35

 

A camp somewhere in North Yemen

Sa’id Nouradeen did not hesitate. He had his orders, and he was not about to let knife fights slow him down. He had an important job to do, and he would do it.

Yet another mindless, meaningless fight had broken out on the way back from southern Arabia. The same Shi’a Houthi fighter who’d pulled a knife on one of the al Qaeda Sunni fighters had come back for a second bite of the apple. This time, the Houthi warrior had gotten a piece of flesh before Nouradeen could intercede.

Nouradeen broke up the fight in the truck, separated the two, and then told both that there would be a very quick punishment back at the camp that they were heading toward north of al Hudaydah. The two combatants settled into an uneasy silence for the duration of the ride.

Back at camp, Houthi and al Qaeda warriors alike were preparing for a most unusual trip—one that generated both excitement and mystery for them. Boxes had arrived from several ships during the dead of night. Half of them contained dozens of white flags. The other half contained small, double-bladed swords—replicas of the one Zulfiqar, or God’s Sword.

What’s more, farmers from all corners of Yemen had begun to bring horses to the camp. A makeshift pen contained them at one corner of the camp. To those who knew the legends, this could mean only one thing. They were going to ride to Mecca to meet the Mahdi.

It seemed impossible, yet the warriors could come to no other conclusion. The legends were clear. Some would ride to Mecca with white flags and swords to greet the Mahdi. It appeared that this time had at last arrived.

But first, Nouradeen knew, he had to end the argument between the Shi’a and Sunni warriors. They had to act as one. If he did not do something—swiftly and decisively—then their journey to Mecca would be compromised.

They arrived at camp. Nouradeen ordered the two warriors to the center of the camp. He called on the dozens of fighters preparing for their journey to surround him.

“You all know who I am?” Nouradeen called out when they’d gathered around him.

“We do,” said one of the fighters. “You are Sa’id Nouradeen, the great Shi’a general who defeated the Israelis on the battlefield in Lebanon.”

“And they tell us you are Yamani, who will precede the Mahdi,” said someone else.

“I am that general,” Nouradeen said. “History will soon tell us the rest of this story, and whether the time of Muhammad al Mahdi has arrived. But first, we are here today, Houthi of Shi’a and Sunni of al Qaeda. We are acting as one. We are about to ride to Mecca as one, to fulfill our destiny.

“It is important that there be no dissent among us. For me to lead, I must be very clear that I am not here to prejudice Shi’a over Sunni. I cannot—and will not—do that. I wish to lead you both to Mecca, if that is my destiny.

“For this reason, I am going to render a judgment today, one that I believe you will understand. I tell you now that the Houthi will not like my judgment. But I ask you, my Shi’a brothers, to understand why I am passing this judgment. It is for this reason—you can no longer fight with the warriors who are here by your side.

“We have just returned from an important mission—one that has forever changed the balance of power in the world. It struck a devastating blow to the Saudi kingdom and crippled their oil complex. Yet, even as we succeeded, a Houthi struck an al Qaeda unprovoked on the return home.

“That can no longer happen. We must be one, Shi’a and Sunni, in this fight. We cannot quarrel or fight among ourselves. It is for this reason that I render this swift, immediate punishment. Let it be a lesson for any of you who continue to disobey me and fight each other unprovoked.”

Without warning, Nouradeen grabbed one of the double-edged swords on top of a nearby box, turned toward the Houthi who’d fought in the truck, and pulled his arm toward him. With one swift, savage motion, Nouradeen cut the man’s right hand off. The hand fell to the ground cleanly. Blood poured from the open wound as the man collapsed in shock.

Nouradeen picked up the severed hand from the ground and held it aloft. “We must no longer turn our hands against our brothers unprovoked,” he said loudly. “Let this be a lesson to all of you. We ride to Mecca together, as one.”

Nouradeen turned to the al Qaeda fighter who’d been struck by the Houthi fighter in the truck. “This is your brother,” he ordered. “Tend to his wounds. Make sure he does not die of blood loss. I want this man to ride to Mecca with us, and I place the burden of saving his life on your head.”

The Houthi and al Qaeda fighters were stunned. But the message had been received by all of them. If anything, their admiration of Nouradeen had grown immeasurably. Yes, it had been a brutal, savage act. Still, they knew instinctively, it was necessary. They would now act as one.

Nouradeen watched with satisfaction as the al Qaeda fighter tended to the Houthi warrior’s mangled arm. The man would live to tell the tale of what had happened to him.

In time, the man would relate how Yamani had done what was needed to usher in the Mahdi. And he, the man with the severed hand, had played his part. He would become legend.

Nouradeen knew specific acts were required during war and on the battlefield. This was one, and he did not regret it.

He could now turn to other matters. He placed a call from his mobile to one of his trusted deputies who’d gathered forces at a highly secretive camp on the outskirts of the Bahr al Mihl Lake north and west of Karbala in southern Iraq.

The forces commanded by his deputy had been training for months. They’d recently met secretly with Iran’s president, who’d managed to make his way undetected into the American-occupied country in the middle of the night to ensure that the carefully orchestrated plans were proceeding. They were.

Nouradeen often wondered if Iran’s president and Supreme Leader were of one mind on the matters at hand. But he couldn’t spend too much time on the question. There was too much to prepare for and too much work ahead. They had a plan for the oil fields of southern Iraq— the treasure that, Nouradeen believed, had always been at the heart of America’s interest in the region—that would create serious problems for the occupying forces of the United States and others.

“You are ready for the ride?” he asked his deputy.

“Yes, the men are ready,” his deputy replied. “It will take us several days, once we have left camp. We will make much of the first part of the journey in trucks, pulling the horses behind us in trailers. But we will abandon those once we are a day’s ride out, as we have discussed.”

“Good. We will wait a day, then set out,” Nouradeen said. “Your journey is longer and more difficult through northern Saudi Arabia.”

“Fine. We are prepared to create our diversion.”

“That will keep everyone occupied. They’ll be forced to focus everything on the oil fields. You may get two or three days in before anyone realizes you have entered the kingdom.”

“And when we are challenged by the Saudi troops?” his deputy asked.

“Do what you must,” Nouradeen said. “Just make certain that some of your men arrive in Mecca.”