Chapter 2:
Alright, I know it's been a while... but I NEVER abandon a story. I give my sacred word of honor to that pledge. Even as I lay on my deathbed, the U.S. Army, Satan, and all the armies of Hell besides would not be able to tear me from my desk until I penned "The End" to the last of my stories.
Paris 2036
Hussein Thierry was rubbing his temples.
The middle aged man was going over a map of Germany in his head. He already knew what was happening and wondered how things fell apart so fast. It was as if the Devil himself, planed this operation.
Svetlana Netrebko seduced the once proud warrior of peace. Not with her body, although the site of her tall, slim figure could make any male, straight or gay, think about carnal delights. She was attractive, but not one of those waifs that walked the runways in Paris and Milan.
Svetlana had the ability to make others like her and respect her. Instead of using his natural lusts, she instead seduced his ego and his conscience. Soon he thought of her as a confidant, like a beloved daughter who has grown up - Someone who he could respect as his intellectual equal.
During the war with America, the then young private of mixed Moroccan-French descent has lost his idealism in humanity and God. He had personally killed and was almost killed. If he just moved one centimeter back, an American's sniper bullet would have penetrated his skull instead of grazing it. Two more copper-clad bullets to the chest had ended his war and broke his spirit. When he was released from the American military hospital, he fell into a life style of debauchery.
Seven years ago, he was just the founder and head engineer of his own construction firm. He had built some of Europe's most famous skyscrapers. He had raised two children who both made him proud. He had a lovely wife whom still excited him. He had ritualistically made the required prayers, fasted during the holy month, honored the customs his father instilled into him, and even went on the pilgrimage to Mecca. Yet he drank and fornicated with paid women. Svetlana appeared and helped him regain his spirit. She help him recover his faith in God and man. She had recruited him to a cause that he was willing to fight for.
Hussein did not care that Svetlana was the Director of PSYOPS Division in the CVB. He did not care that the CVB had a dark reputation and was born out of a brutal past.
Over the past five years, the CVB developed the reputation among the dark side of the world's intelligence services as one of the most deadly and effective groups of "Trouble Management Consultants" in the world. Need an oil refinery blow without a trail leading back to your government – Call the CVB. Need a 50-caliber message delivered from a distance of 1,500 meters into a foreign head of state without leaving any link to you – Call the CVB. Are you an uber-rich celebrity and need your child retrieved unhurt from vicious kidnappers and sex traffickers – Call the CVB. Their services were expensive – starting at the high six-figures in hard currency for a short term, low-risk operation, but their results were guaranteed. They would accomplish their objective with minimal fuss and your elected representatives and senators on the Intelligence Oversight Committee will never find any hint of your dirty laundry.
Only a handful of people knew what CVB really meant and none of them worked for any intelligence or law enforcement agency. Hussein Thierry was one of the few that knew that CVB meant Children of Vasilii Boiarskii.
Vasilii Boiarskii had a reputation that made that would make any professional contract killer or crime boss envious. To the world, he was a monster that once ruled the Eastern European underworld with an iron fist. Unlike most bosses, Boiarskii did his wetwork. Many talented and experienced professionals, on both sides of the law, have tried to kill him to only end up staring at the wrong side of a muzzle or the sharp point of a blade. Even twelve years after his death, both law enforcement officers and criminals still whisper his name with respect. Boiarskii became the thieves' cant for a criminal mastermind. To pull a Boiarskii meant to wipe out your enemies to the last generation. People still feared his name. Law enforcement feared that someone like Boiarskii would one day again rule the underworld.
However to eight children, Vasilii Alexovick Boiarskii was the father who sacrificed himself so that they might live. The pride watched helplessly as the hyenas gathered around to steal the pride's cubs. The pride hid, living in fear, until they became lions and lioness in their own right. Now they hunted the hyenas that took down their father.
The name of Vasilii Boiarskii was well known. What was not general knowledge was his pseudonym – the name the child he was forced to take the place of to escape even more horrible abuse and death – was Ronald Stoppable.
Thierry was ruminating over the possibilities that could unfold when he'd noted the car had stopped.
"Thank you, Pierre Ducat, for that ride over here."
The driver nodded, and drove off. Hussein looked up at the ancient doors, and the stone flourishes, and realized that he had a heavy duty hanging over his head. Taking a deep breath, he went in for a meeting with one of maybe ten men he'd ever respected.
