Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
END
John H Barker Word Count: 41,803
476 Woondum Road
Gympie 4570
Australia
0403966732
Email: [email protected]
IN THE NATIONAL INTEREST
By J Harvey Barker
To Jess and Mike
For your assistance
“Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel”
Samuel Johnson
This is a work of fiction concieved in the mind of the author, intertwined with the facts from Official Findings and news reports. The book is dedicated to all the poor souls who lost their lives on Malaysian Flights MH370 and MH17
Chapter 1
The matt grey drone flying at 30000 ft (ca. 9 kilometres) carved lazy figure of eight patterns in the glare of a cloudless Arabian sky. It was impossible for an observer at ground level to see or hear it from that height. It's powerful camera held a steady view of the targeted compound, with its weathered walls enclosing a few mud brick houses. A roustabout dressed in flowing robes shifted his sandalled feet in the dust and lit another cigarette, his fourth in the last half hour. He was distinctly showing signs of nervousness, at least that was the impression given to the servicemen watching him.
Five thousand miles away deep, beneath the aquamarine waters surrounding the island of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, sat three military personnel, dressed in the camouflage uniforms of the United States Marines. The room was in semi darkness. Illuminated by red overhead lights and the glow of the flat screen monitors mounted on the wall. Two rows of four stood against a long bench which supported black joysticks similar to those used by gamers, with computer mice sitting on dull mouse mats. The three officers sat opposite each terminal, one man, whose hand gripped a joystick, followed the assigned track moving the stick to hold the drone on its course.
Bob Chuck, of Asian extraction, call sign “Chuckles”, watched another of the monitors, keeping a wider view of the area from a satellite feed high above.
“Dust coming up from the North”. His voice was crisp without raising its volume. “Got it.” Lieutenant Bradley lifted his thumb to the hat switch on the joystick and manoeuvred the camera on the drone to peer at the sand cloud and zoomed in. “A minibus, No, two in convoy” he announced.
The eye of the radio-controlled aircraft looked down onto the targets following their approach “About two miles away”, he said, observing the quarry bounce and sway along the dusty road. “He might be using the buses as cover, keep monitoring them”, another voice from the gloom in the back of the room suggested quietly.
The military group watched the little convoy until it pulled up in a cloud of dust outside the compound. Consisting of a few mud-brick houses and out-buildings, enclosed by a mud adobe wall with double gates set into the southern side. The chain-smoker, having picked up an AK-47 from its hiding place, at the sound of the approaching buses, moved to the driver's window and exchanged words with him. There was much hand waving and pointing before the chain-smoker opened the gate to the enclosure and let the two vehicles inside.
The military personnel watched on as a group of children descended from the buses. More youngsters scurried out from one of the larger dwellings in the compound and enthusiastically greeted the newly arrived. A few moments later two women dressed in burqas came out of the house and hustled the large group of kiddies inside.
“Mini-Jihadists on the ground” the Lieutenant observed to no one specifically. This was a complication, but not cause for alarm at this stage.
The chain smoker returned to his vigil after hiding the AK-47, positioning it under the sack where he could rapidly reach it. Thirty minutes elapsed before the voice of “Chuckles” announced another cloud of dust was approaching. The lieutenant again took control of the joystick and targeted the new sand haze. Using the powerful zoom lens on the drone, the picture of a dusty, biscuit coloured Mercedes-Benz, filled the screen in front of him. The windows were heavily dark tinted so no one could observe the passengers from outside the vehicle.
“This looks more promising” said a voice from the gloom to the rear of the room, “Heads up everyone”.
The Mercedes was moving fast, the suspension doing overtime ironing out the bumps of the pot holed dirt track. “Chain-smoker” retrieved the AK-47 from its cover, at the first sound of the approaching vehicle. Within two minutes the car pulled up in a cloud of dust, outside the compound gates. The driver kept the engine running. Chain-smoker greeted the arrival, with motions resembling a bow and salute. A body guard who had exited the Mercedes even before it had entirely come to a standstill restrained him. A second protector had alighted promptly and was ready to open the passenger’s door. He gestured to “Chain-smoker” to unbolt the gate and when he had done so, rapidly moved a adult dressed in the traditional silver stitch style hat, the perahan tunban with a golden waistcoat and paizars, on through, shielding him with his large body. The second bodyguard reached into the rear of the vehicle, retrieving a few gaily wrapped parcels which he carried into the compound. He followed his master in to the house.
“Intel is good'' uttered the voice in the gloom, into a handset. He listened for a few minutes before saying, We have a complication Sir, Mini’s are on the ground”. He communicated this information to the unseen person on the end of the telephone line.
