Stephen Molstad - [ID4- Independence Day 03]

by War in the Desert (epub)

  The representatives were marched past an open-sided tent crammed full of radio equipment. About a dozen technicians sat at their stations under a low roof of camouflage netting. They all turned and stared inquisitively at the foreign pilots.

  A Jordanian pilot walking just ahead of Reg and Tye gestured toward the radio tent. “We should make friends with those men over there. Maybe they can tell us what’s happening out in the world.”

  Tye took this immediately to heart. “Hello, gents,” he called to radio operators with wave and a smile. “Any word from England?” The Saudis merely stared back at him. In the time-honored tradition of English speakers everywhere, Tye tried again, speaking slowly and in a louder voice. “WHAT... IS HAPPENING... IN ENGLAND?”

  The only result of this was that the other dozen pilots walking with him began shouting questions of their own, mostly in Arabic. The Saudi captain barked an order, and the group moved on.

  “That’s not exactly what I had I mind,” said the Jordanian.

  “They weren’t picking up anything, anyway,” said Reg. “Otherwise, they would have been too busy to stare at us.”

  There were several small cargo planes scattered about the center of the camp, but by far the largest object in sight was an American-built C-230A cargo plane. It towered above the others, its great bulk providing shade for a dozen or so tents pitched beneath its one-hundred-foot height. The tail section had been raised on its hinges, allowing direct access to the belly of the plane. A squad of soldiers casually guarded the interior, sitting around the top of the landing ramp. They, too, stared at the bedraggled group of pilots, while tightening their grips on their AK-47s.

  Finally the pilots came to a large tent at the very center of the Saudi camp. A noisy gas-driven generator provided power to the air-conditioning system cooling the tent’s interior. A soldier stationed at the entrance seemed to have as his sole responsibility ensuring that the flap stayed closed. The tent had originally been white, but, like the others, was now coated with the tan brown dust of the surrounding desert. The hook-nosed captain roughly ordered the pilots to halt.

  “That bloke’s got a red-hot poker jammed up his rear, doesn’t he?” asked Tye, eliciting a few chuckles. “Where exactly does he think we’d be wandering off to?”

  “They are trying to show us how strong they are,” answered the Jordanian, without emotion.

  “Well, I wish he’d just lift something heavy above his head and have done with it,” Tye replied. “It’s too bloody hot to stand around in the sun. I feel like a slab of bacon that’s been left in the skillet too long.”

  He looks it, too, thought Reg. The pale mechanic’s skin was beginning to turn the same shade as his flaming red hair, and his shoulders were slouched. The sun was literally shrinking him.

  Tye glanced around with half-closed eyes. The shade on the eastern side of the tent attracted his attention. “Why can’t we wait over there?” he asked loudly.

  Reg smiled. “I suppose you could try to walk over there and find out.”

  Tye considered the idea. “Say,” he asked hesitantly, “don’t they still stone people in this country? Cut off their hands and all that business?”

  Reg shrugged. “It’s a harsh place.”

  “Actually,” said the Jordanian, eyeing the shade, “that’s not a bad idea. Let’s go and wait in the shade. We’re all brothers here. No one is going to shoot us.” He stepped out of line and began walking slowly toward the spot. The Saudi guards lowered their rifles at him, ordering him back. But he continued moving, hands in the air, speaking in a friendly tone. “The sun is making us ill,” he explained.

  They tried to block his path and push him back toward the others, but the Jordanian bulled ahead, eventually pushing his way past the last guard and sitting down in the shade. The other pilots followed his example, ignoring the threats and warnings from the soldiers. Once they had all seated themselves along the side of the tent, the corporal who had been left in charge of the situation tried to save face by yelling, “No more moving! I order you to sit down and stay where you are!”

  The pilots looked up and down the line at one another and, for the first time, shared a smile. It was a small victory, but it was something. Tye stretched out his long, tired legs and turned to the Jordanian. “This is much better. Cheers!”

  “Yeah, that was a pretty good move,” said the Israeli representative, adjusting his thick eyeglasses. “Now ask them to bring us some Cokes, and maybe some sandwiches.”

