The night was cool. Fall was coming on; even in the desert there was some relief. The wind blew from the south, humid and biting with tiny bits of sand.
He was dressed in full battle gear: Kevlar™ helmet, goggles, flak jacket and vest, desert cammies, leather gloves and boots. His weapon, a short-barreled Mk. 48 mod. 0 gas-powered, air-cooled, belt-fed machine gun, was strapped loosely around him, and he had pushed it to his back. The barrel was warm, too warm to be accurate any longer (seven hundred rounds a minute could scorch a barrel in short order), and he wished he had another barrel to change it out. But it probably didn’t matter—all the bad guys were gone or dead. The sky overhead was as bright and clear as only the remote desert sky could be. And it was quiet. Very quiet.
He turned and listened to the wind, then pulled out the tube for the flexible pack of water strapped to his back and took a long drink.
*******
Bono walked toward Sam through the darkness, coming to a stop right in front of him. “Looks like you got ’em,” the lieutenant said, nodding to the three dead men up the hill.
Sam grunted as he brushed the backs of his hands across his cheeks. Had Bono seen him crying, heard his childish sobs? He took a long draw of breath and shuddered in the dark.
Bono turned and sat down beside him. “You OK?’ he asked.
Sam nodded slowly. “It’s all cool, man.”
“It’s OK,” Bono answered, putting his arm around Sam’s back. “It’s OK. You’re OK. No big thing. It comes and goes.”
Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.
The two men sat in silence, the great desert all around them.
“Good work,” Bono said, nodding up the hill again. “I’m glad you got them.”
Sam drank again. “I don’t know, hearing the guy laughing as he ran away. Something about it made me snap.”
“Yeah. Makes you sick, some guy getting his kicks shooting another man in the face. Somebody else ponying out after the bad guys. We need discipline on the fire teams.”
Sam nodded and pulled his night-vision goggles down to cover his eyes.
The sound of the AirEvac helicopter filled the darkness as it landed beside the dusty road. “Who got it?” Sam asked, remembering their men who’d been hit.
“Viskosky,” Bono answered.
“Is he going to be OK?”
“Tore his femur. Ripped the artery out. Lost a bathtub full of blood.”
“Anyone else?”
Bono was quiet and Sam braced himself.
“A couple other minor hits. Nothing serious.” He hesitated another moment. “Hastings was the guy who took it in the face,” he finally said.
Sam shook his head and swore.
Bono nodded toward the hilltop. “That last guy, ol’ smiley there, hid himself near the road. Shot Hastings from point-blank range right in the face.”
Sam nodded sadly. “I saw that,” he said. His emotions were under control now, pushed back deep inside him where it was all comfortable. “Will Viskosky be OK?” he asked.
Bono watched the helicopter landing in the distance, its enormous rotors blowing up swirling vortices of sand in the landing lights. “He’s going to make it. But it hurt him. I like him. He’s a good guy. I guess he’s going home.”
Sam grabbed a fistful of sand and let it sift through his fingers, then lifted his eyes and looked up at the sky. “We all are,” he announced. “They’re pulling us back.”
Bono didn’t answer for a moment. “No surprise there,” he finally said.
“Yeah, it’s been kind of strange, the past couple days. I mean, here we are, pretending nothing happened. A nuke goes off in Gaza. A nuke goes off in D.C. Half of Iran gets hit. Yet for the past week, we keep soldiering on as if nothing’s changed. Keep up our patrols, keep shooting at the bad guys, keep talking to the locals, trying to turn them into friends, when everyone knows it’s all heading south. Another fireball is coming, there’s no doubt about that. The U.S. can’t take a nuke on D.C. and not retaliate.”
Sam fell silent. The south wind kept blowing bits of sand against his face. “It’s going to get ugly,” he murmured, talking to himself more than to Bono.
An orange-red moon broke out behind a small band of high clouds. Looking at it, Sam continued his observations. “Everything we do now is POF. Protection of Forces. Protect our own guys. That’s all anyone is even thinking about anymore. The locals are getting restless and so are the troops. No one wants to state the obvious, but we all understand. Things are going to change. None of these people are our friends any longer. They know what’s coming, they just don’t know when or where. We move here, they move there, but none of it matters. Our mission here is over. We’ve got to get out before it all comes crashing down.”
Bono cleared his throat. “So what now?” he asked.
Sam shook his head sadly. “I don’t know where they’ll send us, but for a while we’re heading back to the States.”
Silence for a moment. “We’re going home?”
“Soon as we can get airlift and transportation.”
“What will we do then?”
“Wait and see, I guess.” Sam pulled his flexible tube from his chest strap and took a long drink, then stood up and extended a hand toward Bono. “Let’s get back to our men.”
