by Richard Mann
When he awakens, he has another vision—A golden-haired being surrounded by blue light, with white angel wings, dressed in white robes, with a gold belt, and a gold necklace with a blue jewel. He stands nine feet tall. Not human.
In his left hand, he holds a golden cup, and in his right hand, he holds a silver jewelled sword. It is the same sword the priest showed him. It has a gold handle and pommel, and the silver blade gives off a bluish light. The being walks towards him and smiles benevolently, and Peter is filled with hope.
The being speaks no words, but Peter feels comforted and reassured that in the end, all will be well.
As Peter looks on the angels beautiful face he witnesses an emotion: infinite love, then infinite joy, then infinite intelligence—a gateway to God.
Infinite power.
He is surrounded by a bright light, but not blinding—soft and gentle. The entity puts the golden cup to Peter’s mouth, and drinks a cool liquid, like crystal water, and he feels invigorated; the being does the same for Vinnie. It must be an angel thinks Peter, like in the bible stories? Is he dreaming? But Vinnie is with him. It must be real.
Then the being speaks.
‘I am the Archangel Michael. You are Caius, and I am your patron. You may only call me in times of great need. I have existed before time itself. I have existed before the creation of the Earth, before men, before the dinosaurs roamed the Earth. The sword will give you power, strength, and the will to succeed and conquer your enemies. It was created at the beginning of time by the Creator and given to me.’
Peter stood open-mouthed.
‘It can only be wielded by one such as yourself, a demi-god, else you would be obliterated. With my sword you will conquer your enemies and destroy evil, for that is its sacred purpose. You have been chosen for this task, and you must complete it. You agreed to this task before you incarnated onto this earthly plane.’
Michael solemnly gives him the sword. As Peter stands in the desert he admires the blade, and it vibrates in his hand, like it has a life of its own - the power running through his body. He takes a sharp intake of breath and feels invigorated and indestructible. The silver sword shines with a blue light and rivulets of lightning spring from it – he can see four words written on the sword, but written in an ancient tongue.
He has a vision of an ancient battle, knights in armour, shouts of joy and terror, and horses and mayhem. He tastes grass and dirt in his mouth. Then a desert and a large river nearby and an advancing army – the sun burns his face. Then another vision of a black ship towering above him, and his heart pumps with adrenaline as unhuman beings approach him from all sides. The tall being places his mind on Peter’s shoulder.
‘The water from the cup will sustain your mind and body in the battles ahead. I have spoken.’
Peter drinks from the cup again, and gives some to Vinnie, then asks, ‘What task?’ but the entity smiles and then is gone, the sword also is gone, and then they fall unconscious lying in the sand.
They awake, and Peter continues walking, energy renewed, but he is carrying Vinnie again, who is moaning incoherently. ‘Vinnie is not going to last much longer,’ thinks Peter.
They need a miracle.
The heat becomes unbearable, like an oven, the air hot and still with no breeze. ‘Just over the lip of that dune, I must make it to the top of the dune.’ Peter summons all his remaining strength and manages to crawl over the top, and Vinnie falls on top of him. They lie there in the shade of the dune, but it is midday, and the heat is stifling.
‘You look like shit,’ laughs Vinnie. ‘This is the end,’ thinks Peter, just before they both fall unconscious.
Chapter 14
The Bedouin
Peter is being prodded by something. His eyes are half open and his parched mouth and cracked lips try to speak. His eyesight is blurred as he tries to focus. He can see a dark brown, leathery face looking at him with keen eyes—kind, gentle eyes.
He is wearing a traditional red check headdress with a black band around it and white robes. He puts a goat water skin to Peter’s lips. The water is cool and pure as Peter gulps the water down his parched throat.
In perfect English, he speaks, ‘My name is Abd Al-Wali,’ and the Arab man bows. Peter feels refreshed as his quick mind analyses the name in Arabic. Peter bows to the man and shakes his hand.
‘Servant of the Guardian.’
‘That is correct,’ says Abd Al-Wali, ‘You are most knowledgeable for a Westerner.’
