POINT OF HONOR
Douglas De Bono
POINT OF HONOR
By
DOUGLAS DE BONO
An Eagle One Media E-Publication.
All Rights Reserved.
April 2003
ISBN 1-932478-02-7
Novel Copyright © 2001 Douglas De Bono
Cover art used with permission by
Metropolis Ink.
Digital Version Publication Copyright 2003 by Eagle One Media, Inc.
The digital version of this novel is intended for the sole use by the individual who has downloaded this publication. Additional transmission, duplication, distribution, or printing of this novel, once downloaded by the individual, is strictly prohibited.
POINT OF HONOR
Douglas De Bono
Dedication
This is the very first manuscript.
It is dedicated to the very best.
For Cathy
Table of Contents
Map
Prologue
Part 1 A Gathering of Warriors
Part 2 Blood and Honor
Part 3 Blackest of the Black
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Presidential Palace Near Baghdad
Saddam Hussein perused the two pages in his hands. He sat in a high-backed chair at a priceless, antique French desk. The desk and chair were on an elevated platform with gold-laced tapestries hanging behind the Great Leader. The carpeting was a royal red; pillared golden candle stands marked the borders of the room. The trademark black .45 ACP pistols lay casually on the top of the French desk. The muzzles pointed carelessly towards the entry door.
A dour man with thick black hair and hands scarred from his former street fighting days, Hussein now had others to kill for him. It was rumored he still used his guns to murder those who displeased him. His flat black eyes showed no joy or compassion, and the trademark mustache hung heavily over his upper lip. Today he was dressed in khaki fatigues that he found more comfortable than a Western Style suit coat and tie.
Members of his personal bodyguard stood inside and outside the doorway. Each held a machine pistol, and submitted anyone entering the room to a full body search after they had passed through an airport style metal detector. A trained, bomb-sniffing dog waited outside the doorway under the watchful gaze of its handler. Saddam Hussein protected himself not only from the masses—most of whom were too poor and frightened to attempt anything so bold as assassination—but also from the colonels in his own armed forces.
Generals could be watched easily. They had achieved their rank, and as long as the graft was not terribly expensive, generals understood their place. It was the anxious colonels who always seemed to be plotting grander schemes and greater glory. Saddam went through a lot of colonels.
He looked up to the two people standing twenty paces from his desk. He nodded as he went down the target list: Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Haifa, Kuwait City, Tehran, Tabriz, Qom, Al-Jawf, Riyadh, and Ankara.
“Add Amman and Damascus to this list. They were cowards who buckled to Bush.” It came out BUUUUSH. Every time he considered the former American President, his eyes bulged a little wider and his blood pressure rose a bit higher. “They are not Arab brothers; they are American lackeys,” he spat.
Colonel Duri nodded and mentally added the names to the target list. He had no paper or anything to write with. He was painfully aware that at least two rifles were pointed at the center of his back—one of the prices for serving the Great Leader.
The other person standing next to Duri was nicknamedDoctor Germ by Western weapons experts. Doctor Rihab Rashida al-Awazi was a rather plain woman at age forty-two. It was hard to reconcile this new mother of a baby girl with being Saddam’s chief chemical and biological weapons architect. Her black hair pulled back in a loose bun, she stood with hands folded before her. The printed dress hung loosely over her shoulders. She simply did not look like someone who had designed a weapon system capable of killing cities.
“The warheads, Doctor. They will work with this wonder weapon from our Chinese friends?”
She nodded quietly. It was her wonder weapon; the Chinese simply provided the manufacturing facilities. She kept her peace. It was best not to anger the Great Leader.
“We are expecting to receive five casks. They each hold maybe twenty liters of VX-Beta.”
“And how much per warhead?” Saddam asked, looking back to the target list.
“One liter per warhead. That should have a dispersal radius of five kilometers.”
Saddam pulled at his mustache. “The effects?”
She lifted her head proudly, for VX-Beta was primarily her invention. Western analysts called VX-Beta theCity Killer. Iraq had to mass-produce the chemical in China. Iraq simply did not have the capacity to produce the required amounts without the Americans discovering something. “There is no antidote. There is no degradation in effects. Wherever you aim the missile, they will die. VX-Beta will continue to kill indefinitely. The tests in China indicate they continue to have lethal effects in areas exposed to weather for the past several years. It is no longer simply a persistent chemical agent, it is a permanent chemical agent,” Rashida al-Awazi concluded triumphantly.
“You are certain?” Saddam asked, his eyes dead cold.
Without blinking, Rashida al-Awazi replied boldly, “Yes.”
Saddam shifted his focus back to Colonel Duri. “When is the delivery scheduled?”
“Friday night.”
Saddam nodded carefully. “We will then stage the incident on Wednesday.”
Duri smiled slightly. “Yes, sir. It doesn’t matter where UNSCOM goes, we will deny the weapon inspection teams access to the hotels if need be. It should focus the American satellites and spy planes on those facilities.”
“And away from the sea,” finished Saddam.
