by Unknown
‘What is it, sir?’ ‘The party’s off.’
‘Why, for God’s sake?’
‘Something about satisfactory assurances received,’ said Arthur. ‘No details.’
‘You mean those bastards down there are not going to attack the village?’
‘That’s what they say.’
Arthur went down the hill to tell the men. After so many days of preparation, their reaction was naturally bad.
‘What the hell do we do now, sir?’
‘Sit tight. Our orders are not to engage the enemy. So we wait until they’ve gone. Whatever happens, they mustn’t spot us.’
In the east the early morning sky was streaked with red. The camp below them stirred to life. Striking camp was as shambolic and undisciplined as setting up had been. A couple of hours later the trucks and armoured cars moved off in a westerly direction loaded with men and equipment.
‘They kept their word,’ said Bedivere.
Arthur nodded. ‘Looks like it.’ They watched the convoy disappear over the horizon, and they were still watching when the dust settled.
‘What made them change their mind, sir?’
‘Some kind of political solution. So in a way this party has been a success,’ said Arthur, trying to sound convinced.
It was not yet eight a.m. The sun was low and the air still relatively cool. With the lifting of tension the men relaxed, allowing sleep to overwhelm their exhausted bodies. Arthur and Sergeant Bedivere climbed back up to the summit to keep watch. For a few minutes they fought sleep, but it was a losing battle.
Two hours later Arthur woke with a start, his heart pounding. Something was wrong. Suddenly the silence was broken by a scream of pain and terror and the sound of weeping. It came from the village. The rattle of automatic fire was followed by more screams. Every man in the troop grabbed his gun and leaped to his feet.
‘Down!’ cried Arthur, but he was too late. Automatic weapons opened up from every direction. In the first few seconds three men were killed and several wounded as the rest of the troop scrambled for cover behind rocks and scrub. For several minutes they were unable to move, not even to sight their guns, so heavy and accurate was the enemy fire. Arthur cursed himself for a fool; he had fallen into a classic trap.
Whilst his troop were asleep the rebels had sneaked back, some moving on to attack the village, the rest surrounding Jurassic Hill. Twenty-one Troop was pinned down.
‘Fancy a quiet stroll, George?’ whispered Arthur.
A wry smile. ‘I think I’ll wait till the bastards go home.’ ‘They’re not going anywhere,’ said Arthur grimly, ‘not until their friends have slaughtered everyone in the village.’
George was a brave man, but he was also a realist. ‘Nothing we can do about it.’
‘Yes there is. We’ll move down the east slope to the Wadi.
That’ll give us cover.’
George’s eyes popped. ‘In your dreams. The village is four hundred yards away. The Wadi can’t be more than two hundred and fifty yards long.’
‘More than enough,’ said Arthur. ‘When we run out of Wadi we’ll make a break for it. I’ll go first. You and the troop give me covering fire.’ He was loading up with extra ammo.
Jesus, the man was serious! ‘Forget it, sir,’ urged Bedivere.
Arthur ignored him. ‘Listen carefully, George. When I reach the Wadi, you, Rod, Harry, Ben and Elvis join me. Leave the rest of the lads here. They’ll give you covering fire.’
‘The rest of what lads?’ asked George.
‘They can still fire a gun even if they’re wounded.’ ‘We’ll be sitting ducks,’ said George Bedivere gloomily.
Arthur grinned. ‘See you down there.’ He waved an arm in farewell as he moved off.
‘You’ll never make it, sir.’
But he did. And so did the rest of them.
The fire fight in the village was short and savage. When it was over, forty rebels lay dead. The rest of the gang fled. Of the six soldiers in the attack, only Arthur and George Bedivere were left standing. Two men took a direct hit from a mortar shell, one was blown to pieces when a bullet hit a grenade in the pack strapped to his waist, and one stepped on a mine, an American one as it happened. Sergeant Bedivere thought it was all over when a mercenary who was feigning dead jumped up and swung a long knife. As it flashed down on George’s skull, Arthur fired a burst from his automatic rifle. The man was hurled back by the impact of the bullets, and the knife missed George’s head by inches. But it sliced clean through his wrist, and there was his right hand lying in the sand. Of the thousand or so villagers, nine hundred survived unscathed, the rest were either shot or had their throats cut. A number were beheaded, perhaps because they had tried to resist the rebels.
