Let Tyrants Fear

LET TYRANTS FEAR

Copyright 2016 Benjamin Ians

Published by Benjamin Ians at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Notes to US readers

This ebook is written in English (UK) and not English (US). A number of familiar words may therefore appear misspelled. Common examples include: the use of an ‘s’ in place of a ‘z’, as in the word realised and ‘centre’ in place of ‘center’. I do hope that this does not detract from your enjoyment of the book.

Warning

This novel contains strong language and scenes of a mild sexual nature.

Dedicated to Julia

Table of Contents

Quotations

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Epilogue

About Benjamin Ians

Connect with Benjamin Ians

Quotations

"My loving people, we have been persuaded by some, that are careful of our safety, to take heed how we commit ourselves to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery; but I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people.

"Let tyrants fear; I have always so behaved myself that, under God, I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and good will of my sub-jects. And therefore I am come amongst you at this time, not as for my recreation or sport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live or die amongst you all; to lay down, for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honour and my blood, even the dust.

"I know I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart of a king, and of a king of England, too; and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realms: to which, rather than any dishonour should grow by me, I myself will take up arms; I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field.

"I know already, by your forwardness, and that you have deserved rewards and crowns; and we do assure you, on the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you.

In the mean my lieutenant general shall be in my stead, than whom never prince commanded a more noble and worthy subject; not doubting by your obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, and by your valour in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over the enemies of my God, of my kingdom, and of my people.

Elizabeth I, Queen of England, reviewing her troops on the shores of the English Channel, July 29, 1588, at Tilbury, awaiting the Spanish Armada.



Everywhere that freedom arrives, humanity rejoices; and everywhere that freedom stirs, let tyrants fear.

President George W. Bush marking the end of major combat operations in Iraq on the evening of May 1, 2003, on the deck of the U.S.S. Lincoln.

Prologue

At precisely 0945, a distinguished gentleman entered the main portal of the Horse Guards entrance to Old War Office Building and approached the reception desk. A security guard checked his identity. The man was dressed in a blue bespoke pinstripe suit, which was immaculately tailored to fit his tall frame. Beneath his left eye, there was a curlicue blue mark, which resembled a duelling scar. He was directed to the glass tube of a security stall, which enveloped him momentarily, before the inner door of the stall opened, to release him on the far side. He stepped out of the open air-lock and took the staircase to the first floor. After several turns and numerous long corridors, he arrived at a heavy oak-panelled door, which was guarded by a member of the Ministry of Defence Security Guard Force, dubbed affectionately ‘MoD Plod’, who checked his pass and then stood aside, to let him enter then closed the door, carefully, behind him.

The office, which he entered, was dominated by an ornately carved rosewood table, covered in a green baize cloth, quite in keeping with the decor of the room. The room, however, was completely at odds with the austerity of the government building, to which it belonged. The man who sat behind the desk was immaculately dressed. He wore khaki Service Dress uniform, dis-playing two rows of medal ribbons. His formal attire was completed by highly polished brown brogues, which, because of the man's extreme height, protruded from beneath the baize table cloth.

Good morning, Brigadier, the man greeted the officer with courtesy but without warmth. The officer looked the man in the eye for a long time, before he responded with equal formality.

Good morning, he said, pausing, while he gazed out of the window, leaving it unclear whether or not the man should be seated. If he was uncomfortable with this, he gave no clue and, when he remained standing, the Brigadier waved his hand curtly to indicate a seat.

I understand that you chaps have a mission you want us to undertake.

Yes, replied the man, sitting down, we do. He did not offer to explain, so there was an awkward pause. The Brigadier broke the impasse.

Care to enlighten me?

The man settled himself into the comfortable chair, with the relaxed air of someone about to enjoy himself.

The target is in Afghanistan. You should know it well, by now. You know it is a very dangerous place for troops and that operations, despite press releases to the contrary, are not going well for NATO. In fact, they are going very badly.