United Nations Special Commission (UNSCOM) served as an umbrella organization for America’s weapon inspection program. This too changed. At the end of the Gulf War, Iraq held its breath under the threat of the massive Allied Armies. Saddam signed agreements permitting the West to search for banned weapons throughout his country. The alternative had been annihilation, but who would be so stupid as to believe he would live up to the agreements?The Americans—that’s who.
“Yes, away from the sea,” agreed Duri.
“And the missiles?”
“By early next year, twenty Al-Hussein and thirty-five Al-Abbas will be fitted with VX-Beta specific warheads. We probably will be ready to launch sometime in mid-February.”
Saddam bristled somewhat at the mention of the Al-Abbas missile. It had a range one hundred fifty kilometers greater than the Al-Hussein named after himself.
“Valentine’s Day. We will do it when the Americans show their sentimental weakness. You will be able to hit the carriers?” he asked eagerly.
Duri had no idea whether the modified SCUD missiles could even find theUSS George Washington orUSS Nimitz carriers. The SCUD was basically an unguided missile that more or less landed within twenty kilometers of where it was sent—if all went well. Of course, to admit something that might not be as the Great Leader believed could be fatal—especially when they were planning the deaths of thousands of Jews and Arabs. “Yes,” he lied.
Saddam held his gaze and looked back to the target list. “You’ll be aiming more than one at these targets?”
“The Jews get three each, as do the Iranians and Saudis. The rest are distributed among the other targets,” he explained.
Saddam rubbed his hands together. “And will they suffer as they die? Will the Jews who bombed my reactor finally be punished?”
Rihab Rashida al
-Awazi replied clinically, “First they will have severe convulsions. The spasms will be so violent that even those with biological warfare suits will succumb. Some will lapse into comas; others will simply feel their ability to breathe cease. Death will come eventually. The attacks will come without warning.”
“As they deserve,” concluded Saddam. He fixed his gaze on Duri and said, “Do it.”
Colonel Duri saluted, realizing he had been dismissed.
APNovember 12, 1997—Hundreds of Iraqi citizens were ushered into presidential compounds to act as human shields against possible American strikes on suspected weapons depot facilities. UNSCOM inspectors were refused entry to suspected Iraqi weapon facilities.
APNovember 14, 1997—Ambassador Richard Butler, the head of the UNSCOM weapons inspection teams, decided to pull all inspection teams out of Iraq. The turmoil surrounding suspect weapons sites amid rumors of increased activity around theUSS George WashingtonandUSS Nimitzbattle groups makes it impossible to continue their mission.
PART 1
A Gathering of Warriors
"Should foreign nations…deceived by [an] appearance of division and weakness, render it necessary to vindicate by arms the injuries to our country, I believe…that the spirit of the revolution is unextinguished, and that the cultivators of peace will again, as on that occasion, be transformed at once into a nation of warriors who will leave us nothing to fear for the natural and national rights of our country."
Thomas Jefferson 1809
CHAPTER ONE
Washington, D.C.
Saturday, November 15, 1997
10:00 A.M. EST
Brian Stillwell walked through the metal detectors and retrieved his briefcase from the Marine guard after passing through the security checkpoint to the Pentagon’s E ring. While the checkpoint looked like most airport security checkpoints, the difference was that the Marine guards actually watched the monitors and checked for weapons. They had 9mm Beretta pistols strapped to their sides and M16 A2 rifles nearby on ready-racks.
He followed the signs to theTank . TheTank was a secure, windowless room buried beneath ground level that was impervious to all known forms of surveillance technology. Of course, in the current era of peace and goodwill, one only worried about Chinese nukes, the burgeoning Indian Navy, a collection of Arabs, starving Korean madmen, and the occasional Russian weapon of mass destruction gone missing. Oh for the Cold War days, when an enemy could be clearly drawn on the map. You counted their tanks; they counted your fighters. Now you had to worry about Ebola showing up in somebody’s shaving kit at JFK.
The National Security Advisor, the Deputy Secretary of State for Middle Eastern Affairs, the Secretary of the Navy, a handful of generals, and other spooks preceded Brian into theTank . All were checked against a retinal scan and a Marine guard checked off each name on a clipboard before entering. Something heavy indeed must be going down to pull this many self-appointed VIPs away from their Saturday morning play times. Not that it mattered to Stillwell; he was dressed in black jeans, an Annapolis sweatshirt, and new Nikes. He had no reverence for most of those present, except the military men who had put it on the line and the Marine guards who might end up in some forsaken no-name place fighting for God and country.
Stillwell found a spot reserved for him. He moved his name card out of the way to set his notepad before him and his briefcase next to the chair. He found himself seated at a table next to a collection of spooks and someone from the FBI (probably the counter-terrorism unit). These days everything seemed to boil down to countering some sort of threat. Since flight 800 had turned into a fireworks display over Long Island Sound and Oklahoma City had erupted into a morning killing spree, no one seemed to rule out terrorism—domestic or otherwise. It was theotherwise that brought Brian to this airless, windowless room on a lovely fall day.
Outside, the sun was shining a warm brilliance still possible for mid-November in Washington. The grass remained green with birds chirping in varicolored trees. Lawn tractors were busily scooping leaves into pull-behind carts, kids were chasing basketballs across hardtop, and others chased the elusive oblong football. The NFL and NBA were in full swing, and Saturday mornings were a great time for kids to play at being the next Michael Jordan or Joe Montana.
