Afghanistan

Chapter 23- The dying of the light (from ‘A Girl like Alice’)

Through the mist of her pain she saw the door gunner waving her out of his line of fire but, before she had time to react, Mac grabbed her, pulling her out of the way and towards the aircraft. Bullets whined and buzzed, kicking up the dirt all around. It was almost as if she had been deliberately targeted to the exclusion of all others. She reached for the door sill with the deafening rattle of the door gun right by her left ear. Without her injury she would have vaulted into the helicopter in the same manner that she mounted her horse, with an ease that appeared to defy gravity. This time, however, she had to turn around to hitch her bottom onto the edge and was facing towards the battle, leaning back to push herself inside, when a second bullet found her.

It entered her body just below her right breast, parting a rib, and exited just above her right shoulder blade. Alice gasped with surprise and shock but felt no pain. It was as if she had been thumped by a mailed fist. She felt winded, unable to catch her breath and was dimly aware of being pulled inside to lie on the floor. There was a bedlam of noise as the aircraft took off. The helmeted door gunner turned briefly to look at her, his face a mask of incredulity, then he turned away and continued firing.

For a moment she was aware of the metallic taste of blood in her mouth and a feeling of intense cold- then- there was no feeling at all.

Khalida and Roxanna wept uncontrollably in their deep anguish, as the only person, other than their father, who had ever really cared about them, lay in an expanding pool of blood.

Alice’s body began to shake violently as she went into shock. Mac bent over to assist Bill, as he set about the desperate task of trying to keep her alive.

No-one noticed the magnificent sunset, as the helicopters thundered towards the Pakistan border, in the dying of the light.

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Katie Piper: My Beautiful Face

One of the most moving documentaries I have seen on television in recent times is, 'Katie: My Beautiful Face'. For those on another planet, it is the story of Katie Piper, a young 25 year old model and TV presenter, who, about a year ago, was badly disfigured when her vile boyfriend raped her and then hired another moron to throw sulfuric acid in her face. The programme covered her traumatic journey from the incident, through her treatment, by a brilliant cosmetic surgeon, Mohammad Ali Jawad, to the present day.

By coincidence, I had read a novel called, 'The Gargoyle', by Andrew Davidson http://bit.ly/1xaxor . It is a brilliant and thought provoking read in itself, but the thing that impressed me most was the detailed description of the treatment undergone by the principal character, who suffered 90% burns in a car accident. I was therefore fully briefed and could identify with Katie's experience.

Immediately after the attack, Katie ran, screaming, into a café. If only, if only, if only, someone had had the presence of mind to pour cold water over her, instead of standing by while an ambulance was called. The water would have neutralized the acid. But it occurred to me that there is so little science taught in schools, these days, that it's possible that no-one, in the café, knew that water neutralizes acid.

However, the most poignant and inspiring feature of the whole piece was how this young girl's character and personality, shone like a beacon out of her ravaged face. To me it proved, once and for all, that real beauty is not just skin deep.

You will notice that I have studiously avoided mentioning her attackers.

Depressingly, there is no point in wondering how anyone could possibly do such a thing. Such people are in action all over the world. Not just here but in Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, the Congo, to name but a few. In these countries women are often treated appallingly.

I remember that, as a young man (before I met my wife), all I wanted, to make my life complete, was a nice girlfriend. During my, often futile, hunt, I was constantly astonished at how often the best looking girls were attracted to the ugliest and most unpleasant men. Therefore it was no surprise, to me, that the beautiful Katie had taken up with a monster. What is, also, no surprise is that women often stay with such people no matter how badly they are treated. It must be something in the female psyche that is beyond 'normal' male understanding.

In Katie's case, I wonder if this man would have been in the country at all, if we had anything approaching an effective immigration policy.

Anyway, all the politics and social comment aside, I wish Katie all the luck in the world and much love in re-building her life, and I'm sure that, eventually, she will meet someone who has also noticed that beauty is not just skin deep.

Brief Encounter

Saarlouis Spring 2002

It was one of those pleasant evenings that I so enjoy when visiting Europe, warm but not too humid. Saarlouis is in Germany, not France, as its name might imply, and is the home of the giant Ford factory, where Britain’s favourite family car, the Focus, is assembled. http://bit.ly/1U3EsP

      I strolled out of the hotel foyer and crossed the road to join my colleagues, Rob and Amric, who had taken a table at the end of the row, nearest the hotel entrance. We ordered drinks. The conversation revolved around suitable restaurants for our evening meal and tomorrow’s meeting, across the border, in France. I felt relaxed and happy.
      Our drinks had arrived when a loud voice, from two tables away, interrupted our discussion.

      ‘Ach!.. You English!’

      We turned, as one, to face the intruder. He was of average build with dark hair and wore black rimmed spectacles. It was immediately obvious that he was well ahead of us in alcohol consumption.

