Interesting TL concept so far, great set-up. Given there was evidently a lunar base already by the late 70s, what's the "modern" state of space exploration?
A RED SUN: A TLIAD.
- Thread starter Sulemain
- Start date
Sulemain
Banned
After an informative and enthralling time with the Director, which ended up lasting until 2 O’clock in the afternoon the next day, I find myself with another three hours free time. Constantinople is truly vast city, and its official population of 15 million is a gross underestimate. Because of that, its public transport system often struggles to cope. I therefore arrive at my next interview with time only for a glass of chai before it starts.
Professor Hugo Di Lauren is a unique man in many respects. In his fifties, but looking as if he were in his thirties. The only member of any Fourth Way government to lecture to a packed theatre at MIT. Recognised as a ground-breaking engineer in the field of bionics. Founder and leader of the state sanctioned Nation of the Holocaust, the golden flame of the movement pinned to his lapel. And, most noticeable upon first meeting him, is the extent to which he has, over the course of a life marked by conflict and struggle, replaced so much of himself.
The hand that extends to greet mine is not of flesh, but of carbon fibre. The bionic limb extends up to his elbow, where the flesh begins again. There is a gentle whirring of servos as he flexes his right leg. His left ear his tiny glints of copper running through it, and I wonder what else of his is artificial, and why he shows it so. After making my introductions, I ask him these questions. He chuckles, and says:
“You League Reporters ask the most impertinent questions. But in the interests of Italy, and of the Holocaust, I shall answer them. Most of my ribs have been rebuilt by the finest surgeons and body-mechanics in Italy; the Doge himself ordered it done. I have nano-copper in my arm and leg, in order to enable me to function, better than the original in fact. I hear out of my left ear much clearly then I ever did before; the internals are entirely man-crafted. And to answer you second question, it because the Holocaust demands purity, and purity demands openness.”
I ask him about the Nation of the Holocaust, a movement Di Lauren himself started, one which has received enthusiastic support from the Italian Government.
“The Nation of the Holocaust has its genesis in those days after the Slavs destroyed the Chinamen.”
I half hope his words are a result of bad English, but I remind myself of who he is, and who he works for. He continues.
“Holocaust is a Greek term meaning sacrifice, by fire. But more on that later. I was only a student then, before I joined the Air Force, before my crash, before I learned what I know today. Even then I knew that a disunited humanity is one that inevitability destroys itself. And after the crash that took my arm and leg, I knew I had to find a way to make myself strong, in mind and body. Could I do any less of myself? And as the field of bionics got more advanced, I realised I had, through the then crude augmentations that had been applied to me, stumbled upon a solution. A new breed of humanity, rebirthed in the flames of industry, a renewing Holocaust. The Nation of the Holocaust is, to put it simply, the future of humanity. Strength through Unity, Unity through Enhancement, Enhancement through Replacement. That is what the Nation of the Holocaust believes, and it is what I believe.”
He speaks with the certainty of a true believer, and I ask him to what extent he means by replacement.
“A total rejection of the frailty and flaws of the flesh, for it is weak. An embracement of the artificial, of the machine, for it is strong. We have enabled the crippled to walk, the weak to contribute. We hope to soon use bionics to uplift the mentally retarded, instead of Delivering Mercy
And here he uses the accepted Italian euphemism for the state sanctioned execution of the mentally ill
to them. No matter what the decadent League might say about us, we are a movement of freedom. No matter what the savages of the NAM say, we are a movement of peace. I hope someday you’ll join us, and mankind will be as one.”
Professor Hugo Di Lauren is a unique man in many respects. In his fifties, but looking as if he were in his thirties. The only member of any Fourth Way government to lecture to a packed theatre at MIT. Recognised as a ground-breaking engineer in the field of bionics. Founder and leader of the state sanctioned Nation of the Holocaust, the golden flame of the movement pinned to his lapel. And, most noticeable upon first meeting him, is the extent to which he has, over the course of a life marked by conflict and struggle, replaced so much of himself.
The hand that extends to greet mine is not of flesh, but of carbon fibre. The bionic limb extends up to his elbow, where the flesh begins again. There is a gentle whirring of servos as he flexes his right leg. His left ear his tiny glints of copper running through it, and I wonder what else of his is artificial, and why he shows it so. After making my introductions, I ask him these questions. He chuckles, and says:
“You League Reporters ask the most impertinent questions. But in the interests of Italy, and of the Holocaust, I shall answer them. Most of my ribs have been rebuilt by the finest surgeons and body-mechanics in Italy; the Doge himself ordered it done. I have nano-copper in my arm and leg, in order to enable me to function, better than the original in fact. I hear out of my left ear much clearly then I ever did before; the internals are entirely man-crafted. And to answer you second question, it because the Holocaust demands purity, and purity demands openness.”
