Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  The American studied the photos. “They’ll deny it, of course.”

  “Of course they will. And eventually they’ll prove they weren’t involved. But the damage will be done. The truth doesn’t matter that much anymore. Those who hate the United States will believe it, not matter what evidence is eventually revealed. The New York Times will front page the story for weeks. It will weaken the administration and divert them from their work; there’ll be hearings in Congress, special investigations, the whole bit. And remember, all we’re after is another chip in the wall, another crack in the foundation, another scandal to weaken your country, and this will give us that.”

  The American picked up a photo showing a dead child on the street. A U.S. soldier stood behind him, smoking a cigarette while talking to his comrade and pointing away. The image was clear enough, he could read their nametags. Sanchez and . . . Brighton? Maybe Bingham? Either way, it didn’t matter, they were about to be famous, their images slapped across every newspaper in the world.

  “I’ll get some people on it,” he said, tossing the photograph on the table. “When will the story break?”

  “Later in the afternoon tomorrow.”

  “That isn’t much time.”

  “It’s a big story. It’s My Lai again. U.S. military atrocities make very good press so it will be hard to sit on a story, if you know what I mean.” Abdullah’s voice was curt and sarcastic, but he smiled as he spoke.

  The American sipped at his coffee. A few moments passed in silence. “On the other matter, you know, I’ve been thinking,” he finally said. “Asking around, getting a few opinions, talking in the abstract, of course, but trying to get a feeling for how this will be received. And I have to tell you, Your Majesty, that I believe you are walking on very tenuous ground.”

  “We know we are. But you will take care of everything.”

  The American was clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Your Highness. We can do many wonderful things, we’ve done miracles for you in the past. We are very powerful, our partnerships span the whole of the globe, our friendships very personal, our contacts cultivated and nurtured through the good and the bad. But there is, after all, only so much we can do, and this plan is far more than we had ever envisioned. Destroy an entire nation! How would you suggest we manipulate the political consequences of that?”

  “We won’t destroy them. We will move them. There is an enormous difference, my friend.”

  “But they will not be moved.”

  “That is their choice. If they stay, they will die, but I cannot choose for them. We can’t make them be reasonable, though Allah knows we have tried.”

  “They will not go away. They have nowhere to go. And even if they did, even if they were given other options, they would choose to die in their homeland. They have made that very clear. It is that important to them.”

  “Again I will say it; I cannot choose for them.”

  The American sat back in frustration. Although he had sanctioned human suffering many times, this was crossing the line! He pressed his lips together and his heart beat in his chest. “How many people will die?” he asked in a low voice.

  The crown prince adjusted in his seat. “It is not your concern.”

  “But Prince Abdullah, if you really want us to represent you, then you must. . .”

  Abdullah lifted a hand to cut him off. “I would be careful not to confuse our relationship or overestimate your input. You are to advise and represent, not to interfere or give counsel when it is not asked of you.”

  The American understood and bowed his head.

  “All right, then,” the prince continued, “now, if it would make you feel better, I will tell you that it probably won’t be as bad as you think. Two of the nuclear weapons are tactical in nature and are relatively small. What we are proposing isn’t much different than what has been done before.”

  The American shook his head. “How can you say that?” he cried.

  The prince leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. He spoke with indignation, his voice sharp and on edge. “Dresden,” he sneered, “twenty-five thousand civilians firebombed. London; two hundred thousand; twenty thousand dead in a single attack. Leningrad; three hundred thousand civilians killed in combat, another half million starved. Berlin; two hundred eight-nine thousand killed in the last month of the Bolshevik advance alone, and who knows how many in the months before that? And let’s not forget what your own nation has done. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Poof!” The prince brought his fingers together and blew them apart. “A hundred thousand gone. Poof! Just like that.

  “So get my point? This is nothing new. War isn’t for the weak. And we’ve seen this many times before.”

  The American frowned and swallowed. The prince’s eyes flickered yellow and his co-conspirator pulled back. Something stirred inside him! Where had he seen that evil flicker before? He swallowed again, forcing himself to relax. “I would like to know how many people will die,” he said before he lowered his eyes.

  The prince shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe twenty-five thousand in the initial attack. Perhaps another twenty from the radioactive fallout.”

  The American looked at his coffee and tried to steady his hands. “And your target is Jerusalem?”

  The crown prince sat back and laughed. “Jerusalem!” he snorted while shaking his head. “Do you think I’m stupid? Don’t you understand me yet?” The Crown Prince whistled in disgust. Did this man understand anything?

  The American started in confusion. “But if not Jerusalem . . . ?”

  The prince waved an impatient hand. “My target is Gaza.”

  The American almost choked. “Gaza! You’re kidding! It doesn’t make any sense! That’s a Palestinian area! A hundred thousand refugees live in Gaza.”

  “I know they do. And those who die will die as martyrs. Allah will receive them unto his own.

