“What do you mean by ‘intermittent,’ Colonel?” growled Mustafa.
“Well, sir, we’ve been able to reach some of our units but not all. Specifically, we could not reach any of our oil-field defense facilities, nor our nuclear facility in the south. Further, we just received word from Prince Hahad ibn Saud at the Royal Guard Headquarters that American paratroopers have descended on the Al Khubar area near the King Fahd Causeway. Our operatives in Jordan and the demilitarized zone in Kuwait report that massive American armored forces are on the move.”
King Mustafa sized up the situation and instantly realized the infidels were launching a major attack on Saudi Arabia. Incredible, he wondered, How would they dare? Have they forgotten my threats to detonate the dirty bombs and nuke the Israelis if they so much as set foot on Saudi Arabian territory?
Just then, a massive explosion rocked the palace, sending both Mustafa and the terrified colonel to the ground. Groggy, the men dashed to the bomb shelter deep beneath the palace. They slammed the large steel door and dove for the six-foot-thick concrete shell inside the shelter just as the first bunker-busting smart bomb hit the palace. Mustafa flew into a rage at the perfidy of the infidels. You swine will pay dearly for this, he thought as two more smart bombs hit the palace with deadly precision. His anger turned to fear as he felt the vibrations intensify with each direct hit. If he ever got out of this, he knew there would be nothing left of the palace or the royal guards surrounding it.
The all-clear sounded about twenty minutes later, but Mustafa knew he was no longer safe anywhere near the palace. It was only a matter of time before the bunker-buster bombs reduced his shelter to rubble. He left the shivering colonel in the bunker and went in search of his officers. He was physically sickened by the sight of the carnage engulfing the entire palace complex. Parts of the city were in flames, though civilian areas seemed to have been spared. He could see smoke rising from the government and military blocks—no doubt the work of American smart bombs. He was told, as he was whisked away in an armored troop carrier by an army captain, that Prince Hahad ibn Saud and his top staff officers had been killed instantly when a smart bomb obliterated his headquarters.
Once securely ensconced in the troop carrier, Mustafa was overcome by the magnitude of what had just happened. Enraged, he was determined to make his enemies pay. Once he was in a secure location, he would order the dirty bombs detonated and soon thereafter order that nuclear-tipped cruise missiles be launched on Jerusalem, Tehran, and Bahrain—the location of the American Fifth Fleet. I’ll take the infidels down with me, he solemnly vowed.
The Situation Room
7 April 2018
At one o’clock in the morning, the entire NSC team was still at its post. Reports were coming in on the rapid progress of the three massive armored assaults in progress. General Paul Bemis, the Marine Corp commandant, gave his report.
“Mr. President, the assaults have been in progress now for about two hours. We’re way ahead of schedule. Our lead elements report large-scale surrenders, and we are meeting with little opposition. The aerial assaults took a staggering toll on Saudi troops and their positions, and many seem to be in a state of shock. The only thing slowing our troops down is the need for ammo and petrol. A diversionary drop has also been made by paratroopers south of Jeddah.”
Again, there were cheers in the room, but they were more subdued. The president surmised it was because of fatigue and maybe a slight desensitization to the reports of victory coming in fast and furious.
“Folks,” he said, “I appreciate all of you staying here and sharing this vigil with me. We’ve had some terrific victories, but there’ll still be heavy fighting tomorrow when we approach Riyadh. I need you all on your A-game when that happens. I want any of you who can to go home and get a little shuteye. Let’s plan on meeting here at 0800. Thanks again for being here with me.”
As the security team rose to leave, each member stopped by to shake Clayton’s hand before departing, leaving only Clayton, Jack, General Bemis, and a few staff members. Emotionally spent, he surmised that sleep would not easily overcome the overdose of adrenaline still charging their bodies.
“C’mon, Jackson,” said the president to his brother, patting him on the shoulder, “I’m ordering both of us to get some sack time.”