I ask him about the Nation of the Holocaust, a movement Di Lauren himself started, one which has received enthusiastic support from the Italian Government.
“The Nation of the Holocaust has its genesis in those days after the Slavs destroyed the Chinamen.”
I half hope his words are a result of bad English, but I remind myself of who he is, and who he works for. He continues.
“Holocaust is a Greek term meaning sacrifice, by fire. But more on that later. I was only a student then, before I joined the Air Force, before my crash, before I learned what I know today. Even then I knew that a disunited humanity is one that inevitability destroys itself. And after the crash that took my arm and leg, I knew I had to find a way to make myself strong, in mind and body. Could I do any less of myself? And as the field of bionics got more advanced, I realised I had, through the then crude augmentations that had been applied to me, stumbled upon a solution. A new breed of humanity, rebirthed in the flames of industry, a renewing Holocaust. The Nation of the Holocaust is, to put it simply, the future of humanity. Strength through Unity, Unity through Enhancement, Enhancement through Replacement. That is what the Nation of the Holocaust believes, and it is what I believe.”
He speaks with the certainty of a true believer, and I ask him to what extent he means by replacement.
“A total rejection of the frailty and flaws of the flesh, for it is weak. An embracement of the artificial, of the machine, for it is strong. We have enabled the crippled to walk, the weak to contribute. We hope to soon use bionics to uplift the mentally retarded, instead of Delivering Mercy
And here he uses the accepted Italian euphemism for the state sanctioned execution of the mentally ill
to them. No matter what the decadent League might say about us, we are a movement of freedom. No matter what the savages of the NAM say, we are a movement of peace. I hope someday you’ll join us, and mankind will be as one.”
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Sulemain
Banned
An Italian-based movement named in Greek! Dio mio!
The Italians are the inheritors of the glory of the Greeks, don't you know? The true glory, that of Sparta, rather then the degenerate democratic Athens (In universe Italian beliefs; they have a rather different view of history then the democratic states do).
I'm sure I've heard this before...
In all seriousness this is very interesting, the modernist nature of Italian fascism always did have the capacity to buy into techno-utopianism though thankfully it didn't survive long enough to see the latter move beyond fiction, here it has and it seems its adherents are pursuing it with a religious fervour.
Sulemain
Banned
The idea behind the Nation of the Holocaust (a word which doesn't have a negative meaning ITTL, considering there was no Holocaust ITTL) was a blend of Italian Futurism, techno-utopian and several of the nastier strands of transhumanism. And the Italian state has several reasons for supporting the Nation of the Holocaust, reasons which range from the horrific to the acceptable.
The next update will see our protagonist experience his last day in Constantinople, before travelling East.
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Just read through, and colour me intrigued. Subscribed. Gimme more gimme more gimme more!
So did Evola and his Fascist Futurism take off in Italy ITTL then? And is Mussolini still alive, a bionic chrome-dome running Italy in 20XX?
So did Evola and his Fascist Futurism take off in Italy ITTL then? And is Mussolini still alive, a bionic chrome-dome running Italy in 20XX?
Sulemain
Banned
Just read through, and colour me intrigued. Subscribed. Gimme more gimme more gimme more!
So did Evola and his Fascist Futurism take off in Italy ITTL then? And is Mussolini still alive, a bionic chrome-dome running Italy in 20XX?
I'm glad you like it
The Facist movement in Italy was heavily influenced by Evola, yes. And no, it's not Mussolini. Bionics ain't that advanced by TTL's 2014, and even less so at the time of his death. Italy is at the forefront of bionics research ITTL though.
Sulemain
Banned
Lunch with Natasha and a visit to the Walls of Theodosius mark my last day in Constantinople. I promise to visit the city and her again, after my world trip has finished, and make my way to the airport.
Political complications mean that the root we take is much longer then it would otherwise be; the airliner flies westwards before turning to follow the Anatolia coast. And onto our destination. Damascus.
Damascus the Ancient, Damascus the First. The City of Jasmine, and the City of Caliphs. It is all this, and it is the capital of the United Arab Republic, that strange state that is, to join a phrase, neither United, Arab, nor a Republic.
