The Religion War (10 page)

"The infidel generals are obviously asking the same questions. Why is it that you figured it out and they haven't?" asked al-Zee.

"They ignored the empty spaces. They focused on what you have done in the past. I looked at what you had
not
done that you
could
have done. For example, you could have used biological weapons in cities on a regular basis. But you knew it would cause such widespread panic in the Christian world that full-blown war would be inevitable, and you wanted to avoid that. You would keep your best weapons for when they would help the most, not as a provocation of war but as a way to stop it if started. You were waiting until you had biological weapons in all the major enemy cities, and you have saved them until there was all-out war, when history would understand why you would unleash them. Your strategy is part public relations and part military, and that is your trademark."

"Well reasoned. Now can you do the same with the infidels' battle plan?"

"First, General Cruz will suppress all media coverage in the Middle East. He'll block all outgoing communication and he'll seal the borders. He wants no pictures of what will happen next. Your armies will try to melt into the civilian population centers, hoping the invaders will be afraid of inflicting civilian casualties. But that won't matter to Cruz, because this is a war of annihilation, not occupation. Once the media are eliminated, Cruz will level city after city. He will destroy sixty percent of the people and one hundred percent of the infrastructure in each city the first day he strikes it. The survivors will live a few months before dying of starvation."

"Your Christian public will never allow the extermination of civilians," al-Zee said confidently.

"That's why the public won't know about it until it's over. Neither will you.There will be no communication or news from any of the cities under attack. They will simply cease to exist."

"Cruz must know where I am by now. Why not attack me directly?"

"He'll send Special Forces to penetrate your defenses and try to kill you at the start of the war. It's a military reflex, standard procedure to cut off the head to kill the snake, as they like to say. But it won't work because you anticipate it. Cruz knows he can't blast you out of your underground fortress. And he knows he can't wait you out. But he can irradiate the city above you, and he can cut off your communications forever. He hopes you will be trapped for decades in your underground shelters, irrelevant to the world. In a way, I think Cruz prefers that ending, knowing you'll be alive but powerless, aware of your complete and utter defeat. Humiliated."

The advisers fidgeted. No one had ever spoken to al-Zee about failure without discovering unpleasant consequences, or so they had heard many times. But al-Zee sat motionless, staring at the Avatar, absorbing this image of the future.

"He will stop his aggression when his own cities begin to die," said al-Zee.

"No, he expects you to attack all the major cities. I told him it would happen. He is already relocating his family members and friends. Cruz sees this as the final battle. Armageddon. He will accept seventy-five percent civilian casualties on his side if he can inflict one hundred percent on your side. He believes the alternative to victory is not peace but waiting for your forces to destroy the Christian economy and infrastructure, until Christian life cannot be supported. He believes God is guiding him, and that victory is justified at any cost."

"You seem sure ofyourself," said al-Zee.

"There is one hope to end this," said the Avatar.

"Enlighten me."

"This is a man-made crisis, based on superstition. If minds can be changed, the problem disappears."

"What do you mean by
superstition?"
al-Zee asked with a threatening tone.

"Superstition is a belief in the supernatural, that something exists beyond nature. You and General Cruz believe God is not part of nature, but somehow outside it. That is, by definition, superstition."

"It sounds like an insult," said al-Zee, displeased.

"That's the problem with clarity," responded the Avatar. "It often sounds insulting."

"Why did you volunteer to come here? What did you hope to gain?"

"Time."

"For what?"

"I'm searching for the one who can change opinions. I need a few weeks."

"One person? Who do you believe this one person is?"

"It could be anyone. That's why the search will be difficult."

"One person," al-Zee scoffed. "You have wasted my time. However, I am a man of my word: Ask the question you wanted to ask."

"I was wondering," began the Avatar, pausing until the advisers stopped moving and started listening, "if you had a medical question, whose advice would you seek?"

"That
is the one thing you want to know?"

"It's a harder question than it seems."

