Dear readers, beautiful things always end: like summer, so our "ucronica" column is coming to an end. Thanks to the dozens of you who have collaborated with enthusiasm!
We hope that the "re-reading" of the beginning of the tragic Libyan events in the 2011, in the aftermath of the Arab Spring, is to your liking.
Let's start with the reader Vasco:
17 March 2011: They are the 22 when a note from the Services (SS classification, "top secret") reaches the president of the Council by car. After 36 hours, the Libyan army would have suffered the first bombing by France.
"What a shock!" - whispers a young secretary to the president - "We usually find out this news 36 hours later and reading the newspapers ..."
"I was in Sharm el Sheikh last summer!" Says the cheater, giggling.
The prime minister's face is drawn, tired and disappointed. The reflections of the lights of a Parisian avenue mixed with the blue flashing lights of the escort, though muffled by the armored glass, flicker on a face that seems suddenly pale.
"A whole day spent preparing the speech in defense of Mu'ammar and these scoundrels don't even consult me ... Good morning!", He whispers.
Cars arrive at the reception. The president whispers some words to the head of the escort then, as a consummate actor, descending from the vehicle, he transfigures the expression and lets himself go into smiles and jokes even lighter than usual. The presence of (local) attractive women immediately catches the attention of the character who quickly becomes the soul of the party. After half an hour of toasts and jokes, the man seems to collapse on a side sofa. The doctor following tries to remove the glass from the uncertain Italian representative. After another couple of drinks, with embarrassment, the escort loads the small but decidedly bulky "Gasperino" into the car and heads towards the Italian embassy.
18 March 2011: It's the 23.50 when an explosion shaves the Italian embassy in Tripoli. Incidentally, no diplomatic staff member was present. Some Libyan guards remain slightly injured at the entrance.
19 March 2011: 09.55 Hours. While an uncertain condemnation of the Allies for the vile attack against Italian soil is consolidated, a large fleet headed by Nave Cavour shows flag to 12 miles from the Libyan coasts. Libyan police operations are suspended due to the constant overflight of Italian Harrier and Tornado on the skies of Tripoli and Benghazi.
14.00 hours. "CaXXarini Raus" operation: the Libyan skies are crossed by a dozen C130 and C27 of the Italian Air Force that parachute 200 heavily loaded among all those who have applied for embedding following the armed forces. At least half of them are thrown out by force.
20 March 2011: The news on the massacres and the violence by the Libyan rais military are denied by Italian reporters.
17.00 hours. In Piazza dei Martiri in Tripoli the Italian prime minister appears in the company of his friend and Libyan ally intent on kissing his hand. After six months he will be replaced by his son Saif al Islam.
October 2019: After 8 years, despite the global recession, the GDP of the two countries still travels with double-digit growth. One million seasonal workers (immigrants) continue to find income in Libya. Tens of thousands of people have not lost their lives and millions have not been victims of anarchy and endless barbarism.
The latter yes, it's really political fiction!
From our reader "San Michele":
Nicolas had known him for a lifetime: he was even marked on his cell phone. Not with the name, God forbid: so much that number was not registered to him, but to a "street girl" who for years no longer lived in France. Thus, with a certain embarrassment, Angela saw on the screen of the illustrious guest's smartphone the word "Merde" and let him answer.
"What do you want?" Nicolas asked in the tone of the villain who was just contacted by his betrayed ex-wife.
Then, silence. The Adam's apple, however, was eloquent: it went up and down, a sign of a nervous swallowing.
"I haven't received a message from you. And no e-mail. I have no idea what you're talking about. "
At this point Nicolas had his eyes wide open and his voice croaking, so much so that Angela jerked away from him, almost frightened.
"You can't ... you won't dare ... I don't know who sends you ..."
Nicolas was beside himself, to the point that Angela with a gesture asked all the staff to leave the room with her, to leave him alone.
The operation Achille Heel was just beginning. While Nicolas was still on the phone, Wikileaks published almost ten thousand pages on the complicated financial transactions of half a dozen clients of a French lawyer who became president of Republique. There was everything: transactions with countries subjected to sanctions, billion-dollar tax evasion, evidence of corruption by public officials and ministers, even illicit love affairs with girls, so to speak, under age. Nicolas would have discovered it after less than an hour: in the meantime, "Merde" would have seen the phone slam in the face, as if it were a vulgar blackmailer.
The NATO summit had been scheduled for days: Libya had to be "degheddaised" to the great advantage of the French and British. Only that David did not see the Parisian company coming. Where was he? He had not sent another representative to replace him. And then a British sherpa, member of MI6, approached the Prime Minister and showed him a "pizzino": Nicolas would not have come because "someone" had revealed the names of two characters infiltrated, separately, from Rome and Paris at the top of Syria: discovered, the two had surely died that morning under inhuman torture. There was a risk that even the best men in London would be discovered: David, taking advantage of the opportunity of Nicolas's absence, took his leave and left.
Meanwhile, Nicolas, with his grotesquely sweaty suit, had been trying in vain to contact "Merde" for almost eight hours. His "services" had shown him the list of men "terminated" between Rabat and Tehran in the last hours. There was a real risk of losing friendships and relationships cultivated since the end of the colonial empire ... And here, suddenly, a long-awaited call ...
"Tell me what you want: we're back in business ..."
In Rome, meanwhile, Silvio was preparing to visit Tripoli the next day: Mu'ammar had agreed to move to Rome, in a villa made available to him by the Government, protected by his men ... and his women. The loss of that double agent in Syria had been worth it, in order not to make Italy look like the driver of that astute maneuver. The operation Tallone d'Achille soon could have been a success. In the fall, perhaps, he would even have earned him the Nobel Peace Prize ...
In conclusion, the considerations of the reader Sergio Pession:
My humble opinion is that the only person who could really do anything to avoid the Italian birth was the too blackmailable Berlusconi.
With that (omissis) of the homeland of president of the republic that we had and a generous slice of the senate and parliament on his side, inventing an alternative scenario, perhaps with the secret services involved in incredible feats, I find it a stretch worthy of a summer romance.
Let's face it, with Crosetto taken off (which counted what mattered), no one was interested in the interests of the country, rather than to once again fuse Berlusconi. And the latter, too blackmailable and involved with Gaddafi, as well as for many other issues, was more than ever attackable.
Create a government crisis? Throw the (omissis) down from the stairwell? Poison 3 / 4 of the senators? Other ideas do not come to me and the risk of falling into ridicule remains.