The Shepherd's Moon

8/21/2019 The Shepherd's Moon

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The Shepherds

Moon

Copyright Ian Turney2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to

real persons# living or dead, is purely coincidental.


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The Shepherds Moon

The Seed

The seed of The Shepherds Moon was inspired by the The Shepherd root story ofthe Child of the Mist. The basic construct is a simple one that nation states operatecovertly to protect self-interest. Its a geo-political reality, as revealed by Snowdenand Wiki-leaks. The coverage of these and other expos serve to reinforce the notionwe live our daily lives in a politically and cynical manipulated world: ignorant of theactions of our Governments whose activities are justified in our name.

The media reporting on political covert activity is at best based on part truths. The

information in the public domain is riven by sub-text and contradiction: a wonderfulsource for conspiracy theories http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conspiracy_theory and for

writers. There is always the potential for an author to inadvertently create a storylineabout events that have happened but are still secret or inspire the very intrigue: as

wordsmiths: we are so fascinated by.

The Shepherd root story Predator in The Child of the Mist has a back-story from

the Bosnian civil conflict that introduces Joe Narwhal. It is a speculative piece thatposes the question, what lengths would a Government go to, to avoid getting pulled

into a civil war that had horrific emotional echoes of the atrocities of World War II? Itis to be the catalyst for Joe Narwhals crisis of conscience and his subsequent fallfrom grace.

This leads us to The Shepherds Moon story tree. The story line continues to

explore the shadowy world of the corporate structure of private security operatives.Hired in the public eye by the state their sanctioned activities, for example, those in

Iraq, had alleged political support of the Administration in the US and of Secretary ofDefense Donald Rumsfeld: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Private_military_company andhave a history of alleged involvement in military activities see web link

http://www.globalresearch.ca/the-privatization-of-war-mercenaries-private-military-and-security-companies-pmsc/21826and a Guardian article on James Steele:

America's mystery man in Iraq:http://www.theguardian.com/world/video/2013/mar/06/james-steele-america-iraq-

video

This is the seed of The Shepherds Moon. What if the power shifts as was apparent

to Joe in Child of the Mist - The Shepherd? What if its all just pretence? That theoriginal principle of state action by proxy is no longer the key motivation for a privatesecurity contractor but a convenient camouflage to hide beneath: the cloak of statesanctioned activities merely a flag of convenience to run an entirely different agenda.

The Shepherds Moon develops the theme. What is the possible next evolution ofprivate security agencies operating by proxy for the state? What if the proxy agency

sees opportunities to expand and control its own agenda: financially backed bycommercial vested interests; driven in principle by political zeal or using that zeal asa cover for the contractors business and corporate interests? Its hardly a newconstruct but we are entering a time in human civilization that brings together twoemerging powerful forces that humanity has created but in effect has little desire or in

reality an inability to exercise control over.


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The first of these powerful forces is the Anthropocene epoch. This is an informalgeologic chronological term that marks the evidence and extent of human activitiesthat have had a significant global impact on the earths ecosystems: see

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthropocene . Political and national security interests seesignificant risks, instability and threats in this new era: http://www.climatesecurity.us

also http://www.theguardian.com/environment/earth-insight/2014/may/30/climate-change-war-conflict-military-industrial-complex-syria-egypt-uprisingbut as with every

threat there are opportunities to be exploited.

The second force in our world is the increasing intrusion of the technological era in

our daily lives: the computer or media age. The age of social and individualempowerment: a revolution that changes power balances: alters almost everyconceivable aspect of our lives, empowering not just the state but individuals andagencies over us - with few check and balances. Something we have neverencountered before on such a global pervasive scale in our evolution: for good or

bad.

The Shepherds Moon is a political thriller that explores the global consequence forhumanity of the emergence and collision of these two new forces: of human inducednatural chaos and the new technological era, that provides the tools potentially thenew weapons of mass destruction for those empowered by the state but potentiallyno longer under its control.

The title The Shepherds Moon is analogous with The Wolf Moon, symbolic in

folklore of British and other cultures: of predation, danger and death. In January(northern hemisphere), the full moon presaged a time when wolves were drivencloser to human settlements hunting for food. But as the full (wolf) moon favoured thefeared predator, it also provided the shepherd with the light to hunt and counter thethreat hence the symbolic symmetry for Joe Shepherd and this story tree The

Shepherds Moon.

