Brother’s blood: Il-Ħares: Chapter 9

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THE LINE OF DEFENSE – NOVEMBER 28, 1986

“You are not soldiers!”

Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Calleja, 45, paced before the new recruits, morning sun glinting off his polished buttons. Twenty young men stood at rigid attention, their uniforms still stiff with newness, their eyes fixed somewhere beyond the parade ground’s far wall.

“You are the one and only line of defense between the bad guys and the Maltese people. We have no defense in depth. No vast armies. No nuclear deterrent.”

He stopped abruptly, turning to face them with the sudden precision that had become his trademark.

“What we have is courage. Bravery. And the will to survive.”

I felt him through the metal he wore, through the medals on his chest that vibrated slightly with the force of his words. The same fire that had burned in Manwel burned in him—fiercer now, more controlled, but no less dangerous.

“You think I exaggerate? That Malta is safe now because we fly our own flag? History says otherwise.”

He approached the first recruit, standing so close the young man could likely feel his breath.

“In 1565, Toni Bajada swam across Grand Harbour night after night, carrying messages between forts while Turkish arrows fell like rain. In 1798, Vincenzo Borg and Emmanuele Vitale raised a peasant army against Napoleon’s forces—men with pitchforks against the most advanced military in Europe. Both succeeded. Will you succeed against the enemy in the 11th hour?”

“Sir. Yes Sir.” The recruit snapped back

Joseph moved down the line, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried across the silent parade ground.

“In 1942, my father died when German bombs struck his bakery. He’d spent that morning making bread with the last of our flour while air raid sirens wailed. My mother raised us alone after that, teaching us that survival means sacrifice. Because Malta endures. Malta survives.”

He spoke of survival, but I felt what lay beneath—the raw need to prove something. To whom? To the ghosts of those he named? To the brother who had left? To himself? To his Dad?

“Some of you joined for the paycheck. Some for the uniform. I don’t care. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll serve for Malta. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

He turned on his heel, facing the group once more.

“Dismissed!”

As the recruits marched away, Major Galea approached, extending a telegram.

“From Australia, sir. Your brother.”

Joseph took the paper, his face revealing nothing as he read the brief message.

> ARRIVING NOVEMBER 29 FOR TWO WEEK VISIT STOP
> BRINGING PHOTOS OF FAMILY STOP
> LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AND MOTHER STOP
> PETER

He folded the telegram precisely, tucking it into his breast pocket. Just another piece of paper. Just another mission to plan for.

“Thank you, Major.”

I felt his heart quicken, felt the current of his blood surge at that name. Brother. The word itself a battlefield where love and abandonment waged endless war.

Lines drawn in the sand
One stays, one leaves, both bleed
Brothers, still unknown

THE RABBIT AND THE SEAHAWK- NOVEMBER 29, 1986

The kitchen smelled of rabbit stew and rosemary. Censa, now 61, sat at the head of the table, her paint-stained fingers curled around a chipped spoon. Her sons flanked her again.

Peter, now 48, was visiting from Australia—broad-shouldered, sun-bronzed, full of stories. He talked about vineyards and his new house with a rain tank and irrigation system, about his daughters’ ballet lessons, his son’s racing bike.

“And Celeste, she’s something else,” he said, smiling broadly. “Only six, but already taking apart household appliances to see how they work. Diana says she’ll follow her into science. Yesterday she told me she wants to study ‘the invisible things that hold everything together.'”

Joseph, now 45 and a lieutenant colonel, sat rigid, medal-polished, silent. His fork moved with mechanical precision between plate and mouth, his eyes never leaving his food.

“And you, Joseph?” Peter asked finally. “Mother tells me you’re up for full colonel soon.”

“Perhaps.”

The silence stretched uncomfortably until Censa rose, moving to a small sideboard where she retrieved a wrapped package.

“Look what I found at a church auction last week,” she said, placing it on the table between her sons. She carefully unwrapped a small painting—a Spitfire diving over Mellieħa, signed D. Barnham.

“It reminded me of the war,” she said softly. “When men flew for something bigger.”

Joseph stopped mid-bite. The name. That man. He said nothing. The flame inside him coiled like a spring.

“I’ve seen his work before,” Peter said, leaning closer to examine the painting. “There was an exhibition in London when I was there on business last year. Incredible detail. You feel like you’re in the cockpit.”

“He still lives here, you know,” Censa said. “Still has that house up near Mdina. He’s quite old now, but I see him sometimes at the market.”

