Christopher Dodd cleared his throat. The director of Central Intelligence had worked his way through the system the hard way—from field agent all the way to the top. With a good reputation, for a spook, Dodd was known as one of the hardest working men in Washington. Clearly, something was bothering him at the moment.
Drake looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Chris? Something to add?”
“Yes, Mr. President. The Iranians. We have no idea how they will play into this scenario, if at all. We do know that they have two heavy divisions currently positioned in southwestern Iran, vicinity Abadan.” Dodd gestured with a laser pointer to the digital map of the Middle East that took up an entire wall of the room. He zeroed in on the city of Abadan, just a few miles east of Kuwait. Two red boxes sat next to the city. It seemed to the assembled advisors as if these boxes, each representing a force three times larger than the American unit in Kuwait, were leaning towards the border, ready to jump across. “That’s close, Mr. President. Very close.”
“Great,” muttered Drake, loosening his tie. “All right, we have to look at reinforcing the unit we have on the ground in Kuwait. Who are they, Ron?”
“The Third Brigade, Fourth Mechanized Infantry Division, sir,” answered the secretary of defense. “Currently they’re located near Abdali in northern Kuwait.” Lifting his own pointer, Newman illuminated the blue box drawn close to the Iraqi border.
President Drake, looking at the graphic symbol representing his forces, the forces of the American people, once again marveled that so much of the world’s attention seemed to be drawn time and again to such a small nation. The 3rd Brigade icon was almost as large as the country of Kuwait itself. His next question was addressed to both Newman and General Werner. “Are they good enough to hold until we can get more forces on the ground, should it come to that?”
Newman picked up a document that had obviously seen a lot of handling of late and put his reading glasses back on. “Sir, they completed a rotation at our National Training Center at Fort Irwin, California, three months ago. We make the training cycle there as close to actual wartime conditions as possible. The opposing force stationed at Irwin, the Eleventh Cav, do not look at themselves as training tools. They fight in that godforsaken piece of the Mojave Desert month in and month out all year—and they’re accustomed to winning. Hell, it’s a point of honor for those guys. Most brigades that go against them win one battle out of five—two at the most. Third Brigade defeated the Eleventh four of five times. That’s . . . unusually high.”
The SECDEF took off his glasses and placed the document back on the conference table. Slowly he looked up and into Drake’s eyes. “It must be noted, however, that they’ve undergone a seventy-five percent turnover in leadership since returning from that rotation.”
The president’s jaw dropped. “Ron, I have to ask. Why didn’t we send them to the training center with the new leadership in place, instead of training up people that were about to leave the unit?”
Newman shook his head slowly. “Sir, that’s the way it’s worked for the past several years. The system is broken. The attitude is that if you screw up an NTC rotation, your career is over. No one wants to go into one with rookies. They take an experienced force, then rotate their leaders upon returning to home station.”
“Who’s in command of Third Brigade?” asked a dejected Drake.
“Colonel Bill Jones. He was with the Twenty-fourth Mech during Desert Storm. Commonsense guy, sir—just your type.”
The president smiled slightly at this piece of information. “Well, some good news for a change.” The pacing began anew. “Now who can we send to lend Colonel Jones a hand?”
Newman sobered. “Sir, I assume you’re talking heavy mechanized forces?”
Drake looked appraisingly at the SECDEF and nodded. “Ron, God knows I’m not very conversant in these matters. That’s why I have men such as yourself and the chairman to turn to—but yes, I would think heavy forces are what’s needed here.”
General Werner, looking like a thoroughbred in the gate before the big race, fielded the question. “Sir, with all due respect, you let me send one fucking heavy division over there, and there won’t be enough Iraqi equipment left to attack a ladies’ church social.”