The separation of French and Italian North Africa, along with Morocco and Oman, give lie to the first claim. The present of ethnic minorities with their own autonomous regions gives lie to the second. And the nature of Presidential elections in this country gives lie to the third, as evidenced by the scene that greets me upon exiting the airport.
The poster is in the process of being replaced. In the most recent election, the outcome of which was never in any real doubt, Suleiman Nader’s chosen successor won handily. It has always been thus, the President endorsing his successor, who then rules in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the old Imperial Presidents. The Parliament here is elected by universal suffrage, this is true, and in elections even the LDS judge as free and fair. But it is not a governing body, more of an advisory one. The courts here are relatively independent, but their impact on everyday politics is limited to say the least. Activism like that of the Warren or Kennedy Courts is unknown here, let alone anything approaching the Roosevelt Court. Here, politics is either done by the Presidency, on the shop floor, or in the meeting rooms of the unions.
It is a member of the latter group who I am interviewing today. Bashar al-Assad is the elected head of the Union of Oil Workers, the Union des Travailleurs du Pétrole or UTP, perhaps the most powerful group in the country. Well dressed and clean shaven, he meets me in his office in the aptly named Union Building, the central gathering of all the union heads in the country. His office is comfortable, but simplistic, the mark of a man of deep faith, and of strong political views. He rises to greet me, and gestures me to take one of the seats in front of his desk.
He starts speaking in English, before asking if we can switch to French. It is, he says, the Western language he speaks most fluently.
“You British and the French did much harm to us when you imposed the old monarchy on us. Hussein bin Ali ruled at the behest of the Western Imperialists, and his rule was nothing more than a front for your oil companies. But the world changed, and our good friends in India showed us another model. And your capitalists, once they realised we would keep the oil flowing, proved palatable enough. You people are too concerned with bourgeois rights in the LDS, but I must admit that your workers have secured themselves a good place, no matter how infirm it’s foundations.”
I remark on how, in my country, a union man would comment on foreign affairs, and that from what I’ve seen, read and heard, the system in the UAR sounds like the Dual Power arrangement at the time of the Russian Revolution.
“There is a very good reason for that; the unions represent the nation. One is volatile and lively, the other stoic and calm. The state and the unions complement each other in our system. A more perfect variant of your system, if what I hear about the West is true”.
The debater in me wishes to go more into the differences between League Ordoliberalist Social Market Capitalism, and the Democratic Socialism practised in the UAR and, with local modifications, across the NAM as a whole, but I remind myself why I am here, and ask Assad about how the UAR, and the Unions dealt with the War.
“We call it the Splitting War here. If my father were still alive, he could give you more detail. He was on the staff of the UTP delegation to Moscow, as part of a direct negotiation for new drilling equipment. I and my mother travelled with him. I don’t remember much, but Moscow was a far happier city then. Kruschev was in power, there was increasingly free debate within and without the Party. The Cybersyn system was coming online, no one knew yet to what extent it would be abused. And then the Gang of Four plundered into a war with another socialist state. And the Soviets, after Vladivostok, reacted, well, you know how they reacted. My parents and I, along with the whole delegation, left the next day”.
He pauses, and sips on his coffee. I do the same, and he continues.
“Over the next few years, as I became a teenagers and then a man, the news from the Soviets became worse and worse. Our trade delegations were no longer permitted to go to Moscow. Border travel between our countries, which used to be relatively easy became so much harder. And then came the news that the USSR was severing all personal and non-state ties with us, “for the protection of the Revolution. The USSR had its problems, even then, but you can’t imagine how shocking it was for us to see the first workers state cut itself off like that. So to answer your question, we haven’t tell with the War. We are still dealing with the War.”
Political complications mean that the root we take is much longer then it would otherwise be; the airliner flies westwards before turning to follow the Anatolia coast. And onto our destination. Damascus.
Damascus the Ancient, Damascus the First. The City of Jasmine, and the City of Caliphs. It is all this, and it is the capital of the United Arab Republic, that strange state that is, to join a phrase, neither United, Arab, nor a Republic.
The separation of French and Italian North Africa, along with Morocco and Oman, give lie to the first claim. The present of ethnic minorities with their own autonomous regions gives lie to the second. And the nature of Presidential elections in this country gives lie to the third, as evidenced by the scene that greets me upon exiting the airport.