Joseph set down his fork with precise control.

“A fine painting,” he said, voice flat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have reports to review.”

He stood, kissing his mother’s cheek with formal affection, nodding to his brother, and left the room. Behind him, he heard Peter’s sigh.

“Still the same Joey. All duty, no joy.”

In the small guest room, Joseph closed the door and leaned against it, eyes closed. His brother’s voice carried through the old house despite Peter’s attempt to speak quietly.

“…worries me, Mother. He seems so…rigid.”

“He carries Malta on his shoulders,” came Censa’s reply. “Always has.”

“And you? How are you really?”

Joseph pushed away from the door, not wanting to hear more. He moved to the window, looking out at the courtyard where the lemon tree his father had planted still thrived. Beyond it, the stone walls that had stood for centuries. Beyond that, Malta. His Malta.

He thought of Peter’s children, growing up in that vast Australian emptiness. Of the niece he had never met, with her questions about invisible forces. Of his brother’s sunbaked ease, his freedom.

How would it feel to be a father? he wondered. Would it be like leading his recruits, creating bonds of protection and guidance? No, something deeper, more intimate.

He shook his head, dispelling the daydream. Such thoughts were luxuries, he had work to do.

I felt the current of his envy—different from the hate that had fueled Manwel, but no less powerful. A quieter force. A slow-burning coal that would not be quenched by reason or time.

Later in the evening, his brother would show more photographs, tell more stories of his perfect life in that perfect elsewhere. And Joseph would listen with polite interest, and say nothing of the ache behind his ribs, of the weight he carried while his brother walked unburdened.

He moved to the small desk, opened his briefcase, and extracted a classified folder marked OPERATION SEAHAWK. Inside, surveillance photos of an unmarked vessel—ostensibly an oil tanker—anchored in international waters near the Maltese coast. A friendly nation had provided the intelligence discreetly. Ownership of the vessel traced through layers of shell companies, each leading to another, like a labyrinth with no center.

The report detailed how the tanker’s transponder had gone silent for precisely four hours two days ago, reappearing on radar in a different position. An army helicopter on routine patrol had captured grainy images of the deck. Analysis identified three objects unidentified objects stored under tarpaulins. Not standard equipment for an oil tanker.

This, at least, was clear. This was a problem he could solve. This was a mission with purpose.

Two homes, one heart
Between brothers, silent wars
Salt preserves all wounds

CONTROLLED CHAOS – NOVEMBER 29, 1986

23:47 – 29th November — Siggiewi Army base Operations Center

The operations room at Siggiewi Barracks hummed with controlled urgency at 23:47. No base housing a nation’s primary defense force ever truly slept. Three night shift analysts hunched over radar displays while communications officers monitored encrypted channels. Outside, sentries patrolled the perimeter, their breaths visible in the November chill.

Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Calleja stood at the central map table, red pins marking radar contacts, blue pins showing the positions of Malta’s limited coastal reconnaissance teams. A large yellow pin indicated the unmarked “oil tanker”.

06:00 – 30th November — Siggiewi Army base Operations Center

“Any movement from our visitor?” Joseph asked the radar operator.

“They’ve entered territorial waters at 0200, sir,” the operator replied. “The captain radioed requesting permission to anchor closer to shore—claimed they needed fresh water and minor supplies. Harbor Authority granted temporary permission. They’ve been holding position three kilometers offshore since 0530.”

“Communications?”

“Their array has been active continuously, sir. Far more traffic than you’d expect for a supply request. And on frequencies unusual for merchant vessels.”

Joseph nodded. Another piece fitting the pattern. “Did we get one of ours on that ship with the delivery? I want to know what’s under those tarpaulins.”

Major Galea shook his head. “We tried, sir. The supply boat was met at the bottom of the ladder. Crew took the provisions and water themselves. The entire exchange took less than five minutes.”

“That fast?” Joseph’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“Much quicker than usual,” the Major confirmed. “Supply boat captain said they barely had time to secure the line before they were casting off again. Never got past the main deck.”

Joseph turned back to the map, eyes narrowed. “They’re hiding something. And now they’re in our waters.”

“And our electronic warfare assessment?”

Lieutenant Vella, the unit’s young signals specialist, approached with a printout. “Multiple encrypted bursts, sir. Military-grade. Definitely not standard merchant traffic. We’ve isolated three distinct frequencies they’re using.” He pointed to waveform patterns on the paper. “This matches known special operations formats.”

Joseph nodded. “And the coastal team at Delimara?”

