. . . . of Hope and Glory

by R. Jay

  "Has the navy come to arrest us?" One of them asked, voice trembling with fear.

  "Surely they would need to sink us first. We will die as brave warriors." The other barked, pushing out his chest heroically before suddenly darting to the rail and vomiting over the side.

  Ashik glared with disdain at him. "We are not here to feed the fishes Talib. Go back below and prepare food. I have not eaten since yesterday. Bring some for Ifzal too. And send the other eight up, we may need their help."

  As the pair tottered sheepishly back down through the hatch, on the horizon, such as it was, the unmistakeable white 'V' of a foam trail drew their attention just before the small dot of a vessel at its apex became visible. In less than a minute a sleek dart shaped speedboat with three outboards bolted to its stern, slewed abreast of them at a wary fifty yards distance, de-accelerated sharply and began circling them in ever decreasing circuits like a hunting shark. Binoculars were trained on the trawler and the nervous faces congregating on its rail.

  At a loss for how to respond Ashik waved at the smaller boat shouting. "Hello my Brothers!"

  "Correct salutations you fool or we go!" Called a deep exasperated voice in reply.

  "Ah. Er, 'BASRA'!" Ashik shouted loud enough to be heard on shore.

  The other boat came in alongside them, two brown faces peering up at them from beneath sailing caps, cynical twists to their lips.

  "Which of you idiots is in charge?" A squat, bulky Yemeni demanded harshly.

  Ashik quivered with pride. "I am leader of this mission." He announced loftily.

  "Then pass down the damned basket then." The second newcomer growled wearily. He was a tall, thin Chechnyan, and like his querulous partner bore ragged blast scars on his face; campaign medals of past conflicts. Al-Qaeda fighters, plainly unimpressed by this bunch of posturing amateurs.

  Aided by Ifzal, Ashik picked up the 'cats-cradle' of thick coir rope, heaving it over the side and lowering it clumsily down until it hit on the bottom of the speed boat. Immediately the two men bent to side lockers and dragged long canvas holdalls out, lifting them gently into the basket. Briskly the Yemeni waved a hand aloft. The load was surprisingly heavy as Ashik and two others eagerly hauled it up, hand over hand on the rough brown rope. With a final burst of effort, they hoisted it up and over the rail and set it down on the deck boards with a metallic clunk.

  Leaning back over the side, panting with the effort, Ashik smiled ingratiatingly down at the two stern looking men.

  "Is that all?" He enquired.

  "Just how much of our valuable hardware do you need to kill two Infidels?" The Chechnyan snarled. "Use it bravely in the name of Allah. Even if you die doing so."

  "Mohammed watches ov … " Ashik began to reply, when the speedboat engines roared back into frenzied life with the ferocity of an airliner's, and it swung back around in the direction of Den Helder from where it had travelled.

  "Be on your way quickly!" The Yemeni called back to them. "We are monitored on radar even as we speak, our meeting noted. Go!"

  With a blast of throttles, the quartermasters of Al-Qaeda in Europe, slashed a way through the rain and building waves, leaving a furious froth of white water in their wake.

  Ashik watched them fade back into grey anonymity while his companions dragged the bags and contents down below. Caught up in the bubble of excitement he joined them in a small, smelly mess room as they pulled free several AK- 47's, hand guns, a box of grenades and a shoulder-fired rocket launcher. Boxes of shells and magazines for the pistols and assault rifles, a curious package wrapped tightly in brown waxed paper, stayed in the bottom.

  "Allahu Akbar!" One of them shrieked like a little boy on Christmas morning, wielding aloft an automatic rifle. "Allahu Akbar!"

  Some of the others dropped to their knees amid all the scattered weaponry and began to chant prayers of gratitude in shrill high voices. Ashik merely shook his head, sick with misgivings as he glanced sideways at Ifzal. "With these heroes of Islam we place our lives." He murmured.

  Ifzal nodded sagely. "So be it Brother." He raised his face aloft as if seeking heaven. "Should we not listen to our Brethren just departed back to Holland, and make our own return journey to glory?"

