“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 Christians and Jews surely have.”
“I’ve been knocking around the Islamic world for a long time, Fadeela. 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 I 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 I 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 hear 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 leve
l 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.
Reg had no doubt that Faisal would lead his men against whatever city destroyer was nearest, whether it was actually headed toward Mecca or not. It was clear to him that Faisal intended to turn the desperate situation to his own advantage, no matter who suffered in the process. He would gladly pervert his pilots’ genuine religious fervor to his own ends and force the less devout among them along by whatever means he had at his disposal.
The presence of the foreign pilots had no doubt complicated Faisal’s plans considerably, but the man had proven to be a fast thinker, rapidly turning any situation to his own advantage. Reg thought of all of these things, and of Fadeela, until the heat of the day eventually forced him to leave the tent.
It was around ten in the morning and the sun had only just begun its daily assault, already pushing the mercury past a hundred degrees Fahrenheit The other British pilots were just returning to their area, pink-faced and soaked with sweat. Thomson had brought Reg some breakfast, a paper cup filled with cold yellow beans in a spicy red sauce. Tye contributed some broken crackers from one of his many pockets to round out the meal.
None of the three had done much more than mutter a greeting before Reg dipped his cup in the communal water bucket and sat back on his haunches in the fractionally cooler shade of a Tornado.
Thomson, looking as if he were finally running out of hope, spoke to Reg. “Guess you haven’t heard about Houston, then,” he said.
Reg remembered Faisal’s news of the Americans’ planned nuclear assault from the night before. A single glance at the faces of the other three RAF men was enough to tell him that the attack had met with failure.
“We’re screwed backwards and sideways,” said Sutton. “What else can we throw at those bastards?”
“Edward talked to one of the radiomen. They said the Americans reported that the destroyer didn’t even move when the bomb went off. Those shields must be impenetrable.”
Reg took a drink of water. “I wonder if this changes Faisal’s thinking at all,” he said.
“I hope not,” muttered Sutton darkly.
Reg looked around at the other three men, noticed how none of them would meet his eye.
He sighed, and chose Tye. “Okay, what is it?” he asked the tall youth.
“What’s what?” Tye asked in turn.
“What is it you’re not telling me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tye answered. Reg hadn’t thought it possible for the mechanic to turn any redder, but as he lied, Tye’s face glowed a fraction more crimson.
Thomson shifted uncomfortably, then threw his hands up in the air. “It’s vile,” he said, “but we can’t just sit out here forever.”
“Did we not agree just five minutes ago not to tell him until after the Saudis took off?” snarled Sutton.
Reg held up his hand. “No, no,” he said to Thomson. “Don’t go against the plan. What if I’m captured, and Faisal turns his knife boys loose on me to find out what I know, eh?”
He stood and stretched, looking around at the other international contingents. He saw that the Israelis had removed the access panels from their fighters and were tinkering in the electronics compartments.
“As long as I don’t know what you lot are up to, I can’t give away the plan,” he said, turning back to the others. He walked over and crouched next to Sutton.
“As it is, I’ll have to tell them something to save my own skin, of course. Just make up something nonsensical. What should I tell them?”
The surly lieutenant scooted away from Reg. “I don’t care what you tell the buggers,” he said.
“How about this, then?” Reg asked. “How about I tell them that we’ve estimated that the Saudis have about two hundred men in this camp all told, and that we figure they’ve got about a hundred and twenty operational planes.” Tye looked up at Reg, eyes wide.
“Once they fly off to bring everlasting glory to Ghalil Ibn-Faisal,” Reg continued, “that leaves just eighty or so soldiers guarding the camp—and the fuel dump. And, of course, the fifty or so international pilots who haven’t signed on with Faisal’s jihad, I suppose they’ll still be here. Playing cards, probably.”
Thomson looked vaguely embarrassed, but said nothing. “Next,” said Reg, “I’ll get really creative. I’ll tell them that the Israelis almost always stockpile small arms and the odd submachine gun on their planes in case they go down in hostile territory. These Arabs will believe any crazy thing about the Jews, won’t they, Sutton?”
“Who told you?” the lieutenant muttered under his breath.
But Reg wasn’t finished. “Now, by that point, Faisal’s men will probably be really angry with me. They’ll ask me what kind of fools I take them for. ‘The foreign pilots conspiring to take over the camp once the bulk of our forces are away?’ they’ll say. ‘That crazy Miriyam distributing guns?’”