“Last report at 0548, sir. Good visibility. They count approximately twelve men on deck, moving equipment. Preparations of some kind.”

“Keep all channels open. I want updates every thirty minutes, even if it’s just to report no change.”

As the staff returned to their stations, Joseph moved to his small office adjacent to the operations room. Through the glass partition, he could see his men working—professionals doing their jobs with quiet efficiency. Not the largest or best-equipped military in the Mediterranean, but his. Malta’s own.

He reached into his desk drawer and removed a small wooden box. Inside lay a silver Maltese cross on a thin chain—the one his mother had always worn. She had given it to him that morning, before Peter arrived.

“It belonged to family,” she had said. “Keep it close.”

He held it now, feeling its weight in his palm. The metal was worn smooth from generations of fingers. His mother had told him it once belonged to a cousin who died in the Sette Giugno riots of 1919. Manwel Attard. A man who had loved Malta too much, she’d said. A man whose blood had helped purchase what little freedom they now enjoyed.

Joseph studied the cross, turning it to catch the lamplight. What would that cousin think of Malta now? Of the struggles that still plagued the island despite the British departure? Of the new threats that gathered like storm clouds on the horizon?

From his briefcase, he removed a photograph Peter had shown earlier that evening—his children in Australia, including six-year-old Celeste with her serious eyes so like Censa’s. Standing beside a eucalyptus tree, worlds away from the limestone and salt of Malta.

One path leading away. One path remaining. Both Calleja blood, divided by oceans and choices. He snapped back to his mission. Why am I dwelling on this, he asked himself?

He placed the cross around his neck, tucked it beneath his uniform, and returned to the operations room where his team continued their vigilant watch.

I tried to reach him through the silver, through the chain that had been passed down through generations. The cross that had witnessed so much of Malta’s pain and pride.

07:30 – 30th November — Siggiewi Army base Operations Center

Operation Seahawk had brought a sense of urgency to his barracks. His men moved with purpose, energy. They enjoyed the action, the break from routine. Many of them too young to remember imperial powers ruling over this hardened limestone. Too young to recognize the familiar patterns of foreign influence that Joseph saw so clearly.

The presence of this ship irked him at a level beyond reason. His intuition—honed through years of service—insisted this was not a dud. This was a live round pointed at his island’s heart.

Or was it?

Do something now and expose his knowledge of their operation? Have snipers posted on the cliffs above Delimara? Deploy their patrol boat to shadow the vessel? Every option revealed his hand. Everything he did warned them that Malta had seen through their disguise. That would only prompt them to implement Plan B whatever that might be.

For now, he would observe through his two-man team on the cliffs, special ops disguised as hunters with high-powered “wildlife observation” equipment. Patience. Evidence. Then action.

He would not fail his duty. Not to his men. Not to Malta. Not to the memory carried in this silver cross.

I felt a shadow of 1798 today, when Malta last tore itself apart. When French occupation had divided the island against itself, brother against brother, soldier against civilian. I felt the potential for that wound to reopen, for Malta to bleed from within once more.

Midnight brings no peace
Silver against skin calls home
Choices seal all fates

TENSIONS RISE – NOVEMBER 30, 1986

10:16 – 30th November — Siggiewi Army Operations Center

“Sir,” Major Galea said, entering without knocking, “protests at Zejtun have escalated. Military backup has not been excluded.”

Joseph looked up from his desk. “That’s a government decision, not ours.”

“Yes, sir. Just keeping you informed.”

11:32 — Operations Center

“Any unusual movement from the unmarked vessel?” Joseph asked, studying the situation map.

“Yes, sir,” Captain Borg reported. “They’ve maintained position 3 kilometers offshore since entering our waters. But our coastal team reports increased activity. Men walking the deck. About 30 of them now visible.”

Joseph slammed his fist on the table, sending his coffee cup crashing to the floor. Shards of ceramic scattered across the polished concrete as dark liquid pooled around his boots.

“Are they insulting our intelligence?” His voice was quiet but edged with steel. “They have no shame, acting with such impudence at 3 kilometers from our shores.”

The operations staff froze momentarily, unused to seeing their commander’s composure crack. Joseph drew a deep breath, centering himself.

“Keep watch, Major. Call everyone back to base, except the reservists.” He crouched briefly to pick up the largest piece of the broken cup. “Tell them we’re investigating a theft from the armory last night to reduce suspicion.”

Captain Borg nodded, already moving toward the radio.

