The War After Armageddon

EIGHTEEN

“Salaam Aleikum!” Suleiman al-Mahdi said as he rose from his nest of cushions. Instead of his uniform, the emir-general wore layered white robes trimmed in gold. Crossing the room to greet Montfort properly, he switched to English: “The hours I have waited for you, my friend, allowed me to ponder the distance our journeys have taken us!”

The emir-general approached with open arms, as if to embrace Montfort. But just when al-Mahdi’s heels stopped clacking on the tile floor, he shifted to the posture for a handshake. The Arab’s grip was firm, distinctly unlike the pudgy Saudi paws Montfort recalled from an earlier war. Al-Mahdi’s robes accented, rather than concealed, his slump-shouldered build. He had the eyes of a successful pawnbroker.

“I hope your immediate journey was not too difficult?” the Arab said. He released his grip on Montfort and swept his right hand toward a wall. “This house is very dear to me. It belonged to my grandfather, you know. The Royal Jordanian general. I loved to visit in my youth. The water here is very sweet, the people respectful. But please! Sit down, General Montfort.”

Al-Mahdi gestured toward a low table laden with plates of fruit and ceramic carafes. Tea steamed, delivered just as Montfort’s he li -cop ter throbbed in for a landing. Montfort faced a choice of a cushioned divan, less plush than al-Mahdi’s own, or a chair with gilt arms and a striped satin seat, a knockoff of a reject from Versailles.

Montfort took the chair. The emir-general dropped back onto his throne of cushions. A black grape fell onto the tabletop, an extravaganza of mother-of-pearl inlay. The Sunni Arabs Montfort had encountered over the years presented themselves as Islam’s Calvinists, but their appetite for florid interiors hinted at private indiscipline.

Veering east from the Jordan Valley, the flight up the Wadi al Tayyibah had been difficult for the pilots, who had to scrape the neglected fields below the wadi’s walls to evade the MOBIC’s own radar coverage. But Montfort had felt nothing resembling worry. He had no fear of death, although his dismissal of it had more to do with pride than with his faith.

“You look weary, my friend,” al-Mahdi told him. The emir-general leaned toward the table and lifted a bowl of dates. “Please. Let me offer you nourishment. You are my guest, after all. In my grandfather’s house, we cannot be enemies. And I had these dates brought in just for your pleasure. They come from the finest grove between the Tigris and Euphrates, not far from Baghdad. Where, I’m told, you acquired a taste for them, when you were a young warrior.”

Montfort shook his head. No, thank you. Al-Mahdi smiled. Amused. After setting down the bowl, he brought a glistening date to his lips, bit into its flesh, and sucked away half of the dense, brown pulp. After swallowing, he said, “You see, General Montfort? They are not poisoned. Neither my duty as a host nor my judgment would permit such a thing. And, truth be told, assassinations have never brought my faith lasting successes. They were our version of what your military used to call ‘surgical strikes.’ Or ‘decapitation strikes,’ to be still more precise. Just as such shortcuts did not work for you, they also failed us. Although we quite liked to dance about and celebrate the death of this fellow or that.” He smiled again, finished the date, then said, “No, the easy solutions never work. Do they? We must grip our problems in their entirety and act boldly if we want results that endure. But you do look weary—some tea, at least?”

Montfort reached for his cooling glass of tea. “I need to confirm that everything’s on track.”

“But do try a date. They’re wondrous. On track? You rather exceeded our agreement regarding Jerusalem. But I ascribe that to uncontrollable enthusiasm. In the future, however, I will expect our agreement to be honored ‘to the letter,’ as your diplomats like to say.”

“Jerusalem was always to be ours. To administer as we see fit.”

“Well, then, you’ve simplified your task, I suppose. You haven’t left a great deal to administer. But done is done.”

“Since we’re on the subject of things not going quite as planned,” Montfort said, “I have to tell you that there’ll be a slight delay in Nazareth. In eliminating your target group. General Harris is being obstinate.”

“You told me he would not last. That he would be removed.”

“Some things take time.”

“Do you have the time? Do we?”

Montfort tasted the tea. Too sweet. Like mint syrup. “I’ll take care of Nazareth. And General Harris.”