The first roots of The Shepherds Moon pick up the themes and characters. Afterthat who knows? As Ross Raisin (Guardian Writers Master Class tutorhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ross_Raisin ) encouraged us to believe trust theprocess.

Footnote: I am currently redrafting a root story entitled Web of Life for The

Shepherds Moon. It was an entry for the 2008 Manhire Prize for Creative ScienceWriting organised by the Royal Society of New Zealand in association with the

International Institute of Modern Lettersat Victoria University of Wellington. The 2008

topic was Evolution. My submission speculated on how technology could provideour next evolutionary step though personality capture via social media: by uploadingall our thoughts, beliefs and experiences onto the web. Its a strange experience tosee how recent technological developments and innovation are on the verge of

giving life to our virtual selves on the web: that we are becoming immortal: we arecreating our own afterlife: just add quantum computing and a dash of AI.


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Root

stories to

The

Shepherds

Moon


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The Tree Structure

The Shepherds Moon

Roots

- Operation Predator infection.

- Web of Life under development


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Operation Predator infection

The wind blew across the tiny cave entrance where Joe was holed up. He waited and

watched as the grim, battle grey laden dawn threw into sharp, jagged black relief the

surrounding mountainous skyline. The biting wind gave the first hint that the season

was to change soon. It signaled the return of winter when the valley below and the

cleansed Bosnian village would once again be claimed by snow: the charred

skeletal timbers a bone yard to the recent atrocities would be buried under a

virgin white cloak: a mockery to the carnage and suffering. He checked his breath but

no misty vapour was visible, nothing to give him away. It was unlikely that he would

be seen 30m up the cliff edge of the escarpment but nothing could be left to chance.

Joe (OC) and his team had set up his observation post two days ago, ahead of the

meet with their informant. The free climb up the crags had been tricky and exposed

but they and their equipment were well in place to monitor activity: any later and the

entrenchment could have been seen: betrayal and death fed on the naive and

foolhardy in this war. It was a waiting game. At one level Joe was isolated but he was

watched over, his teams arc defensive positions around the valley were his guardian

angels - should he need them - eyes on his six. Radio silence was essential unless

all hell broke loose.

He strained his eyes, momentarily distracted by the distant pandemonium of geese:

finally spotting the faint arrow head - slow in flight - heading south. Instinctively Joe

knew a cold front was approaching: he was back in the Alaskan tundra: eaten alive

by mosquito: laughing with his brothers as they staggered around like drunks, the

sphagnum bogs sucking at their feet as they hunted for White Goose eggs. Grief

invaded Joes disciplined world: what had happened to him? How had he

degenerated into this cauldron of hell? His brothers wouldnt know him: didnt know

him: his life was now his shame, wrapped in lies. Joe shook his head like the

bewildered Pihoqahiak, confused by his changing world: a long way from home, a

lost, wandering spirit. He breathed deep the biting cold air stinging his nostrils

freeing his head of dangerous distractions. He looked at his watch again. It was time

for him to move in.

Joe Narwhals eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom as he entered the partly bombed

and burned out remnants of the two storey stone building for a prearranged deep


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cover meeting. But he was ill prepared for what confronted him or what was about to

shatter his world.

He silently cursed. The air thrummed with plague swarms of flies disturbed by his

arrival; the gagging smell of rotting, burned flesh and death throes evacuant

pervaded every breath: there was no escaping it or the clouds of shit feeders. The

pale: stripped: mutilated: tangled: discarded effigies *eyeless sockets: scalped hair

skin: gutted abdomens - floated into his field of vision. Despite Joe+s years in war torn

conflict zones, the ethnic hatred and emotional detachment of the Bosnian factions

disturbed him, they were so far removed from his mantra, that taking a life had to be

quick and clean.

Joe instinctively recoiled: the dead screamed torture: they screamed trap. Pavlovian

adrenaline surged: he twitched his stubby Heckler towards the sound of a scrabbling

attack dislodged bricks, crashing timber a spectral figure erupted out of the

shadows hitting him with a full body tackle.

