I used to think that the historic moment would come with gunfire, with a glorious victory, or at least a grand ceremony in a square filled with flags and flowers. And surprisingly, this time I guessed right.
A year has passed since I arrived in this world. From a mess of sand and scattered humans, we have built a foundation – a city, a government, a nation… and now, we are about to tell the world: we exist.
At the direction of the Church's political commissars, all departments suspended work for an hour – so that all citizens could witness the historic announcement.
At Al-Quds Square – the administrative center of the capital Baghdad, tens of thousands of people gathered, looking up at the balcony of the top floor of the government building.
I stood there, in the golden sunlight and the gentle breeze blowing through the horizontal tricolor flags – red, white, black – fluttering in the wind. In the middle was a crescent and a brilliant yellow five-pointed star, symbolizing the union of Islam and the revolutionary spirit. The flag now appeared officially before the people and the world, as an undeniable affirmation: We are a nation, wearing the religious uniform designed by Karim. The loudspeakers began to blare.
All eyes were on me – no longer the impassive cameras, but the tens of thousands of indigenous people in this land waiting for something beyond the poverty and chaos they had lived through. The clones were also waiting for a bright new future under my leadership.
I took a deep breath, then spoke.
"I am Mohammed, Supreme Leader of the United Arab Republic.
Today, I declare before the entire international community: a new nation has officially entered the world stage. This nation was not built from imposition or invasion, but from the will to live, the desire to unite and the desire to rise of the people who were once forgotten in the desert.
Our territory includes the entire Arabian Peninsula, Mesopotamia and the Persian region, with our capital at Baghdad – which is rising from the dust like a phoenix from the ashes.
We choose the path of modern development, based on the values of Islam and the spirit of socialism. A theocratic state – but not blind. A revolutionary government – but not fanatical. We put the stability and prosperity of the people as our guiding principle.
We do not come to fight. We come with a commitment to peace, cooperation and dialogue.
But remember: Peace is not weakness. If provoked, we will defend every grain of our sand with an iron will.
I, on behalf of the people and government of the United Arab Republic, declare: We survive. And we are ready to start a new chapter with the world."
As soon as the last words left my lips, the square erupted. There was applause, cheers, and even uncontrollable tears.
An old woman, who had been a nomad, clasped her children's hands and whispered: "This is the first time in my life that someone has stood up and said that this land belongs to us."
At a machine shop in Basra, as the speech was broadcast live, young workers pounded their wrenches on the ground in unison, creating a drum-like sound. "Mohammed! Mohammed!" they chanted as if calling out the name of a spiritual father.
That atmosphere spread throughout the country – a new ferment called faith.
I backed away from the balcony, my feet still feeling the heat from the crowd below.
Layla came over and handed me a cup of hot mint tea. "Good, master," she said, her voice tinged with amusement.
Yuri rubbed his chin: "I hope those people in Paris and London won't immediately send warships to the Gulf of Aden after hearing this."
I smiled slightly, my eyes still on the world map screen set up inside the command office behind the balcony.
"Don't worry... Now it's our turn to go knocking on doors."
In fact, by the time I stepped onto the balcony, our diplomatic delegations had already set off. Each was well prepared, carrying carefully crafted messages in French, English, Russian and Turkish, along with cultural gifts symbolic of our new country.
The diplomatic mission to Syria has crossed the Western Desert to reach Damascus, which is still under French control. They brought with them a message of goodwill and cooperation and a proposal to establish formal diplomatic channels with the French government.
Another delegation, led by the Foreign Secretary himself, went to Jordan and Egypt – two territories under the control of the British Empire. Their aim was to clarify our peaceful stance and to probe Britain's reaction to a united Arab state emerging in the Middle East.
In the north, a special delegation headed straight to Baku – the capital of the Transcaucasian region, which the Red Army had just liberated from the White Guards and their pro-Western allies. This delegation brought with it congratulations to the revolutionary government and a proposal to exchange experiences in economic and military development.
Finally, a secret diplomatic mission was sent to southeastern Türkiye, where the provisional revolutionary government of Mustafa Kemal was resisting the combined Anglo-French invasion forces. We brought no weapons, but promises of aid, revolutionary sympathy, and an offer of strategic cooperation.
