Hear The Word

"Omar. Omar!"

"Ssshh, Mahmoud. You’ll get us killed. Remember the drills. Remember what you have been taught."

"But I need a shit, Omar. Very badly."

Allah preserve us, thought Omar, looking around in the rubble where they were squatting. By his boots he found crumpled blue papers that had fluttered down from the Israeli bombers the night before. A respite from the bombs. He picked up a handful and smoothed one out on the knee of his jeans. It read:

Omar smiled and handed the papers to Mahmoud, who did not even glance at them as he dropped his trousers and relieved himself noisily into the shattered brickwork beneath them. The Israeli propaganda sheets came in useful. Mahmoud’s ablutions over, they continued their patrol, moving south toward the Israeli positions.

Omar saw the Merkava approaching well before Mahmoud did. The RPG gunner was off his head, had been chewing khat for hours to ward off the battleshock he was suffering after seeing so many friends die in the previous days. And who could blame him? So many young Palestinian lives extinguished beneath tank track, or machine gunned, snipered, blasted by Zionist avengers from the sky. Omar had to risk his own neck throwing a brick at Mahmoud to alert him to the presence of the Israeli tank. Mahmoud, slumped against a wall on the opposite side of the boulevard, looked up and raised a palm at Omar.

"What?"

Omar made hand signals, just as the Syrian commandos had taught them. One tank, hatches battened down, Merkava, latest type. Maybe a half-squad of infantry snuggled in the back, waiting to pounce. All of this information transmitted with a few deft hand movements. Mahmoud’s face registered confusion, his eyes glassy, until he heard the fearsome clatter of tracks. Only then did he raise his RPG.

There were two Russian-made missiles strapped across his back, crossed like the scimitars of an Arabian knight, about to battle with the djinn, the demon, of legend. Omar watched as Mahmoud removed one of the rockets with agonising slowness, his senses dulled by the khat. Maybe he was thinking he was one of those ancient warriors, armoured by Allah. But Allah would not save him from the invading Israelis, nor would it propel his puny rocket through the Merkava’s state-of-the-art armour.

Hurry, Mahmoud, hurry! Mahmoud was new to battle, he had been involved in the odd skirmish as the Israelis had probed deeper into the city, and sure, he had seen lots of dead people, mainly the results of the shelling and bombing. Omar, by contrast, had fought alongside Libyan volunteers at the coastal town of Damour during the Israeli push north. There he had faced paratroopers, the toughest of the enemy soldiers, and had distinguished himself in combat, earning the admiration of fighters many times his age.

Omar clutched his AK, rattled the magazine in its housing, tugged his shemagh up over his nose, anything to keep him occupied while Mahmoud’s world moved one hundred times slower than his. After what seemed like an age, Mahmoud hoisted the RPG launcher on to his shoulder, sighted it down the street, and risked a glance across at Omar. He grinned a khat-stained grin and gave a thumbs up. At last!

Omar peered around the corner of the shattered wall. The Merkava had stopped, its low turret scanning the street ahead, the black muzzle of its 105mm gun a yawning abyss ready to swallow up any who would dare cross its path. Omar took a deep breath, made his peace with Allah, and ran out into the street.

He held the AK high above his head and emptied the magazine on full automatic in the general direction of the Merkava’s turret. Bullets ricocheted off the sloped armour and the turret swung instantly to face him - that was the whole idea. On the opposite side of the street, Mahmoud broke cover and raised the RPG.

Omar was momentarily frozen to the spot, as the turret stopped and he found himself staring directly into the barrel of the main gun, into the blackness of death. Luckily for him, the Israeli crew were equally as afflicted at the sight of the lone gunman, and the precious seconds it took for them to react allowed Omar to shake himself from his stupor, to turn tail and run for cover. As he did so, his back to the malevolent tank, he heard two dull thuds, the first being the firing of Mahmoud’s rocket, the second the answering fire from the Merkava’s big gun, and then a hot shockwave that swept him off his feet and sent him tumbling end over end into the rubble. When he landed, dazed and confused and without his beloved AK, he looked around to see what had happened to Mahmoud.