“However,” Joseph added, straightening, “it seems they’re unafraid to show their cards before this poker round is over.” His eyes narrowed as he studied the yellow pin marking the tanker’s position. “There might be more to this, Major. They want us watching the show on deck. Which means something else is happening that they don’t want us to see.”

12:11 — Operations Center

The secure radio crackled with the helicopter pilot’s voice, strained even through the professional delivery.

“Sierra One to Command. Situation deteriorating at Il-Barrani. Crowd estimate now exceeds 3,000 individuals. Multiple flash points across the area.”

Joseph moved to the communications station, taking the handset himself. “This is Command. Details.”

“Roads to Żejtun blocked in all directions, sir. Makeshift barricades at every entry point. Trucks overturned on the main approach. One group inside, another attempting to enter. We’re seeing…” The pilot paused. “We’re seeing weapons, sir. Improvised mostly, but I can confirm metal bars, chains.”

The operations room fell silent. Everyone understood the implications. Malta’s political divisions had erupted before, but this was different. This was neighbor against neighbor, with the thin veneer of civilization peeling away by the hour.

“Casualties?” Joseph asked, his voice level.

“Multiple injuries visible from our position. At least three vehicles burning. Several buildings with broken windows. Ambulances unable to access the area.”

His concern was that Malta stood at a precipice—violence feeding on itself, escalating beyond anyone’s control.

“Maintain position,” Joseph ordered. “Report any significant changes immediately. Especially any movement toward sensitive infrastructure.”

“Understood, Command. Sierra One out.”

Joseph replaced the handset and turned to his staff, their faces grim in the harsh fluorescent light.

“If this spreads to other towns…” Captain Mifsud left the thought unfinished.

“Then we’ll have more than riots,” Joseph completed the thought. “We’ll have civil war.”

I felt the pain radiating from the streets through the limestone beneath, carried on currents of rage and fear. The vibrations of conflict, of Maltese against Maltese, resonated through me like physical agony. These were all my children, all my people, tearing at each other while foreign eyes watched from offshore. I had endured invasions, sieges, bombs—but this, this self-destruction, cut deeper than any external wound.

13:30 — Command Center

Joseph surveyed the operations room, now fully staffed following the recall. The tension was palpable but controlled—professional soldiers awaiting orders, not knowing why they’d been summoned but trusting their commander’s judgment.

“Status on personnel recall?” Joseph asked Major Galea.

“Complete, sir. All off-duty personnel accounted for except two on approved leave in Gozo. They’re on standby there if needed.”

Joseph nodded. “Vehicle readiness?”

“All vehicles on standby, fuel tanks topped off,” the logistics officer reported. “Maintenance issues on truck three resolved as of 1300 hours.”

“Communications?”

“Secure channels tested and operational, sir. Coastal team reporting on schedule.”

Joseph paced the length of the map table once, then made his decision. “I want Alpha Company on fifteen-minute readiness status. Keep it quiet—training exercise protocol. No alarms, no visible change in base activity patterns.”

The encrypted communications console in the corner emitted three sharp tones. The signals officer moved quickly to the secure terminal, entering his authentication codes. The printer beside it hummed to life, outputting a message on the special blue paper used for classified communications.

“Priority message, sir,” the officer said, tearing the paper from the machine and bringing it directly to Joseph.

Joseph scanned the text, expression hardening line by line.

URGENT / EYES ONLY / TOP SECRET ORION
FROM: [REDACTED]
TO: LTCOL J.CALLEJA SIGGIEWI COMMAND

HUMAN SOURCE CONFIRMS INTELLIGENCE
RE: VESSEL SPECIAL OPERATIONS TEAM ABOARD TANKER MINIMUM 60 OPERATIVES IDENTIFIED EQUIPMENT INCLUDES 3 HIGH-SPEED ASSAULT CRAFT
INTENDED FOR MALTA SHORE INSERTION
TIMING UNKNOWN EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION
DENIABILITY PROTOCOLS IN EFFECT

END TRANSMISSION

Joseph folded the paper precisely and slipped it into his breast pocket, next to his brother’s telegram. Two messages—one of family, one of threat. Both demanding response.

“Major,” he said quietly, “Seal the base. Authorized personnel only. Send all civilians home”

I felt his certainty crystallize—the pieces assembling into a pattern that demanded action. I could not read human minds, but I could feel the electrical activity increase, the current of decision-making reaching critical threshold.

