Infidels (33 page)

It
wasn’t until the glaring error was pointed out to him by a student that his own
beliefs had been truly shaken.

The
discussion on when the Al-Masjid-ul-Haram Mosque in Mecca and the Al-Masjid-ul-Aqs-a
in Jerusalem were built.

He had
sloughed off the question, saying it wasn’t relevant to the discussion at hand
as it wasn’t an inconsistency in the Koran, two passages not contradicting each
other.

But it
had disturbed him.

He had
read the Koran and the Hadiths almost every day of his life, the passages
referring to the building of the mosques memorized, but he had never made the
connection, the historical record never part of his reading.

He had
just always assumed the Koran was infallible.

After
all, it was the word of God.

But when
he had researched it himself, he had found the error was irrefutable.

The
Koran was wrong.

Which
meant Allah was wrong.

And that
was impossible.

So if
Allah couldn’t be wrong, but the Koran was, then the Prophet had made a mistake
when he repeated the words of the Archangel Gabriel to those who would record
the word of God.

If
only the Prophet had known how to read and write!

If the
Prophet had been literate, then there would be no chance for mistakes. Nayef
had initially come to the conclusion that since God was infallible, the fault
must lie with his chosen Prophet, and it was Mohammed himself that had made the
error.

But that
would mean God had chosen poorly.

And
since He was infallible, that could not be the case.

Which
meant the fault lay at the feet of those who had transcribed the Prophet’s
words.

That had
satisfied him for a short time, but never fully, for surely the words written
must have been repeated back to the Prophet on many occasions, and he would
have noticed the error.

This led
him to the only logical conclusion.

That the
error was intentional.

And if
the error was intentional, it could only mean it was a test. A test that man
had failed.

But not
all men.

Upon
researching the history of the Black Stone he discovered a shocking truth.

Someone
else had discovered the error, had discovered the test, and they had attempted
to bring man back to the true path but had ultimately failed, giving into greed
instead, returning the stone damaged but still whole in exchange for a king’s
ransom.

The man
was an inspiration to him, his people and their beliefs a beacon in the night
waiting for this misguided, lost religion to see its light and be returned to
the path meant for all mankind to follow.

And when
he had discovered the truth, he had been reborn.

As Abu Tahir
al-Qarmati.

“Do we have any idea if they saw the broadcast?”

Kane
looked back at Red, activating his mike. “No idea, but that’s what makes it
fun!”

Red
raised his eyebrows, Spock cocking one. “Flying into one of the most heavily
defended regions of the Middle East with dozens of surface to air missile
batteries and other sundry anti-aircraft weaponry is fun for you?”

“Hey, I
filed a flight plan.”

“Riiight.
If we survive this, remind me to thank you later for rescuing us. If we don’t,
you’re going to feel my boot up your ass all the way from the Pearly Gates.”

“So you
don’t think I’m coming with you?”

“Not if
you get me killed.”

“My size
fourteens will be wedged in there too,” rumbled Atlas.

“Faith,
gentlemen, faith!”

Kane
flicked a switch, all the lights on the helicopter turning on, lighting them up
like a beacon in the night sky.

He
cleared his throat then activated the external megaphone.

“Do
not shoot. We have the Black Stone. If you fire upon us you will destroy it.”

Major Samara looked to where Colonel Faisal bin Nayef was pointing
and frowned. A bright light in the distance was clearly the helicopter they
were hearing. Something was being broadcast over a speaker in Arabic, but at
this distance it was mostly incomprehensible.

Colonel
Nayef looked over at the men manning the SAM battery. “Take them out, now!”

Samara
felt his heart leap into his throat.

Is he
crazy?

The man
at the controls looked equally confused, reaching for the control panel then
stopping, his wide eyes moving between his Colonel and his Major. He finally
lowered both hands, gripping the edges of his seat, saying nothing.

