HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (2 page)

“God,
Mikey, what the hell is it now?” growled the general from beyond the makeshift
walls.

The
lieutenant stepped back apologetically. Skull gave him a smirk, then passed
into the operations room, where the general was indeed sacked out on his cot.
The general had come over to the joint Special Operations command from the Air
Force; he and Knowlington went back far enough for Skull not to wince when he
called him “Mikey.”

Which
he did again, adding in a few more succinct Anglo-Saxon words.

“Sorry
to disturb you,” said Skull, standing near the table.

“Fuck
you, you are. What’s up? You still pissed about your girl Rosen going north?”

“My
technical sergeant is a woman,” said Knowlington, emphasizing each syllable
because he was, indeed, still pissed. “But we’ve gone over that.”

“I
shipped Klee out. Bang, he’s gone. He should have come to me and he didn’t.
That problem is taken care of.”

Klee
was the colonel who was responsible for sending the Devil Squadron’s top
electronics whiz north into Iraq. Rosen had returned a few hours before to Al
Jouf, a forward operating area in western Iraq where she had been overseeing
maintenance on a pair of Devil Squadron A-10As. Needless to say, Rosen had
volunteered for the duty north in the combat zone, a direct violation of all
sorts of laws, policies, and orders, not to mention common sense. Which merely
proved Devil Squadron enlisted personnel were as crazy as the officers.

“Rosen’s
not why I’m here,” said Skull.

“Okay.
Shit, Mikey. I don’t think I’ve had ten minutes of sleep since I came to this
stinkin’ country.” The general sighed and sat up. He glanced at Skull, then
followed his gaze over toward the sandbags that marked the entrance to the
room. “Lieutenant, make yourself scarce.”

“Sir,
yes sir,” snapped the lieutenant.

“Love
‘em when they’re still wet, don’t you?” said the general as the nugget
lieutenant’s steps echoed smartly across the smooth concrete. Skull, for all
his love of the service— and he truly did love the Air Force— had never really
cared for the snap and starch, nor did he like hazing new officers, so he
didn’t answer. He stood stoically as the general hauled himself off the cot and
went to the desk, where he turned on a small lamp and sat. He’d been sleeping
in his fatigue uniform. He reached under the desk for his shoes. “What’s up?”

“The
intelligence officer who went north with your D boys has a theory.”

“Wong?”

“Yes,
Captain Wong. There was a special unit of Iraqis in the village where the Scuds
were hidden. They weren’t part of the Republican Guard. They weren’t Muslim
either. Which he thinks means they were part of an elite unit, probably all
related to each other. Those sorts of units typically have very special
missions.”

“I’m
not catching the drift here, Mike.” The general stretched his shoulders
backwards; his body was so stiff the cracks echoed loudly. “Schwartzkopf is on
my butt— on everybody’s butt— about the Scuds. One hit Tel Aviv last night. We
have to nail those suckers.”

“This
is bigger than Scuds.”

“How?”

“Wong
thinks Saddam’s going to be in that village twenty-four hours from now. I want
to put together a team to get him.”

NEAR RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

27 JANUARY 1991

0300

At
roughly the
same
time Colonel Knowlington was making his way to the Spec Ops Bat Cave, the man
whose report had sent him there was setting out on a perilous journey to the
dark side of the international army’s “occupation” of Saudi Arabia.

Captain
Bristol Wong, late of the Pentagon, most recently assigned as an “observer” to
assist Scud hunting operations, knew that time would be of essence if Saddam
was to be targeted. He had therefore decided to hunt down the one Westerner
who, in his considered opinion, knew everything worth knowing about the Iraqi
leader. This was itself a mission wracked by difficulties and fraught with
dangers and a thousand contingencies, not the least of which was commandeering
a helicopter that could deliver him to Riyadh at this ungodly hour.

A
short if expensive private limo ride took Wong from the relative safety of the
sophisticated Islamic capital to a fiery wasteland some miles to the south,
where he was dutifully deposited in front of a ten-million dollar suburban
castle replete with neon flamingos and female car hops tastefully clad from the
waist down, and from the top not at all. Wong administered the customary bribes
to the Pakistani doorman and his hulking assistant, withstood a rather physical
and inefficient weapons check, and passed into the lobby of the club. There he
was met by two women whose mid-sections had recently been graced by staples in
major men’s publications; their present attire revealed no evidence of
fasteners, though their smiles suggested they were ready to bend any metal Wong
offered. He made the tactical mistake of telling them that he was simply here
on business; they cooed and clucked, and he had almost to force his way past to
the short, marble staircase that led down to the gaming room.

The
man he had come to see, Sir Peter Paddington, was surrounded by a phalanx of
women and gamblers as he held court at the thousand-dollar minimum craps table.
Paddington worked officially for British MI-5, was attached to at least one
other ministry, and did contract work for unspecified “exterior interests.” He held
his right hand high over his head, rattling the dice like a wary cobra shaking
its tail. With a flick of his wrist he struck, the crisply tailored cuff of his
white shirt flashing from his blazer sleeve as his hand jerked above the table,
unleashing a pair of threes.

“Six
the hard way,” said the croupier from the side of the table. A salsa band added
a flourish in the background.

Wong
snaked through the crowd as the bets were placed. Before he managed to draw
alongside Sir Peter, nearly a hundred thousand dollars had been laid out on the
table, covering his next throw.

“Bristol,
you have returned,” said Paddington, sipping his martini. He had not re-thrown
the dice, believing that the karma of the moment had to specially chosen.

He
also wanted to make sure all of the betting was complete, as the establishment
paid him a discreet commission on the house take.

“I
have a business matter to discuss with you,” said Wong.