  Ashik nodded, face glum all of a sudden, as he stepped around all the commotion, heading for the narrow steps that led up on deck.

  "Glory must wait. We have at least twelve hours of journey time if we are to catch the rising tide there. Our timing has to be perfect, the whole success of our mission depends on that.

  "Come Ifzal, bring our food with you. We can share that and the task at hand together."

  ******

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Ms. Lucy Lever flounced through the open plan office of the Anglian Chronical that mid-afternoon, as if she possessed options on schedules and time keeping. Haughtily ignoring the inquisitive stares, or outright glares of condemnation from her colleagues, she sailed on past them without a care in the world, bearing a slightly glazed and dreamy countenance.

  Barry Mann had found the inclination to seek her out in her apartment in Peterborough in a strange mood of worry and unexplained fear. They had passed the evening and early hours sampling a pick-n'-mix of pills and herbal substances. 'The very best Afghani' opium', he had tapped the side of his nose secretively, as if the whole world had never heard of it. They then engaged in largely unsuccessful bouts of love making and querulous debate.

  Lucy could not believe that he was entertaining doubts as to the righteousness of 'The Invaders' cause, even though she was a little uncertain as to what that actually was. Even worse was his rambling on withdrawing support for Kamal Khan; a man she found a most fascinating a figure, charismatic and a little frightening. Argument, dissent and bad temper had ground on to near dawn in slurred ever increasing acrimony, when she had ejected him from her rumpled bed and home, slamming the front door before he had even entered the lift, still tucking his shirt in.

  Just to garnish her gut-full of a night, the bastard police had come barging into her home yet again shortly after, accompanying those severe looking men wearing cheap suits and a lack of respect. Their thorough, disruptive foraging through her belongings had produced nothing but their refusal to elucidate as to what they were looking for this time. Not the scattered detritus of illegal substances in her bedroom that was for sure. Lucy had gone running to Daddy down in London with tales of beastliness and cruelty.

  Hours later she was back in Potato Land, mollified if not smugly triumphant, as she rapped once, overly loud, on the editor's door with its one way mirrored glass pane that spied outwards on his minions. Not waiting for an invitation to enter, she swept into the room leaving the door wide open behind her.

  He was sitting back comfortably in his chair, arms folded across his ample stomach, as if expecting her. Installing that spy panel had been inspirational he thought.

  "My, my, Lucy, so kind of you to join us mere mortals." He cooed. "I trust that you are well rested and feel up to doing a little work my dear?"

  She stopped just short of his desk, a lascivious look on her face, legs braced slightly apart in a combative stance, sneering down at him with unfocussed eyes.

  "Fuck work! Fuck this newspaper! Fuck you Jerry!" She ranted, flecks of spittle dotting her chin.

  "Don't think that the invitation is not appreciated Lucy, but I'm a happily married man. Besides, I have never entertained the notion of having sex with an ill-bred little mare like yourself." He answered mildly, blessing her with a cold smile, his head cocked to one side. "By the way, you are fired."

  A bolt of shock sprang momentarily into her face before she burst into near hysterical laughter, an unhinged bout of private amusement.

  "You, you're sacking me?" She all but screamed, that must have rattled the cups in the outer office. "I have resigned you stupid little shit! Daddy is setting me up as an Interior Designer with premises in Belgravia. I've been and viewed them already this morning."

  "I'm sure t
hat London deserves to have you back."

  "Who needs all this crap anyway?" her hands twirled all about her. "Getting jerked about by dunderheads like you lot out in the provinces!"

  "Well then, this has all worked out splendidly." He grinned mockingly, genuinely pleased. "Goodbye young Lucy, missing you already. Shut my door after you please."

  The smart cream envelope caught him on the side of the head as she wheeled around, crowing over her shoulder as she strutted out of his office. "Read that letter. Daddy has also had a word with the other proprietors. YOU are dismissed forthwith. Plenty of ex-News Of The World staff looking for work." She stormed triumphantly past her former colleagues sitting open mouthed at their desks. "PLEBS!" She shrieked at them, and with another burst of demented laughter was out of the exit doors and gone for good.

