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?

4 Victory and Defeat

4.4 America

4.4.1 Audience

Lieutenant General Sidney Fox sat impatiently in the palatial headquarters of the Royal Saudi Armed Forces as General Algarro discussed trivialities with Saudi Chief of Staff Mahumaddi el Sayd a-Fayd. Fox had never been to the Middle East before. He knew nothing about the Saudi High Command, Saudi culture or their people. He felt out of his depth and was anxious for this meeting to end so that he could get to work.

One of the important lessons learned in Desert Storm was the need for a unified air command. The United States Air Force was beginning to arrive in large numbers. By the end of the buildup, it would have more aircraft and personnel in Saudi than all other participants combined. So, the Air Boss would necessarily be an American, and Sidney Fox was the best America had to offer.

Yet, there were other considerations. First and foremost, this was Saudi Arabia. They had certain ways of doing things. They put a lot of stock in personality, protocol and etiquette. They wanted to be assured that they could get along with their American counterparts before they relinquished control of their entire Air Force to a foreigner. They needed to make sure that everyone could work together to accomplish the mission. That was why Algarro had dragged Fox to the Saudi Headquarters to personally introduce him to the Chief of Staff.

Finally, after several minutes of small talk, Algarro and a-Fayd got down to business. Fox launched into his plans for unifying the command functions, mission multipliers and strike packages. The Saudi Chief of Staff was very warm and friendly, but he seemed distracted and unable to concentrate on Fox's presentation.

Then, the Saudi chief stiffened. He sat forward, both feet firmly on the floor, and he appeared to be about to stand. Both Americans looked around and saw two old men, dressed in long white and gold robes, enter from behind a curtain. The Americans stood at the same time as General a-Fayd, as much by simple courtesy as by the actions of their Saudi host.

The older of the two men waved his hands indicating that they should be seated, while the second man stepped around him and said, "Gentlemen, please sit. We will refresh ourselves while we talk."

The older man took a seat on a couch opposite General Fox, while the second man sat next to him. Several servants appeared carrying small tables which were placed on the right hand side of each of the general's chairs. The second man spoke again, "I believe you call it lemonade. Americans, I am told have a passion for the squeezed citrus. We prefer apple juice."

"Yes, Sir!" Algarro replied enthusiastically. "We Americans like the juice from the lemon, lime, orange and all the other citrus fruits, but we eat our apples. I have noticed that in your country, you enjoy the juice of the apple and eat the citrus. We are so similar. We enjoy all the same things. We just enjoy them differently. By sharing, we learn to enjoy each other's ways and traditions."

The two older men sat quietly for a moment. Then, the first leaned to the second and whispered in his ear.

This brief space of time gave Algarro a second to glance again at the Saudi chief. General a-Fayd was sitting on the edge of his chair. His back was ramrod straight, his arms were held stiffly at his side as though he were at attention! The two Americans glanced at each other with a look of wonderment.

The second man continued, "We would like to know more about the military situation facing our kingdom."

The Chief of Staff began his report. It was brief, but he left out none of the disasters that had overtaken them.

Once again, the first man spoke into the second man's ear. The second man turned to General Algarro, and his black eyes bored into the American's soul as though searching out the truth. "We have met with disaster. What have our American friends done with their mighty divisions," he looked purposefully at Fox, "and with their splendid Air Force?" His tone was friendly, but his meaning was clear.

Algarro knew he had to answer. He was no diplomat. Yet, these old men were obviously high Saudi officials. Gator decided to employ all of his diplomatic skills, instantly. "Yes, Sir, you're right. We got caught flat-footed. That's an old American boxing term. Our plan was to send the Ninth and Twelfth Light Divisions to your defensive lines today. Our enemies got there before we could. We're trying everything we know how to do in order to save as many of His Majesty's forces as we can.

"You see, Sir, the problem is the composition of our forces. Our four divisions are what we call Light. They are highly mobile, because we can put them on airplanes with just the packs on their backs and fly them anywhere in the world. At the same time, they are plain foot-soldiers.

"We have about forty thousand troops in your kingdom right now. That's about the same number of troops as in your five brigades. But, you have more tanks, armored vehicles and artillery in one of your brigades than we have in a whole light division.

