The Faithful, North African and Middle Eastern Islamic nations, are plotting to seize the oil resources of the Middle East. By controlling the earth's oil and its major trade routes, they plan to bring the world to its knees. Then, when the entire world is kneeling, the Faithful of Allah will read to them from the Koran, preaching the message of Islam, the True Faith. The Faithful will stop at nothing to achieve their goal. But how far will they go? And how many lives will it cost?

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2 Early Moves

2.4 Saudi Arabia

2.4.1 Air Battle

Chief of Staff, General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd sat quietly in his headquarters in Al-Hufuf staring at a large screen covering the entire wall of the underground bunker. Three banks of fully manned computer consoles cast an eerie, green glow about him. Information was flowing in from the two Aegis-equipped AWACs radar planes, a Rivet electronics eavesdropper and many ground-based observation posts. All of it was assembled by his staffers, and the "real-time" picture, augmented with arcane military symbology imposed upon it flashed on the screen in front of him. He almost felt as though he were some kind of a super-natural being as he looked down on the Nagirah marshes.

The head of the Irani column was twenty kilometers inside Saudi Arabia’s border with Kuwait. A flight of ten F-16s was egressing fast and low towards Naqirah, pursued by enemy MiG-29s. Circling off to the south were twenty follow-on F-16 fighters, armed with cluster bombs, massing for the attack. Seventeen other planes moved quickly towards Farst Island in the Persian Gulf. Sixteen of them were upgraded, high performance F-15 Eagles equipped with the new Hughes APG-75 "Mini-Aegis" surveillance, targeting and tracking system and American second generation AAMRAM "Fire and Forget" missiles. They were one of the most potent fighting machines in the region. The seventeenth was unique. It was a new EA-29 Regulator equipped with the secret AIL ALQ 109 tactical jamming system. Every Persian India-, Juno- and Kilo-band radar so carefully installed on Farst Island was blank! No matter how "frequency agile" their sets were the ALQ 109 was better. None of their radars would see the F-15s, and all of their communications gear was out of action. Meanwhile, a fourth flight of sixteen of the new, vectored thrust, high-performance F-31s was overtaking the second wave of F-16s.

'If this works,' thought the Chief, "we’ll have put a big dent in their air power, and bought ourselves a couple of days." Other dots appeared on the Chief’s screen and as they did, his mind raced furiously in anticipation. "At last! There they are! The Iranis have fallen for my feint with the first wave of F-16 attack fighters. They have scrambled all their front line air reserves in three waves fifteen minutes apart. They will be able to hit us for almost continuously for an hour. Under normal conditions, that would be more than enough to drive off the largest of raids. They think they will be able to drive us off, extricate themselves from the marshes and proceed on to Jubayl. But, they shall not. They have fallen into my trap, and now they shall pay dearly.'

Slowly, the flying figures moved towards each other. Saudi F-16s fled for the deck, with the first wave of Irani Su-27s in hot pursuit. Saudi F-31s raced to the rescue just like the American cavalry in the movies. Sukhoi’s fell, and the third flight of F-16s bore in behind them to attack the Irani columns. Quickly, they lined up in a column of twos, and started their runs. At precise thirty-second intervals, pairs of fighters changed course and altitude, leveling off at 200 feet. They flew a steady course for several seconds while releasing their bombs and then pulled up, jinking so erratically that it was visible even on the screens.

At the same time as the third wave of F-16s began to dive on their targets, the second wave of Irani fighters, tentatively identified as MiG-31s accelerated towards them. That was what the Saudi Chief had been waiting for. He glanced at his Air Boss and nodded. He saw the Air Boss speak, and instantly the F-15 Eagles, now northwest of Farst Island, turned to port and accelerated. The geometry looked good to him. The Irani MiG-31s were flying straight and level, intent on the F-16s bombing the troops on the ground.

He saw little arrows appear ahead of the Eagles. In comparison with everything else on the screen, they were moving rapidly. He watched them closely as they ate up the forty kilometers between his planes and the Irani’s.