  ***

  What they had witnessed gave no room for mere words, for discussion, argument or conjecture. To sit in an ordinary urban lounge and watch your friend's head hacked of in such gruesome, savage manner, induced a state of shock that rejected such reasoned response. Pure revenge stalked the room, murder maybe.

  Chris Carter had assembled a core of the EFL, no longer coy or embarrassed about their being. The Ryan brothers, Nobby, Solly and seven others had come to grandpa's house on just the vague hint of something urgent and important enough to disturb their daily labours yet again.

  Chris had mumbled an apology for what was to come as he pressed the 'Play' button on the DVD player, turning away quickly to slump down heavily into his chair, damp eyes fixed on the ceiling as his friends underwent the same trial of horrors that he had endured earlier.

  In time, when the obscenity on the wide screen had long ceased to play, Rick Ryan croaked out a bewildered demand. "You've shown this to nobody else Chris? The police, not anyone?" There was a stain of disbelief in his hushed tone, part accusatory.

  Chris had his face covered by splayed fingers, concealing real his real trauma, but not his trembling hands.

  "The authorities have been informed in a manner of speaking. But not of whom is responsible - just yet. I promised those lads here this morning that I would hold back on any action off of my - , our own backs. I doubt that it would be taken that serious down at the local nick anyhow. There are any number of sick, spoof videos on the internet."

  "That is no spoof and we all know it." Nobby seethed angrily. "Who are these 'action-men' you made such a promise to?"

  Chris lowered his hands slowly, fixing Nobby with a brittle glare. "Friends of Sid's. I told you."

  "Soldiers you said."

  "Yeah, well, ex-soldiers."

  "Great, Chelsea Pensioners gonna' sort it!"

  "No, lads our age. Kicked out of uniform to conserve money for bankers' bonus's."

  "Why do they want you to stay 'mum' Chris?" Ned Ryan too was finding his personal loyalty under strain.

  Chris shrugged his slumped shoulders, vacantly staring at the DVD logo swirling around the blue TV screen. "They seem to have twigged just what this bunch of fucks are up to now, and where to go and find them."

  "Then what, demand an apology?" Rick Ryan snarled, bouncing on the edge of his seat, ready to go for it now.

  "Not quite. Got their own version of real justice to dole out. Like we would, only a tad more practised at it I'd say. They just asked that we give them a bit of time before kicking the bonfire into the tent."

  "Real justice? What's that when it's home?" Rick's two big fists were balled tightly in his lap, white, bloodless offensive weapons.

  The hard glare Chris lasered his friend with, cut short the griping. "They are Royal Marine Commandos, the world's best. Said they'd fix it. I said Okay. I expect you lot to back me up on that."

  "You said tomorrow." Rick breathed huskily. "Five minutes past midnight is tomorrow in my book. That's the extent of my promise to you to stay put. Then I for one am going to hit that fucking mosque hard. I'm going to burn it to the fucking ground, and any terrorist cunt who comes running out of there and wants to make a fight of it, I'll cut their fucking heads off! Understood?"

  A trickle of an icy smile frosted over Chris's face. "I was hoping one of you was going to say something like that." He stood up, feeling light headed, reckless, the old burning rage reactivating inside him like a volcano. "Rugby club at eleven thirty tonight lads? Put the word out. Come tooled up, I'll get some petrol, bottles and rags."

  "And I'll bring my bloody shotgun." Nobby growled. "They want a holy war, let's go take the bastards, put them in hell!"

  ***

  BBC News Bulletin: Thursday, 22nd November.

  'The Ministry of Defence today have announced the death of another soldier, one year after suffering extensive injuries caused by an IED blast in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

  Sergeant Sydique Sahni had been undergoing further remedial treatment at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham when his condition unexpectedly deteriorated to a critical state and he sadly passed away overnight.

  The MOD have agreed to provide a military funeral with all honours observed, through the offices of the Service Personnel and Veterans' Agency, in his home town of Holtingham, Cambridgeshire.

  The service is scheduled for some time during the next week. Parties or individuals wishing to attend and pay their last respects are asked to contact the local branch of the Royal British Legion for full details.'