All delegations were carefully timed and scheduled to ensure that by the time I spoke, they would arrive – like postmen of history, knocking on the door of the world with the first greeting from a country no one had ever thought would exist.
................
In Damascus, the capital of French-controlled Syria, the local Governor General – Sir Armand Delacroix – is enjoying his morning cup of coffee in his newly built post-war office.
Outside, the Middle Eastern sun was just rising, casting a golden glow on the limestone domes still dusted by the war. Armand sat in a leather armchair, listening to French radio broadcasting the news from home: the Paris cabinet had just finished meeting, and a senator had spoken out against the new tax policy.
Suddenly, the radio went dead. He frowned, thinking the radio was broken again because of the hot, dry weather, and reached for the frequency knob.
Suddenly, a voice rang out – not in French.
Arabic, clear, slow, and rhythmically majestic. Next came English. Then Russian. Finally, the station picked up a broadcast in French—but not from Paris.
Armand paused, listening intently. It was a man's voice, with a proper accent, but not a Parisian accent – it was textbook French. The content left him speechless.
"...The United Arab Republic claims legitimate sovereignty over the entire Arabian Peninsula, Mesopotamia and Persia... is committed to peace, development and is ready to cooperate with civilized nations..."
Armand slammed his coffee cup down on the table. "What the hell is going on…?" he muttered, sweating.
A country he had never heard of – now, declaring independence right next to French-controlled territory, and broadcasting in multiple languages to the world.
A young secretary knocked on the door and ran in, his face pale:
"Your Excellency, the Southern Guard has just reported... A motorized convoy approaching the border. Six-wheeled trucks, painted sand-colored, flying strange flags. They claim to be a diplomatic delegation from... the United Arab Republic."
Armand paused for a few seconds. "Six-wheeled truck?"
"Yes, sir. We've never seen anything like it before – it looks lightly armored. There are also small vehicles driving ahead, like scout cars. The soldier said… there's something very modern about this convoy."
Armand put his coffee cup down on the table, took out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and stood up.
"Contact the patrol immediately. Observe closely but do not provoke. And… send a telegram to Paris. Also, send an escort unit – select men who speak Arabic. Take them to the gate and escort the convoy safely to Damascus. I want to see this delegation as soon as they arrive."
The morning at the southern Syrian outpost began as usual—burning sun, driving sand, and an empty coffee pot that had been left empty since dawn. Sergeant Moreau was polishing his rusty rifle while Private Lefèvre squatted in the shade, smoking a cigarette.
"Another damn day of nothing but sand and mosquitoes…" – Lefèvre muttered.
Sergeant Moreau chuckled. "Just you wait. Ten years from now, they'll put up statues of us for defending the border against... sand."
The sound of an engine echoing from the horizon interrupted the conversation. At first it was only a small sound, but after a few minutes, a giant column of dust appeared in the distance.
"Motor vehicles?" – Moreau stood up, raising the binoculars to his eyes.
"I have never seen a car like that."
Lefèvre ran out with binoculars. "They look like military trucks, but… look closely. They have flags. Three horizontal colors – red, white, black. And a crescent and a five-pointed gold star in the middle. What kind of flag is that?"
A column of vehicles approached, led by a compact car, followed by larger trucks. When the first vehicle stopped a hundred meters from the post, two soldiers got out.
"My God, what are they wearing?" Lefèvre said, squinting. "Half military uniform, half… traditional Arab?"
Sergeant Moreau was speechless. "Look at their equipment. Uniform. Clean. Weapons... I've never seen that kind."
Two Arab soldiers approached, calm and serious. When they saluted in precise French, the entire guard was stunned into silence.
"Bon Dieu… do they speak French?" Lefèvre whispered, as if afraid to break the silence.
The story continued, with questions being exchanged between the French soldiers and the escort, but no one could hide their feelings of suspicion – and curiosity.
Their attire is a curious mix of military uniforms and Middle Eastern identity—tight tactical vests, balaclavas, wide-brimmed sun hats, and high boots, all in sandy tones to camouflage the desert environment. Their helmets are fitted with handmade, but purposeful, camouflage netting.
The weapons raised even more eyebrows among the French soldiers. No one recognized the make of the guns they carried—they looked new, but they did not belong to any system in service with any major army they knew.
"Sergeant..." – a young soldier spoke up, "...should we report this to our superiors?"