At about fifteen kilometers from their targets, the AAMRAMS would query the aircraft which the F-15s had designated. If the missiles received a positive response, they would instantly know that they were homing on a friendly aircraft. They would then initiate a "closest neighbor search". The closest plane to the earlier target would be queried and so forth until it found an unidentified aircraft. The missile would then re-target itself and home in for the kill. If another missile got to its target first, the missile would once again go through its query-and-select routine until it either found a target or ran out of fuel and destroyed itself in a fit of electronic frustration. This complex bit of computer trickery assured a better than ninety percent kill ratio. That was why each of the sixteen fighters had fired only one missile apiece, leaving each of them with another for the final stage of the bushwhack.

Computer synthesized bursts began appearing, and airplane shaped images disappeared from the Chief of Staff’s view screen. Sixteen missiles had destroyed sixteen MiG-31s. But, that wasn’t the end of the show.

The sixteen ground-attack F-16s reformed and flew northward, hugging the dirt. The F-31s zoomed upwards on after-burner, making themselves visible on every radar and infra-red optic in the Near East. The third and final Irani air wave saw them clearly. All thirty top-of-the-line Su-29s accelerated towards them.

The F-15s altered course slightly towards the north. Sixteen little arrows appeared once again, but this time, the Eagles turned hard to port, heading for home. Once again, the intelligent AAMRAMs did their deadly job, and the Irani force was chopped in half.

With too much guts and too little brains, the remaining Sukhois continued on, streaking ever higher and faster after the F-31s. Suddenly the Falcons emerged out of the ground clutter behind the Irani planes. Although the F-16s were slower and lower, they had all the advantages of being on the other guy’s "six". They climbed rapidly, their radars shut down to avoid detection. Then, when they were only 10 kilometers behind the Sukhois, small arrows appeared from them!

The American Sidewinder missile was in its fifth generation. It had been the world’s first infra-red guided, air-to-air missile, and initially it wasn’t very good. But, the Americans knew that it was a good idea, so they kept at it. It turned out to be the most successful missile ever built.

The famous AIM-9L, or 9-Lima, all-aspect missile had lasted for almost thirty years as the world’s premier heat-seeker. It was finally replaced with the new Sidewinder, lovingly called the 9-Mama! Faster, more maneuverable, with longer range and improved IR capabilities, the AIM-9M was the ultimate dog-fighter’s dream machine. Sixteen F-16s had just fired the first of two salvos of those impressive missiles, right up the Sukhoi’s tails.

The lesson of Desert Storm had been that he who controls the air wins on the ground. The first part of the Saudi plan had worked to perfection. It had only taken fifteen minutes to ravage Iran’s front line fighters. Now all the Saudi Chief of Staff could do was to trade space for time. If he could detain the Irani Army in the marshes for just a few days, and if Allah was gracious, the Americans would arrive.

2.4.2 Preparations

In spite of his royal status, Lieutenant Hamal el Sayd a-Fayd had attended West Point, withstood the horrific hazing and graduated 94th in his class. He had learned the lessons of leadership, honor and loyalty American style. Most of all he had learned that dirty hands were not the sign of the lowly peasant.

His roommate for four years had been Tommy Rudman, who was a "car buff". Tommy had an old beater, a 2021 Chrysler, green, two-door coupe that he called The Green Hornet. Hamal was shocked to see him under the hood, covered with grease, fixing this and tuning that. Only menials and lower-class persons ever did such things. In Saudi Arabia, no man who worked with his hands could ever be respected.

Yet, no matter how hard Hamal tried, Tommy was always one step ahead of him. Tommy was a mathematical genius. In every exam and in every sport, Tommy was always better. In spite of himself, Hamal came to respect this American with the dirty hands.

On spring break in their third year, Tommy invited Hamal to his home. Hamal was curious to meet a typical American family. The boys hitched a ride to Newark Airport and jumped on a plane heading west. Three hours later, they landed in Chicago. Tommy didn’t seem fazed by the size of O’Hare International and just bustled off to another gate for a connecting flight. Being young, they decided to "hoof it". Half an hour later, and in their fourth terminal building, they finally arrived at their gate.

Hamal was overwhelmed. O’Hare was like a human ant hill. Americans by the thousands were hurrying from one place to another in never-ending streams of humanity. The numbers of people boggled his imagination, and still they came.

They boarded a smaller jet aircraft and flew for another hour or so to Des Moines, Iowa, where they were met by Tommy’s parents. After a typical warm and hearty American greeting, they piled into the Rudman’s van, and, after fighting their way through a traffic jam, launched themselves down a super highway that disappeared to a vanishing point at the horizon.

