The Saudi-Iranian War Read online

  Ted Halstead

  The Saudi-Iranian War

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Books by Ted Halstead:

  The Second Korean War (2018)

  The Saudi-Iranian War (2019)

  Dedication

  To my wife Saadia, for her love and support over more than thirty years.

  To my son Adam, for his love and the highest compliment an author can receive — "You wrote this?"

  To my daughter Mariam, for her continued love and encouragement.

  To my father Frank, for his love and for repeatedly prodding me to finally finish my first book.

  To my mother Shirley, for her love and support.

  Chapter One

  Near Sa'dah, Yemen

  Prince Ali bin Sultan grit his teeth in frustration at the familiar sight. His tank company was too late again, and the missile had already been fired at Riyadh. Though the missile attacks were a response to Saudi Arabia's intervention in Yemen's civil war, now they were a principle reason for the growing number of Saudi troops in Yemen. The possibility that if the Saudis left Yemen the attacks might stop genuinely never occurred to Ali, or for that matter to any other member of the Saudi royal family.

  Ali surveyed the ballistic missile launch site from the cupola of his M1A2 tank, identical to all of the other eleven tanks in the company deployed for this mission. He spotted smoke that was still rising from some of the debris ignited by the back blast from the missile's launch, and smiled grimly. They were getting closer.

  Technicians were already scrambling across the site collecting samples of debris and fuel. Part of Ali knew that it was important to determine whether the missile had been a Burkan-2H, a Qiam 1, a Shahab-2, or a missile the Houthi rebels had never used before. From the size of the blast crater the missile left when it was fired Ali suspected it was a missile larger than the ones the Houthis had used so far.

  A much bigger part ached to be able to attack the country supplying the Houthis — Iran.

  Iran had always denied supplying the Houthis with missiles. Of course, it had never been able to explain the missile debris with Farsi characters stenciled into the metal found in both Yemeni launch sites and targets in Saudi Arabia. Farsi, a language spoken almost exclusively in Iran. Or suggested an alternative source of missiles for the Houthis, who certainly weren't capable of manufacturing the missiles themselves.

  Ali had made the case to his superiors that they either needed to send more troops and armor to Yemen, or radically change their tactics. He had argued repeatedly that tanks should be sent out in platoon strength, not company. Ali knew that one reason for sending out tanks a dozen at a time was fear of having a prince killed or — even worse — captured. He had offered to give up his command if it meant a smaller, quicker force would be deployed to reported launch sites.

  The answer had still been no, because there was no appetite for the political consequences of Saudi casualties in any significant number.

  Especially since the missile attacks had been largely ineffective thanks to American-supplied Patriot missile interceptors and the poor accuracy of the missiles. So far.

  Ali had also argued for greater focus on the missiles by the Royal Saudi Air Force (RSAF). Unfortunately, those assets were controlled by another prince, with his own ambitions. RSAF Commander Prince Khaled bin Fahd believed the Houthis needed to be attacked wherever they were to be found, and that if they could just kill them all there would be no one left to fire the missiles. So, while he would sometimes act on missile site reports, if he had alternative targets to attack with more reported Houthis, that's where his planes would go.

  As often as not, either the intelligence reports Khaled acted on were faulty or dated, or his pilots missed their target. The civilian death toll that resulted was becoming a real problem. Not because Ali, Khaled or anyone else in the Saudi royal family was concerned about Yemeni civilian deaths.

  Instead, it was because though the Americans had sold the Saudis all the weapons and ammo they'd asked for and supplied them with satellite imagery and other intelligence for free, they were unpredictable. Today they were willing to tolerate the criticism from those worried about Yemeni civilian casualties. One election could radically change that, though, and Ali thought only a fool would count on American support indefinitely.

  Ali sighed, and climbed down into the tank to use its radio. Time to find out what damage this missile had caused, and whether someone would be willing to change a strategy that had been failing for years.

  Assembly of Experts Secretariat, Qom, Iran

  Grand Ayatollah Reza Fagheh nodded dismissal to the servant who had brought tea for him and his guest, Farhad Mokri. Reza showed every one of his seventy years in his lined face, white hair and beard and stooped shoulders, but a sharp intelligence still glittered in his dark eyes. By contrast, Farhad with his slim frame, thick black hair and erect posture looked like the university student he had been until recently, and was only twenty-six.

  They were meeting in the Assembly of Experts Secretariat building in the holy city of Qom, about a two-hour drive south of Tehran. Reza was Deputy Chairman of the Assembly of Experts, which both chose Iran’s Supreme Leader and advised him once chosen.

  Reza was a candidate for Supreme Leader, and was now acting in that position due to the current Supreme Leader’s terminal illness. All the doctors could say was that there was no cure, he could die any day, and was unlikely to emerge from his coma before he did. Until he actually died, Reza had the acting Supreme Leader title.

  Reza knew, though, that he had to tread carefully. The Assembly expected him to act solely as a caretaker until a new Supreme Leader was chosen, and any new initiatives could hurt his chances in the upcoming selection by his fellow clerics if they became known prematurely.

