by Dc Alden
‘Nice view, eh Boss?’
Harry spun around, startled to see Mike Gibson several feet above him, perched on a higher rock. He was dressed in waterproof trousers and a green fleece jacket, an automatic rifle cradled across his lap.
‘Jesus Christ, Mike, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing up here?’
Gibson jerked a thumb at the escarpment behind him. ‘There’s an anti-aircraft battery up there near the summit. We saw you heading this way, so I thought I’d get here first, just in case you stumbled into them. Everyone’s a bit jumpy at the moment.’
‘Of course,’ said Harry soberly.
Gibson climbed down. There was an awkward silence for a moment or two and Harry could see doubt etched on the soldier’s face, the unspoken question forming on his lips. He didn’t want people worrying about his emotional state anymore. There were so many other issues at stake and, besides, Harry had no room for self-pity.
‘The business in the woods, Mike. I don’t want you to be concerned.’ Gibson started to protest but Harry held up a hand. ‘It’s been building for weeks, everyone knows that. I’ve been a bloody mess since we got here – the pressure, my own personal loss. Since all this started I’ve had no time to confront my grief. I think this morning, down there in the woods, my grief confronted me. Do you have family, Mike?’
Gibson shrugged. ‘Got a sister. She lives in France, but we haven’t spoken in years. Dad died before I was born and my mum went a few years later. There’s no-one else.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry murmured sympathetically, ‘yet in some ways we’re luckier than others. At least we’re free of the burden of uncertainty.’ He paused, then said, ‘I take it Farrell saw my little episode too?’ Gibson nodded. ‘No one needs to know about this, Mike. I’m alright, really. Besides, there’s work to be done and I need the distraction. I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves.’
Gibson looked at him long and hard, clearly making his own appraisal. Then he nodded. ‘Sure, Boss. It’s nobody’s business but yours, anyway.’
Harry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not true. My mental health is everyone’s business, including yours. People’s lives will depend on any future decisions I take. You could end my career with what you’ve seen today, and I wouldn’t blame you if you felt that that was the right thing to do. But I feel I’ve got something back this morning. I feel ready again. You need to believe that, Mike.’
‘No pressure then,’ quipped Gibson, then the smile slipped from his face. ‘Look, we all deal with things differently. I had problems when I was a kid, after mum died. Usual stuff – booze, scrapping. I could’ve gone bad, but the army saved me, gave me direction. I got a second chance. I understand what you’re going through, Boss. I won’t say anything.’
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, then held out his hand. ‘Thanks, Mike.’
Gibson grasped it and the two men shook. ‘No probs.’
Harry got to his feet, his eyes searching out the distant castle below. ‘They’re worried about me down there, and rightly so. I know there’s been talk of replacing me.’ He turned to the soldier beside him. ‘I’ve been gone a long time, Mike. Questions will be asked.’
Gibson tapped the radio fixed to his chest rig. ‘Already told them you’re inspecting the hilltop defences. That you might be a while.’
Harry smiled. ‘Thanks, Mike. I mean it.’
‘We should get going,’ Gibson replied, staring at the clouds overhead. ‘Looks like more rain.’
Harry headed off, stepping carefully down between the rocks towards the tree line below. ‘By the way, where is Farrell?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘Waiting for us lower down. Said you were a fit old boy, that he couldn’t keep up with you.’
Harry recognised the gesture for what it was and silently thanked him for it. He smiled to himself, feeling the strength returning as they headed down into the trees.
Consolidation
Dearest Brother,
I hope you and the family are well. At last we have been given a few days leave, so I thought I would write and tell you of some of the things I have seen during my time here in England. No doubt you’ve seen much of it on the news back home but I know you’d want to see it from a soldier’s eye.
I should start by saying that the months of training, the secrecy and the enforced absences were all worth it; the drop over London was one of the most exciting things I have ever done. The jump itself lasted only a few seconds because we came in so low, but to drift down over one of the most famous cities in the world, to see it blacked out from horizon to horizon, was a surreal experience. My platoon was the first into Downing Street, into the heart of the enemy, and the destruction was unbelievable; praise to the martyrs for their sacrifice. We exchanged fire with some British troops later that night but suffered no losses, as their numbers were few and they had little ammunition. We took many prisoners in the first twenty-four hours.
You know of General Mousa, of course. Soon after we arrived in London he ordered us west, in helicopters this time, to attack a strong point in a place called the Mendip Hills. There was much fighting in the area and we lost several of our company. You remember my friend Rashid, from Mosul? He was killed by a British mortar round during the fighting and his loss was a real blow to us all. Such a funny guy, always joking. We’ve missed him a lot since then. To make things worse we later discovered that the operation was an unauthorised one and the General has been relieved of his command, which was regrettable because we’d all grown to respect him. He was a tough man, but fair.