After driving for two hours at 140 kilometers per hour, they turned off onto a large road heading north. They drove for another hour, and then turned off onto a smaller road. After what seemed like an eternity, they turned into a dirt driveway and arrived at a prosperous farm house miles from their nearest neighbors.

The extent of the country was almost impossible for Hamal to imagine. He had looked at maps of the United States for three years, and only now was he beginning to realize its true size. They’d flown for five hours, driven for three more, and they were still not even half way across the vast lands of the country.

Early the next morning, at about the normal time for reveille, Hamal awoke to the wonderful smells of food. Tommy had forewarned him that his Mom cooked what she cooked and everybody ate it. Of course, he had lived on American cooking, in spite of his religion’s dietary restrictions, for three years. So, he thought he was ready for anything.

A huge bowl of oatmeal was placed before him, and he dove in eagerly. He didn’t understand why Tommy just laughed and winked at him. Then, he saw what was happening. Mom had only just begun. After the oatmeal, she brought out freshly baked bread, butter, steaks, eggs and potatoes. Then, when Hamal could barely breathe, she bought out coffee and cinnamon rolls "just to pack around the edges."

After breakfast, Tommy and his Dad led Hamal out to the barn. Forty huge Holstein cows had gathered in the early dawn just outside the door. Tommy just walked out among them into the animal filth as though he were walking across the parade ground back at the Point. Hamal almost retched.

During the next eight hours, Hamal learned about milking cows, feeding cows, and shoveling "manure" as they so delicately called it. He learned about farm tractors, combines, harrows and plows. He spent two totally frustrating hours fighting a giant tractor trying to plow the mile-long field in a straight line, much to the amusement of both Tommy and his Dad. And, they never stopped! A quick sandwich on the run was all they ate during the whole day. Then, as the sun began to set, and Hamal knew that it must be coming close to supper time, they returned to the cows and never-ending process of milking, feeding and mucking out. It was dark by the time they sat at table again. Hamal was exhausted, and, in spite of the delicious meal, fell asleep at the table.

Later that week, Hamal had helped Tommy change the oil and filters in one of the farm's tractors. By the time they were finished, both he and Tommy had a broad swaths of grease across their cheek, and their hands were filthy. When the two of them returned to the house, Tommy's mom wasn't surprised in the least. "You've got to eat a peck of dirt before you die," she said, handing them a bar of Lava soap, "but that doesn't mean that you have to do it all at once!"

That week with Tommy's family was one of Hamal's best memories of his time in America. He had learned the great American lesson that a little hard work never killed anybody. It was the most important thing he'd ever learned.

Hamal did get even with his roommate in their senior year. Tommy had learned a lot about Saudi Arabia from his roommate, so he decided to study Arabic culture. Of course, that meant that he had to learn to speak Arabic. It was awful! No matter how hard he tried, Tommy butchered the language. The soft and mellifluous speech of Hamal’s native land was hard and guttural when spoken by an American tongue.

It was also during these courses that Tommy began to study the Saudi Royal Family. One day, Tommy came over to Hamal, and, pointing to his name in a book on the Fayd kings of Saudi Arabia, asked, "Is that you?"

"Why, yes," Hamal answered, matter of factly. He pointed to the other faces in the picture. "That is my father, the Chief of Staff. That is my uncle, the Air Force Chief of Staff, that is my cousin prince Ali, and that is my cousin, King Fayd."

Tommy just stood there with his mouth open, looking like one of his Holsteins that had forgotten it was chewing its cud. "You’re a prince?" he had finally gasped. It took a long time to convince Tommy that just because Hamal’s second cousin, once removed, was the king, didn’t mean that he was a prince.

Tommy’s awe of Hamal didn’t last long. That afternoon, during their course on unarmed combat, Tommy flattened his "royal" roommate in three consecutive matches. Thereafter, they were even closer friends.

After graduation, they had two weeks before taking up their duty assignments. Since Tommy had invited Hamal to Iowa to visit his family, Hamal felt obligated to do the same. At first, Tommy said he couldn’t and found many excuses not to go. As it turned out, he was embarrassed to let his friend know that he just didn’t have the money to do it. Of course, that wasn’t a problem, and within a few hours they were comfortably ensconced on a Saudi military airliner along with Hamal’s father, the United States ambassador to the royal court, and a translator.

