by Dc Alden
‘Of course,’ Karroubi acknowledged. ‘Since the sinking of the two transport ships in Sunderland, we’ve erected anti-mine nets and doubled our sea patrols. However, the British still own the waters further north. Their submarines pose a significant threat, coupled with the prolific use of sea mines.’
‘They can keep their cold waters,’ Mousa sneered. ‘Besides, the Russians will deal with them soon enough. As long as our ports and the shipping lanes to the south are secure, the Infidels can do what they like. It will be of little consequence in the long run.’
Karroubi shifted in his chair. ‘May I ask, General, how was the funeral?’
‘Tiresome,’ Mousa sighed. ‘The multitude of wailing relatives, the screaming brats, the obituaries; I had a headache for most of the day, I can tell you. Still, Al-Bitruji would’ve enjoyed the send-off, in particular the media coverage. Did you see it?’
‘On Al-Jazeera,’ confirmed Karroubi, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘We can only pray that Paradise has welcomed him like a true soldier. It seems he underestimated the anger and determination of the British rebels.’
Now it was Mousa’s turn to smile. The attack on Al-Bitruji’s three-vehicle convoy as it headed to the Regent’s Park Mosque for Friday prayers was particularly devastating. While negotiating the narrow streets to the east of Park Lane a team of masked attackers had unleashed a hail of anti-tank rockets and automatic weapons fire that destroyed all three vehicles and left Al-Bitruji plus three of his most senior officers and thirteen other personnel dead, not to mention eight bystanders. One terrorist even fired four rounds into Al-Bitruji’s corpse to be sure.
The attack had left a leadership vacuum, one that was quickly filled by Mousa’s appointment to Northern Army Group Commander by the Holy One. He was back, without supreme authority it was true, but with the approval of the Cleric and with an army at his disposal, their one aim being to crush the remaining British forces in Scotland and bring the whole nation to heel. It couldn’t have worked out much better, he admitted. And when the campaign was over, when the dust had settled and enough time had passed, he would again travel to the villa on the banks of the Tigris and thank his old friend.
But, for now, there was work to do. For the next hour he filled Karroubi in on his recent trip to Arabia, where he’d consulted with the Holy One and the other European commanders at the Cleric’s marbled summer palace on the shores of the Red Sea. Huge maps of northern England and the Scottish borders had been pored over for weeks, as were thousands of photographs and aerial footage. Plans were formulated, rejected, re-worked and tested.
All the while, Mousa had sensed the mood in the palace, one of a conquering army on the verge of an historic victory, just a single battle left to win before ultimate conquest could be achieved. He’d seen his own eagerness reflected on the faces of the other commanders too, each contemplating their own special place in Arabian history, the desire for a last push on a scale not seen since the days of Saladin, an Islamic army sweeping across Europe, crushing everything in its path.
But the Holy One had urged caution, perhaps sensing the determination amongst his officers in the room. They were close to victory in Europe, he’d said, but they would wait, until the Russians had taken Norway and faced Scotland unopposed across the sea, until Europe was fully pacified. Then, as the world watched, the final battle would begin. They had the luxury of time on their side, the Cleric had explained. Besides, there’d been enough civilian deaths, even if they were Infidels.
At the time, Mousa had sat at the long, ornate table in the palace conference hall and considered trying to change the Holy One’s mind. By disengaging, it would allow the Infidels time to strengthen their own defences on the ground, which would ultimately result in a longer, more drawn-out campaign. He quickly decided against it, choosing instead to nod in agreement like the other commanders around the table. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Yet, it was agreed that things had gone remarkably well. Of course, other countries across the globe had been outraged at the military campaign and, at the United Nations in New York, several delegates had protested long and loud at the scale of the invasion. Predictably, the US had objected the loudest, but America on her own did not present the problem she might have done at the end of the last century. Instead, the US had pursued a somewhat isolationist policy since its expulsion from the Gulf region, concentrating instead on domestic issues rather than taking its assumed role on the world stage as a leading superpower.