“You’re
relieved!” shouted Nayef. He pointed at another man. “Take over and fire!” The
man hesitated. Nayef unholstered his sidearm, aiming it at the man as the first
scrambled from his post.

He
fired.

The man
dropped, gripping his stomach, as two others quickly hauled their friend away. He
shifted his aim to another soldier who began to shake. “Don’t you people see?
This is a ruse! The Americans stole the Black Stone for one purpose, to rid
themselves of Islam. And this is the final part of the plan! They claim to be
returning the stone, but they aren’t. They are going to drop a bomb on the Sacred
Mosque, on the Kaaba itself, and destroy the most holiest of Islamic sites
where the great Prophet himself, peace be upon him, first kissed the stone. If
you let the Americans over the city, all will be lost!”

The man
still didn’t move, his entire body shaking now in fear.

Nayef lowered
his weapon and his voice.

“Do your
duty, save the mosque, save Islam.”

The man
nodded, moving toward the weapons platform.

Samara
wanted to step forward, to stop what was going on, but his duty held him in
place. He had seen the footage over the past days like everyone else had. The
Prince’s broadcast had been confusing, blasphemous, and he hadn’t understood
its point. When the footage of the American soldiers with the Black Stone had
been released, he had been outraged, the Prince’s broadcast suddenly becoming
very clear to him and his fellow officers—Prince Khalid had been coerced into
making the broadcast. The rumors of the Sacred Mosque’s attackers speaking
English suddenly made sense.

The
Americans had stolen the stone.

But to
what end?

What
could they have possibly hoped to accomplish? He had met many American’s during
his career, more soldiers than civilians, and had always found them to be very
professional. He definitely at times detected a hint of Islamophobia from some,
more commonly from the younger soldiers, but he chalked that up to ignorance.
People feared the unknown, even in his own culture. When he was their age he
had a deep distrust of Americans and non-Muslims, but he had moved beyond those
prejudices as he had learned more about these different cultures, met the
people and realized they weren’t the enemy.

At least
not the individuals.

Their
governments he wasn’t so certain about. After all, it was governments that set
policy, and those policies time and again seemed anti-Islam to him.

Yet he
still couldn’t see how stealing the Black Stone would accomplish anything
except more violence and distrust. Surely the chaos being experienced around
the world couldn’t have been the desired outcome.

Only
a madman could want that!

But if
Nayef was right, and that was only part of their plan, then this could very
well be the endgame. Destroy Mecca and trigger an all-out war with Islam. It
would give the West the final excuse to rid themselves of the problem they had
created by letting tens of millions of people into their countries that had
nothing in common with their culture. The Western governments surely knew they
had no palatable solution to the problem their political correctness had
created, and a military solution was unthinkable.

Unless
it became absolutely necessary.

Like
when tens of thousands of its own citizens began killing in the name of their
religion.

It
was brilliant!

Everything
suddenly became clear and he realized Nayef was right. The Americans had wanted
this war, not to rid the Middle East of Muslims, but to rid
themselves
of Muslims. It was an insane plan, an insidious plan.

An
unbelievable plan.

He
watched as the soldier operated the weapons platform, the SAM missile battery
rotating into position as a missile lock was achieved.

There’s
no way the Americans would do this!

It
was
an unbelievable plan. No matter how much he was raised to believe Jews and
Christians hated Muslims, he had never really bought into it, especially after
serving for over twenty years in the military, meeting and serving with
foreigners the world over. Yes, their way of life was completely different, but
deep down they were the same. They had families, friends, and careers, just
like he did. They laughed, loved and mourned, just like he did.

They
were more alike than they were different.

It was
the fanatics on both sides that had driven a wedge between them, and it was
exactly that fanaticism he was seeing in his friend’s eyes right now. The
almost irrational assumption that the “other side” must be evil, can’t be
trusted, must be out to take or destroy or undermine.

And what
if Nayef was wrong?

Or what
if he was right?

Wasn’t
Islam stronger than one mosque, no matter how holy? Would Catholics give up
their faith if the Vatican were destroyed? No! They would become stronger, more
united. And the same would be true of Islam.

