“It might as well be the end of the world,” he said to Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid.
“Not to us,” Mishaal replied, taking a sip of fruit juice. “Our history is down there. Bedouins are in every walk of Saudi life today, but thousands of them still live in the great desert. That lure of the sands is magical and never leaves us. Even in cities, it is not unusual to see the owner of a home have a tent in his garden.”
“Have you ever even ridden a camel?” Swanson asked with a grin.
“Of course. Once. For a holiday photo.” The prince tapped the soft cushion of his seat. “I also do not sleep on a goat’s hide, nor do I use an abacus to count. We embrace modernity and technology but have leapt from camels to pickup trucks in an incredibly short time.”
“Oil,” Kyle commented.
“Yes, oil,” Mishaal agreed, and changed the subject. “Are you ready to get to work?”
“I am ready to help,” Swanson replied. He was more than ready. The prospect of action was surging through his mind and body.
“I have a feeling we will need every gun we can get.” The prince looked at his watch and picked up a telephone handset on the nearby bulkhead to call his aide, who had been up front at the communications console tracking the developing situation. The prince told him to come back to the main cabin and give them a briefing. They would be landing in about twenty minutes.
BLACK SMOKE RISING IN columns folded into a single dark cloud over the military base that dominated the flat landscape at Ash Mutayr. A small village by that name lay on the west side of the military facility, between the base and National Route 15. Smoke also spouted from inside the town. The mutiny had spilled beyond the fence.
The long, paved airport runway was considered unsafe by the local commander, so their plane swooped in for a fast landing on a hard dirt strip on the far side of the main highway and taxied to a halt. The aide popped the door open and they hurried down the stairs and ran toward an old Bradley M2A1 fighting vehicle that was trundling forward to collect them.
Bright streaks of recent bullet strikes shone against its armor and it paused only long enough to spin on one track and lower the hydraulic rear ramp enough so they could scramble inside. It smelled of spent gunpowder, and all of the cradles that normally held TOW anti-tank missiles were empty. This Brad had been working hard.
The track commander was a lieutenant in a dirty, stained uniform who was also acting as the turret gunner. He yelled an order for the driver to get moving and opened up with his 25 mm chain gun toward a pair of armored M113 APCs that were charging toward them out of the base and down the main runway.
The chain gun slammed away like a jackhammer and incoming rounds whonked against the Bradley’s armor. As the brawny vehicle lunged ahead, the lieutenant screamed in pain and toppled from his seat, a chunk of meat missing from his right shoulder. The prince and Captain al-Muallami jumped to aid the wounded officer while Swanson climbed into the turret and took the handles of the big automatic weapon.
Swinging it around, he opened fire on the nearest APC and saw that the second armored vehicle was attacking the plane that had just landed. The aircraft attempted to escape but it was too slow and as it rolled forward, the rebel APC easily kept pace and tore it to shreds with machine-gun fire. The aircraft exploded on the sand and the APC raked the wreckage to be certain there were no survivors. The second rebel APC broke off its pursuit of the Bradley, and Kyle stopped shooting.
BRIGADIER GENERAL MOHAMED HASHIM could not even salute when the prince ducked into the command post. The base commander’s right arm was broken and rested awkwardly in a sling. Dots of blood were on his shirt from small shrapnel wounds. He was working the radio with his left hand. Hashim had been a soldier all of his life, starting as a common National Guard private. He eventually graduated from the King Khalid Military College and was a veteran, but the fire was gone from within him and his eyes were dull with fatigue.
“What happened?” asked Prince Mishaal, taking the radio handset and giving it to a nearby officer. He guided Hashim to a chair. “Stay seated, my friend, and tell me what is going on.”
Hashim grimaced. When he was not busy, he could feel the pain. “I am happy to see you, Mishaal. I just wish you were leading ten thousand soldiers in here to crush this rebellion.
“The local imam had turned his mosque in town into an antigovernment platform. Yesterday, during the evening prayers, he called for an uprising and convinced several hundred soldiers that they had a holy duty to kill their officers and take over the base. When I learned of that, I had the imam arrested.”
Mishaal nodded, his eyes probing those of the general. He saw pain and shame. “That was the correct thing to do. You posted additional security?”
The general said that he did. “About midnight, an armed squad of soldiers decided to rescue the imam and a firefight started. That was all it took, colonel. Just a few shots and everything, all of the simmering tensions of the past few days, blew up. The soldiers started choosing sides and with access to weapons, the mutiny grew larger by the hour.”
Kyle Swanson saw a map hanging on a wall of the two-story home that was serving as a command post. He did not like the defeatist tone in the general’s voice. The American listened with one ear as he studied the map. The base was laid out in a huge rectangle that began on the edge of the town and stretched several miles to the east. A military runway that was ten thousand feet long underlined the base on the south like a black streak, with a parallel and narrower taxiway. A two-story control tower was at the center point and big hangars were at the eastern end. Swanson guessed, based on his experience in Khobz, that the missile and warhead were down there in the hangars. Various buildings were clustered along internal roads, and a fence lined the perimeter. To the west lay the town, the long runway marked the southern edge, but to the north and east was only desert, as far as the map extended.
“Where is the rebel command post?” he asked an officer, who hesitated before responding.
“Tell him everything,” came a sharp voice from behind, and Captain al-Muallami appeared at his side, his tunic stained with the blood of the wounded Bradley track commander.
“They are using the control tower beside the runway.” The officer put his finger on the map.
Swanson moved to a window. The square, whitewashed multistory structure topped with aerials stood out in sharp contrast to its surroundings.
“Do they have any air assets?”
“There are seven helicopters in the hangars, but apparently none of the fliers defected, or the choppers were disabled. The armor has been our biggest problem.”
Kyle heard a groan of pain and looked over to where the commander was falling from his chair. A doctor had ripped off the shirt and found a wound pumping blood from beneath the right arm. When he tried to remove the broken limb from the sling, the colonel passed out.
Prince Mashaal stood aside to let the doctor work. He would have taken charge of the base defenders anyway, but with the general being put out of action, the transfer of command became easier. “Everyone! Give me your attention!” Activity in the room stopped and the officers and soldiers looked to the new, hard men who had arrived. “I am Prince Colonel Mishaal bin Khalid, and by order of His Majesty the King, I hereby assume command of this base. My American friend here is to be given every consideration, also by order of His Majesty. My aide, Captain al-Muallami, speaks with my authority, so listen to him, no matter what your own rank may be. Return to your duties now and someone bring me up to date on the current situation.”