The poster is in the process of being replaced. In the most recent election, the outcome of which was never in any real doubt, Suleiman Nader’s chosen successor won handily. It has always been thus, the President endorsing his successor, who then rules in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the old Imperial Presidents. The Parliament here is elected by universal suffrage, this is true, and in elections even the LDS judge as free and fair. But it is not a governing body, more of an advisory one. The courts here are relatively independent, but their impact on everyday politics is limited to say the least. Activism like that of the Warren or Kennedy Courts is unknown here, let alone anything approaching the Roosevelt Court. Here, politics is either done by the Presidency, on the shop floor, or in the meeting rooms of the unions.
It is a member of the latter group who I am interviewing today. Bashar al-Assad is the elected head of the Union of Oil Workers, the Union des Travailleurs du Pétrole or UTP, perhaps the most powerful group in the country. Well dressed and clean shaven, he meets me in his office in the aptly named Union Building, the central gathering of all the union heads in the country. His office is comfortable, but simplistic, the mark of a man of deep faith, and of strong political views. He rises to greet me, and gestures me to take one of the seats in front of his desk.
He starts speaking in English, before asking if we can switch to French. It is, he says, the Western language he speaks most fluently.
“You British and the French did much harm to us when you imposed the old monarchy on us. Hussein bin Ali ruled at the behest of the Western Imperialists, and his rule was nothing more than a front for your oil companies. But the world changed, and our good friends in India showed us another model. And your capitalists, once they realised we would keep the oil flowing, proved palatable enough. You people are too concerned with bourgeois rights in the LDS, but I must admit that your workers have secured themselves a good place, no matter how infirm it’s foundations.”
I remark on how, in my country, a union man would comment on foreign affairs, and that from what I’ve seen, read and heard, the system in the UAR sounds like the Dual Power arrangement at the time of the Russian Revolution.
“There is a very good reason for that; the unions represent the nation. One is volatile and lively, the other stoic and calm. The state and the unions complement each other in our system. A more perfect variant of your system, if what I hear about the West is true”.
The debater in me wishes to go more into the differences between League Ordoliberalist Social Market Capitalism, and the Democratic Socialism practised in the UAR and, with local modifications, across the NAM as a whole, but I remind myself why I am here, and ask Assad about how the UAR, and the Unions dealt with the War.
“We call it the Splitting War here. If my father were still alive, he could give you more detail. He was on the staff of the UTP delegation to Moscow, as part of a direct negotiation for new drilling equipment. I and my mother travelled with him. I don’t remember much, but Moscow was a far happier city then. Kruschev was in power, there was increasingly free debate within and without the Party. The Cybersyn system was coming online, no one knew yet to what extent it would be abused. And then the Gang of Four plundered into a war with another socialist state. And the Soviets, after Vladivostok, reacted, well, you know how they reacted. My parents and I, along with the whole delegation, left the next day”.
He pauses, and sips on his coffee. I do the same, and he continues.
“Over the next few years, as I became a teenagers and then a man, the news from the Soviets became worse and worse. Our trade delegations were no longer permitted to go to Moscow. Border travel between our countries, which used to be relatively easy became so much harder. And then came the news that the USSR was severing all personal and non-state ties with us, “for the protection of the Revolution. The USSR had its problems, even then, but you can’t imagine how shocking it was for us to see the first workers state cut itself off like that. So to answer your question, we haven’t tell with the War. We are still dealing with the War.”
Sulemain
Banned
Thanks
In our next update, The Reporter meets someone on the other-side of the dual power arrangement in the UAR, a retired general in fact.
Sulemain
Banned
Yes, that was the idea behind the UAR ITTL. The idea I had was that rather then the Soviets, it was to India that the post-colonial states looked too.
Sulemain
Banned
Suburbs are associated with the West in the global conscience. A symbol of prosperity, of the success of the cooperation between workers, capital and government in a capitalist-democratic framework. Or so the builders of those suburbs would like their buyers to believe. In truth, suburbs arise wherever there is the will and the money for them. This is as much the case in the UAR as it is in the USA, except in the case of the former the “middle-class” are almost invariably public servants in one respect or another. And in this country, military personnel are as much public servants as any state lawyer or treasurer.
The neighbourhood and house is an Arabic counterpart to that of Commander Eckhart’s, the same cleanliness, the same air of ordered prosperity. Its inhabitant, for all the houses are owned by the Suburban Collective, is Saddam Hussein, former Chief Air Marshal of the Air Force of the Arab Republic. Unlike the Commander, he is not waiting for me on the front porch. There is no sign of life in the house, so I am surprised when, on knocking the door, it swings open and I am pulled inside by powerful hands.
It is dark, and I feel the cold of a gun pressed against my head. I wonder what I have done to deserve this happening again, and I enquire as to why.