‘I studied Arabic,’ replied Peter. The kind Arab helps Vinnie to his feet and gives him more water from the skin.
Peter looks at the Bedouin nomad, for that is what he is, for no other Arab is as welcome to strangers. He is small and thin, for food is scarce in the desert, and being thin helps to dissipate body heat. His face is fierce, with a pointed, hawkish nose, olive skin, and sharp little beard. His eyes are kind, but wrinkled by years of squinting in the sun. He looks a bit rough but Peter’s gut instinct told him to trust him.
‘Come, you will be guests in my home.’
‘We are saved!’ thinks Peter as he reflects on the chance meeting in the desert. He and Vinnie climb onto a camel each, strap on their gear and follow their new friend. The camel looks back at Peter and sneers at him, showing its crooked teeth, and drooling saliva.
Late in the afternoon, they descend into a valley in the dunes, and it feels a bit cooler. Some Bedouin tents are arranged around a herd of goats and camels. Peter sees a small cluster of date palms and a few hardy plants—a small oasis in the middle of nowhere.
This peaceful, place of quiet and solitude. Is this the peace he has been seeking, thinks Peter?
They walk into the tent, and there is a flurry of activity, as their Arab host issues orders to his wife, daughters, and relatives. They scurry around preparing food and offering tea to their honoured guests. Peter watches as their new Bedouin friend’s son holds a goat by its neck.
Abd Al-Wali calls out to God, then makes a swift, deep incision with a sharp knife on the throat, cutting the jugular vein, windpipe and carotid arteries of both sides, but leaving the spinal cord intact. He carefully collects the blood from the goat in a jug.
‘Dhabīḥah,’ says Abd Al-Wali. Peter understands that the slaughter of an animal must be done in a certain way, it is Islamic law.
Outside the tent, they heat stones over charcoal and grill the freshly slaughtered goat meat. Peter has read up on Bedouin culture. Bedouins are expected to boil their last rice and kill their last sheep in order to feed a stranger. Hospitality is regarded as an honour and a sacred duty.
Peter and Vinnie are invited to sit and share a cup of thick, gritty coffee. Vinnie grimaces, but Peter nudges him, and he thanks his host graciously. Then they are introduced to his wife, two daughters, and son. The women wear long decorated robes, which cover their heads, but they are not masked. The two friends sit on soft cushions while Abd Al-Wali’s family smile and stare at them.
‘Be on your best behaviour, Vinnie,’ Peter warns, but Vinnie is very grateful and thanks his host again.
Their Bedouin host approaches Peter and Vinnie in turn and smears blood from the goat onto the mouths of his guests, in a show of hospitality. Peter knows this is a great honour and thanks him again.
Soon they are sitting down to a feast of goat, rice, honey and beans, and mint tea. It is delicious; Peter nods and thanks each family member in turn for the food. Then Vinnie gives a loud burp. Peter looks sharply at him and then at his host, as the Bedouin’s grin widens and the family clap.
‘Allah be praised,’ says his host in thanks for their food.
‘Why is your English so good?’ asks Peter.
‘I listen to the BBC World Service with my family.’
One of the sons plays an oval-shaped guitar while the other beats a small drum. They watch as their host’s two daughters pe
rform a traditional Bedouin dance, in time with the music, their deep dark eyes over their veils, telling a story. Their dance is hypnotic, the long black-haired daughters smile shyly at Peter and Vinnie as their hips gyrate. The dance lasts for half an hour then they all applaud.
Peter thinks this Bedouin Arab man, whose race has lived in the desert since before recorded time, has more honour in his little finger than Pencilneck had in his whole body. Peter stands up, bows to his guests, then addresses Abd Al-Wali in fluent Arabic.
‘You are a man of honour, and you will always be my friend.’ With that, his host kisses Peter on the lips in a show of great affection. Vinnie also bows and shakes his hand, but refrains from kissing him.