It was unthinkable that those brutal murders should go unpunished. The instant the last casualty was helicoptered out, Arthur turned his attention to an armoured car abandoned by the rebels. Almost the entire chassis was exposed, most of the body having been ripped off by grenades and missiles. But the undercarriage and the engine were more or less intact. Miraculously, it started.
Taking with him two men, a mortar, a hand-held missile launcher, grenades, and a stack of automatic weapons and ammunition, he drove across the desert through the night. Just before sunrise he caught up with the main body of rebel soldiers. They had heard the armoured car in the distance, and knew it was heading for them. Recognising its peculiar engine hum, they prepared to greet their comrades; by the time they realised their mistake it was all over for them. Not a man was left alive.
Part Two
Father and Son
One
2018
Arthur stood stiffly to attention.
‘You were given clear instructions to call off the operation,’ said his Commanding Officer, a tall spare man with close-cropped greying hair.
‘Yes, sir,’ acknowledged Arthur.
‘You disobeyed orders,’ said the C.O. rapping his desk with his hand to emphasise each word.
‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur showed no sign of contrition.
Colonel Harcourt’s voice was stern but his pale blue eyes surprisingly kindly. ‘You’re a fine soldier, Pendragon. I don’t know that I ever came across a better officer.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘If you were to be court-martialled . . . ’ – the C.O. shrugged – ‘we all know what the verdict would be. Guilty. Dishonourable discharge. End of story.’
Not a muscle moved in Arthur’s face. ‘A brilliant career down the drain,’ continued the colonel, ‘reputation tarnished. I don’t think you deserve that. Do you?’
‘Not for me to say, sir,’ intoned Arthur.
‘For God’s sake, man, the Foreign Office are after your blood. I’m trying to help you.’ The colonel fiddled with the paper knife on his desk. ‘They don’t call us the Family for nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘A special bond and all that. Give me some ammo, Arthur.’
After a time, Arthur said, ‘I was told to stand down the troop. When I asked for an explanation, they said a deal had been struck, the rebels had given an undertaking to leave the area. Obviously they never meant to keep their word and someone must have told them we were there. They set us up, made us think they really had withdrawn, and then they slipped back, surrounded our positions on Jurassic Hill and attacked the village.’
‘You certainly had a right to defend yourself and your men,’ agreed the colonel, ‘but that’s all.’
‘We prevented a massacre, sir.’
The colonel prided himself on being diplomatic rather than confrontational. ‘Could I tell the powers that be that there was some misunderstanding on your part?’
Arthur stared straight ahead. ‘There was no misunderstanding.’
‘Some confusion about the order itself?’ The C.O. was inviting Arthur to help him find a compromise.
The invitation was firmly rejected. ‘There was no confusion, sir.’
The colonel shrugged; there was nothing more he
could do. It was hard to help a man who refused to help himself. ‘They want to see you, Pendragon.’
‘They, sir?’
‘Some Under Secretary in the Foreign Office, I imagine. Whoever it is, take my advice and eat humble pie. You might just get off with a reprimand.’
It was not some Under Secretary who had summoned Arthur. It was the Foreign Secretary himself – his father, Uther Pendragon. Uther had played a key role in fashioning the New Millennium Party, the phoenix that rose from the ashes of the old Conservative Party. When they lost their fourth successive election by a landslide in 2009 the Tories were compelled to accept that they were looking extinction in the face. A palace revolution of young and ambitious M.P.’s led to the dumping of the Old Guard, Robert Marriott was elected leader and Uther Pendragon brought in as Party Chairman. Politics, Uther reminded his colleagues, had long ceased to be about ideology; it was about image and good management. Under his direction the old Conservative Party became the New Millennium Party, albeit a little late for the new millennium, its image restyled to appeal to a broader electorate. It was a heaven-sent opportunity for Uther who used all his P.R. skills, adapting many of Tony Blair’s tactics in creating New Labour in the nineties. When, largely thanks to Uther, Robert Marriot became Prime Minister in 2013, he had shown Uther his gratitude with a seat in the cabinet, first as Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, more recently as Foreign Secretary.