The Merkava had executed a sudden left turn and its sharply canted prow was pointed straight at Omar. He could see the dark splash that the RPG had made against the turret, knocking off some stowage bins and the base of a radio antennae. There was no way that an RPG was ever going to penetrate the Merkava, the Israeli’s latest tank, but no one had told Mahmoud. Omar saw him standing against the wall, the empty RPG launcher held high above his head in a gesture that could have been interpreted as surrender or defiance, just before the Merkava’s coaxial machine gun tore him to pieces and smeared the fragile contents of his body across the wall. Omar screwed his eyes up tight and thought about Mahmoud for a brief moment, ignoring the immediate threat of the Merkava doing the same to him. Poor brave Mahmoud, sent to Allah’s right hand, high as a kite. There was no chance that he had been surrendering, not Mahmoud. Maybe someone would find Mahmoud’s remains, and take him to the Martyrs' Cemetery, where all the fighters were buried. Mahmoud deserved that much. There, that was enough melancholy.

Time to escape. Omar looked around for his AK. It was lying in the dust nearby, waiting for his return, its body intact but its magazine empty. Thanking Allah, he picked it up and hurried away across the tank’s blind spot, even as a squad of paratroopers emerged cautiously from the little hatch in the rear hull between the Merkava’s tracks, to inspect the machine gunner’s handiwork. Omar cast them a contemptuous glance, these were the same enemy he had faced down at Damour. He wished he had Mahmoud’s foolish bravery and could rush and kill them all. But he did not. His appointment with death would come at another time, in another place, but not here. He turned and ran into the damned city of West Beirut, tears staining his dusty face.

There was no one waiting at the rendezvous point. Omar was not too concerned at first, he had no wristwatch and was estimating the time from the sun’s position between the city’s tower blocks. He could easily have been a couple of hours out. He wandered into the abandoned lobby of a hotel, the carpeted floor damp and thick with crushed glass from blown windows. There were toys and ripped magazines strewn across the room, evidence that there had been some kind of siege here, maybe foreign journalists and expatriates awaiting rescue. Dark, ominous stains on the floor and hundreds of brass cartridges grouped in small piles spoke of a violent end to that situation. Omar picked up one of the cartridges and examined its base. 5.56mm. The Israelis had been here. Omar pulled two ragged easy chairs into a corner and lay his AK across his lap. And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Outside, night fell. There was no respite from the Israeli mauling of the city. Fighter-bombers rocketed the suburbs and bombed the hotels, tanks crushed the streets and the trees, soldiers and Christian militiamen, the hated Phalangists, dragged fighters from their barricades and executed them on the spot. Omar grew bored, and began to wander the eerily empty hotel, moving from room to room finding things that had been left behind in the hurry to leave - suitcases, wardrobes full of clothes, wallets, money, camera equipment. Sometimes, all you could get out with was your life. Everything else was replaceable. Omar found a room with a glassless window where filthy net curtains billowed in the hot night wind. He crouched close to the sill, wary of snipers, but badly needing to watch the city. His city. His city at night, his city on fire, his city at war. It mesmerised him like a deadly dancing snake, a poisonous viper thrown to die on the embers of a desert camp fire, and spitting out its last killer breaths.

Omar knew that he should not sleep. The Syrians had taught him that much. He should remain alert, ever watchful, his AK locked and loaded and in his hands at all times. But it had been many hours since he had taken refuge here. It was obvious that the rendezvous had failed, that his comrades had been killed or captured or lost, or unable to make it here for one of a hundred different reasons. There had been no contingency plan. There was no rendezvous two, no rendezvous three, no rendezvous four. If the Israelis held the streets below him, as surely they would with their super-tanks impervious to the mighty Russian RPGs, and their marauding Cobra attack helicopters, then there would be nowhere for him to go but east, across the Bekaa, where the soldiers who had trained him waited to see if their political masters had the stomach to commit them to this fight, and not just leave it to the young boys they had sent to war by proxy. But first, even though he knew it was very very wrong, he would sleep. How will I walk two hundred miles across the mountains unless I sleep first? Omar reasoned with himself. Settling into a corner of the room, his back covered, Omar closed his eyes. The sounds of battle raged in the city far below. Omar surrendered to the night.

