The War After Armageddon

ELEVEN

Brigadier General Avi Dorn wanted to fight. To slay those who de-stroyed Israel. But Israel’s rebirth was more important than personal revenge.

Speaking on his internal brigade net, he gave the command: “All units, all units. Halt at your present locations. I say again, halt at your present locations.”

As Dorn expected, Yakov Greenberg responded immediately.

“Avi, are you crazy? I could walk to Miqdal from here. We’re smashing them. They’re running like mice. We can be in Nazareth before the Americans reach Afula. It’s wide open.”

“All units. Halt at your present locations.”

Zvika Abramoff was next: “Yakov’s right. They’re simply running away. A halt now makes no sense. And I’m on exposed ground, I don’t want to stop here.”

“All of you. Listen to me. I gave an order. You’re not in the old IDF anymore; this isn’t a debating society. I’ve been ordered by the Americans to halt. You’ll halt, or you’ll be relieved.”

“This is idiocy,” Greenberg responded. “You can tell the Americans I said so. I thought they wanted us to cover their attack.”

“Plans change. I don’t understand everything the Americans are up to. Just do your duty and obey orders. Out.”

Avi Dorn switched off the microphone and sat down. He closed his eyes, finding all of this unbearable. But he had to do what was best for the once and future Israel.

Soon enough, the Americans would be calling. The Americans, from whom he had not heard a word since the attack began.

Captain Jason Albaugh of B Troop, Quarter Cav, ordered his driver to pivot and head uphill. He wanted to verify personally what 3rd Platoon’s leader had just reported.

The Israeli Exile Brigade had been advancing aggressively since it launched its supporting attack onto the heights. Now, Lieutenant Daly reported that they’d come to an abrupt halt, with no tactical rhyme or reason.

Quarter Cavalry’s mission had been to screen to the left of 1-18 Infantry, which was moving forward to cover the flank of the 1st ID attack. Albaugh’s troop, on the extreme left, was to maintain contact with the Israeli exile brigade.

Albaugh passed a few smoldering Jihadi trucks, but the fighting—what little there had been of it here—had moved on. In less than ten minutes, he spotted the turret of Daly’s tank. The lieutenant had put the vehicle in hull defilade, in a swale below a high meadow.

The lieutenant’s head poked up from his hatch. When he saw Albaugh approaching, he climbed out of the turret and jumped to the ground. He waited until Albaugh’s M-1 had come up behind, then trotted over and gestured that he wanted to climb aboard.

Albaugh clambered out of his hatch. Ready for a stretch. The lieutenant hauled himself up onto the fender.

“What the fuck? Over.” Albaugh said.

“Get up on your turret, sir,” the lieutenant told him. “If you stand up, you can see them from here.”

Albaugh scrambled over his tank’s packed bustle racks and stood up between the hatches. Thinking that he made a lovely target for some stay-behind.

Daly was right. The Israelis had just stopped. Albaugh didn’t even need binoculars. Half a kilometer away, he could see a half-dozen IEF tanks and a pair of infantry carriers. No flames, no smoke. They were just plain stopped. Some of the crew members milled about. Others were doing maintenance checks.

“You have their freq?”

“Yes, sir. But they’re not responding.”

“This some kind of union rule? A siesta break?” Albaugh said. Mostly to himself. He was mad that he hadn’t taken the lieutenant’s word and called in a report immediately.

“What’s going on, sir?”

“I’m stumped, T.J. Try to raise them again. If you get a response, give me a holler. Immediately.”

“Roger, sir.”

Albaugh dropped back into his turret and reconnected his helmet. “Dragoon Six, this is Bravo.”

“Go ahead, Bravo.”

“The India-Echo-Foxtrot unit is holding in place two clicks west of Miqdal. There’s no opposition up here. They just stopped. And they won’t respond on the liaison channel.”

“Who reported that?”

“I’m up here myself. Just north of the white-ball in sector. When I get up on my turret, I can see them. They’re just smoking and joking. One company of them, anyway.”

