Читаем Phoenix Sub Zero полностью

Not that destiny was helping them now: it was beginning to look as if the tide of the war was turning, the offensive brown streaks staining the computer-generated maps on the oversize consoles on the west wall of the headquarters level, the brown symbolizing the armored forces of the Western, Coalition, the West’s three recent invasions into UIF soil.

Their white-faced soldiers might soon march deeper into the heart of the United Islamic Front. There was only one way out of this, one way to stop the bleeding of the Islamic armies in the deserts, and that was to implement Ahmed’s plan, to use his plutonium polymer dispersion weapon, the Scorpion, and bring this war home to the leaders of the Coalition, the Americans. Ahmed wondered if Sihoud would welcome the missile or object to it. Although it would seem odd that the Khalib would spurn such a superweapon. General Sihoud continued to cling to a belief that the Islamic soldiers engaged in their holy jihad could still defeat the overfed soldiers of the Coalition without the marvels of high technology. But in this belief, Sihoud was mistaken. Perhaps it was he. Rakish Ahmed, who had let down the United Islamic Front in his failure to make Sihoud understand. Perhaps now was the time to bring Sihoud to the realization that a head-to-head battle with the Coalition could not be won.

And there was the other matter on Ahmed’s mind, the reports coming in of a Coalition plot to kill Sihoud. Sihoud’s stubborn refusal to command from the bunker made him play into any Western plot to assassinate him — Sihoud’s own bravado might be the factor that got him killed.

“General-and-Khalib, I’m worried about the Coalition invasions,” Ahmed said. “I’ve had a computer simulation run to project the near term outcome. I’ve been optimistic in my assumptions of our troop losses, fuel usage, and supply distribution. I’ve also projected that the Coalition’s supplies are held up and that their troops are poorly deployed. And the computer still shows the Coalition marching into Ashkhabad within the year.”

Sihoud reached into his scabbard for his knife. He pulled the instrument out, a long shining blade below a beautiful pearl handle with at least a dozen precious gems shining even in the dim light of the command center. Sihoud, as he always did when deep in thought, ran his finger slowly along the edge, and there were times when Ahmed was amazed that Sihoud never cut himself.

“A computer simulation,” Sihoud said. “As if an adding machine could capture the fighting spirit of our men. Rakish, you are too much the flying-machine technician, too little the field-soldier warrior.”

Ahmed gestured toward the oversized monitor repeater above the computer console, the map on it showing North Africa, the Middle East, and western Asia, the territories of the United Islamic Front of God, now under attack from the invading forces of the American and European armies. The Coalition had invaded the western shores of Morocco in North Africa. A central invasion force had obtained a foot hold on the Sinai Peninsula and within weeks would target Cairo. A third force had come ashore in the southeast on the southern coast of Iran, the preinvasion bombing so violent that much of southern Iran’s civilian population was wiped out, including Rakish Ahmed’s own town of Chah Bahar.

Rakish Ahmed knew of this war crime personally—he had been in the town to see to defenses along the coast, and at the Khalib’s invitation had stopped at his home to see his wife and young son. An hour after his arrival, the Coalition bombers had arrived, bombing the town into dust, killing Ahmed’s family, nearly killing him too. The episode had shaken him severely, his sleep filled with nightmares, his days spent fighting off memories.

The Coalition forces would come, Ahmed thought. Their objective was to drive toward Ashkhabad. Toward Sihoud.

* * *

“Khalib, we do not have the force for a three-front counterattack. We have material problems. The Japanese tanks and trucks and self-propelled artillery are excellent weapons — if they have fuel. The Firestar fighter jets have engine problems, they throw turbine blades — and what good are the most sophisticated electronics in the air if the airplanes are unable to fly? We have severe supply problems— supplies of every nature are short. We will barely be able to keep the men in the field fed. Our battle deaths cannot be replaced by young recruits. The Coalition is starting to bomb the refineries. The sky is growing black with oil fires. In six months our tanks and planes will begin to run out of fuel.”

Sihoud ran his finger slowly along the knife’s edge.