In those split seconds conflicting signals fired through Joe's brain as his world literally

exploded around him. In the moments that followed - assuming they were moments -

time was as nonsensical as the images that confused him. Nothing made any sense.His head throbbed: ears buzzed: body shocked by a blow far greater than he had

expected. A blinding flash and choking dust: acrid burning cordite: the only

conclusion was explosion? But his last recollection was being ,smoked and

smacked+. He was on his back. It was suffocatingly hard to breathe without choking

on the thick dust. He had no idea where his Heckler was. Joe+s synapses started to

fire up again: his brain finally began to work. He carefully opened his eyes to

discover a face staring back at him, millimetres away: warm breath washed over his

skin: the dead weight on top of him was more than a collapsed building and very

much alive: a woman. He sensed his legs - their legs - were trapped under rubble.

But before he could speak she silenced his ,comms+, flicking Joe+s bone mike free

from his neck.

Her dull, dead throated husky voice - that spoke of enduring misery - whispered. "So

we finally meet and here I am saving the life of the man sent to kill me."


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Realising the peril he was in Joe began to ease his free left hand towards the

sheathed knife on his leg but he immediately felt sharp cold steel pressed against his

carotid artery.

"Don't be silly Captain Narwhal. Just keep still. I have you where I want you and I

want you to listen to me. I could have let the bastard Serbian ,Wolves+kill you. I am

disappointed, I expected better of you. Walking straight into their trap. But I got to

you just before they did. Luckily they aren't that smart with their ,guns1+. Accuracy

doesn+t matter to those morons *they don+t care as long as their IDF2kills *easy,

when this whole village is your enemy..

The woman looked up briefly at the underside of their precarious shelter. /A bit of

luck goes a long way in this war. The table took the worst of brick blast collapse..

She flashed a sudden smile. /H+mm: well we live to fight another day. If you had

survived without me here you would have assumed I was out to get you first. If they

had killed you, well, further reason for our masters to want me gone - the price on my

head would have just gone up: more incentive for both sides to finish what you would

have failed to do. The ,Wolves+win all round: well that+s for them to think. I+ll get to

them when they least expect it."

Joe relaxed. She was right, there was nothing to do but talk it out. His right arm was

pinned under a beam and the woman+s weight on top of him gave Joe no leverage.

The woman+s name was Heather and ,Mission Predator+, that she was part of, had

contravened international conventions. It had been a political initiated covert

operation to stop atrocities in Bosnia, that risked pulling the Brits into a war they

didn+t want to be part of: an operation that had subsequently gone bad. Heather+s

duties had initially been as a medic and liaison support for the team. Odd in itself, as

women were not posted to combat zones especially not into an ethnic, religious

conflicts. He was intrigued despite himself: none of it made sense and less so since

he and his team had ,haloed+in. Joe decided to keep her focussed on him to see if

he could learn more: his men *once they had finished ,POO3+hunting - would be on

their way in but she would know that as well. He could not see what her game was:

why had see risked her life to get to him? If she wanted him dead it would be all over

by now. Heather was an anathema: a diminutive survivor: a woman who had

!Guns:A mortar tube or artillery piece. Never used to refer to a rifle or pistol.2IDF: Indirect Fire, mortars, rockets and artillery. Term generally used to describe enemy action.

3POO: Point of Origin


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apparently assumed command of what was left of the platoon she had been part of.

Despite all the odds she and her team had defied the British government: defied the

odds for survival. His briefing was she had gone feral: was out of control: the team

had become ,meat eaters+. His mission was a ,Black op+to eliminate the remnants of

the ,Predator+platoon. Before, he surmised the papers sniffed a story that could bring

down the British Government *not that he had been told the reasons why other than

just simply to clean house. But since Joe and his team+s insertion the ,rumint4+was

she had earned the respect of both civilian sides *the Predator+s war had been

against all the militias.

Joe could see no advantage in forcing her hand, so he grunted his acceptance.

Heather felt Joe relax. "Better. Now we have an understanding."

Joe studied his apparent saviour. At first it was hard to recognise Heather from the

his briefing and the photos he had seen. Gone was the keen eyed, freckled ginga.

Her face had a shocking, skeletal attraction: dark leathery skin: mummified in

appearance: jaundiced yellow sclera that indicated serious underlying functional

health problems.

Heather appeared amused by his attention, as if it confirmed some opinion she had

formed of him. She removed her soiled do-rag revealing vicious purple: barely healed

wounds across her shaved scalp. Heather silenced Joe+s reaction with a finger

across his lips. Bizarrely she started to gently remove the concrete dust and flakes of

rubble - that had settled around his eyes and mouth - with the do-rag. There was a

surreal madness in her actions - and in both their calm acceptance of their

precarious situation.

