She shook her head with a smile and snuggled on the ground next to Erik, thankful to God that Erik was home and safe and they would both survive to see the next day.
FIST OF THE JIHAD
Fanning the Flames
HAKIM STOOD IN the sun near the little cantina and looked up and down dusty streets of the Mexican town. It had been days since he and Saldid had slipped past the American paramilitary forces at the border and disappeared into the Mexican wastelands.
Since then, he and his partner in terror had been spreading the word of the now infamous ‘slaughter at Nogales’. They had first heard of it in a little dive somewhere south of the border. It couldn’t have had better timing, so they picked up the story and ran with it. Heading deeper into Mexico, they fanned the flames of anger and resentment. Coupled with stories of the suffering and privation wrecking havoc in America, the Mexicans were all too happy to have something to gossip and get angry about.
The day after slipping across the border, Hakim and Saldid had met up with their Al Qaeda contact, a man who called himself Hassif. He never referred to his last name, nor answered to anything other than Hassif. Long used to the secrecy and tactics of a terror organization that spanned most of the globe, Hakim and Saldid asked no questions. They received their orders and using Hassif as an interpreter, began spreading hate and lies among the gullible Mexican towns they encountered, who were just looking for an excuse to shake a fist at the Yanquis.
Hakim shook his head at the beauty of it all. They had done only enough damage to knock out the power in the United States, set a few forest fires, and the whole damn country had imploded. Of course, my ‘Brothers’ in the inner cities had a hand in that…civil war…it is priceless.
Every town they had passed through, the three Arabs had caused quite a stir with their stories. When they arrived, the sleepy little communities were just going about their business as usual—what business they had. When they left, there were marches, speeches and planned rallies in defiance of American aggression.
Word soon spread faster than the three terrorists could travel among a people desperate for something, anything that provided relief from the day to day grind. Hakim figured it would only be another day or so before the Mexican government would have to do something. The international media would be in on it soon. After that, Hakim wasn’t sure what would happen. He knew damn well the Mexicans wouldn’t stand a chance if they attacked America, weak though she was.
On that, Hassif promised a great surprise, but would reveal nothing further. With typical Arab fatalism, Hakim shrugged, leaned against the wall of the run down brothel, pulled out a cigarette and prepared to wait for Hassif and Saldid to have their fun before they all moved to the next town south.
I only wish the American news media were still broadcasting—how I long to see the chaos in their streets!
NORAD
Drastic Measures
THEY’VE TOTALLY SURROUNDED Israel, sir,” said the President’s National Security Advisor. “There’s just too many Arabs, too many tanks, too many planes, too many expendable soldiers. The Arab ring, you can see here,” she said pointing at a map on the display wall. “It’s closing like a vice.”
“More like some monstrous steel noose,” grumbled the tired looking image of the Secretary of Defense.
The NSA continued without missing a beat: “Suicide bombers are being reported now in ever increasing numbers, 24 hours a day. Israel is being attacked from without and within at the same time.”
“Sir, my people tell me it won’t be long before they nuke the Arabs,” agreed the SecDef. “We’re hours away from a nuclear war.”
“The brink of nuclear war…and where are our boys?” asked the President in the voice of an old man. “Eh? I hear they call it the ‘Great Withdrawal’.”
SecDef nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that too. Can’t blame ‘em. We’re engaged in the largest global troop movement the world has ever seen. We’ve got assets on five continents. Soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines…they’re all congealing towards ports and airports, climbing aboard transport jets, commandeered airliners, cruise ships and transport vessels of every make and size. Anything we can commandeer or buy or beg, borrow, or steal.”
“Sir, due to the attack on the Theodore Roosevelt, our response is limited now to long range bomber attacks. Without a clearly defined enemy other than Iran and Egypt, those attacks are not heavy or concentrated,” bemoaned the Secretary of the Air Force.
“Turn ‘em loose. I want to make Operation Rolling Thunder look like a gentle rain,” grunted the President. “Let the B-52s have one more chance at payback.”
THE OLD MAN frowned. “Payback, revenge, vengeance. Call it what you will. They will not do anything. They are not the people they once were.”
The leader of the Al Qaeda cells in Iran paced in front of the desk of the highest cleric in the Islamic Theocracy. He was afraid the old man would get cold feet, at this, the most critical hour. He stopped suddenly and faced his elder. The old man peered at him from under shaggy grey eyebrows.
“Ayatollah, I swear to you, the Americans will not be long in retaliating. They must know where that missile came from. And the Jews—they have their nuclear weapons in the air already—“
“This I know…” croaked the old man. He waved a scraggy hand in dismissal.
“Then why—“
The old man looked up under his dark turban and silenced the younger fundamentalist with a cold stare. “I do not wish to destroy that which is our holiest site without a care for the consequences, in this life or the next!”