"Our plan was to integrate our two forces. The Royal Saudi Army would supply the punch, while we supplied the man-power. We had just finished our integration plans and were about to move our troops north when this latest offensive started. So, we've thrown together a new plan and have already implemented it.

"We have sent all four of our light divisions to a spot about thirty kilometers northwest of Jubayl and have set up a defensive line. We chose that place for two reasons, Sir. The first reason was that this was as far north as we could go in a reasonable time and still be able to create a barrier against the invaders. The second reason is one of supply. If we went further at this time, we'd be caught in the same trap, and none of us felt that having dead Americans lying next to dead Saudis would save the kingdom.

"It is our hope, Sir, to accomplish two things. First, we hope that the barrier we have created will be strong enough to hold the invaders for a while. We are also hoping that a large proportion of the Royal Saudi Army has been able to escape the trap and will be heading south. Our defensive lines will provide a place for them to find sanctuary, give them the time to reorganize, and then to turn defending against this unwarranted invasion of His Majesty's Kingdom.

"I should add, Sir, that it is unlikely that we will be able to hold this position for more than a day or two. The forces arrayed against us are too strong, and we are too weak. At the same time, we are intent upon hurting them as much as we can. Our Air Forces are now arriving in sufficient numbers that we have started offensive operations. Our One Hundred and First Air Mobile Division is presently being deployed against their flank and rear echelon units. Our Eighty-Second Airborne Division is being deployed as reserves for our forward units. I hope, Sir, that you see what we are doing and the reasons behind it."

The two older men conferred for a moment. They stood, and the three general officers leapt to their feet. The second man spoke quietly, addressing them all, "We can see that this is the will of Allah, and that you are doing the best you can do. We have supreme confidence in you and will provide any services we can to aid you. There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet." With that, they slipped quietly from the room.

"Gentlemen," the Chief of Staff resumed a more comfortable slouch in his chair, "we have been honored. Our plan has been approved, and, essentially, we have carte blanche. Every resource of the kingdom will be supplied to us for the duration of this unpleasantness."

4.4.2 Hogs in the Sky

Colonel Jason Henry "Harley" Powell led the first flight of Warthogs off the tarmac of Hufuf's military airport. He loved this old plane. It was just like his "hog" back home. They'd tried to sink the old Harley-Davidson company, but had failed. The "hog" was an American institution. It was big, fast, comfortable, and virtually indestructible -- just like his A-10K Warthog.

The Air Force had tried for decades to get rid of the A-10s. They were too slow. They were ugly as sin. They were lousy dogfighters. But, when it came to killing tanks they were the modern equivalent of the Russian Sturmovicks of World War II fame. Rather than replace the old Hogs, they just kept making new and improved ones. However, the Hogs never really changed. A guy who had flown one thirty years ago could jump in and fly a mission with virtually no training.

The biggest changes that had occurred were in the Hog's electronics. In the old days, Hogs had been limited to day-time flying. Then, in the Desert Storm campaign, some enterprising pilots had the idea to use their Maverick missile's TV camera as an ad hoc night-vision sensor. After that, it was just a matter of time before they started adding the real thing. First, came the built-in TV with low-light optics. Then, they added a Forward Looking Infra-Red assembly and a small radar. Ultimately, Hogs became all-weather, day/night tank busters.

The heart and soul of the plane was unchanged. They had kept the Hog's big 30-mm rotary cannon, firing coke-bottle sized, depleted uranium shells at a rate 4,200 rounds per minute. They had kept the simple design that was easy to maintain in the field. And, they had kept the big titanium bucket surrounding the pilot which protected him from shrapnel. Best of all, they had kept the Hog's superb handling. The Hog was just like a "hog" back home. It was big and stable at all times. It was sweet to fly, and it was death to tanks.

This was his first mission in Saudi, and all sixteen of his "Tank Busters" were up and ready. Each of them was armed with eight "Wild Child" anti-tank missiles as well as 1,174 rounds of 30 Mike-Mike. "Bring on the tanks!" was his motto.

He saw the Lockheed F-22s climbing out to take top cover over his Hogs. He felt warm and comfortable seeing them overhead. His Hog did its job superbly, but he'd get eaten alive without fighter protection. He could ask for nothing better than those fast, sneaky, maneuverable and heavily-armed Lightnings to protect his ass when he was down in the dirt.

