“It is logical that if they have come here to invade the Earth,” Edward went on, “eventually their ships will land. Perhaps when they do, their shields will come down. And when that happens, we will be there to destroy them. But only if we are still alive. For the time being, we should wait.”
Once more, discussions broke out around the room. As he seated himself again, Reg felt a hand on his shoulder. Tye leaned over and whispered to him, “Have you forgotten about Lieutenant Sutton’s plan, sir? We’re supposed to convince them to get up into the air so we can head away.”
Hearing him, Thomson leaned over to answer. “Odds are, that’s what half the people in this tent are discussing right now.” Faisal allowed the debates to simmer for a few moments before he called for order.
“There are two plans before us,” he said. “Some of you believe that we should strike immediately with all of our forces. Others counsel patience, advising that we wait for a surer opportunity for victory. I believe that the correct path lies between these two options. The orders I was given state that I am to continue standing Saudi policy and protect all parts of the kingdom. But after hearing your wisdom, I realize that these dark times call for compromise.
“For now, we will follow this good Jordanian’s advice and bend our efforts to learning more about these villains. However, on one thing we must remain firm. If the aliens should send a ship against Mecca, the Holy City of our Prophet, then we shall attack no matter the cost. No matter the cost.”
Tye whispered to Reg, “I told you that’s what we heard.” “Because of the constraints on our supplies, I can only offer Saudi jet fuel to those pilots who will join us in this glorious task.”
Exasperated, Thomson stood again. “We just went over this. Whether it’s Mecca or any other city, the fact remains that a premature attack would be suicide. If we learn that a city destroyer is moving south, then we should, of course, evacuate the city, but there’s no reason to send good men to their deaths.”
Faisal spread his arms, holding palms upward. “All things are in the hands of Allah,” he said. “A man who martyrs himself in the defense of Islam we call a shaheed, a witness. Those who join Faisal’s jihad to defend Mecca will all bear this most honorable title.”
Reg remembered what Fadeela had told him about Faisal’s
thirst for glory. And now he’s running his own private jihad, he thought.
Thomson was flustered. “Wouldn’t it please Allah all the more for you to show patience and wait for a real chance to beat these monsters?” he asked.
“Allah rewards no one more richly than the shaheeds," Faisal countered. “A man who dies in the name of God while defending Islam ensures a place for himself and his family in Paradise, where he will be rewarded with seventy-two virgins.”
“Virgins? What have virgins got to do with this?” asked Thomson, incredulous.
“Sounds lovely to me,” said Tye.
Reg took advantage of the rough laughter that followed Tye’s wistful comment to whisper to Thomson, “Don’t try to argue the Koran with a Muslim, Colonel.”
“Colonel Thomson,” Faisal said, “perhaps it is impossible for you, a Christian man, to appreciate how important Mecca is to Muslims. We face it five times each day during our prayers. It is never far from our thoughts. It is literally the center of our world. It would be a form of suicide for us not to defend the city.” He looked around the room. “How many of you Muslim soldiers are prepared to do nothing while Mecca is destroyed by fire?”
Faisal’s gaze slowly swept the room his expression stem. Naturally, no one raised his hand. The commonality of purpose that appeared to pervade the room seemed, for the moment, quite genuine. But Reg’s gut told him that the enthusiasm for Faisal’s plan was manufactured, a smoke screen designed to give the pilots the opportunity to fuel up their jets and return to their home countries. Reg sighed, and stood once more.
“It’s a bad plan, and 1 won’t participate in it,” he said. “Until the situation changes, it doesn’t matter what city we’re defending. And as to the holy purpose of this mission,” Reg paused, not at all relishing what he was about to do, “as to the holy purpose, well, I hope none of you have it in the back of your minds to take advantage of Faisal’s plan to fuel up and return to your homelands. It would be a simple matter, after all, for Faisal to keep a couple of chase squadron planes in flanking positions with orders to shoot down any deserters.”
Many in the tent stared at Reg in angry silence, stunned that he was ruining their plan for escape. Faisal broke the silence.
