“Hear, hear!” shouted Thomson. Several of the other pilots joined him in shouting encouragement.
“We’re from different countries,” Reg continued. “We speak different languages. Two days ago some of our countries were openly hostile to one another. Do you remember? Do you remem-ber two days ago? It seems like ten years, doesn’t it? Those old conflicts, those hostilities, they’re meaningless now. What’s important is what we have in common. What we have in common is the greatest enemy mankind has ever known. And now we have hope!” More of the men shouted approval, and Reg kept on.
“We have hope that we can knock the invaders from the skies! We have hope that we can take back what is ours! We have hope, a real hope, of fighting a battle we can win!” They were his now, Reg saw. Every pilot within earshot was clapping and shouting, banging their hands against barrels like impromptu percussionists or simply jumping up and down. Every pilot except one.
It’s one thing to convince them, thought Reg, staring at the grim visage of Ghalil ibn-Faisal, hut another thing altogether to convince the man with the power. Again, Reg remembered what Fadeela had told him, that here was a man motivated solely by persona] glory.
“Or maybe,” Reg said, holding his hands up for silence, “maybe we should act prematurely. Maybe we should throw ourselves against the aliens before their shields are knocked down, guaranteeing that they will destroy us, and survive us. Maybe we should make a futile gesture instead of a genuine attack, and ensure the destruction of Mecca. And Riyadh. And Baghdad, and Addis Ababa, and every other place any of us hold dear.
“Maybe it won’t come to that, though. Maybe some pilots from somewhere else in the world will be able to take out our assigned city destroyer after they’ve saved their own people. After all, just because we don’t fulfill our part of the bargain doesn’t mean that the other thirty-five ships won’t go down. Just the ship in the Middle East left. And why? Because when it finally counted the most, the people of the region couldn’t act together for the common good. When it finally mattered the most, the chance at the glory of victory wasn’t enough to make them see something bigger than their own problems.”
“No!” shouted a voice from the crowd, and Reg saw that it was Yossi.
“We can work together,” said another voice, a Syrian.
“Can you?” asked Reg. “Can Muslims and Christians and Jews fight side by side?” The crowd roared, “Yes!”
“Can Persians and Arabs and Europeans and Africans unite to rid the world of this horrible scourge?” And again they roared, "Yes!"
Then Reg threw his own arms into the air, and shouted, “Victory!”
The cheer spread through the whole camp in a heartbeat. “Victory! Victory! Victory!” The desert rang with the international chorus.
Climbing down from his makeshift pulpit, Reg caught sight of Fadeela once again. Was it possible to notice a grin from behind an abayal He thought so.
“You are quite a speech maker, Major Cummins,” someone behind him said. It was Faisal, of course. “I can raise no objection to the American plan now. But it will have to be incorporated into my own, of course.” The Saudi commander held up a dispatch.
“The alien ship has turned south, toward Mecca. We will fly to defend the Holy City, as planned. If the Americans have brought the shields down by the time we arrive, so much the better.” Faisal wadded up the paper and threw it in the sand at Reg’s feet.
“In either case,” he continued, “once they pass the city of Usfan we will attack.”
5
Counterattack
The main battle in the camp that afternoon was between debilitating heat and the determination of the pilots to prepare their planes for the showdown. The work required them to spend long stretches of time exposed to the punishing sun. They stripped parts off of the damaged jets in order to repair others, replenished their fuel tanks one bucket at a time, and jury-rigged missile firing systems to accommodate unfamiliar weaponry. There was little time to discuss strategy and tactics. As the sun leaned to the west and the men in the radio tent continued to track the city destroyer’s progress toward Mecca, the pilots went through their final checklists.
At five-thirty the planes were lined up on the runway, ready to go. Nearly two hundred pilots climbed into their cockpits and fired up their engines. But Reg was still on the ground inspecting the Tornado that had been Thomson’s plane and stealing occasional glances toward the Saudi camp. Since Thomson was the least accomplished pilot among the Brits, he had volunteered to sit with the Saudi radio technicians to help decode the next message from the Americans. Sutton and Tye, already strapped in, were watching Reg, wondering what was taking him so long. A moment later they had their answer. From between the Saudi tents, a veiled woman emerged and marched purposefully onto the runway. Her black, ankle-length abaya moved in time with her long, athletic stride, and she earned something in her hand.