He was, after all, only human.

Omar’s eyes flicked open, hands tightened on his AK, but otherwise his body did not move. His eyes scanned the room, struggling to become accustomed to the half-light. It was close to dawn, and a thin grey light was leaking in through the ragged curtains. Omar manoeuvred slowly on one elbow, trying to ease himself up in to a standing position without making any noise.

There it was again. The sound of bottles chinking together, unmistakable. It appeared to be coming from the next room. Omar was on his feet now, the butt of the AK in his shoulder, his finger resting lightly on the trigger and the safety catch off. He moved forward, leading with the muzzle of his weapon and pushing his boots through the detritus beneath his feet, so that it moved noiselessly aside rather than crunching underfoot. Sweat dripped from his brow and stung his eyes. It seemed to take forever to cross the ten metre width of the room until he could push his back against the adjoining wall, and peer around into the open doorway.

There was someone in the centre of the adjoining suite, hunched down in the rubbish. The figure was slight and hooded, but Omar could make out no more detail than that in the gloom. Something long and thin lay to one side - a rifle, perhaps? Whoever this person was, they had assembled a collection of glass bottles and were arranging them upright on a clear patch of the carpet.

Omar took a deep breath and edged into the room. He aimed his AK and barked the rendezvous code word. If it was not answered immediately and without hesitation he would fire. At the sound of his voice the figure startled and tumbled to one side, scattering the bottles. One had appeared to reach for the long thin object. Omar tightened his finger on the trigger.

Shit! He had a jam. Frantically he recocked his weapon, pulled the trigger again. Click. He scrabbled at the pockets of his chest rig, pulling out magazine after magazine. All empty. He did not have a single round of ammunition left.

The figure remained prone on the floor, looking up at him, awaiting death with dumb resignation. Omar moved forward, still holding up the AK in the aim, hoping that the enemy would not have noticed he was out of ammunition. He realised that he had entered through the only door to this suite. There was no other means of entry. The person he was facing must have come through this way. They had either been here all along, or had not noticed Omar sleeping in the corner of the adjacent room, or they had seen him and chosen not to disturb or kill him. The last notion disturbed and chilled Omar and sent a cold rivulet of sweat running down his back.

The figure slowly put hands in the air, without an instruction from Omar, who halted several metres away.

"Take off your hood," Omar ordered. The hood was pulled back. Omar suppressed a gasp. A beautiful girl gazed back at him, huge brown eyes brimming with tears, oily black hair cascading over her shoulders. She was about the same age as him. A silver cross nestled in the hollow of her neck, exposed when the hood was swept aside.

"You are a Christian," he said. She nodded.

"And you are a Palestinian," she said, looking at his blue chequered shemagh. He made a head movement that affected a nod.

"You tried to shoot me," she said, slowly lowering her hands. "But your weapon jammed, or something. Look, you made me spill some of my water. I have spent all day collecting it."

He looked down at the arrangement of bottles between her legs. There were brown beer bottles, green wine bottles, clear plastic soft drink bottles, all half-filled with murky water. Some lay on their side, the water soaking away into the carpet. Omar stood dumbly, still aiming the impotent weapon. He felt now that she knew he was no threat to her, unless he intended to rape her or kill her with his bare hands, or both. The thin object by her legs that he had thought was a rifle, was a large umbrella. He let the muzzle of the AK drop, then limply held the rifle down by his side.

"I am sorry," he said.

She scowled at him. "Would you have been so sorry if you had killed me? You can’t just run around the city shooting people, you know. There are too many people doing just that."

"You are a Christian," he repeated. "That makes you my enemy."

She lifted one of the bottles and peered into it. "I am not a soldier. Neither, by your age, are you." He reddened at the insult. He was a Holy Warrior of the Jihad! How dare she! "I am no one’s enemy." She handed him the bottle. Dare he take it? Would she poison him? He hesitated. She withdrew the bottle, placed it to her full lips, and took a mouthful. The she handed it back to Omar. He dropped to his haunches, placed the AK at his side, and drank from the bottle. The water tasted slightly of petrol, but it was drinkable.