“Major Cummins, your points are well made, and you are quite correct. 1 have anticipated that there might be some small number of false hearts and anticipated as well the necessity and the means to punish traitors and deserters.”
His point to the other pilots made, Faisal turned a venomous grin on Reg. “I am not surprised that you cannot feel sympathy for a Muslim cause despite the friendship and admiration your Saudi students feel for you. I understand that you shot down a young Egyptian pilot this morning.” He paused to let the accusation linger in the air for a moment. “Shot him down like a dog, though you had no authority over him, because he refused to obey your orders.”
“That’s a bloody lie, and you know it, Faisal!” shouted Tye, leaping to his feet for the first time.
Reg gestured for the mechanic to be seated, taking the opportunity to calm his own seething anger. “I didn’t fire on the Egyptian, Faisal. I did what I had to do to save myself, and I did so in an attempt to lead the aliens away from Khamis Moushayt.” “And Khamis Moushayt is now in ruins, yes? And so the Egyptian boy is dead for no reason, as dead as all of the British and American pilots whom you failed to save when you fled into the desert.”
Many of the Saudis and those international pilots who had not been part of Reg’s group were now whispering to one another in angry tones, gesturing at him with thinly veiled contempt.
“Major Cummins,” Faisal continued, “if you choose not to fight, so be it. May Allah forgive you.” He turned to address the entire group. “And may Allah forgive all of you who will not join me in pledging to defend Mecca.
“Those of you who do not wish to join the shaheeds may leave us now. Your input is no longer needed.”
During the first tense moments before anyone stood to leave,
Reg tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact with Khalid, but the usually cheerful young man was staring somberly at his feet. Edward was the first to stand and leave. Much to everyone’s surprise, all three Syrians followed immediately behind the Jordanian. Then Remi, the lone Ethiopian, left. With a disappointed sigh, Tye stood, his head reaching almost to the roof of the tent.
“Well, I’d say that was a smashing failure. We might as well get out of here.” One by one, exactly half of the international pilots filtered out of the tent. Reg was among the last to leave.
Before he turned, Faisal smiled at him once more, and said, “Who’s standing in the way of unity now?”
That bastard planned every bit of this meeting, start to finish, thought Reg.
Outside, Thomson and Tye stood waiting for him.
“You didn’t win us any friends with your last speech, Major,” Thomson said.
“I’m not running for Most Popular Fighter Pilot, Colonel,” Reg said, voice clipped. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to keep us all together.”
Tye wasn’t convinced. “Lieutenant Sutton’s going to go ballistic,” he said. “Now there’s no chance for Diego Garcia.” He glanced back into the tent. “No chance for virgins either, I’ll warrant.”
The Saudi guards posted outside the meeting didn’t order the pilots back across the runway, so they stayed, waiting for the meeting to break up. None of the international pilots would even glance in Reg’s direction.
The various factions whispered ominously to one another, glancing over their shoulders to make sure none of the Saudis was within earshot. It was a novel sight to see Miriyam, the Israeli firebr
and, in hushed conversations with pilots from Iraq, Iran, and even Syria. Reg was certain they were hatching some scheme for seizing control of the fuel tanker; but as he was being shut out, it was only a guess.
Thirty minutes later, the meeting inside the tent was over, and the participants began to stream out into the cool midnight air.
They seemed to be in high spirits, confident that they would either turn back the invasion or earn Paradise trying.
Reg kept an eye out for Khalid. He wanted to speak to the young pilot and his father. It was Reg’s hope that the elder Yamani held enough influence—and still had enough of his wits about him—to steer Faisal away from his plan. But when his former student emerged from the tent, Faisal himself his escort, arm draped over the younger man as if the two were long-lost brothers, Reg could only watch as they wandered away between the tents, locked in discussion.
“The meeting is now finished. You will return to your encampments!” It was the burly Saudi captain again, looking menacingly strong as he herded the international pilots across the runway.