65
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
9 April 2018
King Mustafa completed his morning prayers near his makeshift headquarters in western Riyadh. The nondescript warehouse serving as his command post was located in the Diplomatic Quarter, almost equidistant from the mosque he just left and the American embassy known as Quincy House. The area was peaceful and as yet untouched by bombs, but the empty streets—telling in a city of more than five million inhabitants—and the smoke billowing from military targets in other parts of the city told another story.
He had not slept since the bombing began, running on fumes since his harrowing escape from the royal palace. He would soon meet with Prince Ali Abdullah Bawarzi to review the military situation, but he had lost touch with his other coconspirators since the bombing raids began. He knew that Prince Hahad ibn Saud had been killed at the palace. General Aakif Abu Ali Jabar was last heard from at the nuclear facility in the southern desert. Mullah Mohammed al-Hazari had simply vanished. He felt keenly the loss of his band of brothers, and he welcomed Prince Bawarzi with warm gratitude.
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” said Bawarzi deferentially. “I am so sorry I have not been able to get to you sooner.”
“It is good to see you, my brother. These have been difficult times. We don’t appear to be able to stop the infidels.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I regret to say you are right. Our air force was knocked out within minutes of the initial assault; communications were jammed, and now all major military units and assets have been smashed. All we have left to fight with now are remnants of a few shattered units.”
King Mustafa pondered what Ali Bawarzi had said and knew he was right. “How close are the infidels now to entering Riyadh?”
“Armored columns from the Bahrain bridgehead reached Riyadh yesterday. Large armored columns from Kuwait have just arrived, and the infidels attacking out of Jordan are expected to arrive sometime tonight. In addition, the Americans have sent armored forces into the southern desert to encircle our troops on the Qatar and UAE borders and link up with their forces holding the perimeter of our nuclear facility. Our forces in Jeddah have not been able to dislodge an American force in a bridgehead south of them.”
“Do we have any battle-ready units still intact?” asked the king despondently.
“There are no full-strength fighting units left in the kingdom, Majesty. My old 15th Armored Brigade may be the strongest unit we have left. They have taken up positions in eastern Riyadh, near Causeway #40. They may be able to slow the infidels, but they cannot stop them.”
“How much time do you think we have left?”
“If we contest every city block and house, we can probably continue to fight for another forty-eight to seventy-two hours, but based on the morale of our troops, I’d say it will all be over within twenty-four hours in Riyadh.”
Prince Bawarzi’s observation hit Mustafa like a punch in the guts, and the king grew quiet, mulling over the failure of his plans as he paced the floor. Where have we gone wrong? How could this have happened? Why did our Arab and OPEC allies not come to our rescue or honor our embargo? Did I overstretch by taking on both the Americans and China, or was their partnership inevitable?
Bawarzi remained quiet as he watched his leader come to his agonizing moment of truth.
“Prince Bawarzi, we have but one thing left to do, and that is to die in glory, taking with us as many infidels as Allah has given us the power to do. I will join the 15th Armored Brigade and go down fighting. Are you with me?”
Bawarzi snapped to attention and said, “It will be an honor and a privilege to die with you, King Mustafa, in our last glorious battle with t
he infidels. I would want it no other way.”
They shook hands solemnly and then headed for the armored troop carrier that would carry them to the front lines.
In the meantime, the allied armored force that had split off for the south about thirty miles west of the Bahrain bridgehead reached the Saudi nuclear facility. The assault force was guided to the facility by none other than Major General Aabid ibn Al Mishari. He had a hunch that his former boss would have retreated to this area, and he had a score to settle.
Al Mishari’s force met up with units of the 101st Airborne Division, forming a defensive perimeter around the nuclear compound. Al Mishari was disappointed to learn that the highest-ranking officer captured was an RSAF colonel. That left only one place: Ali Jabar’s personal hiding place, yet another of the secrets he shouldn’t have shared.
