In their big belly pods, the rotary launchers clicked and the first of the ten missiles, total yield 630 kilotons were on their way to their targets. The rules had been quite simple to understand, attack SAC aircraft and the US would retaliate in a time, manner and place of its own choosing. This was the time, the manner and the place.
The Ruling Council Conference Room, Jerusalem, The Caliphate.
This time there could be no doubt about what was happening, the blinding flashes of light had created a rippling scintillation on the walls and ceiling of the room. Then came the thunder of the explosions, shaking the room and concluded with a big blast that brought down fragments from the ceiling. Model had felt the difference between the sky-wave and the ground-wave and knew these Hellburners had been fired at targets on the ground. Out of the window, on the horizon, he could see the red, glowing mushroom clouds rising, one significantly bigger than the rest. West, he thought, probably the complex around Yaffo. Not Gaza thank God. There was still time but so very little.
His aide had slipped the message in front of him while he had been hypnotized by the mushroom clouds. “Your Excellencies, I have to report that that there has been a concerted attack on our facilities at Yaffo. The Americans have exploded at least ten Hellburners on a variety of targets in and around the city. We can assume that all those targets have been destroyed. Civilian casualties, what the Americans call collateral damage, are likely to be very high, probably in the tens or hundreds of thousands.”
“To Washington, we are marching, martyrs by the million!” The Satrap of Palestine repeated dreamily.
“Thy enemies plotted and they plotted well but Allah plotted also and Allah is the best of plotters.” It was the Satrap of Syria, Model thought in despair, once they start swapping quotations, they’ll be lost for hours.
“To Washington, we are marching, martyrs by the million!”
The Satrap of Palestine had the same, defocused, slack-jawed expression on his face. It struck a chord, years ago, before the Fuhrer had gained power in Germany, there had been a man who had hung around the outside of a town school, watching the children playing with the same, slack-jawed expression. The police had been unable to do anything, just watching wasn’t an offense. So one day a group of local brownshirts, the SA, had dragged him away and beaten him. That lead to another thought, he’d been told that story by an SA man who had survived the Night of the Long Knives because he had taken a gun to a meeting where guns were not allowed. Model had given up his own P38 when entering this room but he’d never been checked for a backup piece. Suddenly he knew how to get these people’s attention, in a smooth action he drew the Tokarev from its concealed holster and fired a single shot into the head of Yasser Arafat. Blood and brains sprayed over the Satrap sitting next to him. Arafat slumped forward onto the Conference table.
“Do you have any idea what is coming? Any idea at all? In 1947 the Americans destroyed Germany with their hellburners and they killed 60 million people. Each bomb carried by a B-52 is four times as powerful as all the bombs dropped on Germany in 1947. Each bomber carries four such bombs and there are more than two thousand of those bombers coming to attack us. Do the maths. Four by four by two thousand. That means the American attack aimed at us is 32,000 times the strength of the one that destroyed Germany. Do the maths. 32,000 times 60 million. You claim Allah will protect you from the Americans? But who will protect Allah from the Americans?”
Model looked around. He was getting through at last; blasphemy had succeeded when logic and reason had failed.
“One of their planners was told that bombers could not kill a religion. He answered ‘No, but we can kill everybody who believes in it and bum all their books’. When all the believers are dead and all the writings are destroyed, who then is left to follow Allah? What is left of his teachings?
“And remember this, those are bombers, not missiles. If there is anything left after their strike, they will just go back to their bases, get more hellburners and destroy whatever it is that they missed the first time. The Americans do not want you to agree to their terms, they want to destroy us. The only way you can prevent them from wiping you off the face of the earth is to do what they do not want. Accept their ultimatum.”
The Satrap of Iran tore his eyes away from the spreading pool of blood on the conference table to the rising mushroom clouds on the horizon. Technically, he was only the first amongst equals but when he made a decision, it was final.
“I would rather drink a chalice of poison than agree to these terms. But the Great Satan’s have left us no choice. We must agree to these terms and set our revenge aside for another day. And we will have our revenge for this. Field Marshal Model. please leave and arrange to have the Great Satan advised of our compliance with their demands.”
Mode) left the room, closing the door behind him. As he did, he saw the Caliphate Council continuing to discuss business. And he had no doubt his own execution was top of the agenda.
War Room, Underneath the White House. Washington DC.
The map showed the bombers gathering at their fail-safe points, just two hours from their targets. The strategic recon wings and the fighters were closer in, the 305th had already dropped the hammer on the Yaffo base complex. That was the indispensable bit, the visible penalty for attacking a SAC bomber,
“Mister President. Message from Switzerland. The Caliphate Council has agreed to our demands. In full. The Swiss Federal authorities have confirmed that instructions have been received from the Council to transfer the compensation amounts demanded from Caliphate reserves to whatever financial institution we specify.”
LBJ looked at the map. “Turn the bombers around, bring them home.” Then he paused, “i get a feeling this is a mistake, we should bomb them anyway. We’re going to have to fight them some time or another, it might as well be now when we are so incomparably stronger.” He shook his head. “We made our demands, they groveled. It’s enough for now. Bring our bombers home.” Another pause. “I’m making a terrible mistake aren’t I?”
“Yes, Mister President.”
Chapter Eleven: Clearing Up
Gaza-North Airfield, Gaza International Zone.
Father Andras Schneider doubled that this airfield had ever been this busy before. Just to start with, there were three big turboprop aircraft, American C-133 Cargomaster transports, over on the hard pad and an even bigger jet-engined transport, one of the newer C-141 Starlifters beside them. The C-141 had brought in troops from America, the C-l 33s were taking the refugees back to Germany. Some the latter were crying, some were silent, some were openly furious at the years they had wasted and the friends and family they had lost. But, they were going home. They had a home to go to.
It hadn’t been easy to convince them. The Marines had landed first and they had come in hard and fast. Some over the beaches, others had been transported by rotodyne straight to the designated perimeter. It had been a terrifying display of power and force, backed up by the bombers circling overhead. The Germans would have fought even so but orders had come from Field Marshal Model himself, not a shot, not a blow. Not even a rude word. The Caliphate troops had taken one look at the massive force deployed against them and departed. Very rapidly. That had been the easy part. The tough part had been persuading the Germans that everything that they had been told for almost twenty years was a lie.
The survivors of the German armored infantry unit had told their story. They were alive, that had persuaded some that the story about immediate and universal execution wasn’t true, but there were not many of them. What had happened to the rest? Destroyed by a tornado of light and fire? A likely story.