Werner wasn’t known for his etiquette. Competence had gotten him where he was, which was the highest military office in the country. Known as a field general, he had served as commander of the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, the 1st Cavalry Division, and III Armored Corps. “The problem, sir, is that the only forces we can get in there quickly are the airborne infantry troops out of the Eighty-second at Bragg.” The big head shook sadly. “Great soldiers, but pretty speed bumps in the open desert against enemy armor.”
“What about the new interim brigades I keep hearing about? Aren’t they designed to deploy quickly?” asked Drake, referring to the new forces composed of medium-weight armored vehicles being formed at Fort Lewis, Washington, and a few other posts.
Werner shook his head. “Sir, we can send them, but we’re not doing them any favors. Those guys are busting their asses learning that new equipment, but they’re also pretty much writing the doctrine for the new organization as they go. We can get them and their stuff there quick, but . . .”
The president nodded. “Very well, noted. So who can we send, and how long before they can be there?”
“The Third Infantry out of Fort Stewart and the First Cavalry out of Fort Hood are our heavy rapid deployment forces. Currently Third Infantry is on the string. We can start movement of their advance parties from Savannah within twenty-four hours, main bodies within seventy-two hours. Problem is, they’ll have to draw equipment in theater just like Third Brigade did. The C-5 Galaxies, as big as they are, can only carry one M1-series tank at a time—and let me tell you, sir, the loadmasters aren’t thrilled about transporting even one. A tank weighing over sixty tons makes for high adventure if it starts slipping around at thirty thousand feet.”
“Do we have enough vehicles in theater for them to draw from?” asked Drake.
Werner shook his head. “Sir, we’ve got a brigade set in Kuwait—the one that Third Brigade just fell in on—and another set in Qatar. We can move one of the brigades from Stuart in to draw the Qatar set once they land. The remaining troops will have to wait for the prepositioned floating stocks—large ships we keep at sea loaded down with combat equipment for contingencies in areas where we don’t have equipment. We pull the prepo ships into port every few months to do maintenance on the equipment they’re carrying and to pick up any parts the equipment might need. We’ll get some of the boats moving toward the region now, with your permission, sir.”
Drake stopped pacing and turned to his senior uniformed officer. “Do it. So, we’ve got one brigade on the ground now, more troops en route within the next few days, which means . . .”
Werner finished the sentence for him: “Another brigade pointing gun tubes north within seven or eight days—we still have to move that Qatar brigade over three hundred miles north to get them in position—plus two more brigades ready to draw off of the prepositioned floating stocks when the ships arrive in port. Also, sir, I suggest we fly in the Eighty-second now. They can secure the international airport at Kuwait City and be prepared to support future operations.”
“I concur. Now for the big question. Will the Third Infantry reinforcements get there in time, General?”
The old soldier shook his head. “Sir, I wish I could tell you. All I can say for certain is that this is Third Brigade’s fight for the next week.”
“Okay, consider the orders given. Get the Third Infantry and Eighty-second moving. Now what about the Iranian threat? Recommendations?”
The chairman was thoughtful. “We can begin downloading the marine ground forces that are with the carrier group to secure the port site. Once the port’s secure we can position them against the Iranians in the northeast. That’s a thin shield against two divisions, Mr. President. It would be nice
not to have to worry about that flank, but we’ll work it and come up with something. They are marines, after all.”
“Okay, notify Central Command. Let’s get the ball rolling and issue the appropriate orders. Keep me posted on the troop movements and status of the second carrier group. I hate to leave, but I’ve got to prepare for a press conference. Unless of course anyone wants to trade jobs for a little while?”
A few smiles showed from around the table, but no takers.
“If there are no further questions?” Drake said, picking up his jacket and sliding an arm in the sleeve.
Secretary of State Ridley, ready to burst from his seat, could no longer contain himself. “Mr. President,” Ridley almost squealed as he stood, “I must say that sending more troops into the area is only going to inflame the situation. I implore you, sir . . .”
Drake raised a hand and turned the SECSTATE off. “Right now, Secretary Ridley, I just don’t give a damn. General, get those troops from Stewart and Bragg moving. Maybe somebody will start talking to us now.”