Al Mishari requested two squads of paratroopers to search out a place where Ali Jabar might be hiding, and the squads were quickly dispatched. Al Mishari and his contingent entered the commanding officer’s oversized office, where he walked over to a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. He pushed a button hidden behind a full-length tapestry and the bookshelf opened, to the amazement of the paratroopers.
“We go through this door,” he said with authority, despite his hesitant English, “and then down a corridor of about ten meters. At the end of it, there is a door leading to a bomb-proof concrete bunker. My guess is that Ali Jabar will be in that bunker. He may have armed guards with him. Be careful.”
The veteran paratroopers proceeded to the end of the corridor and broke down the door. They encountered no opposition, finding only Ali Jabar hunched in a fetal position behind a desk. Still wary, Al Mishari walked into the room.
“Good afternoon, General Ali Jabar. How are you today?” he asked in a cheerful voice.
“You, you … you’re supposed to be dead,” said the astonished general, his collar soaked with perspiration. “You died in a jet fighter crash. How can you be here? Are you a ghost?”
Al Mishari smiled amiably and said, “Why no, General, I’m the real thing.” He motioned to a chair and said, “Please, General, take a seat, and I’ll explain to you exactly what happened before I put a bullet in your forehead.” At that point, he dismissed the paratroopers, telling them that he had to take care of unfinished business.
“Let me refresh your memory, General,” said Al Mishari softly, relishing the coward’s agony. “Last November, I met you at this very facility to plead for the life of my niece. You accused her of being a harlot, and she was stoned to death without your intervention. From that point on, General, I became your worst nightmare, but you were too vain to even think you were vulnerable.”
“Aabid, I did everything I could to save her life! But they would not listen to me. I …” Al Mishari cut him off with a sharp blow to the forehead with his Uzi.
“You did no such thing, and you insult my intelligence to even suggest it. In any case,” Al Mishari said in a more settled voice, “after that meeting I gathered all the information I could about our defenses—information you were only too happy to share with me—and only a few days ago I faked the plane crash and made an arrangement with the Americans. It might interest you to know, Ali Jabar, that this invasion would not have been possible if you had only done your job. I figured that you wouldn’t change the defense codes at my presumed death because you would’ve had to confess that you gave me the locations and codes of the dirty bombs. You knew King Mustafa would cut off your rotten head for your breach of security. Instead, you did what you’ve always done best—you saved your own skin.”
“What happens now, Aabid?” asked the terrified Ali Jabar. Blood trickled down his forehead. “Please … spare me, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I can make you a very rich man. Please, Aabid!” he babbled.
Al Mishari walked a slow circle around the quivering man before speaking. “I’m going to give you a chance, Ali Jabar—something you’d never do for anyone else if you were in my position.”
“Yes, Aabid, what is it?” he asked, desperation in his voice.
“I’m going to put two pistols on the table—one for you and one for me. I am then going to flip this coin in the air. When it hits the table, we’ll both reach for our guns, and one of us will die. If it’s me, I’m sure the Americans will haul you out of here alive. If you lose, well then, Saudi Arabia has just become a better country. Are you ready, Ali Jabar?”
Ali Jabar was too petrified to answer. The coin seemed to hover in the air, and he reached for his gun a split second before the coin actually hit the table. Nonetheless, Ali Jabar’s last earthly sensation was that of a bullet exploding through his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Back on the east side of Riyadh, King Mustafa and Prince Bawarzi hunkered down in a makeshift firing pit, watching the approach of what looked like an Arab armored column. This can’t be, Mustafa thought as the column got closer and closer. He picked up his binoculars again and couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Bawarzi, quick, take a look at the lead tank and tell me what you see.”
Prince Bawarzi stared, then shook his head in wonderment. “Your Highness, unless my eyes are deceiving me, it looks like Prince Khalid ibn Saud. Can this be?”