Heather sighed: regret? She hesitated as if gathering thoughts: time was obviously

precious: a lot was at stake. Then she began her atonement: a purging of her soul?

Joe could detect the soft inflections of accent that was difficult to place.

/I wish we had longer: next we meet I expect it will be with some finality. But you will

have to find me and I promise it will not be while I have unfinished business. It will be

on my terms. You are my nemesis. I accept this is the way it will be: you are a

&Rumint:A combination of rumor and intelligence


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honourable man I think *from what I have heard. But what you haven +t had time to

see, is the ulterior reality: that I am your Muse *Melpomene.. She smiled at Joe+s

confusion. /You can look it up later. I am no threat to you Captain Narwhal: you will

not meet your end by my hand: well not directly but as a consequence of your duty to

our treacherous masters. I also had honour once: now look at me: at my team:

betrayed and abandoned. You have been sent to wipe us out *all record of us will

cease to exist. I am curious what do you think will happen to you and your team after

you complete your mission? Did you ever question your orders: and why they picked

you? Ever thought why you command such a nationally bastardized mix. You are

probably a good leader: a good loyal servant: sold you some cock and bull story did

they? But did you ask yourself why the Brits don+t lead this operation? It would be

logical wouldn+t it? You don+t have one Brit in your platoon, do you? Odd isn +t it, don+t

you think?.

Joe couldn+t help but follow Heather into the web she was spinning. Up to this point

he had been solely focused on his mission: on Heather and the platoon that had

gone rogue. Her Intel was alarmingly well informed - something he would need to

deal with when he got out of his current impasse - but he also recognised that

Heather+s questions had been there all along: in the back of his mind: he just hadn +t

confronted them. Heather finished her task with the do-rag and pushed it inside herbarely recognisable fatigue jacket.

/Yes, I think you know what I mean. Once you kill us: unofficial or state sanctioned?

What of you and your men *last witness standing eh? So why am I here? What can I

offer you?.

Heather removed her hand from beneath her jacket gripping a sturdy, small thick

book tied by string to keep its contents together. Joe couldn+t help but see the

intensity of her gaze: her knuckles paled beneath the strength with which she held it -

as if her life was bound to it.

Joe broke his silence /Why don+t you come in? It doesn+t have to end this way..He

hesitated uncertain of his own motivation in making the offer. It unexpectedly

mattered to him that she should live. He tried to find the words he could deliver on. /I

am sure we could cut a deal: if not now: give me time to work something out..


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But she cut him off with a bark of laughter. /You don+t get it? I: my team know too

much: there is no hope: we are dead. Don+t+fool yourself Captain Narwhal. If you tell

them you have spoken to me: any hint we have met: that I have confided to you: you

are a headstone. This diary..She angrily pressed the book to Joe +s cheek, /is my

story. My epitaph. It+s also your lifeline. You can hold the bastards to account. But

you have to keep it secret until the right moment: till you get home: if you get home.

Until then you have never talked to me. And when we meet again there will be no

words - even when we have our last dance - in front of witnesses: it has to be that

way for my legacy to survive. I won+t give you any option but to do your duty: to be

the honourable man you are. They may just let you live with that. But watch your

back - you are my retribution..

Joe and Heather heard the faint scrape of movement: the distant disturbance of

debris: someone was close.

/On time! You have good men Joe: the few of mine that are left are good men: you

take care of yours..Then ominously she added, /I will see that mine do not suffer..

Heather jammed the diary deep inside Joe+s jacket.

/Stay alive for both our sakes: remember Joe you are promised - one last dance..

Giving him a mad grin and before he could react, Heather gently kissed his lips. With

surprising strength and snake like agility she wriggled free of the debris: rolled away

and vanished as she had appeared: a momentary intangible disturbance in the

gloom. Joe laid still: his mind in turmoil, uncertain what to do. Within moments he

was aware, out of the corner of his vision, a grey shape cautiously appearing low

down through the doorway. He could just make out the shoulder flash of his team. He

coughed and groaned as if coming too. Heather+s words had infected his mind: the

diary burned bright with betrayal and conspiracy. There was no choice, there never

had been. It was very simple, Joe recognised survival was all that mattered, until

they were extracted he would play dumb: foresworn to his silent pact with Heather

but also loyal to his mission: his life depended on it.


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The Shepherd's Moon