The Coward's Way of War (35 page)

The situation was the same across most of Western Europe.  The British had cracked down hard, but they didn't have the manpower to keep the cities sealed; the Netherlands and Denmark had lost almost all control, to the point where their governments had been begging their allies for help, help their allies couldn't afford to send.  Germany was convulsing under riots and counter-riots and struggling for survival.  The departure of Greece and several other countries from the European Union had barely been noticed.  The resumption of ethnic cleansing and mass slaughter – if not genocide – in the Balkans had rated only a small mention in the media.

Jean-Luc shifted uncomfortably as the patrol wore on, wishing that he was back on the base in bed with his girlfriend.  At least she had been vaccinated, courtesy of the French military and the stocks of vaccine that couldn't be distributed into the cities because of the insurgency. They’d talked about getting married and having kids, yet what sort of world would he be bringing his children into, once Henderson’s Disease had run its course?  How many would be dead before it was all over?  In cities across the world, there were so many dead that the incinerators couldn't keep up with them.  The bodies themselves were a source of contamination.

The thought made him shiver.  Two days ago, one of his squadron mates had flown his aircraft up as high as it would go, and then straight down into the waters.  The brief investigation – there had been no time for a long formal investigation – had concluded that he had been suicidal, something Jean-Luc tended to agree with.  Up in the sky, it was easy to feel that there was no connection to events on the ground, yet they could not be denied.  His friend had snapped under the pressure of knowing what was going on far below him, or perhaps he had simply not wanted to return to the real world.  There were times that Jean-Luc wondered if he would go the same way.

His radio buzzed, cutting off his morbid thoughts.  “Flight-74, we have an approaching contact,” the AWACS said.  Jean-Luc glanced at the HUD.  Whatever it was, it was coming out of Tunisia and directly towards France.  It didn't look like a jet fighter, from the radar return; it looked more like a jumbo jet.  It didn't mean anything; back in the Balkans, the French Air Force had tried to assassinate a notorious Serb General by using a transport aircraft to shield a jet fighter.  If the intelligence hadn’t been faulty – the Serb hadn't been where intelligence had insisted he would be – he would have been killed in the blast.  “You are ordered to intercept and make them turn back.”

Jean-Luc smiled, hit the afterburners and sent the jet fighter rocketing away from his patrol course, directly towards the mystery contact.  The thought of action was intoxicating, even though he was fairly sure that the contact wasn't actually dangerous, at least not to him.  Its cargo might be very dangerous to France.  He saw something glinting in the distance as he came into visual range and found himself staring.  The aircraft ahead of him was a massive jumbo jet, one of the latest the Americans had produced, but it was covered in gold.  The entire aircraft was gold.  Jean-Luc wasn't sure if it was real gold, or just gold paint, yet the effect was astonishing.  The sun glinting off the aircraft produced a remarkable image.  There was no IFF signal.

He keyed his radio, set to the standard emergency channel.  “Unidentified aircraft, this is Flight-74, French Air Force,” he said.  Any pilot who didn't monitor that channel constantly would lose his licence and never fly again.  “Identify yourself at once.”

There was a long pause.  Jean-Luc used it to examine the aircraft and confirm that it wasn't hiding another jet fighter, or carrying any obvious weapons.  The Americans had pioneered internal weapons bays for some of their most advanced fighters, but he doubted that anyone would have bothered to equip a jumbo jet with such systems.  Even Air Force One didn't carry any offensive weapons.

“Ah...this is Golden Gate, out of Riyadh,” a voice said, finally.  It sounded vaguely Arabic.  “We are non-hostile and carrying the families of many prominent Saudi Royals.  We request escort to France.”

Jean-Luc gaped at the arrogance.  “Golden Gate, this is Flight-74,” he said.  “You are ordered to return to your point of origin.”

The voice didn't seem daunted.  “Flight-74, my passengers suggest that you check with your Interior Ministry,” it said.  “They believe that they have been cleared to pass through and enter France.”

Jean-Luc swore, switched his radio over to the military channel and passed the issue up the chain.  The AWACS operator ordered him to hold position and wait while it got passed higher and higher, something that left Jean-Luc puzzled.  In his experience, the longer the delay between making the request and receiving a decision, the higher the buck was being passed.  He watched the jumbo jet carefully, wondering just what order he would receive.  Judging from the time, it might be being passed to the government itself.

“Flight-74, this is Napoleon,” a new voice said.  Jean-Luc straightened to attention, or as near to it as he could come in a jet fighter’s ejector seat.  Napoleon was the call-sign for the senior French Air Force officer in the region.  “You are authorised to turn them back.  If they refuse to turn back, you are authorised to fire on them.  They carry known cases of Henderson’s Disease.”

“Understood, Napoleon,” Jean-Luc said.  He would have hesitated to fire on a civilian aircraft under normal circumstances, but if they carried Henderson’s Disease, shooting the aircraft down might be kinder than what awaited them in the future.  He switched back to the standard channel.  “Golden Gate, your request to enter France has been denied.  I suggest that you turn back now, while you still can.”

“Negative,” Golden Gate said, after a long silence.  “Our flight has been cleared...”

Jean-Luc uncapped the firing key, sighted along the nose of the jet fighter and fired a long burst of tracer across the flight path of the jumbo jet.  “Golden Gate, I am armed and authorised to use deadly force,” he said, sharply.  “If you refuse to turn back, I will fire on you and shoot you down.  There are few SAR groups operating in the waters these days; you and your passengers will die.  I suggest that you comply with my orders.”