Besides that, this mission could be fun for everyone. Iranaqi radar would pick up Hogs easily. They'd send in their fighters to drive off his Tank Busters, but they'd never see the Lightnings. When the bad guys came to jump his A-10s, the Lightnings would jump them. The Iranaqis would go to Paradise still wondering what hit them. It'd be great!

He looked back at his formation. Four diamonds each of four Hogs raced northeast towards the port city of Qatif. Well, perhaps "raced" was too strong a word. At full throttle, his two high-bypass turbofans could push him to just about four hundred and fifty, while the F-22's "super-cruised" at twice that speed and could fly nearly at Mach-three. So, "trundle" might be a better a better word. His lower speed did have some advantages. He could see more of the country, if there was anything to see other than the world's largest sand-box. He laughed as he considered it. This would be a cat's ultimate dream!

Harley's squadron "trundled" along at three-fifty for about half an hour before the blue of the Persian Gulf appeared on the horizon. The cities of Khubal, Dhahran and Qatif floated by off his right wing. Sure enough, just as they'd said in the briefing, a big road headed northwest out of the town and into the desert.

Harley blinked his landing lights and started a slow bank to the left. Fifteen minutes later, he passed the American lines about ten miles to the east. He spotted a long column of trucks heading south on the road only ten miles or so from the Americans. There were no tanks and only a couple of beat up old APCs. No targets for his guys.

The time came for his first big tactical decision. The higher his squadron flew, the further their small radars could see. This would give them the best chance of detecting enemy tank formations. But, the higher they went the easier it would be for the enemy to see them on their own radars. In spite of the comforting feeling of being escorted by the world's premier fighter, Harley considered that having a real fighter loaded with heat seekers on his six was an unpleasant idea. He blinked his lights once more and his squadron descended to five-thousand feet.

"Tank Buster One to all Tank Busters, assume hunter formation. Good hunting."

His four flights diverged from one another. One flew east and spread out into a "four-fingers" formation. Two flights flew west. His own flight of four spread out into a loose formation with a mile or so between them. Minutes later, each of them could see a giant dust cloud to the north, and their adrenaline levels began to increase.

The first call came from the flight to the extreme west. "Tank Buster One, Tank Buster Four. Many targets! We are engaging!"

Just seconds later, he saw an awe-inspiring scene. Tanks, AFVs, armored cars and trucks covered the earth from horizon to horizon. They were racing southward, hell bent for leather. It was up to him and his Tank Busters to slow them down.

"Tank Buster One, to Flight One. Enemy in sight. Let's kill some tanks!"

He accelerated and dropped to one-thousand feet. Each of the three Hogs in his flight mimicked his actions. He tested his Wild-Child missiles and received eight positives. His cannon read armed and ready. His FLIR and TV were operating.

Harley lined up his first tank and pressed the detent on his stick. Beneath it was his firing button. He punched the button, and a Wild-Child fell off his right wing. Its TV and IR sensors were tied into his. Two seconds later, it had established its own lock and cut off the command prompts from his A-10's targeting systems. It knew its target.

Harley pulled back on his stick hard and kicked the right pedal. There was no sense in giving their gunners an easy target. His Hog zoomed up, banked right, and leveled out again five-hundred feet off the dirt, spewing chaff and flairs behind him to ward off enemy SAMs.

That was when he saw the mini-battle. One damned Saudi Abrams and two Bradley AFVs were firing at that whole friggin' army. Missiles were popping from the Bradleys, and the big tank was firing as though they stood some kind of a chance against those odds.

He banked hard and blasted one T-90 tank with his cannon and a second with a Wild-Child. One of the Bradleys got hit! He called to his flight, "Tank Buster One to Flight One, I need a little help over here. We've got some crazy Saudi bastard trying to win the war all by himself." His flight turned quickly to follow their leader.

Talk about a target-rich environment! The crazy Saudi had attracted twenty or thirty tanks to his position, along with a whole bunch of fighting vehicles. They were closing in on three sides. Harley lined up another missile shot on a tank, and then popped an AFV with his cannon. He was having a ball!

He turned again and spotted a big sucker tank sneaking up on the Saudi. He kicked the rudder and snapped of a quick shot with his cannon, but he could see that it was too late. The enemy tank had already fired, and a big puff of smoke and flame had erupted from the Abrams. But, that didn't stop his 30-mm shells from descending on the top of the T-90 and blowing it to hell!