He
stepped forward, his courage, his certainty, found.

“Colonel.”
He paused, taking his friend by the arm. “Faisal. What if they’re telling the
truth?”

Nayef turned
to him. “
You
believe the Americans? Didn’t you see the footage with them
in possession of the Black Stone? How could they have possibly obtained it?”

“But the
video shows that it was already there.”

“Hollywood!
Just because you see a ten meter tall talking robot on the screen doesn’t mean
it’s real!”

Samara’s
chin dropped, his eyes staring at the ground, the man’s defiance almost
overwhelming, almost emasculating. “But can we take that chance, sir? What if
you’re wrong?”

“Can we
afford not to? If we destroy them, we merely break the stone. It has happened
before and will happen again. But if they destroy the Sacred Mosque and the Kaaba,
what then? What if they have a nuclear weapon? A Muslim pilgrim may not set
foot here for another thousand years!”

“But
Islam is stronger than any one stone, any one building, any one piece of land.
It is a faith over a billion strong that will live on and grow stronger with
any adversity we may face.” Samara stepped in front of his friend, blocking the
view of the SAM’s control panel and the soldier manning it. “Faisal, let them
through. If they are telling the truth, then there is no harm. We get the Black
Stone back and things may calm down. And if they are lying, then they destroy
us all, but Islam will go on. We have to ask, what would Allah ask of us? Would
Allah truly let anyone destroy the Kaaba, and if He did, wouldn’t He have a
reason for it? Put yourself in Allah’s hands, Faisal. Let His will be done.”

Nayef
glared at him for a moment, then his face suddenly relaxed, a smile breaking
out. He put a hand on Samara’s shoulder, squeezing it. “You are right, of
course, my friend. What happens here tonight is Allah’s will.”

A shot
rang out and Samara gasped, his hands grabbing for his stomach as he looked
down to see a gun pointed at his belly, smoke wafting up from the barrel. He
fell backward, slamming into the hard desert sand, so soft to the touch, like
led when smacked.

He tried
to speak but the pain was overwhelming.

“Do you
have a weapons lock?” asked Nayef, stepping over his body as if he weren’t
there.

“Yes,
sir.”

“Then
fire.”

“Just keep it low and slow. We don’t want to spook them.”

Red sat
at the winch control, one hand on the cable, the crate containing the Black
Stone swinging below them in a cargo net. Though he would much rather be coming
in hard and fast to get things over with quickly, Kane was right. There were
simply too many SAM batteries around the holy city to take the chance. Rushing
in might mean they’d avoid small-arms fire, even some shoulder launched
missiles, but there was no avoiding multiple SAMs at any speed.

Not in a
helicopter.

Low and
slow was the plan and it was the right one.

Now all
they needed was for everyone on the ground to keep their cool. Kane had been
bringing them up to speed on events around the world and they were even worse
than the news reports had suggested in the brief comm window they had earlier
in the day.

And now
Western militaries were taking action.

It was
unbelievable.

And
unless he and his team were successful, the bloodbath could be unprecedented.

How
do you not kill those who desperately want to die?

An alarm
sounded up front and Wings cursed.

“Weapons
lock!”

“No!” mumbled Samara, his pain intense but slowly waning, either
because he was dying, or simply blocking it. Either way it allowed him to raise
his head slightly. The soldier was still at the panel working, Nayef standing
with his back to him, staring at the slowly approaching helicopter, its lights
still on, its announcement still blaring.

If
they were trying to destroy the Kaaba, wouldn’t they have used a fighter jet?

Why
couldn’t the others see what was happening here? Were they blinded by their
hatred and distrust of non-Muslims, or were they operating under fear of death
at the hands of the fanatical Nayef. If he had to guess, it was a little bit of
both. His story was compelling, his theory absolutely possible, if you ignored
the fact it simply wasn’t the Western way of thinking.