Al-Zee studied the Avatar before answering. Was it a trick question? It didn't matter. "I would see a doctor," he said.

"Thank you," said the Avatar, standing and bowing in respect, signaling his willingness to be led away. The guards entered the circle of advisers, took the Avatar by his arms, and led him toward the exit. When they reached the door, al-Zee ordered, "Don't kill him."

At 3:00 A.M. al-Zee paced the length of his living quarters. His mind visited a thousand places, thinking of the upcoming battle, his strategy, his survival plans, his position in history, and more often than not, the Avatars question. It bothered him. Normally al-Zee had no trouble sleeping no matter how many people his terror cells had killed that day, no matter how much danger he was in. It was the Avatar's question that got to him. Why would this man who knew so much about his battle plans have only one question, and a trivial one at that? Did he know something about al-Zee's health? Was he a doctor? Was he trying to make some sort of point that completely missed the target? The thought became a clog in al-Zee's mental pipeline. He needed to get it out so he could focus on the more important issues. He hated himself for being obsessed with something so inane.

At 4:00 A.M. al-Zee and three of his guards entered the Avatar's cell and closed the door behind them. The Avatar, seated in a lotus position on the concrete floor, looked up and smiled.

"Explain the question," demanded al-Zee. "What's it mean?"

"I wondered if you seek expert advice before making decisions," said the Avatar.

"Of course I do. Only a fool wouldn't."

"So if you wanted to drill for oil, you might consult a geologist?"

"Get to the point. I need sleep."

"If you wanted to build a structure, you might consult an architect?"

Al-Zee turned bright red, grabbed the Avatar by the shirt, yanked him to his feet, slammed him against the wall, and said,"Tell me what you're after, or you will wish I had already killed you."

The Avatar looked into al-Zee's face with neither fear nor anger. He was pleased to have his full attention. The Avatar smiled. Al-Zee, weary of holding the old man against the wall, and confused by the smile, lowered the Avatar and backed up a step.

"I was just wondering," said the Avatar, "who would you consult if you suspected you were delusional?"

"I'm
not
delusional."

"Can a delusional person always know when he's deluded?"

Al-Zee fumed and snorted. "What is your point?"

"Three billion Christians, Hindus, atheists, and Buddhists think that you are deluded about your belief s. How do you know they're wrong?"

"They
are
wrong. It is
they
who are deluded. They can't see the truth of Allah. But I will change that. They will see the truth in hell."

"Do you think any of them could be taught to see past their delusions while they're still alive?"

"Perhaps. But there are so many."

"So you believe that a person could be taught to recognize his delusion if he is otherwise mentally stable?"

"If he wants to see the truth."

"And what kind of expert should such a person seek to help him see past his delusion?"

"A holy scholar."

"Scholars are experts on interpreting history, not identifying delusions in the present.You need an expert in the field of delusion—someone who deals with false perceptions every day. You need a magician."

"
This
is why you came here? To tell me I need a magician?" Al-Zee laughed at the absurdity of it and shook his head.

"No," said the Avatar. "You don't need one, but you will soon find one."

The Avatar sat on the floor and closed his eyes. His body relaxed into instant meditation. Al-Zee looked at him, unsure what to do next.The leader ofthe Great Caliphate wasn't used to being dismissed. But he saw no reason to continue a discussion that was going nowhere. He opened the door and left, but looked back one more time at the Avatar, who seemed totally at peace. Al-Zee strode past the guard and whispered in Arabic without turning his head, "Kill him."

The guard stood in the doorway looking down at the Avatar, considering the most efficient way to dispatch him without leaving anything to clean. The Avatar, eyes still closed, said, "I'm sorry. Really I am."

"Sorry about what?" the guard asked in broken English.

"It's nothing personal. It's just that I'm on a deadline."

Cruz's generals busied themselves with the details of war planning: supply lines, target priorities, communications backup, and combat readiness. Cruz had already relocated his family members and the people he cared about from the urban centers that would be targeted by al-Zee. It was done quietly. As far as the neighbors knew, they went on vacation. It set back his plans by three days, just as the Avatar hoped. No matter. War was never meant to be precise.

