Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters

by Gilbert, Morris

  Germanic Union forces in Syria and coolly observed the deployment of American forces in Lebanon, Israel, and Jordan. They saw that Commandant Tor von Eisenhalt intended a three-pronged advance into Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Iraq. They knew that they were outgunned, but they also knew that the Global Union forces were outnumbered.

  The global might of the Western world’s armies had long been based around laser systems for targeting and ranging devices; however, their use as offensive weapons was severely limited. The problem was that the higher the magnitude of the laser beam, the greater the power required to produce and project it.

  The problem with power generation was the obstacle that kept laser beams from being used as antipersonnel weapons. To produce a laser beam of such power and physical diameter to do mortal injury to a human required a power pack so bulky that it was impossible for one man to manage it. Therefore, conventional artillery was much more efficient. Two men spraying an area with two rifles could kill a lot faster and more efficiently than two men operating a clumsy laser weapon with a pinpoint projectile beam.

  If the object was to kill, that is.

  Lasers are extremely concentrated light amplifications. Therefore, one part of the body is ultrasensitive to it: the human eye.

  Lasers had been used in optical surgery for many decades, for the beams will easily and precisely cut the retina. In the 1980s Italy developed a handheld laser gun, based on the same technology as surgical lasers, that was powered by a four-pound power pack and emitted a pinpoint beam. If the ray raked across your skin, you wouldn’t feel the warmth. If the ray fell on a newspaper you were holding, you could read the paper by it. But if it hit your eyes, you would be permanently blinded.

  The weapon was considered, by even the most backward countries, to be so horrific that Italy never mass-produced it. Even criminals had no use for it, for it required such precision in targeting that the cheapest .22 Saturday night special was much more efficient as a weapon.

  But in the China-Taiwan crisis of 2002, China toyed with an antipersonnel phased laser array (loosely translated into English, the initials were LINC, and the Chinese made four prototypes, hence the LINC-4). This secret weapon experimentation never became widely known. When British intelligence found out about it, officials threatened to expose the Chinese experimentation. Even the insular Chinese knew that the wrath of the world would descend upon them if they ever hinted at using the weapon. The LINC-4 project was abandoned.

  But somehow the Egyptians either obtained the technology from the Chinese or developed it on their own. Tor von Eisenhalt doubted that they had developed it themselves. The precise technology required to figure the logistics of mounting three laser units in strategic places to rake every millimeter of a battlefield was almost beyond comprehension. No machine, no computer, no artificial intelligence ever invented could conceive the mathematical computations necessary to create such a weapon. Only human beings could create it, and human error can never be reduced to absolute zero; such a precise weapon required a margin of precisely zero.

  But the Arabic Confederation obtained this weapon and used it, and it was to be the final millstone that sunk them to the depths of oblivion as a people.

  In the terrible Mideast War of 2050, the Arabic Confederation used an antipersonnel phased laser array on the advancing forces of the Joint Task Forces of the Global Union of Nation-States. The first units to be blasted into darkness were the Americans, the most elite forces in the world, the commando units and the rapid deployment forces: the 101st Airborne (Air Assault), deployed first of all; the 82nd Airborne; Delta Force; Army Rangers; and those men who are always first in, last out, and never leave a companion behind—the U.S. Marine Corps.

  Tens of thousands of them were blinded in the first three days of that terrible battle on the Sinai Peninsula. Many thousands of them were killed by enemy soldiers as they fell, helpless and terrified, struck by the blazing blue light. Many Americans died by friendly fire, for men panicked and went mad and died shooting at terrors they could not see in their sudden, pain-filled darkness. In the following days, many of them committed suicide, and many died mysteriously of injuries that were not life-threatening.

  But within three days after the Egyptian lasers shot across the desolate sands of the Sinai Peninsula, the entire world was arrayed against the Arabic Confederation with a rage born of horror. Killing your enemy in battle was an ancient code that was generally agreed to be honorable.

  Blinding him was not.