  The Jordanian and the Israeli introduced themselves to the Brits. The Israeli’s name was Yossi. His voice sounded like gravel and he had a shock of short black hair. The black-plastic frames of his glasses dominated his face. He seemed about Tye’s age and Reg thought he looked more like a math student than a fighter pilot. Although Yossi had a friendly demeanor and even cracked a few jokes, he never smiled.

  The Jordanian, Edward, was closer to Reg in both age and height. He, too, was friendly with the Brits who sat between him and the Israeli pilot. Except for Yossi’s initial comment, the two of them studiously avoided speaking to one another.

  Tye pointed to the small green, white, and yellow patch sewn on to Edward’s flight suit below the Jordanian flag. “What’s that insignia?” he asked.

  Edward glanced over at Yossi. “Ask your Jewish friend over there,” he said. “He knows what it is.”

  Yossi looked at the patch. “It means he’s a Palestinian. Half the Arabs in Jordan are Palestinians and the king lets a few of them join the armed forces so the others can feel better about themselves.”

  Tye, always more interested in machines than politics, turned to Reg for clarification. “Palestinians and Israelis don’t get on very well, do they?”

  Yossi answered instead of Reg. “Arabs are like Gentiles,” he said. “You’ve got bad ones and you’ve got good ones.”

  Edward snorted. “And the only good Arabs are the dead ones, right?”

  “Hey, look, I got no problem with you,” Yossi shot back, pointing a finger. “Israel, Jordan, whatever. We don’t even know

  if they exist anymore, but if you want to carry on old fights, I’m ready.”

  Edward laughed again. “Take a look around you. You’re not in Tel Aviv, my friend. You should watch your tongue out here.” He gestured broadly at their surroundings. “These Bedouins have a saying: A night in the desert is long and full of scorpions for the man who does not belong there.” He flashed Yossi a smile that managed to be simultaneously cheerful and threatening.

  The large Saudi captain emerged from the tent with someone Reg guessed must be Faisal. He was a dark-skinned man in his late forties and had flecks of gray running through his carefully trimmed beard. The long, cream-colored robe he wore loosely over his military uniform made him look like a sheik. He seemed completely relaxed, even jovial, as he strolled away from his tent, speaking in a low voice to the captain, but Reg sensed that he could be a dangerous man.

  The two men ambled to an open spot in the sand where they were met by a soldier who handed them a pair of rolled up mats. At the same time, one of the radiomen approached from the communications tent carrying a portable Sony stereo.

  A different soldier threw a bundle of mats toward the pilots, and several of the men casually stood up to take one. “What’s going on?” Tye wondered aloud.

  On all sides, men began to spread the mats on the ground. The soldiers guarding the pilots laid their weapons aside and knelt in the sand. The radioman pushed a button on the stereo and the musical voice of a prayer leader, a muezzin, filled the air. All of the Saudis and most of the international pilots prostrated themselves on their mats, bowing their heads to the north.

  “Oh, now I remember,” whispered Tye, “Islamic people have to pray five or six times a day, don’t they? And they all face that same city, what’s the name of that place? Mazatlan! That’s it, they all pray towards Mazatlan.”

  “Mecca,” Reg corrected him. “They face Mecca, the Holy City.”<
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  The muezzin’s song, rich and clear, rang through the camp and echoed off the surrounding hills. All of the Muslims in the camp, soldiers and civilians, prayed together, and a feeling of tranquility fell across the plateau, stilling the most warlike of hearts.

  Tye rocked back and forth as he listened to the singing, then leaned toward Edward. “That’s actually quite beautiful,” he said before narrowing his eyes and giving the Palestinian the onceover. “Hey, why aren’t you praying with them?”

  “Because I’m a Christian,” Edward replied. “Why aren’t you?” When the prayers were over, the hook-nosed captain and the man in the cream-colored robes stood and continued speaking quietly to one another. From their gestures and glances, it was clear they were discussing what to do with their unexpected guests. They appeared to take special note of Reg and the Israeli representative, Yossi. After a few moments, they walked toward the strip of shade where the pilots had planted themselves. Reg and the others labored to their feet and dusted themselves off in preparation for the meeting.