Moreau nodded. "Call them. Tell them there's a strange convoy, it looks… serious. And they don't look like any rebel group I've ever seen."
And when the convoy stopped, the French soldiers could only stand there, looking at the silent but disciplined group, with a question echoing in their heads:
"Who are we dealing with?"
Two Arab soldiers stood up straight, one saluted in a military manner, the other gently pulled out a wax-sealed envelope.
"We are the leading representatives of the diplomatic mission of the United Arab Republic," the man carrying the envelope said in perfect French. "We carry an official message from our government to the French Governor General in Damascus. We look forward to your cooperation."
Sergeant Moreau glanced at the letter he was handed—heavy paper, with the smell of fresh ink, and an unfamiliar coat of arms. He signaled Private Lefèvre to contact Syrian headquarters immediately.
Less than five minutes later, a telegram from Damascus responded: a direct order from the Governor General – to allow the delegation to enter, and to immediately send an escort.
"Lefèvre!" Moreau shouted. "Go with them to the next post. Guide them through each checkpoint, signaling at each stop."
"Roger that, Sergeant!"
The young soldier adjusted his cap, shouldered his gun, and walked quickly to the waiting reconnaissance vehicle. A moment later, the convoy began to move, stirring up a column of fine dust that drifted slowly against the bright sunlight.
At the front of the convoy were two sidecar-style three-wheeled motorcycles driven by French soldiers – the type typically used to transport mail or officers across difficult terrain. Each had a driver and a soldier sitting in the sidecar, his hands on his machine gun, his eyes scanning the desert as if looking for signs of potential danger.
The wheels rolled smoothly on the hard sand, the chassis vibrated slightly, and the sound of the engine mixed with the wind blowing hot waves past their ears. The first car led the way, the second one drove a few meters away – both as security and to keep in touch in case of any situation.
Both motorcycles had small French flags on their sides, clearly identifying them. One of the soldiers sitting in the bed raised his hand and gestured into the distance – a signal for the next guard post to get ready.
They said nothing, communicating only with their eyes and gestures – precise, efficient, and careful.
They didn't say much. They communicated through familiar hand signals—a point, a wave—over the low roar of the engines and the wind whistling past their ears.
Behind, the Arab diplomatic convoy marched in a parade formation. The sand-colored vehicles moved gracefully over the rough terrain, keeping pace with the lead motorcycle. The long journey to Damascus began – with watchful eyes and glances from the villages along the way.
At the next checkpoints, as planned, each post would send two more replacements – to escort and guide the convoy through the control zone, like a torch being passed from hand to hand in the desert.
Inside the command car, Mohammed's emissary – a calm middle-aged man named Omar bin Khalid – looked through the small window to see the French soldiers still standing watching, their eyes filled with suspicion – and perhaps a little silent respect.
From small hamlets nestled in the white sand desert, Syrians – young and old – poured out onto the dirt roads. They curiously watched the strange convoy rumble across the sand dunes and dry fields.
The murmurs spread like wildfire: "Who is that?", "Which soldiers are dressed like us?", "Why are their vehicles so big?"
As their eyes began to clearly see the flag hanging from the side of the car – the three horizontal colors of red, white, and black – and especially the crescent and five-pointed yellow star in the center, many people were startled. A loud murmur arose: "Is that… the flag of the Ottoman Empire?", "Are they back?", "Relief troops from Türkiye?"
The people sitting in the vehicles were surprised to see the soldiers dressed in a mix of military uniforms and traditional Arab clothing. They wore keffiyehs, sand-colored jackets, pleated trousers and boots, looking both strange and familiar, as if they came from a faraway land but still looked familiar.
Some people began shouting old Ottoman slogans, confusing the French guards on the outskirts of the city. In some of the city's markets, crowds gathered and began chanting "Freedom for Muslims!", "End of foreign rule!" - the mood changed from curiosity to agitation.
As the convoy approached Damascus, word spread quickly. The huge vehicles, the strange flags hanging from their sides, the soldiers dressed in what they said were "Arab-style" clothing – all created an unprecedented wave of curiosity.
Along the roads leading into the city, people began to crowd the sidewalks. On the roofs of low-rise buildings, groups of children sat, pointing and competing to count the number of cars.
