by Dc Alden
They had learned the history of their nation, a once-proud people now reduced to an existence of hard labour and servitude, but still united in adversity, the gene of rebellion passing from generation to generation. From a young age they’d learned of the suffering, the humiliation, the deaths of countless others, until they craved for vengeance. Separated from their parents by sickness and death, the boys had been given new identities. They’d also been given notice; they were soldiers now, cloaked by their anonymity, their backs seemingly bowed by menial servitude behind the walls of the city, but soldiers none the less. And, one day, they would be called.
The door to the library opened and the boys snapped awake, struggling to their feet. The Emir motioned them to sit. He plumped up the cushions on a deep sofa and sat down, smiling broadly. ‘You are fed, yes? It was to your liking?’
The boys nodded gratefully. ‘Yes, your eminence. Thank you.’
‘Good. Soon the sun will rise and the day will be upon us, a day that will be remembered for many years to come. And you, my young brothers, will be the cause of great rejoicing amongst our people. But there is much to do and much you will need to learn in the few short hours we have. Are you ready to learn, young brothers?’
The boys sat a little straighter. When they spoke it was with determined, even voices. ‘We are ready, your Eminence.’
Western Arabian Desert: 4th June 2029
The moon shone brightly as the unmarked Blackhawk helicopter skimmed low over the desert dunes, rising and falling with the contours of the sandy slopes below. Inside the helicopter’s large troop transport bay, four men were strapped tightly into their seats. They sat in silence; even with their headsets on, the noise and vibrations of the aircraft were enough to give a man a headache. And one of the men already had such a headache.
General Faris Mousa shifted uncomfortably as the helicopter thundered over another towering dune and dropped, like a stone, towards the desert floor on the other side. Allah spare us, he grimaced. Another ten minutes of this and the pounding inside his skull might well develop into a migraine. Stress, that was the problem, he concluded. Too much stress, too many plates to juggle. But was it any wonder when one considered what lay ahead? He rested his forehead against the cool Perspex of the window as the empty desert flashed beneath them in the darkness. He smiled ruefully; his God-given name, Faris, meant ‘Horseman’ in Arabic. What he wouldn’t give to be in the saddle of a beautiful Arab mare right now, cresting a sand dune under the silver moon, travelling the silent desert guided only by the stars. Maybe in the future, when all this was over and God’s work was completed. Maybe.
Mousa watched as the pale desert sands rose and fell beneath the Blackhawk. Up, down, left, right; quite disorientating, if one was not used to it. Of course, Mousa was used to it. As a General in the Arabian Special Forces, he had endured many things on his rise to the near-pinnacle of his profession. The two rows of decorations above the breast pocket of his camouflage jacket, in addition to the paratroopers’ jump wings on his shoulder, were testament to his courage.
As well as his physical abilities as a soldier, Mousa also prided himself on his loyalty, quick intellect and resourcefulness. It was these very qualities that had kept him alive during the re-alignment, rising to become the head of Arabian Military Intelligence and now commanding Special Operations and Planning. And it was because he held such an important role that he was now being jolted around inside a helicopter as it raced across the moonlit desert. The pilot’s voice crackled in his headphones.
‘Five minutes.’
Mousa looked across at the elderly man opposite him and spread his fingers in a five gesture. The man, flanked by two large and heavily-armed bodyguards, smiled and nodded. He was dressed in a simple dark robe and wore a traditional Arab Shermagh on his head. His grey beard was neatly trimmed, framing his heavily lined face, and a pair of round spectacles rested on the bridge of his hooked nose. Through his fingers he ran a continuous pattern with a simple band of prayer beads. Mousa pulled his safety belt a little tighter, smiling inwardly. The man looked like any other elderly Arabian gentleman approaching his seventy-second year; a slight, unremarkable figure who would otherwise be seen chatting outside a mosque or playing chess in the park. Even though the soldiers on either side of him dwarfed his diminutive frame, Mousa knew that one glance, one word or gesture from this quiet man would have his bodyguards shaking in their boots. For the man opposite Mousa was his Holiness the Grand Mufti Mohammed Khathami, the Chief Cleric and Supreme Ruler of Arabia.
The Blackhawk slowed its forward air speed and banked to the left. Below them, bathed in the moonlight and scattered amongst the crumbling remains of an ancient desert fort, Mousa glimpsed the tents, nestling beneath the palms of a large oasis. In a cloud of sand, the helicopter settled a short distance from the old fort. Mousa, always keen to be first man out, slid the door open and kicked over the folding stairs. He held out an arm, which the Cleric took, and they headed past the crumbling fort towards the oasis, where two men waited in the shadows for them. Mousa recognised them as the Arabian Defence Minister and the Foreign Secretary. The men bowed deeply as Mousa’s party approached.
‘Your Holiness. An honour as always,’ cooed the Defence Minister. Both men kissed the Cleric’s outstretched hand.
‘Is everyone here?’ Khathami enquired. The Defence Minister nodded in the affirmative. ‘Then lead on.’
