The War After Armageddon

Unsure of himself, al-Ghazi raised his voice. “You had no right to use nuclear weapons, no authority. Only the caliph and sultan can give that permission. You’ve handed the Crusaders the excuse they wanted to destroy our cities. Their arsenal is huge, and ours is empty now. Millions of the Faithful will die.”

“General al-Ghazi, is your faith so weak? Do you really believe the Christian god is stronger than Allah? Or worse, that He is the same? Do you believe that old heresy, that we’re all ‘People of the Book,’ that the Revelation of the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, counts for nothing? Allah is the only god. And He has turned from the Christians, given them up to Shaitan. Look at them! They worship hollow statues and crosses! What kind of worshipper drinks the blood of his Lord?”

“You didn’t answer the charge. They’ll destroy our cities. This city.”

“And what are a few cities, or a hundred cities, if the True Faith triumphs in the end? You know the verse from the Holy Koran: ‘This world is but a sport and a pasttime.’ The weak must be purged, by fire. And then the faithful will rise up, from Dakar to Djakarta, and the sword of Islam shall rise with them.”

“You betrayed the sultan.”

Al-Mahdi sat back in his great leather chair. “You weary me. How could I betray myself?”

“What?”

“You haven’t heard? Oh, my dear General al-Ghazi! Our beloved caliph and sultan, Hamid III, was called to Paradise and his eternal reward. During the night. An unexpected, but, I am told, a peaceful, merciful death, Allah be praised! Humble creature that I am — the least of Allah’s creations — I’ve been acclaimed his replacement.”

“By who?”

“By the army.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Really? Perhaps you should ask these loyal officers who brought you to me!”

Unsettled — alarmed now — al-Ghazi looked around the room. His deputy had a pistol trained on him. The other officers, his officers, did nothing.

“It’s always an error,” al-Mahdi said, “for soldiers to mix them-selves up in politics. And when they do, there must be consequences.” He reached for a buzzer on his desk and pressed it. “I want you to hear something.”

The room fell silent, opening its ears to the uproar of the terrified city beyond the compound’s walls. Panic was contagious.

Then the scream began. Resounding from another room, somewhere along the hallway. It was a scream of unearthly power, pausing only to gasp for air. It was a muezzin’s call from Hell.

Al-Ghazi swallowed hard.

“Your cousin,” the emir-general said, “Colonel al-Tikriti, has been a poor secret policeman. And in war time, failure must be punished. I’m having him flayed alive.” Al-Mahdi looked al-Ghazi in the eyes. “Of course, worse things can happen to a man.”

Al-Ghazi reached for his holster and snapped it open. Before he could extract his pistol, his deputy shot him. Other bullets punched his flesh as he toppled, and he struck the marble with an astounded smile: He hadn’t intended to shoot al-Mahdi. It was too late for that. He had hoped to kill himself.

Fallen and bleeding and unable to move, he could only hope that he had been mortally wounded.

ASSAULT COMMAND POST, SHQIF ARNUN (BEAUFORT CASTLE),

IN THE FORMER LEBANON

For the first time in his career, Major General Monk Morris felt he had lost irretrievably. He even caught himself gnawing his finger-nails, a child’s habit broken at the Naval Academy.

He stepped back into the communications shelter.

“Have you reached them?”

The captain on the radio set shook his head. “No, sir. We’re trying, but the jamming’s back full blast.”

“Keep trying. No Marine gets left behind. We have confirmed receipt of the withdrawal order from everybody else?”

“Yes, sir. Everybody. They’re moving.”

“Keep trying to reach Maguire. Those are good Marines.”

“Yes, sir.”

The deputy operations officer approached Morris. “Sir, we’ve got to break this thing down and move ourselves.”

Morris flicked two fingers at the man, his personal gesture of approval. It looked like the blessing of a lazy priest.

“And sir?”

“Yes, Jack?”

“Sir, Dawg Daniels went down over Quneitra. A drone got him. His wingman called it in.”

Morris closed his eyes. But only for a moment. “His exec’s got the throttle?”

“Yes, sir. We’re bringing all the returning aircraft into the field outside Tyre. The SeaBees patched up the runway. Enough to get them down.”

Morris nodded. “All right, Jack. Boots and saddles.”

His subordinate looked at the general in astonishment. Then he smiled. Tentatively.

“Sir, you’re talking Army.”

Morris smiled back. “I know. It’s just a phrase I picked up from someone I admire. Think I’ll keep it.”

“I guess we did have Horse Marines. Back when.”

“A little before my time. I’m going to step outside for a few minutes.”

The day was hot and clear, with sudden dust devils playing pranks on the stillness. The ruins of the old Crusader fortress rose above the mobile headquarters, dwarfing it. The fanatics were in charge on both sides now. Again.

“It just never fucking ends,” Morris said out loud, to no one.

TWENTY-FOUR

NAZARETH