“Yes Sir.”
“No Sir.”
“Wilco.”
The speaker from the shadows sighed before lowering the receiver.
“And three bags full, Sir”, Bradley reflected to himself, a wry smile etching his face.
“Green Light Gentlemen” the voice from the gloom stated.
“What about the Mini’s?” enquired the third man at the bench.
“It’s an order, Mister. We have been chasing this asshole for a long time. Collateral damage is unavoidable”, he said.
“Whizzy” Johnson was the weapons officer. It was his job to put th
e laser targeting system onto the mark and direct the missile to it once released by the drone.
The military had instilled a need to follow orders, there could be no room for personal conscience in the Marines. “Sir” was his curt reply. Bradley worked the controller and the drone immediately responded to his inputs.
It turned to a trajectory which would enable its cameras, infra-red and visual, the best view for zeroing in.
The lieutenant flipped the electrical components on his panel and on the joystick. Instantly this resulted in a green crosshair appearing on the monitor in front of him. Using the hat control he centred the targeting reticule over the designated house.
Pushing sundry buttons the crosshairs came alive with extra information. Altitude, time to mark, wind speed, elevation and much more.
With a flick of another switch he armed the missile, an AGM Hellfire air to ground weapon capable of destroying a hardened bunker.
“Whizzy” Johnson positioned the laser which would guide the projectile onto its target.
The three servicemen each communicated their readiness for the strike.
Chuckles announced, “Clear of surrounding air and ground hostiles”.
The Lieutenant spoke, “Drone set on course, all systems operational, over to you Whizzy, say when”.
Johnson answered, “I have the missile, Fire when ready”.
Bradley pulled the trigger on his joystick.
High above the desert floor a flash of light revealed the projectiles` separation from the drone. A snaking trail of smoke streaked out behind.
Whizzy’s screen showed the missile turn to intercept the invisible laser beam projecting from the pilotless aircraft. Arrow straight, it followed the signal until it exploded into a bright red and yellow flash.
The camera on the drone revealed the devastation on the target below. The whole compound had disintegrated into piles of smoking rubble.
“Excellent job all” came the voice from the gloom. “Bring it home”.
The three military men responsible for the mass killing showed no emotion. They were just doing their job.
The morning papers the day after the drone strike screamed with banner headlines ranging from, “U.S. KILLS MAJOR TERRORIST LEADER” to “U.S. KILLS 38 WOMEN AND CHILDREN AT BIRTHDAY PARTY” depending on the partisan leaning of the newspaper. Television and radio programs reflected the same outrage. A few blamed the groups of Islamist fundamentalists for the unending war with the Western Nations. Others accused the Imperialists of the United States and it's Allies of an atrocity in their war on Islam.
Political leaders from around the globe decried the terrible loss of life.
Chapter 2
Captain Zaharie Ahmad Shah sat on his balcony, the New Straits Times folded to his left, a fresh coffee, and Kaya toast placed in front of him by the Amah. Zaharie, as he preferred to friends and colleagues, was middle-aged and bald. His brown skin and ready smile made the ladies consider him quite attractive. A trait which he had used to success in seducing a few of his female cabin crew on those long layovers in foreign ports. Because of his Affairs de Coeur his spouse and offspring had moved out of their residence in the gated community to another apartment that they jointly owned.
The Black Dog of Depression frequently overwhelmed him. Loneliness surrounded him. Without his partner and children around him the abode was a quiet and disconsolate place. He sought relief from the dreaded silence by indulging himself in his favourite pursuits. He held dinner parties for his friends, cooking them exotic dishes which he would display on the internet. He enjoyed fishing, oft-times hiring a boat to take him and companions out into the abundant waters off the coast of Malaysia.
For the most part however, he would derive pleasure from playing on his computer, especially his very realistic flight simulator program.
He was not an overly devout Muslim, yet he had tested his faith and had questioned it’s teachings for some time now. He had even watched the presentations and studied the books of Richard Dawkins, such as “The God Delusion”, but in his state of melancholia he’d sought solace in reading passages from The Quran. It did not occur to him that he needed any help through his depression, it was “Inshallah”, God's Will.
He unfolded the newspaper.
The headlines roared at him, “US DRONE STRIKE KILLS WOMEN & CHILDREN AT BIRTHDAY PARTY”. He became incensed at the ruthlessness of the Americans. This was an outrage. More than one thousand innocent lives had lost in the past twelve months in the Bush/Obama’s “War On Terror”. The United States and its’ Allies appeared to have an attitude that Muslim souls did not matter. This notion burnt itself into his brain like hot lead. The world needed to stand up against this indiscriminate carnage.