“I have explained to you—the Holy Osama has—“
The old man waved an impatient hand. It showed how much he truly cared for the much touted martyr Bin Laden. “Bah…what has he done to deserve the name ‘Holy’? Has he conquered the world with his preaching? Has he destroyed all the infidels—“
“This act is but a piece in the war, if we stop now—“
“We will not stop now. We cannot,” said the old cleric, sadly. “The Americans are far from defeated, this I know,” he said, pointed a craggy finger at the younger, well dressed man. Dressed western-style, the cleric noted. “The Great Satan has rallied before—history, young one, history! They are slow to react but once put in motion are terrible to behold. You would do well to learn from history—“
“If we act now, we can live it!” cried the Al Qaeda rep. “This act will start a chain reaction which will bring down the Westerners who have oppressed us and mocked us with their affluence—mocked Allah! We will become the dominant civilization once more!”
The old man considered the alternatives and weighed each possible action in his mind for the umpteenth time. “You are sure this will work?”
“Positive. But we must act soon. Timing is critical.”
The cleric sighed. He leaned back in his old padded chair and waved his hand again. “Very well. Do it. And may Allah have mercy on you if this fails. For no one else will. This, I know.” The older man fixed the younger with a look of death as an aide slipped out of the sparse room to give the fateful order which would either remember him through the ages as the man who saved Islam, or the man who destroyed it.
In the desert, west of Tehran, at the base of a dusty mountain, two massive doors of crude construction, camouflaged to fit in with the surroundings, slowly opened with a hiss of steam and condensation. A few minutes later, a single Russian ballistic missile with a Chinese warhead shot out of the concealed launch complex and tore into the sky on a column of fire and smoke.
DEEP INSIDE NORAD on the other side of the planet, the officer of the watch was about to have kittens.
“Say that again, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, we think we’ve figured out what’s going on with the satellite signals. Our birds aren’t aligned properly in orbit—“
“I got that part, mister. I want you tell me again, why,” the stressed and sweating Major said through clenched teeth.
&
nbsp; “One of NASA’s birds picked up an anomalous energy reading at about the same time that our orbital malfunctions took place. We’ve done some tracing—it’s all preliminary of course, but we think that some other satellites must have used some pretty high powered lasers to disable ours,” the young lieutenant was flushed with excitement and dread.
“Jesus…whose?” the Major rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief. He loosened the collar on his uniform. The pressure just went up a notch.
“The satellites we’ve identified were launched by China over the past three years.”
“China?” the Major said, breathless. He scrambled to find a phone and get the Brass in on the loop. He wanted to pass the buck on this one so bad he could taste it. His pay grade wasn’t high enough to deal with situations this hot.
“Officer of the watch!” called out a voice on the other side of the darkened command and control center. The Major rushed over to the new problem.
“What is it, son?” he asked.
“We’re getting some sketchy data because of the satellite glitches,” he obviously didn’t know the full situation. “But I think we just saw a missile launch from Iran…again.”
“ICBM?”
“That’s affirmative, sir. We’re plotting vector and trajectory based on the latest info we got, but sir, it’s just a guess at this point with so many satellites screwing up.”
“But it’s a pretty Goddamned good guess, Lieutenant—this is NORAD, remember? Now, where’s it going?” asked the near apoplectic Major. He had to find a phone before he had a heart attack.
“Well…from this,” the young man said, pointing to his glowing screen, “It looks like it’s sub-orbital. It’s not leaving the Middle East. I’d guess Israel, since it’s originating from Iran, but it’s curving south. We lost contact here. Should pick it up in about two or three minutes when another CIA satellite passes overhead.”
“Time to impact?”
The lieutenant swallowed audibly. “Two or three minutes. Best guess, sir. Sorry.”
“That doesn’t help at all. Someone get the General out of that staff meeting. NOW!” the Major bellowed.
RICHARD ASMAR PEERED around the corner of the dingy old stone building and saw the goal of his great Pilgrimage. Newly Converted to the Faith, he had changed his name from Smith to Amsar, quit his job, pulled out all his stocks and devoted everything to attaining this one Truth—to stand in Mecca before the Ka’ba, the large black house built by Ibrahim and his son Isma’il to house the ‘Truce of God’.
The massive structure, all black in the bright sunshine, was surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands of worshipers, all chanting and circling in unison. All the toil and hardships he had endured over the past two months vanished from his mind. He had attained Nirvana. His infidel ex-wife would laugh if she had been there to see him, broke, dirty, a two month beard adorning his face, wearing hardly anything but rags, quite possibly the only sun-burnt white American within a thousand miles.
Richard didn’t feel like laughing, he felt like crying—for joy. In his rush to join the throngs in prayer, he, like most of the people crowded into the most holy of holy sites at Mecca, failed to notice the bright star-like object in the sky. They failed to take note that the object was getting bigger and brighter with each second. They failed to notice the smoke trail chasing the point of light and arcing out of the heavens toward Mecca. Like the scimitar of Allah Himself.
An instant later, they failed to see the flash of released atomic energy. All of the Faithful, too busy with their prayers, failed to see the dirty mushroom cloud growing up out of the crater of what once was called Mecca.
On the outskirts of the holy city, a shockwave emanated in the hearts of every Muslim. An anger so deep, so white hot, so scorching erupted in their very souls. For one shining moment, every Muslim on the face of the Earth was stunned into silence. Years later, legend would have it that many of the witnesses, their eyes burned out by the blast, would simply keel over and die on the spot in grief.
