The War After Armageddon

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.”