The death of an emporer

When  under the shade of the wing he wipes away sweat from his eyes.

"Hey Taffy give me a hand".

Music blasts as door is opened. Petula Clark sings the praises of ' down town' with practiced glee.

"What is it Brian man, big bloke like you can't lift that little photo pod, should be ashamed of yourself?"

"Come off it Taff and give me a hand for fucks sake."

The Taff pumped the handle, his breath becoming more labored as time progressed .The Englishman pushed upon the six foot torpedo shaped gray object until the vertical retaining bolts line up with the under wing pylons.

"OK Taff just a bit more."

There is a renewed clinking of the handle and then a click as the retaining bolts catch.

 "OK Taffy you can get back to your gonking."

A look of mock indignation.

 On the perimeter track  SAC Bacon eased the red MK 6 fire tender towards the crash position near the end of the runway. Sergeant Ireland sat grimly at his side glaring through the tinted green windshield into the desert .A line of camels sit upon the horizon shimmering in the afternoon heat . The radio hissed and squawked as ATC guided an outbound flight of Tornados to their targets. He glanced idly at his passenger.

Sergeant Ireland hated the air force, the never-ending civilian type of existence grating upon a personality formed on the parade grounds of Aldershot and in the jungles of Malaysia. The RAF Regiment, while having an infantry component, was not the army. They sure as fuck picked the right name for this place he mused bitterly.  El Adem translated in to English as:  'The End.'

The Photo reconaiscance Tornado eased of the runway into the still dark sky. The strangely off set cockpit canopy provided an unobstructed view of the upcoming daytime cloud formation. Grayish cottony clouds extends northwards in the direction of Turkey. Under wing  pod  cameras mapped the current weather conditions. To the east along the Coast Road there is  a sliver of red as the sun breaks over the horizon. At five thousand feet the view is spectacular. In another pod a humming noise as the barometric pressure, temperature and humidity are recorded upon a cylindrical drum. Upon landing the photo pods are opened  and the disks and the recording drum extracted ,the contents  delivered to the meteorological section.

Sergeant Bentsead examines the mornings met' photos. At forty thousand feet a strange formation is visible. The gangling Flying officer asks in a reedy voice:

 "Can you tell what types they are?"

A fat flight sergeant puts a magnifying glass to the print out ,  bottle neck glasses scanning the dots. A fleet of ships upon an azure ocean .No fleet exercises have been  scheduled .He takes a closer look concentrating upon a single ship .He holds the glass closer bringing his eye down to table level .He gives a soft whistle.

The flying officer grabs the magnifying glass and places it upon one of the ships .A square sail, a bank of oars, the bow seeming to push aside a cloud.

"My god" breathes the Flying Officer. Outside the gathering sirocco bangs against the metal sides of the hut,  somewhere out in the desert a strange howl as a Bedouin begins his devotions.

Emperor Alexius studied the document. Shouts and the clash of arms upon shields accompanied the shrill blare of trumpets coming from the changing of the guard in the courtyard below. Not a hint of glimmer in neither the green eye nor a twitch upon fair unshaven cheek (trying with but slight success to grow a pale beard) hinted at the inner turmoil.