He dismissed the thought and picked up the next report. With the Iraqis pushing hard into Mecca and Medina, there had been an upswing in terrorist and insurgent attacks on American forces and bases in the Middle East. Kuwait, Qatar and Bahrain had seen several attacks each, while a Saudi jumbo jet – he had no idea how they’d concealed it for so long – had mounted a daring suicide attack on the American ships in the Gulf. It had been shot down before it managed to slam into an aircraft carrier.
“Or maybe they don’t even know they’re beaten,” he added. On the display, thousands of leaflets were spilling down from the B52, falling down towards the streets below. In Iraq, the leaflets had had an effect no one had anticipated, with the Iraqi conscripts realising that the Americans had flown all that way to drop trash on their heads. He doubted it would work so well in Riyadh. The defenders had nowhere to go. “Who knows?”
***
“The leaflet is not hard to understand,” Prince Ibrahim said, with what he felt was remarkable patience. “The Americans are telling us to surrender or they will crush us.”
“If they come within our city, it is they who will be crushed,” Prince Mukhtar thundered. He looked as if he had aged overnight, perhaps because of a strange diet fed to him by some of the doctors. His long dark beard was rough and uncut, growing out in odd patterns. His eyes were the most disturbing of all; he looked as if he had been infected with madness, the same madness that had led to many hopeless last stands. “We are ready to meet them and deal out death to the American troops.”
“I do not think that restating your position will actually help,” Prince Ibrahim said, tiredly. “The Americans do not have to invade our city to win the war.”
He tapped the map in front of him. It was fairly accurate, despite attempts by some of the clerics to take every report at face value. There were no longer any symbols marking armoured units, or air force bases, or ships at sea...nothing, but tiny bands of insurgents, trying to bring down the American army by hundreds of stinging attacks. They kept reporting massive successes, with hundreds of American tanks destroyed and thousands of soldiers killed, but Prince Ibrahim knew better. If all the reports were added together, the entire American army – with the USN and Marine Corps included – would have been exterminated several times over.
But Prince Mukhtar believed the reports, either because he felt that insurgents, fired up on their faith and a lethal cocktail of drugs, would be able to inflict significant pain on the American military...or perhaps because he just wanted to believe it. His supporters hadn't hesitated to share his belief, rendering his position almost impregnable. Never mind the American bombs and shells falling within the city, never mind the fact that the Americans had sent a heavy bomber overhead to do nothing more than drop leaflets on their heads...their minds were completely impervious to reason.
And yet, he had to try. “The Americans have the entire city sealed off,” Prince Ibrahim said. “We have been unable to break out of the trap, even with our finest armoured forces and what little air support we had to back them up. That means that once we run out of food and water, we will all die here...if your disease doesn't get us first.” His voice hardened. “Do you know how many of us have been infected with Henderson’s Disease?”
“They go to a better place,” Prince Mukhtar hissed. “The Americans will lose their will to fight and retreat, as they have done so many times before. All we have to do is hold out until the Americans surrender and leave our country.”
Prince Ibrahim scowled. Prince Mukhtar was merely giving voice to a very old problem in the Middle East, one that had bedevilled the United States long before Henderson’s Disease had been unleashed upon an unprepared population. The United States was always a transient power in the Middle East, while Iraq and Iran were permanent powers, unable to withdraw or abandon their positions. The United States could abandon its allies – indeed, it often had – leaving them to be slaughtered by their vengeful foes. The perception of American weakness had made it impossible for anyone to support the United States too enthusiastically, fearing that the Americans would pull out and leave them holding the bag.
But they’d miscalculated. His predecessors had calculated that the Americans would be unable to invade Iraq without Saudi bases, hoping that their refusal to help overtly would prevent the Americans from upsetting the apple cart. They’d been proven wrong and the long slow collapse to apocalypse had begun. Prince Mukhtar might have introduced the sleeping American population to the joys of biological warfare, but the American victory in Iraq spelt eventual doom for the Saudi system anyway. The signs had been clear for anyone who wanted to read them; if the Iraqis could have a democratic government, why not Saudi Arabia?
“Listen,” he snarled. “There’s a story I was once told, by my predecessor.”
He stared into Prince Mukhtar’s maddened eyes, hoping that he would understand and believe. “Once upon a time, there was an American Indian – a Native American - a Redneck from Alabama and an Arab who met up while travelling through America,” he said. “The Native American looked out on the fields and said, sadly, that once all those lands belonged to his people. The Arab put on a sneer and said that one day they would belong to his people.”
His voice hardened. “The Redneck grinned and said that his people had been playing Cowboys and Indians for a long time, but they’d only just started playing Cowboys and Muslims.”
Prince Mukhtar didn't understand. “And what is the point of that story?”
“The Americans are strong in muscle, but weak in will,” Prince Ibrahim said. “Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they were weak in will. We looked and laughed at the Americans as they fumbled around with Saddam and his regime, or showed no willingness at all to confront us over how many of us supported terrorists and the people who assisted terrorists. Even when the Americans went into Iraq, they used kid gloves and tried hard not to upset anyone, a laughable concept, is it not?
“And they still won.
“And now, thanks to you, the Americans are determined to exterminate the threat we pose once and for all,” he concluded. “They have the firepower to crush everyone in this city like a bug. Saudi Arabia will vanish from the Earth. The only hope for any of us is to signal our surrender and ask – beg – the Americans not to kill us. We cannot win this war. We have awakened a sleeping giant and his anger is going to be terrible.”
Prince Mukhtar had been learning forwards angrily, but he gathered himself before he spoke. “I have always wondered about you,” he said, almost calmly. “You have spent much of your life in America and you have been seduced by the temptations of that infidel land. You stand here now and speak the words of your true masters, the infidel whore and her servants who rule the United States. Where do your true loyalties lie?”
He carried on before Prince Ibrahim could speak. “I think that you have, like so many others, forgotten what we are,” he continued. “We are the ones committed to reforming Islam, to spreading it across the world, even if we lose a hundred, a thousand, or even a million lives in the jihad. It has been that way since Ibn Saud made his alliance with the preacher who brought the word of God to him. Those of us who die with Allah’s name on our lips are promised paradise. Those who falter and grow weak are like those who broke faith with the Prophet at the Battle of Uhud, where their cowardly behaviour and lack of faith cost us the day. You are like them, one who has forgotten the truth.”
His hand hit a switch and, a moment later, two religious policemen entered the room. “Take him to Chop-Chop Square,” Prince Mukhtar ordered. “He will be sent to Allah for judgement.”
“You’re a fool,” Prince Ibrahim said. A strange calmness had fallen over him, even though he knew now that his fate was sealed. “You have cost us everything.”
Prince Mukhtar didn't bother to respond. “Take him away,” he ordered. “Take him away and behead him.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Every President since Truman has known that, one day,
they might be forced to decide if they should deploy nuclear weapons. I was just the unlucky one who faced that choice.
-President Paula Handley
Washington DC, USA/Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Day 57
“I see,” the President said, hoping her voice sounded calmer than she felt. “They have made no response to our ultimatum?”
“None at all, Madam President,” Spencer confirmed. “In fact, some of our scouts within the city have confirmed that people who pick up our leaflets have been beaten by the religious police, or even killed outright. They are determined not to surrender.”
The President placed her fingertips together, feeling the weight of history pressing down on her shoulders. “And so we have a dilemma,” she said. “What do we do?”
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 orde
rs 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.
The Coward's Way of War Page 47