In Damascus, the atmosphere was heating up. Crowds were gathering at the city gates, and streetside cafes were buzzing with conversation. Some began to speculate: was a revolutionary army advancing?
And in some working-class neighborhoods, small-scale clashes broke out between pro-French groups and local residents. French military police were called in to disperse the crowds, but were unable to completely stop the gatherings.
Whatever the answer, one thing is certain: today, the city will never be the same again.
Inside the Syrian Governor's office, the phones rang incessantly. Armand Delacroix frowned, alternating between the receivers on his desk, listening to the reports pouring in from all over Damascus. The situation was spiraling out of control.
"A group of people gathered at Al-Hamidiyah market, chanting anti-French slogans. The police have not been able to disperse them."
"School in Salhiyye area closed, parents came to demand independence."
"There were rumors that the Ottoman soldiers were returning – people were panicking, many took to the streets."
The Governor put down the receiver and was about to exhale when the door opened. A soldier entered, saluting.
"Sir, the diplomatic convoy from the United Arab Republic has arrived at the south gate. They request an audience."
Armand nodded quickly, his voice curt: "Good. Call the people on the list I gave you earlier – the Secretary General of the High Commissioner's Office, the Officer in charge of the Territorial Security Forces, and the representative of the Sûreté – the local intelligence force. Tell them to prepare, we will officially receive this diplomatic delegation immediately."
The soldier obeyed and left. Armand stood up, his hands still shaking slightly. He adjusted his vest, glanced at the map of the Middle East hanging on the wall. "This... will go down in history books."
When the convoy stopped in front of the French Governor-General's office in Damascus, two French soldiers opened the door and signaled for the members of the delegation to enter. Omar bin Khalid, the ambassador of the United Arab Republic, stepped out first, looking calm but no less dignified. Behind him were two soldiers escorting him in their uniforms, and a young secretary carrying official documents and gifts.
Governor-General Armand Delacroix waited inside with senior officials. Beside him were the Secretary General of the High Commissioner's Office, several senior officers of the gendarmerie, a representative of the Sûreté, and a group of liaison officers.
As the convoy came to a stop and the engines died down, all eyes in the courtyard of the Governor's Palace were fixed on the moving mass of steel before them. The huge six-wheeled trucks, angular like war machines, painted with a fine, unfading sandblasted paint job – gave anyone who looked at them the feeling that they did not come from this place.
A young French officer standing near Armand blurted out: "Nom de Dieu... what is that?"
A military engineer accompanying the welcoming party even came closer, his eyes glued to every detail of each wheel, each weld, each unfamiliar fender.
"They're not German cars... they're not American cars. I've never seen anything like it."
"Mon Dieu… real steel monsters," Armand thought, realizing that he was not the only one who felt that way – everyone around him was silent, wide-eyed. In the 1920s, these were vehicles that far exceeded the standards of even the French colonial army – both in size and appearance.
The conference room door opened, and the stone floor echoed with the sound of boots as the delegation entered. The air in the room froze for a moment—as if history was about to knock on the door.
After being led into the Governor-General's stateroom, Omar bin Khalid, along with his secretary and two soldiers escorting him, walked before Governor-General Armand Delacroix . Omar smiled politely, placed his hand on his chest and bowed his head slightly - a gesture that was both diplomatic and reflected Eastern culture.
"Mr. Governor," he began in precise French, "I am Omar bin Khalid, representative of the United Arab Republic. We bring greetings of friendship and goodwill from our supreme leader, and a small gift as a token of our respect."
The young secretary opened the shiny ebony chest, inside was a solid gold Eiffel Tower model, exquisite and shining under the light. The whole room fell silent.
A French officer blurted out: "The Eiffel Tower? But… it's still under construction?"
Governor Delacroix narrowed his eyes, his face tightening. How did they know about this design? It had never been reported outside Europe. Who were they? Where did they get their information? Not only was the Eiffel Tower model made of solid gold, but it was also incredibly detailed and proportionate—every window, every strut, and every tiny railing was so accurate that even the Paris engineers would blush. Had they had access to the original blueprints? Or… seen the real thing?
In his mind, a series of scenarios and suspicions exploded like lightning. There were no reports from intelligence, no records of exchanges or trade in the Middle East. According to the introduction, They... were an isolated country!!!.