He spun up and back, looking to see if anyone was alive. The Abrams was OK! It was still firing. The fury of the Warthogs' attack had opened up a small gap. If that son-of-a-bitch sped away right now, he just might escape to shoot another day.

"Saudi tank! Saudi tank!" he radioed, "Get the hell out of there!" "Move your ass, Saudi tank. Move due south. American lines are ten klics due south!" He swooped on another tank and expended a Wild Child.

Slam! His whole plane lurched like a drunken sailor on a 48-hour leave. His right wing dropped, and he could feel the lift slipping off of it. He yanked the stick and put his left foot to the fire wall. The wing reluctantly leveled. "Tank Buster One to Tank Busters, I've been hit! Heading south! Tank Buster Two, bring 'em home alive." His response was two clicks. Buster Two was real busy.

Harley fought the Hog through a long, right-hand turn. He figured it was easier to go with his Hog's new-found tendency to turn right, rather than try to turn left. Then, when he tried to pull out, he almost lost it. He pushed the trim button as hard as it would go, and it helped somewhat. It was only with full left foot and a heavy left hand that he was able to keep his Hog straight and level.

He was flying south and had aligned himself with the road when he spotted the crazy Saudi. The Abrams and the Bradley were going like bats out of hell down the boulevard. Four guys were hanging onto the speeding tank for their dear lives. The American lines just beyond them.

"Saudi tank, Saudi tank, better slow down a little. You're almost on friendly ground. Good luck, fella. Tank Buster, out." As he watched, they slowed perceptibly. Then he lost them as he flew past.

His air speed was only two-fifty. Red lights blazed on both panels, but important things seemed to be holding together. His oil pressure was OK, and his fuel usage seemed normal. He tried to look over his shoulder to assess the damage, but whatever it was, it wasn't visible to him.

By the time he arrived back at Hufuf, his leg, arm and shoulder were killing him. The plane had lost something else. The trim problem got so bad that he'd considered bailing out, but every time he had he'd pushed the thought aside. 'Don't abandon your Hog,' he reminded himself, 'If you can get it back, it'll fly again.'

"Mayday! Mayday!" he called as the approached the field. "Tank Buster One at one-two hundred feet, five miles north of Hufuf. I am declaring an emergency. Requesting priority landing."

"Roger, Tank Buster One, we have you on radar. You are cleared for emergency landing on One-Three Right. Wind at one-five from two-eight-one. Altimeter one-three-three. You are first in line."

Harley held his Hog on the line stretching straight down the middle of the long, black strip of asphalt over concrete. The slight wind from his right played havoc with his control as his air speed dropped. The wing just wouldn't stay where it belonged.

He popped his flaps to the first detent. That helped a bit. Then, he dropped his wheels, and all hell broke loose. The plane rolled and pitched, threatening to auger him into the desert. He pulled the wheels up and regained control.

"Tower, Tank Buster One. I'm going to have to bring this thing in on its belly. Instructions."

"Roger, Tank Buster, we saw that last maneuver of yours. Put her down in the sand left of One-Three Left. Acknowledge."

"Got it, Tower. I'm going for the median strip."

His A-10 fought every attempt to turn left, but Harley fought back and edged it over just far enough. The desert came up smoothly at him. He pulled the stick back just a tad, lifting the nose. his A-10 stalled slightly. Its armored belly touched earth, digging a brown swath behind it. He bounced once. Then, he settled onto the yellow-dirt rug, sliding like a kid in a water-slide. Smoothly and inexorably, Harley's wounded Hog ground to a halt.

He popped the canopy and tried to climb out, but his cramped leg and left arm simply wouldn't work. He kicked with his right foot and pried himself up with his other arm. Suddenly, four hands reached into the cockpit and grabbed him. Strong arms propelled him out of the cockpit, off the wing and onto blessed Mother Earth. He struggled to his feet and looked back at his plane.

The center section of his right wing and half the belly were missing. How the tip had stayed attached to the rest of the wing was beyond him. By all rights, he should have lost two-thirds of his wing and been forced to bail out right in the middle of the Iraqi army.

'Good old Hog,' he thought, and clambered into a HumVee waiting there to bring him back to HQ and a debriefing. 'Good old Hog!'