“I don’t know, Bawarzi. Let me look again.” His high-powered binoculars confirmed the truth. “It is him. Issue orders for everyone to hold their fire. We will allow them their moment of triumph, and when his tank gets a few meters closer, I will personally destroy him before he can deliver our country to the infidels.” Bawarzi gave the order and then brought Mustafa a shoulder-launched antitank weapon.
“Closer, closer, closer,” Mustafa chanted as he relished the thought of wiping out this apostate.
Prince Khalid, a former military officer well-versed in armored warfare, spotted the sun reflecting off a metal object about 150 meters southwest of his tank. There wasn’t enough time to turn and aim the 155 millimeter tank gun for a shot at what was probably an antitank weapon, so he immediately opened fire on the suspected target with his twin mounted .50-caliber machine guns. Whatever it was, Khalid thought, it’s gone now.
Prince Khalid ordered a halt to assess the damage. As the platoon approached the target, seven grenadiers from the 15th Armored Brigade moved slowly out to meet them, their hands raised in surrender. They started to shout, “You killed the king! You killed King Mustafa!”
Astonished, Khalid ordered his tank columns to continue on while he jumped off the tank to investigate the prisoners’ claims. One of the prisoners, flanked by two soldiers, led him to the remains of the firing pit where he found the corpse of Prince Bawarzi. His chest oozed a deep crimson red; it was obvious he had died immediately.
A few feet away, near several spent shell casings, he spotted another body, face-down on the ground. He flipped the bloody mass of humanity over and was flabbergasted by what he saw. Mustafa. Can this really be? How could I ever have been so blessed as to kill this vile man?
He was more astonished to see that Mustafa was still alive, gasping for breath and bleeding heavily from a gaping wound to his stomach. As Khalid leaned down to get a clearer look at the man he had long dreamed of killing, Mustafa suddenly opened his eyes. Anguish and horror filled his eyes; his lips moved silently as blood ran out of both sides of his mouth. He took two or three more labored breaths and then died with an astonished look on his face.
Riyadh fell quickly as the Saudi loyalists laid down their arms and surrendered en masse. As the wary citizens of Riyadh slowly came out of their shelters, they were surprised to see Prince Khalid ibn Saud at the head of a column of Saudi tanks, flanked by Arab soldiers. Cheering, the throng greeted them as liberators.
66
The Situation Room
10 April 2018
Clayton McCarty delighted in the euphoria filling the Situation Room this morning. So often the scene of unimaginable anguish, today the room hosted a debriefing on the event ending much of that anguish: the fal
l of the Mustafa regime. Clayton mused, as he watched the happy faces, My entire presidency has been wrapped up in this crisis; I wonder what it will be like now.
“Good morning, everyone,” Clayton said almost gleefully, “It’s great to see everyone in such a good mood after all we’ve been through, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all you have done to achieve this victory. In many respects, however, the challenges we now face in reassembling a globally shattered economy will be every bit as difficult, though in a less threatening way. I’d like to start today with a casualty report. Admiral, could you give us a rundown?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Admiral Coxen replied snappily before giving his report. He reported that American casualties were remarkably light, Saudi military casualties were heavy, civilian casualties were held to a minimum, and nonmilitary infrastructure damage was almost nonexistent. Happily, there was little evidence of looting or civil unrest amongst the civilian population.
“Thank you for that information, Admiral,” Clayton said gratefully. “It’s a real testament to our armed forces that a conflict of this magnitude could be contained in such a manner, though war of any kind is terrible.”
“Moving on,” he continued, “I talked to Chairman Lin Cheng earlier today, and we agreed to issue a joint statement at six o’clock tonight, our time, announcing the cessation of hostilities. Jack, would you get on the horn with Wang Peng and work out a rough draft? It doesn’t have to be anything long, and I certainly don’t want it to say something that will haunt us later.”
Thurmond Thompson then gave a report on the disposition of military forces in Saudi Arabia. While a positive report, it prompted Clayton to remind everyone of the need to make sure the American footprint was kept to a minimum and Saudi culture respected.
Lethal Trajectories Page 40