"This… must be reported to Paris immediately," he thought, his eyes still fixed on the gift.
After the meeting ended, he immediately sent a telegram reporting the emergency situation to Paris.
In Paris – the capital of the French Republic – daylight began to shine through the misty windows, for it was now two days after the broadcast of the declaration.
In a large conference room of the Ministry of Colonies, high-ranking officials had been summoned since dawn. Cigarette smoke hung like fog in the closed room, and whispers, the scraping of wooden chairs on stone floors, and the scribbling of fountain pens on documents echoed everywhere.
They all – from the Minister of Colonies, the army generals to the diplomatic representatives – were talking about an unprecedented event: the United Arab Republic was declaring its state right in the middle of the Middle East. This message, broadcast over the radio in Arabic, English, Russian and finally French – had been heard on the most popular radio stations since early morning.
Parisians, merchants in Marseille, even farmers in Brittany – they all heard. But French politicians remained skeptical… until a telegram from Damascus confirmed: a real diplomatic delegation had arrived in Syria, carrying official letters and diplomatic gifts.
An emergency meeting was called immediately. The atmosphere in the room was tense.
"A country? Over there?" an old senator raised his eyebrows. "I thought that area was full of nomads and yellow sand."
"Colonize it now," suggested an army colonel. "We can't have an unknown force rising up so close."
"We have just come out of a long war," another protested. "The army is not strong enough to start another one, and there are logistical problems. Britain would laugh at us if we took any chances."
"And who is behind them?" asked a diplomat. "How could they design such an industrial and mechanized system without our knowledge?"
Just then a secretary entered, holding the latest telegram.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice urgent, "the Foreign Office has received information from Cairo: the British have received a similar diplomatic delegation from that country. They arrived in Egypt last night."
As soon as the secretary left, another secretary hurried in, his hands still stained with red ink from the telegram he had just received.
"Mr. President, the golden Eiffel Tower model that the United Arab Republic gave us... has arrived."
Immediately after the announcement, six military men in ceremonial uniforms, white sashes on their shoulders, solemn faces, entered. They carried a special wooden crate – reinforced with sturdy metal frames, stamped with the seal of the French Ministry of Defense. This was no ordinary gift – but an item that was escorted as if it were a national treasure.
The box was so heavy that it took six men to move it safely. The officers noticed that their boots were sinking slightly into the polished wooden floor.
When the lid of the box was removed, everyone held their breath.
Inside is a solid gold Eiffel Tower model, nearly two meters high – the same height as an adult. Not only that, the surface of the model is also studded with small gemstones on the railings, the top of the tower and the architectural highlights – rubies, sapphires and amethysts – which reflect the ceiling lights to create a magical strip of light,
Gleaming under the pale yellow light, it impresses not only with its mass and material value, but also with its astonishing precision. Every joint, brace, and railing structure is meticulously recreated.
The engineers in the room gasped. One exclaimed, "The scale is accurate to the millimeter… as if they had seen the original drawings with their own eyes. Gentlemen, let me repeat: we ourselves have not yet completed the actual building. The Eiffel Tower is still in its final stages, and its detailed design has never been released outside the engineering community." This was more than a gift—it was a statement of craftsmanship and technological ambition.
A senior officer whistled softly, a diplomat bent down to flip through a report from Damascus.
"If the description is correct... then their level of engineering and mechanical skill far exceeds any initial assumptions," someone said. "It cannot be the product of a newly formed nation, unless..."
Everyone's eyes turned to President Deschanel again, waiting for a verdict.
Someone spoke up, his voice filled with concern: "Did... the blueprint leak out? Or did someone copy it and give it to them?"
Another official frowned: "Impossible. We strictly control national documents. If they really reproduced this model themselves, it means – they possess technical capabilities on par with the great powers."
One strategic adviser put his hand to his chin, thoughtful: "In any case, this is no longer a simple gift. They are sending us a reminder: they know what we are doing, and they can do more."
"This is a gift with many layers of meaning – goodwill and warning," the Foreign Minister mused. "We should engage, but with extreme caution. I don't think they will be as easily subdued as barbaric tribes."
President Deschanel was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. "They are clearly not simple. We will not provoke them… at least not yet."
The current President of France, Paul Deschanel – a tall man with deep eyes and silver hair – stood up. His gaze swept the room.