"You look like an Arab," he commented, handing the bottle back to her.

"My father was Syrian. My mother, French European. I took my father’s skin and hair and my mother’s faith. Perhaps that was a bad choice."

Omar took in the information. He didn’t know how to react. She was so beautiful, yet he would have killed her in an instant if he had had any bullets left. She was a Christian, the enemy.

"They are dead now," she continued. He looked confused. "My parents. They were killed by the PLO on the first day of the invasion. Because of my mother, I think. She worked for the UN as a translator. My father was a devout Muslim but I think they said he could not be trusted. I was at school and they came and shot them in our house."

Omar looked around the room, anything to keep from looking at her beautiful face. "I’m sorry," he murmured.

"No. No, you are not. If your weapon had worked I too would be dead, killed by the PLO. You are with the PLO aren’t you?"

He ignored the question, and moved away from her, leaving his AK on the floor. He crossed to a shattered window, and looked down at the dawn city. It was relatively quiet. In the distance he could just make out the faint clatter of tank tracks and low growl of gunning engines. He looked back over his shoulder and froze. She had picked up his AK, and removed the magazine. She smiled at the empty clip and placed it back on the weapon, putting it down on the floor. He breathed again.

"We have to get out of here," he said. "Soon, the Israelis will come, and they will sweep through every house and every room, and kill anybody they find. They will not ask you if you are a Christian or a Muslim. They will find your cross later, once you are dead, and say ‘Oh, Never mind’."

"My name is Fatima," she said. "Will you take me with you?" He made the mistake of looking into her liquid brown eyes, and before he could control himself, he said :

"Yes. Yes, I will take you with me."

Israeli M113 armoured personnel carriers mounted with huge sound systems prowled the lines, broadcasting their dire warnings. In the shadow of an abandoned apartment block, Omar held Fatima’s hand and restrained her from moving until the sounds had diminished and the carrier had passed by.

I’ve gone mad, Omar thought, the battle has sent me mad. I am a Warrior of Allah, not a babysitter! How can I rejoin my unit if I have a Christian girl in tow? But she is so beautiful – perhaps without her cross I could pass her off as an Arab…..

She turned suddenly as they crossed the ruins of what was once a mosque, one of the largest and oldest in Beirut. They clambered over its shattered minaret. Perhaps he could feel his eyes burning into her back, undressing her. There was a look about her, a spark in her eyes, a maturity, that suggested she was not a virgin. Unlike Omar.

"If we come across a Christian militia unit," she said, "you must hide and I will go with them. They will take me to safety."

Omar snorted. "They will rape you and then, if you are lucky, they will kill you. You would be safer with the PLO."

She shook her head sadly. "I don’t think so. I think you believe too much that you are told, and don’t look enough with your own eyes."

Her words stung him as they continued through the city. She spoke so well, he words and sentences structured in an educated manner, that made his own speech seem guttural and coarse. She was confident, educated and intelligent. Omar was none of those things.

He continued to watch her closely as they headed for the last known rendezvous point, in the north of the city where – he hoped – the PLO and their Syrian allies still held ground. The Israeli advance did not appear to have penetrated further north than the port, but still the jets screamed overhead, artillery duelled in the distance, and occasionally a Cobra helicopter gunship would flash between buildings at a startlingly low altitude, cruising for targets like an angry wasp. Several times, Omar pulled Fatima into a hiding place as she stood frozen with fear, unable to react as quickly as he could.

Darkness fell like death upon the city. Omar would not admit it to Fatima, but he was lost. She appeared happy enough that he knew where he was and what he was doing, but the truth was, they had passed the last PLO rendezvous point sometime in the afternoon, and Omar had not recognised it. They were somewhere in the suburbs to the south of the city. Omar hoped they were still inside friendly territory. Although a defender of this city, he was not a native. It was a rabbit-warren to him. How he wished he had the city-boy Mahmoud, for all his khat-induced faults, back at his side!