Al-Mahdi finished his own remaining tea in a gulp. And he sighed. “I allowed for difficulties in Nazareth, given the tender sentiments of General Harris. We’ve taken certain measures of our own. To simplify your task. But I wonder about this ‘Flintlock’ Harris. He seems a clever fellow. Moreso than I was led to expect.”

“He’s not. Astute, perhaps. But certainly not clever.”

“But isn’t that a more dangerous quality? To be astute? Doesn’t Aristotle tell us that cleverness precludes depth? In The Poetics, I think. Although I hope you will not pin me down. A clever man will outwit himself in the end. But an astute fellow?”

“I’ve never read Aristotle.”

“Aristotle is a waste of time. But one remembers what one is forced to learn. My point is that there may be more to General Harris than his portrayal as a ‘simple soldier’ has led us to believe.”

“I’ve known Gary Harris for over thirty years. Don’t worry about him. His sense of duty will be his undoing.”

“He sounds like a Jihadi.”

“Don’t worry about Harris.”

“I don’t worry about him. I merely wonder about him. As I have said. But don’t you find it pleas ur able to analyze your enemies, General Montfort? To solve the marvelous puzzle of the man who seeks to kill you and your kind?”

“What would I find if I analyzed you? Right now?”

“You would find a man asking himself if you will deliver all that you have promised, after you have received all that you have been promised.”

“You’ll get everything we agreed to. Once we have Damascus.”

“And your Air Force will support me? When I march against the sultan in Baghdad? And when I reckon with the Shia heretics to the east? What will you tell your associates in the Pentagon, in Washington?”

“That we’re helping Muslims destroy each other.”

Al-Mahdi’s smile returned, spreading his whis kers. “Exactly right. But you and I understand the importance—the indispensible nature—of purifying our faiths. How many Christians do you think you will have to destroy? In the end?”

“Not so many.”

“That is how it begins. With ‘not so many.’ But there is always another apostate, a heretic, a renegade… another traitor. Myself, I expect to go on killing for the rest of my life. The struggle is never done. And there is neither tragedy nor dishonor in such a struggle that finds no end. On the contrary: A faith that triumphed completely would go to sleep—that was the tragedy of the Arab world in our days of greatness, you know. We were so successful that we just dozed off. And when we awoke, having slept through the Ottoman centuries, we found that the French and English, and, later, you Americans had crept into our house and stolen everything we expected to have for ‘breakfast, lunch, and dinner,’ as you put it.” He picked up a date but delayed lifting it to his mouth. “One of your great founding fathers has written that your system of government must be refreshed now and then with the blood of patriots. So it is with religion: A healthy faith demands a struggle, an enemy, a Shaitan. Our religion—any religion—must be refreshed with the blood of heretics and infidels.” He grinned. “Were there no heretics left, we would have to create them. Were we deprived of infidels, we would have to imagine them. And we will, my brother. We must. Faith without struggle is the faith of a eunuch.”

“My faith tells me that neither of us will reach our goals if things go wrong during the next forty-eight hours.”

“I apologize for rambling. You’re right, of course. This is no time for chat. Tell me, then, where we are at this moment, General Montfort.”

Montfort sat wrapped in a blanket of exhaustion. Al-Mahdi’s philosophical pretensions had only annoyed him, every word a weight on his eyelids. He wished he had a glass of hot tea now. But he was not about to ask for one.

“At this moment, I need al-Ghazi to hold Harris’s forces as close to their current positions as possible. Whatever it takes.”

“Easy enough to say! But my men are suffering, such losses cannot be sustained.” The emir-general shifted on his cushions. “I need to preserve my own forces. For the other battles to come.”

“Well, I need you to hold Harris. Minimize his gains. Until 1800 hours today. Six p.m.”

“I understand ‘1800 hours.’ But your General Harris is a tough fellow, you know. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Everybody makes mistakes. Harris has made his share. He’ll make more.”

“Perhaps. But not on the battlefield.”

“I need you to hold him until 1800. That’s less than twelve hours.”

“And then?”

“My forces will conduct a forward passage of lines, and I’ll assume control of the attack in the north.”

