Garcia listened to the firefight above him on the trail. That was where he belonged, he knew. But he couldn’t leave this man he didn’t like. Who was bleeding to death. Who should’ve bled to death already. The wounds were catastrophic, with half of each shoulder torn away.
His fellow Marine.
“I can’t find my legs nowhere, Mama…”
” “Hush up, sir. Please. Just be quiet. It’s all right.”
Revolted by what he found himself doing, Garcia eased down beside the lieutenant’s torso and lifted the man’s head into his lap. Blood spurted onto him like a hose filled with hot piss.
“My mama, she… she…”
“Yes, sir. She’s here now. She’s listening. She’s come to help you.”
“Mama… I tried to do right. I tried to do right, Mama. I tried to do right…”
“You did right. Everything’s all right now, sir. You’re going to be just fine.”
“Mama, I’ll do anything you say… please…”
“She just wants you to be quiet now. Just rest, now. Your legs are fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“I don’t feel right.” Suddenly, the lieutenant’s eyes widened. They looked perfectly clear in the light of the tracers and stars. “Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. It’s me. Sergeant Garcia.”
“It was my fault.”
“Sir, anybody—”
“It was my fault. I take full responsibility. I — am I bleeding?”
“You’re going to be fine, sir. Just take it easy.”
“You’re lying,” he said. “You can be court-martialed for lying to a superior.” And he died.
Garcia said the quickest prayer of his life, then clawed his way back up to the trail. Hoping his return trip wouldn’t collect any mines he’d missed on the way down.
He felt as though he’d been swimming in lukewarm soup. His wet uniform collected dust. Making mud-puppy fudge all over him.
“Corporal Gallotti?”
“Here, Sergeant.”
“Go up the line. Pass the word. As soon as Cropsey and Larsen open up from the flank, we’re going straight up that hill. Tell everybody to stay low but keep going. Tell them to keep their fires concentrated on the machine- gun position. Anything to the left is blue. Got that?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Go.”
Gallotti scuttled off. Garcia tried to dry his hands and his weapon so the slime wouldn’t screw him up. But the lieutenant’s blood had already gone sticky.
How long had the business been going on? Ten minutes? Garcia couldn’t judge. More like fifteen, he decided. He just hoped Cropsey had taken his time and worked well to the Jihadis’ rear. Larsen would do what Crospey said, Garcia knew.
A grenade exploded up the hillside, followed by another.
“Let’s go!” Garcia screamed. “Stay low. Let’s go, Marines!”
He scrambled up the steep slope, thighs burning, the muscles long tormented. A stream of tracers flirted above his head. But there was no more machine-gun fire.
Voices began to shout on the high ground. In Mussie-talk. At least two of them. The firing above them stopped.
Garcia heard Cropsey’s voice. “Stand the fuck up. Both of you.”
More Mussie-babble.
“Cease fire, cease fire,” Garcia shouted.
“I said for you to stand the fuck up.” Cropsey’s voice again. “Raise your hands. Let me see them.”
Garcia saw two shadows rise, silhouetted against the sky. Hands high. Two English-speaking
A weapon opened up. Two bursts. The Jihadis crumpled.
“Cease fire! Goddamnit.”
Breathing heavily, Garcia stumped the last twenty meters up the slope. Legs on fire.
Cropsey stood over the J’s. He watched the shadows where they lay, as if for signs of life. Weapon poised to fire again. He didn’t seem to register Garcia’s approach.
Garcia grabbed him by the upper arm. “What the fuck?”
“I thought they had weapons.”
“Their hands were in the goddamned air. I saw it.”
“I thought they had weapons, Sergeant.”
“Christ.”
“Anyway, they killed Barrett.”
“You just shot two men who were surrendering. The S-2—”
“Whose side are you on, Sergeant?” Cropsey demanded. “
“He’s dead. And you listen. Carefully,
Something in his tone of voice worked. He could feel Cropsey curling inward. Like a slug you tossed salt on. Maybe surviving Montebello was worth something, after all.
“Yeah, Sergeant,” Cropsey said. “I got it.”
Lieutenant General of the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ Simon Montfort stood on a ridge overlooking the flames as the suburbs of Jerusalem burned through the night. He could tell from the excited expressions exactly what his staff had come to report, but he let them wait a little longer. Illustrating his imperturbability, his destiny to command, his place in history. He understood the impression he made as the distant flames glinted off the three onyx crosses on his helmet. Tall, erect. The model of a Christian soldier.
At last, Montfort turned. Smiling calmly at his chief of staff. “What is it, James?”
“Sir, we’ve taken the Temple Mount.”
Montfort nodded. His smile neither widened nor weakened. The sounds of battle from the middle distance were, indeed, far weaker than they had been even an hour earlier.
Montfort fell to his knees, setting his right fist over his heart, in the attitude of a MOBIC soldier in prayer. Eyes turned Heavenward. Into the red-tinged darkness.
“Lord God of hosts, we give thanks unto You for the glory of this day. Accept this, Your city, as our humble offering. Amen.”
“Amen,” his staff echoed.
Montfort rose. Taller than any of his immediate subordinates.
All of whom had been carefully chosen. For a number of qualities beyond their zealous faith.
“When the sun rises,” he said, “I want no stone, no brick — not one splinter — left standing where the enemies of Christ erected their temple. We will erase the Dome of the Rock from history. Praise the Lord.”
“Praise the Lord!” his staff echoed. The Guardians, well-armed, repeated the phrase from the shadows.
“Go now,” Montfort said. “Each man to his toil in the vineyards of the Lord.”
And after each had gone but one, that man came to Montfort. His eyes asked if he might approach.
“What is it, James?”
“Sir… I need a decision about the locals. We’ve got at least twenty thousand of them on our hands. Maybe as many still hiding in the city. We can’t put it off any longer. We need to decide where to move them.”
“We’re not going to move them,” Montfort said.
“But… Jerusalem was to be purified…”