‘Normally I would not be handling this myself, but you’re my son and you’re in trouble. I should like to help.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Sit down, and let’s dispense with the formalities.’ Uther placed a chair opposite Arthur, sat astride it, arms resting on the back, and regarded his son thoughtfully. ‘This is a bad business, Arthur. It’s been handled clumsily. Happens all too often when you delegate to petty officials. I know you’re a man of integrity, I know you did what you thought was right. Trouble is, my people don’t see it that way. They are setting you up as some kind of troublemaker. They say you had some sinister motive for what you did.’
‘I would never do anything to embarrass the Regiment,’ said Arthur.
‘Nor His Majesty’s Government, I imagine?’ No reply.
‘No, of course not,’ said Uther, answering for him. This was not going to be easy. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. You disobeyed an order, a particularly crucial one as it happens. What’s more, you did it on the field of battle, or what passes for the field of battle these days.’
Arthur looked his father in the eye. ‘You can have my resignation if it helps you, sir.’
‘It isn’t me who needs help,’ said Uther acidly, abandoning the laid-back approach and seating himself behind his massive mahogany desk. Was he pulling rank, Arthur wondered, or taking shelter?
‘Soldiers, Arthur . . . they think they run the show, but they don’t. A soldier is not required to express opinions, he’s required to do what he’s told. His job is to obey orders. Why? Because we live in a democracy. In a democracy the army does not run the country. The politicians do.’
‘Hitler was a politician, sir,’ Arthur pointed out. Uther scowled. ‘That is impertinent.’
‘They hung men for obeying Hitler’s orders.’ ‘Enough!’
Silence.
No, it was not going to be easy. ‘I have the very greatest respect for the Special Forces, Arthur. For you too. I hear excellent things about you.’
‘Good of you to say so, sir,’ said Arthur stolidly.
‘Don’t waste it, my boy, I beg you. Don’t throw it all away. You are young. Like all young people, you think everything you do is right and everything the older generation does is wrong.’
That was not how Arthur saw it. ‘I like to understand the orders I’m given, that’s all. I’m a soldier, not a robot.’
Uther smoothed the leather desktop. ‘In that case, let me share a confidence with you. I dare say you have heard the expression Realpolitik?’
‘I have.’
‘Politics based on reality, Arthur – on reality, not on principles, not on morals, not on ideals. On reality.’ Uther moved across to the window and looked out, a studied gesture that somehow seemed to imply that the world was a bigger and altogether more complex place than Arthur could possibly know. ‘What I am about to tell you must not leave this room. Do I have your word?’
‘Of course.’
Uther returned to his desk. ‘The tribes in the east have been a thorn in Sadiq’s side for years. So he financed some mercenaries to “cleanse” the Eastern provinces for him – not wholesale slaughter, you understand, but enough to scare the eastern tribesmen out of the country. It was going pretty well
. . . ’ – He coughed – ‘for Sadiq, I mean. But then the whole thing got out of hand. The mercenaries he hired were becoming too powerful. They were a threat to him. He invited us in, not because he wanted to stop the killing, and not because he feared a rebel uprising, but because he wanted to show the mercenaries who was boss.’
‘Then why did you call off the operation?’
‘Sadiq made a deal with the mercenaries,’ said Uther.
Deal. A clandestine word, thought Arthur, the innocent- looking stone that covered the creepy crawlies. ‘What sort of deal?’
‘Sadiq is a shrewd politician. Knows how to divide and rule. That’s why he’s lasted so long. So what does he do? He gives the mercenaries a free hand in the East in exchange for their loyalty.’
‘A free hand? Meaning they were free to continue slaughtering innocent people?’