Then they are shown to their beds: blankets and soft cushions. ‘We will talk in the morning, Peter.’ With that, they both fall into a deep sleep. Peter wakes at dawn and strolls out of the tent to stretch his legs and is greeted by his Bedouin host.
‘Your friend Vinnie is injured. You are welcome to rest a while.’
‘Thank you. We will stay for two days then we need to get going again,’ says Peter, liking this man more by the minute. But can he trust him?
‘You are a military man. You are on a mission.’ Peter smiles at his intuitive friend. Can he still complete his mission?
‘I’m looking for a village near Thamud where an important man is being held.’ Abd Al-Wali nods and understands.
‘My Bedouin brothers told me about this. I will take you there in three days.’ As if reading his mind he looks at Peter, ‘There are other soldiers like you nearby.’
Peter is elated—some of his team must have survived! He tries the radio again, changing frequencies to try to contact his team, but no luck. He will not attempt to contact Pencilneck yet he needs more information—there were too many unanswered questions. Peter watches while Vinnie is nursed and his ankle bandaged by the Bedouins family, and wonders how they could have survived.
Was the angel real? It felt real. Peter begins to believe in miracles as he rests in the Bedouin tent regaining his remarkable strength. On the third day, they load their gear onto camels and set off with Abd Al-Wali, leading the convoy of three camels, and their riders.
As they set off through the desert again, the scenery changes and they see ancient temples built out of the rock, with stone pillars, made from pink and brown rock. Peter looks at the holy sites, and ponders upon what may transpire, but decides that nature will take its course and everything will work out okay. It was a miracle being saved by the Bedouin man, he knows that, after his mirage of the angelic entity dressed in white robes.
Is he dreaming?
Soon they are on the outskirts of a village. Abd Al-Wali points to a mud hut near the edge of the village, gets off his camel and greets another Bedouin man, who stands guard outside, carrying an old Enfield rifle. Peter and Vinnie follow him into the mud hut, and in a dark corner, he can see Sebastian sitting, his head nodding back and forth. He is holding a bible and chanting something, repeating himself. He looks up at Peter, but his sunburnt features show no recognition of him.
‘Sebastian, it’s Peter from A Squadron.’ Sebastian looks up again, this time he recognises him.
‘You are Peter, they call you Bulletproof Pete.’ Then Sebastian starts reading his bible again. In another room, Peter finds Des and Artie.
‘All right lads, where’s Baz and Mad Mike?’ he asks. They shake their heads, they look sunburned, with cracked lips, but otherwise okay.
‘Lost in the desert,’ replies Des shaking his head. Sebastian joins them, mumbling to himself—as if he is talking to someone who’s not there.
Has the desert driven him mad? ponders Peter, as he looks at Sebastian.
They all gather round, while Vinnie gets a brew going.
‘I’m very grateful and everything, but don’t you think it’s odd that this Arab just found us in the desert?’ said Vinnie.
‘He saved our lives, Vinnie. If he were one of the terrorists, he would have killed us where we lay—if we hadn’t died of thirst first.’
‘Yes you’re right mate,’ said Vinnie.
‘Besides I know these people. I studied Arab languages and culture at university. The Bedouins—this Bedouin I think—is genuine. What do you think lads, shall we trust him?’ Peter looks around the room at his sunburnt colleagues.
‘He saved us,’ said Des. Artie nods.
They are joined by Abd Al-Wali.
‘Ok lads time for a Chinese parliament. First off, a big thank you to our friend, Abd Al-Wali. Without him, we wouldn’t be here now,’ says Peter looking warmly at his new Bedouin friend.
They all nod and shake his hand warmly. Peter decides they need more than Vinnie’s tea to boost their morale.
‘I think we should make our friend here an honourable member of our squadron, for services rendered. Hands up who agrees.’
They all put their hands up.
‘Abd Al-Wali, you are now an honourable member of the Special Air Service.’ They all cheer. The Bedouin’s eyes water as he looks at his comrades.
‘It is an honour for me, thank you’; he bows his head.