  Reza knew those chances were slim, and that he would probably be passed over for a man he despised, who despite his denials Reza was certain would lead Iran down a new and dangerous path of reconciliation with the West. It was a path that could even lead to the end of control by Iran’s religious leaders.

  That could never be allowed.

  Reza had decided on a risky gamble that would either see him selected as Supreme Leader, or executed for treason. With Iran’s future at stake, and at his age only a handful of years left in any case, courage was not hard to find.

  “So, Farhad, tell me about the progress you have made since we last met,” Reza said, in a tone that made it plain he expected a positive answer.

  He was not disappointed.

  “I have made contact with one of the surviving Saudi resistance organizations. I was fortunate in being able to reach a Saudi I knew from my student days in the United States. His father was an outspoken critic of the government who simply disappeared while my friend was still a child. I know him well enough to be sure he is not a Saudi government plant, even without that history. The best part is that since we know each other well, I believe it will be relatively easy to obtain his organization’s participation in our plan — while making him believe it was his idea.”

  Reza nodded. “Excellent. So, he knows of your uncle’s leading role in our nuclear weapons program?”

  Farhad smiled. “Indeed he does.”

  Reza pursued his lips. “I see you used some of the funds I provided to set up an online presence for the organization that will be the initial facade for our attack. Why did you decide on Al-Nahda for its name?”

  Farhad shrugged. “Well, it was obvious that the name should be Arabic
rather than Farsi, which would have pointed straight at us.”

  Reza gestured impatiently, which Farhad knew meant to move on from the obvious.

  “I thought ‘Renaissance’ sounded plausible, and though it has been used by a few political parties in North Africa, I could find no organizations resisting governmental authority using the name.”

  Reza‘s face twisted with distaste. “You spent too much time at that American university. ‘Organizations resisting governmental authority’? I think you mean ‘terrorist’.”

  Farhad smiled. “Well, I know you agree with me that those of us in the organization’s leadership are certainly not terrorists.”

  As he saw Reza’s face begin to turn crimson Farhad thought maybe he had gone too far. After a few seconds, though, he saw Reza visibly regain control.

  “You have a point. Did you know that Al-Nahda, besides the general meaning of Renaissance, also refers to a specific cultural movement that began in Egypt about one hundred thirty years ago, and then spread to Ottoman territories?”

  Farhad nodded. “Yes, but I don’t believe that movement is well known to many besides scholars such as yourself. Anyway, I don’t think it stops us from reusing the term.”

  Reza nodded absently. “I agree. So, what are your next steps?”

  Farhad shrugged. “I will be busy. I plan to meet my Saudi friend in Brussels, where we are unlikely to be tracked by Saudi intelligence. While I am here in Iran I will meet with my uncle. Finally, I will meet with the Qatari prince who had expressed interest in striking back against the reimposed Saudi blockade.”

  Reza smiled. “Yes, you will indeed be busy. Now, what do you need from me?”

  Farhad hesitated. “I know this is a delicate subject. But since we last talked, have you given further thought to arming the ballistic missiles we have been providing to the Yemeni rebels with VX warheads? Unless we strike the Saudi’s air bases with them, any armored advance we organize towards Riyadh can be easily destroyed from the air.”

  Reza grimaced. “I’m sorry I told you we had them. When I saw we had the technical capability I ordered the production of VX as a way to retaliate against an Israeli nuclear attack, and we only have enough for two warheads.

  The truth is Ayatollah Khomeini himself told me he wanted Iran to avoid such weapons at all costs. He saw what they could do when Iraq used them against us in the 1980s, and considered them truly evil.”

  Farhad spread his hands and nodded his understanding. “But he was thinking about their use against hundreds of thousands on the battlefield, as happened against us. The number of casualties from strikes on Saudi air bases will be far less. And we must be practical. Most of the Saudi’s planes will be in hangers hardened against anything short of a direct missile hit if we use a warhead armed with only conventional explosives. A VX strike will kill most of their trained pilots and contaminate the planes, making them useless.”

  Reza sighed. “Very well. I will give the necessary orders. Some experts in the West must suspect we have a chemical weapons program anyway.”

  Farhad frowned. “How is that? I have seen nothing in the press, and our enemies are normally very free with their accusations.”

  Reza nodded. “It was a small slip, and by itself proves nothing. Our chemists synthesized five Novichok nerve agents for analysis and added descriptions of their spectral properties to the database of the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons.”

  Farhad stared. “When did they do this?”

  Reza arched one eyebrow. “2016.”

  Farhad shook his head. “Two years before the Russians used Novichok to attack the spy in England who had betrayed them and his daughter.”

  Reza shrugged. “Yes. Fortunately, the OPCW’s reaction was to congratulate us for adding information to their database that had not previously been available in open scientific literature.”

  Farhad smiled. “Amazing. Now, I know our missile program suffered a heavy blow when General Moghaddam was killed in 2011, and that development of improved ballistic weapons was set back for years. Has it finally been possible to make Khorramshahr 2 missiles available to the Yemenis?”

  Reza nodded. “Yes. Their two thousand kilometer range and improved accuracy will make a meaningful hit on Riyadh far more likely.”