The other big players were Russia and China, the former now firmly in the Arabian pocket and the latter, emboldened by Arabia’s conquests, now eyeing Taiwan hungrily. The other countries that made up the United Nations were either now living under the Arabian yoke or were too insignificant to consider. Their protestations had faded and the more forward-thinking delegates among the international community were already attempting to open channels of dialogue in the hope of rebuilding pre-war diplomatic and commercial ties, particularly with the now re-shaped European continent.
As Mousa concluded his debrief, he glanced at the little island of Britain on
the map behind Karroubi’s head. This once-powerful empire had folded as easily as the rest of Europe and, in a way, Mousa was disappointed. As a soldier, he’d anticipated fast-moving tank battles across patchwork green fields and savage street fighting to rival even Stalingrad, but none of these events had fully materialised.
Mousa had expected more from the British. Maybe the coming conflict to the north would provide an opportunity to test their resolve? Or maybe the passing generations had lost their stomach for a fight? If that was the case, it was easy to see why. Before the invasion, life in the West had been very comfortable for most. The sudden loss of utilities and the inability to be able to purchase food at over-stocked shops had terrified a population that had become a demanding consumer society. The West had grown soft and fat, become slaves to greed and the consumption of everything that could be consumed. Western society was a heartless, Godless organism that would pollute and destroy its citizens and the very ground they walked on. The invasion had changed all that.
Now, only Scotland stood in the way of total domination. How tough a battle that would prove to be, only time would tell.
‘How long?’ Karroubi asked after Mousa had finished his brief. ‘The Holy One must know that delay only strengthens the Infidel’s hand.’
‘He does,’ Mousa shrugged. ‘But when he finally issues the order we must be ready. A month, two at most.’ He swung his chair around and stood, ambling over to the window behind his desk. He looked down into the small courtyard below. There were one or two jeeps there and several soldiers hurried to and from the building, bent against the driving rain. He stared across the wet rooftops towards the town centre, contemplating another eight weeks in this damp, dreary town.
The weather in Scotland was even worse, by all accounts. North of the border, it seemed to rain constantly. He made a mental note to address the tactical implications of the weather at the next briefing. Mousa sighed, already missing the hot sun of Arabia on his back, but this is what he’d worked for, had killed for, so the weather be damned. He turned away from the dull landscape outside the window.
‘There’s not much more can be achieved here now,’ he said to Karroubi.
‘I will travel to London tonight and return for the briefing next week. In the meantime, you’ll remain here and oversee the preparations. Think you can suffer the rain for a few weeks longer, Colonel?’
Karroubi’s shoulders slumped dramatically. ‘How do these people stand it? If it’s not raining, then the sky is just a solid grey ceiling. The men are getting depressed. We may have to issue Prozac, as well as ammunition.’
Mousa laughed. ‘An impractical combination, I think. Still, I’ll inform the Holy One of your suggestion.’ As he started to leave the room he glanced at the command display one more time, the smile slipping from his face. ‘Ensure our forces are rea
dy when the time comes, Colonel. This will be our last key offensive in Europe and the Holy One expects it to be a decisive one. We must not fail him. I must not fail. Do you understand?’
‘Of course,’ nodded Karroubi. There was a light tap at the door and an orderly
stood to attention in the outer office. ‘Your helicopter is on final approach, General.’ Mousa grunted an acknowledgment and Karroubi flashed up a salute as he swept past.
‘Have a safe journey, General.’
‘Carry on,’ ordered Mousa. ‘And try not to get too wet,’ he smiled, marching from the room.
Camp David, Maryland
President Scott Mitchell peered through a frost-crusted window of the Presidential lodge and watched the departing SUV as it wound its way out of the high-security compound. Further down the hill, a Blackhawk helicopter waited, its rotors chopping the cold air, the whine of its jet turbines echoing across the densely wooded slopes. The SUV’s brake lights bloomed crimson in the darkness and then it was lost, sinking behind a thick stand of black birch that marched across the ridgeline.
Mitchell’s recent guest, the British Ambassador to the United States, was in the back of that SUV, returning to the embassy on Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, his request for assistance, any assistance, yet to be answered. He took a breath and turned away from the window, gratefully sinking into the deep cushions of the Jackson sofa.
