The War After Armageddon

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.”

NAZARETH, TACTICAL OPERATIONS CENTER, 1-18 INFANTRY

“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?”