Having controlled his disgust he turned the page. “Anwar Ibrahim Arrested AGAIN” the headline read.
Zaharie was a passionate supporter of Anwar Ibrahim, before and after his imprisonment.
He would rave about the injustices of the political system and of the corruption of Anwar’s detractors.
He was especially critical of the nation’s leader Prime Minister Mahathir, something that could cause you a great deal of trouble with Malaysia’s police in the time of Mahathir’s reign as head of the UMNO ruling party.
Anwar Ibrahim arrested again, those words sank him into an even deeper state of depression.
He read the full article agonizing over the fate of his hero, vowing to do something to shame the corrupt government officials who in his mind, had dared to accuse the best hope for democracy in Malaysia, of unseemly and unnatural acts.
He finished his breakfast and strolled through to his “Computer Room”, the spare bedroom at the rear of the apartment.
His electronic set-up of a powerful desk-top box and associated peripherals was the envy of several of his on-line fellow flight-simmers.
The first apparatus one noticed were the three twenty-six inch, high resolution video displays positioned atop a curved faux wood desk. The equipment sat angled toward a central casing specifically made for the purpose. A smaller high-definition array replicated the centre console and overhead panels of an airliner. Adjoining to that housing was a Logitech Flight Yoke, Logitech Pro Flight Throttle System, and below was a Logitech G Pro Flight Pedal unit. To the right of the operator's seat a touch screen monitor lay horizontally where the centre console instrument panel would be. Another 2-dimensional display was overhead. Both reproduced the switch control board of a full size aircraft.
Zaharie was proud of his computer set-up. He would join groups of like-minded aviators online and fly with them in instant time, becoming immersed in the moment and finding hours had disappeared before returning to the “real” world. He sat in the comfortable chair placed strategically in the best position for accessing the assorted peripherals and turned it on.
The computer sprang to life with its usual sequential sounds.
The fan whirred, followed by the respective beeps, flashing of lights on the keyboard, control yoke, throttle and other electronic equipment. The seven monitors all flickered on. He typed in the password and launched his email account.
He’d received numerous e-mails since checking in only hours earlier, all came from friends he subscribed to. He opened, and read through each in turn before deleting them. Nearly every one of them had fumed over the atrocities. The Americans waged their war against the daughters and children of Islam. Several had embedded pictures of the carnage in vivid detail.
Zaharie saw it was scandalous. The world-wide members of his faith, even those like himself, who were not fervent in the expression of their beliefs, sensed it was a war in conflict with Islam itself, and not a war against terrorists. He closed down his email and opened a staff portal for Malaysian Airways to check his schedule for the next few days. The crew conducted this routine daily as alterations could occur anytime.
Personnel reported sick, aircraft became unserviceable and weather or political factors caused staff changes at sh
ort notice.
His roster showed him on at midnight for a flight to Singapore’s Changi Airport. He would have a stopover for a few hours before taking the trip onto Jakarta’s Soekarno-Hatta International, where he would overnight ahead of returning to Kuala Lumpur. He checked his listing for the coming month and compared it to the typed version and saw no apparent alterations. He was aware this could change at any time.
Closing the windows for these accounts, he opened his Microsoft Flight Simulator. Donning the headset, he searched for the crowd he regularly flew with. He launched his Discord program and progressed down the list of persons on-line seeking his friends. In a moment he found the group he was looking for, and he clicked in. “Hi everyone,” he said into the receiver microphone. All those in the gang responded with an enthusiastic greeting. “Where are we flying today guys?” he asked. The leader of the assembly answered they were going to do a Redbull Air Race. “I'm in” offered Zaharie. “OK” came the reply. It was a pleasure to have him join them as he was a knowledgable and very adept pilot. Zaharie had uploaded pictures of his computer set-up and videos of his best flights into and out of difficult airports with indifferent weather conditions. He had their respect as he took his aviation simulation seriously, as did they.
Chapter 3
For the next few months Zaharie Ahmad Shah performed his usual routine.
He flew the airliners to sundry cities, played his computer simulations and visited his children, but he was a lonely human without purpose.
His life appeared to have no aim, he lived in a dream. He scanned the New Straits Times and other newspapers, and read on the forums he followed, how the Americans had murdered over two thousand innocents since the commencement of their bloody war on terror. And now his hero Anwar Ibrahim was to put on trial for Sodomy! It was as if the world had become insane.
The “Black Dog” of depression and anxiety was taking over his brain The turmoil in his perception process caused him to believe it fell to him to seek retribution.
In The National Interest Page 1