Paris, Charles De Gaulle Airport, 2036
Meanwhile, at the Charles de Gaulle International Airport, a young brown haired man carried his guitar case off the plane. He slung it across his back, and then he strapped on a helmet. He liked danger, but he had too many things to do right now to become a statistic. Besides, he knew a certain someone would kill him if he died too soon. He finally picked up an old 2008 500-horsepower turbo-charged Suzuki GSXR-1300 race bike from the National rental center that had recently opened in the airport, and started off across town. Losing his troubles in the rush of dodging the idiots behind the wheel of those cars with the funny yellow head lamps, he rotated his right wrist, manipulated the clutch, and shifted with some sixth sense to let the 500-horsepower beast roar once more.
On his shirt, under his leather jacket, was a curious image. The rear view of a ship with two rear semicircular windows in a, the sharp curve of the sails managed by two main ropes, joining at a central hook.
Boating enthusiast?
No more than he was a musician. He was named Ronald. Ronald Possible Stoppable or simply Ron Junior. Descended from both a monster and a hero, a war criminal and a compassionate father, his fates were considerably less extreme than his father's. His father was a virile man, leaving enough children to make the Puritans envious. As he was there, Melody, the CVB's eldest "title" member, was working with Svetlana, and Grigor to clap shut the jaws of a dragon.
Ruins of the Statue of Liberty, New York City, 2036
Melody was rubbing her temples.
Serves her right. Who the hell gave her the idea to nuke Beijing? Right, herself, the damn queen bee that never listens until she messes everything up. It was one of her stupidest ideas ever. Now I have to hold her hands.
"Melody, don't beat yourself up over this. It was a natural opening. It also removed the one implacable part of our plan before it began. If China tries anything, we have a Veto on the U.N. Council."
"Yes, yes, Svetlana, I've told myself that a thousand times. What if they attack anyway? What if they trace it back? What if..."
"Melody, dear, you know I love you. But sometimes you freak and spasm up just like your mom. Shut up, relax, and trust me. China will be working full time damage control. The colonels and generals have to figure out who is calling the shots since we took out their politburo and the People's Congress. All we have to do is hire some Arabic guy to record a video saying it was the People for the Imam's Return. People will be scouring the land to find the Imam, alive for the next thousand years. Worse case, the Chinese will trace the broadcast of the film to Saudi Arabia, and will attack, cutting off the world's oil supply and cutting their own throats destroying everything but their own sense of honor."
Svetlana involuntarily tainted the last few words with disgust, but Melody had to stop being such a control freak. It was the thing that doomed any romantic relationship that Melody might have formed. With Melody, the two rules were: (1) Melody was in control; and (2) Any man must measure up to the stature of Melody's perception of her godlike father.
Melody, left uneasy but without objections, and finally shut up, except for one last observation.
"That old man Thierry was a weak link. He is a crusader and not very many crusaders died of old age."
Svetlana knew it was time to put on her professor head and become Dr. Svetlana Netrebko, Ph.D. Psychology.
"The difference between the Islamists and the moderate Muslims is astounding- One has one of the most compassionate, if ritualistic, religions on the map, and the other has the most destructive in the history of Man."
Paris, 2036
Back in the estate of Abu Mohammed, Mr. Thierry went forward down the ominously empty halls. His loafers softly rang out a metronome that gave him pause for thought. In his head and hand, he had a map of Germany that looked as if he'd bled on it, which he knew may soon be the truth. Finally, he passed through a hall full of grand columns, and down to the two hundred year old oak door. He pushed the electronic buzzer, and said, "Salaam." A creaky but deep voice replied, "Salaam."
Straight-backed but reverent, he opened the door and bowed. The lavish curtains of the room belied the simple feather pillow beneath the bottom of Abu Mohammed, new Prime Minister of France. There was a cabinet with two large doors and three drawers below them. The cabinet held a small color television, purchased for $100 at Wal-Mart, and the drawers held every article of clothing he would wear for a long time, and the cabinet nearby held only jerky, peanut butter, and bread. The refrigerator held jelly and some sandwich meat.
His eyes were closed at the moment, but his skin alone told much of his life. His skin was unmarked, but displayed a texture much like old coarse sandpaper. His face was laced by only a few wrinkles, signs that he was old and wise while yet being in touch with his congregation; most Imams at his age were deep with wrinkles, riddled with them as some of their more radical enemies would be riddled with bullets; he kept active, emotional prayer and kept the congregation together to play sports, adhering to the old doctrine "Idle hands are the devil's workshop." He was a living example of the paradoxical commandments; he was stern and he was friendly.
His eyes snapped open when he heard Hussein say, "My dearest and holiest Imam, for what reason have you summoned me to your presence?" In a voice somewhere between a tenor and a baritone, he said "Peace be with you friend. There is much to discuss. Take a pillow and sit down."