After the introductions, Tommy was hardly himself. He seemed quite reserved, and Hamal couldn’t understand it. So, he deliberately drew his friend into the conversation. Hamal’s father was more than surprised to find a young American who not only spoke their language, but respected their customs. After they arrived in Riyadh, some eighteen hours later, Hamal’s father confided to his son that this young American was a good and dear friend, the kind Hamal should cherish. He remembered how wonderful his father’s praise had felt.

Tommy had stayed for ten days. They went everywhere and did everything. They even went out into the desert on camels. Hamal had always hated the smelly, vile-tempered beasts, but after feeding cows and mucking out, they weren’t so bad after all. Good, old Tommy. He was now with the 24th Mechanized, no doubt laboring over a hot turbine engine.

Now, it was Hamal’s turn. His big American M1A3 Abrams was just not acting right. The driver didn’t seem to know what to do and neither did anyone else. Hamal had the time, the knowledge and a broken tank that would do neither him nor his country any good if it failed in its mission. He grabbed a mechanic, and together they pulled off the gratings and set to work. Two hours later, they had it. Hamal held up a small, in-line oil filter that was completely gummed up.

One of his fellow officers walked past just as the lieutenant lifted the offending, greasy gadget into the air with a shout of triumph. The officer looked aghast to see a fellow officer, the son of the Chief of Staff, covered in grease, disheveled and seated alongside a mere mechanic. Hamal looked up at him, saw the expression on his face and laughed, "My camel was broken!" The officer was not amused. The mechanic laughed out loud!

By the time they had the tank back together, it was early afternoon. Hamal had been warned to have his troop ready to roll by 15:00 hours. He had only an hour or so to complete his preparations. He began by inspecting his "Multi-Frequency Surveillance and Reconnoitering Guidance and Visual Operations System", or "Scope" as they all called it. Really, it was just the latest and greatest version of a periscope designed so that tankers could see out and bullets couldn’t get in. It had a processor to amplify normal light so that he and his crew could see in the dark. The processor was also "intelligent" and quick enough to adjust its response and provide a constant brightness and contrast regardless of the instantaneous ambient light levels. For instance, if a shell went off or a flare popped up, the system would cut back the intensity so that the crew weren’t temporarily blinded.

The system also imaged the infra-red end of the spectrum. They could see anything that had a temperature above ambient as a glowing, green apparition that was extremely detailed and life-like. Additionally, the system was augmented with a small, sub-millimeter, multi-panel, phased-array radar. Except in the worst dust-storms, the radar gave clear, sharp images. Because it was a phased array, the emissions were of short duration and discontinuous, making it very difficult for an enemy to know that they had been picked up on the tank’s radar.

The system was a computer nightmare that might have boggled even Tommy’s mathematical genius. But, for the driver, gunner and commander of a tank, it was easy. All they did was power it up, put on their helmets and turn their heads to see. Wherever any of them looked the systems tracked the movement of their helmets and displayed the combined electronic picture of the word, in living color. It was so real that it was difficult to convince recruits that "looking through steel" wasn’t magic or the work of the devil! It was also very difficult to step out of the electronic environment after a long day "in the saddle" and return to the real world of the Mark One Eyeball.

Next, Hamal checked their laser sights and tracking systems. He climbed up into the turret, squeezed beneath Rock Island Arsenal’s massive recoil damping system of his 120-mm, smooth-bore cannon and seated himself in the commander’s cupola. He plugged in and started looking left and right, up and down to see if the 12.7-mm machine gun of his commander’s turret moved with his movements. He tested the calibration several times by simply opening the breech and looking down the barrel.

Then, his gunner climbed aboard, and they tested both his primary and Hamal’s secondary control of the big turret and gun. They began by testing the gunner’s control of the main turret. They both plugged in their helmets and switched to the gunner’s primary control. The gunner looked left, and the turret spun to the left. He looked right, and the turret slewed so rapidly that Hamal was reminded of the children’s ride where you zoomed round in circles, got dizzy and puked. The gunner looked up and then down, and the 120-mm cannon tracked up and down duplicating his movements.

Then, they switched to the lieutenant’s secondary control. Both the main gun and the machine gun tracked simultaneously with his movements. When he looked left, both of them tracked, and followed him once again as he turned his head the other way. The turrets tracked on both channels, but could they hit the broad side of a barn?