Paddington
frowned ever so slightly, then turned back to the table. His hand flashed, the
ivory cubes rolled.

“Seven,”
said the croupier, honestly surprised.

Despite
the bust, there was audible disappointment as Paddington put down the dice and
led Wong toward a side room. Four of the young women who’d swarmed around
accompanied him, their nipples highlighted by the taut silk of their dresses.

“You
want?” Paddington asked Wong, pausing at the draped doorway and gesturing
toward the women.

Wong
rolled his eyes.

“Sorry
girls,” said Sir Peter, waving his hand. “I’ll be with you presently.”

Wong
followed Paddington through the thick brown drapes into a room made up like a
private London club. Dark leather chairs sat in small clusters in front of
Hunter green walls lit by soft lamps and barrister’s bookcases stacked with
hunting guides and royal lineages. But the most impressive element of decor was
the smell: a kind of tweedy dankness surely imported direct from Cambridge. A
man stood before a portable bar at the far end of the room, looking at them
expectantly. Behind him stood a pair of imposing portraits of unimposing kings.

“Spell
yourself, my good man,” Paddington told him expansively, “after you supply me
with a martini, of course.”

The
bartender nodded. “And you, sir?” he asked Wong.

“My
American friend doesn’t drink when he’s working,” said Paddington. “And as he
is always working, he doesn’t drink.”

“A
slight exaggeration,” said Wong. “But I do not wish a drink.”

The
bartender mixed a martini, very light on vermouth, two olives, a sliver of
lemon, then removed himself through a door somewhat disguised as a panel at the
side of the room.

“So
what brings the world expert on Russian weapons system to the notorious Club
Habanas
Saudi?” Paddington asked after the waiter had left.

“I
need to confirm a theory,” said Wong.

“About
Saddam, I suppose.”

“Perhaps,”
said Wong cautiously. “We’re dealing with code-word material.”

“Naturally.”
Paddington sniffed the air, as if the dampness had suddenly run out.

“Speculative
code-word material,” added Wong.

“Quite.”

Wong
knew that the MI-5 intelligence expert had all of the necessary clearances to
receive Pentagon and CentCom briefings on every aspect of the war. He was also
well aware that mentioning that the material was classified would insult
Paddington somewhat, as it vaguely called into question his ability to keep a
secret. But that was his point. In Wong’s experience, Sir Peter worked at his
peak only when insulted.

The
summary Wong proceeded with left out many details— including the existence of
Fort Apache, the behind-the-lines support base recently abandoned by U.S.
special operations troops. He was also vague about the exact location of Al
Kajuk, the village in Iraq where he had been just a few hours below, noting
only that it was near the Euphrates and within “a fifty mile parabola” west of
Baghdad.

“You
still like those big words,” said Paddington. “Why can’t you say, ‘circle’?”

“That
would not be precise,” said Wong. “I was referring to the intersection of . . .”

“Yes,
quite. I remember my grammar school geometry.” He swept his hand
contemptuously. “You want to know if it’s within the area he uses to hide? Of
course it is.”

Wong
nodded and told him about the Iraqis he had come across outside the village.
The men had been Christians and seemingly related— they looked like cousins if
not brothers. The commander had been carrying documents that indicated someone
or something named Straw would be at the site at midnight January 26.

At
the word “Straw,” Paddington put down his drink. “I see. Yes.”

“I
thought it was one of their code words.”

“I
didn’t say it was,” noted Paddington.

“Of
course not,” said Wong.

“This
couldn’t have been a very elite unit if you escaped, eh, Bristol?” Sir Peter
laughed and put down his martini glass on the bar. “Christians. Well, they are
undoubtedly one of the small special groups Saddam uses, beyond doubt. Yes. You
have unit identification?”

“They
had sanitized uniforms.”

“Oh,
quite interesting. Yes. But their purpose could be one of several. Not least of
which would be guarding the Scuds which I presume you had actually be sent to
investigate.”

“There
was a regular unit and a Republican Guard attachment handling that,” said Wong.

“Eh,”
said Paddington with a noncommittal swagger of his head. “The more the merrier,
eh?”

“There’s
been a marked pick up in coded radio transmissions from the area in the past
twenty-four hours,” said Wong, who had checked before delivering his report to
Knowlington. “And one with the word ‘straw’ in it.”

“Humph,”
said Paddington.

“My
question is this: If Saddam were planning on staying at the village, would an
attack on the Scud missiles there deter him?”

“A
reasonable question,” admitted Paddington. He stared at the wall, as if
visualizing the Iraqi leader. Then he reached to the bar and took up his drink,
draining it. “Let me tell you something about this area of Iraq.” Paddington
frowned at the empty glass. “Saddam has had trouble ensuring the loyalty of
some of his, shall we call them lesser government ministers? And so he taken to
holding some of their families hostage. And in other cases, not bothering to
hold them hostage. He has also had revolts among his Shiite brethren, and is
treating them with even less delicacy.”

“I
saw no signs of a slaughter,” said Wong.

“You
wouldn’t, would you? Unless you knew what to look for. And in any event, I
suspect you were occupied with other matters. He uses units from diverse areas,
basically as far away and as uninvolved as possible. He is not, as you
Americans would put it, a schmuck. That would be my first suspicion here.
Though I admit the area, so close to Baghdad, makes me suspicious. Most of the
Shiites are located elsewhere, and the ministers are in Baghdad and to the
north. But, of course, generalities. From the intercept and these notes, yes,
it is possible.”

“How
likely?”

“Always
looking for your percentages, eh?”

“You’re
the one who calculates the odds.”

“Fifty-fifty.
Perhaps higher in your favor. But I would say it is also possible that it is a
decoy. He has several and the procedures are exactly the same.”