Hussein kept his eyes on his Imam and took a plain pillow and sat down gently as possible. The first thing he said was not what he was expecting to say.
"My Imam, you live so Spartan a life. What happened to all of the rugs, tapestries, and adornments of your office at the mosque? I am used to seeing you in your ceremonial garb, belting out the word of Allah in glorious surroundings."
"Oh, those are just things that have been at the office forever. I much prefer a simpler existence. For me, peanut butter and jelly is extravagant enough; I use most of my wealth to venerate Allah, and to help the congregation. Did you see Sheila's new garden? I gave her the money for that, and she was so happy, she promised that when her next payday came in, she would give not only money to the Mosque football team, but more of her time to the church. Every dollar I waste on myself is another lost opportunity to bring about changes like that. As long as I am helping Allah, I am helping myself, I am helping the world, and I am helping my children. It is one of the lessons that Allah tries to teach us."
Hussein was humbled greatly by the mere fact that he would share this with him, to say nothing of the scope of the Imam's generosity. He had always known that he was a giving man; but to hear that the man lived off peanut butter and jelly that a member of his congregation might have her own garden. He resolved that, should he live through his tenure of service with the CVB, he would do the same and try to live up to the expectations of his teacher.
"And this is exactly how I got into preaching Islam. My teacher impressed me with his humility- he refrained from even radio, TV, and mattress- and I resolved to be just like him. I, however, could not live without mattress and TV, and they were relatively cheap at that point, so I decided to go ahead and use that small fraction of my pay. And now on to business. By that map of Germany, you already know what your task shall be. And you know how to do it.
Hussein took a deep breath and started his spiel.
"Yes. I am to force Berlin to surrender. I will proceed with a moderate column of tanks and artillery from Bischwiller, and proceed north, remaining south of Landeau in der Pfaiz, through the 'alley' between Walldorf and Sinsheim, where I will then have almost a straight curved sweep through to the Reichstag."
"Good, very good. But they will be expecting that. I recommend going from St-Amand-les-Eaux, through the Ronse/Frasnes 'alley' and then curving west, then north, to Maastricht, then northeast through the Aachen/Wurselen 'alley,' and that should take you, almost cleanly to the east, less populated, more vulnerable, side of Berlin."
He looked down at the map, and bowed, saying, "Yes, my Imam."
"Oh- and you will have one more resource available to you, one easily more powerful than the French army."
"What could be more powerful than the army of one of the oldest industrialized nations in Europe?"
Suddenly, a man with a leather Air Force jacket and a black motor cycle helmet burst in the door. He zipped it down and shrugged off the jacket, and ripped the helmet off. His hair reminded many immediately of the woods, and the foliage was his emerald eyes. It was rooted in his gaze and his wicked half-smile, an expression that was as multifunctional for him as the buffalo was for Indians. It showed grim determination, honest enjoyment, and lust, with various people.
The Imam continued as if nothing had happened.
"Ron Stoppable Junior. Trust me, the last name Stoppable is enough to indicate that he is more powerful than the Roman Emperor was at the height of the Empire, more powerful than the President, more able than a martial arts champion, more able than Patton, Hannibal, and McArthur put together. His ways may not be subtle, but they are fast, and they are effective. He specializes in the very areas that you need for this operation, death and electronic warfare. His assignment will be to go ahead and throw a false news report into the stream- your army 'will' be advancing across the point of France- straight across the Rhine. People will be advised to flee southeast. All power plants will experience brownouts, or will 'sacrifice' their power for the good of the German army as you pass by."
Hussein finished, "So when the Reichstag falls, the Parliament should surrender, and France will accomplish a feat that the Roman Empire never did- beat the Germans single handedly, reversing two thousand years of reverses at Germanic hands." Hussein considered that for a moment, and it inspired in him a sense of awe- reversing the impetus of history, reviving the dead reputation of a one-great nation, another nation that once had an empire on which the sun never set, now reduced to the butt of many jokes, his homeland, was about to make history. Through his sword. He was a Crusader, a Crusader of old.
Ron Jr. paused for a second and said, "Okay, can I go out there and start killing things?" For a moment the Imam and Hussein both looked shocked and he held up his hands and said, "Kidding! Kidding…Mostly." He might be powerful, he might be able, he might be the lifeline that this operation depended on, he might be the next Roman Emperor for all Hussein cared, but his humor was not exactly the best.
