the President, as long as he held the duty.  Very few officers stayed with the Briefcase for longer than a few months.  It was a very stressful duty.

“I'm sorry to have to do this to you, Major,” the President said, as he placed the briefcase on the table.  The biometric reader on the latch bleeped as it registered his fingerprint, followed by the President’s fingerprint.  The Football opened, revealing a set of papers, a complicated set of grey cards and a single small transmitter.  “I need the codes to activate a particular weapon.”

“Here, Madam President,” the Secretary of Defence said.  Even the President of the United States couldn’t unleash a nuclear holocaust alone; the procedure required a second Cabinet member to confirm the instruction.  Keith had been warned that if the President alone, whatever the situation, demanded the codes, it was his duty to refuse.  “We require...”

The brief verification procedure over, Keith found the card they wanted.  It looked so tiny and harmless, but the code printed on the card would unlock a Permission Action Link – PAL - and allow a pair of weapons to be detonated.  Once all the details were matched up, the weapon would be ready for service.

“And it is done,” the President said, finally.  “May God be with us all.”

“Amen,” Keith said.  He wasn't supposed to ask, but this was
real
.  “Madam President, what is the target?”

The President, surprisingly, answered.  “Riyadh,” she said.

***

“
We have a GO code,” Captain Mike Donnelly said. 
Thunder
– the Boeing B-1 Lancer that he and his crew flew – had been loitering near the area of operations for hours, ever since the first warning had come in from the Pentagon.  He couldn't quite believe it until a team of humourless security experts had transferred the two devices –
devices
sounded better than atomic bombs – from the high-security vault in Diego Garcia and installed them and the PAL computer in his aircraft.  He still couldn't believe it, even though the orders had come in through the secure network and – as per procedure – he had checked them before acknowledging.  “It’s time to go.”

He saw the stunned looks on the face of his crew as he grasped the control stick and pulled the supersonic bomber out of its holding pattern, setting course for Riyadh.  It was easy to think that perhaps the mission would be called off at the last moment, which might explain why the President had ordered a bomber to carry out the mission rather than use a missile, but somehow he thought otherwise.  They’d trained and drilled endlessly to drop their weapons on command...and they’d all lost friends and family to Henderson’s Disease.  There would be no reluctance to drop the bomb on Saudi Arabia.

The minutes ticked past slowly as the bomber roared towards its target.  The tactical sensors were very clear that no one was tracking it, although Mike knew to remain alert and watchful.  The Lancer should be well out of range for a portable MANPAD like the Stinger, but it wouldn't be the first time that American forces had been surprised by unexpected enemy tricks.  If the Saudis had any aircraft left, they would definitely commit them to prevent the destruction of their capital city...if they knew what his orders actually were.  He wouldn't have bet against it.  A single aircraft could do a great deal of damage, yet it wouldn't be decisive, unless it carried a nuke.

“Ten minutes to bombing point,” the navigator said.  He sounded shaken, yet he was performing his duties with the required level of professionalism.  “I suggest that you prepare the weapons for detonation.”

Mike nodded, passed control of the aircraft to his co-pilot and scrambled out of his seat, heading down to the secure compartment within the aircraft.  The Weapons Officer met him there – he was a stranger, brought in to handle the nukes – and opened the PAL, the box-like computer that would arm the nuclear warheads.  The Permissive Action Links were intended to ensure that the weapons could not be detonated without authorisation.

“I make the time 1707 local,” Mike said.  The Weapons Officer confirmed it a moment later.  “I am activating PAL...now.”

He pressed his finger against the reader and the screen lit up, demanding a second fingerprint or the entire system would crash and burn.  The Weapons Officer confirmed the authorisation and the system unlocked.  Mike tapped in the code he'd been given – the code from the Football, he knew – and waited for the weapons officer to confirm the firing commands.  There was a bleep...and the weapons armed, their onboard computers drawing information from the aircraft’s systems.  All of the required commands had already been set.

“Four minutes,” the co-pilot called.  “Are you ready, sir?”

“We are about to do something that no one has done since 1945,” Mike said, as he walked back to his seat.  The computers would drop the weapons at the right time, at which point he would force the bomber forward as fast as possible, hopefully outrunning the blast.  If it had worked for a subsonic bomber in 1945, it would work for the Lancer.  “After everything they did to us, let the bastards burn.”

***

The orders had been clear and very explicit.  The Americans were to pull back from
the city and dig trenches, although they were also to hold the line and prevent anyone from escaping the death trap.  Doug had figured out that they intended to nuke the city before the CO had made the official announcement, insisting that his soldiers dig deep to protect themselves.  The Saudis had seen them withdraw and decided that the cowardly Americans were retreating, so they’d sent small armies of young men out to do battle with the retreating tanks.  They’d been slaughtered in scenes that reminded Doug of the First World War...but then, no General of World War One had been as incompetent as the Saudi commanders.  He had no idea what they hoped to achieve.

He blinked as the alarm sounded through the radio.  “Everyone down,” he barked.  “Get into the trenches, now!  Move, damn you; move your lazy fucking asses!”

***

Prince Ibrahim was still feeling calm as the religious policemen escorted him to Chop-Chop Square.  It had been years since he, as a young man, had watched an activist convicted of treaso
n and executed in front of a cheering crowd.  The activist had merely wanted to bring democracy to Saudi Arabia, but in the end he’d died, both to amuse the crowd and to warn them that defying the House of Saud would only bring death.  The West had made routine protests, yet no one had done anything effective...and the democrats had been wiped out.  Their place had been taken by a far more dangerous movement, one dedicated to waging war on both the House of Saud and the West.

The crowds were not cheering now.  They watched, silently, as Prince Ibrahim was pushed up the steps and onto the wooden platform, where an executioner was already waiting for him.  He had wondered if one of his many enemies among the clerics would be invited to perform the execution, but he’d been spared that, at least.  The man was a complete stranger.  Prince Ibrahim took one last look around the city, spying the armed and dangerous men, the nervous population and the black-clad women, before one of his escorts pushed him down onto the wooden block.  Strong hands held him down, just before chains were attached to his arms, rendering him a sitting target.  He almost smiled.  The bastards were dragging it out as long as possible.