When his subordinates had gone, Harris got down on his knees and prayed. For the mercy of Christ. For strength. For forgiveness of his sins. Then he asked the Lord to protect his wife and daughters. And his country.
After that, he wrote his wife a letter. It was shorter than he would have liked. There was so much to say. But there was little time now. And words were inadequate messengers.
He packed some essentials into a rucksack, leaving his kit bag behind. Just before he stepped through the door to head for his helicopter, he paused and said, “Forgive me.”
He wasn’t sure for whom the words were meant.
When Sarah Colmer-Harris saw the banner headline on the day of her daughter’s funeral, she vomited on her bathrobe:
CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS SLAIN BY NUKES
General Harris Betrays MOBIC to Muslims
OFFICE OF THE EMIR OF AL-QUDS AND DAMASKUS,
FORMER PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, DAMASCUS
General Abdul al-Ghazi led his officers down the ornamented hall-way, shoving aside the functionaries hastily packing files for evacuation. After disarming the final set of guards, he and his trusted subordinates burst into the ceremonial office of the emir.
“In the name of the caliph and sultan, I place you, Suleiman al-Mahdi, under arrest.”
To al-Ghazi’s surprise, the emir-general displayed little concern.
He merely looked up from the document on his desk and asked, “What are the charges?”
“Unauthorized use of the sultanate’s final reserve of nuclear weapons. And consorting with the enemy.”
Al-Ghazi thought he saw a smile alight on the emir-general’s lips. Then it flew away again.
“Those sound like contradictory charges, General. Let’s begin with the second. What do you mean by ‘consorting with the enemy’?”
Beyond the filigreed windows and their treasures of stained glass, a bright sun cooked the world. The huge room was cool and shad-owed. It made al-Ghazi feel awkward. And unexpectedly small.
“You’ve communicated and even met personally with General of the Order Montfort, the chief of the Crusaders, the man responsible for the massacre of the Faithful at Jerusalem.”
“But I’d hardly deny that! Really, General al-Ghazi, I should be praised, don’t you think? I met with that infidel dog only to trick him. And see how it worked! The Crusaders have been shattered. Montfort himself is dead somewhere on the battlefield to which I lured him. Burned, as if by the fires of Hell.” This time, al-Mahdi smiled unmistakably. “If I led the infidels into false negotiations that brought them to their destruction, shouldn’t that count as the highest art of generalship?”
Unsure of himself, al-Ghazi raised his voice. “You had no right to use nuclear weapons, no authority. Only the caliph and sultan can give that permission. You’ve handed the Crusaders the excuse they wanted to destroy our cities. Their arsenal is huge, and ours is empty now. Millions of the Faithful will die.”
“General al-Ghazi, is your faith so weak? Do you really believe the Christian god is stronger than Allah? Or worse, that He is the same? Do
“You didn’t answer the charge. They’ll destroy our cities. This city.”
“And what are a few cities, or a hundred cities, if the True Faith triumphs in the end? You know the verse from the Holy Koran: ‘This world is but a sport and a pasttime.’ The weak must be purged, by fire. And then the faithful will rise up, from Dakar to Djakarta, and the sword of Islam shall rise with them.”
“You betrayed the sultan.”
Al-Mahdi sat back in his great leather chair. “You weary me. How could I betray myself?”
“What?”
“You haven’t heard? Oh, my dear General al-Ghazi! Our beloved caliph and sultan, Hamid III, was called to Paradise and his eternal reward. During the night. An unexpected, but, I am told, a peaceful, merciful death, Allah be praised! Humble creature that I am — the least of Allah’s creations — I’ve been acclaimed his replacement.”
“By who?”
“By the army.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Really? Perhaps you should ask these loyal officers who brought you to me!”
Unsettled — alarmed now — al-Ghazi looked around the room. His deputy had a pistol trained on him. The other officers,
“It’s always an error,” al-Mahdi said, “for soldiers to mix them-selves up in politics. And when they do, there must be consequences.” He reached for a buzzer on his desk and pressed it. “I want you to hear something.”
The room fell silent, opening its ears to the uproar of the terrified city beyond the compound’s walls. Panic was contagious.
Then the scream began. Resounding from another room, somewhere along the hallway. It was a scream of unearthly power, pausing only to gasp for air. It was a muezzin’s call from Hell.
Al-Ghazi swallowed hard.
“Your cousin,” the emir-general said, “Colonel al-Tikriti, has been a poor secret policeman. And in war time, failure must be punished. I’m having him flayed alive.” Al-Mahdi looked al-Ghazi in the eyes. “Of course, worse things can happen to a man.”
Al-Ghazi reached for his holster and snapped it open. Before he could extract his pistol, his deputy shot him. Other bullets punched his flesh as he toppled, and he struck the marble with an astounded smile: He hadn’t intended to shoot al-Mahdi. It was too late for that. He had hoped to kill himself.
Fallen and bleeding and unable to move, he could only hope that he had been mortally wounded.
For the first time in his career, Major General Monk Morris felt he had lost irretrievably. He even caught himself gnawing his finger-nails, a child’s habit broken at the Naval Academy.
He stepped back into the communications shelter.
“Have you reached them?”
The captain on the radio set shook his head. “No, sir. We’re trying, but the jamming’s back full blast.”
“Keep trying. No Marine gets left behind. We have confirmed receipt of the withdrawal order from everybody else?”
“Yes, sir. Everybody. They’re moving.”
“Keep trying to reach Maguire. Those are good Marines.”
“Yes, sir.”
The deputy operations officer approached Morris. “Sir, we’ve got to break this thing down and move ourselves.”
Morris flicked two fingers at the man, his personal gesture of approval. It looked like the blessing of a lazy priest.
“And sir?”
“Yes, Jack?”
“Sir, Dawg Daniels went down over Quneitra. A drone got him. His wingman called it in.”
Morris closed his eyes. But only for a moment. “His exec’s got the throttle?”
“Yes, sir. We’re bringing all the returning aircraft into the field outside Tyre. The SeaBees patched up the runway. Enough to get them down.”
Morris nodded. “All right, Jack. Boots and saddles.”