  “But Israel is the nation that you want to destroy!”

  “No, my good friend, we want to destroy the United States. But to do that, we have to sacrifice Gaza. Israel will be the second step. Once we have destroyed these two nations we can turn our rage on you. And by the time we are finished, a hundred million of your people will lie dead in your streets. Your nation will lie in ruin.” Abdullah’s voice had risen to a rasp and his face seemed to darken like a shadow across the moon. “The world will be changed forever,” he almost seemed to hiss. “Leaving it ripe to be taken. And that, my friend, is why you and I are here.”

  SON OF THE MORNING

  WRATH & RIGHTEOUSNESS

  [Episode Three]

  CHRIS STEWART

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locals or persona, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Mercury Radio Arts, Inc.

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  Original Edition © The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Deseret Book Company) Condensed Edition © 2012 The Shipley Group Inc. (Published by Mercury Radio Arts, Inc. under license from Deseret Book Company)

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Richard Yoo

  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned[.]

  W. B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN


  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  ONE

  Dhahran Royal Palace, Dhahran, Saudi Arabia

  Crown Prince Abdullah al-Rahman leaned over his father’s deathbed. A small mirror had been placed on the gold overleaf nightstand, and, uncomfortable with touching a moribund, he took the mirror and placed it near his father’s mouth. It fogged, but barely, and he sat it back in place. Standing upright, he looked around the enormous bedroom, with all of its leather, jewel-studded ornaments, fine art, and gold. To his right the kafan, the loin cloth, tunic and a new cotton shroud, had been neatly folded and placed at the foot of the bed, waiting to cover the king’s body once he was dead. A beautiful mahogany box had been placed on the shroud, and Al-Rahman could smell the fragrance and incense that were waiting inside. The funeral, or janazah, would take place later in the day before the sun had gone down. After being washed, his father’s body would be wrapped in the kafan, his face turned toward Mecca, and the final prayers said.

  Al-Rahman thought it ironic, and he couldn’t help but smile, a dreadful twist of his lips at the corners of his mouth. Martyrs were to be buried as they had died: in their clothes, their bodies bloody and unwashed, their faces covered with the dirt of their battle, their open wounds bearing testimony to their martyrdom, and, if they had been so lucky as to die while defending the faith, their weapons placed in their hands.

  Such were the burial rituals for a hero and a martyr.

  The king would not be given such an honor when he was dead.

  The new crown prince glanced again at the box of incense and the washcloths that had been placed near the bed, knowing that his father’s body would be cleansed when he was finally dead, then wrapped in the three white pieces of cloth and placed in the grave.

  There would be no martyr’s honor for his father, no bloody hands or dirty clothes, no open wounds or heavy weapons placed in his cold hands. There would be no glory or salvation in his death.

  But the truth was, his father would die a martyr, though no one would ever know. His father’s wounds would never testify of his martyrdom, for they were internal and unseen, like the blackness and corruption that had cankered his soul.

  That was what happened when one died for the wrong cause.

  The crown prince scoffed, an angry huff of his breath. Democracy and equality. What had gone through his father’s mind? Were these the tools Allah had intended for his kings? Were these the concepts Mohammad had taught? No. Not one. And surely his father knew that. Which made him a heretic. No, he was much worse than that, for a heretic could sin in ignorance, a heretic could be foolish or blind. His father had not been deceived; he had knowingly chosen his path. He might have been a traitor, but he was no fool.

  Al-Rahman thought back on what the old man, his true mentor, had told him the first time they had met on the beach in southern France. It had been a long time before, but it seemed like yesterday he felt the heat of the afternoon sun. He could still smell the seaweed and hear the soft lap of the sea. And he could hear the words of the old man as if he were still standing there: “You might as well say the sun comes up in the west as to call your father a fool. The king is a visionary. And the most dangerous kind.”

  The old man had been right. His father had been a visionary, and yes, the most dangerous kind. He had poisoned his family with his visions of democracy, which left Prince al-Rahman no choice.

  So Al-Rahman had killed him. But there was no sin in that. Not after what his father and his brother had set out to do. Al-Rahman thought of the poison surging through his father’s veins, turning his organs black. As he stared into his father’s face, watching him die, he felt neither a twinge of uncertainty nor a hint of doubt or remorse. He felt no sadness or guilt.

  But then, Al-Rahman had never felt a moment of guilt in his life.

  He stared at his father, watching his lips turn from blue to gray. “What did it get you, my father?” Al-Rahman mumbled in a low voice. “What did your riches buy you? Your power? Your fame? In the end it brought you nothing; it could not even protect you. It brought you nothing but shame. But I will not squander it, my father. I will not squander our ancestors’ great power or their wealth. I will use it; I will build it; I will see my will done. I will pick up the battle of our fathers and build upon the legacy of the last thousand years.”