‘Those tribesmen have been at each others’ throats for centuries,’ said Uther imperturbably. ‘Nothing we do will stop them killing each other.’
Arthur’s blue eyes glittered. ‘That is patronising, racist rubbish.’
A few stunned moments passed whilst Uther absorbed the rebuke, as a jousting knight absorbs the lance’s thrust. The challenge could scarcely have been more direct or more powerful, and the insolence of it staggered him. How quickly the raw youth had become a man, and how ruthless in condemning his father. Uther was tempted to teach his son a lesson. A court martial was what he deserved, and a court martial was what he really ought to get; the problem, however, was the media. They would have the greatest sympathy for a hero of the Special Forces. It would not look good for the government if the truth came out. It would certainly not look good for the Foreign Secretary.
‘I’m a generous soul, Arthur, as you know, so I’ll overlook that comment. I am also prepared to overlook your indiscretion. On certain conditions. First, you tender a written apology; second, you give me your word that you will never disobey orders again; third, none of this will be discussed with the media, or anyone else for that matter. I can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’ Uther jumped up, hand extended. ‘Come, my boy, let’s shake on it. You are my son and a gutsy fellow. Let’s bury the hatchet. Is it a deal?’
Deal. That furtive word again. ‘There’ll be no more killings?’
‘I devoutly hope not. After all, we do have some influence with Sadiq.’
‘What kind of influence?’
‘We sell him arms, Arthur.’ Utherspread his arms expansively. ‘Rather a lot of arms in fact. Some people have their doubts, of course, but . . . ’ A shrug.
‘What sort of doubts?’
‘Well . . . this is all highly confidential, Arthur . . . do I have your word . . . ?’
‘I already gave it.’
A suspicious look. Uther trusted no one, not even his son. ‘Iran is not the only player in the terrorist game, though they have always been a major one, even more so since they developed nuclear weapons. The fact is, the CIA, MI5 and Mossad believe that Sadiq finances and supports terror groups responsible for various bombings across the globe. Naturally we have had to be . . . discreet about that. The general public know nothing about it.’
Arthur could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘You are saying Sadiq is a terrorist?’
‘In a wa
y, dear boy. But,’ a disarming smile, ‘at least he’s our terrorist.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘He might be responsible for the odd bombing here and there,’ said Uther casually, ‘but he would never bomb London or anything ungrateful like that. Why should he? He’s in our pay. He’s our man. That’s why we had to help him out. You do see that, don’t you?’
Arthur leaned forward in his chair. ‘I want to be sure I understand you. Are you telling me it is now this government’s policy to support mass murderers, just as long as they leave us alone?’
Uther spread his hands apologetically. ‘I fear it’s the only way to handle an intractable problem.’
‘And you think that’s the way to defeat the terrorists? Well sir, I don’t. It’s cowardly, it’s short-sighted, and it’s immoral.’
‘Immoral!’ echoed Uther derisively. ‘What nonsense. Get real, Arthur. Come out of the woods. This is life, this is the world. What does morality have to do with the twenty-first Century? This is not about the Ten Commandments, this is about looking after number one – or Number 10, if you like.’ Uther chuckled at his own witticism.
‘There is still such a thing as right and wrong, truth and lies,’ said Arthur. ‘The lies of our leaders contaminate every man and woman in the country. They lose faith not just in politicians but in our way of life. How can we expect people to live an honest decent life if you set them such a dishonest example?’
Uther was unimpressed. ‘Don’t be so bloody naïve, Arthur. We’re not talking right and wrong here; we’re talking self- preservation. You think we’re the only ones making deals with terrorists? Well I’ve got news for you. I could give you a list as long as your arm: China, Russia, America, Pakistan, India, Iran, France . . . dozens of countries. Quite apart from buying insurance, there’s the arms trade to consider. It’s hugely competitive. Frankly, we can’t afford to be left out of it.’
‘This is madness,’ said Arthur. ‘We are selling our enemies the weapons to destroy us. If you sow the wind, you reap the storm.’