EIGHT
Royal Palace, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
The enormous palace outside Riyadh was the primary headquarters of the Royal House of Saud. It was a warlike fortress, intimidating, almost evil looking, thick-walled and strong, a structure that provided an impenetrable bastion to the world and guaranteed there wouldn’t be any outside interference in the affairs of the most powerful family on earth. Tall and brown, a little darker than the desert that surrounded it, the castle-palace was situated just a few kilometers from the capital city. One of the few mud-walled fortresses still in existence, the Riyadh palace was a reminder of the caliphs’ greatest days. And it was clearly built for battle. Inverted V-shaped slits were cut above tiny windows in the towers, and the walls were six feet thick. Although it was now surrounded by man-made lakes, green lawns, and a great garden that rivaled the finest in Europe, the palace was still imposing. One look was all it took to know that this was a place for business, a place of power, a place for taking care of the dirty work of the king.
Outside the palace, dozens of the royal children and grandchildren had gathered for a three-day celebration. Between the east wall and the garden, they watched a display of warrior riding and Arab games. Wahab tribesmen from the east pounded drums and chanted in rhythm as veiled dancers swayed to the heart-quickening beat. The soldiers raised their curved swords while the children interlocked their arms and sang:
Allah loves His Prophet
Allah loves His Home
Praise to the King who loves the Prophet
Praise to the land that guards The Stone
Great King, we will defend you
Even as you defend the Prophet’s home
Horsemen spurred their animals viciously through the trees, each of them carrying a flowing silk banner and raising a sword to reenact the charge of the fanatical Ikhwan holy warriors who had swept through Arabia to unite the individual tribes into the Kingdom of Saud. At one time, the Ikhwan were the most fearsome warriors on earth. Zealous, bloodthirsty, fanatical believers in Wahabbi Islam, the Ikhwan were the key to the royal family’s early power.
The children watched the fearsome riders with delight. They danced, ate and laughed among the gardens, oblivious to the fact that the world was shifting right under their feet. For two hundred years the royal family of the House of Saud had ruled Arabia with obscene wealth and unchallenged power. But now that the father-king was dead, and his son King Al-Rahman had stepped into his place, the world was becoming a far more dangerous place.
Especially for these pampered young ones whose fathers had gathered behind the palace walls.
The next generation of royal children would bear the sin
s of their fathers, and those fathers who wouldn’t sin were just a few hours from death.
*******
There were hundreds of lesser princes—sons of concubines, cousins, nephews, and such—scattered throughout the kingdom, but the eight most powerful princes had gathered in the palace Great Hall. Among the assembled men were the ministers of defense, intelligence and government affairs—the assembled princes who ran virtually every element of Saudi life. Most of them were middle aged, a few were older, none of them were younger than thirty-five. All wore the traditional bisht, a thin black cloak trimmed with gold thread. As they waited for their king, they poured thimbles of bitter cardamom coffee from brass pots. The princes were not used to serving themselves, and a few of them grumbled, not knowing that all the servants had been barred from the entire palace grounds.
Pushing back their white robes and adjusting their checkered head cloths, they talked among themselves in conspiratorial tones. They had assembled, they thought, to map a way forward in the post-nuclear world.
And though they had been brought together for a reason, they were about to find out that it was not for what they thought.
*******
In a small waiting room down the hallway from the great chamber, King Al-Rahman whispered with the old man.
The old man’s hair was white, long and thin, and it fell in a straggle off to the side of his head. His skin was blotched and wrinkled, but his eyes—those fearsome eyes—still burned like coals of red heat. They showed no real warmth or emotion—they didn’t even seem human anymore—but they were hot with rage and the constant burning that emitted from his soul.
“Are you ready?” the old man demanded of the new king.
The younger man nodded grimly. He did not appear excited or in high spirits. Although what he was about to do would consolidate his power beyond that of any single man on earth, he realized it wasn’t that he was elevating his power so much as pulling all rivals down. But he also knew that didn’t matter. The end result would be the same: He would stand atop the pile. Yes, the pile would be made of rubble, but he would stand atop it all the same.
The old man watched and then nodded, reading the passive look on Al-Rahman’s face, knowing the king was beyond feeling now. Ironic, he thought, how the deadening of guilt seemed to kill the whole soul, robbing it of the ability to feel joy as well.
He leaned toward the king, searching for any signs of hesitation. “You will do this?” he demanded.
“I swear that I will.”
“You swear it on our oath?”
“I swear it on my blood. The blood of my father. The blood of us all.”
The old man gestured toward the chamber where the king’s younger brothers were waiting. “You swear it on their blood!”
The king didn’t hesitate. Instead, he moved toward the old man and took him in his arms. Locking his hands behind the old man’s back, he squeezed tight, whispering the cold oaths in his ear.
The old man listened, then stepped back. Staring at the king, he pressed his dry lips in a cynical smile.
The king thought he understood all of the oaths that he had breathed. But the truth was, he didn’t. He hardly understood them at all. He was nothing but a mortal; he could never really know.
But the old man knew. He knew how important it was to hide their counsels from the Light. He knew how much the darkness was needed for their work. He knew that the source of the oaths stretched beyond the boundaries of time.
King Al-Rahman was not the first to share in the oaths and he would not be the last, but like all of the others who had known them, he had an exaggerated expectation of the part he would play. Yes, he was important, but how crucial could one man really be? Like all of the others, he would play his part and then fall away, his body placed in the ground to mold into rot.