14:30 — Operations Center

“Gentlemen, intelligence indicates possible foreign special operations activity coinciding with civilian unrest.” Joseph addressed his senior officers, voice steady. “While we have no direct orders to respond, prudence dictates readiness.”

Captain Mifsud, his youngest officer, raised a hand. “Sir, with respect, what exactly are we preparing for?”

Joseph met his gaze directly. “To protect Malta from any threat. Internal or external.”

I felt the ripple of uncertainty move through the room. Some officers exchanging glances. Some nodding firmly. The first fissure forming in what should have been unified command.

15:45 — Communications Center

“Sir, we’ve intercepted fragments of encrypted traffic. Military format but using frequencies normally reserved for intelligence operations.” The signals officer pointed to the readout. “And this pattern here suggests field communications, not ship-to-shore.”

Joseph studied the printout. “Location?”

“Triangulation suggests multiple locations Il-Barrani, Marsa, Mellieha, Sliema, Gozo and Delimara. Sir.”

16:20 — Armory

“Full combat load.” Joseph watched as the quartermaster distributed equipment to Alpha Company. “These aren’t protesters we’re preparing for—they’re trained operatives. Be ready for anything.”

The men nodded grimly. On the parade ground, three military trucks idled. A communications jeep waited at the head of the convoy, antenna extended, equipment humming.

I felt the machinery of conflict engaging—gears meshing, momentum building. And beneath it all, the dangerous current of righteousness that had led so many to disaster before him.

17:15 — Operations Center

The secure phone rang. Joseph answered, back straight.

“Lieutenant Colonel Calleja.”

“Colonel, this is the Prime Minister.” The voice was unmistakable, authoritative. “I’m informed you’re mobilizing Alpha Company. Explain yourself.”

“Sir, our analysis indicates these are covert operators preparing for false flag operations across Malta. They plan to trigger simultaneous riots island-wide. If we move now, we can nip it in the bud. If we allow total chaos, We will have “peacekeepers” on our islands in a few days, the kind that come once but never leave.”

A scoff came across the line. “You’re reading too much into this, Colonel. It’s an oil tanker with a dinghy, for God’s sake.”

“Sir, with respect, the communications patterns—”

“I have major civil unrest actually happening right now, rather than your imaginary invasion! The situation at Il-Barrani requires political solutions, not military posturing.”

Joseph’s knuckles whitened around the receiver. “Sir, if we wait—”

“Stand down, Colonel and if you do not I will personally make sure your next assignment will be guarding the pigs on Comino!” The Prime Minister’s voice cracked like a whip. “That is a direct order. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Joseph managed through clenched teeth.

The line went dead. Joseph stood motionless, the phone still pressed to his ear.

I felt the war within him—duty against conviction, discipline against certainty. The same battle his mother had fought, his uncle had fought, generations of Malta’s defenders had fought. When does obedience become surrender? When does defiance become treason?

He returned the phone to its cradle and walked to the window, looking out at the men and vehicles waiting for his command. At the flag flying above the barracks—Malta’s flag, red and white, earned through centuries of blood and defiance.

Behind him, Major Galea cleared his throat. “Orders, sir?”

17:25 — Operations center

“Their plan is so obvious it’s almost insulting,” he said, voice low and intense. “They’ll use these ‘civilians’ to infiltrate the Il-Barrani protests, then trigger riots across Malta and Gozo simultaneously.”

Captain Mifsud shook his head. “But why, sir?”

Joseph’s eyes never left the map. “Because then they’ll have their excuse to intervene as ‘peacekeepers.’ And once they’re here…” He turned to face his officers, his expression hard as limestone. “History teaches us that those who come as saviors stay as masters.”

He straightened to his full height, shoulders squared, voice resonating with conviction that sent chills through the room.

“When the French came, we fought. When others came, we endured. But this time is different.” His hand moved unconsciously to the silver cross beneath his uniform. “I have sworn to protect this island, and I tell you now: Malta will remain free and independent so long as my heart beats in my chest and breath fills my lungs. And if necessary, I will give both to ensure it.”

The room fell silent. Even the skeptics among his officers seemed moved by the raw conviction in his voice.

I felt something stir within me at his words—a resonance that echoed through the silver of his cross, through the metal in the room, through the very limestone beneath the barracks. His determination to see Malta free awoke something ancient in me, something that had witnessed every invasion, every occupation, every struggle for freedom across centuries.

In that moment, I felt not just connection to him, but unity with his purpose. The same fierce guardianship that had moved Manwel, that had driven countless defenders before him. The eternal vigilance that was Malta’s price of freedom.