Cruz's generals used the time to continue running battle simulations, expecting their leader to pick from the most successful ones. The High Commander allowed the generals to believe they were contributing to his decision. It kept them busy and out of his way. The real plan was already decided: extermination. He would reveal his true mission no sooner than necessary. There would be dissent, and some of his generals would have to be replaced immediately. Until then, they were useful, so he pretended to look at the war game simulations and made cosmetic suggestions.

At headquarters, only Waters suspected the truth. He knew Cruz well enough to know when he was interested in something and when he was pretending to be interested. There was no doubt in Waters' mind that none of the plans suggested by Cruz's generals would ever be implemented. And there was even less doubt that Cruz would stop attacking an enemy that had any chance of reconstituting and coming after him again. Cruz liked to do things once. Annihilation was the only battle plan that fit his personality.

Waters had studied military history. He knew that in the past it was practical to strip a defeated army of its biggest weapons and make it harmless. But technology had changed all that. For less than a thousand dollars a terrorist could rig a remote-controlled hobby plane with a GPS guidance system and explosives and send it toward any target within a hundred miles, below radar, virtually unstoppable. The smooth arc of military history had broken. Being the best army no longer meant winning. Cruz was fighting an idea—the idea that killing infidels meant martyrdom and paradise. The idea was like a virus. It couldn't be stopped unless you eliminated all the host bodies. And that, reasoned Waters, had to be Cruz's plan. It wasn't Waters' place to question battle plans, especially ones unspoken. So he did his job, attending to the general's needs.

Cruz sat alone in his office, elbows on the desk, hands supporting his head. It had been a long week. He was incapable of admitting fatigue, but his body was racked with it. He had sat through too many meetings, barked at too many people, made too many decisions, looked at too many casualty estimates. He was burned out. His mind started to drift, opening a doorway for his worst thoughts. In his weakened state he visualized what he was about to do. He imagined mothers and children and the elderly, cats and dogs, people of all sorts, about to be slaughtered or starved to meet his objectives. On some gut level, he actually loved war, especially the thrill of killing people in the heat of combat, but he hated civilian casualties. That lesson was drummed into every soldier—
avoid civilian casualties.
Now he was planning to target civilians, and notjust some of them but
all
of them. He told himself there was no other way. When he wasn't tired, that line of reasoning worked to calm his emotions.Tonight it emphatically didn't.

Cruz opened his desk cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. It was cheaper than therapy, and faster. He was doing God's work—important work—and there was no way the almighty would begrudge him such a minor vice.

The Avatar took a hydrocab from the airport to the offices of GIC. Stepping out of the cab, he felt a strange sensation, like a pattern forming, but faint. It seemed to have at least two centers. He had never felt a pattern like this. As the hydrocab pulled away, the Avatar stood on the sidewalk trying to get a lock on the pattern, but he failed. His stomach growled, and the Avatar smiled, realizing that his hunger must have been clogging his intuition. But now the pattern was gone, softening to a vibration. Patterns did that sometimes, rising and falling for no apparent reason.The Avatar walked toward a restaurant next to the GIC building, Stacey's Cafe. It was the oldest business on the block, looking out ofplace nestled in the modern architecture of the San Francisco metropolitan area.

The Avatar entered and was greeted by the bartender from behind a large oval bar."Hi. Can I help you?"

"One for lunch," said the Avatar.

"We're closed between three and five. Can you come back at five?"

A pink-haired woman in her sixties, on the other side of the room, interrupted the Avatar's response. She was waving a half-eaten plate offood at the chef and getting agitated. "Look at this presentation! This is crap! My name is on this business
and you
want to serve crap! If people want crap they can make it at home!" The chef's eyes were locked in a death stare with the pink-haired woman as she dramatically slapped the dish on the table.