Since that operation the fighting has more or less stopped. We’ve been told the British have fled to the north and have dug in all along the Scottish border. They’re preparing for a fight, which is good. Maybe we’ll get to jump again, into Scotland, behind their lines. As for our own forces, we’ve pushed as far north as Newcastle and Carlisle, which is about twenty kilometres from the border (funny names, I know. Look them up on a map). For now we’re keeping our distance, which is a mistake in my opinion. In the meantime, we’ve been ordered to hold and secure our positions. No one knows why, but the only thing we do know is that we’ve turned from soldiers into policemen.
The daytime curfew in London has been lifted and people are now venturing out onto the streets. Many of our Brothers and Sisters have turned out to greet us and there has been much celebration across the city. Arabian flags are flying from buildings and rooftops and it is a wonderful sight. I hear this is going on around other parts of the country and across Europe too. Have you seen much of it? The only thing being transmitted on the TV stations here are information messages, and all internet and telecoms links are still shut down so we’re in the dark most of the time.
As for the Infidels, they are sullen and angry. You can see it in their faces, when they queue at the standpipes for water, or when they pass us on the street. Their eyes are downcast, but I do not believe they have accepted defeat yet. There have been one or two violent incidents and several rebels were publicly hanged in Hyde Park just last week, although I think these punishments may only strengthen their resolve. I’ll be glad when we go operational again, get us off these dirty streets.
The good news is many British Brothers have joined our ranks as auxiliaries, manning roadblocks and policing their own communities, which has taken the burden off us a little. Many more have been helping to put out the fires around the city, some of which have been burning for weeks. A huge building near St. Pauls collapsed a few days ago, killing over a hundred people, and we’ve seen a couple of plane crash sites too, the biggest one in Trafalgar Square, an airbus. The square was obliterated and Nelson’s Column was lying across the street in pieces. Someone had already taken off the head, a souvenir no doubt. But don’t worry, little brother, I’ve kept a couple of things for you too.
Bodies are a real problem. When we find a Muslim victim they’re handed over to the burial teams for internment according to custom. All th
e rest are loaded into trucks and dumped in pits outside the city. I’ve also heard there’s an incinerator working around the clock somewhere in east London which wouldn’t surprise me, considering the amount of corpses we’ve seen.
We were posted for a week to Wembley Stadium where a reception centre had been set up. It really is a magnificent sight and it reminded me of all the matches we watched together at home. Couldn’t see the pitch though, as the grass had been covered with crates of supplies and other equipment. We used loudspeakers and leaflets in the area and the local population turned out in their thousands, queuing right around the outside of the stadium. In exchange for personal registration and an Arabian ID card they were given access to food stamps and medical care. Many of them were a real mess, while others had brought their dead with them, wrapped in sheets and plastic rubbish bags. Things must’ve been desperate in the early days. Still, no desperate than those in Baghdad or Kabul, when the Crusaders invaded, am I right little brother? In any case, I had little sympathy for them.
Gas and electricity supplies are still scarce, but the water’s back on line and repairs are being carried out by forced labour gangs, Infidel prisoners and suchlike. From what I’ve heard they’re the lucky ones, but I’ll get to that in a minute.
The only other action we’ve seen was the riot in Brixton, a slum district in south London. Apparently the invasion triggered a huge uprising there and the main street was burned to the ground. By the time the first Arabian forces got there hundreds had been killed, and gangs were still shooting each other across the whole area. We were bussed in from central London a few days later. By that time the gangs had been pushed back into a row of tower blocks and surrounded with armour. We spent a couple of days getting civilians out of there and picking off the Kuffar with sniper fire, but they continued to fight, mostly with each other. We couldn’t believe it. Rashid would’ve laughed at their stupidity. Anyway, the local commanders were keen to crush the uprising. They said it could sow the seeds of rebellion around the country and had to be stopped quickly. At that point we all thought we’d be tied up for days in house to house fighting, but the local command wanted to end the stalemate quickly so they came up with another solution.
On day three, just before dawn, everyone was ordered to withdraw from their positions. Me and a couple of other guys were manning an observation post in an apartment block opposite the estate when we got word, so we bugged out very quietly and pulled back to a point five hundred metres from our original position. Then we were told to take cover. A few minutes later, an air force transport flew over and dropped something. I must admit, when I first saw it floating down under a big white parachute I thought they were dropping supplies or something. Then I realised, and we scrambled behind a tank that had reversed behind a row of garages. Have you ever seen a MOAB bomb go off? Search for it on ArabNet and take a look. It’s a thirty thousand-pound airburst bomb.
The detonation was so loud, the ground shook so hard, that I thought the end had come. Even the tank rattled like a toy. It seemed to last for ages, and when the noise finally died down all you could hear were dogs barking and car alarms going off (well, the ones that weren’t burned out anyway). Then we were ordered back to our positions. Every window in our observation post had been blown out. In fact, every window I could see. And the tower blocks? Gone, my brother. Vanished, vaporised, call it what you will. Just gone. When the dust settled, all that was left were huge mountains of rubble, every building flattened like pita bread.
Some survived the detonation, though. They looked like ghosts because they were covered in head to toe in white dust and they staggered all over the place. It was funny to watch them. Only a few made it out and that night the bulldozers came in. It took another two days but, by the time we got the order to withdraw, the roads had been cleared and the rubble piled high. The smell was getting very bad though, so it was a relief to leave. Since then there’s been no trouble.
