Luggalor's Lenses

by W. S. Fuller

  He pulled his mask off and yelled, “Secure the prisoners, fortify your positions,” knowing they must quickly protect themselves and what they had gained. Grabbing the handset from the back of his fatigues, he turned it on and spoke in a calm, steady voice. “Hassan, come in, Kabril. What is your status?”

  “The gate is secure. We are deployed. We have three dead and two wounded, none seriously.”

  “Josiah, come in, Kabril...Josiah...do you read?” Kabril waited a moment and a voice came back.

  “Roger, Kabril. We are secure. Two dead, four wounded. Two seriously.”

  “Hassef, come in, Kabril.....Hassef, do you...”

  “This is Sahuk. Hassef is dead. The gate is secure. We have four dead and five wounded. One seriously.”

  Suddenly there was the deep thump of helicopter blades, and he turned back to see tracers and cannon fire rain down on his men as they ran for cover. The earth was being chewed up...men were falling...and then he saw the flash of the launcher. The gunship exploded, and there were shouts of joy as debris rained down onto the plaza.

  Kabril glanced at his watch. It had been seventeen minutes since the assault began. All the gates were secured, they had established their main defensive position along the western wall where they had the protection of the police post, and, most importantly, the wall itself. They would wire it with enough explosives to crumble it into pebbles. The Zionists will never take a chance on destroying their most sacred shrine. His adrenaline still surged as he thought with lightning speed through everything that must be done, all the contingencies. And then he felt the elation surge through his body, and permitted himself a moment to let it overcome him. We have taken al-Haram ash-Sharif...the Zionists Temple Mount...the Wailing Wall...in the heart of what will become Palestine. God, please let us hold it for fifteen hours...just fifteen hours.

  2012

  JUDEAN DESERT, ISRAEL

  John Champion stood in the middle of the compound with the rest of Alpha Company, awaiting the arrival of General Mark Engen of the Israeli Defense Forces. Engen was supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago, and everyone was becoming restless at parade rest in the heat. It’ll probably be the standard, thanks-so-much-for-your-help, give-em-hell-when-the-shooting-starts-speech. Maybe a few tips on fighting in the desert, drinking lots of water, keeping filters on everything mechanical from someone who has done this before, and anything else the good general could think of to keep up morale.

  Colonel Portman and General Engen moved quickly to the front of the company and Engen immediately began to speak. “This is not going to be the talk you expected, or I expected to give. I’ve just received word that an assault has been made on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. For those of you who do not know...the Western Wall, or Wailing Wall, of the Temple Mount, is the Jewish people’s holiest site. Two of the Arabs most sacred shrines are also in this area, and holding the Temple Mount will fire their troops to a fever pitch. This could well be the start of their offensive against us. We feel very strongly that the next ten to twelve hours of daylight might bring an attack. Please be ready. I thank you from the bottom of my heart...all Israelis thank you from the bottom of their hearts for your commitment and help. God be with you all.”

  John’s flesh crawled, a shiver surged through every fiber of his body. Well, it’s here...now it starts.

  2012

  DHAKA, BANGLADESH

  Jennifer stared through the window of the plane, watching the palm trees bend and debris scurry across the runway ahead of the wind. After numerous delays in getting to the airport, they had been sitting here for over an hour, waiting for the plane to be serviced. The storm had moved rapidly towards them, the winds were approaching gale force, and her anxiety level was high. She knew that because of the higher temperatures of the sea water, due partially to the greenhouse, and the fact that the water’s heat is the engine that drives tropical storms...this one would be bad. The pressure reading was already quite low. When the planes first officer called it a monster, she took it as affirmation that she knew her climatology. She didn’t want to think of what was about to happen here, or the delays in the flight, or Cory, or anything. There were too many horrible possibilities, and certainties. Her mind was racing, jumping....and within seconds she was thinking of Cory again, safe at home, and Li, then the tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of children who would drown when the storm surge comes and the water rises...and the millions of children in other places who would die of starvation this year because of drought, not water, but made worse by the same global warming. A major war was on the brink of erupting...and chemical, biological, even nuclear weapons might be used. Maybe the people in Idaho, or wherever, who live in underground bunkers and hoard canned food and water...maybe they’ve been right after all. Maybe Armageddon is coming, and this is the start.

  The plane began to move.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is captain Beckwith. It looks like we’re finally ready to go here. Sorry about the delays but we should be airborne in just a few minutes. Please check to see that your seatbelts are securely fastened. The climb out will be bumpy because of the weather, but we’ll be turning back to the north and away from it and it should smooth out once we reach our cruising altitude.”

  The plane made the turn at the end of the runway without stopping, and Jennifer felt the surge of the engines as it straightened and accelerated dramatically. Dear God, please keep me safe and everyone sa...muffled explosions interrupted her prayer and she jerked forward against the belt. The engines screamed. Gasps and cries filled the cabin, and Jennifer put her head down, covered it with her arms, waited for an impact...an explosion...the plane to slide...for nothingness…waited...her mind sharply in focus on what she must do if she survived. They stopped and she was up instantly, starting for an exit.