  All of Tor’s warships and transports from South Africa moved up to the Red Sea, and by the time they arrived, the U.S. carrier group based around the carrier Reagan had already obliterated the Arabic Confederation’s navy. India, with her two-million-man standing army, literally overran and burned Iran. Russian armies came down from the north through Georgia, Armenia, and Turkey, and scythed through Iraq. Tor’s two divisions in Syria advanced into Saudia Arabia from the north, while his southern forces from Africa razed Yemen, Oman, Egypt, and Libya.

  The Arabic Confederation was no more.

  Count Tor von Eisenhalt walked the streets of Jerusalem in triumph.

  He had disdained any protection at all. The only people allowed to accompany him were Minden Lauer, President Luca Therion, Commissar Alia Silverthorne, the prime minister of Israel, and a Cy-World news cameraman.

  Alia thought that he must be mad; no iota of war had touched the people of Jerusalem, and they were literally dancing and singing in the streets, thousands of them. Alia thought that surely Tor would be attacked, and though her mind shied away from it once again, she thought that he might be hurt. Certainly Luca and Minden could be killed. It seemed to be a foolish thing to do, with the riotous crowds in the streets.

  But no one touched Tor or anyone in his retinue. People shouted, cries of triumph and glee, but his tall figure cut a swath through the masses of people as if he were parting them with a strong wind. They fell back from him, and they dropped their eyes, for no one dared to return that burning gaze. Some of them even fell to their knees as he passed.

  Alia noticed that the confused shouts of the crowd had become a one-word cry, shouted in cadence by thousands of people. “What are they saying?” she asked, her mouth close to Minden’s ear.

  Minden turned and smiled at Alia. Her eyes glittered as if they were made of stars; her lips were moist and red; her pale cheeks were delicately flushed. “They are saying Messiah. It means the Great Deliverer of Israel. They are proclaiming him their savior, the one who was promised by God, who was sent to save this land and its people from all oppressors.” She smiled with ecstasy. “They are worshiping him.”

  The old streets were narrow, but no matter how many hundreds or thousands of people packed them, Tor always had a clear path. Many of the sandstone buildings looked as if they’d stood for centuries. Alia had no idea where they were going. She hadn’t even known where Jerusalem was before Tor had brought them here and had certainly never studied a map of Israel or Jerusalem. She had never quite comprehended the attraction for this ancient, dusty city. Her best understanding was that it was something of an archaeological curiosity because it was so old, and it had some supposed mystical qualities, like the Egyptian pyramids and the Forbidden City of the Chinese emperors.

  They moved at a relatively fast pace, for Tor’s stride was long.

  The cameraman kept a respectful distance of about two feet from Tor’s side, but he kept his camera steadily on him. Minden, Luca, and Prime Minister Landau struggled along behind, with Alia anxiously flitting about the four of them, trying to watch everyone in a 360-degree circle around them.

  Finally they came to a halt.

  Alia nervously took in their surroundings.

  They were standing in a large square that was surprisingly open, considering the geography of this crowded walled city. Tor stood at the bottom of a set of white steps that led up into a beautiful building of generally classic design except for the round golden dome crowning it.
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br />   Looking behind and around them, Alia saw literally thousands, perhaps even ten thousands, of people crowded into the square. They were still shouting, “Messiah! Messiah! Messiah!”

  With lithe grace Tor turned and held up his hands. A silence, so quick and complete that it was eerie, fell.

  “My comrades of New Zion,” he said. It did not seem as if he shouted, but everyone could hear his words. “Your enemies are dead and dying. This place, that has been a scar on your holy city for so long, I give to you as reparation for your long, bloody war against your enemies.” Suddenly savage, Tor turned and spat against the clean white stone steps. “Do with it as you will.”

  They came like a flood, though they flowed cleanly around Tor von Eisenhalt and his companions. The mosque of the Dome of the Rock was a pile of rubble, literally torn down, stone by stone and brick by brick, by the children of Israel.

  Tor watched, and his mouth twisted as if with strange amusement.

  Minden watched him, her pretty face drawn with incomprehension. He turned to her. “You wonder why, don’t you, my lovely Lady of Light?”