      ‘You from Ford, yes?’ Before any of us could reply, he launched into a tirade. ‘Why is it that you English always sit away from us German people? What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you come and sit with us? We could talk about things...Football...The weather... yes? You like to talk about the weather.’ He gestured for us to join him at his table. ‘Come over here. I can practice my English with you.’
      ‘No,’ I replied. ‘You laid down the challenge and there are three of us, so you come over here!’

      He got up, picked up his drink, bumped his way between the tables and slumped into the seat next to me. I introduced myself and the others. He said his name was Ulrich.

      He glared at me.

      ‘Why is it you don’t like us Germans? Is it still because of the war?

      My mind flicked back to the scene from ‘Faulty Towers’ with John Cleese repeating, ‘don’t mention the war!’ Rob laughed at him from across the table.

      ‘How can you say that?’ he said. ‘I have a German boss...In Koblenz!’

      ‘And I work for a German company!’ exclaimed Amric.

      ‘Yes, he works for ZF Lemforder,’ I said and followed up by announcing that I had been with BMW, for three years, before joining Ford.

      ‘And, what’s more, Rob here,’ I gestured across the table, ‘is Welsh; he’s just as much a bloody foreigner as you are!’

      Everyone laughed except Ulrich who just looked deflated.

      It transpired that our new friend was the manager of the Deutsche Post depot, within sight of where we were sitting. We soon discovered that he had been deeply offended by the negative reporting, in the British media, surrounding the forthcoming football match between England and Germany. The tabloids had used all the stereotypes and Nazi allusions to unsettle the opposing team. It had not gone down well in Germany.

      ‘Just because we have one right wing politician,’ Ulrich said, ‘you think we have all gone back to this!’ He lurched to his feet and gave a Nazi salute.

      I had noticed this kind of lingering sensitivity, about the country’s past, during a number of previous visits to Germany; a kind of national collective guilt that had, obviously, been passed on to the younger generation.

      The conversation moved to less contentious issues until Ulrich announced that he must go, as his wife was waiting for him. We were followed by amused smiles, from the other tables, as we got up and went our separate ways.

The Secret

Chapter 7- The summer of 71 (from ‘A Girl like Alice’)

Tipsy from the wine they walked along the river bank, arms round each other, Sylvia’s head resting on Alice’s shoulder. They half fell onto a bench and sat looking as the brightly lit city roared at them from across the river. They sat in silence until Sylvia flicked the tip of her tongue into Alice’s ear and then kissed her full on the lips.

        Jumping up she grabbed Alice by the hand and said, in a stage whisper, ‘Come on. Let’s go. It’ll soon be time for our three in a bed romp!’

        Passing heads turned in a mixture of astonished amusement and disapproval.

        The café was buzzing when they arrived back, with all the tables apparently occupied. A waiter looked up and smiled at them as they approached.

      ‘You must be Alice,’ he said. ‘Marguerite says- “will you wait for her”. She has reserved a table for you.’

      They followed him to the same table, by the bougainvillea, and ordered espressos and cognacs while they waited for their friend. She arrived about fifteen minutes later, wearing a black dress which showed her trim little figure off to perfection. Her high heels gave her height and flattered her legs. She sat down and whispered:

      ‘I’m not sure I should be doing this. I am not a lesbian.’

      ‘Nor are we, Alice is really a man,’ Sylvia whispered and waited for the reaction.

       Marguerite giggled.

      ‘You’re making fun of me.’

      ‘No. It’s true. She’s a transsexual.’

      ‘Shh. Not so loud, don’t tell everyone... It is true,’ Alice whispered. She grinned mischievously. ‘I’m your original chick with a dick.’

      Marguerite smiled, with a quizzical expression, and looked long and hard at her, as if searching her face and eyes for a hint of masculinity.

      ‘Okay then. But you’ll have to prove it.’

     They fell into an animated conversation about many things, laughing and giggling, until they had finished their drinks. Then they made their way through the tables, into the café, and trooped off upstairs to a chorus of, ‘bonne nuit,’ from customers and waiters.

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To the Moon on a Budget

The climax of 'A Girl like Alice' is her privately funded flight to the moon. Unsurprisingly, some readers thought that this was the most 'far fetched' part of the plot, from both the technical and financial standpoint. However, except for the moon ship, 'Beta Star', itself, all the space hardware is real and in frequent use, by the Russians and the European Space Agency (ESA).

In any space enterprise, the most difficult part is to get personnel and hardware out of the earth's atmosphere and into orbit. From then on things get much easier. Outside of the USA, there are two rockets currently available. Arianne and Soyuz. Arianne can lift 20 tonnes into LEO (Low Earth Orbit). i.e. approximately 230 miles up. While Soyuz is the most reliable means of delivering crews.

Its safety record is unsurpassed with over 1700 successful launches, compared to the NASA Space Shuttle's 120 launches and the loss of 14 lives, in two accidents.
My moon ship had to weigh at least 60 tonnes for it to have sufficient fuel to travel from earth orbit to lunar orbit and back to earth orbit again, including an excursion to the moon's surface. To make the story work, I had to assume that Alice's company had developed a new rocket fuel, with about a 50% better specific impulse than currently available, (specific impulse is the amount of thrust delivered per pound of fuel). I also imagined a new design of super high efficiency, deep space, rocket motor. I called it, Jules Verne, after the famous science fiction writer.