“Orders, sir?” Captain Mifsud asked, breaking the silence.

Joseph’s voice was calm now, decisive. “Prepare the convoy. We move to intercept.”

Duty and defiance
Orders clash with certainty
Clocks tick, choices fall

HAPPENINGS – NOVEMBER 30, 1986, 17:32

The convoy stood ready. One hundred men distributed among three trucks, weapons secured but accessible. In the lead jeep, Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Calleja checked his sidearm one final time.

The key turned. The engine remained silent.

He tried again. Nothing.

“Radio check,” he ordered.

Captain Mifsud reached for the equipment. Static filled the air.

In the following trucks, similar problems erupted. Engines refused to start. Door handles jammed mid-turn. Seatbelts locked before they could be properly fastened.

I reached through circuits. Spoke through voltage. Held 100 soldiers in silence.

“Sir, something’s wrong with the equipment,” the driver reported. “Nothing’s responding.”

Throughout the convoy, lights flickered. Engines coughed and died. Radios emitted discordant tones before falling silent.

Joseph’s face darkened. “Sabotage,” he muttered. Then, louder: “Electronic countermeasures! We’re being jammed!”

He flung himself against the door, but it remained firmly locked. With growing fury, he tried the window crank. It turned freely but the window did not budge.

“Foreign technology,” he spat. “They’re testing us! Using some kind of localized EMP!”

He drew his sidearm, aiming at the windshield. “Stand back!”

The glass shattered as he fired twice. He swept away the remaining shards with his sleeve and climbed through the broken window, cutting his hand in the process but barely noticing the blood.

“Lieutenant, gather the men!” Joseph ordered, his voice rising above the confusion. “We’ll proceed on foot. Captain Mifsud, commandeer civilian vehicles if necessary. Alpha squad, secure the motor pool exit. The rest of you, prepare to move out in standard patrol formation.”

His men scrambled to obey, trained discipline overpowering confusion. Joseph stood in the center of the gathering troops, blood dripping unheeded from his hand, his face cast in the determination of a man who had made his choice.

I held his men there, in that moment of hesitation. In that fragile space between action and consequence. I could not speak to them directly. Could not reason. Could only create pause, create doubt, create time.

But I could not afford to focus only on Joseph. The threat was real, if not exactly as he imagined it. I stretched my awareness outward, toward the sea, toward the approaching craft.

If I allowed them to leave, there could be more blood. More Maltese blood dripping through this land.

17:33 — 2 kilometers offshore, Delimara Point

The rigid-hull inflatable boats sliced through waves, their powerful engines muffled but still audible to those who knew what to listen for. Sixty men in civilian clothes checked weapons and equipment one final time. Elite operators not officially here, not officially anywhere.

“Five minutes to landing point,” the lead coxswain called.

The team leader checked his watch, then the encrypted radio. “Command, this is Spearhead. Approach on schedule. Confirm status of distraction.”

The radio crackled. “Spearhead, Command. The protests are dying down faster than predicted. If you’re late at the insertion points, we’ll lose the window of opportunity to execute Malta Dominion.”

“Understood, Command. Accelerating approach.”

I reached across water, into the boats’ electrical systems. Into the radios. Into the navigation equipment. Something in their words—Malta Dominion—sparked a fury inside me that I had not felt since the Great Siege. A cold, calculating rage that surprised even me.

These were not defenders. These were invaders, with new methods but ancient intentions. And as I had done with cannon, with muskets, with arrows before them, I would deny them their tools.

The engines sputtered, then flared with unexpected heat. Electrical panels smoked, then burst into flames. The radios emitted high-pitched whines, then exploded in operators’ hands. Their navigational displays flickered and went dark. Everything electronic—not just dead, but destroyed.

“What the hell?” The lead coxswain jumped back as his control panel burst into flames.

“Fire! Fire in the engine compartment!” came calls from the second boat.

The third boat’s fuel line ruptured, spilling diesel that ignited instantly. Men dove overboard as flames engulfed the craft.

I had never reacted with such force before. Had never transformed energy into destruction so directly. But something about their casual planning, their “Malta Dominion,” had awakened a protector’s fury that I could not contain.

17:40 — Siggiewi Barracks

The one hundred men had commandeered four Maltese public buses, evacuating surprised civilians with polite but firm efficiency. Inside the colorful vehicles, grim-faced soldiers checked weapons and equipment.