France, Saint Amand Les Eaux, 2036
They were about to annihilate the culture of a proud people, subjugate them as they had not been subjugated since the Holy Roman Empire, which was neither Holy, nor Roman, nor, some argue, even an Empire. Oktoberfest, gone. That would make many an American sad. The home of the Reformation, the home of Nietzsche, and Goethe, the home of bratwurst, wiener schnitzel, blintzes, the roots of many Americans, the country that taught America how to organize and fight, gone. All for the sake of revenge.
The Grand Armee of France, fifty thousand Frenchmen on the border of the Rhineland, the sword of Damocles perched over the head of the "Huns," was assembled, on the attack for the first time in two hundred years. And it was composed of three unit types that Napoleon would've given both arms and a leg for: arme blindée cavalerie, the heaviest, native, armored cavalry, Artillery, and a small corps of Military Engineers, to build pontoon bridges and clear other obstacles when needed. Minister of Defense, and newly bestowed Marshal General of France Hussein Thierry had his tent pitched on the very property line between Germany and France. They gave him a title not used for a hundred and fifty years. They meant business. France was about to rock the world; they were about to undo ten thousand wounds that they had suffered; ten million men killed, ten million women raped, ten million houses burnt, ten million upon ten million injustices righted. All without loss of a single life.
London, CLASSIFIED, 2036
Meanwhile, intelligence men were scrambling all across Europe. In London, M15 was pooling all their resources. They'd been tracking massive bread, diesel, and tea movements to the north-west of France, specifically to the Rheims area-but no one could track them from there. Troop movements weren't apparent; they purportedly had their full army still at their usual stations so, either they had raised a secret army or this was all a lesson in assumptions, and recalling what it spells. Brad Burminson, new head of M15, assembled the meeting personally.
"Everyone knows why we are here. We are here because the new Parliament of France has scrambled at lightspeed to assemble what appears to be a massive army; it could support up to a hundred thousand men for a month, or fifty thousand men for two. We have several options: One. Intervene immediately with full ground and naval intervention. Take Paris, point a rifle at the Eiffel Tower, and they surrender. Two: Naval blockade only, this should strangle them out, and Germany's formidable resources should be able to handle them. Or three; don't intervene and build up our own forces for their seemingly inevitable swing up here."
Another member raised an objection.
"Sir? How can we be certain that they're going to act immediately? Shouldn't we wait a week, to see how things go?"
The director protested, but everyone else agreed, and so the official recommendation of "wait and see" was passed along. The commission used the example of Pompeii- if he'd waited for Julius's force to disintegrate, he would've won The new King of England -Elizabeth had stepped down to go skydiving, after breaking Victoria's record- was an activist; he called forth no prime minister, and no cabinet positions. But the King decided that the recommendation of M15 was the best option. Prince William had abdicated after a brief rule to let his son, Prince Henry of Wales, rule. He had always talked about how he'd change things about the monarchy, but no one thought he'd get the chance.
Reichstag, Germany, 2036
In Germany, the intelligence folks had scrambled and their plans have been made: Wait for them to come in, and call on all their citizenry and ask for Belgians to intervene heavy-handedly. Initiate a strategic turning movement, cut them off, and destroy them down to a man. They couldn't afford to make the first strike; NATO would blame them. All of their generals had assembled to divide and amass the troops
General Saddam Achmed, mostly a P.R. appointment, was the first force delegated; a relatively small army of 20,000 to entrench outside of Berlin; however, the media announcement wouldn't be made until France's official declaration of war was announced.
Saddam Achmed protested, "But my esteemed comrades, how can you afford to entrust the defenses of Berlin with only twenty-thousand men; that's half the size of their force, protecting a gigantic metropolitan area. Do you love the Fatherland that little, that you delegate a pittance of the force required to defend her greatest jewels? If the turning movement fails, then you'll need a strong power base, you will need a solid secondary strategy, and most of all, a strong leader in the time of crisis to administrate it. I am certainly not the third, but I can provide the first two, with a force of sixty thousand- leaving you still with roughly 160,000 men to complete the operation "Nonsense!" they all cried, "Why would we weaken our main attack?"
"Well, Julius Caesar did it, when he realized Pompeii was going to try to flank him, with the result that Pompeii lost all of his cavalry in that charge, and losing the battle, and ultimately, the war."
They shot down that plan; the 220,000 men for the main flank would divide between Rhineland-Pfalz province and Baden-Wurttemberg province and when the enemy emerged from the pointy tip of France, the Rhineland force would march straight down and then turn, cutting off their direct line of supply, while the Baden force cut off their advance and slowly encircled them and destroyed them.
Russia, Saint Petersburg, Winter Palace, 2036
In Russia, they had made the recommendation of military intervention on the side of the Germans, with all available troops, and nuclear weaponry if necessary. Grigor, the President from the new general election, was scheduled to make a statement later today to his cabinet and the Duma.