Reg knew who it was. Like a smitten teenager, he’d delayed getting into his plane for as long as he could, hoping that she would find some way to see him off. He’d hoped that she would wave to him from between the tents, or send word through a messenger. But Fadeela was bolder than that. She walked directly up to him, ignoring the hundreds of people who were watching, and handed him a photograph. Reg caught a quick glimpse of her bright green eyes before she turned on her heels and walked away without a word.
He looked down at the photograph. It showed a young girl— too young to wear a veil—riding a camel toward the finish line of a race. Her green eyes were turned toward the camera, and she was laughing triumphantly. He turned it over and read the words written on the back: “A kiss for luck.”
A smile spread across Reg’s face as he tucked the photograph into his breast pocket. It’s almost as if she can read my mind, he said to himself as he climbed into the jet. It’s exactly what I needed. Something to remind me what I’m fighting for.
They flew west, nearly two hundred strong, to the edge of the desert before turning due north. Eighty of the Saudi planes took the lead, flying in crisply formed wedges. They were followed by the international pilots, seventy-three of them, straggling along in ragtag fashion. Another Saudi squadron brought up the rear, prepared to hunt down any pilot who tried to run. They followed the Asir mountain chain up the country’s west coast. The terrain on the two sides of the mountains was starkly different. To the left, the hills were covered with trees all the way down to the lush coast of the Red Sea. To the right, rocky cliffs and canyons ran down to the lifeless floor of the Empty Quarter’s great sand desert. There was no sign of the enemy, but for the first time in years, Reg felt nervous being up in the air.
As they approached Mecca, they looked down at an awesome spectacle. From all directions, the Islamic faithful were converging on the Holy City. For mile after mile, the highways were choked with traffic. Brightly painted buses, private cars, and rivers of people on foot were all surging toward the famous mosque.
“Major Cummins,” Faisal’s voice came over the radio, “ahead you can see our Holy City. I think you are very fortunate to see this sight. Under normal circumstances, of course, only believers are allowed here. So today, I declare you and the others to be honorary Muslim pilgrims—hajjis.”
“Allah inshallah, old bean,” Reg said, smiling.
As they caught sight of Mecca’s great mosque, they saw that there was a sea of believers crushed into the immense courtyard. They were moving in slow circles around the cube-shaped Kaaba, the shrine that stood at the center of the open space. According to Muslim belief, this stone structure was originally build by the first man, Adam. As the planes roared past, many of the Arab and African pilots broke into the same ritual prayers being chanted by the faithful below: Lord God, from such a distant land I have come unto Thee ... grant me shelter under Thy throne.
Several minutes north of Mecca, Faisal’s voice renamed to the airwaves and called everyone’s attention to a small city nestled in the hills. It was Usfan, the place he h
ad chosen as his line in the sand, the point beyond which he would not allow the aliens to pass.
Directly ahead, the monstrous bulk of the city destroyer hovered like an airborne cancer between the blue sky and the dun brown earth. The radios erupted with nervous chatter as the pilots called out the sighting. A moment later, Thomson’s voice came from the radio tent back in the Empty Quarter.
“Sounds as if you’ve made visual contact. Is that right?”
He was answered simultaneously in half a dozen languages. Everyone monitoring the frequency confirmed that the destroyer was in sight, then began asking the colonel for information on its airspeed, elevation, and distance.
“Pilots, pilots,” Thomson broke in, “these transmissions are being recorded. Please try to speak one at a time, and identify yourselves when you do.”
“What the hell is the point?” asked Sutton, his voice dripping with disgust.
“The point, Lieutenant Sutton, is that you never know. If you chaps pull off a miracle and beat these sons of bitches, it’ll be one for the history books. This audiotape we’re making might show up on the BBC someday, and you’ll be famous.”