  “Welcome!” shouted the burly captain sternly. “Our most respected leader, Commander Ghalil Faisal, welcomes you. But he warns you that this place is a military facility of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, governed by the laws of the Holy Koran.” As the captain spoke, Reg and Faisal stared at one another, sizing each other up. “The Saudi people are famous for their generosity,” barked the captain. “Our supplies will be shared with all of you. Our bread will be your bread. You will receive tents, food, and water.”

  “All of us?” asked Yossi in his raspy voice.

  The captain gritted his teeth and looked away from the Jewish pilot, offended by his very presence. He glanced toward Faisal, who returned a barely perceptible nod.

  “Our commander has declared that the old battles are over. The hospitality we show to our Muslim brothers and our friends from the West will also be offered to the Zionists during their temporary stay in our country.”

  Faisal then offered the pilots a perfunctory salute and withdrew to the air-conditioned comfort of his tent, adjourning the meeting without having spoken a single word.

  “You will follow me to the supplies,” shouted the captain, turning on his heels and marching away. The pilots looked at one another in confusion before following. Was that it? Between them, they had a thousand urgent questions about the situation in the rest of the world and what the Saudis planned to do. The captain heard their grumbling. When they returned to the C-230 cargo plane, he paused at the foot of the access ramp. “There will be another meeting tonight. You may discuss your questions with Faisal at that time.”

  The huge plane was the supply depot for the camp. The crates and storage tanks stacked inside held enough provisions to sustain the troops for several weeks. Tye was the first one inside the plane. Rubbing his hands together eagerly, he faced a gray-haired supply officer across a small table.

  “I’d like a big juicy cheeseburger, please, no pickles. And a side of chips.”

  The supply officer blinked in confusion before handing Tye a large bundle that included a four-man tent, a plastic water bucket, blankets, a first-aid kit, and a copy of the Koran. Heading back down the ramp, Tye thumbed through the book, disappointed. “This is all in Arabic,” he complained to Reg, “and there’s no pictures.” Reg looked around and noticed a group of soldiers lounging in the shade beneath the cargo plane. One of them stood up and came trotting into the sunlight.

  “Teacher!” he shouted. “I can’t believe it. Major Cummins, how are you? How did you find us here?”

  “We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d stop by to say hello.” Reg smiled.

  The Saudi officer was in his late twenties, light on his feet, and wore a flashy gold chain around his neck. His striking green eyes and dashing good looks gave him the appearance of a young movie star. His lips curled into a mischievous grin below his light mustache. The two men shook hands then kissed on each cheek, in the Arab style.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Reg said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Khalid Yamani is here.” Of all the Saudi pilots Reg Cummins had trained, of course it would be this one who found him here. “I see you’re loafing in the shade, as usual.”

  “No, no, Teacher,” Yamani protested good-naturedly. “As always, I am working very hard. I wanted to keep working but these men,” he said, gesturing to his friends, “they are soft. They begged me to give them a short break because they could not keep up with me. What could I do?”

  The other soldiers heard him lying and shouted a few comments of their own. Khalid waved them off and flashed Reg a disarming, high-wattage smile.

  Khalid Yamani was probably the worst student Reg had ever tried to teach, but also one of his favorites. He was an easily distracted, sometimes reckless pilot and at first Reg had been mystified over why he had been promoted to the advanced tactical fighter school. Only when he tried to have the young man sent down—for his own safety—did he learn that Khalid’s father was one of the richest and most influential men in Saudi society, an oil baron with vast, worldwide holdings who kept close personal counsel with the king.

  Reg was a respected and well-liked teacher but he was also very demanding. He had absolutely no tolerance for sloppiness and lack of concentration. At first, his students didn’t understand the ferocious anger he turned on them when they made lazy errors, but eventually someone would tell them, explaining in whispers or waiting until Reg wasn’t around to hear.