"We must reach out to them before the British do. A new nation emerging in the Middle East is not something to be taken lightly. If we lose influence now... the consequences will last for centuries."
No one objected. Everyone understood – the post-war "honeymoon" period between Britain and France was over. Now it was time to start a new game on the Middle Eastern chessboard. Cigarette smoke and whispers arose everywhere.
Across the Channel, in the United Kingdom, on a calm late night in Buckingham Palace, the gift they received from the United Arab Republic finally arrived after three days of shipping.
It was a model of the battleship HMS Rodney – a ship that was still on the drawing board and had never been ordered to be built. What stunned everyone was not only the choice but also the terrifying accuracy of the model.
The model is crafted entirely from solid gold and can be disassembled and assembled in blocks, just like the process of building a real warship. Every compartment inside, from the ammunition magazine, engine room to the gun turret – can be clearly observed with perfect proportions and details.
The transport alone took three days – and it took ten soldiers to carry the man-sized model into Buckingham Palace.
In the royal conference room, King George V and his cabinet were holding an urgent meeting. On the table, a model battleship, glowing under the light of a chandelier, sat solemnly on a solid wooden platform. Naval engineers were invited to observe it with their own eyes – and none of them could hide their astonishment.
"There's no way... every rivet, every technical detail in here... matches the blueprints that are still secret in the Navy Department," one engineer whispered.
"This ship… hasn't even been budgeted by the government," an officer responded. "There's no order to start construction. How do they know the blueprints?"
The debate erupted. Some accused internal leaks, some suspected espionage. Theories flew around the room like artillery shells.
"Whatever the reason," said one defense adviser, "this is no longer a gift. This is a preemptive strike—a warning about their capabilities and reach."
The air was heavy. A royal adviser said slowly, "The United Arab Republic has just sent us a message in solid gold: 'We know what you are doing – and we are one step ahead.'"
Someone concluded: "This is an extremely serious technology leak. And we have lost the initiative."
As soon as the cabinet meeting died down, a secretary entered and whispered something in the ear of the British Foreign Secretary. A few minutes later, the Foreign Secretary and a special envoy immediately left the room, heading to a side room with a special encrypted communication system.
A quick phone call was made – to none other than the French Foreign Ministry.
Within an hour, a preliminary agreement was reached between the two colonial powers: neither side would be allowed direct access to the United Arab Republic until a tripartite meeting between Britain, France, and a third party, Arab representatives.
The reason given was to avoid a competitive situation that would unnecessarily escalate tensions between two allies already exhausted by the war. But everyone understood that this was just a strategic move to delay, observe, and find loopholes.
The French agreed – but still had their own approach in mind. So did the British. Meanwhile, the United Arab Republic continued its march, confident and composed amid the turbulent undercurrents of colonial power.
That evening, a group of British diplomats boarded a ship across the English Channel, arriving in Calais at night. They were taken straight to a seaside villa where a French delegation was waiting. In the small conference room, lit by electric lights, there was a map of the Middle East carefully marked on the wall with colored pins and wax pencils.
Sir Henry Maynard, the British Foreign Office envoy, put his hat on the table and glanced at the map. "It looks like you've been preparing for a week," he said, his voice even but not without caution.
"We have always kept a close eye on this area," replied French Ambassador Jules Perrault, his voice soft. "But I believe that this time, neither of us expected what would happen."
The atmosphere was tense but diplomatically polite. The two sides discussed a series of issues: from the division of influence, initial plans of approach, to even response plans if the Arab Republic made a sudden military move.
"Suppose we decided to launch a military operation to control the southern part of the United Arab Republic," a British official asked, his voice tentative, "would the French be prepared to join in – not to react, but to share in the benefits?"
General Renard – representative of the French Ministry of War – narrowed his eyes and smiled slightly: "Paris has no intention of actively waging war... but if Britain launches a campaign that could expand its influence – and if there is an opportunity to divide the benefits reasonably – then I believe Paris will not ignore it."
They discussed both the possibility of indirect intervention, and doubts about the new nation's technological superiority.
"Automobiles, communications systems, even marine engineering…" – Sir Albert Chalmers, technical advisor from the British Admiralty, stood up, his voice serious – "… they are second to none. I have worked with the Germans and the Americans, but these people… they build everything to a standard never seen before."