Sutton scoffed. “Thomson, I wish you were up here to see this thing we’re facing. Then you wouldn’t sound so damn chipper. In a day or two, there’s going to be no one left to read any history books. But go ahead and make your tape. Maybe the aliens will find it someday and get a good laugh out of it.”
Tye came on the radio. After stating his name as the colonel had asked, he said, “The thing I would like to add to the historical record is that I wish Sutton would keep his bleeding pie hole closed until he has something useful to say for himself.”
Several other pilots laughed and seconded Tye’s motion.
At a distance of fifty miles, the dome-shaped saucer began to dominate the skyline. It was plowing inexorably forward at approximately two hundred miles an hour, the embodiment of certain doom.
Faisal continued to lead them straight toward the obsidian tower that marked the prow of the destroyer until, at a distance of twenty-five miles, he banked away to the right. Group by group, the rest of the jets followed suit.
“Ten more minutes, Teacher,” Khalid radioed to Reg. “In ten minutes we find out if the Americans were successful. I don’t think the alien ship will reach Usfan before then.”
“I agree,” Reg said, “but that’s not going to leave us much of a cushion.”
“Not to worry,” Miriyam said. “I already did the math. We have twenty minutes until they get to Usfan.”
“Which means we have a little more than ten minutes to bring down the destroyer before it reaches Mecca,” Reg pointed out. He studied the massive alien ship before adding another thought. “Even with their shields down, our missiles might not be enough.” “Luckily we are not the only ones here,” said Remi, the Ethiopian pilot they’d met the previous afternoon. “More and more jets are coming every minute.” It was true. There were at least a dozen groups of fighters in the area, but they looked pathetically small compared to the advancing city destroyer.
“There is no reason to worry,” Edward said, trying without success to mask the fear in his voice. “Today will be like the story of David and Goliath. We’ll find a way to knock down this giant with our small weapons.”
Yossi couldn’t let the opportunity to needle Edward slip past. “David was a Jewish hero, you realize.”
Edward laughed. “Yes, I know. But he’s like the Palestinians. We used to fight your Israeli armored jeeps with only bricks and stones.”
“And look how successful you were,” said one of the Iraqis. “You had to run away and live in Jordan.”
After a long pause, Edward spoke again. “You’re right. But today will be different. Today, the little guys are going to win.” Pondering Edward’s prediction, the pilots maintained a tense radio silence for the next few minutes, hoping to hear from the Americans. At exactly 6:15, the moment the message was scheduled to arrive, the radio erupted with shouting. It was not the Americans; it was Faisal. He began issuing a long string of orders, speaking only in Arabic. The Saudi jets that had been flying at the rear of the formation accelerated past the international contingent to join the rest of their countrymen.
“Would someone care to translate?” Tye asked. “What’s going on?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sutton grumbled. “They’re preparing to attack.”
Reg could see that Sutton was right. Faisal wasn’t going to allow the Americans any extra time, even though the destroyer was still miles from Usfan. As the Saudi F-15s positioned themselves, Faisal monopolized the airwaves, calling to his men in an urgent but controlled voice.
Reg thought a premature strike would be disastrous on two counts. Not only would it be a waste of scarce firepower; it might also draw the scarablike attacker ships into the air. If their shields were still operational, they would make short work of the few hundred jets that had massed for the counterattack. He shouted into his radio, trying to get the Saudi commander’s attention and urging him not to jeopardize this last, slim hope of bringing down the enemy ship.
Faisal ignored the warning and continued speaking to his men in the rhythmic, hypnotizing voice of a fire-and-brimstone preacher. Although Reg couldn’t understand the individual words, he knew Faisal was exhorting his pilots to bravery and self-sacrifice, preparing them for martyrdom.
“I’d just like to point out,” Sutton said quietly, “that now would be an excellent time for us to get the hell out of here.” Ever since the Saudi watchdog planes had moved forward to join the attack formation, members of the international squadron had been quietly peeling away and flying toward their home countries. Nearly a third of them were gone. “Anyone out there interested in heading for Kuwait?”