Reg hung back in the shadow of an F-15 and managed to escape the notice of the Saudi guards. Once he was sure he was unobserved, he trotted quietly through the camp, making his way to the line of Learjets. Moving surreptitiously from plane to plane, he eventually came to the Yamani jet, light streaming from its portals. With a last glance around, he climbed the stairs and raised his hand to knock on the hatch.
“There is no one inside who wishes to speak to you, Major Cummins,” came a soft voice from beneath the plane’s fuselage.
Reg was startled, but he maintained an even demeanor as he leaned over and peered into the darkness beneath the jet. In her black abaya, Fadeela Yamani was an invisible specter. Only when her green eyes caught a flash of light from across the camp could Reg make out her location.
“I need to speak to your father and brother. Miss Yamani,” Reg said formally. “Your Commander Faisal is determined to kill every man in this camp in his quest for personal glory.”
“I am sure that is true. Major Cummins,” she replied, stepping out of the shadows and motioning for him to join her on the ground. “But Ghalil ibn-Faisal is in that plane right now with my brother, seeking my father’s blessing.”
Reg glanced up at the portal nearest to him. Sure enough, just then Faisal’s bulk passed the window as he paced, arms waving, obviously exhorting the Yamani men to throw their support to him.
“Guess I’ll have to talk to them some other time,” Reg said. He considered his best route back to the British tents, but then decided he wasn’t quite ready to face Sutton’s inevitable tirade. There was a break in the plateau lip near the Yamani jet, a draw filled with sand forming a rampway out into the dune sea.
“Think I’ll just take a walk then, if you’ll excuse me. Good evening, Miss Yamani.”
He turned to go, but she caught his arm. "Major, wait. I’ll join you.”
Reg guessed that Fadeela was waiting outside of the plane on the orders of her father or brother, so that she would not disturb their meeting. He knew that her suggestion that she join him could land her in quite a bit of hot water if they were caught.
“Miss Yamani, the risk—”
“The risk, Major Cummins,” she interrupted, “is mine to take.” With that, she took his arm, and they walked quietly out into the dunes.
Once they were away from the camp and hidden from view in a depression between dunes, they sat on the slip face of one of the hills of sand and looked up at the stars.
“I’m surprised that you have any desire to be around me after our last conversation,” Reg said.
“I was at the meeting tonight,” she said. “And yes, I could tell you were trying to pick me out. I can play the anonymous role Islam demands of me when it suits my purposes, Reg.”
Noting that they were on a first-name basis again, Reg asked, “What about the meeting made you decide that I was worth a stroll in the desert?”
Fadeela reached up and took off her headdress, shaking her hair loose and breathing the night air. “I decided that I was wrong about you, somewhat,” she said.
“Somewhat?”
“Yes. You are a sensible man to oppose Faisal’s plan, but you do not dismiss him or the others as fanatics as some among the ('hristians and Jews surely have.”
“I’ve been knocking around the Islamic world for a long time, l adeela. I know what Mecca means to you.”
“No,” she said. “Not to me. I am not Muslim, Reg, not in a way that the imams would acknowledge. I believe in a motivating force in the universe, but I do not believe that its only aspect is the God of the Prophet. There is much wisdom in the Holy Koran, and I pray dutifully. But when I open my heart in prayer, the God 1 feel is a nurturing force, feminine . . . and empowering.”
Reg considered this. “I think you’re right about the imams, there, Fadeela. Sounds a bit California.”
“I asked you before what you had to fight for, Reg. You couldn’t answer. In the meeting, though, I saw a spark of something in you. Maybe I should rephrase the question. Tell me, Reg, what do you believe in?”
“Well,” Reg answered, “my mum raised me as a devout Apathetic, but as the years have passed I’ve found 1 just don’t care that much about it anymore.”
She chuckled, but didn’t let him off the hook. “Always the glib comment,” she said. “At least when you’re not facing down enemy fighters.”
“No,” said Reg, “I’m at my glibbest in those situations.” “Warrior and clown, then,” she said. “And neither mask is enough to hide the pain beneath.”
Reg sat stock-still. How could she know?