“Of Harris’s corps, as well?”

“Not yet.”

“So… After 1800, all of the attacking units will be yours. From the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ. And we will begin to give way.”

Montfort nodded. “As we agreed. But they can’t just quit. Neither of us wants a bloodbath like we had over Jerusalem. But it has to look like a fight—as though my men have broken through where the Army couldn’t. On both axes of advance, with the initial main effort directed east to Tiberias and the supporting attack northeast along Highway 65, then swinging east into the Upper Galilee—at which point it becomes the main effort.”

“Militarily, of course, Tiberias is worthless to you. A dead end, except for the road that follows the lake. But your faith, like mine, is a powerful matter. And you will accompany this attack yourself? To stand where your Christ is said to have stood when he delivered his great admonition? Only, this time, with cameras to record the event? My friend, I almost expect you to walk on the waters of the Sea of Galilee. Surely, that would impress your audience at home.”

“You understand the importance of symbols as well as I do. Baghdad matters more than Damascus, for example.”

“I did not mean to be insulting. There are times when my attempts at humor in English have an awkward inflection. Forgive me.”

“Your last defensive positions facing my main attack will be on the ridge just west of the Sea of Galilee. That has to look like a serious fight. For the holy sites.” Montfort stretched across the table and pulled the bowl of dates within reach. Hoping a sugar high would get him through the rest of the meeting. And back to his headquarters.

“It will be up to your MOBIC forces, as well, to give the appearance of a great battle,” al-Mahdi said. “You must make it appear that you have employed overwhelming force. For my part, you will permit me to place some of my poorer units on this Galilee ridge for you to use as targets. I must preserve my elite units and formations. For the future.”

“Leave me the expendables. As long as it looks like a fight. To liberate the key Christian sites surrounding the Sea of Galilee. And don’t worry about overwhelming force. I’m going to mass so much combat power that you won’t have any explaining to do to anyone.” The dates were delicious. The taste carried him back to his days as a ju nior officer in Iraq. Montfort took another.

“Insh’ Allah, it will be exactly as you wish. A great show.”

“And the uprising in Baghdad? Is that on schedule?”

“If all goes as planned this day and this night on the battlefield, my supporters will rise tomorrow. Then I will be forced to withdraw beyond Damaskus, to march east to save the caliphate from anarchy. And you will help me with this great task.”

“Just give us the targets, and the Air Force will turn them into rubble.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the dates. They’re the best in the world, you know. But one mustn’t eat too many. Your flight back down the wadi might be unsettling. And you must be fit for tomorrow, so you can stand where your ‘Savior’ stood.”

“I have the constitution of a horse.”

“Not a purebred Arabian, I suppose. But you know, General Montfort, the notion of your Jesus Christ as your ‘Savior’ has always confused me, given your doctrine that ‘God helps those who help themselves’.”

“That isn’t doctrine. It’s just a saying.”

“But isn’t it your doctrine, General Montfort? Your personal doctrine? You suspect me of being an idle phi los o pher, but I know that I lack the quality of mind to be a theologian. There are so many contradictions, both in our Holy Koran and in your Bible. It’s much easier to be a general.” Al-Mahdi smiled with one side of his mouth. “But you are yourself a scholar. I know this. I have read your dissertation from Harvard University: ‘Case Studies in Governance Challenges After Successful Coups.’ Really, it’s full of profound insights. Especially into Muslims and our errors. I learned a great deal from it.” Suddenly, his smile, ever close to a sneer, became almost shy. “But I don’t suppose you have ever read my book? It has been printed in the French language, but not, I regret, in English.”

“Sorry. I haven’t read it.”

Al-Mahdi waved it away as of no concern. “Perhaps, when all this is done, I will provide an English translation for you. I think you would find it of interest.”

“What’s it about?”

“How Arabs turned defeat into victory in the late twelfth century. Of course, I wrote it as a younger man, and young men fail to appreciate the complexity of Allah’s creation.”

“We all make mistakes when we’re young.”

“Did you? Really? I find it difficult to imagine you as a young man, to begin with. You possess a gravity a fellow can only envy, General Montfort.”