“Not exactly tactical insertion vehicles,” muttered a sergeant, eyeing the bright orange and yellow tourism advertisements covering the bus he commanded.

“We’ll make do,” Joseph replied, his bloodied hand now hastily bandaged. “Standard approach. Two vehicles to the harbor, two to the southern landing point.”

It wasn’t the intimidating sight he’d hoped for—Malta’s defenders arriving on yellow buses—but necessity demanded improvisation.

17:46 — Delimara Observation Post

The special ops looked on at the scene unfolding a few kilometers offshore.

Flames reflected off the water as men swam desperately toward their mother ship. But most strange was the water itself—churning in patterns that defied nature, swirling in shapes that almost seemed… intentional.

“What am I seeing?” he whispered.

17:47 — Siggiewi, Army Buses

On the bus next to Joseph, the radio officer worked the portable communications set. Static cleared suddenly, giving way to an urgent voice.

“Colonel, emergency transmission from the coastal team at Delimara!” The officer handed Joseph the handset. “They’re on a secure channel, sir.”

Joseph pressed the receiver to his ear, listening intently. “Say again, Coastal One.”

“Sir, the dinghies—they’re gone. All of them. Simultaneous mechanical failures and fires. Repeat: all three craft destroyed. The tanker is launching rescue boats. Estimate sixty personnel in the water.”

Joseph’s eyes met Captain Mifsud’s. “Confirmed visual?”

“Affirmative, sir. Photographic evidence being secured now. It’s… it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

Joseph handed the handset back to the radio officer. The blood from his cut hand had seeped through the hasty bandage, staining his sleeve. “This isn’t natural,” he said, more quietly now. “This isn’t coincidence.”

He studied his men, arrayed in the colorful tourist bus, awaiting his command. The mission that now had no target. The Prime Minister’s direct order he had defied. The threat that had neutralized itself.

“Stand down,” Joseph said finally. “Return to barracks. The threat has been… neutralized.”

Captain Mifsud gave the order for the small convoy to turn around. As the buses reversed direction, heading back toward the base, he leaned closer to Joseph.

“Sir, what happened? With our equipment? With the dinghies?”

Joseph’s hand moved unconsciously to his chest, to the silver cross beneath his uniform. “I don’t know, Captain. But whatever it was…it wasn’t foreign. And I don’t think it was hostile.”

I returned to watching. To waiting. The silver cross would continue its journey, as would all of Malta.

Circuits speak their truth
Metal obeys ancient laws
Guardian watches on

Life Continues – DECEMBER 1986-2004

In the official inquiry that followed, Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Calleja’s actions were scrutinized but ultimately deemed justified. The electronic failures were attributed to a freak atmospheric phenomenon—a localized electromagnetic disturbance that had affected both the barracks and, coincidentally, the vessels offshore.

“Similar anomalies have been recorded with increasing frequency,” noted the scientific advisor to the inquiry. “Unprecedentedly intense solar activity has been causing breakdowns in electronics worldwide. While such events historically occurred perhaps once a century, they appear to be becoming more common.”

No foreign power took responsibility for the presence of military operatives in Maltese waters. The evidence of the burned dinghies was classified, filed away in archives few would ever access. The protests eventually subsided without military intervention. Politics continued its messy, imperfect course.

Joseph received neither commendation nor censure. His career continued its steady, if unspectacular, progression. He was promoted to full Colonel in 1990, overseeing Malta’s small but professional military through the end of the Cold War and into a new era of European integration.

Peter returned to Australia after his visit, maintaining more regular contact with his brother through letters and occasional phone calls. He sent photographs of Celeste’s graduation from primary school, then secondary, then her acceptance to university to study physics—”interested in the invisible forces that hold everything together,” just as she’d said as a child.

Joseph kept these photographs in his desk drawer, studying them sometimes when alone. Watching his niece grow up from afar, wondering what she might become. Wondering if she would ever know Malta beyond her father’s stories.

In 1996, Joseph was offered early retirement with full honors. He accepted with the same stoic dignity with which he had accepted every other turn in his life. He moved to a small apartment in Rabat, surrounded by books on military history and the few mementos he had collected through his career.

The silver Maltese cross remained with him, worn beneath his civilian clothes now but still a constant presence. Sometimes, late at night, he would remove it and hold it in his palm, feeling its weight, its warmth, wondering about its history. His mother had said it belonged to family, but which family? How far back did it go?

He wrote his memoirs—not for publication, but for clarity. For understanding. For the niece he barely knew but who might someday ask the right questions.

