From the White House they took a driving tour of some of the Zone’s other sights, eventually circling back to the center of the Mall, where they proceeded on foot to the base of the Washington Monument. Colonel Yunus drew Mustafa’s attention to a series of pockmarks in the obelisk’s north face. These were, he explained, the result of insurgent mortar strikes, the Monument having become a target after rumors spread that Boulos al Darir was planning to use it as the gnomon for a giant Islamic prayer clock.
“False rumors?” Mustafa asked.
“Rumors,” said Colonel Yunus. “Speaking of prayer, it’s almost noon. Shall we stop back at the museum before lunch?”
They walked east along the Mall. The colonel pointed to a castle-like building which he said was another branch of the Smithsonian, dedicated to Christendom’s wars. “LBJ’s misadventures feature prominently, but there’s also quite a lot about the original crusades. It’s rather interesting to see them portrayed from the antagonists’ perspective.”
“Is the crusaders’ wing where my guest bed came from?”
“Yes.” The colonel smiled. “I rather doubt it belonged to Pope Urban, though.”
Ahead in the distance they could see the half-completed dome of the new Capitol Building. A low-flying cloud passing behind it made the dome seem momentarily whole. Mustafa’s inner ear went crazy. He stumbled and would have fallen if the colonel hadn’t caught him.
“Careful,” Colonel Yunus said. “You have dizzy spells?”
“I do get vertigo sometimes,” Mustafa told him. “But I think this is just jet lag.”
“Chronic vertigo is common here. It’s a symptom of what the doctors call Gulf Syndrome.”
“Gulf Syndrome? Like the Gulf War?”
“Yes, but also gulf in the sense of a void, a gap between the way things are and the way instinct says they should be. The sense of dislocation is difficult to describe exactly, but once you’ve felt it—”
“I have felt it,” Mustafa said. “I think my father has, too.”
The colonel nodded. “I’d heard that there were cases of the Syndrome back in Arabia. Here though it’s much more pervasive. Almost everyone experiences it to some degree.”
“What do you do for it?”
“Valium helps, supposedly. Also certain antihistamines. For myself I prefer a more natural remedy.”
“And what is that?”
“Devotion to God, five times a day,” the colonel said. “Not quite as potent as benzodiazepine, perhaps, but it has other benefits.”
Mustafa snuck another look at the Capitol, and this time when his balance wavered, he knew it wasn’t jet lag. Forcibly shifting his attention, he said: “It really is different here, isn’t it? So many trees, Gaddafi would be jealous.” Glancing up at the sun: “Even the summer heat feels different.”
“I’ll tell you something funny, it’s not the climate or the country I find alien, it’s the war.” The colonel shook his head. “I really should be used to it by now. This is my fifth tour of duty. I’ve been here so long, when I think about Arabia, it’s not just like another lifetime, it’s like I was never there at all.”
“Maybe you should take a leave,” Mustafa suggested. “Go back home, get reacquainted with the place.”
“No, I’m here for the duration, now . . .” A tremor went through him that he did not seem to notice. “You know, I have these dreams sometimes, very vivid, you’ll probably get them too if you stay here long enough.”
“Dreams about what?”
“About being an American citizen . . . This one dream in particular, I have it over and over. I dream that I’m a civilian only pretending to be a soldier. It’s outdoors in a big field, at a place called Manassas. I’m there with other Americans, professionals mostly—doctors, lawyers, defense contractors . . . We dress in these costume uniforms, some blue, some gray, and stage mock battles, ‘fight’ for freedom. Then at the end of the day we go to a tavern and drink beer—mine is nonalcoholic. And then I get in my car and drive back to Alexandria . . .”
“A long drive,” Mustafa said.
The colonel laughed. “Alexandria, Virginia, not Egypt . . . It’s right across the river, just south of here. In the dream I have a house there, a big yellow house by the water. I live there with my wife and four children. It’s nice . . . And then I wake up and I’m here in the house of war, not a citizen but an invader. And my head spins . . . But prayer helps.”
They’d reached the museum. A drowned tyrannosaur welcomed them back.
The colonel asked: “Have you been to Mecca, Mustafa?”
“You mean on hajj? Yes,” Mustafa said. “My wife Fadwa insisted on it . . . What about you?”
“I want to go,” the colonel said. “When I am done here . . . I’ve spoken to other Marines who’ve gone, and they all seem very grounded, in a way I would like to be.”
“Grounded?”
“At peace,” the colonel said. “Mecca is peace.”
“What about Alexandria?” asked Mustafa. “Have you ever gone across the river to look for your dream house?”
“No. That would not be wise.”
“Really? I would be tempted.”
“I am tempted,” the colonel said. “But it’s the Red Zone. Not a good place to go chasing after dreams. You should remember that on your foray tomorrow.”
“You’re not coming with us, then?”
“No, I have business here. But I’ll ask God to look out for you.” Then he smiled, for even as he spoke these words they entered a hall decorated with another mural, showing the prophet Daniel standing untouched in the den of the lions.
“Thank you,” Mustafa said, looking from Daniel’s calm expression to the frustrated snarls of the beasts. “I would appreciate that.”
THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA
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T.A.B.
T.A.B. is an abbreviation of the English-language phrase “That’s America, baby.” During the reign of Lyndon Johnson, it was common for American citizens to say “T.A.B.” in response to bad news, particularly bad news that the government was in some way responsible for, a usage captured in this protest song by Jewish folk singer Robert Zimmerman:
Power’s out in the city tonight . . . T.A.B.
Shelves at the co-op store are bare . . . T.A.B.
Gas lines stretching out of sight . . . T.A.B.
LBJ don’t seem to care . . . T.A.B.
Following the Coalition invasion of America in 2003, the expression took on a new meaning of defiance towards the occupying troops. “T.A.B.!” became a popular chant at protest marches and a rallying cry for insurgents; Coalition soldiers have reported finding it scrawled on the side of unexploded roadside bombs. In July 2005 an attempt by the Coalition Authority to discourage the use of T.A.B. as a graffiti tag led to a gun battle in the Anacostia neighborhood of Washington, D.C., in which 17 Coalition soldiers and at least 400 Americans were killed.
The church was located in the town of Herndon, in western Fairfax County. The men of the militia began assembling there after midnight, arriving singly or in pairs and dispersing their vehicles throughout the surrounding neighborhood so that their gathering would not be noticed from the air.
By 2 a.m. there were sixty men in the pews. The church lights were kept low and there was no music or singing, just the soft voice of the preacher reading from the climax of the New Testament: “The sixth angel poured out his bowl on the great river Euphrates, and its water was dried up to prepare the way for the kings from the East. Then I saw three evil spirits that looked like frogs; they came out of the mouth of the dragon, out of the mouth of the beast, and out of the mouth of the false prophet . . . They gathered the kings together to the place that in Hebrew is called Armageddon.”