Montfort returned his counterpart’s smile. “It’s not gravity at the moment. It’s exhaustion.”

“Then I am doubly in your debt for your willingness to make this journey to accommodate me.” The emir-general stood up. “You need to return to your troops. To prepare your offensive. Do you really intend to move into the attack so quickly? After your long advance up the Jordan Valley? Won’t you need more time? To refuel, to rearm. To catch your breath, as they say.”

“Not if you live up to your part of the bargain.”

“If you’ll permit me the observation, I’m concerned that you may be impatient. Neither of us can afford problems. We must remain methodical. Perhaps al-Ghazi’s units could hold Harris for another night, and your attack could commence tomorrow? I’m willing to make that sacrifice, should you deem it necessary to guarantee against failure.”

“We attack at 1800. Today. Just do your part. And I’ll do mine.”

“And then, Insh’ Allah, we will see American aircraft over Baghdad again. History repeating itself.”

Montfort grunted. “Not if you provide better targeting data.”

“You will have no worries on that account. But I wonder, General Montfort, when will we meet again? The ambitions that brought us together will pull us asunder now. Physically, I mean. Anyway, I shall send you a translation of my book, when all of this dust has settled. I’ll commission one, just for you. Something for you to remember me by, as they say. But I will walk you out.”

As they went, side by side, Montfort said, “We despise each other.”

“Of course. But it’s a curious matter. We respect each other, as well. Respect for the corresponding abilities, for the other’s vision to see beyond the moment. But distaste for the reflection we discover of the self. You and I are condemned, General Montfort, to be men of action. Too much introspection would hardly suit us. It’s a frailty I struggle against.”

The glare of the morning sun on the barren hills that had once been Jordan stunned their eyes. At the sight of Montfort, his he li -cop ter crew immediately set off the rising whine that would bring the rotors to life.

“By the way,” al-Mahdi continued, “you don’t really plan to hand your new possessions back to the Jews, do you? Isn’t that what you’ve promised them, that the state of Israel will be reborn? In return for their support?”

“The Jews killed Christ,” Montfort said. “We’re going to remind them.”

“Sir,” Command Sergeant Major Bratty said to his battalion Commander, “it’s not your fault. That was a setup from the get-go. Those MOBIC pukes were going to get whacked no matter what you did.”

Overnight, the heaviest sounds of war had rolled east—except for the friendly artillery batteries firing from forward positions down in the Jezreel.

“It’s still my fault. I lost my temper.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“The truth is,” Lieutenant Colonel Pat Cavanaugh said, “that Flintlock Harris should’ve booted me out of the Army back in Bremerhaven. I lost my temper with some Germans the same way.”

“The Krauts get waxed?”

“No. Harris grabbed me by the stacking swivel.”

“Too bad.”

Cavanaugh shrugged. “Even if it was a setup, I played right into their hands. Whoever was behind it.”

“MOBIC’s my bet. Blue on blue. They’re working so many scams they’ve probably started scamming each other.”

“Your hand hurting, Sergeant Major?”

“It’s the damnedest thing, sir. Sometimes I feel the fingers. Like they’re still there.”

“Your trigger finger, too. And your joker-poker.”

“They’re the fingers that hold a guitar pick against your thumb. That’s what really pisses me off.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Bratty made a same-old-shit-for-breakfast face. “I’ll learn to play with my toes or something. The Jihadis are not going to fuck with my front-porch retirement plan.”

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, though. No matter how I cut it, I sent them out like sheep to the slaughter.”

“Sheep are meant to be slaughtered,” Bratty said. “The point is not to be a sheep. Look, sir. We’re all tired. And we’re all pissed. And we’ve drawn about the shittiest duty in this war so far, babysitting Arabs every soldier in this outfit would like to double-tap. And while we’re on the subject, I was amazed you didn’t deck that smart-ass Ranger major when he reported in. I’ll bet he’s a closet fag who drives a Volvo.”

“In his position, I would’ve been pissed off, too. This isn’t exactly a Ranger mission.”

“Well, he needs to suck it up. And I need you to buck up, sir. Don’t do this self-pity riff on me—because that’s what it sounds like, to tell you the truth. We can get right with our consciences later. You get any sleep?”