The gunner spoke into his helmet microphone, "Track." An electronic rectangle appeared. He looked over at a truck parked more than 500 meters away. "Simulate. Target" The cannon slewed and cross hairs appeared on the passenger’s door. "Simulate. HEAT. Fire. Hold."

The weapon system went through a full cycle as though it were about to fire a High Explosive Anti-Tank round. The computer’s lookup table already understood the weight of the shell and its muzzle velocity, just two of the important factors in marksmanship. The laser target designator fired a single pulse which was reflected off the target and back to the receiver. The time it took to travel was carefully measured, and the distance to the target was determined to be 603 meters.

The three most important variables in the ballistic computer’s equations were now "knowns." But, at longer range other factors would produce small changes in a shell’s flight. Unless they were known and properly compensated, the ordnance would miss the aiming point. So the computer quickly queried the ambient temperature outside of the tank, the relative humidity, the air pressure and the relative wind velocity.

The test was completed in less than a tenth of a second, and the simulated HEAT round was fired. Then, in response to the gunner’s last command, the turret and gun locked in place. Quickly, the gunner opened the breech, and Hamal slid a cylindrical laser mount into the cannon’s bore. "Calibrate last," the gunner commanded, and the computer quickly slewed the cannon and turret until two lasers matched.

As the turret moved, the computer counted electrical impulses from the stepper motors that drove both the turret and the gun. The computer knew what the offset should have been between the angle and azimuth, and the second laser told it if it had done what it thought it had done.

The calibration had slipped. If a real shell had been fired, it would have been 36 cm high and 24 cm to the right. They’d have missed a truck at almost point-blank range! In battle, that miss could have meant their deaths. With this simple calibration, they'd be able to hit a precise point, like the connecting ring of an Iraqi turret, at 2000 meters to within a centimeter.

When everything had been thoroughly checked out, Hamal inspected each of the other three tanks under his command, forcing their commanders to prove that they too had performed the necessary maintenance and calibration needed to keep their big war wagons in the peak of fighting prowess. Only when he was completely satisfied that each of his four tanks was ready for battle did he order them to light off their huge, Avco turbine engines. Behind him, three tanks smoothly accelerated towards their designated jump off positions.

'They’re as ready as I can make them,' Hamal decided, as they motored north through As-Suffaniyah to meet the Persians in the marshes.

2.4.3 The Marshes

Hamal rolled forward into the gathering dusk. Darkness was his ally. His troop of four Abrams main battle tanks led the First Brigade north out of As-Suffaniyah towards the coastal ridge of Al-Mish’Ab. The rest of the Brigade was moving in column behind him, thundering up the broad highway at 60 kilometers per hour.

The rest of the Saudi army had been spread westward some forty-five kilometers towards the village of An-Naqirah. Once they were all in position, the Saudi Army would be like the cap on a bottle. The Iranis and Iraqis would be forced to stay on or close to the road through the marshes. The Saudi Army spread out along the relatively higher and dryer plain to lay down their firepower on the narrow invading front.

The scrambled radio sprang to life, "India Six One to India Six Six. Approaching Al-Mish’Ab. Plan alpha confirmed. Execute." The signal required no reply.

Hamal spoke quietly to the driver, and his steel monster slewed off the road followed by his three other tanks. He climbed a small ridge and saw the sea several meters below them. He turned, climbed another small ridge and saw a small light blinking in the near distance. It was the right code. The Special Forces guys were on the ball as usual. This was where he’d begin the defense of his homeland.

Squat dark shapes of tanks in desert camouflage appeared to his left. Somewhat smaller shapes, clearly identifiable as Bradley Fighting Vehicles pulled up behind them. The light blinked again, and he followed it into a declivity behind a berm. From where he was, he could barely see the snouts of the Bradleys parked just beyond the military crest of the dunes behind them. Troops filtered between the tanks and AFVs setting up machine gun positions and digging deep holes to protect themselves from the artillery bombardment that was sure to come.

Hamal clambered out of his tank to inspect his position. Checking in with his company CO, he confirmed that he was where he was supposed to be, what other assets he had, and where the next line of defense was. Even at his tender age, Hamal knew that there was no such thing as an impregnable position. He needed a fall back position, and he had to know where it was, how to get there, and the exact timing of a retreat. He also listened carefully as the Air Control Officer went over the last minute details and adjustments to their air support plan. When all was in order, he returned to his troop and filled his other tankers in on the plans. Everything was as ready as it could be. He climbed back into the comfortable commander’s seat and took a nap.

