The War After Armageddon by Ralph Peters Page A

altering course to head straight for the Carmel Ridges. Struggling to hold the aircraft together for just a few more seconds. Through sheer willpower. And praying the ejection mechanism was still in working order.
    As Dawg pulled high, he imagined his wings coming off. Or maybe it wasn’t his imagination. He tried to level off to eject. But the aircraft was unstable, uncontrollable now, gimp-twitching.
    “Eject, eject, eject!”
he called over the intercom. Unsure if he was speaking to a living human being.
    He punched out. It felt like going through an automobile windshield at a thousand miles an hour. Yank on the neck. His shoulder took a whack.
    A reassuring jerk told him his chute had opened.
     
    HEADQUARTERS, THIRD JIHADI CORPS, QUNEITRA
     
    “The Americans are attacking! With aircraft. They’re everywhere!”
    Lieutenant General Abdul al-Ghazi remained calm. Someone had to remain calm. The excitability of his staff filled him with a cold, white anger. Would Arabs never learn discipline?
    “With
manned
aircraft, you mean?”
    “Yes, yes! Everywhere at once.”
    “Then they’re fools. Shoot them down.”
    “We
are
shooting them. Everywhere! Dozens of them. It was only that we were surprised.”
    “Then we’ve been surprised twice in three days. When will we stop being surprised?”
    The chief of staff calmed down. Slightly. “
Insh’ Allah
, we soon will drive them back into the sea.”
    “But first you will shoot their aircraft from the sky—am I correct?”
    “Insh’ Allah.”
    “Allah expects us to help. Go back and learn what is truly happening. Their aircraft are not ‘everywhere.’ Are they here, then? Why do I not hear their bombs?”
    “I mean to say . . . that they are attacking at many places. Not everywhere.”
    “Find out
exactly
where. And if you are told that any of their aircraft have been shot down, you will confirm it. I want no more panic. Men with weak nerves are no use to me.”
    “Yes, my brother. I only meant—”
    “I am not your brother. I’m your commanding officer. If you cannot do your job, another can.”
    “Yes, General.”
    “Now leave me.”
    When he was alone again, Abdul al-Ghazi, the sector commander, thought of two things. First, he thought that he would have very little time to redeem the general situation before the rage of his own superior, Emir-General al-Mahdi, fell upon him. Second, he wondered if the reports that the Crusaders had already reached thesuburbs of Jerusalem were true. If that were so, al-Mahdi’s anger might be uncontrollable.
    Al-Ghazi prided himself on being a professional soldier, trained in the old Jordanian fashion, as well as being a soldier of jihad. And al-Mahdi worried him. Clearly, Allah had touched al-Mahdi with a kind of genius. But al-Mahdi had been touched with madness, too. He could not escape the thrall of the past, and he saw everything through the lens of history, as if there could never be anything new in war or this war-torn landscape. Al-Mahdi’s plan of defense had been built upon bleeding the Americans, on the assumption that they would not bear great casualties. But all the reports from the Jerusalem front told of masses of dead and of relentless attacks over corpses.
    Was this to be the end of civilization? With the Crusaders returned to rule with fire and sword?
    The incompetence in his own ranks outraged him. And he couldn’t fully trust al-Mahdi’s judgment. Hadn’t any of them learned that the way to fight Westerners wasn’t by fighting in the Western way? Despite his formal training, al-Ghazi had little faith in mechanized infantry battalions and tank brigades, in the end. You had to strike the Crusaders where they were weak, not where they were strong.
    Still, he was a soldier. He would carry out the mission he had been given. He would make the Crusaders pay a terrible price for staining the soil of the emirate with their boots.
    But a part of him asked again: Was this to be the end of civilization?