clean as white desert sand. He lived only for his Master—and to carry out His plans and desires. But he longed for a word from time to time. A sign from Allah that he was on the right track. Yet there had been silence for weeks now, months.
No matter. There was a time for peace and a time for suffering. He had undergone many moments of loneliness and pain in his forty-three years of life and had survived and would continue to survive. At least until this mission was complete. Then he would gladly die. For he would have returned his homeland to his people, a task no other man had been able to accomplish in Palestine’s long, tortured history.
Many times he had seen himself, dressed in his flowing red robes, ascend into the sky, up, up to his God. In the vision, he was bleeding from an arrow or a spear, or a bullet. And his robe was burning bright red with the blood of his life. But it only made the ascension more glorious. To fight His enemies and die for Him. To be taken into the arms of the angels in Paradise.
His visions often lasted hours. Alone in his tent in the middle of the black desert night, Qarnain experienced ecstatic seizures that threw him around the sandy floor of his tent like a rag doll, his body trembling violently, drool flowing from his wide open mouth. He would wake hours later from his fiery dream, burning with the blood of Allah in his veins, tears flowing from his eyes. And he would thank the Lord for showing His humble servant the path.
And now the time was near. The Blessed War was soon to be fought, and he, Dhul Qarnain, was its general—the chosen warrior who would send His holy troops into battle. The Red rulers of the Arab world had grown soft and fat and rotten with their forbidden—to the Arabs, anyway—liquor and women. They had been seduced by the “dead” materialism of the West. They had given in to the Great Satan. He knew the time of judgment was near. He could feel it in his blood and bones, as one feels the approaching storm deep in the nostrils, hears the earthquake in the center of the heart minutes before the ground begins to move and shake like a whirling dervish. He would lead his men to battle—under Colonel Killov—and in return he would be given back the sacred land of Palestine, for him and his people. This the colonel had promised. And though the man was supremely evil and twisted, Qarnain knew he would keep his word. He and Killov had connections extending far back.
Qarnain himself would die—he knew it. He would succeed in his war but his physical body would be destroyed. He would at last join his Master—fly up to the heavens filled with dark-haired angels. He longed for the day. Longed for the moment of his martyrdom, when Allah would see just how deep, deep as blood, his love ran.
Had not the bountiful Allah provided him with everything he needed for the war? Had he not needed money, and had it not been poured on him from his benefactor, the colonel? He had needed an army, and lo, men came, ready to die for him and he had assembled a multitude of strong and ready fighters. He had needed arms to fight the infidels—and his men had hijacked Red helicopters, machine guns, even small ground-to-air missiles, from Red supply ships and convoys.
And had not Dhul Qarnain needed an ultimate weapon, a weapon so strong, so terrible that no nation could stand up to it? A weapon as powerful as the fist of Allah Himself, able to annihilate the armies of the infidel. And the KGB colonel had known just where to procure such weapons from the very clutches of the Russian serpent—a nuclear battle wagon that could turn the world into a pit of fire.
Now the years of preparation were completed and arms filled the inside of the tanker to overflowing. Allah had been supremely generous indeed. Praise be to Allah.
Qarnain was suddenly startled from his reveries by the sharp sound of boot heels clicking together behind him. He turned. It was Colonel Killov. The man looked like
No matter. There was a time for peace and a time for suffering. He had undergone many moments of loneliness and pain in his forty-three years of life and had survived and would continue to survive. At least until this mission was complete. Then he would gladly die. For he would have returned his homeland to his people, a task no other man had been able to accomplish in Palestine’s long, tortured history.
Many times he had seen himself, dressed in his flowing red robes, ascend into the sky, up, up to his God. In the vision, he was bleeding from an arrow or a spear, or a bullet. And his robe was burning bright red with the blood of his life. But it only made the ascension more glorious. To fight His enemies and die for Him. To be taken into the arms of the angels in Paradise.
His visions often lasted hours. Alone in his tent in the middle of the black desert night, Qarnain experienced ecstatic seizures that threw him around the sandy floor of his tent like a rag doll, his body trembling violently, drool flowing from his wide open mouth. He would wake hours later from his fiery dream, burning with the blood of Allah in his veins, tears flowing from his eyes. And he would thank the Lord for showing His humble servant the path.
And now the time was near. The Blessed War was soon to be fought, and he, Dhul Qarnain, was its general—the chosen warrior who would send His holy troops into battle. The Red rulers of the Arab world had grown soft and fat and rotten with their forbidden—to the Arabs, anyway—liquor and women. They had been seduced by the “dead” materialism of the West. They had given in to the Great Satan. He knew the time of judgment was near. He could feel it in his blood and bones, as one feels the approaching storm deep in the nostrils, hears the earthquake in the center of the heart minutes before the ground begins to move and shake like a whirling dervish. He would lead his men to battle—under Colonel Killov—and in return he would be given back the sacred land of Palestine, for him and his people. This the colonel had promised. And though the man was supremely evil and twisted, Qarnain knew he would keep his word. He and Killov had connections extending far back.
Qarnain himself would die—he knew it. He would succeed in his war but his physical body would be destroyed. He would at last join his Master—fly up to the heavens filled with dark-haired angels. He longed for the day. Longed for the moment of his martyrdom, when Allah would see just how deep, deep as blood, his love ran.
Had not the bountiful Allah provided him with everything he needed for the war? Had he not needed money, and had it not been poured on him from his benefactor, the colonel? He had needed an army, and lo, men came, ready to die for him and he had assembled a multitude of strong and ready fighters. He had needed arms to fight the infidels—and his men had hijacked Red helicopters, machine guns, even small ground-to-air missiles, from Red supply ships and convoys.
And had not Dhul Qarnain needed an ultimate weapon, a weapon so strong, so terrible that no nation could stand up to it? A weapon as powerful as the fist of Allah Himself, able to annihilate the armies of the infidel. And the KGB colonel had known just where to procure such weapons from the very clutches of the Russian serpent—a nuclear battle wagon that could turn the world into a pit of fire.
Now the years of preparation were completed and arms filled the inside of the tanker to overflowing. Allah had been supremely generous indeed. Praise be to Allah.
Qarnain was suddenly startled from his reveries by the sharp sound of boot heels clicking together behind him. He turned. It was Colonel Killov. The man looked like
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