Like everyone else, Captain Rahman was dressed in semi-combat gear. He rose to his feet and wished everyone “
“I should like to tell you of a vacation in Spain made in recent years by a King of Saudi Arabia,” he said. “He arrived in a private Boeing 747 accompanied by an entourage of three hundred and fifty, and three more aircraft, one of which was kitted out as a hospital. His vast retinue swelled to over three thousand in a few days. There were more than fifty black Mercedes cars and an intensive-care unit and operating theatre built into his woodland palace near Marbella. This building is a replica of the White House in Washington, where else?
“It cost fifteen hundred dollars a day in flowers! What with the King’s water being flown in weekly from Mecca, his lamb, rice, and dates coming in from other places in Arabia, the King’s bills were knocking hard at almost five million dollars a day. By the time the enormous court of Saudi Arabia left Spain, they had banged a hole in ninety million.
“The Spanish call any Saudi ruler by one simple name: King Midas. And there are those among us who think this entirely unnecessary — this lunatic expenditure, reckless extravagance, founded on wealth essentially bestowed upon us by Allah himself.
“It’s not as if the King earned it or even won it. He was given it, at birth. In our view, he is the custodian and guardian of the nation’s wealth. It’s not his to fling around any way he wants. And it certainly ought not to be at the disposal of his thirty-five thousand relatives, who somehow believe they have the right to do anything they damn well please with it either.
“I don’t know if you are aware of this, but every last member of the Saudi royal family travels free on the national airline, Saudia. Well, there’s over thirty thousand of them now, and since it is customary for princes to have a minimum of forty sons, sometimes fifty, there may be sixty thousand of them before long. That’s two hundred of them flying free every working day of the year. And since most of them fly at least twenty times a year, that’s four thousand of ’em a day! Jumping in and out of aircraft free of charge. I have one question: is that in any way reasonable?”
The al-Qaeda commander paused. And before him he saw many heads shake, mostly in astonishment. There were also many nods of approval at his words. The numbers he quoted were indeed quite shocking. But there was a more shocking one to come.
“Twenty years ago,” said Captain Rahman, “my country held cash reserves of a hundred twenty billion dollars. Today those reserves are down to less than twenty billion. Because of our close involvement with the United States, the government is paying ‘protection money’ to al-Qaeda. Hundreds of millions of dollars. Saudi Arabia was paying the Taliban to ‘protect’ Osama bin Laden.
“The battle we are about to fight in the hills of southwestern Saudi Arabia, and in the streets of Riyadh, is not revolution, nor even
A young French soldier, deadly serious, called out, “And there really is a feeling in the country that will help us to achieve our victory?”
“Stronger than you will ever know,” replied the Captain. “In the mosque schools all over the country they are turning out young men who have been taught to follow the old ways, the customs of the Bedouins, the ones who represent our roots. We are a natural people of the desert, but our enemies in neighboring countries are closing in around us. Almost the whole of Islam believes we have let down the Palestinians, failed to help them in the most terrible injustices committed against them by the Zionists.
“Other Arab leaders feel we have allowed Islam to be humiliated. And, in a sense, that is precisely what the government of Saudi Arabia has allowed to happen. We were all born to be a God-fearing nation, following the words of the Koran, the teachings of the Prophet, helping the poorer parts of our nation, not spending ninety million dollars on a vacation like King Midas.”
At this point, General Rashood himself looked up. “Every Arab knows that the situation in Saudi Arabia cannot continue. There is too much education for that. I believe I read somewhere that two out of every three Ph.D.’s awarded in Saudi Arabia are for Islamic studies. The Saudi Arabian royal family’s greatest threat is from within. The clerics are teaching truth. It’s just a matter of time before the whole thing explodes.”
“Just a matter of time,” said Captain Rahman. “And I believe we will hasten that time. And the good Prince Nasir will come to power and make the changes we must have. I know this seems a very ruthless, reckless way of attaining our ends, but it is the only way. And the new Saudi ruler will owe a debt of gratitude to France that may never be repaid.” The Captain hesitated before adding, with a smile, “But I understand he will most certainly try.”
General Jobert stood up and announced, “I will now call out the members of each team. Your commanding officers have given this considerable thought. But the three teams of eighteen men have very different tasks, and the command headquarters situated in the hills close to the action also has a critical role to play.
“Please now, everyone pay attention while I make a roll call:
Two hundred and fifty miles to the west of Paris is the sprawling headquarters of the French Navy, around the estuary of Brest, where the Penfeld River runs into the bay. This is the western outpost of Brittany, home to France’s main Atlantic base, where they keep the mighty 12,000-ton Triomphant-class ballistic-missile submarines. Not to mention the main Atlantic strike force and, from 2005, the French attack submarines, the hunter-killers.
Adm. Marc Romanet, Flag Officer Submarines, and Adm. Georges Pires, Commander of the French Navy’s Special Ops Division, were standing in a light drizzle wearing heavy Navy top-coats, right out at the end of the south jetty, beyond which France’s submarines swung to port for entry into their home base.
They could see her now, way down in the bottleneck, over two miles to the west, on the surface, making six knots up the channel in twenty fathoms. Through the glasses Admiral Romanet could see three figures standing on the bridge. One of them he knew was the young commanding officer, Capt. Alain Roudy.
His submarine was called
This was she. The 2,500-ton
She’d been down in France’s Mediterranean Command Base for her major refit for almost six months. And she was a lot more important today than she was last May when she went in. At that time it had been assumed that the Saudi mission would be carried out by one of the brand-new boats scheduled to come out of Project Barracuda. But that program had been subject to mild but critical delay, and Prince Nasir could not wait.
He had been to see the President three times. And three times the President had insisted that the Navy move fast, in two oceans, and cripple the Saudi oil industry before the new year of 2010 was more than three months old.
The three men who had principally to deal with that request were the two Admirals who now stood at the end of the south jetty, plus their guest, who was currently sheltering from the rain in the Navy staff car parked beneath the bright quick-flashing harbor warning light at the tip of the jetty, Gaston Savary, France’s Secret Service Chief.
Admiral Pires had invited Savary to visit because he knew the pressure under which the President had placed him. He considered the least he could do was to show Savary the underwater warship upon which all of their hopes, and probably their careers, depended.
Tonight there would be a small working dinner at Admiral Romanet’s home, where Savary would meet the commanding officer, and much would be explained. This was to be the first briefing for Captain Roudy. And, privately, Savary thought he would probably have a heart attack. It was not, after all, an everyday mission.