‘Now down to business. Did any of your radios work?’ They all shake their heads.
‘Wrong fucking codes,’ swore Des as he sips his tea.
‘It’s Bravo Two Zero all over again.’ Vinnie has found some biscuits in his pack and handed them round, which go down very well.
‘Who was responsible for setting the codes?’ ask Des.
‘Pencilneck,’ replied Peter. They all nod and look at Peter.
‘I will do it,’ replies Peter, acknowledging their need for justice. They are silent for a moment, then Peter continues.
‘Anyone seen Kojak? We saw the crashed C130 in the desert. Co-pilot’s dead, but no sign of Kojak.’ They all shake their heads. ‘I spoke to him before we left – he never received any weather reports from Pencilneck.’
They all look in disbelief at Peter and shake their heads again. The weather report was a big detail that was missed in the rush.
Or was it deliberate? Peter wonders.
Chapter 15
The Mission
‘Cheers Vinnie, best cuppa tea ever,’ said Des. The lads nodded at Vinnie as he handed round more biscuits. Peter admired Vinnie, he had the incredible knack of brewing the best tea you ever tasted, and the lads loved him for it.
‘Yorkshire Tea,’ said Vinnie.
‘Now back to the mission. Our Bedouin friend here has some information about the Saudi Ambassador.’ In perfect English, the Bedouin addressed the rough looking, super fit, sunburnt soldiers around him.
‘My Bedouin friends tell me the Ambassador is being held in a house just one mile from here.’ He drew a map of the target house and its environs in the sandy floor.
‘More tea please Mr. Vinnie,’ the Bedouin asked politely. Vinnie obliged, and Abd Al-Wali smiled, taking two more biscuits.
They all warmed to the Bedouin man who had saved them from the desert, and brought them to this place of safety; they appreciated his great compassion and kindness towards them. The man who, through his Bedouin network in the region, had gathered all the required intelligence for their mission. Peter had always tried to befriend the locals in any mission; they could always give intelligence that wasn’t available elsewhere.
Hearts and minds.
‘How many terrorists?’ asks Peter.
‘Maybe ten. Four outside keeping guard, four in the backroom with the ambassador and two in the other room. They are armed with Kalashnikovs and RPGs. But they are not good shots—praise be to Allah.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Peter.
‘We saw them practising,’ replied the Bedouin.
‘I want you to get a message to the Ambassador to stay in his bed, lie flat at all costs, ok?’
&nb
sp; ‘One of my kinsmen delivers food to the house. It will be done. When will you attack?’
‘Five a.m. tomorrow morning.’
‘My kinsman will have to go tonight,’ answered the Bedouin.
‘Thank you, my friend. We cannot wait, we need the element of surprise,’ said Peter and shook his hand, pleased as punch with the intel. The rest of the team shook the Bedouin’s hand again, hardly believing their luck in finding this man.
They decided to rest up and strike before first light. They cleaned their M16s of sand and oiled the parts before reassembly. They packed enough magazines in their belt kit and webbing for the following day’s mission. Then they scrounged in their Bergen’s for what was left of their rations before Abd Al-Wali saved the day by inviting them to another house where they ate a delicious meal of goat, rice, and beans. Vinnie tried his best to keep good table manners and when he burped he was a bit embarrassed, but his hosts smiled and clapped.
Then they gave their heartfelt thanks and went back to the mud hut to get an early night. Peter had grave reservations about Pencilneck and decided not to call him in case he alerted the terrorists, there had been enough fuck-ups for one mission.
Zero hour was set to 5.00 a.m. precisely.
The target house was not much more than a mud hut. They would not risk any surveillance in order to avoid detection and retain the element of surprise—there were no suitable lying up points available.
Peter ordered Des and Artie to take up positions in front of the target house in order to take out the four guards at zero hour, and then take out the terrorists in the front room. Vinnie would set a charge and blow the back of the target house at zero hour. This was where the Ambassador was being held, his codename was Hotdog. Then Peter and Vinnie would clear the backroom and acquire Hotdog.