They found an abandoned motel that was without electricity or running water, but which had yet to be ransacked by militia gangs. The rooms were clean, beds neatly made with taut sheets as if awaiting phantom guests who had gone sightseeing for the day. Fatima led Omar to one on the third floor, with a balcony overlooking the city to the south. It was a clear night with a full Mediterranean moon that flooded the room with a tangible silver light. Fatima stood on the balcony, bathed in moonbeams.

"Are you a virgin, Omar?" she asked nonchalantly.

He blushed fiercely. Such a question from a girl! He blubbered an answer, a heinous curse that her mouth would heal up and choke her for uttering such a thing, but his throat was so dry that all he emitted was a pitiful croak.

"I take that as a yes. I know the story, Omar. A hundred virgins await in Paradise for the warrior who keeps his virtue and dies in the name of Allah."

Her clothing was flimsy and dusty. She began to disrobe, his eyes were cast to the floor. She lifted his hands from his lap and placed them on her hips, but he could not move to help her. His fingers trembled at her touch. He looked up slightly, caught a glimpse of pale bare flesh. He gasped and screwed his eyes up tight. She giggled.

"It’s okay," she said, touching his cheek, willing him to open his eyes and look at her. "It’s okay, we could both be dead tomorrow, it’s okay…."

He opened his eyes and kept them open, focussing on the sight that he held lightly between his grubby palms. Her skin was light olive, smooth and flawless. Her breasts were high and small, but the nipples large and saucerous. Tearing his eyes away from them, he gazed at the triangle of soft hair between her legs, inches from where his thumbs indented the flesh of her thighs. She felt his grip tighten.

"Lie back." Her voice insistent, urging. He did as he was told, spoiling the flawless membrane of the motel bed. She undressed him quickly, her hands seemed well practised. He was acutely aware that he had not washed properly for many weeks. She did not seem to mind.

He was shackled to the bed by his virginity. He did not know what to do. She straddled his legs, her thighs parting to reveal a sudden shock of pink, and she sat on his shins, taking his penis in both hands and manipulating it. He moaned softly, then cried out as she placed him in her mouth, the sudden warm sensation overwhelming him. Somewhere in the Beirut night, a baby began to cry. He ignored it, she appeared not to hear, concentrating on sucking his cock, her long dark hair forming a carpet over his belly and groin. He cried out again and clutched at the clean white sheets, and she lifted her head to look at him. Her cheek was spattered with his ejaculation.

"I’m sorry," he said weakly. "That isn’t supposed to happen, is it?"

She smiled and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "No. At least, not so quickly. But it’s okay. Maybe later."

She heard the baby’s cries now. She went to the balcony, still naked, and looked out into the warm Beirut night. The cries were sharp and insistent. Hunger. Fear. She shut her eyes, better to locate the sound.

"A baby is in danger," she said, coming back into the room and dressing quickly. He lay still on the bed, his penis receding against his thigh. "We must go to her."

She was dressed and moving from the room while he was still pulling on his dirty jeans. He hobbled after her with his sneakers still in his hand, protesting mildly but impressed by her sudden, if illogical, determination. They were in the corridor of the lower floor before he realised had left his AK in the room, and he ran back for it. She was already in the lobby before he caught her up.

She moved with a single purpose and trailed in her wake, trying to stay alert and watching the dark windows and quiet buildings. She appeared oblivious to any threat. Israeli artillery illuminated the horizon with orange and gold, low rumblings like the distant threats of an approaching storm. He followed her into a large building that he recognised as a public library.

The cries of the baby were louder here, she had done incredibly well to locate the source of the sound. They scoured the aisles of dusty books until they came across a plastic packing crate pushed up against the legs of a desk. The crate was filled with pure white cloth. Fatima knelt by the crate and plunged her hands into the folds of the cloth, bringing out a naked infant girl. Omar gasped; there was a faint luminescence to the child’s skin, as if glitter had been scattered on it. It is a trick of the light, he thought. The baby’s cries silenced as soon as Fatima picked her up. She pulled a handful of the white cloth from the crate and tightly swaddled the baby.

