64

 

Ar Rawdah, Saudi Arabia

“This is insane, sir,” the soldier said. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

“I know,” said the bone-weary commander, a close confidant of the internal security forces who surrounded Iran’s president. “But we’ve all been well paid. Mecca is only a day’s ride now, and we might be on the right side of history. Who knows? Maybe they’ll have a chapter in the history books just about you.”

“But seriously, we’re riding into the Battle of Mecca—on horseback?” The soldier laughed. “Maybe I’d buy all of this a hundred years ago. Not now.”

They’d arrived at the small town of Ar Rawdah, fewer than twenty miles north of Mecca the night before, after three days in the sand of northern Arabia. The men were sick of travel. But they were also a bit mystified as to why they’d never been stopped by the Saudis. It was as if they were ghosts, traveling through the desert.

They ditched and then torched their trucks. The commander radioed his counterpart leading the “white flag” troops from the south. Sa’id Nouradeen told the northern commander they were ready as well and would join up with them at the Kaaba in Mecca. Nouradeen wondered a little about the fact that the “black flag” troops were led by one of Ahmadian’s men. It was a risk, but one that Ahmadian and his advisors had been apparently willing to take.

This was the last leg. None of them knew what the end of the day might look like—either here in Mecca, or in other parts of the kingdom where student-led Day of Anger uprisings were planned.

“So who, exactly, are we going after again when we get to Mecca?” the soldier asked. “It’s not like the old days of the kingdom of Hejaz, when the sharif or the caliph could be found in Mecca. I mean, it’s mostly just a bunch of pilgrims and such now.”

“Yes, but it’s symbolic,” the commander said.

“Okay, then, who’s the symbol?”

“The governor of Mecca,” the commander answered. “I told you that.”

“I know, but I just wanted to hear it again—to make sure. He’s a Saudi prince,” the soldier said. “So why him?”

“Our patrons have their reasons,” the commander said.

“So if he’s a Saudi prince, then we can assume the White Army will be there to protect him. How do we get past the guard with just these swords?” The solder held the Zulfiqar aloft, waved it ominously, then burst out laughing. “Seriously. How are we supposed to win a battle against the guard with these things?”

“They’ve said that others will join us, and that there will be surprises,” the commander said. “We just need to make it to Mecca.”

The soldiers left on horseback at dawn. They’d be in Mecca well before day’s end and would join up with the southern troops at that time.

Those from the north would be carrying black flags and Zulfiqars. Those coming from the south would be carrying white flags and double-edged swords as well.

And what neither group—the “black flag” mercenaries led by a commander from Iran’s internal security forces and the “white flag” group of Shi’a and Sunni warriors led by Yamani—knew or much cared about was that they would be fulfilling ancient prophecy as they stormed Mecca.