Werner smiled at Drake, for the first time truly seeing the president as his commander-in-chief. “Wilco, sir.”
Tehran, Iran
19 October, 1400 Hours Local
The two men sat on cushions facing each other across a small table. Both were aware of the irony. Former enemies, now partners in planning retribution on a mutual enemy. The formalities had been observed and it was time to discuss the issues consuming them both.
Since the 1979 overthrow of the American-backed Shah of Iran, the real power in Iran had belonged to the religious leaders. The Ayatollah Khalani, seated now with Iraq’s new president, ran the church—and for all intents and purposes, Iran. Reports of a new and more democratic government aside, Khalani still held the real power in his country. He sipped his tea, looking at his guest. Aref, he noted, had not only been Hussein’s right hand, but had managed to steal his looks—heavy-jowled, dark hair, and mustache. And he insisted on wearing a military uniform, as his famous predecessor had, although Khalani knew he’d never served a day of service in Iraq’s armed forces.
“So,” asked Khalani, “how go your . . . maneuvers?”
The younger leader smiled and bowed his head. “They proceed well. The Tawakalna Division is my very best. Their commander assures me that all is ready for the next phase of our operation.”
Khalani gazed at Aref shrewdly over his tea. “You seem confident, which is good. I have asked you this question before, but I will ask one final time. Do you really think it wise to provoke the Americans?”
Aref looked at the old holy man defiantly. “I know what I am doing. Something that should have been done long ago, something that must be done if my people and I are to regain the honor we lost to those infidels. We must again be able to look our people, and our neighboring states, in the eye. We cannot allow a pitifully small kingdom such as Kuwait, which historically by all rights should be ours, to sit on its riches while the Iraqi people continue to suffer from the years of sanctions we had to endure because of both them and the Americans. And to add to the insult, they again now call in the Americans as their mercenaries.”
“I understand,” said Khalani quietly, but with an edge to his voice. He carefully set his cup on the table before looking again into Aref’s eyes. “Just do not forget our bargain.”
“How can I forget?” asked Aref, a note of sarcasm in his voice. “Do not think me impertinent, Wise One, but one-third of all proceeds from the Kuwaiti oil fields is a very high price.”
Khalani smiled. “Yes, a high price. But too high to pay for a secure eastern border while you carry out your ‘holy mission?’ Too high when my troops await only your call to support you in battle against the infidels? Too high to pay for the influence I alone can gain for you in certain Islamic circles? Too high a price for the alliance that will eventually make us the most powerful nations in the Middle East? Even the Saudis are bowing to our combined weight, sitting by and doing nothing. Their relationship with the United States had already begun to erode since the bombing of the American facility in Dhahran, which you might also thank me for.”
The old man stared at the tea leaves in the bottom of his cup. Swirling them slowly, he continued. “A high price? Yes. Too high?” Putting down his cup, he looked Abdul Aref in the eyes and smiled. “I think not.”
Abdul Aref nodded, resigned to the fact that he must, for now, continue his pretense of subservience. After he made an example of the Americans in Kuwait and had occupied that cursed little country, he would deal with “The Holy One.”
“You are right, of course. I do not mean to be impertinent, but I have many things on my mind. The stage is almost set, and with Allah’s will, all of the wrongs suffered against my people will soon be rectified.”
Khalani nodded shrewdly and looked at his guest with a hypnotic stare. “I understand, and you will enjoy a place in the Kingdom of Heaven for your endeavors. I merely warn you not to underestimate the Americans. As much as I detest them for their part in the Westernization of my country during the Shah’s regime, they are still a formidable power. In Afghanistan the Taliban experienced the resolve of a provoked America, to their bitter sorrow. Do not let your pride be your downfall.”
Aref responded with confidence. “We will be successful. Of that, I have no doubt. The only allies they have remaining in the region are insignificant—either looking to support their decadent lifestyle with American gold or to protect them from our great nations. Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar—they will all feel my wrath.”