  The king of Saudi Arabia took a deep breath and struggled to move, his hand lifting half an inch off the bed.

  Al-Rahman’s smile turned into a deep frown, and he lowered his head. He knew that a dying man’s hearing was the last sense to go, so he leaned toward his father and whispered. “Can you hear me, Father?” he asked him. “I know that you can.”

  The old king struggled, lifting his hand again. The prince smiled at the motion and placed his mouth right up to the old man’s ear, feeling the heat of his father’s skin on his lips. As he spoke his voice changed, as if another man were there. “It has started, my father,” he whispered in a soft, evil hiss. “There is no turning back. You might as well lift your hand to stop the sunrise as to bring an end to this plan. Like your own death, it is inevitable. The endgame is set, and there’s nothing you could do now, even were you to live. The age of the West is fading, giving way to a dark power again. A new day is dawning, a day of deep secrets and powerful men, an age of dark miracles, dreadful rumors, and a red, sinking moon, a day of a bright flash on the horizon that does not come from the sun. It will be an age of power and oppression far greater than has ever fallen on the earth. Even as I whisper to you, Father, even as my breath touches your ear, the final battle has begun. The sun is setting on the frail world you have known. It is passing, and with its passing, the greater kingdom shall come.

  “You have lost this war, Father. You have failed in your plan. And your dreams are fading along with your breath. But I will pick up the blade for you, Father, and I will fight for the right cause. I will pick up the battle that you were too weak to fight, and I will build up the kingdom that you sought to destroy.

  “So go now, my father. Go to my brother. Go to your wife and your children as well. Go to those who are waiting, be they in paradise or hell. Go and tell them you have failed, but I will not fail them too.”

  The crown prince, soon to be king, paused and lifted his head. He was finished. It was all he had to say. So he straightened himself and stared at his father’s gray face, then heard a soft movement behind him and turned to see the mullah standing there. “Say your best janazah for him,” Al-Rahman commanded the religious leader, his voice normal now. “My father has much to be forgiven for, and he will need your most compelling prayers.”

  Falcon 53, Over Northern Iraq

  Army Special Forces Captain Samuel Brighton sat on the helicopter floor near the door, his feet pulled up, and elbows on his knees, his chin resting wearily on his folded arms. It was dark but the moon was out, providing plenty of light once his eyes had adjusted to the night. He watched the mountains of Iran recede behind him, then the hills and lowlands, then the beach, then the warm waters of the Persian Gulf. Hitting the water, the helicopters turned north, flying toward the Iraqi swamps that poured into the Persian Gulf from the Tigress and Euphrates Rivers.

  Feet dry over Iraq, the helicopters set down for the second time at another unknown forward operating base to refuel, then took off again. By then, it was light. They had flown through the night.

  Sam was surrounded by his men, but most of them were asleep now, their heads and shoulders slumped in exhaustion. He turned to look out the open cargo door of the helicopter, feeling the cool air raise the hairs on his neck. The visors over the pilot’s faces reflected the green and yellow lights of their cockpit displays. Behind him and to his right, three other helicopters followed their leader, their navigation lights dimmed. The air was clear, a cold front having moved through and blown the dust from the sky. Sam watched the landscape speed below him. The desert was barren, with clumps of Joshua trees and
dry grass clinging desperately to the banks of the dry wadi walls, the same ancient rivers that had run through Iraq since the days of Babylon. The Wadi at Tubal passed directly below, erratic trenches that had been scratched into the earth as if by enormous fingernails, and he could see occasional pools of shallow water reflecting the slanted rays from the rising sun along the bends and narrow turns in the sandy streambed. The landscape continued to pass: rock, sand, a few trees here and there.

  Staring at the desolation, he wondered again. This place was the cradle of civilization. This was where it had all begun. Four thousand years had come and gone, and this was the place men had chosen to fight and die for again and again. This was the place that had produced so much bloodshed and so many wars.

  “Let them have it,” he muttered to himself. “There is nothing here worth fighting for. Certainly nothing worth dying for.” But even as he grumbled, he felt a quick twinge of guilt. The people here were as desperate as the desert as they clung to life, hoping for rain, hoping for time, hoping the next day would be a little better than the day that had passed.

  He hated it here. It was so desperate and lonely. It caused a blackness in his heart.

  But the people were trying—at least some of them were. And he was doing some good—at least he hoped that he was.

  The lead helicopter turned thirty degrees, making the final turn to Camp Freedom, the base camp that would be his home for the next several days, until they got their next set of orders, almost certainly back to Afghanistan. As the helicopter leveled out, Sam was facing the eastern horizon and he gazed through the emptiness, looking across the barren terrain.

  It was out there, far away, the little village in the mountains, south and east now, a few degrees off his right. Across the Sara al Hijarah and the northern tip of the Persian Gulf. All the massacred children, the fires, the destroyed houses and the burned tree.