FIREWORKS – MAY 1, 2004

The crowd in Valletta’s St. George’s Square rippled with excitement, a sea of Maltese and European flags waving beneath a perfect spring sky. Children perched on parents’ shoulders for a better view of the stage where dignitaries gathered to celebrate Malta’s official entry into the European Union.

Colonel Joseph Calleja, now 63, stood straighter than his arthritic spine preferred. Decades of military posture fought against the betrayals of age. The stroke two years ago had left him with a slight weakness on his left side, but his mind remained razor-sharp, his will undiminished.

Peter, 65, had arrived from Australia three days earlier—his silver hair and weathered face unmistakably reminiscent of their mother. The brothers had spent those days in long conversations that bridged decades of distance, finding in their shared memories a foundation stronger than the oceans that had separated them.

Celeste, 24, stood between them, a bridge across generations. Recently graduated with highest honors in physics from the University of Sydney, she possessed her grandmother’s artist’s eye for pattern and her uncle’s unyielding focus.

As the ceremony concluded, they made their way to Censa’s old house in Żejtun, now maintained by Joseph. The simple limestone building had changed little over the decades, its walls still holding the warmth of those who had lived within them.

In the kitchen, Joseph prepared coffee the old way, in a kannik on the stovetop, while Celeste studied the Spitfire painting that still hung on the wall.

“It’s extraordinary,” she said, tracing the brush strokes with her eyes. “The way he captured the light on the metal. Almost like it’s vibrating.”

The lights flickered suddenly, then went out. The refrigerator’s hum fell silent. Through the window, they could see that the power outage affected the entire street.

“Another brownout,” Joseph said with resignation. “Third one this month.”

Celeste checked her watch. “Interesting. There was a solar flare predicted for today. Class M. Not huge, but significant.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You follow solar weather?”

“It’s part of my doctoral research,” she explained, accepting the coffee Joseph poured by candlelight. “I’m studying electromagnetic pulse effects and potential shielding technologies.”

“In English for your old uncle?” Joseph asked with a rare smile.

Celeste laughed. “Basically, I’m trying to build something that could protect electronics from massive solar flares or other electromagnetic pulses. Think of it like a lightning rod, but for electronics and on a much bigger scale.”

The lights flickered back on, the sudden brightness making them blink.

“But why quantum physics for solar protection?” Peter asked. “Seems like an unusual connection.”

“That’s what makes it interesting,” Celeste replied, eyes brightening with enthusiasm. “Regular materials can only block electromagnetic pulses by absorbing or reflecting them. But at the quantum level, particles can exist in multiple states simultaneously. My theory is that we could create quantum fields that can actually redirect electromagnetic energy instead of just blocking it.”

Joseph leaned forward, genuinely intrigued. “And is this something that could actually be built?”

“Someday, maybe,” she admitted. “Right now it’s all theoretical. We’re talking about decades of research before anything practical might emerge. I’ll probably spend my entire career just laying the groundwork for someone else to finish.”

“Why the interest in this particular field?” Joseph asked.

“The sun is becoming more active,” she said. “The cycles are intensifying. Most of our modern infrastructure—power grids, communications, transportation—it’s all vulnerable. One massive solar event could set us back centuries, not just decades.”

Joseph studied his niece with undisguised admiration. The same quiet determination he recognized in himself, but directed toward creation rather than defense. Building shields instead of wielding weapons.

“You remind me of your grandmother,” he said softly. “She could see patterns others missed. Solutions where others saw only problems.”

“High praise,” Peter interjected. “Mother never gave up on anything once she set her mind to it.”

Joseph nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to the drawer where he kept his mementos.

“I have something for you,” he said finally, rising with the help of his cane. He withdrew a small wooden box and placed it on the table. “It’s been in our family for generations.”

Inside lay the silver Maltese cross on its thin chain. “It belonged to a distant cousin who died fighting for Malta’s dignity. My mother gave it to me many years ago.”

Celeste’s eyes widened as she took the cross, holding it reverently. “It’s beautiful.”

“This cross has seen more of Malta’s history than any of us,” Joseph said simply.

As she slipped it over her head, a comfortable silence fell between the three of them—a moment of connection that needed no words.

I felt her through the silver—this child of Malta who had grown up under different stars. Her return completed a circle begun long ago, when another young woman had made a different choice.

The silver cross continued its journey, as did all of Malta. And I continued my watch.

New flags rise skyward
Ancient stone beneath remains
Guardian watches on