The party continued through the trees, the path lit by flame torches on ornate stands, until they reached a small clearing where several tents had been carefully erected beneath the dark green canopy of palm leaves. Inside the luxurious Bedouin marquee that commanded the centre of the clearing, several men waited, raising themselves off the expensive couches arranged around a stone doowa. Mousa’s eyes were drawn to small, almost imperceptible movements in the gloom. The other bodyguards, he noticed, were loitering in the deep shadows round the marquee’s periphery. With so many powerful and influential men meeting this night, an assassin could have a field day and Mousa’s career would last about as long as a camel in the Arctic Circle if such a criminal got to within a hundred kilometres of this place. However, the location was remote, with the surrounding desert monitored by thermal cameras, UAVs and heavily armed patrols. He’d planned well, as always.
As Khathami moved towards an empty couch, Mousa waved his bodyguards into the shadows and took a seat behind the Holy One. Through another awning several more men ducked inside the marquee. As Khathami made himself comfortable, they approached him one by one, bowing deeply, kissing his hands and expressing their joy at the great man’s presence. They took their seats on the remaining couches alongside Khathami’s Defence Minister and Foreign Secretary. They were wearing a mixture of civilian and military uniforms and Mousa recognised them as the heads, or their deputies, of the former countries of the Middle East and North Africa. These were the Area Protectors of Arabia, powerful men in their own right and personally appointed to their current positions by the Grand Mufti himself. The atmosphere was charged, despite the fussing over tea and coffee and the small talk around the doowa. The Holy One focussed everyone’s attention with his customary throat clearance.
‘It is fitting that we should meet like this, beneath the stars, as in the custom of our forefathers. They smile down upon us tonight, for our people have witnessed a level of co-operation unknown throughout the history of the Middle East. Our enemies have become cautious, wary of our growing material wealth, our political influence and combined military power. The time has come to deliver Europe unto Islam, to embark on our own Crusade. History in reverse, if you will.’ Khathami smiled, crossing his thin legs beneath the black robe. ‘Now, I wish to hear your final readiness reports. Let us start with our Turkish brothers. Mustafa, if you please.’
Mousa eyed Demir Hassan, Vice President of the Turkish Federation and the real power behind the throne in Ankara since the President had suffered a debilitating stroke. A strategically crucial ally and a p
owerful military force, the Turks had finally duped Brussels into inviting their nation to become a full member of the European Union. Since then, the Turks had sent thousands of sleeper agents westward. Now, with an army of over a million men, Turkish forces would be at the spearhead of the initial push into enemy territory on the eastern front. Nothing in the region could stop their advance.
‘Everything is in place, your Eminence,’ began Hassan. ‘Our role is three-fold. Firstly, we have twenty-two tank divisions positioned along the Greek border, ready to advance at the specified hour. Our Special Forces will seize all border crossings, and artillery and rocket troops will bombard Greek defensive positions and military bases that pose the biggest threat to our advance. Our Forward Observation Teams are already on Greek soil and they report no increased alert status on that side of the border. As far as they are concerned, our recent troop movements are all part of our annual military exercises.’
Hassan cleared his throat and continued, glancing occasionally at the briefing documents in his hand.
‘Secondly, the strategically important island of Cyprus. All along the NATO dividing line defensive bunkers, observation posts and watch towers have been targeted by Turkish artillery and missile batteries. We also have four thousand paratroopers on standby at Diyarbakir airbase ready to drop into the Greek-Cypriot sector as soon as the attack commences. They will be supported by our Eastern Mediterranean fleet, which is being fuelled and loaded with three armoured divisions as we speak. We anticipate the neutralisation of Cyprus within two to three days. Resistance there will be crushed quickly.’
Mousa smiled at that one. Lucky for the Turks that the British, after a long and bitter political campaign, had been forced to pull its troops out of Cyprus a couple of years ago; otherwise, they would have a far tougher fight on their hands. As it was, two battalions of Swedish infantry on NATO duties were all that stood between success and failure.
Referring to his notes, the Turk continued. ‘Thirdly, we have twenty-eight civilian merchant vessels currently steaming towards their destination ports around the French and British coasts. Each ship is over forty thousand tonnes and carries a fully mechanized battalion including tanks, armoured personnel carriers and supporting infantry. The ships are presently disguised as normal cargo vessels flying under a flag of convenience. At the given moment, destination ports will be seized by amphibious forces aboard the ships or by sleeper units on the mainland. Trained personnel will be on hand to unload the cargo and each battalion commander has been issued with marshalling points and military objectives for the initial forty-eight hour period. The men are ready and the final orders have been issued, your Holiness. We await only your signal to commence operations. Until that time, all units are observing a complete radio blackout.’
Next, it was the turn of the Russian, who nervously dabbed a handkerchief around his thick neck. Mousa silently revelled in the man’s obvious discomfort, mindful of the appalling treatment meted out to Russia’s Muslim population by the former regime. But the Russians were now bankrupt, the sudden and inexplicable failure of the oil and gas fields in the Barents Sea basin the catalyst for their economic downfall.