White House Chief of Staff Zack Radanovich and Eliot Engle, the President’s National Security Advisor, sat on the opposite sofa, waiting patiently as Mitchell dug into his trouser pocket and extracted a pill from a small plastic box. He popped it onto his tongue, then washed it down with the dregs of a cold pot of coffee perched on the low coffee table between them.
‘Blood pressure’s up again,’ he grimaced, setting the mug with the Presidential seal down. ‘Jesus, what a mess.’
‘We have options here,’ Radanovich pointed out. ‘Saying no is one of them.’ He wore charcoal grey trousers and a blue shirt and tie, the collar loose, sleeves rolled to the elbows. ‘The fact is, the old Europe has gone, and the UK with it. If we side with them, with Beecham, we undermine our position regarding Israel. That has to be our primary focus now.’
‘This isn’t a legislative government we’re talking about here, Mr President,’ the similarly dressed Engel added. ‘This is an administration staffed by a handful of government and military personnel running a country the size of South Carolina. They’re under siege, their position is completely untenable, and Khathami isn’t negotiating. In one respect, Zack is right; we have to give the Israeli situation our fullest attention, because that one has the potential for global disaster.’ Engle paused. ‘On the other hand, we can’t just ignore the situation in Scotland either. We have to do something.’
‘What are we giving them now?’
‘Satellite data, mostly. Some low grade human intel from our assets in
Baghdad. As much as we can without tipping our hand.’
‘Jesus, what a mess,’ Mitchell repeated, shaking his bald dome. He exhaled long and loud, stretching his legs out before him. ‘Brings to mind something I heard once, something my old law Professor at Yale said.’
‘What was that, Sir?’ enquired Engle in his soft Tennessee drawl.
‘He said, “Tell your grandchildren if they want to do business in Europe when they graduate, they’d better learn to speak Arabic.” Clever guy, old Harpenden. Saw the writing on the wall way back when.’
‘Maybe we should’ve hired him,’ Engle quipped. ‘Question is, can we afford to escalate things with Baghdad right now? Diplomatically, they’ve reached out to us, kept the channels open, left our embassies intact, repatriated US citizens from Europe-’
‘Not all of them,’ Mitchell growled. ‘Some are never coming home.’
‘That’s true,’ said Radanovich, ‘and somewhere down the line they’ll pay. But we have to look at the bigger picture here, Mr President. Arabia has just inherited France’s nukes, on top of the old Iranian weapons they already have, and the way Europe folded has given the Arabian military machine a huge confidence boost. Right now they think they’re invincible. How long will it be before they turn their attentions towards Israel? Any assistance we offer Beecham could give Khathami the excuse to make his move.’
‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Mitchell countered, but his words lacked conviction. Arabian territory now stretched from the North Sea to the foothills of the Himalayas. If the worst happened, if old hatreds prevailed and Arabia launched against America’s only ally in the Middle East, then any retaliatory nuclear strike against Baghdad or Islamabad wouldn’t make any difference. The destruction of Israel would simply be total. He pondered the scenario for a moment, the tension in the room far below ground, the assembled military personnel, the loud snapping of plastic, the confirmation of the launch codes. The final order. Mitchell’s blood ran cold, and it was Engel’s voice that brought his attention back into the lodge.
‘You heard what the Ambassador said, Mr President. Beecham has offered us his support in that regard. They’re prepared to use their nuke subs under our command should things deteriorate. That’s gutsy talk for a guy who’s lost his country and is now staring down the barrel of a gun.’ He glanced at Radanovich.
‘The real question is, do we desert our friends when they need us most? If we do, what does that say about us?’
‘Damn it,’ breathed Mitchell. ‘We can’t help one without compromising the other. What’s the latest out of Jerusalem?’
‘Sec State’s brief is right there,’ Radanovich replied, sliding a buff-coloured folder marked ‘RESTRICTED’ across the table. ‘Right now, Baghdad is maintaining cordial relationships with Israel. All diplomatic channels are open and the Knesset has been assured that Arabia harbours absolutely no hostile intentions towards its neighbour. They’re insisting it’s a European problem. Meanwhile, the IDF is on full alert and Israeli citizens are digging bunkers and stocking up on tinned foods. It’s a Goddam mess.’