You may ask how this could be done within my 2 billion dollar budget? This is my calculation:

The Russians charge space tourists $30 million for a seat on Soyuz, this includes a week's stay on the International Space Station (ISS). Anyone interested should contact Space Adventures Inc: http://www.spaceadventures.com/index.cfm. Incidentally, I notice that SA are advertising a trip around the moon for $100 million. What a bargain! ESA ask about $120 million to launch a commercial satellite into geostationary orbit: http://www.arianespace.com/index/index.asp .

So, the budget = $2000 m

Cost for sending 3 person crew into orbit on Soyuz = 3 x 30 = $90 million.

Cost of 4 launches for Arianne to deliver the components of the moon ship, and orbital adaptor  = 4 x 120 =$480m

Total launch costs = $480 + 90 = 570m

Therefore, amount available for design, development, manufacture and test of 3 moon ships inc. one for ground test:  = 2000m - 570 = $1430 m

OK, the engineering costs are a little optimistic, but I'm still sure that it could be done for a great deal less than NASA have told President Obama! For an insight into the inefficiencies of that bloated organization, I recommend, 'Riding Rockets', by Space Shuttle astronaut, Mike Mullane: http://bit.ly/d0aS5 .

For those who want a taste of space flight, but have a more limited budget, lol, visit Virgin Galactic: http://www.virgingalactic.com/ .

Anyway, why not read the book. It's fun! BookBuzzr>

Freak!

Chapter 6- Voices (from ‘A Girl like Alice’)

There was a distant rumble of thunder.

        Alice looked towards the window as she unconsciously flaunted herself, aware that Ginny was studying her with her artist’s eye, as she had so many times before.

        She was like a beautiful animal and it was clear that Ginny found just her presence, an overwhelming distraction. Alice looked back and noticed that Ginny’s breasts had tiny rivulets of sweat between them. She wanted to nestle there like a small child in need of comfort.

      ‘Isn’t it hot?’ Alice said with a sigh.

      The thunder rumbled. A bee buzzed in the window.

      Alice began to chat about inconsequential things, while Ginny remained silent, as if waiting to see what it was that she really wanted. Then, suddenly, she switched to her new voice. Ginny was so startled that she almost fell off her stool and became very confused and angry.

      ‘How DARE you speak to me like that!’ she shouted. Alice was about to apologise and explain when she said, ‘Go away... leave me alone... you...! You... FREAK!’

      Alice was devastated. She rushed out and ran upstairs to her room.

      ‘I am a freak,’ she wailed, with her head buried in the pillow, ‘a freak... a fucking freak!’

      After a while, Alice heard Ginny enter the room and felt her sit quietly, on the end of the bed.

      ‘I’m sorry, but you really scared me. I didn’t mean to call you that… A freak, I mean. You don’t seem to understand the affect you have on people. Not just me.’ She sighed heavily.

      Alice turned over with tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked at Ginny with eyes like large glistening amber pools. Ginny moved closer. It was almost as if she was falling into them, unable to stop. Ginny kissed her gently on the forehead. It was the first time that she had shown physical affection since Alice had joined the family, two years before.

      ‘Oh God why are you so bloody beautiful.’ she murmured.

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Cathars

Carcassonne, South of France, 18th September 2005 (from ‘A Girl like Alice’)

In the ancient walled Cité, Bertrand Arnaud, head of IT at Aerospatialé Montcalm, waited for his contact. He had no choice but to mix with the tourist throng, whose ranks had been swelled in recent years, partly by the Citadel’s adoption, in 1997, as a World Heritage Site and partly due to a revival of interest in the Cathars. An unorthodox but benign religion, whose followers were hounded to extinction in the early 13th century during, what became known as, the Albigensian Crusade.

        Arnaud despised them all.

        ‘Heretics!’ he muttered to himself.

        To him, the Cathars had been justly put down by valiant soldiers of the one true faith. He would love to have been there. He would have revelled in the punishment meted out during the sack of the city of Béziers, when the entire population of 22,000 had been put to the sword.

        How glorious it must have been, to be a soldier of Christ during such a time. His eyes gleamed, behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, as he savoured the thought.

       However, it was some compensation to be able to carry the crusade into the present day and to have the opportunity to do God’s work, and bring divine retribution to one of the Devil’s own children. He almost retched when he thought of all the years that he had been forced to work for that creature, while he waited for yet another opportunity to rid the world of its abominable presence. Three times they had tried, three times they had failed. The bitch just would not die. He had been on the point of just walking into her office and shooting her, and then shooting himself, when it had occurred to him that, soon, there would be another... much better.... much more satisfying way.

        He almost jumped when a man with an American accent spoke softly in his ear:

        ‘Hi Bert, let’s go for a stroll.’

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