  Khalid had driven him crazy on several occasions, but the young man had such a charming, good-natured way about him that Reg could never stay angry for very long. Khalid’s love of life was so infectious that he’d occasionally managed to drag Reg with him to off-base parties, swanky, secretive affairs held in private homes where upper-class Saudis dressed in Western-style clothing and sipped alcohol. The parties were an open secret and were rarely disturbed by the religious police, as long as they remained behind closed doors. Khalid, a handsome fighter pilot and eligible bachelor from a wealthy family, was invited to many such gatherings and never missed the opportunity to attend. He reveled in Western habits, being largely westernized himself. He’d spent his high school years in Houston, Texas, while his father bought and reorganized an oil company there.

  “As a matter of fact, Teacher, I’ve been expecting to see you. The men have been talking about a trick someone used against the aliens—using chaff to blind them. I said to myself, ‘Self, that sounds like Reg Cummins.’”

  “You heard about that?” Tye asked, impressed.

  “It wasn’t me,” Reg said quickly. “It was this beanpole of a mechanic here. He flew a very respectable flight.” He introduced the two men, who shook hands warmly.

  “The major is just being modest,” Tye said. “I fired off the chaff, but he was the one who came up with the idea. I was too busy wetting myself to come up with anything that clever.”

  The three of them continued talking until all of the representatives had received their supply packages. As they started back, Khalid took Reg by the arm and led him in a different direction. “Stay a while, Teacher, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. But first I have a question: Can we win?”

  “That’s the question of the hour isn’t it?” Reg thought for a minute before answering. “I’d say we’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  “Ah,” grinned Khalid, “excellent! Then there is a chance.” He gestured toward a row of private jets. ‘Teacher, my father is here. He is not well, and I know it would ease his pain to meet you. Would you mind?”

  It wasn’t an offer Reg could very well refuse. “I’d be honored.” The two of them moved along the perimeter of the Saudi tent town, maintaining a low profile, until they reached a luxury Lear-jet tied down near the lip of the plateau. The sun was low on the horizon and the heat was lifting. Reg noticed a large tent standing by itself quite some distance from the rest of the camp.

  “What’s going on out there?” he asked.

 
; Khalid shook his head sadly. “They are calling it the Tent of the Fearful. Since the demons began to arrive, many people are losing their minds. Last night, they screamed and screamed. No one could sleep.”

  “I don’t hear anything now.”

  “Morphine,” Khalid explained before climbing a set of steps. The Yamani family crest was painted prominently on the exterior of the plane. Khalid paused on the top step and turned to Reg. “When I told you my father was not well. ..” He didn’t finish the thought, but gestured meaningfully toward the Tent of the Fearful before heading inside.

  The interior of the plane was a different world. It was a soothing, air-conditioned place with art on the walls and plush carpeting. There was a kitchenette/dining area with marble countertops and leather upholstery.

  Khalid stepped through an interior doorway into his father’s room and turned down the volume on a wall-mounted television set. Karmal Yamani was a frightened, unshaven, elderly man with bloodshot eyes. He lay on a narrow bed, his head propped up by a spray of golden pillows. While vice minister of petroleum exports, he and his brother had been the chief architects of the 1973 oil embargo, an exercise in economic brinksmanship that had quadrupled his nation’s wealth almost overnight. He was known as one of the most shrewd and powerful men in the Middle East, but none of that was evident at the moment.

  “Father! I have excellent news,” Khalid said very loudly. “Here is a great friend of mine, Major Reg Cummins. He was over Jerusalem when the attack began. He tells me that the aliens are very strong, but he is confident that we can beat them. He believes we can win the war!”

  The old man pushed himself up into a sitting position and a looked at Reg hopefully. “How? How can we defeat them?”

  Reg silently cursed Khalid for putting him on the spot. He didn’t want to lie, but telling the truth threatened to crush the old man’s fragile spirit.

  He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Well, for one thing, we’ve discovered we can blind them temporarily. We’re studying how to use that to our advantage,” Reg said. “Besides, sir, human beings are a tough lot. We always seem to find a way.” “Blind them, you say?” The elder Yamani’s self-control was returning. He straightened his clothes and apologized for his appearance. “It is embarrassing for me to receive you like this, major, but since the spaceships arrived I have not been a well man.” “We’re all in a state of shock,” Reg said. “It’s very understandable.”