"What is she doing here?" Omar asked. "Who would leave a baby in such a place?"

Fatima did not reply, but cooed into the baby’s face as she hugged the child to her. The baby smiled, and did not cry any more.

"We must get her to safety," said Fatima firmly. Omar nodded, but even as he did so he did not know where they would go from here. Where or what was safety? They were alone in this city. His best friend was dead. They would be shot by the Israelis, shot by the Christian militias, shot by the PLO – he was, technically, a deserter – and shot by the Syrians. There was no where to go. All the same, Fatima seemed full of infectious purpose, even if he didn’t share her naive optimism.

She opened her mouth and began to speak, but her words were blotted out by a thunderous roar and harsh metallic squeals. Her face was illuminated as if by a rising sun, blinding, forcing her to screw her eyes up and turn her back to the source of the powerful light. Omar crouched and squinted into the beam that was blasting through the dusty panes of the library’s window like a laser beam. He could hear shouts, the gunning of a powerful engine, the unmistakable and chilling clatter of a tank’s tracks. He saw that the light in the window was the right height to be the searchlight mounted on the commander’s cupola of a tank. Omar grabbed Fatima’s arm and pulled her away. She followed wordlessly, clinging tightly to the baby, seemingly content to allow him to take charge now. They were back in Omar’s world, the world of the hunted.

He could hear the Israeli soldiers shouting as they kicked down doors and stormed through the building. They ran in twos and threes along the rows of bookshelves, hunching low, beams from torches taped under the barrels of their assault rifles flashing and probing. Omar saw that this gave away their position in addition to helping them spot targets. These men were his enemies and he wanted to kill them, even though he had no bullets left in his AK. He knew the Israelis were ruthless and casual and that they would kill Fatima and the baby as well as himself. He felt suddenly, absurdly, fiercely protective toward them. He must draw the Israelis away from them.

"Stay here," he whispered to her, pushing her into a deep alcove underneath a huge circular receptionist’s desk. "I will come back for you, no matter what."

She tried to say something to him, but he was gone. She clung to the baby and cowered in the pitch darkness, praying that he knew what he was doing. The baby giggled warmly, safe, oblivious.

Omar ran across a library aisle just as an Israeli paratrooper emerged into the same aisle from the opposite end. Outside, the tank’s searchlight swung again through the window, illuminating the paratrooper’s face. Omar raised his weapon instinctively, even though he could not fire. The Israeli, a boy of no more than eighteen or nineteen, held his Galil assault rifle at waist height, there was no way that he could bring it into the aim in time. The young PLO fighter had him stone cold. Fear was written large across the Israeli’s face, and Omar took the opportunity to sprint from the building, leaving the paratrooper to regain his composure, and realise that he had soiled his trousers.

Omar found himself to the rear of the building, in an alley clogged with junk. He glanced left, and saw the sand-coloured slab hull of the Merkava tank blocking his exit. The commander of the tank, leaning out of the cupola, saw Omar emerge, and started to bring his antiaircraft machine gun to bear, swinging it around on its mount. Omar turned and ran the length of the alley even as a hot steel rain followed him, kicking up clouds of plaster dust from the enclosing walls. He kept his head low and dodged the bullets. Luck, or Allah’s will, appeared to be on his side.

The alley emptied into a large square plaza. Omar saw more enemy paratroopers there, crouching by ornamental shrubs and stone benches. A heavy machine gun team were assembling their hardware. This was a search and destroy operation, designed to terrorise the surviving citizens of Beirut and flush the PLO fighters out of hiding. Omar was completely surrounded. He hunkered down in the alley, unseen by the troops in the plaza, cradling his impotent AK. His situation was hopeless.

A clatter to his right alerted him to the arrival of the Merkava, which had outflanked him from the other side of the library. The commander was low in his cupola, traversing the little turret and scanning with the searchlight and the menacing barrel of the AA gun, shouting to the troops on the ground. Omar hugged the shadows of the alley, but he knew that the Merkava commander would soon find him. There was nowhere for him to hide, unless the ground opened up and swallowed him.