Radanovich got to his feet, crossing the hand-woven rug to the hostess trolley. He poured three coffees into white enamel mugs emblazoned with the logo of the United States Marine Corps, avoided the sugar and cream, then placed the mugs on the coffee table. The President took his, watching his Chief of Staff sip the steaming liquid through pursed lips, noting the worry lines around the red-rimmed eyes, the runner’s frame that appeared to have shrunk even further over the last few weeks. Mitchell recognised the signs, the fear and stress that gnawed away at all of them.
‘You okay, Zack?’
Radanovich nodded, running a tired hand through his thick curly hair.
‘Israel will be next, Mr President. We all know it. Fifteen hundred years of anti-Semitism doesn’t disappear overnight. Synagogues have been razed to the ground all over Europe. The Arabians are saying it’s localised, mob rule, whatever. But it’s clear what’s really happening.’ He set his mug down, his voice low, his hollow cheeks flushed with anger. ‘That’s how it started in Germany. It’s happening again, I can feel it. It’s a Goddam nightmare.’
‘We hear you, Zack,’ Mitchell soothed, feeling the pain of the young New Yorker opposite him. Yet the reports coming out of Europe were ominous. Synagogues had indeed been destroyed and, worse, there were rumours of disappearances and deportations. How much of it was organised was impossible to say – all transport and communications links between Europe and North America had been suspended – but Mitchell was publicly concerned and privately fearful.
Israel, naturally, had protested the loudest against the reports of religious violence, but those protests had fallen mainly on disbelieving ears, its delegation storming from the UN negotiations to the jeers of the Arabian members. She had no friends left, save the US, and was surrounded by her historical enemy, an enemy that had embarked on a conquest of Europe under the pretence of securing the safety and well-being of the ninety-two million Muslims who resided there. No wonder Zack, whose own family had s
urvived the Holocaust nearly a hundred years ago, was scared. They all were.
‘Israel is expecting an attack,’ Radanovich warned. ‘They’ve been under constant assault since 1948, but now they’re facing impossible odds. If the pogroms in Europe start all over again, if they so much as smell Arabia cranking up their missile programme, or making a move towards their borders, they’ll get the first punch in. That means we’ll be sucked into an inter-continental shooting war. Then it’s game over.’
‘Let’s pray that doesn’t happen,’ replied Mitchell.
‘Prayers might not be enough.’
‘Then keep a lid on the rumours,’ the President countered. ‘Do what you have to do. Call the media guys in, brief them, get them onside. We can’t let this thing gain momentum Zack, or God knows where it will lead us. Besides, we have five million Muslims living right here in the US. That gives us a fair amount of leverage with Baghdad.’
‘With respect, Mr President, you really think they give a shit?’
‘Don’t get me started,’ Mitchell snorted, anger briefly replacing his unease.
‘They invaded Europe without giving a rat’s ass what we think, and now they’ve got Russia’s playing offence for them too. As for China, well, they’re not so much sabre-rattling as waving a switchblade in Taiwan’s face. And all because of Khathami. Any influence we ever had in the Middle East evaporated overnight when that guy stepped up. Arab Spring my ass,’ the President scoffed. ‘The truth is, they think we’re a busted flush. Our disengagement from Europe and the Middle East has opened up this Goddam Pandora’s box and now we’ll be lucky if we get the lid halfway closed.’
His bones protested painfully as he pushed himself off the couch and crossed to the stone fireplace, where a fire crackled brightly in the hearth. He selected a poker from a brass stand and teased the flaming logs, dislodging one and sending a shower of tiny embers billowing up the chimney.
Mitchell stared into the flames, where the fire burned brightest, the flame almost white. He was approaching the end of his first term and the economy was at last recovering. His approval rating was holding steady and the media had finally called off the dogs, focussing instead on the corner that America had turned. Mitchell couldn’t take credit for the economic recovery; he was simply lucky enough to be in the right time at the right place. Wasn’t that the difference between success and failure in life? Good timing?