"They seem to be one step ahead of us," added Captain Colin Welles, the British military liaison officer. "But how? And from where?"
"It could be a spy. Or they have someone from the West who defected," the French delegation hypothesized.
Henry Maynard tapped his hand on the table, his eyes cold: "Whatever it is, I don't like being surprised. That country is not simple. And if you think they can be easily subdued just because they are young, then you are naive."
However, disagreements quickly arose over the priority of diplomatic access and the leading role in the negotiating team. The British did not want France to go first, and the French did not want to be seen as subordinate.
"We have the advantage of geographic proximity," Perrault emphasized.
"And we have influence in Cairo and the canal zone," Maynard replied, unyielding.
In the end, after several hours of wrangling, they could only agree on one point: to jointly establish a joint British-French diplomatic mission, scheduled to leave for the United Arab Republic in two weeks.
When the meeting ended, Sir Henry Maynard left the room with a questioning look in his eyes. "They will break this deal, I bet," he whispered to an aide.
On the French side, Ambassador Perrault just smiled slightly: "The British always want to take the lead. But we will go to Baghdad first, one way or another."
The meeting ended on a sour note. Each side left with a memorandum – and their own calculations that were not written down.
................
At the same time, in my private office in the government building in Baghdad, I – Mohammed – was attentively examining the latest diplomatic cables just sent from England and France.
They agreed to send a joint diplomatic mission to visit the United Arab Republic in two weeks, traveling by sea, arriving at the port of Kuwait.
I thought to myself, "Wow, here's another typical Western display of naval power." Currently, our shipyards are still in the initial stages of construction, facing many difficulties because the ground conditions in Kuwait are not suitable for building complex and modern submarine construction facilities.
In order to build a shipyard complex that can withstand air strikes from potential enemies, we need to reinforce the ground for at least another year, and the construction of these structures will take another year.
While the Red Alert system is useful, it is not omnipotent and is still subject to the laws of real physics.
"So why not build in Basrah port?" I asked myself, then immediately answered: "It's even more difficult to build there than in Kuwait. That land is suitable for open-air port construction, but not at all suitable for building such a complex underground system."
Thinking for a while, I picked up the landline phone and dialed the general staff office directly.
"Hello Comrade Chief of Staff, please prepare a suitable plan immediately so that we do not lose face before the upcoming British-French diplomatic fleet."
"Yes, sir! I will send you the plan this afternoon," the Chief of Staff replied promptly.
I put down the receiver, stood up, and motioned for my personal secretary Layla to join me. We both left the office, heading straight to the nearby parliament building to attend a meeting on international reactions to the recent diplomatic announcement.
In the meeting room, I sat down on my usual chair, lit a cigarette and smoked to relieve stress. Actually, I didn't smoke much in Vietnam before, but recently, the pressure of leading and running the country has made this habit return more and more clearly.
The members of parliament entered one by one, standing up and saluting solemnly:
"Hello supreme leader!"
I nodded in return and gestured for everyone to sit down. Yuri, who was currently serving as prime minister, took the initiative to stand up and read the latest reports:
"Sir, Britain and France have officially announced that they will send a fleet to escort a joint diplomatic delegation to visit our country in two weeks. The Americans have also left and are expected to arrive at the same time due to the geographical distance. Germany, Italy and several other European countries have expressed their goodwill to establish relations and are also sending diplomatic delegations, expected to arrive in the next week."
I nodded slightly, Yuri continued:
"As for the Turkish revolutionary government, although they have received weapons aid from us, their attitude is still reserved. They are busy fighting against France and England for independence. Moreover, they do not recognize our Unified Muslim Church as orthodox and consider us infidels."
Yuri paused for a moment and then continued in a thoughtful voice:
"As for the Soviet Union, it is quite complicated. They are having a fierce internal debate about establishing diplomatic relations with us, because they cannot fully accept the idea of a theocratic state. Nevertheless, they have decided to send a delegation to visit. Given the difficult situation in the Soviet Union, we will take the initiative to arrange a reception at the northern border and take them to Baghdad."
I nodded, put out my cigarette in the silver ashtray next to me, and looked at each person in the meeting room:
"Very good. Be well prepared. Let them see clearly the strength and confidence of the United Arab Republic."
All answered in unison:
"Yes, sir!"