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CRUSADER continuation. Somewhere in the Jezreel Valley, in the shadow of Mount Carmel, the commander aboard a German-made Marder Infantry Fighting Vehicle of the Israeli Defence Force looks suspiciously at his screen. He wonders who is sending him an e-mail and what was in the attachment. He tries again to open the mail - again no luck. He points the cursor at the attachment envelope cursing ‘damned security', under his breath. Finally success, the mail doesn't open but the attachment does. At first, just a map of Israel, nothing much out of the ordinary there, except for that it glows strangely, as though the monitor is at fault. Then he notices the names on the map: Ancient names: Names never used by today's cartographers: Names such as ‘Acre': ‘Bamyas' for Bethsheba: ‘Ascalon' for Ashkelon and a host that he does not recognize, never mind be able to place. Why, even the features of the topography are wrong! It is as though they are drawn with only the aid of a verbal description, and put in place with the most rudimentary of instruments. The radio cackles, at first he can't understand the language, then recognizes it as French, but a French that he has never heard spoken before. It is almost impossible for him to understand, despite his degree in the romance languages. After a great effort of concentration he manages to decipher something: ‘ -- the fall of two fortresses; one named Montreal, the other Kerak'. A long recital, which he fails to comprehend; it sounds like a litany, or a chant, or a prayer and then a wailing. Then follows: ‘They have perished -- Salida -- all three hundred -- executed all -- we were tricked -- we left our fine defensive positions, in order to go to the aid of those in Tiberias -- attacked by Saladin -- ambushed in the desert, even their commander is dead, executed personally by the hand of Saladin -- only Raymond of Tripoli managed to escape, with a small company of horse.' He slings open the hatch with a bang that reverberates into the night. Placing the night-vision glasses to his eyes he scans the desert. At the extremity there is a glimmer of green and white. He adjusts the sighting toggle. The green and white resolve themselves into separate figures. Men upon horse-back dart back and forth, in the greenish-lit night sky, tiny black arrows rain down upon a cluster of mounted men. To the right, a larger cluster of horsemen charge at the archers, who then disperse. Men fall from their mounts. There is an even larger cluster of horsemen, now very close. They seem to be moving in his direction. Again some of them fall, as arrows find their mark. He scans the area behind the machine gun which has come to life, its automatic sensing-device causing it to chatter and spit a red glow into the night. A horseman is visible, he is much closer than his companions. His helm has somehow become dislodged. There is a white tunic, emblazoned with a Red Cross, upon his body and blood streams down his face. Eyes blaze with a crazy desperation, as he charges the IFV. His lance is aligned over the centre of a massive and equally-defiant, black war-horse, its eyes equally ablaze with a mad and desperate fury. There is a spluttering above, as the 7.62mm gun leaps into life, its muzzle-flashes lighting the surrounding desert and the steel-jacketed ball-ammunition kicking up dust around the figure. The figure looms larger, lips encompassed by a short, black beard are twisted into a snarl. The figure lets out a shrill cry as the 7.62mm rounds pass harmlessly through him. A smell of horse-flesh mixes with that of the fragrant desert air. There is a wild whinny and a flash of hoofs, as they attempt to tear at his face, and the rattle of accouterments as stead and rider race through the IFV. Thunder and shouting echo all around. Horsemen twist and weave throughout the boulder-strewn desert. Finally, there is quiet, broken by a few, weak moans, then nothing, but a cool breeze alleviating the day's heat. *** In the headquarter's building at Tiberias, a man looks through a west-facing window. In the night thunder rumbles, faintly accompanied by streaks of lightning. The burn on his leg tingles, the pain increasing and then subsiding, with the rise and fall of the thunder. "Oh well," he sighs, "in a day or two, I will feel no pain. " A light rain begins to pitter-patter against the partially-opened window which he then closes and, at the same time, untangles the blind from the inside sash. There is a sudden burst of thunder that cracks, with such a force that it literally rattles the window-panes, causing him to instinctively move backwards. "Christ!" he swears to himself. "That blast was so large and forceful it left a trace of sulfur!" The End.
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Mike Haran can be contacted at: 4258529ii@canada.com |