The people rebelled. Civil war was a real possibility. The military leaders cracked down upon the determined dissidents. Nevertheless, the unrest prevailed. The resistance grew. The new government’s response was entirely predictable. The time had come to end the threat posed by those who advocated an extreme Islamic state. A secret tribunal, acting in absentia, ordered the deaths of the country’s religious leaders.
Their first target would be Muhammad Mourad.
* * *
—
Late on a quiet summer day shortly after Sallah’s fifth birthday, an armored convoy was spotted in the limitless desert north of the dusty crossroads. While he worked in his shops, Muhammad took little notice. The passing of a military formation wasn’t an everyday event in Aynorian. Still it had happened before. The villagers showed a mild interest in the unexpected appearance, but soon returned to their daily chores.
The powerful force stopped a few miles from the oasis. Fifty French-made tanks and self-propelled howitzers gathered in a long, straight line. Each prepared to fire. The order was given. An abysmal symphony, filled with riotous result, filled the cloudless heavens. The hellish sound roared in every direction, its fury infinite. The first massive volley obliterated the center of the unassuming settlement. Muhammad’s shops were reduced to refuse.
Beneath the shattered stone, the unconscious form of the Mahdi lay.
Panicked villagers raced from their homes in a desperate attempt to escape the precipitous events all around them. Sharif grabbed Sallah and hurried for the door. She would, however, be a fraction too late. A second volley screamed through the hazy afternoon. Fifty explosive rounds rained down once more. A huge shell landed in the middle of the couple’s humble home. In a blinding flash, Sharif’s and Sallah’s lives ended.
A third and fourth volley were all it took to finish leveling what remained of the ancient outpost. Not a stone still stood.
A second order was given. Armored personnel carriers raced toward Aynorian. At the edge of town soldiers poured from the tracked vehicles. The army began a systematic search of the narrow streets. Fleeing men, women, and children were gunned down without a passing thought.
No quarter was given the terrified desert inhabitants. No mercy was shown. The few villagers they found who survived the attack were gathered up and taken to where the great mosque had stood. A single bullet ended each life.
The slaughter took less than fifteen minutes. At its end, twelve hundred peaceful people had perished. A remote desert dwelling that had survived for more than a millennium was no more. The ferocious column re-formed and headed north. Not a soldier had been injured in the siege.
Behind them, hidden beneath two feet of crumbling mortar, the battered form of the Mahdi lay. By the grace of Allah, he’d survived the furious onslaught.
It would be well after dark before Muhammad would regain his senses and dig himself out of the man-made tomb. With blood seeping from his innumerable wounds, he dragged himself to what remained of his home. Near where the front door had stood, he found his wife and son. He pulled their lifeless bodies from the rubble and fell to the ground next to them.
Tears poured down his anguished face. His grief flowed like a raging river for well into the night. With the coming of the next day’s sun he got his first good look at what had happened to the people and place he adored. He could count on one hand those fortunate enough to have somehow survived. Anger soon replaced his tears. The government’s brutality couldn’t be ignored. Such terrible acts had to be avenged. The Quran demanded retribution for the senseless slaughter of his people. While his wife lived, he’d promised moderation. But she lived no more.
The time for moderation was over. The time for wondering when Allah would call upon him was past. As the sun rose high on that terrible morning and he held the crushed remains of Sharif and Sallah to him, he knew with absolute clarity what was planned for the remainder of his life. He would take to the high mountains and gather the true believers to him. There he’d spend the coming years preparing for the great battles to follow.
Sharif told him he’d know when the moment was here. The moment was now.
On that day, in the ashes of his smoldering birthplace, the Chosen One arose.
11
9:00 P.M. (EASTERN STANDARD TIME), OCTOBER 17
ABC NEWS STUDIOS
NEW YORK
Tony Watson sat behind the anchor desk. From the control booth a voice said, “Okay, Tony, in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .” Watson’s charming face appeared in millions of homes throughout the United States. The program’s theme music played. As the stirring melody faded, the news anchor looked up and smiled.
“Good evening, I’m Tony Watson, and you’re watching Seven Days. Tonight, as events unfold in the Pan-Arab War, we’re presenting a story that initially aired on this program earlier this summer. Seven Days is dedicating the first part of the hour to ABC Middle East correspondent Lauren Wells’s exclusive interview with ‘the Chosen One,’ Muhammad Mourad. Whether or not you saw our original airing, this is one you won’t want to miss.