I guess that’s because so many men and much equipment has arrived since June. Civilian transport is banned and the streets are busy with trucks and jeeps, with APCs and tanks at some of the more sensitive locations. Every plane and helicopter in the skies is one of ours, every ship at anchor offloading Arabian supplies. If there was any doubt that England is now ours, that doubt has been laid to rest. The rest of Europe, we are told, has already fallen.
Remember the ‘lucky ones’ I mentioned earlier? I got talking to a guy recently, a military cop, just arrived in London. He’d been here in England from the beginning and had seen quite a lot of action, mostly around the city of Birmingham to the north. Shortly after the British fled, his unit was tasked with administering to the prisoners, not POWs but the ones in England’s gaols. It was a tough and gruesome job by his account.
Some prisons had been abandoned by the staff and many prisoners had died of thirst and malnutrition. Other prisons were destroyed, the rioters making off and leaving a trail of corpses in their wake. Those that remained were processed and formed into work groups to clear roads around the cities or remove bodies. As I said before, those were the lucky ones.
Of the thousands of prisoners taken into Arabian custody, many had committed appalling crimes: murder, rape, child abuse, drug trafficking. A decision was taken at the highest level, the cop told me. These men – and some women – were separated from the common criminals and bound in chains, along with the criminally insane from secure hospitals. The cop was there when they were transported to the east coast, thousands of them, and loaded onto a giant freighter that put to sea after dark. Thirty kilometres off the coast, the engines were cut and the crew, plus the cop and his escort team, climbed down onto a waiting navy boat. Ten minutes later and two kilometres away a button was pressed and an explosion ripped out the hull of the freighter.
He watched it go down. He said it sounded awful, the screech of metal as the vessel nosed beneath the sea, but not as bad as the screams of those still aboard. He said he could hear them as their cries echoed across the water. He said the sound would haunt him forever.
Anyway, it’s good to know that we’ve rid ourselves of such animals. As for the other prisoners, the soldiers and policemen we’ve captured, they’re also being ferried to ports on the south coast. They’re headed back east to be processed, so I suppose you will see them before I do. Their fate will be a lot kinder, I’m sure.
So now we wait, little brother. The hope is we will head north soon, and prepare for the assault on Scotland that must surely come. Right now the curfew sirens are sounding across the city, so I must finish up and prepare for tonight’s patrol. I will write you again, when time allows and I have more news. I hope this letter finds you well. Give my love to mother and father, tell them not to worry and tell them, Insha Allah, I will see them again.
Your loving brother, Rahman
Atlantic Ocean
The Sunflower sliced noiselessly through calm blue waters as it headed towards the eastern seaboard of the United States at a steady six knots. She was still over forty nautical miles off the North Carolina coast, but her recently issued orders were to maintain a specific course and speed and the Sunflower was adhering rigidly to those instructions.
For Khan and Clarke, it was their fifty-third day at sea. Although the Sunflower had performed beautifully, they’d encountered a depression eighty miles east of Cape Verde and that, combined with the weight of their overcompensated supplies and spares, prevented them from going faster than four knots in frustratingly calm seas. The autopilot and rigging system problems caused further delays, forcing the journey across the Atlantic to take much longer than expected.
Despite the temptation on seeing the lush coastline of Barbados, the Sunflower had bypassed the Caribbean and steered north under blue skies and fair winds, both men unsure of the political situation that could easily have changed across the islands in light of the crisis in Europe. The US was their destination and they were stopping for no-one, avoiding the shipping lanes and steering clear
of any distant vessels. It was time-consuming but safer, and safety had to be their main priority.
Three days earlier, with Bermuda far off their starboard bow, Clarke had finally reached his family on the satellite phone, and the two men had celebrated that night with an extra ration of tinned chicken curry and a bottle of Merlot. Khan cooked the curry but stuck to orange juice and they enjoyed a pleasant evening, Clarke’s relief and excitement infecting them both. Later, Clarke had offered the phone to Khan, but he’d politely declined. There was no one to call.
The plane had appeared the day before, a rapidly approaching dot on the northern horizon that had morphed into a low-flying US Navy surveillance aircraft. As it circled above them, Khan had answered the urgent radio enquiry with the necessary information: boat name, registration, port of origin, crew details. The interrogation lasted over ten minutes until the navy radioman sounded satisfied. Their last instructions were to change course and maintain their new heading unless instructed otherwise.
After the aircraft had disappeared over the horizon, Khan and Clarke had checked the charts and plotted their probable destination – Virginia. They had originally planned to make landfall further north but, when the US Navy issued orders, it seemed prudent to follow them.
Khan emerged from the galley below with two steaming mugs of coffee. Clarke was up on deck behind the wheel, his eye monitoring the boat’s systems. He took the proffered mug in both hands. The dawn air held a chill that both men felt and they protected themselves against the elements with fleece-lined waterproof jackets, courtesy of the marina in Hamble.