The Iraqi leader realized immediately that he’d misspoken and looked to the ayatollah, smiling. “I mean, of course, the wrath of Allah.”
The old man inclined his head and smiled knowingly. “Of course. But have you given thought to what Israel’s reaction to our enterprise will be?”
The younger leader waved a hand dismissively. “The Israelis are so caught up with the Palestinians that they have no time to worry about what is happening outside their borders. I plan to go to great lengths to ensure they see no threat against them by my forces.” He smiled. “Besides, they are likely as tired as we are of the United States dictating policy to them. They may even see it as a fortuitous time to root out our Palestinian brothers while the world is caught up in larger events.”
The ayatollah nodded gravely. “Yes. Sacrifices, unfortunately, may have to be made for the greater good. We will have time in the years to come to deal with Israel.”
Aref returned to the subject at hand, glancing at his watch. “Even now the Americans are receiving notification to remove their forces from Saudi soil.” He nodded at the ayatollah in acknowledgment of his counterpart’s assistance in this coup. “That was not difficult once both of our governments assured the Saudis that their neutrality would ensure their kingdom’s sovereignty remained intact.” He waved a hand dismissively. “At any rate, as you say, they’d already tired of the Americans’ presence in their country . . . we merely gave them the excuse they had spent years looking for.”
The ayatollah looked thoughtful. “But even if you’re successful in seizing Kuwait and destroying the Americans already there, the infidels still have the ability to bring more troops and equipment into the fight.”
Abdul Aref smiled slyly. “I have long been planning this war and have thought through this contingency carefully. My council and I do not think it likely the Americans will bring in more forces. We will attack with only three divisions of my Republican Guard—the Southern Corps. That will be enough to quickly annihilate the one brigade of American troops across the border.”
Khalani interrupted at this point. “I mean no offense by what I’m about to say . . . but what makes you believe you can defeat the American brigade, even with superior numbers? During the Gulf War, you didn’t destroy even one of their tanks with your T-72s.”
Aref had the look of the fabled cat that had eaten the canary. “A little surprise is in store for the American forces. All of our T-72 t
anks are uploaded with new ammunition of Swiss manufacture. We’ve tested it against armor with capabilities similar to that of the M1. To say the testing went well would be an extreme understatement. Believe me when I tell you that the American tanks are no longer unstoppable.” He laughed heartily. “No, far from it.”
“Allah be praised. But . . . again, what makes you think they will not send more troops?”
“If we are successful in defeating the Americans in open battle and have possession of the territory, and the other kingdoms in the region acknowledge our new borders, the Americans will not continue to fight. At that point the American people would cry out against their government. It would be clear to them that the only reason their sons and daughters are dying is for oil, not friendship or stability.” A sly smile appeared on his face. “We can also make it known quietly that we will extend to them the same oil prices we offered the Europeans. In the end, their greed will guide them. They will see the wisdom of our offer and accept.”
Khalani smiled at his younger counterpart. He knew there was nothing to be gained by asking further questions. Aref’s plan would work, and Iran’s position would be furthered—or it wouldn’t work, and Iran could still move from the shadows and occupy a portion of the vacuum created by Iraq’s defeat. In either case, he won. “Yes, Allah has indeed smiled upon your people to send them such an enlightened leader.”
Colorado Springs, Colorado
19 October, 1300 Hours Mountain
Melissa stared at the small television she kept on the kitchen bar. Lately, as now, it stayed tuned to CNN. The current experts being interviewed were an ex-director of the Central Intelligence Agency and a professor of Middle Eastern studies at the University of Chicago.
“But, Professor, can’t you see that Iraq has nothing to gain from this? Even Hussein never attempted to retake Kuwait after the beating Iraq received during the Gulf War!” The ex-director had been getting more and more agitated by his fellow analyst.
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