Fools! the old man thought in disgust. Arrogant, suffering, self-important fools! They actually thought that they mattered. Short-sighted, condemned fools!
The old man hid his disgust behind a blank face as he studied the king. Was this man worthy? Was he ready? Yes, he thought he was. How many of his family had he already killed? His father. His older brother. His brother’s children and wives. All of them were dead now.
No, that was not right. There was one, a young child, who had escaped.
But they would find him. They had to find him. And they would kill him when they did.
The old man smiled.
It was time to spread the cult. He patted the young king on his shoulder. “You know what to do,” he said.
The king swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his tight throat.
The old man leaned toward him, his breath as dry as death. “The final attack, the most powerful devastation, is just a few hours away. You absolutely have to do this before your brothers find out what you’ve done. Some of them will help you. Some of them are like you. Go. Find out which of them are going to join you. Then take care of the rest.”
The king frowned and started walking toward his brothers down the hall. He tried to keep his step up, but his feet still seemed to drag. He felt so empty and lonely, so frustrated and cold. He wanted to get it over with. He was growing weary of this war.
The old man watched, reading the look on his face. He called out, “King Abdullah.”
The king stopped and turned around.
“After this thing against America, you know the next step, don’t you?”
The king stared, his face blank.
“Your filthy half-brothers, all those Shia, they will have to be put in their place. Claiming the authority of Allah when we all know that Ali, their first leader, was nothing more than a filthy liar. They’ve become chaotic and impossible, a pox upon you all. Your job won’t be over until we’ve taken care of them as well.”
The king took a step back. Yes, it was true he hated the Shia; he’d hated them since he was just a child. Every Sunni hated Shia. Ahl al bayt. “People of the house [of the prophet]” was their claim. How insulting! How absurd! All of them were liars and imposters.
But they were also Muslim brothers!
His heart sank again.
“How far—how long will this go on?” he muttered desperately, the hopeless thought escaping his lips before he could call the words back.
The old man considered the question, then smiled a wicked grin. “All the way,” he answered softly. “All the way until the end.”
NINE
East Side, Chicago, Illinois
They stood in the foyer on the first floor of the public housing building, a dreary high-rise identical to the four dozen other buildings around it. A blight on the city for more than three generations, the complex of poverty might have been the pride of some government bureaucrat back when it was built in 1960, but it was nothing but a fester of drugs, violence and criminal activity now.
In the lounge, six men spread out on a pair of stained couches, cooking heroin, playing cards, and calling filthy names to every girl who walked by. One of them tossed a knife, dropping it again and again on the floor, the curved tip sticking through the soiled carpet to the floorboard underneath. Another cleaned his gun, a Saturday Night Special with the serial number filed off. A Chicago Housing Authority security officer stood near the front door. The men seemed to ignore him, and he ignored them as well. A long-standing agreement stood between them: He looked away; they cut him in on the action. Sometimes they paid in cash, sometimes in women.
Almost every night since the nuclear detonation in Washington, D.C., there had been riots in the ghetto, but the police had finally retaken control and the smell of pepper spray had begun to dissipate, though a faint whiff of smoke still drifted in the air. To the men’s right, one of the elevator doors was jammed open—it had been a long time since it had worked—and the other elevator door opened and closed with regularity as it moved the building occupants up and down.
Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi stood before the older woman. It was the first time in her life she ha
d ever seen a black woman this close, and she couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful skin. The woman’s hair was braided and wrapped in silver beads. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, but they smiled with a dazzle that somehow made Azadeh feel good. Azadeh was taller than the other woman by an inch or two, but both were slender and small-boned. Each of them fidgeted anxiously as they studied each other.
Then, without any apparent reason, the black woman broke into a smile. Leaning toward Azadeh, she pulled her close and held her a moment longer than two strangers would have normally embraced.
Mary Shaye Dupree, the older woman, pulled back. “Welcome, Azadeh,” she said.
Azadeh bowed, an overly dramatic move that bent her almost in half. “Miss Dupree,” she answered, her English almost perfect, at least these few words, for she had practiced the introduction a hundred times. “My name is Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi. Thank you for inviting me here.”
The woman smiled again, white teeth and full lips. “You call me Mary, or Mary Shaye, but not Miss Dupree, all right?”
Azadeh nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.
“Not ma’am, now. It’s just Mary.”
Azadeh nodded. “Just Mary,” she repeated, her face growing confused.
The black woman laughed, then lifted a small present she held in her hand. “I got this for you, Azadeh. It isn’t much.” She hesitated, gesturing to the crumbling surroundings around her. “I don’t have much, you understand, but I wanted to give you something.”
Azadeh stared at the gift, her eyes growing bright. She had been given a gift only one other time in her entire life and, thinking of the golden headband her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday, she shuddered. She thought of the night on the mountain, the night she had been driven from her home, the rain that turned to snow, the cold, being lost, the hopelessness and despair. She thought of her father and the stranger, and how the precious gift had reappeared. She trembled as she remembered, then turned toward Mary. “For me?” she asked haltingly. “But Miss Dupree—Mary, I don’t have you anything.”
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