“You’ve made your point, Major,” said Sutton.
“‘Do you think we’re children, Englishman?’ I hope there’s no kicking. I can’t bear to be kicked. ‘What makes you think we’d believe the foreigners would come up with such a STUPID, BLOODY OBVIOUS PLAN?”
“Sutton here was pretty sure it would work,” said Tye.
“Shut up, Tye,” said Sutton.
Reg turned to the colonel. “You realize there are civilians over there,” he said.
“I told you he’d be a problem,” Sutton fumed to the others. “Look here, Cummins, that Miriyam has got it all figured out. You can sit here and take shit from Faisal all you want, but the rest of us have better things to do. The only thing we need from you is that you keep your mouth shut, understood?”
“Lieutenant Sutton,” said Reg, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you just addressed a superior officer in a disrespectful tone. Shame, shame, Sutton. Shame, shame.”
Before the lieutenant could reply, there was a commotion on the opposite side of the runway. One of the radiomen, still wearing his headphones, was trotting toward the British planes. He was clutching a piece of paper in his hand and shouting in Arabic. One of the guards along the perimeter of the foreign enclave waved him through.
The man stood before them, then, still shouting, obviously repeating himself and stumbling over words in his haste.
“What the devil is he saying?” asked Thomson, frantically thumbing this pages of his phrase book once more.
Reg had been listening to the man closely. Finally, he raised his hands, indicating that radio operator should calm down. “Feh hemt, feh hemt,” said Reg. I understand, I understand.
The radio operator nodded, then ran to the next encampment, where he spoke just as swiftly to the Egyptians.
Reg spoke to his companions. “He says they’re picking up some kind of message in English, along with some Morse code. They can’t understand all of it. Let’s go have a look.”
“Wait,” Sutton said. “That doesn’t make any sense. They’ve got plenty of men over there who speak English. They don’t need us. Sounds like an ambush.”
Reg looked at Sutton gravely and nodded. “You may be right. They’d obviously want us to be standing next to their airplanes instead of our airplanes when they open fire. I’ll give you a detailed report if I make it back alive.”
When Reg began running toward the radio tent, he found that Thomson was right on his heels.
“Slow down, Cummins,” puffed the colonel. “I’m coming along.”
“What about Sutton’s ambush?” Reg asked.
“To hell with Sutton.” The portly colonel waved his arms. “I’m going to ambush him if I have to
stay around him much longer.”
Members of almost all of the other international contingents were converging on the radio tent. Reg was startled to see that many of them were now openly carrying weapons. Sensing one such armed man beside him, Reg turned to see Yossi, trotting along and carrying an Uzi.
When he saw Reg looking at him incredulously, Yossi shrugged, and said, “Miriyam said I should invite myself along. I thought I’d stick close to you Englishmen, since ‘your fondness for Jews is well-known.’” His imitation of Faisal was surprisingly good, but Reg doubted that it would come in handy if any of the Arabs were unhappy with a gun-toting Israeli showing up at the radio tent.
There was a crowd around the radios. The shaded area beneath the open-sided camouflage tent looked like an electronics bazaar. Much of the equipment Faisal’s team had gathered up was surplus, some of it older than the soldiers themselves. The tent resembled an Arab market, with fifty different conversations going on at once. But the noise and activity quickly melted away as the foreign visitors stepped beneath the canopy inside. As Reg had feared, the Arabs interpreted Yossi’s presence as a taunt.
Khalid hurried toward Reg and pulled him to one side. “They have destroyed Amman, and now they are moving south. I spoke with Faisal and tried to convince him we should follow your advice, but he is committed. Unless the ship changes course, he will order an attack within the next two hours.”
As Reg listened, he watched over Khalid’s shoulder, keeping an eye on the other Saudis. Some of them were demanding that Yossi state his business, meaningfully grasping the handles of their pistols. Finally, one of them thumped the Israeli in the chest, and shouted, “Imshi!” Scram!
Reg interrupted Khalid. “How do you say ‘lawyer’ in Arabic?” Khalid blinked, confused by the question. But he answered. “Advocat. Why?”
“Going to use some Thomson school diplomacy,” Reg said before he joined the knot of Saudis surrounding Yossi. Once among them, he shook his finger at the largest man, loudly proclaiming something in halting Arabic. There was a brief silence, then all of the Arab speakers in the area began laughing.
Complete Independence Day Omnibus, The Page 59