The War After Armageddon

al-Ghazi refused to succumb to the fantasies and wishful thinking that had haunted too many failed champions of Islam. But he had regained his self-assurance since the day before, when he had wondered if the Crusaders would manage to destroy all civilization this time, to return the Dar al-Islam to enslavement and barbarism. Based on the recent moves of this “Military Order of the Brothers in Christ,” it now seemed clear that al-Mahdi understood his opponent with the insight that Saladin had brought to bear on those proud knights of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

May these Crusaders perish as miserably, al-Ghazi thought.

And Harris? Did they understand him, too? The American general seemed such a simple man. Dull, even. No man with whom to share a pleasant evening. Yet, he had a reputation as a great soldier. Al-Ghazi didn’t intend to underestimate him as the pig Montfort, the Butcher of al-Quds, underestimated the emir-general.

Let them come, al-Ghazi thought, and we will give them their catastrophe, Insh’ Allah.

He buzzed for his aide. The young officer rushed in, as if afraid of being lashed. He was as pretty as a girl from the mountains above Suleimaniye.

“Is there any word from Nazareth?” al-Ghazi asked. “About the American reaction?”

“No, General. Nothing. Nothing yet.”

“Then leave me.”

“Excuse me, please, General.”

Al-Ghazi raised one thick eyebrow.

“Colonel al-Tikriti has been waiting for you,” the aide continued. As nervous as a virgin on her wedding night. “I told him you were not to be disturbed. But he said that it was important, that he would wait.”

“For Colonel al-Tikriti, I always have time,” al-Ghazi lied. “Send him to me. In a moment. First, leave me and shut the door.”

Al-Ghazi got up and straightened his uniform as he walked to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. Yes, all was in order. He looked as a soldier should look. As a general should look. The emir-general looked like a holy man masquerading as an officer, with his unkempt beard and scholar’s rounded shoulders. Yet, al-Mahdi was right about so many things.

There had to be hatred. Al-Mahdi understood that. The hatred had to cut so deep that Shaitan would never again be able to insinuate himself with the lie that Muslims could live side by side with those of other faiths. An Islam that did not rule was not Islam. An Islam that was not free of impurities was not Islam. An Islam sick with infidels and their practices was not Islam. Look what “cooperation” and “tolerance” had wrought: nothing but misery and betrayal for the children of Allah.

As for all those who had argued for “building bridges” and “peace through understanding,” the falsely educated, the Westernizers, the traitors, al-Ghazi would’ve been pleased to kill them by his own hand. But the emir was right about that, as well.

Better to let the Americans do it.

His aide knocked. Al-Ghazi posed himself, standing, behind his desk.

“Come in!”

The door opened. Colonel al-Tikriti, his personal intelligence officer and a cousin by marriage, spread his mustache with a great smile, answered by a smile of al-Ghazi’s own. The general stepped out from behind the desk, opening his arms in greeting. He knew exactly how many paces it took to make a guest feel welcome according to his station. Al-Tikriti would need to come two-thirds of the way across the room to meet him.

After they embraced and kissed, the colonel’s smile disappeared. And when he spoke, it was in a whisper.

“The emir is up to mischief with the Crusaders. He’s been in contact with one of them for months.”

Al-Ghazi stepped back. As if he had embraced a man covered in plague sores.

“How could you know this?” he demanded.

Colonel al-Tikriti smiled. It was a smaller, harder smile this time.

“Cousin, when I was a young man in Iraq… when we both were younger men… an American officer gave me a long lecture about the uselessness of torture during interrogations.” The smile grew slightly larger. “He was wrong.”

THIRTEEN

HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES

Flintlock Harris tried to look into each face crowded into the ad-hoc briefing room. All of the assembled staff officers and subordinate commanders were overdue for showers, and the closed space stank like a gym during a janitors’ strike. Weary hands brushed away flies. It had been impossible to control the news about the crucifixions in Nazareth. Harris could feel the danger, as palpable as sweat, that the behavior of his soldiers would degenerate into savagery.

Which was, Harris figured, what more than one party involved wanted.

The murmurings had quieted the instant Harris got to his feet. Now the loudest sound in the room was the pop-back of a plastic water bottle squeezed too hard. Beyond the walls of the shabby house, spikes of noise reported the commotion attendent to jumping the command post to a new location. More disruption, at a bad time. But staying in one place too long made the headquarters an easy target.

Harris had stripped his field headquarters by almost two-thirds of its personnel from the old, fat days in Saudi or Nigeria. But moving it still reminded him of a circus leaving town.

Time to speak. He’d wasted enough time already. Harris wished he were better with words.

“All right,” he said abruptly. “Listen up. We are not going to do anything stupid, and we’re not going to do anything immoral. Or illegal under present laws and conventions.” He stared fiercely into the faces before him. “And I don’t give a damn what anyone else does. The units under the control of this corps inherited two hundred and fifty years of U.S. Army and Marine Corps traditions. We are not going to shit on those traditions.” He scanned the room again. Not everyone was a happy camper. “Everybody got that?”

Harris took a deep breath, aware that not every head had nodded enthusiastically. “I’m as revolted and disgusted and angry as anybody by what those sonsofbitches did in Nazareth. But we’re dealing with an enemy who wants us to respond in kind. They’re praying for it. And we are not going to do it. We will not answer crimes against humanity with our own war crimes.” A fly nearly the size of an attack drone flirted past his face. “The soldiers and Marines under my command are going to fight ferociously to destroy our enemies. I don’t want anyone who takes up arms against us to have a second chance to do so. But once an enemy is our prisoner, he will be treated with decency. With appropriate rigor, but with human decency. And we will not kill or otherwise harm civilians, if it can be helped. We’re soldiers and Marines, not a lynch mob.”

Harris reared up, making his back as rigid as if standing on a parade ground. “I will not accept bogus reports of collateral damage. You know what’s legitimate and what’s not. And I know it. We aren’t going to pull any punches on the battlefield. But when the shooting stops, our soldiers and Marines are going to behave with discipline… and decency.” He wished he could find another word, a stronger word than “decency.” But his mental arsenal was empty. “Questions?”

The 1st Infantry Division commander’s liaison officer raised his hand.

“Jim?”

“Sir… putting Nazareth off-limits… Sir, that makes it tough for us to support the 1st Cav in the Golani Junction push. It leaves a gaping hole in the road network.”

Harris nodded at Mike Andretti, his G-3.

The Three stood up and faced the liaison officer. “Orders are coming down on that. Units can conduct movement through Nazareth on the primary road and its northern branches. But no stopping in the city, unless it’s a legit breakdown. 1-18 Infantry has been placed directly under corps command, and for now, Pat Cavanaugh’s the sheriff of Nazareth. When any other unit’s inside the city limits, Pat Cavanaugh’s the boss. Rank immaterial.” Andretti shifted his eyes back to the corps commander.

“Problem solved, Jim?” Harris asked.