Pragmatism won.
Having spent over fifty years decrying the evil of these sons of dogs and monkeys, that the holy warriors of Islam should be defeated by trickery could not be permitted. Thus, after years of debate and research—the reconquest of the Holy Land was hardly spur of the moment—the mullahs concluded the evil the Jews had wrought could not simply be wiped away by conversion, which most likely would be as superficial as their conversion to Christianity in the Iberian Peninsula in the fifteenth century.
Let nature then take its course in Tel Aviv.
If Allah willed the Jews life then the One God would provide them manna, as He had the Jews in the desert upon their exodus from Egypt. If Allah wished them life then clean water would spring from the ground. If Allah wished them to survive then Allah would come to their aid.
In the absence of such divine intervention, it was only charitable to cut the Jews down so as to spare them suffering a slow death of thirst, starvation, and disease. In this, Islam would treat its enemies with humane generosity.
101
FRESHLY SHOWERED AND SHAVED and wearing white terry robes, Cobi and Abed sit at the kitchen table with Yigal. Ordinarily Judy would be hovering with food, as she always did when Cobi brought home friends from high school, or the occasional girl.
“Cobi likes cold chicken sandwiches, with too much mayonnaise,” she says to Abed. “Or just hummus with olive oil floating over it and French bread to mop it up. MREs,” she points, “don’t make for much of a homecoming.”
The two can barely take this seriously. They have been surviving on stale pita and dates, dates and stale pita, for the past five days. Once they descended from the highlands surrounding Jerusalem, there was orange and grapefruit, somewhat dry because there was no one to irrigate the plantations, but fruit nonetheless. Here and there was carob, also known as St. John’s Bread, which hangs dry in trees growing wild by the roadside as they have for thousands of years, the long pods, tough and fibrous and tasting of molasses, that kept them chewing for hours.
So about the meal set before them they had no complaint.
“Meals ready to eat are a sin against nature,” Judy says.
“And a very welcome one,” Yigal counters. “Though if we don’t get resupplied we’re going to turn into cannibals ready to eat.” The bounty of the aid flotilla is limited. In a day or two, it will be gone. But in the meantime, the population is merely half starved, which is an improvement on starved completely.
“It is very tasty, madam,” Abed says, attempting to read the English on the package. “What is a veghi burjer in barbessue sauke?” He looks up. “Not pig?”
“Not pig,” Yigal says. “You are an honored guest, staff sergeant. We take care of our guests, just as you do.” He looks to his son, scrubbed clean, appearing to his father to be all of twelve years old. “Just as you did.”
“It is my honor to be of service,” Abed says, then puts down the plastic fork that comes with the MRE. He has already finished two helpings of “chocolate banana muffin top wheat snack bread” smeared with “seasoning blend cheese spread.” He pauses. “Mr. Prime Minister, I am of the Ghawarna. Though a mere staff sergeant, I feel confident that I speak as well for the Abu-Idris and the Ibn-Harad. In the name of your servants, I ask a favor of the government.”
Yigal is drinking tea. They have a lot of it. Judy liked to collect all kinds. Normally it just sat in the cupboard, exotic blends with catchy names that would be ignored once they were tried out. Now Judy and Yigal are going methodically through the stock. Yigal is drinking “Orange Pekoe Pick Me Up.” No sugar. Each MRE comes with packets of sugar, but these are gone.
“Promotion?” Yigal says. “Reward? Name it, staff sergeant. When things improve, we’ll dig you wells you can swim in.”
“Only this, prime minister. That when the time comes for you to fuck the repulsive invaders from the front, that we Bedu of the Jordan Valley should have the honor to rise up and fuck them from the rear.”
From far off, there is the sound of thunder. But there is no thunder in Israel during the summer, nor rain. The skies will not open up until late October, perhaps November, the downpour continuing sporadically through March. It is not thunder, but grows louder, closer, imminent.
As one they run out to the kitchen terrace, beyond which is an empty swimming pool.
Above them a vast flock of what at first seems to be migrating birds darkens the sky, which then abruptly explodes into something else: the heavens are filled with thousands of cargo parachutes dropped from hundreds of planes.
Over the next week, these aircraft, C130s mustered from US bases in Germany and England, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Djibouti and even indirectly—routed through Cyprus—from Saudi Arabia, will deliver more food, water, and medicine than during the entire Berlin airlift, two Asian tsunamis, and four Central American earthquakes. Also in the huge crates that come down like wholesale deliveries of manna are radio equipment and heavy-duty batteries.
From the ground, Yigal is not yet aware of all that is in the crates, but it is certainly one hell of a good sign one day before the counterattack is set to begin. Now he need not worry about starvation at home.
“Cobi, suit up,” he says. “If things work out, very soon you’ll be a tank commander again. And get our guest a clean uniform from my closet.” He looks up again. “God bless America. Staff Sgt. Abed, our time has come.”
102
OVER DECADES, THE INSTITUTION of the president’s cabinet had come to reflect not only the size and complexity of the American government but its relation with the corporate world that is its principle stakeholder. Though more than 90% of United States tax revenues derives from individuals, corporations retain massive power and influence in Washington. Very few individual employees have the leverage to make the mind-boggling campaign donations of American corporations and their special interest groups. Thus the American paradox: individuals finance the vehicle of government, corporations drive it. So it is hardly a wonder that the White House has come to look like the corporate world. The president’s cabinet, once a panel of advisors expected to contribute across a broad range of issues, is now made up of specialists, as in any large business: secretaries of the treasury who would not dare comment on national security, secretaries of defense with no interest in housing or health or education. Because of this, when the president makes decisions, he relies upon a close inner circle outside the cabinet, and in the end upon two individuals: Flo Spier, whose shrewd knowledge of the electorate got him to the White House, and Felix St. George, who never stumbled upon a world crisis that could not be ameliorated by the forceful application of cynicism. Thus every major decision in the White House comes down to delicately balancing the requirements of domestic politics with the demands of America’s role in the greater world.
“So what you’re saying, Felix, is that we know what the A-rabs are about to do, but we don’t know how the Jews will counter?”