The plan they'd put together went: Number one, get the approval of the German Parliament. And number two, take a hundred thousand men or so, put them on ships in St. Petersburg, down the Baltic Sea to Hamburg, and they would bolster whatever force they had guarding Berlin. Highest estimates had the French force at 100,000, and with the undoubtedly large force the Germans had guarding their most precious city, the French force would be summarily crushed.
Thierry had the troops assemble when he'd seen the proclamation come. He wore a smoky, dark grey uniform, patched almost unnoticeably with all the signs of a hundred years of age and care. If one had to say, you would say that this uniform had been worn for a single tour of duty and then cherished for a hundred years. No. This had been worn for ten different tours of duty; three his, seven Thierry's fathers. His father's medals were in his trunk, along with his white, leather, gilded script Quran, and his mother's necklace that she gave to him when Paris fell to the American forces, along with the family's heirlooms. She was raped and killed by a pair of psychos that went on to become senators. As an ex-sergeant and strict study of Roman Military History, he knew the key to winning a war was not being the general who stood behind the lines and let his soldiers do the dying, but to be before them and tell them to hurry up. To take a piss in the Rhine, like Patton. To be one of them.
He patrolled the line and saw one soldier standing out of line- just slightly but still imperfect. He turned to face the soldier and the soldier started to sweat. In a flash of lightning, he punched the soldier right in the groin, and followed up with a kick. Hussein finally said, "That is what I do if someone disobeys or is imperfect. I am not a hard man to please; be perfect and you will be fine. However, I do reward those who deserve it." He then tossed down a wad of five thousand Euros down at the man's feet, as he had gotten back up and stood back, perfectly in line, along with an ice pack. The man looked like he dearly wanted to bend down.
"Alright son, that was the final test. You may bend down and retrieve your reward." He pulled another set of papers out of his pocket, put his official seal to them, along with another set of accoutrements and a uniform, and said, "You are now my second in command, with the rank of Marshall and all the entitlements thereof" He took the old parchment, signed, round robbin, by the President, Prime Minister, and the heads of the military, as required by tradition of monumental proclamations. "In the year of our lord 2036, the People of France hereby declare a state of open warfare, armed strife, and conflict with the Sovereign State of Germany, with the sole aim of getting said state to surrender said sovereignty in reparations for a thousand well-documented years of uncompensated damages."
"In other words, get into those tanks and let's kick some Hunnic ass back to the Roman Age."
He knew that now, he had an army that would storm Constantinople blindfolded if he asked them to. That really warmed his heart- with his job, he was used to analyzing every other sentence. At least, he could be at peace for the week they curved to Berlin. There were two things about this trip that worried him: Number one, was the German tendency to cut off supply lines. He had a solution he hoped he wouldn't have to pull out for that one. Think William Tecumseh Sherman.
He might also have to pull triage with his army. He had the perfect place. Reach that place, and the march to Berlin would be protected, at whatever the cost was. And he had an ace in the hole if the German army was more prepared than he anticipated. Second was the first of the journey, where he would be much more vulnerable to flanking maneuvers than he would be near the end. The one thing he could not stand, however, was the intervention of another power. This whole operation was dependent on avoiding German strengths and severing their jugular as immediately as possible. With a measure of legitimacy from German surrender treaties, the French would be able to intervene much more heavily.
Landeau, Germany, 2036
Meanwhile, Ron Jr. was walking into an Internet café. He ordered a chai tea- one of the few things that actually kept him calm. He pulled out a laptop, and the world of electronics trembled. He started hacking. He found the opposing security protocols and firewalls, and ravaged them. Like your average supermodel, they put up virtually no defense, and were broken in two. He then swung the full force of his powers to the main bodies of the German power plant networks, and the Belgian ones as well. He scheduled the turbines to start over-producing in accordance with the schedule of Hussein's military movements. He would have to continue to monitor the network, but for the most part, he would hide in plain sight in cities near the Army- playing a gig or two occasionally, because he had to keep up appearances, and he always loved seeing the emotions run high at concerts.
He thanked the waitress for his tea, and then looked at the screen as he was savoring the first sip of his chai. He did a double take and spat it out, causing quite a mess. His heart started pounding- there was one power plant, for a German town that sponsored a base- right next to the Belgian border. They would be as lit up as Times Square on New Year's, and would detect Hussein's army, and he'd be caught between the full 48,000 men of the Belgian army, and probably at least 30,000 German men. The "bloodless" quality of this mission was built on deception, and keeping it bloodless was their best probability of success.