  Behind Minden, Alia stepped closer. She told herself that she was merely trying to protect them, but the truth was that Alia tried to hear every word that came from Tor’s mouth. She was devoured with curiosity about this compelling man, was fired by a zealous loyalty and devotion that she never knew she was capable of. She literally hung on his every word.

  Minden said as quietly as possible in the din of the wreckage, “I do wonder, my lord. I—don’t—quite understand your—zeal for this place and these people. And I—desperately want to understand. I want to understand everything.” The desire that contorted Minden’s face was so wholly, nakedly concentrated that Alia was uncomfortable.

  Tor nodded. His blue eyes blazed with dark delight, and his shapely mouth seemed continually on the edge of a smile. He seemed full of some deep well of terrible glee. “This land, this country,” he said, gesturing with his left arm. “Do you know what it is called?”

  “No, my lord, I am so ignorant,” Minden said adoringly.

  “It is called the Fertile Crescent,” he said, now in a low tone of concentration. “It is a rich land, desirable to all men of the ages, fertile and sweet and green.” He turned to look at Minden. He looked so forbidding, his anger was so terrible, that she flinched. “Long ago this land was a paradise, untouched, bursting with all the sweetest of fruits in the world. There was a battle fought here, and I won; but my enemy exiled me and those I had conquered. I swore vengeance. I swore I would return. I swore a blood-and-death oath that I would win this garden again . . . and I would curse it and salt it so that no green thing would ever grow here again, world without end . . .”

  He turned again and smiled at Minden. It was an awful thing, the smile that could have been from the joy a madman feels at killing or torturing.

  “I have come back in triumph. And I will salt this accursed earth with blood enough to choke it forever!”

  And again, with rage, he spat.

  Alia, as if in a hypnotic trance, looked down. The spittle was of blood, and it burned with a noxious smell and then turned black.

  PART IV

  THE DAUGHTER OF ZION

  Your country is desolate, your cities are burned with fire: your land, strangers devour it in your presence, and it is desolate, as overthrown by strangers. And the daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a lodge in a garden of cucumbers, as a besieged city. Except the LORD of hosts had left unto us a very small remnant, we should have been as Sodom, and we should have been like unto Gomorrah.

  —ISAIAH 1:7-9

  Narrow is the mansion of my soul; enlarge Thou it, that Thou mayest enter in. It is ruinous; repair Thou it.

  —THE CONFESSIONS OF SAINT AUGUSTINE, THE FIRST BOOK

  SEVENTEEN

  CON SLAUGHTER stalked along the perimeter of the sandstone high-rises. The setting had become familiar to him, but sometimes the atmosphere of the ancient dwelling places of the Anasazi weighed heavily on him. Those who had carved the dwelling out of solid rock were all gone and forgotten, buried in nameless graves, long returned to the earth. Yet there was a visceral sense of their presence that troubled Slaughter.

  They once thought that the Anasazi cannibalized their own people, and that’s why they disappeared without a trace, he reflected morosely. That used to be unthinkable to me, that people could betray their own . . . but it sure seems like that’s what’s happening to my people here and now. My own commander in chief, the highest military leader in the land, is either mad or a traitor . . . and a Luftwaffe pilot, our bloodiest enemy, seems to be our only friend out there . . .

  Restlessly he worked his way up to the creek that fed their pool, then followed it along a line of piñon trees, his mind wrestling with innumerable images, large and small. Con’s attention was caught by a bird perched in one of the winter-sparse trees. He had seen the birds all over the canyon. Even as he stopped, the bird raised its head, pumped it up and down several times, and made a raucous call that sounded like, Get out! Get out! In his mind Con had named it the Get-Out Bird. Idly he decided that he would ask one of the Indians or perhaps Zoan about it.

  Wouldn’t be surprised if Zoan could talk to the thing. It seems that he can talk to birds and animals better than he talks to people.Funny . . . I have this weird feeling that Zoan could help me if I could just find the right question to ask him, if I could phrase it correctly, if I could find the key to him . . . but I don’t think anyone will ever know Zoan completely . . . Even Dr. Kesteven, as smart as he is and as long as he’s known Zoan, can’t seem to get a good hold on him . . .