  The pilot was in the cabin, moving quickly down the aisle and shouting, “Do not try to leave the aircraft. Do not attempt to leave the aircraft. The plane is all right. The plane is all right. There was something on the end of the runway. It was not clear. Please be calm, everything is all right.” The pilot turned and hurried back into the cockpit as the same message came through the speakers from one of the flight attendants..

  “Wasn’t that an explosion? Did you hear it?” Hal Hollins, a science writer, leaned across the aisle and questioned Jennifer.

  “Yes, it sounded like that to me.” She turned her head toward the window and closed her eyes, hoping no one else would try to talk to her. Her heart pounded.

  There was no word further word from the crew as the plane remained motionless on the runway for what seemed to Jennifer like ten or fifteen minutes. Then the voice came over the intercom. “This is Captain Beckwith. The plane is all right. No damage. The rest of the news is not so good, and I don’t think you folks would want me to sugar coat it. There were three explosions at the end of the runway just after we accelerated. That’s why we stopped. Seems they were mortars. I’m going to read you a message exactly as it was just read to me by the tower.

  “In support of our Arab brothers we demand that the United States Government remove all troops and military equipment from the soil of what is now called Israel but is rightfully Palestine. If this pullout does not start within twenty four hours we will destroy the United Airlines aircraft that is now on the runway at Dhaka. It is signed Shanti Bahani.”

  Their was silence inside the plane for a few moments and then she heard Hal Hollins say to no one in particular, “Damned idiots. Twenty-four hours. Don’t they know within six this plane, their mortars and everybody’s asses are all going to be floating toward the Himalayas.”

  2012

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “Damn it, Joe…hell of a serve,” Sam said to his friend as they walked toward each other on the change-over. “So much for you working hard at anything other than improving your game. At our age, you don’t find that kind of additional pace unless you’re spending more time on the tennis court and less pounding
out stories.”

  “Now, now, be nice,” Joe laughed. “Maybe it’s technology… I’m hooked on the latest in those mega caffeine energy drinks. Or it could be our eyes don’t pick the ball up quite as well as they used to. Don’t know about you…but nothing of mine works as well as it used to.” The guitar break from Stairway to Heaven played inside Joe’s tennis bag and he moved to retrieve his phone. “Sorry, Sam, let me see who it is.”

  After answering, Joe was silent, listening intently, not moving, with the cell phone to his ear. “Jesus, Adam. Jesus Christ. I’m on my way.” Joe’s arm dropped to his side, his hand holding the phone limply. His face was ashen, his eyes as alarmed as Sam had ever seen them.

  “Jesus. A container ship just blew sky high in Savannah. Big explosion, killed ten to twenty people on board and alongside the dock. There’s a preliminary report of heavy radioactive readings. Dirty bomb is a good bet,” Joe said, his voice conveying defeat.

  “Timing,” Sam said. “The Temple Mount, now this. If confirmed, it’s devastating news on its own. But I’ve got a very bad feeling.”

  2012

  JUDEAN DESERT, ISRAEL

  As darkness fell across the desert, John wondered if he could relax even a bit. They had been waiting for the attack for ten hours, in full anti-chemical battle gear except for the mask...weapons ready, artillery manned, tanks deployed. The prolonged tension and fear made his whole body ache, and along with the heat, had reduced him to physical exhaustion.

  His mind had begun to numb from the continuous cavalcade of thoughts and ruminations it generated. He had gone over and over everything he must do, when it started, to keep his men and himself alive and fighting. What it’s like to be hit...to die...to watch someone die...to kill...his parents...Shawn...George Burnett...the effects of nerve gas or an anthrax bomb...seeing the nuclear flash from Tel Aviv? These thoughts and a thousand others had passed through his consciousness. Maybe the attack won’t come today...the Temple Mount could be unrelated...there are so many groups. With darkness we’ll have the advantage again. God, I’d like to get out of this stuff. Shouldn’t have any trouble sleeping tonight…if I’m still here. Crazy, I haven’t been sleeping, and now on the scariest day of my life I think I can. Lifting the plastic bottle to his lips, he finished off his second or third gallon of water of the day. For the first time, John felt the urge to urinate. His sweat poured nonstop.

  The order came to get some sleep and he headed to the latrine. A few minutes later he was out of the protective suit, stripped to his underwear, and on the bunk in the camouflaged tent. How can I possibly enjoy laying here as much as I am, how can I possibly feel this good when I should be terrified...when I may be about to die? A few hours to relax before daylight. Maybe this is the ultimate extension of time...a couple of hours before certain horror, and serenity shows up. Or maybe the mind has a safety valve. After a certain amount of fear and tension, at some point, it automatically shifts.

  Gigantic, hundred-foot-long shells under pink and yellow parachutes floated slowly down towards him. The explosion instantly jolted John to a sitting position on the bunk. Trying to shake the dream from his mind, the next explosion momentarily confused him. Then his entire body stiffened.