“Couple of hours.”

“How’s that coffee?”

“Bad beyond belief.”

“Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t want to think Sergeant Kiefer was losing his touch.”

“I’m going to shave and make the rounds. Want to come along?”

“I’d better stay here, sir. ‘At the still center of the turning world’.”

“That from one of the songs you wrote?”

The S-1 NCOIC approached the command vehicle.

“What now, Sergeant Yannis?” Bratty asked.

“Morning, sir… Sergeant Major. Sergeant Major, did you know the water’s still on? In the buildings? No shit. There’s still water coming through the pipes. With plenty of pressure.”

“I told everybody to stay out of the buildings. Let the rags alone.”

“The buildings are empty around here. The rags all took off. Back when they nailed up our guys, I’d bet.”

“I still don’t want anybody going on souvenir hunts.”

“Nobody’s stealing anything, Sergeant Major. There’s no looting or nothing.” The sergeant glanced at the battalion commander, then looked back at Bratty. “I just thought that, since it looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a while, maybe we could rotate people through for showers.”

“Showers?” Bratty cried, going into one of his favorite routines. “Jesus Christ! You’re just starting to smell like soldiers. I hear about any enlisted man in this battalion getting a shower before I personally hand him the soap, and he and his chain of command are going to wish they’d been captured by the J’s. Got that? You tell everybody in Hindquarters Company what I said.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.” The sergeant glanced at Cavanaugh again, then did an about-face and walked off. Radiating dejection like a disappointed kid.

“Fucking clerks,” Bratty said. “This is a goddamned Infantry battalion.”

“Why won’t you let them take showers? Just curious.”

Bratty looked at the battalion commander. “Sir, you’re a kick-ass officer. But you’d never make an NCO.”

“And why’s that?”

“You don’t think the right way. Look. All our grungies are going through a cold-turkey withdrawal after being in the fight for a couple of days. After the high comes the crash. They don’t know what they want, exactly, but tired as they are, they hear the fighting over that ridge, and it’s like laying down a scent in front of a pack of hounds. Makes them want to kill people and bust stuff. And right now, the closest people to hand that might be available for killing are the local yokels. Who, in the soldiers’ minds, are responsible for yesterday’s crucifixion scene. Under the circumstances, the task of a battalion sergeant major is to redirect the negative energies.”

“Which means?”

“I’d rather have our soldiers pissed at me and griping because I won’t let them wash their nasty asses than have them eyeing the rags and twitching their trigger fingers. Better for them to bitch about the hard-ass, pigheaded, unreasonable sergeant major.”

“Thanks for sharing your trade secrets. You know, Frederick the Great believed that his soldiers needed to fear their officers more than they did the enemy. Wouldn’t work in our Army, of course.”

“Sir, I don’t want them to fear me. Not exactly. I just want them to stop fantasizing about double-tapping rags and go back to dreaming about getting out of the Army and landing a job that, one fine day, puts them in a position to employ me in cleaning public toilets for the rest of my life.”

The battalion command channel crackled to life. It was the Charlie Company commander, Jake Walker.

“Bayonet Six, we got trouble in River City.” He sounded out of breath.

“What’s the situation?”

“They’re bringing corpses out of the houses. All over the place. You should hear them hollering and screaming.”

“What kind of corpses? Military?”

“No. Civilians. Kids. Old men. Everybody.”

“How many? How many corpses?”

“I don’t know… dozens… hundreds. They must’ve died during the night. Can’t you hear the screaming?”

“Hold tight,” Cavanaugh said. “And don’t touch any of the bodies. Get your men under positive control. No physical contact with the corpses. Keep your distance. Shoot anybody who gets too close. I’m on my way. Out.”

Cavanaugh turned to the sergeant major. “Get Doc Culver. Wherever he is. We’ve got an epidemic on our hands.”

As the two men exited the command vehicle and stepped into the cool, bright morning, they saw a soldier stagger out of a house, clutching madly at his stomach, then at his throat, then at his lower abdomen. Before anyone could reach him, he toppled to the ground.