  Con made a wide, ragged circle and scrambled down into a deep ravine where they’d hidden the vehicle that Reinhart Angriff had brought them. The DPV (Desert Patrol Vehicle) was more or less like a megaheavy dune buggy but heavily armed, with two .50 caliber machine guns mounted on the front and back. Rio was greatly pleased—his sergeant could never have too many guns to play with. Ric Darmstedt had remarked that Angriff, if he was planning on betraying them, had certainly left them with a fine arsenal of weapons and five hundred rounds of ammunition.

  The DPV could carry two people, with minimum storage in the back. It could carry three if the front gun was removed, which Rio was doing right now. Con studied the tires and the two extra fuel bladders with a soldier’s appreciation, for they were made of Tyvek and steel and were impenetrable up to a .50 caliber round.

  Con made his way down to the vehicle, and both Rio and Ric jumped to attention and saluted. The fire team had grown closer, more personal, with their commanding officer in the last few hard months, but they still strictly observed military protocol.

  “Ease up,” Con said lightly. “I’m just checking on our new toy.

  How’s it going, Darmstedt? You get the ident disabled?”

  “You betcha, Captain,” Darmstedt replied enthusiastically. “Dr. Kesteven had to help me, but we finally found it and killed it. Now I’m just playin’ around with it, trying to see if we could maybe grab some Cy-II apps.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “But these drones, they don’t have anything like the memory needed. I thought Dr. K was gonna cry. He’s bored out of his skull, you know. Big brain like that, with no Cyclops, no lab, no switches and dials.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Slaughter said absently. He was watching Rio, who was like a big kid with a new toy, crawling all over the mounting for the big gun with an enormous wrench and industrial-sized screwdriver.

  Darmstedt noted Slaughter’s distraction and decided to ask his commanding officer about it. These days, Con talked to Ric Darmstedt sometimes. Though Rio was probably Con Slaughter’s closest friend, Ric was much more like Con in many ways; they thought alike, and both were officer types, which Rio definitely was not.

  “What’s up, Cap’n?” Ric asked nonchalantly. “Aside from the usual misadventure and mishap, I mean?”

  Con considered the younger man. Ric acted like a
n overgrown kid, but he actually was extremely intelligent, shrewd, and levelheaded. Six months before, Con would never have considered discussing anything with a man serving under him. In these days, however, Con was glad to have Ric as his second-in-command and trusted him as if he were a fellow officer. “Have you noticed that the world’s pretty sorry these days, Darmstedt?” he said sourly.

  “Yes, sir,” Ric answered briskly. “But that’s kind of a sweeping problem to address, sir. D’ya think you could narrow the scope a little?”

  Con studied Rio, who, after smartly acknowledging Con’s presence, had returned to his absorption with his fine new gun. “We got so many problems, Ric, I don’t know whether to alphabetize them or number them.” He roused himself a little, then went on in a businesslike tone, “We’ve sure got problems with supplies, and that’s what I’m trying to figure out right now. We’re short of everything, with the new people. Soap, toothpaste, buckets, forks, tools—you name it.”

  Ric nodded. “Yes, sir, not to mention food and medical supplies.”

  “Winter’s here, and some of our people don’t even have coats or jackets,” Con went on with frustration. “And we don’t have nearly enough blankets.”

  Carefully Ric observed, “Yes, sir, and it does look like they’re our people. Even the Indians seem to look to us to help them out.

  They’re the best hunters, that’s for sure, and even old Benewah Two Color can haul and split wood like two twenty-year-olds. But they do kind of expect us to take care of a lot of the problems.” Ric was saying us, but both he and Con knew that everyone in Chaco Canyon—except maybe Zoan—pretty much looked at Con as the leader, with all the responsibilities that job entailed.

  Con let his eyes drift over the far horizons of the desert that spread out to the east. It was a barren, ghostly place, and the sense of loneliness communicated itself to him in a thousand intangible ways. In his trademark husky half-whisper he said, “Sometimes, Darmstedt, I feel like one of those hides that Benewah Two Color was talking about the other night, how the Indians used to stretch them. Cut, stripped, scraped, and yanked up tight at every point.”