The Brigadier's focus was back at the window, as if he had heard this tale many times be-fore. The man forged on with his narrative, regardless.

You know that the area is one of the largest producers of heroin in the world, although you may not have the facts. In 2007, 93% of the world’s opium poppy cultivation occurred in Afghanistan, producing more than 8000 metric tons. The Taliban collect 1kilo of opium resin for every 10 kilos the farmers produce by way of ‘tax’. They sell their share and purchase weapons, using the profits. The remaining opium goes on to be refined and eventually hits the worlds’ street markets. The UN estimates that the annual opium trade is worth $4 billion; nearly a half of Afghanistan’s national income. Unofficial sources estimate the value of the heroin produced to be in the region of £400 billion, at UK street prices. It’s big business!

The man was warming to his economics lesson.

Under the Taliban, poppy cultivation was banned in July 2000. They may be religious fanatics but they had one thing in common with Western Governments; they hated drugs. They simply stopped the farmers growing the poppy and they are much more effective at it than we are, or ever will be. When they say to a farmer, ‘Stop growing poppies!’ he stops growing poppies. If he doesn't, they kill his wife, then his parents, then they kill the kids. They butcher them all in cold blood in front of him. If he hasn’t got the message by then, then they kill him, slowly and painfully, in front of all his neighbours. Then everyone gets the message!

The man paused to make sure the officer was with him, before restarting.

Then along came NATO, who bombed the hell out of them. It made them ineffective - for a while – but only a short while. The Taliban went underground. Along came Osama bin Laden. He made a pact with the Taliban. They got all kinds of assistance from their Al Qaeda friends, who aren’t quite as fundamentalist as the Taliban. Al Qaeda can see what drugs are doing to the West; to its children, its youth, its executives and even its officials. That’s their aim; to undermine the West and destroy it, in the name of fanatical Islam. Drugs are just another weapon to them and a very effective one. The Taliban and Al Qaeda are now fine bed-fellows. Al Qaeda persuaded the Taliban that the poppy is a great way to earn the revenue that they need to pursue their war against the invader and, in return, Al Qaeda gets instability in the West. Add that to the fact that the Taliban have nicely tied down the West into a war of attrition, which is going to take years to exit and OSB is a very happy chappie.

The man glanced at the Brigadier, at this point, who was gazing bored out of the window, and then carried on relentlessly.

It didn't take the Taliban long to recalibrate their moral compass from anti to pro poppy. Now they order the farmers to grow the poppy and when NATO and Afghan National troops burn or destroy their crops, they make them grow them again and if they object, they kill every-one of their family and friends that are left! There are plenty of others who will take up the yoke in their stead. They were so effective that by July 2007, Afghanistan had broken all of its previous records for opium production. In just seven years, the West had eradicated opium production in Afghanistan, only to restore it again beyond its previous record? Quite an achievement for a simple farmer, don't you think? And, of course, for Western Government?

The Brigadier did not rise to the rhetorical questions.

We can’t weather that kind of situation in the West. The British Government is coming under fire from all manner of groups. All the liberals that don’t believe we should have gone into Afghanistan, in the first place, are now saying that we, Britain, are responsible for the revitalisation of the drug market in Europe. It's becoming difficult to argue against the facts.

The man could see the Brigadier's interest had been lost, so he stopped and paused for effect. The Brigadier's eyes swung back to focus on the man's scar.

Our political masters have decided it is time to act. To be precise, they have decided that you are going to act. You are to stem the tide of poppy production and with it the heroin trade! I’ve been with the Minister since eight o’clock this morning and he’s adamant we will succeed!

He paused again for emphasis. The Brigadier looked blank and shook his head.

You will see where you come into this, in a moment..