There was another long silence.  The jumbo jet didn't change course.  “This is your final warning,” Jean-Luc said, feeling anger burning up within him.  Did the Arabs not care what happened to others, as long as they reached France?  Or did they believe that there
was
a cure in France?  “If you do not comply, I will shoot you down.”

He pulled back, targeting an air-to-air missile on the jumbo jet.  To the best of his knowledge, no modern jet fighter had ever shot down a jumbo jet before, although there had been some incidents during the Cold War.  The French Air Force certainly hadn’t done so in living memory, although after 9/11 contingency plans had been drawn up in case of terrorists trying to do unto Paris what they had done to New York and Washington. 

There was no response.  The jumbo jet kept flying towards France.  “God help you,” he said, and keyed the firing switch.  The jet fighter lurched as the missile separated from its parent aircraft and raced towards its target.  There was a long moment when he thought it would miss, just before it accelerated and slammed into the rear of the jumbo jet.  A chain of explosions rocketed through the aircraft, sending the main body of the aircraft crashing down towards the cold waters below.  It hit with astonishing force, sending up a massive wave of water into the air. 

From high overhead, Jean-Luc gazed down at the burning wreck.  There were no sign of any survivors.  “This is Flight-74,” he said, keying his radio.  “Target destroyed.  I say again, target destroyed.”

***

“
Thank you,” the political officer said.  “You have served France well.”

The Base CO eyed him suspiciously.  “My subordinate just shot down a civilian airliner and killed civilians,” he said sharply.  “Why...?”

“That is a matter of national security,” the political officer said.  “I suggest that you inform your people that the whole matter has been classified and any discussion will result in the harshest of penalties.”

***

Marianne DuPont scowled as she paced around the military shed, staring out towards the towering plumes of smoke in the distance.  As one
of France’s greatest investigative reporters – she had uncovered scandals that had upset the political establishment more than once – she should be doing more than just sitting on a military base, but the orders had been clear.  In order to discourage further chaos, the media would only report the sanitised pap that the government put out, or else.  A number of reporters had tried to violate the rules, only to find themselves cooling their heels in a very uncomfortable prison.  Marianne had no intention of ending her career in jail, yet she was bored.  And the officer who followed her around to make sure she didn't see something she wasn't allowed to see couldn't even hold up his end of a conversation!

“
Bonjour
,” a voice said.  She looked up to see a middle-aged man, smoking a cigar and grinning from end to end.  “How are you today?”

Marianne glared at him.  “Bored,” she said.  It was true.  The kind of ‘news’ they were putting out could have been done by teenage interns, the kind who had fawned over her before the world had been turned upside down.  “And yourself?”

“I have a present for you,” the man said.  He passed her a single USB stick.  “It is your latest and greatest scoop, my dear.”

Marianne took the stick, frowning.  “You know that we’re not allowed to publish anything that hasn’t been cleared through the censors,” she pointed out, dryly.  “Are you just trying to get me in trouble, or is this an attempt to get into my thong?”

The man shrugged.  “I'm sure a smart girl such as you could see your way to publishing this without being...directly involved, if you know what I mean,” he said.  Marianne shrugged back, refusing to commit herself to anything.  “Believe me, the scoop is worth it.”

He walked away, leaving Marianne staring at the stick.  Being a paranoid reporter, she carried her palmtop with her at all times, one loaded with the best security software money and illicit contacts within the French military could buy.  She inserted the stick, ran several programs to ensure that it wasn't carrying a virus, and then opened the first document...and swore.  The man, whoever he was, hadn't lied.  The story would be her greatest scoop.

Carefully, she accessed the internet and started to upload the documents.  Even if no one ever knew what she’d done,
she
would know.  The answer to the greatest mystery in the modern world – the origin of Henderson’s Disease – lay in front of her.  A single country, named for all the world to see.

Saudi Arabia.

Say what you like about t
he Kuwaitis, they have always been a loyal ally.  After all, without us, Saddam would have swallowed them whole.  That said, they’re about as democratic as the rest of the Middle East (excepting Israel) and that’s not very
.

-General Tom Spencer

Kuwait

Day 30

“Get those items out now,” Doug snapped.  “Load them onto the trucks and get them out of here.”

He scowled as the hot sun struck his face, despite the cream he had slathered over it before he’d gotten out of the barracks and assembled the work party.  Army Prepositioned Stock-5 was one of the hotter places he’d worked and the desperate hurry to break the equipment out of storage and mate it up with the soldiers flying in from the states wasn’t helping.  If there had been more time, everything would have been more organised, but as it was Doug and the other NCOs found themselves struggling to keep up with the crisis.  The equipment had to be moved out and placed near the Saudi border, along with the troops to use it, before all hell broke loose.  There was little official information, but the rumour mill was buzzing with speculation that the Saudis intended to invade Kuwait and Qatar before the US troops had finished their deployment.  It was quite possible.

APS-5 was a massive complex of warehouses, normally guarded by armed and very dangerous American troops.  One of the soldiers Doug had under his command had joked that it was rather like the old hangers that Mulder and Scully had used to wander through, although he had then loudly bemoaned the absence of Scully.  Doug couldn't really blame him; Kuwait might be one of the more liberal Middle Eastern states, but it was still medieval and barbaric to American eyes.  The nightlife was pathetic.  He glanced over at a team of engineers working on an Abrams tank they’d brought out of storage, before sending it away towards the tank transporter waiting in the distance.  Allies or no, the Kuwaitis wouldn't thank the Americans for sending a massive tank out on their road network, chewing it to pieces under its treads.