Fatima stepped from the side door of the library, directly into the path of the tank. It braked and halted instantly, its back end bouncing into the air. Fatima, the baby bundled to her chest and barely recognisable as such, turned her back on the tank and walked toward Omar. Omar looked up at her from his place in the trash, silhouetted in the cold fire of the tank’s searchlight, a halo of angel wings radiating from her, and knew with dread certainty that she was about to die. He held up his hands to take the baby even as the tank’s machine gun opened up and shredded her body. Time slowed to a crawl, the baby tumbled from her arms, he felt as if he had hours in which to wait and catch her before she hit the ground. He leaned forward and gently took the fragile bundle, and pulled her close to him. Fatima thudded to the ground at his feet, stone dead.

The machine gun ceased firing, the echoes of its final burst bouncing off the walls of the plaza. Omar cowered in the shadows of the alley, his ears ringing, hugging the child to him, waiting for the paratroopers to come. The silence was vast and deafening.

He gradually became aware of a heat on the back of his hands, a heat that made the little hairs there stand on end. He peered over the baby’s shoulder and was instantly rewarded by an eyeball-searing light source far greater than the lights of the tank. It was as if the sun had come to earth. The entire plaza was awash with the intense golden light, streaming from a central source several metres above where the paratroopers were cowering, their attention completely diverted from Omar. Omar watched them attempting to get closer to the ground, one or two even firing their weapons at the supernova that was engulfing the plaza, a fast spinning ball of illuminated supercharged gas. Tendrils of smoky light began to dance out and stroke each paratrooper in turn, on their helmets and their clothing, brushing their faces. Omar watched in absolute terror as the skin on the face of the Israeli closest to him peeled away like the layers of an onion, stripping away epidermis, nerve tissue, flesh and bone until he disintegrated before Omar’s very eyes. A net-covered ballistic helmet, smeared with gore, clattered to the ground, spun and lay still. Omar clutched the baby tighter, and hid from the unearthly onslaught, which whirled around the plaza, devastating the paratroopers and the tank crew. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. The plaza was dark and silent.

Omar lifted his head cautiously. He was holding the little girl so tight, he feared he might crush her. He looked down, but she was fine. She smiled at him, he managed a weak smile in return.

The plaza was littered with abandoned equipment and weapons, and vague smouldering things that were the remains of bodies. Where the ball of light had spun, a man and a woman were now stood. The woman was dressed in white robes, the man in red. They looked too perfect, too pure and pristine, to be stood in a battlefield. The woman stepped forward and held out her arms. Omar senses immediately that this was the child’s mother. He held her up, and she took her from him gently. The man knelt and placed his palm on Omar’s forehead.

"Thank you," he said. "A Gift, for you."

And there passed between the man and Omar a surge of energy that hit Omar like hammer blow to his temples. The plaza, West Beirut, the Lebanon, Palestine, all receded to a pinprick, and he was alone in the cold vastness of space. He screamed for Allah to save his soul but Allah and the old gods were dead, killed by the apathy of man, and the world was without gods for the first time. Supernatural superhumans watched over the world, some good, some evil. Nothing stood between them and the destruction of the human race, should they so wish. Omar flew between stars and watched civilisations rise and fall in moments, kingdoms falling to dust. The he was tumbling, falling, back to Earth, to the Mediterranean, to the Lebanon, to West Beirut, to the plaza, to the war. Hammer blow to the temple.

He knew and experienced all this in the blink of an eye.

Omar stood. The woman in white and the man in red and their baby had gone. He looked down at his hands. A faint spark jumped from the index finger of his left hand, a whiff of ozone stinging his nostrils. A Gift. He had been given a Gift. There would be a time, and a place, where he could discover the nature of this Gift, what it meant, what it could do for him. He looked around at the scorched Israelis in the plaza, and thought What could it do to others?

For now, though, he had to find his comrades. He looked, and he saw them, far to the south, harrying the flanks of the Israeli siege lines. No, he did not see, he knew. And he went to them, unarmed and unharmed, because he was Omar Hussein, sixteen and a Holy Warrior of the Jihad, and because he had been given the Gift.