I get a string of angry Arabic in reply, and I am once again forced to resort to French to explain my purpose. The silence in response is deafening. I switch once more, this time to a language not often heard outside its home country.
In the same tongue, the gunman replies
“It has been many years since someone has spoken like that in this country.”
It is at this point that the gun is removed from my head, and the man holding it says, still speaking Russian.
“Many would have pleaded for their life, screamed or begged. But not you. Why?”
I respond that I’ve been in that situation, and worse before, and there is a chuckle.
“You are a rare man that can say that”.
At this point, the room is lit with light, and the gunman is revealed as none other than Saddam himself.
I ask him about the whole elaborate program, and he merely replies.
“A man in my position makes many enemies, even in the classless state. You British are used to peace in all things.”
Again, the reality of British life in particular and League life in general seems to escape those high up in the UAR. I consider mentioning the divisions of the British Army of the Oder, or the missiles in East Prussia, but I decide against it. I decide instead to ask him about his role in the ’74 Crisis, and in doing so, I mention the Assad’s. His reaction is immediate, and loud.
“Don’t mention that rat faced bastard to me! Nor his father! Oh, they are so pious in claiming to represent the workers, to be the voice of the oil people. What nonsense! You should see the salary he draws, or the lifestyle he leads. I still have friends in the Air Force, and they tell me things you wouldn't believe.”
At this point, he stops, and walks out. A short while later he returns with two cups of chai, and offers me one. I graciously accept, and drink as he talks once more.
“Nobody likes to mention it today, but our republic and the Soviet one were very close in the 60s and early 70s. Khrushchev was a breadth of fresh air after Stalin, and the USSR looked like a worth model to follow. Authoritarian, yes, but the fist was gloved and padded. India was not yet the jewel of the global socialist movement it was to become; state directed top down socialism was the way forward, rather than Indian style democratic socialism and all that stuff about cooperatives and syndicalism. On the military front, my squadron at the time operate MIGs. We thought they were the hottest planes in the sky. Of course, we didn’t know that the Soviets had sold us the export version at twice the cost of the normal one. We found out though, sooner rather than later.”
I ask him if he is referring to the Six Day War, and he nods.
“Yes, the Six Day War. We call it the Omani Unification War. What brought down the old Soviet style UAR, and brought in the model you see today. The USSR had cut off its diplomatic and military links with us, bar basic ambassadorial tasks. The Executive Council, as it was back then, thought that a short victorious war would be just what we needed to, and I’m quoting from memory here “to re-spark feelings of socialist solidarity in the people”. They thought that Oman was easy pickings; they ignored all the reforms Sultan Qaboos had made, all the links he had forged with the West. And they ignored the joint Australian-British carrier battle group that was visiting India at the time. Worst of all, they ignored the General Staff who told them that we didn’t have the spare parts or munitions for any sort of war. They though the West busying dealing with the Great Famine, unable to intervene, weak and decadent. And so, in the spirit of desperation and ignorance, we were sent to war. My squadron was one of the first into Omani airspace. And we were one of the first to be destroyed.”
He takes a sip of his chai, and I can see horrors of battle behind the eyes of the old Marshal.
“Of all the people, it was an Australian that shot me down, as I was later to find out. One of those new Sea Harrier they were using, put a heat-seeker up my tail on the 2nd Day. Too make matters worse, turns out your Navy Buccaneers had destroyed the Bases runaway while I was away. And then it turned out that we didn’t have any planes left. Oh, there were some, but they lacked key parts; we’d been forced to cannibalise in order to get as many planes up in the air. I spent the next four days flying an old American Apache dive-bomber, Allah knows where they got it from. And that was shot down from under me on the last day. Got knocked out by an Omani AA battery, got captured by them too. We surrendered while I was a POW. Turns out part of the peace deal was that we were to with draw all aircraft and military personnel from the Arabian Peninsula, and to pay for the damage we had done. Say what you want about Qaboos and his… habits, but he isn’t a land grabber.”
He pauses, and his grim reminiscing disappears when he says, with a grin taking years of his old face.
“Of course, my career benefitted. The war hero with Saladin’s Falcon on my chest and two kills to my name. No one mentioned those were a helicopter and a Strikemaster, but I wasn’t complaing.
The neighbourhood and house is an Arabic counterpart to that of Commander Eckhart’s, the same cleanliness, the same air of ordered prosperity. Its inhabitant, for all the houses are owned by the Suburban Collective, is Saddam Hussein, former Chief Air Marshal of the Air Force of the Arab Republic. Unlike the Commander, he is not waiting for me on the front porch. There is no sign of life in the house, so I am surprised when, on knocking the door, it swings open and I am pulled inside by powerful hands.