No one answered. Everyone who was going to run had already done so. As Faisal’s speech built in intensity, Reg and the others kept their ears open, hoping to receive word from the Americans before the Saudis launched their attack.
“Khalid Yamani, can you hear me?” Reg called. “You’ve got to convince him to wait. Tell Faisal to give it five more minutes.” There was no reply.
As Faisal’s speech reached a crescendo, he shouted a question to his men, and they responded with a roaring war cry. Then the entire squadron turned as one and broke into an attack run. They dived at a steep angle, picking up speed as they streaked toward the their target, the destroyer’s obsidian tower. To Reg, it was a horrible, incomprehensible sight. He sensed that a hundred men were about to give up their lives in exchange for nothing.
“Khalid, if you can hear me, break off,” Reg said desperately. “Get out of there before they launch their attack ships. Save yourself for the real battle.” To Reg’s surprise, Khalid answered.
“Too late, Teacher,” he said in a calm but tremulous voice. “Together, we will either shoot these infidels down, or we will die in glory. All things are in the hands of Allah.”
“The words of a doomed man,” said Miriyam.
Reluctantly, Reg admitted to himself that she was right. There was nothing more he could do for Khalid. “Let’s start climbing,” he told the others as he pulled back on his controls. “As soon as Ihey launch, we’re going to have company up here.”
“Alien lighters?” Edward asked.
“And plenty of them.”
As Reg turned, he couldn’t resist taking one last glance back at the diving squadron. When he did, he noticed something out of place. One of the Saudi jets lagged behind the others before turning sharply in a new direction. Reg thought he could guess who was piloting the rogue jet.
“Commander Faisal,” he said, “it looks as if you have broken formation. Where are you headed?”
There was no answer. The squadron continued to plunge toward the mammoth alien airship.
Reg shouted, “I repeat: Saudi commander, you have broken formation. You are currently running in the wrong direction.” This time Faisal answered. “Do not interfere!” he scre
amed. A moment later, he had gathered himself and continued in a calm voice. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, major. You must be watching the wrong plane.”
Reg stared down at the tiny shape of the wayward F-15 and decided to bluff. “Negative, Faisal. I’m directly above you. Close enough to read your wing markings. You are running away from the engagement.”
After a moment of hesitation, Faisal answered. “Stay out of this, Cummins! I am not running. Iam ... I am positioning myself to observe the attack.”
“Admit it, Faisal!” Reg shouted. “You’re saving yourself because you know what’s going to happen to those men. Order them to it break off.”
“Damn you, Cummins, stay quiet! Cooperate with me and you will be rewarded.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I will personally shoot you out of the sky.”
Reg, boiling with anger, resisted the impulse to swoop down on Faisal and unload every piece of ammunition he had aboard his aircraft. Instead, he sucked in a deep breath then growled into his headset. “I wouldn’t advise it. You’d only be wasting another one of your king’s planes.”
Faisal scoffed. “King Ibrahim is no longer a factor. The Saudi Air Force is now completely under my command and it is my will that—”
Reg cut him off and switched back to the previous frequency. “Khalid, look around. Faisal’s gone. He knows you’re doomed and he’s saving himself. Get out of there now!”
Khalid and several of his fellow pilots began speaking to one another and quickly realized that Reg was right—Faisal had deserted them. Khalid swung into a turn, shouting instructions in Arabic.
“What’s he saying?” Reg demanded.
Edward translated. “He’s calling on the other pilots to follow him.”
Only twenty of them did. They wheeled out of the attack formation and began looping around to rejoin Reg’s squadron just as the Saudis fired on the destroyer. They unloosed a huge barrage of Sidewinders and Sparrows, which sliced through the late-afternoon sky, all headed for the same target area. Taken together, the missiles carried enough explosive charge to flatten a medium-sized city, but when they came to within a quarter mile of the destroyer, they all detonated harmlessly in midair. The protective shield was still in place. It became visible momentarily as it rippled gently under the impact. Shouting and cursing, the Saudi pilots fought to turn their planes in time to avoid crashing into it.
Stephen Molstad - [ID4- Independence Day 03] Page 10