“Do you know what I want, Reg Cummins?” she asked. “I want to drive a car. Isn’t that funny? With all of the restrictions placed on women in Saudi Arabia, these clothes, our subservience to our husbands, with everything else, what I miss most about Stanford is driving. I suppose if I ever want to drive again, I’ll have to go back there.”
Relieved that she seemed to be changing topics, Reg replied, “Khalid said that your father was comparatively liberal with your upbringing.”
“He was,” she said. “He gave me enough freedom to want more. That’s another reason I can’t say I’m really Muslim any longer. My cousins and aunts, they’re all capable and intelligent women. Many of them chafe against the system, sure, but eventually they capitulate. Well, that’s my word. They would probably say they grow up.”
“It’s a harsh system,” Reg said.
She indicated the desert with a graceful sweep of her arm. “It was designed for a harsh people, Reg, a harsh people living in a harsh place. I can’t live in it and be true to myself, but I can’t condemn it outright either. Oh, I fight with Khalid to be sure. He really is a pig. But I don’t want to cause him pain, any more than I want to cause my beloved father pain. But for me, pain is something to be healed”—she raised the scarf in her hand—“not hidden.”
Hook, line and sinker, thought Reg, realizing that she’d caught him. And I can’t believe this, but I think I’m glad she did.
Reg brought his hands together and thought, trying to find words. Finally, he said, “I flew bombers before I switched to fighters, in the war, I mean.”
Before he could go on, a shout rang across the desert. “Miss Yamani? Are you out there?” It was Faisal.
“Damn the man!” she hissed. “He finished meeting with my father and brother earlier than I expected.”
Other voices called her name, the sounds drifting across the dunes.
“You have to hide, Reg,” she told him. “I will let them find me, but it is death for you if they find us together! Faisal will have you shot on sight!”
With that, she stood and headed back for camp. “Fadeela, wait!” Reg called softly, but just as she reached the crest of the dune, a flashlight beam played across her, illuminating her face as she hastily knotted the head scarf into place.
A gravelly voice shouted in Arabic, and Reg could hea
r more men converging on the opposite side of the dune. He crawled stealthily to the lip and looked down to see Faisal confronting Fadeela. A half dozen soldiers stood around him and a small, wrinkled man with a full turban and a long gray beard. Reg recognized the man as a mutawa, sort of a religious policeman.
The man was soundly berating Fadeelah, raising a hand as if to strike her, but instead stripping her hastily tied scarf from her head. Several of the soldiers laughed coarsely.
Eventually, Faisal stepped in front of the religious man and waved him off. He stepped closer to Fadeela and spoke to her gently. To Reg’s shock, he reached out and gently stroked her face with the back of his hand. This sort of thing was expressly forbidden, Reg knew, but the mutawa just stood by, grinning. Must be in Faisal’s pocket, thought Reg.
Fadeela stood her ground, straight as an arrow. Only when Faisal leaned in and made as if to kiss her did she break away, running for the ramp of sand that led to her father’s plane. A pair of the soldiers moved to intercept her, but Faisal called them off. He said something to the mutawa, and they both laughed.
When the Saudis had gone, Reg crept away, making for the British tents.
4
A Much Too Crazy Plan
The second day of the end of the world began in silence. There were no sobs from those who had cracked under pressure. The foreign pilots who were unable to maintain at least a veneer of self-control, such as the Israeli Greenberg, had been removed in the night to the Tent of the Fearful, where they were injected with morphine.
Reg lay in his tent as the sun began to climb. The sounds of the camp slowly coming to life around him drifted through the canvas, but having made enemies of almost everyone in the camp the previous evening, Reg felt no great need to venture forth just yet.
Even as the morning wore on, the level of activity did not begin to approach the breakneck pace of the day before. It was as if everyone in the camp had taken time to ponder the tremendous gravity of the situation before them. Millions of people all around the world were dead, and more were no doubt dying with each passing moment, victims of a merciless enemy of seemingly limitless power. An enemy that Ghalil ibn-Faisal would soon be leading many of them against, no matter the odds.
Stephen Molstad - [ID4- Independence Day 03] Page 8