It is dark, and I feel the cold of a gun pressed against my head. I wonder what I have done to deserve this happening again, and I enquire as to why.
I get a string of angry Arabic in reply, and I am once again forced to resort to French to explain my purpose. The silence in response is deafening. I switch once more, this time to a language not often heard outside its home country.
In the same tongue, the gunman replies
“It has been many years since someone has spoken like that in this country.”
It is at this point that the gun is removed from my head, and the man holding it says, still speaking Russian.
“Many would have pleaded for their life, screamed or begged. But not you. Why?”
I respond that I’ve been in that situation, and worse before, and there is a chuckle.
“You are a rare man that can say that”.
At this point, the room is lit with light, and the gunman is revealed as none other than Saddam himself.
I ask him about the whole elaborate program, and he merely replies.
“A man in my position makes many enemies, even in the classless state. You British are used to peace in all things.”
Again, the reality of British life in particular and League life in general seems to escape those high up in the UAR. I consider mentioning the divisions of the British Army of the Oder, or the missiles in East Prussia, but I decide against it. I decide instead to ask him about his role in the ’74 Crisis, and in doing so, I mention the Assad’s. His reaction is immediate, and loud.
“Don’t mention that rat faced bastard to me! Nor his father! Oh, they are so pious in claiming to represent the workers, to be the voice of the oil people. What nonsense! You should see the salary he draws, or the lifestyle he leads. I still have friends in the Air Force, and they tell me things you wouldn't believe.”
At this point, he stops, and walks out. A short while later he returns with two cups of chai, and offers me one. I graciously accept, and drink as he talks once more.
“Nobody likes to mention it today, but our republic and the Soviet one were very close in the 60s and early 70s. Khrushchev was a breadth of fresh air after Stalin, and the USSR looked like a worth model to follow. Authoritarian, yes, but the fist was gloved and padded. India was not yet the jewel of the global socialist movement it was to become; state directed top down socialism was the way forward, rather than Indian style democratic socialism and all that stuff about cooperatives and syndicalism. On the military front, my squadron at the time operate MIGs. We thought they were the hottest planes in the sky. Of course, we didn’t know that the Soviets had sold us the export version at twice the cost of the normal one. We found out though, sooner rather than later.”
I ask him if he is referring to the Six Day War, and he nods.
“Yes, the Six Day War. We call it the Omani Unification War. What brought down the old Soviet style UAR, and brought in the model you see today. The USSR had cut off its diplomatic and military links with us, bar basic ambassadorial tasks. The Executive Council, as it was back then, thought that a short victorious war would be just what we needed to, and I’m quoting from memory here “to re-spark feelings of socialist solidarity in the people”. They thought that Oman was easy pickings; they ignored all the reforms Sultan Qaboos had made, all the links he had forged with the West. And they ignored the joint Australian-British carrier battle group that was visiting India at the time. Worst of all, they ignored the General Staff who told them that we didn’t have the spare parts or munitions for any sort of war. They though the West busying dealing with the Great Famine, unable to intervene, weak and decadent. And so, in the spirit of desperation and ignorance, we were sent to war. My squadron was one of the first into Omani airspace. And we were one of the first to be destroyed.”
He takes a sip of his chai, and I can see horrors of battle behind the eyes of the old Marshal.
“Of all the people, it was an Australian that shot me down, as I was later to find out. One of those new Sea Harrier they were using, put a heat-seeker up my tail on the 2nd Day. Too make matters worse, turns out your Navy Buccaneers had destroyed the Bases runaway while I was away. And then it turned out that we didn’t have any planes left. Oh, there were some, but they lacked key parts; we’d been forced to cannibalise in order to get as many planes up in the air. I spent the next four days flying an old American Apache dive-bomber, Allah knows where they got it from. And that was shot down from under me on the last day. Got knocked out by an Omani AA battery, got captured by them too. We surrendered while I was a POW. Turns out part of the peace deal was that we were to with draw all aircraft and military personnel from the Arabian Peninsula, and to pay for the damage we had done. Say what you want about Qaboos and his… habits, but he isn’t a land grabber.”
He pauses, and his grim reminiscing disappears when he says, with a grin taking years of his old face.
“Of course, my career benefitted. The war hero with Saladin’s Falcon on my chest and two kills to my name. No one mentioned those were a helicopter and a Strikemaster, but I wasn’t complaing.