Brian lived in a world populated by grainy satellite photos, dossiers of crazed world leaders, and deadly weapons most people had never heard of. He was an expert, for sale to the highest bidder, as long as the bidder was a government or business friendly to Uncle Sam. These days friendship was defined by the largest illegal campaign contribution made in the most recent election. Brian sometimes mused whether the crooks in the current administration or the bad guys on the other side of the world represented a greater threat. He suspected it was still the bad guys on the other side of the world.
The normal introductions were made. Surprisingly, the National Security Advisor took control of the meeting. Usually, something in theTank was the purview of the Joint Chiefs. A map of the Persian Gulf snapped up on the digital display screen at the end of theTank . Brian sighed;another oil mess . Considering the map was centered on Kuwait, Iraq, and Iran, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Saddam was up to something.
Brian believed the Bush Administration should have let the 24thMechanized Infantry and the 101stAirborne roll into Baghdad when they had the chance. It would have simplified life. Instead, Uncle had parleyed away a battlefield victory for an expensive stalemate. It kept precious resources monitoring Saddam, when the real enemy was across the Persian Gulf working on their own missile platforms, biological weapons, and nuclear bombs. Nightmarish artifacts recently procured from the disintegrating Soviet Empire—All for the glory of Allah.
A briefing officer stepped to the podium that controlled the screen. He was arrayed in full dress blues, obviously young, and intense. A prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped air waiting for the NSA to finish his introduction. Stillwell had been that briefing officer once, albeit, not here and not before this many heavies. He had brought the bad news about many nasty problems before generals, admirals, and the odd senator. Thankfully, many of those problems never made it to CNN or theWashington Post .
“Approximately twelve hours ago, this series of photos was taken by an unscheduled U-2 flight. This particular flight followed the course of the Tigris River from Baghdad to the Shat al Arab.” A red dotted border drew a southeastern line from the center of Iraq to the narrow access Saddam had to the Persian Gulf and ultimately to Western ports. It made sense to run unscheduled U-2 reconnaissance flights, because Saddam had certainly bought the overflight schedules for American satellites from our steadfast allies in the Russian Federation—or maybe it was the French. Brian mused how long it would be before Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister, would tire of this expensive game. The screen switched to the hazy graininess associated with infrared and high altitude night vision photography.
“The U-2 continued into the Gulf for approximately one hundred klicks before turning west and landing inside Kuwait.” Brian wondered how many of the civilians did not know that klick was slang for kilometer. Regardless of Arab solidarity, Kuwait made sure the United States had whatever facilities it required to keep the nightmare to the north at bay. The Iraqi invasion during the 1990 summer had created an anomaly—pragmatic Arab leadership.
The next photo was a reconnaissance from some other time. It revealed the conning tower of a submarine with the number404 clearly painted in white on the side. “This is a file photo of a ChineseHan Class PLAN naval submarine. It is a nuclear powered boat placed in service in 1988. It is comparable to a RussianVictor Class boat, and this particular boat is capable of launching surface-to-surface missiles.
“We know the Chinese do not take kindly to American battle groups paying close attention to their activities. In October 1994, J-7III fighters challenged an S-3B anti-submarine warfare plane from theKitty Hawk . There are five known boats in this class, although the first boat—the
401 —is not believed to be in service due to radiation leaks.” He paused as the screen dissolved into another photo from the U-2.
“Last night aHan Class boat—the404 —was spotted on the surface fifty klicks from the mouth of the Tigris River.” The screen dissolved to the overhead silhouette identified as aHan Class boat.
Stillwell sat forward in his chair. A Chinese SSN on the surface in the Persian Gulf, as close as possible to Iraq in the middle of the night, was not supposed to happen. A decided rumble emerged across the room. Everyone, except some of the State Department and White House aides, recognized the gravity of the reconnaissance photo on display. Chinese boats did not play outside the South China Sea. Certainly, they were not supposed to be bobbing next to two Carrier Battle Groups. Since the Gulf War, the Persian Gulf was tacitly acknowledged as an American asset.
“The next series of photos are a composite of over one hundred taken by the U-2.” He let the imagery speak for itself.
A surface boat appeared. It looked like some sort of light freighter or tugboat. There were four yellowish blobs on deck. Yellow seemed an odd color to use for a clandestine rendezvous. The color screamed like a beacon. Not exactly the effect Saddam or the Chinese were attempting to create.
A greater number of reddish blobs appeared on the deck of the submarine aft of the conning tower and forward of the fin. A black hole materialized on the submarine’s deck. Brian remembered theHan as having missile tubes forward of the conning tower. This hole appeared to be square—more like a platform. Could the Chinese have converted one of their boats to be some sort of submerged delivery truck? They were certainly working on a new class that would retire theHan boats, but that was scheduled for sometime in the next century. The surface ship pulled along side the submarine. What appeared to be a crane began moving across the deck. It was unclear, however, whether the submarine was delivering or receiving.
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