Moments later, but actually two hours later, his driver spoke quietly but urgently into his microphone, "Movement along the road!" Hamal’s eyes snapped open, and he activated his screens. Dark, squat beetle-like shapes were inching southward. He activated his radio, "India six one, India six six. Tanks. Southbound through Al-Mishab. Preparing to engage. Confirm weapons release. Over."

Hamal could hear the buzz of activity as the other tankers in the network were alerted. Soldiers erupted from their holes all around him, readying their weapons. He ordered the driver to start their engine, while he and the gunner began the quick check-out of their weapon systems. He heard the Bradleys spring to life, and the radio network buzzed with terse comments. His turret rotated a little and the cannon elevated slightly - Gunny was getting ready. Hamal could clearly see a rectangle superimposed on a distant tank, and his cross-hairs were fixed at the angle between the main body of the Irani tank and its turret.

"Prepare sabot!" he ordered in a voice that seemed higher pitched than normal in his own ears. 'Get ahold of yourself, Hamal!' he ordered himself, 'Do it just like in practice.' "OK, everybody, relax. Take a deep breath. Remember your training. Just do your jobs, and we’ll blow those Persians back across the Tigris where they belong." He hoped his impromptu pep talk had the desired effect. It was hard to tell. A man can seem to be calm and at peace on the outside, while being an emotional wreck on the inside.

He waited an eternity. Now, he could see a second tank ... and a third. The Persians were coming. When would they shoot? Smaller armored vehicles, probably BTMs, scuttled after the tanks. Ten vehicles. Twelve, Fifteen! His cannon reflexively lowered, as the turret turned slightly to keep the reticle on the lead tank.

The general command came in, "Load and stand by."

The loader spun, stamped his foot, and extracted a sabot round from the magazine. He spun around with the shell in his arms, and jammed it into the breech. The breech automatically closed, and the warning light on the control panel turned red indicating that a live round was in the chamber. Hamal’s display showed that the gun was tracking. "Designate!" the gunner said, and the reticle turned red, while the display read, "Target Locked!" All they could do now was wait for the order to fire.

"Fire!" the command circuit screeched.

Hamal shouted, "Fire!"

"Fire!" the gunner echoed.

The 60-ton tank shuddered, as a round burst from the muzzle. Its shroud - the sabot - separated leaving only a long, heavy, uranium-doped, metal rod in flight towards the target. A second later, it struck, burying itself in the T-90’s armor. The penetrator burned its way through laminated steels and high-tech composites, creating a hole only millimeters in diameter.

The destruction caused by five kilos of molten metal bursting into the confined internal spaces of the tank was horrific. Within seconds, the tank erupted in fire, and the explosions of cannon rounds cooking off inside the tank shook it violently. Spurts of flame escaped from between the turret and the main body like fire-crackers on an American Fourth of July. Then, the turret blew off and flew twenty meters into the sky enveloped in a huge black cloud.

Hamal was elated at his first kill, and fascinated with the violence. He shifted his gaze up the line of the enemy column. The first ten vehicles were aflame. Behind them, others were scattering into the marshes.

There! A big sucker going broadside as fast as it could. He focused on it, and the box followed his eyes. "Target! Tank! Sabot!" The gunner repeated his commands, as the turret turned easily. The reticle formed, and a shell was slammed home. "Designate! Fire!" Another Irani tank bit the dust! Suddenly Hamal laughed. He could hear Tommy’s voice echoing in his ears, "Easy as shooting fish in a barrel!" He scanned the horizon. Nothing moved. Everything out there was burning, popping and cooking off. The Persians’ drive had been stopped cold. The Army had bought the day or two that his father had wanted. Now if only Tommy and his friends would arrive!

2.4.4 Centcom Arrives

General Hector Luis Lopez Algarro, designated ComCentCom, stepped down from the huge rear-facing ramp of the C-17E Globemaster III into the blast of heat. "Welcome to Saudi Arabia," he laughed to himself.