  Farhad smile broadened. “Excellent. We will need to convince the Saudis the threat from Yemen is real if we are going to draw a substantial amount of their army south.”

  Farhad then frowned. “Of course, there’s no way to be sure that this plan will work. The Saudis could simply leave Yemen and end their blockade against Qatar, and it would be over.”

  Reza nodded gravely. “As always, we must put our faith in God. If we are carrying out his will, obstacles will fall before us. If not, then it was not meant to be.”

  Reza paused. “Of course, he still expects our best effort.”

  Farhad smiled. “Naturally. Now, once I find out from my uncle what we have to work with, can I call upon you for help with transport?”

  Reza gestured dismissively. “Of course. I know for a fact that the program developed at least one nuclear weapon and that it still exists, but could find out no more without arousing suspicion. That is one secret that is truly… secret. As it should be. It would be unfortunate if our enemies in the West were to learn of it. Even worse if the first to find out were the cursed Zionists.”

  Farhad nodded vigorously, but said nothing. Everyone knew the Zionists had nuclear weapons, and if they learned of their existence in Iran might use one or more to make sure Iran had them no longer.

  Reza continued, “I have men loyal to the Revolution with access to trucks, ships and planes. Simply tell me what you need.”

  Farhad rose, understanding both the reference to the 1979 Iranian Revolution that had installed the current theocracy, and that their meeting was over. “I hope soon to report on further progress towards our goal.”

  Reza nodded irritably as Farhad beat a hasty retreat. At his age, Reza had no time for pleasantries. His fondest hope was that instead he still had the time needed to keep Iran true to the Revolution and its sacred goals.

  Brussels, Belgium

  "I know how to bring down the House of Saud," Abdul Rasool declared with a confidence his Iranian friend Farhad Mokri found amusing. He was, though, successful in keeping the smile from his lips.

  "Well, if anyone would know how, I'd expect it to be a Saudi," Farhad said gravely. "Let us keep our voices down, though. Even here, you can never be sure who is listening," he said, looking around the square as he spoke, and taking a sip of the excellent Belgian coffee.

  It was a chilly and windy March morning, and Brussels' Grand Place had very few tourists in it besides Abdul and Farhad. The waitress had looked at them dubiously when they told her they wanted a table outside, but had shrugged when Farhad had explained they wanted to "take in the view." And it was spectacular, with impressive structures on all sides enclosing a vast space, dwarfing their small table.

  After delivering their coffees the shivering waitress had beat a hasty retreat and given Abdul and Farhad, bundled in warm jackets, the privacy that was the real point of their selection.

  "We do it by taking away the source of their income. Ultimately, the Saudi monarchy depends on the money coming in from the sale of petroleum, both refined and crude. Take that away, and the whole structure collapses," Abdul said confidently.

  Farhad nodded. "In general, I agree with you. We must remember that the House of Saud has used its oil money to buy vast assets overseas, such as the refinery at Port Arthur, Texas which is the largest in the US. But many of those assets, like that refinery, could not quickly be turned into cash to pay bills at home."

  Abdul smiled. “Exactly. And even if the monarchy had enough money to keep the lights on for a while without a continuous flow of oil money, the shock of an immediate future with no source of national income would be enough to provoke the revolution we need to rid ourselves of the House
of Saud."

  Farhad shrugged. “Very well, that leaves the obvious question — How do you propose to cut off the petroleum income that keeps the Saudi monarchy in power?"

  Abdul grinned and punched Farhad in the shoulder. "Remember when we watched an old Bond film where the conclusion was set in the Middle East while we were in college?"

  Farhad rubbed his shoulder, sighed and nodded. "Yes, I remember you saying the plan to use nuclear weapons could never have worked in Saudi Arabia. You said that the fools running the country had depleted the underground aquifers like those shown in the film to grow wheat. I also remember you saying they did it when some in the West threatened a food boycott to match the OPEC oil boycott, and the Saudi monarchy decided self- sufficiency in wheat was critical. But they grew the best wheat for desert conditions, which turned out to make bread no Saudi would eat. So they exported the wheat at world market prices, about five percent of the cost of production. And so much of the groundwater is gone, and most drinking water is now from desalination plants, produced at enormous expense and piped hundreds of miles inland."

  Abdul nodded. “I have always known your memory was impressive. But did you ever consider the use of a nuclear weapon to contaminate the Saudi oil reserves and make petroleum from them impossible to sell abroad?"

  Farhad shrugged. “Two problems immediately come to mind. First, how would we get a nuclear weapon? Second, how could we deliver it to the target?"

  Abdul smiled. “When i saw you a few months ago, you mentioned you had an uncle who had gone back to teaching after the deal the Americans reached with the Iranian government shut down its nuclear program. Are you still in touch with him now that the deal is off?"

  Ministry of Defense, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Prince Ali bin Sultan looked around him at the others at the conference room table at the Ministry of Defense. At the head of the table was the Crown Prince, the Defense Minister. Everyone else at the table was either a field commander in Yemen like him, or one of their counterparts in the Ministry.