Then there were the food riots, the ominous rumblings of discontent within the armed forces, all forcing the new regime in Moscow to do business with Arabia. The Cleric had bailed them out to the tune of billions and that kind of money bought power and influence, particularly where greed and moral corruption were part of everyday life. Now the Russians were heavily in Arabian debt and the time had come to pay up. Besides, reasoned Mousa, they’d been given the task of invading Germany and there was a lot of historical precedent there. Ordinarily, the Germans would have been tough nuts to crack, even given the element of surprise, but Germany, like the rest of Europe, would have enough to cope with once the sleeper teams went active.
And so it went on, around the table. Mousa’s eyes began to feel heavy. He’d heard the plans thousands of times, thrashed them out with the other Arabian generals in dusty living rooms, abandoned airfields and even in parked cars on motorways, where curious eyes could not see them or inquisitive ears overhear them. Security was everything. Hundreds had died, some probably innocent, to protect that secret. The result was that eighteen regional army groups stood ready, comprising almost a million troops, thousands of tanks, aircraft, artillery pieces, bridging equipment, logistics support – and only the men in this marquee, plus seven hundred and fifty other trusted individuals, knew the real reason for all the military exercises, the preparations and the sacrifices. One week from today and we’ll know if the plan was a solid one, decided Mousa.
For a further three hours the operation was picked apart, every detail analysed and re-analysed, dissected and debated. In the weary silence that followed, all eyes turned to the Cleric as he sipped his dark, bitter coffee, lost in thought. Eventually he leaned forward and placed the teacup on the low table in front of him.
‘It is clear that you have all worked long and hard to ensure our success. Much blood has been spilt, much more will be spilt, yet only God, peace be upon him, can judge if our sacrifices have been worthy of his name. So be it. Operation Swift Sword will commence one week from today. Ensure your forces are ready.’ A fitting name, decided Mousa. It was the Prophet himself who once said; Swords are the key to Paradise. He who draws his sword in the path of God, swears allegiance. Yes, a fitting name indeed.
The Cleric flicked his wrist and the occupants of the marquee scrambled to their feet. One after the other, they paid their respects and left, bodyguards in tow. Already Mousa could hear the distant whine of helicopters beyond the ridgeline as engines were fired up and rotors began to chop the night air. Khathami invited Mousa to sit beside him.
‘Everything appears to be in place, General Mousa. What is the latest word from our people in Europe?’
Mousa extracted a sheath of intelligence briefing papers from his pocket, handed to him shortly before their flight into the desert.
‘Your Holiness, the financial crisis in Europe continues, its cities plagued by civil unrest and industrial action, fuelled by our socialist allies across the continent who have answered the call for direct action. In addition, converts in many European countries have infiltrated right-wing groups to stir up hatred against our people, resulting in Mosque burnings and physical attacks on our Brothers and Sisters. Many crave vengeance, and it has been difficult to suppress retaliation, particularly in France, where we are strongest. However, the message is loud and clear: Muslim communities across the continent are under threat and demand action. Key political operatives within European governments report a sense of fear amongst those in power, yet no administration has the courage to mobilise their armed forces to counter the escalating violence. It’s being viewed as a temporary aberration, a symptom of the continuing recession and widespread strike action, and sympathetic legal assets plus our own Ambassadors are mounting pressure on local administrations to protect Muslim communities. In the meantime, our joint military exercises go on, practically unobserved. Western security agencies are being monitored and almost universally the intelligence focus is domestic. The Infidels simply fail to see the storm that is brewing on their horizon. Allah has truly deafened the ears and blinded the eyes of our enemies.’
The Cleric nodded his head respectfully at the mention of the One, True
God. ‘What about the Americans?’
‘Their spy satellites over Europe have still not been replaced after the remote detonation of the Chinese communications satellite ten weeks ago.’
‘Why not?’ queried the Holy One.
‘The nature of the explosion and the loss of a Keyhole bird has given Washington pause for thought,’ replied Mousa. ‘They have yet to re-task another spacecraft. Clearly, they suspect foul play but their diplomatic efforts are focussed in Beijing. Again, our military build-up can continue unhindered.’
‘Good. And our French brothers?’
‘The nuclear codes will be s
ecured within the first hour of the attack. Military Imams and senior Muslim officers will appeal directly to the French forces, over a third of whom are Brothers and Sisters of the faith. Their loyalty, like all Muslims, will be to their faith first. With the President assassinated and a Muslim-heavy administration waiting in the wings, France will fall quickly.’
‘Excellent,’ breathed Khathami. ‘Come, we must return to the city.’ He rose and headed across the marquee. Mousa followed closely behind, reaching for his personal radio and quietly ordering the Blackhawk to fire up its engines. As they walked back through the trees, the Cleric spoke softly.
‘What does your heart tell you, Faris? About the success of the operation? You may speak freely.’
Mousa considered the question. It wasn’t often the Holy One used his first name, and normally only when his counsel was sought on matters of a delicate nature. He knew his opinion was valued by the man before him and he weighed his words carefully.
‘We simply must succeed,’ he began. ‘Despite their expulsion from our lands and the oil embargoes against them, somehow the Americans continue to advance technologically. Their economy survives and shows signs of strengthening. There are rumours from our people in Washington.’