“But before we begin Lauren’s fascinating interview, let’s take a look at events in the war-torn Middle East. Throughout the day, Iraqi and Iranian forces pushed deeper into Kuwait and Saudi Arabia. With night beginning to fall, elements of the 1st Cavalry Division beat back a series of attacks near the Saudi city of Sakakah. Air Force fighters and naval aircraft from the carriers Theodore Roosevelt and George Washington performed nearly one thousand sorties over Iraqi and Iranian positions. The round-the-clock bombing of critical military targets in and around Baghdad and Tehran entered its third week.
“In Cairo, fierce house-to-house fighting by Egyptian army units supported by a United States Special Forces contingent continued. In the fourth day of their assault upon the capital city’s sprawling suburbs, the Chosen One’s army pushed closer to the heart of the metropolis of eighteen million. At sunset, Pan-Arab forces were in full control of Giza and had reached the western banks of the Nile. White House and Pentagon officials refused to speculate on how much longer Cairo could hold out against such overwhelming odds.
“In the day’s brightest news, the Pentagon announced that a successful amphibious landing by the 2nd Marine Division occurred this morning approximately one hundred miles northwest of Cairo. Despite heavy losses from repeated Pan-Arab counterattacks, the Marines were able to gain a secure foothold on the North African coast. At the moment, the Marine division is pushing farther into Egypt in an attempt to sever the Chosen One’s supply lines and cut off reinforcements.
“Lauren Wells is on the ground with the Marine expeditionary force. At the end of tonight’s program she’ll be providing our nationwide audience with an up-to-the-minute report on the situation at the landing site.
“That’s the latest from the battle fronts. Should events warrant, we’ll interrupt our broadcast of Lauren’s interview with Muhammad Mourad to bring you any breaking news.”
Watson paused as the tape of the August show started running. On the video, the Seven Days set reappeared. An extremely attractive woman in a navy-blue business suit sat next to him.
The charming figure, who had scarcely reached her thirties, had a pleasing smile upon her face.
There was a look of confident determination starting at the corners of her mouth and reaching into her radiant eyes. It was that self-assured expression, bordering on the ruthless, that separated Wells from her rivals in this fiercely competitive business. Despite her age, in the tough world of television journalism she’d already reached the highest pinnacles of success. The highly popular, absolutely fearless Wells was head and shoulders above her peers. And no matter what it took, the tough-minded reporter planned to keep it that way.
If the public had been aware of the events of her fiercely challenging childhood, they would have admired her even more. In one way she
was similar to Sam Erickson. For both had lost their fathers. In Wells’s case, however, his passing hadn’t been something to take even the briefest pause to mourn. His death had been a relief to her and her mother. For the smiling man an approving world perceived had been nothing like the monster who lurked behind closed doors.
Her immensely successful father had two completely different façades. The prosperous, personable individual the public saw. And the severely alcoholic, harshly violent one who released his fury upon his wife and daughter behind his spacious mansion’s sheltering walls. The continual abuse, both physical and emotional, had been extreme. Even the slightest transgression, real or perceived, would send him into a rage. Nothing his beautiful wife and accomplished daughter did was ever good enough. The number of times they’d arrived at emergency rooms with black eyes, bruises, and broken bones was more than either could count.
From Lauren’s earliest years, her mother had attempted to protect her. Yet all that had wrought was further anguish and suffering for the desperate pair. In the early years, her mother had reported her husband’s extreme violence. Unfortunately, he had every politician in the state in his pocket. And her desperate pleas had gone unanswered. The records of the infinite calls for assistance, and every incident report she’d ever filed, had somehow disappeared.
She’d attempted to take her daughter and run away on numerous occasions, but with his limitless resources he’d found each hiding place in a matter of days. The malevolence committed against them upon their return had been unspeakable. More than once he’d made it clear that should she attempt to divorce him, he’d make sure she never saw her daughter again.
Such a demeaning, coerced existence would have crushed most children. It, however, had had the opposite effect on Lauren. With an exceptionally strong inner core, she’d refused to allow her father’s cruelty to destroy her. Each horrid event had made her more determined.
Eventually, both she and her mother watched as he drank himself into an early grave.