A small band of Saudi officers moved briskly towards him. In the lead was his counterpart, General Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd, Chief of Staff, Royal Saudi Armed Forces. The big Saudi general extended his bear-like paw engulfing the smaller American’s hand. "Welcome!" he boomed. "Welcome to Saudi Arabia. Let me introduce you to my staff." He led Algarro over to his group, and the two generals quickly introduced their staffs to their opposite numbers. They then hustled into waiting HumVees and hurried to Saudi headquarters just outside of Riyadh.

After their arrival in the Saudi Chief’s comfortably cool war-room, the ever-efficient Saudis encapsulated the events of the previous days in a fifteen-minute computer run. The generals sat at ease, drinking apple juice, while the computers re-enacted the Iraq/Iran invasion of Kuwait, the battle of al-Ahmadi, the Saudi air victory, and the early morning massacre on the road outside of Suffaniyah.

Algarro was impressed. "You’ve really got them bottled up, General. If they’d come in the dry season they’d have been better off, but now, they’re in deep mud, literally." They both laughed at the general’s joke. "Now, what about the Iraqis? So far all we’ve seen is the Persians. They both came into Kuwait together, so where did they disappear to?"

"Ah, you have come immediately to my own concern. Somehow, we have lost them! It is a big desert out there, but I would have expected to see something. The desert seems to have swallowed them up, and I am very worried that they will pop up somewhere that I don’t want them."

"Yes, I can see that, and I share your concern, General. This war is on the verge of getting out of control." He motioned to an aide, who spread out a large map of the Mediterranean region. "The Halsey group is coming through Gibraltar right now. Kimmel and her PhibRon are coming as fast as they can, but it’ll take them several days to get here.

"I flew in with the lead elements of the Ninth Light. They’re flying on to their preposition sites in Khubal. The Twelfth will follow on tomorrow and the next day to Qatif. The Eighty-Second will be coming in here at Riyadh, and the One-Oh-One will go to Al-Hufuf. That’ll give us some highly mobile forces ready to go wherever we need them. The problem is that they’re all pretty light, in spite of the precautions your government has taken to position heavy equipment in advance.

"I’ll also have six wings of aircraft coming in today, with heavy tanker support. I am hoping that your government will be able to supply us with fuel?"

The Chief of Staff chortled, "I think that we might have a drop or two to spare."

Algarro continued, "I expressed concern earlier about the Iraqis. Were you aware that they sent two divisions west into Syria?"

The Saudi chief’s eyes opened more widely, and he glanced sharply at the American. "Has this been confirmed? What will the Jews do?"

"Yes, we have confirmed it, and the Israelis already have done it. They hit Golan last night. Their PM said that he’d rather face the contempt and sanctions of the world than face the prospects of utter defeat. They preempted the Syrians and Iragis, and hit them before they were ready to invade Israel. The good part is that two Iraqi divisions are out of the invasion down here, and the entire Syrian army is tied up in the defense of Damascus. That’s at least five divisions we don’t have to worry about."

The Saudi Chief was still scowling. "I am concerned about the Jews. Their entry into the war complicates everything. And, what of Jordan?"

"Well, General, I’m not sure that it could get more complicated. In fact, Israel’s entry into the war may be a blessing in disguise.

"The Egyptians are considering fighting both Syria and Libya. If they go to war against Syria, they’ll be fighting alongside the Israelis. Israel has already tied up a huge force which otherwise could be invading your lands. It looks to me like your three countries are caught between the Ba’ath states and the Persians on one side and the North Africans on the other. You can either ally yourselves to stop them, or be defeated in detail, one at a time.

"As for Jordan, the king is on the fence. Jordan has always maintained friendly relations with us even when they were at war with Israel. The fact that the King’s grandmother was an American helped out on both sides of that relationship.

"Hassan told the Iraqis to stay out of Jordan, and they have, so far. He has condemned Israel, Iraq and Iran for their invasions. He’s also called for a Pan-Arabic conference to settle the disputes, but so far nothing has come of it. In my opinion, Jordan will stay out of it completely, but will make every diplomatic effort to put a stop to these wars. In the end, they may be our best bet for peace as an interested and active neutral."

The Saudi nodded. "Ah, yes. I see what you mean. I am not happy about the Jews. Yet, if Egypt will go to their defense, and they, however unwittingly, have come to ours, we must we do what we can. Perhaps this is Allah’s will. But, come, my American friend, and work with me to bring your forces to bear."

The two respective commanders in chief walked out of the conference room, talking animatedly and making plans for the defense of the Middle East.