  Off the cot in an instant, he grappled with the suit and boots, then shot out of the tent and ran, his rifle in one hand and mask in the other. Two more rounds exploded just outside the compound, and he could hear yells and commands. Reaching his men, John checked to be sure everyone was where they should be, had all their equipment, then looked out across the desert…at blackness. He fumbled with the night vision goggles in his pocket...finally getting them on. The concertina wire glowed an eerie green, but he saw nothing else. Huddled against the sandbags, he waited. They all waited. Their own artillery began to answer, then two more incoming rounds exploded outside. Smoke wafted over them. The scream of jets added to the rising, wild, and discordant assault of sounds. John felt fear, but it wasn’t gut-wrenching.

  For a long time he crouched, not moving, mesmerized, calm, watching and listening to the amazing spectacle unfolding above him - the glow of afterburners and laser-thin red tracers crisscrossing the pitch black sky as fighter jets engaged each other and anti-air defenses in their deadly, radar eyes-only sorties and dogfights. Occasional bright flashes told him when a plane had been destroyed, but not whose soldier died. He knew terror and violent death was happening in the sky, but from the ground the whole scene seemed surreal, strangely disconnected. After the initial volley of near-miss artillery rounds, they had not taken any more fire. His watch read one a.m. It had been an hour and a half since it started.

  There was a sudden, shattering explosion, then smoke and shouts filled the air. John instinctively ducked his head as the concussion from the second round slammed into him, and he felt a burning sensation in his leg as yet another hit erupted along the wall.

  “Down! Down! Masks! Get your masks on,” he screamed. There was a string of explosions just outside and the sudden blast from ground-hugging jets on the bombing run. Glancing down his row of men, he saw no one who looked injured. As he turned toward the center of the compound, he watched the haze of smoke clear enough to reveal the sickening sight of crumpled bodies, and one man sitting with his arm and shoulder missing. There were screams and a cry of “medic” coming from the thick smoke on the far end of the sandbagged wall.

  John felt the fear crush down on him, much harder than he had ever known. Fighting the urge to freeze, he forced himself up and looked into the night. Still nothing. A sense of focus replaced the fear, and he realized he would be able to do whatever he needed to do. Another round slammed into the ground behind him, then another. The smoke was so thick, so enveloping, that he couldn’t see anything. More planes streaked overhead, and more rounds and bombs exploded just in back of him. He waited to be hit...or for nothingness. The chaotic confusion of noise, dust, smoke and cries smothered him. He thought to glance at his sleeve and raised his arm to his eyes. The red dots were glowing.

  “Chemicals! Chemicals!” he shouted. Moving in a crouch down the row of men, he checked to be sure all their masks were on and they had injected themselves. When he was sure they had all followed his orders, he removed the plastic container from the zippered compartment on his pant leg, took off the cap, and slammed the six inch long needle through all the layers of clothing and into his shoulder.

  The longest night of his life wore on, with more planes, bombs, rockets, artillery, and the constant rumbling of distant tank battles.

  There were two more hits on their position, and more maimed and dead. With only small spotlights to illuminate the injured and assess the damage through the haze of smoke, sand and dust, the noise, the cries and smell of powder...it all seemed to John truly a scene from some surreal, dreamlike hell.

  So this is war. It’s not about land or beliefs or politicians or generals. It’s about good, innocent kids being blown apart in a goddamned desert or thousands of feet up in the sky. Kids with parents, brothers and sisters, wives, husbands and children who love them, and will be lost without them. Kids who die, or are maimed or mentally scarred for the rest of their lives, and in most cases don’t have a clue to the real reasons the presidents and kings of greed, power and ego sent them into the inferno. It’s insane. Are we more civilized now than in the days armies dropped burning oil on their enemies? Hell no, just more progressive. Each year we learn how to kill more people faster. And that’s it. The whole thing. The determining factor in how the greatest civilizations in history do business is still which sides’ poor innocent sons-of-bitches slaughter more of the other sides’ poor innocent sons-of-bitches.’ It’s sensitivity training, self-actualization and animal rights at home...and barbaric, mass slaughter of human beings abroad.

  John noticed helicopters ahead of them firing tracers with a steep trajectory. The tanks and artillery sounded closer. An hour ago he was told they were within ten miles. Looking ahead into the blackness, he could see flashes from
more muzzles now, and they were brighter.

  “All right, men, we should be getting some fire from the tanks soon. Is everybody ready?”

  “Are you scared, sergeant?” Cristol, next to him, spoke in a barely audible voice.

  “Hell yes, have been all night.”

  “Remember those guys that fought in Nam telling us that if you live long enough you kind of learn to like it? When you get good at it you can get hooked on the rush.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” John replied.

  “There aren’t enough days or battles left in the couple of million years before the sun explodes for that to happen to me. How about you?”

  “Yeah...I agree. I goddamn sure as hell agree.”

  John stared through the opening in the sandbags. He knew how much it would change if they had some light. It was a matter of what got there first.

  A flight of fighters thundered by just overhead, and bombs and rockets exploded beneath them. More helicopters darted into the battle, and he knew they were throwing everything they had to keep them off the camp. Through the goggles he was able to barely make out their own tanks ahead. A little light, must be a little light. Even with night vision…there’s just so damned many of them. God, give us little light...and please keep me...all these good men safe Lord. The noise was deafening...tanks, artillery, planes, bombs...and all at close range.