The shockwave of hatred raced around the globe as fast as the news could travel—that is, about ten minutes. By then, most of the world’s largest media firms were interrupting coverage of the Middle-East War, the American Crisis or the U.N. situation with devastating new alerts about the developments in Mecca.
Mecca had been effectively wiped off the face of the earth.
Islam’s most holy site was no more.
THE NATIONAL SECURITY Advisor’s most senior aide burst into the President’s war room at NORAD about five minutes after the destruction of Mecca. Most of the leaders of Congress and the higher ranking officials in Washington were gathering in Denver. They were setting up the government out of reach of enemies. It was a safety measure first dreamed up during the Cold War but never really implemented.
The President, the NSA, and the head of the Department of Homeland Security turned to look at her. She swallowed her nervousness as she noticed for the first time all the faces on the myriad displays. The heads of most departments, the military and many senior officials in congress. All gathered digitally in this one room deep under the mountain. All looking at her.
“Mr. President, we have a big problem!”
ON THE FLOOR of the new U.N. Assembly Room in the Hague, chaos had erupted when news of the attack on Mecca was announced. The Islamic delegates cried, screamed in anguish, clawed the air in rage—three even leapt over their desks and charged headlong at the Israeli delegate, who looked just as shocked as the rest of the room.
Once order was restored, some minutes later and only with the help of a few burly security guards, the accusations started to fly. Israel was blamed right off the bat—America included as an accessory after the Egyptian delegate told of the sudden and inexplicable destruction of most of his country’s military bases. No one bothered to tell anyone about the surprise attacks on the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt. The loss of a city in Jordan by a nuclear device was forgotten in an instant. All eyes were on Saudi Arabia.
The Secretary General, while just as surprised as the next man in the room, was delighted inside. He steepled his fingers and sat in his position at the head of the room and thought. He didn’t try to slow things down—the enraged Arab and Islamic delegates were pushing matters to a head faster than even he had wished. The Islamic world—and it was a big chunk of Earth’s population—was quickly gathering together and rattling scimitars in the direction of Israel and her western allies. America and Israel were names to be hissed in infamy, it appeared.
Demands for action were called out, votes taken and measures adopted in record speed. The U.N. was going to act, faster than anyone had thought possible and faster than the Secretary General had dreamed. His plan was going even better than could have ever hoped. Israel was the prime suspect and in the eyes of most of the delegates it seemed, was already guilty.
The Israeli delegate roared in impotent rage at his accusers. “Even while you attack my homeland, you accuse us of this monstrosity! We are a people of Faith—we do NOT attack holy sites!” He thrust his age-spotted hand at the Palestinian repres
“Do not dare to speak, Jew! You and your kind will be exterminated from this planet once and for all…this act…this…barbarity…crime…” the Saudi delegate was growing red in the face and stammered in his rage. Finally his assistant pulled him down to his seat, shaking with fury.
The delegate from Great Britain watched the scene unfold with genuine sadness in his heart. While not a religious man, personally, he never opposed some bloke getting his jollies off talking to God. Whatever suits, that was his motto. But destroying a holy site, be it Christian or Muslim or Pagan, as far as he was concerned that was just wrong. He just couldn’t bring himself to believe the poor Israeli chaps had gone off the deep end like that. When he saw the shared look between the Russian and French delegates, warning bells went off in his mind.
So, the game is afoot, eh, old boys?
HAKIM, SALDID, AND Hassif stared with open
-mouthed wonder at the badly flickering old TV sitting on the rusted wagon in the door to a run-down little shop in a run-down little town just north of Mexico City.
The picture on the distorted screen showed another mushroom cloud in the Middle East. The anchorman, speaking rapidly in Spanish told the story. Hakim and Saldid had to wait for a few minutes while Hassif listened, translated, digested, wiped his eyes and finally told his comrades what had happened.
An old Mexican lady jumped nearly out of her colorful but tattered shawl when the three Arabs across the street suddenly started screaming and ranting and raving, waving their arms about, crying and carrying on like a bunch of young girls at a wedding. She clucked her tongue at the idiocy of foreigners and shook her head, shuffling down the dusty street heading for the ancient Catholic Mission on the edge of town for her daily devotional.
WHAT THE HELL is this?”
The Arab communications officer stared at the hand written orders thrust in front of him. He had just finished a set of highly coded orders for troops coming in from the north, only a few miles away—his break was coming up in a few minutes. Now here someone steps into his tent and gives him another classified order manifest. He sighed as the messenger shrugged and left the tent. Reading over the message, then checking the frequency it was to be transmitted on, he knew there must have been a mistake.
This message will be heard by the Jews for sure…they’ll be able to translate it with little trouble…and this message! It cannot be correct! Or can it? I haven’t heard anything about this yet…Since when are the Russians sending in tanks to support us? By Allah’s Hand, three whole Divisions!? That’s almost as many tanks as we have already fighting!
The radio man got on the horn and checked the authenticity code for the message. An angry voice on the other end—his Colonel, confirmed everything and demanded he get the message out as soon as possible.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 38