Chapter One

The morning twilight steadily intensified to a flamingo pink in the eastern sky, silhouetting the purple, vast and dominating mountain range of the Hindu Kush. The growing intensity of the light heralded the fireball that would burst upon the parched earth, as it had done for the last three months this year. For the moment though, it was refracted light and it illuminated only those peaks and plateau, which raised their heads high above the snow-line. There was probably half an hour of twilight in the cool misty valley below, before the sun crested the mountain peaks and bathed the deep ravines in its inescapable rays. From his eyrie, high on the mountain slope, Matt Denard took a moment’s respite from scanning the ridges in the gloom of the valley below to wonder at the majesty of this spectacle of nature at its most beautiful.

To emphasise the natural wonders of this bleak landscape, a hawk, soared grace-fully in huge sweeping arcs, high above his head; its eyes peeled for prey in the valley below. Matt could make out the barred plumage of its wings and the soft ruffle of feathers at its throat. The taut strength of muscles sculpted its rigid wings as the bird, bracing against the thermals, glided effortlessly, then morphed smoothly into graceful curves, its wings caressing the sky to gain altitude. The finger-like tips of its wing feathers flicked minutely as it finely adjusted position while the splayed hand of its fanned tail-feathers allowed it to control its chosen angle of attack. This chance encounter with the hunter in the early dawn light afforded one of the most beautiful sights he could imagine and a picture flashed through his mind of a long-forgotten childhood, climbing in the crags of Bodmin Moor: home in England, a world and a lifetime away. Even then, he had savoured those rare moments, when he was alone and free to wander wherever he chose. It engendered a love of solitude and natural harmony, which had shaped his adult life.

Suddenly the bird froze, trembling in mid-air, like a kite jerked taut by a tethering string. Its eye locked onto its prey, grappling it, pulling them inescapably together. A slight flick of a wing feather to turn a fraction then, in the glimpse of an eye, the wings folded, the tail feather straightened and the creature hurtled earthward at breath-taking speed. The unsuspecting pigeon could not have known what hit it, as the hawk's outstretched, razor-sharp talons struck its right wing with shattering force and sent it fluttering like a burst bag of feathers to the ground. The hunter shot past its prey, pulled sharply upwards in a tight arc, wheeled effortlessly, like a Catherine Wheel then glided slowly back to collect the carcass. Hovering briefly above its victim, the hawk grasped it firmly in its sharp talons and plucked it casually off the ground with a practiced ease. With slow and deep sweeps of its powerful wings it headed off into the sunrise.

Mesmerised by such seamless brutality and grace on this idyllic stage, Matt could not help but envy the falcon’s ability to strike with such precision and lethality and to escape the scene with such relative ease. It reflected his own desire to escape the beauty of this gaunt and treacherous mountainside. But first he needed to deal an equally lethal blow to the enemy below.

Matt jerked back to reality and, peering into the gloom of the valley, forced his eyes to accommodate and scan the ridges and gullies to his front. It wasn’t long before something caught his eye. The vortices generated by the twin rotors in the cool valley mist betrayed the presence of the helicopter, still a speck in the distance, away down the length of the valley. However, it was at least a minute before he heard the sound of the blades beating the heavy moisture-laden air to give their characteristically deep ‘wokka-wokka’ rumble. By then he could see the chopper plainly, without binoculars, looking for all the world like a fragile, busy insect; its rotor-blades seen but not seen like, the gossamer of a dragonfly’s wings. It was still cool on the plateau and he was careful to shield his breath with his hands, mindful of scores of watchful eyes in the valley, not far below him. It would be some time before the Chinook made its approach and he was conscious that he would not be the only one aware of its arrival. He waited a few more moments, tracing its progress, contrasting what appeared to be an effortless although agonisingly slow climb from the depths of the valley to the heights of the mountain, with the screaming labour of the engines’ flat-out beat, now becoming audible in the still, cool air. It would be skirting, slowly, but steadily around to the north and then east, which would place it with the sun behind it – difficult to pick up in the bright light as the sun broached the mountain ridge-line, upsetting any heat-seeking missiles, which the Taliban might choose to expend on it. That should take it a good half an hour.

He mentally ticked off the sequence of events that would follow the arrival of the chopper and, satisfied that there was nothing further to be done at this stage, he al-lowed his mind