WAR

Desert Storm

The Riyadh skyline lit up like a Christmas cracker as the Patriot anti-missile missile locked onto the incoming Scud missile and collided with it in mid-air. A bright yellow flash lit up the sky. The man in the alleyway shivered involuntarily, hunched for a moment like a soldier taking cover, and then scurried on his way. He came out on top of the three man Saudi patrol.
"Halt," one of them barked. "Who goes there?"
The man's hand flashed. Too late the Saudi sergeant saw the ugly gleam of the bayonet which drove in beneath his ribcage, penetrating the heart. The soldier who had barked the command was unslinging his carbine when Amad struck again. This time the bayonet went in under the soldier's jaw, slaying him instantly. The third soldier froze, and then ran. Amad threw the bayonet at the man's fleeing back, saw it miss and fall into the gutter. With no further time to waste Amad recovered his deadly weapon, not noticing as he did so that the third soldier had disturbed his satchel in brushing by, and that the top document had slipped out.
In his satchel he held details of all Allied airbases and troop deployments in Saudi Arabia, obtained by bribing a high-ranking Saudi official. He was one of Iraq's best spies, and during the eight year war with Iran, he'd fed back information from Tehran for over two years. Much of his information was passed back to the elite Republican Guards from whose ranks he had been recruited. It was said that Saddam Hussein had clandestinely decorated him twice. Iraq didn't publicise her spies. Iranian Intelligence agents aware of his existence had set many traps for him, but Amad had eluded all attempts to corner him, and because of his uncanny evasiveness, his enemies had grudgingly come to admire him and had nicknamed him 'The Shadow'.
He was a lean, ghost of a man, with dark oily Mediterranean hair, a sandy faced countenance surrounding his cold intelligent eyes. In combat boots he stood no taller than five foot eleven, and he weighed no more than two five stone bags of potatoes; but a close inspection would have revealed a hard dangerous look about him that warned he was not one to be trifled with.
He moved now with a quiet determination, no remorse on his features over the slaying of the two dead Saudis. They were enemies of his people now, having allowed infidels onto their land in which to wage destruction on his beloved country. Within minutes he had located the jeep used by the Saudis, and which had been ignored by the third soldier. Amad leaped behind the wheel and started the engine. On the outskirts of Riyadh, he put his boot down and sped in a northerly direction.
Khafji lay 400 miles to the north. Amad knew from Allied reports that the town had been abandoned, and it was there that he hoped to seep through the Allied lines into Kuwait. He knew the Allies sent regular patrols through the town but he was confident he could bypass that obstacle. His mood might have been less sanguine had he known his own forces were to shortly mount an offensive against Khafji.

.....

The blue strobe lights atop the Saudi police and military vehicles illuminated the angry face of Major Benjamin Franklin. Franklin looked like a heavyweight fighter, a round pugnacious face, deepset eyes and a heavy flattened nose. The two dead soldiers had been removed from the scene, only the chalked outlines and dried bloodstains indicating the fact that violence had been committed here. Franklin watched his Saudi counterparts conduct an interrogation of the third soldier who had been found wandering in a daze several streets away. Franklin had learned his name was Abdul. The young soldier was gesticulating wildly, and not making much sense. Bored, Franklin lit up a cigarette and exhaled the smoke from the corner of his mouth as Colonel Qutar, a Saudi military officer, approached him clutching a document.
"What do you make of this, Major?" Qutar said, handing him the document.
Franklin grabbed the document in his meaty paws and studied it. The document was a top copy of orders from the Pentagon. Franklin's eyes fell on the words. "TOP SECRET. DESERT STORM. ALLIED AIRBASES AND TROOP DEPLOYMENTS IN SAUDI ARABIA. EYES ONLY." His heavy eyebrows puckered in a deep frown. "Good God," he exclaimed. "This could cost us the bloody war."
"Exactly my thinking," Qutar agreed.
Ignoring the comment, Franklin strode over to Abdul whose interrogators fell silent on his approach. He stared hard at the young Saudi soldier, and then darted a question in passable Arabic.
"Why didn't you use your rifle, man?"
Abdul shrugged his shoulders.
Franklin tensed angrily. Many Saudi Arabians had already displayed spectacular courage in fighting the Iraqis. Yet here was this soldier simply shrugging his shoulders in 'a so what's it to you' gesture, and who had probably allowed a top Iraqi spy escape with valuable documents.
Franklin turned to the nearest interrogator. "You. What's your name?"
"Ibrahim."
"You speak English?"
"Yes, sah."
"He given you much information, Ibrahim?"
"No, sah. Bleddy nothin'."
Franklin drew his Colt semi-automatic from his holster and pointed it at Abdul. "Tell him that unless he answers my questions in three seconds flat, I'll shoot him."
Ibrahim turned to Abdul and rattled off in Arabic.
Abdul looked sceptical, but his face paled and his eyes blinked in rapid succession as Franklin fed a round into the chamber. Immediately he began speaking rapidly in his mother tongue, Ibrahim interrupting him from time to time.
Franklin was impatient. "What's he saying?"
Ibrahim explained: "He say man Arab - white robe. Verry thin. Dark hair. He say man use bayonet. He say verry afraid. Run away."
"Ask him could the man have been an Iraqi?"
Ibrahim turned and addressed Abdul who spoke briefly before the interrogator switched his attention back to Franklin. "He not know, sah. He say...maybe."
"Okay," Franklin muttered in disgust. He set the safety catch on his automatic and reholstered it, stepping back to rejoin Qutar. Behind him the interrogators were bundling Abdul into a military vehicle. Franklin jerked his thumb back. "What will happen to him?"
"Sheria law, Major."
By which, Franklin knew that the next time the young soldier lost his head, the loss would be a permanent one. He made a face, and added that it may be best to keep the young man alive, he may come up with further information.
Qutar nodded, and issued new orders to the interrogators.
"Okay, Colonel," Franklin continued. "This man is probably heading for the border. I want all our frontline units notified. Yours and mine. And I want a description put out on that stolen jeep."
"Where are you going?" Qutar demanded, as Franklin started striding away.
"Back to HQ. See if I can nail down what we're dealing with here. Then when I know who he is, I'll stop him."
Franklin climbed back into his own jeep.
His driver, a female Corporal, with a shock of blond hair cut to shoulder length glanced at him with a query in her sombre black eyes. "Trouble, sir?"
"With a capital 'T', Jones," Franklin confirmed. "Bring me back to HQ. And step on the gas."
"Yes, sir," she snapped. Within seconds, Jones was racing along as Franklin sat silently planning his strategy.