  ******

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The swift fall of the all enveloping long, dark, night hours had restored some of the confidence in the nervously beating breast of Ashik Naseer. Rather naively he nurtured the notion that if he could not see UK Border Control boats, then they could not see his.

  Yet despite the rash of real and imagined dangers that he had silently prayed his way through, Ashik maintained a fervent, almost worshipful belief in the little illuminated screen of the GPS receiver. It had safely delivered them to their first step to victory, and now led them like that biblical star to the co-ordinates off of North Norfolk and their own date with destiny.

  With breathless wonder he watched the mapped lines of their target stretch of coast inch onto the visual aid. A great pride blossomed in his heart at how he had disproved the sniggering jests of the Whitby fishermen, the cynical grimaces of the ferocious looking Chechnyan and Yemeni. He, Ashik Naseer, a simple engineer from Burnley with virtually no sailing experience, had brought this old boat nearly two-hundred and eighty miles through enemy waters, and was now within hours of achieving one of the greatest terrorist strikes against the Western Infidels.

  The Imam Khan's instructions had been explicit, committed to memory.

  "Look out for the marker buoys. They will guide you through the Kings Lynn Channel, roughly five kilometres off of the coastline to your port side. When you reach those second pair of co-ordinates, you must be prepared and ready to instantly abandon the boat into the inflatable's with barely any noticeable halt in its progress. By now the Border Agency's eyes will be upon you as a matter of course.

  "Cut your engines to make the transfer, then when it is done, cast yourselves free. The incoming Tidal Stream is near five knots, close to your own cruising speed and perfectly acceptable for such a boat preparing to come into port. With luck, the boat could drift far enough to enter the Ouse estuary, maybe even be swept through to the Baltic Timber wharves up river, as far as Kings Lynn itself.

  "The drugs package you leave behind will convince the authorities that it is merely a smuggling operation from Holland and that you could have made shore many miles from where you actually will do. There must be no indication of what your true purpose really is.

  "Do not use the outboard motors, you will be heard from miles around. With six strong young men to each boat, you can paddle yourselves ashore. The third set of co-ordinates will bring you to within one and a half, to two kilometres off land. At low tide, this area is exposed sea-bed and is dangerous marshland and sandbanks all the way to the sea wall. So it is crucial that you time your arrival
exactly right so that you will be with the rising tide and water beneath you to the landing spot three and a half kilometres below Ingoldisthorpe

  "Your direction will be clear. From that spot, a natural creek flows out directly from there and is a far more accurate indicator of where you want to be. Local fishermen have marked its way with tall staves hammered into the mud which are visible even when the area is submerged. So drop the GPS overboard; as well as a friend and guide it will also serve to mark out your journey to there. Our friends in Holland are most insistent on this.

  "Beyond the seawall at the landing spot, the countryside is cultivated fields, some with long commercial greenhouse, they will be your marker point. Be aware, that this is the Estate boundary. Follow the line of fields on a south-easterly direction. Do not rely on the minor country lanes to lead in a logical direction. They follow medieval boundaries, of no use to us.

  "Soon you will come upon the small hamlet of Wolferton, the only habitation for some miles. Circumnavigate this, you must not be seen. If you are, kill them. Past there you will come upon a small road junction, take the left fork which will take you directly towards the Royal lair of Sandringham House. You need not go so far. Do not cross the A149. Fields your side of it will be the location of Friday's Pheasant shoot; our killing ground too.

  Marker flags will have already been positioned ready for an early start. There is much woodland all about. Choose your cover close to the firing line but be aware of the risks. Beaters will work their way through the woods to scare the pheasants into flight; retriever dogs will be close by to fetch the downed birds. They represent your greatest danger of discovery should they pick up on your scent.

  "By that time after a week on the moors and a day and a half at sea you will all smell bad. Take the bags of chilli-pepper to cover yourselves and the immediate surrounds. Hopefully that will deter the animals.

  "Do not make your move until the shooting party have spread out along the firing line. The beaters will probably favour the larger Wild Wood to present the birds overhead to the South-West, so your targets will have their backs to the rising sun and to you when you press your attack.