On the other end, there was a pause that amounted to an unspoken obscenity.

“Good copy, Bravo. Stay tied in with them. Maintain visual contact. And let me know immediately if they go boots and saddles again. The Scotsman isn’t going to be happy about this. Out.”

Things were going a little too well for Harris’s peace of mind. Dropping the countermeasures had worked exactly as Scottie’s major had predicted—although an entire company had gotten ahead of the phase line and lost every vehicle it had forward. Otherwise, the losses reported thus far were lighter than the low-end projections. The parasite in the Jihadis’ target-acquisition system had worked perfectly. Scottie’s 1st Brigade was in control of Afula, with lead elements pushing east.

Yet, the general’s expression had hardened almost to grimness. He’d just grilled his G-2 publicly with questions he knew Danczuk couldn’t answer off the cuff. It was Harris’s way of warning the staff not to pop any invisible champagne corks just yet.

“Where’s their armor, Deuce? Where’s that brigade they had tucked in below Mt. Tabor, the mixed outfit with the Egyptian M-1s and captured Merkavas? That was a counterattack force. So why aren’t they counterattacking? Al-Ghazi’s a serious soldier. What’s he up to? Why didn’t we see more drone activity? Why has the jamming fallen off? So we can all listen to the MOBIC Gospel Hour? Christ, Val, they put up just enough of a defense to play pretend. I’m embarrassed that al-Ghazi thinks I’m stupid enough to buy this. And now you tell me they’re pulling back all across the sector? What planet are we on? What’s al-Ghazi got up his sleeve?”

Danczuk had been smoking from both ears as he marched off to scour the universe for answers.

The staff members stayed out of Harris’s way as best they could, heads down over their work or headsets clamped on. Harris was a calm man in adversity, but success made him nervous.

“Sir,” the ops officer sitting on the command net for him said, “General Scott needs to talk to you. ASAP.”

Harris grabbed the headset. As if repossessing it from a deadbeat.

“Talk to me, Scottie.”

“Has anyone up there ordered the India-Echo-Foxtrots to halt their attack?” The 1 ID commander sounded hot. “I’m getting reports that they’re taking the longest piss break in human history.”

“Who’s reporting that?”

“Quarter Cav. They’ve got visual. And the India-Echos won’t respond to the cav’s efforts to contact them. The troop commander down there says they’re just kicking back and playing with themselves.”

“Hold one, Scottie.” Harris turned his head. As if it were on a greased swivel. “Three? You have anything new on Avi Dorn’s brigade? General Scott says they’ve halted in place.”

Mike Andretti gave Harris a deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Get on it,” Harris told the startled officer. He turned his attention back to the comms rig. “We’re looking into it, Scottie. I’ll get back to you. How’s everything else going.”

“Almost too good. I’m not sure I like it.”

“That makes two of us. So don’t let your guys get victory-is-ours syndrome just yet.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Out.”

Harris looked at the row of officers and NCOs sitting comms. “Somebody get me General Dorn. Now.”

“I’ve got reports of minefields ahead,” Avi Dorn told the corps commander on the land line. “I need to send out dismounted probes.”

“Come on, Avi. Do it with your blade tanks. Shoot out some line charges. What’s the matter with you? Get moving.”

“I can’t order my men into minefields.”

“Avi, what’s up? This isn’t like you. Yesterday, you couldn’t wait to get at the Jihadis. Now you want to break for tea and sympathy. Level with me—are you going to continue the attack, or not?”

“With all due respect, sir… How many soldiers does Israel have left? My brigade and the two brigades with the MOBIC corps… a battalion of paratroopers in reserve. That’s it. I can’t risk nearly a third of what’s left to us by charging blindly into minefields.”

“Who told you there are minefields? We haven’t seen any intel on it.”

“Local sources. We still have some contacts.”

“Then why not share the information?”

“It just came in.”

“Avi, this stinks to high heaven.”

“I have my responsibilities.”

The silence on the other end of the line was easy to read. Dorn pictured Harris fuming, struggling not to burst into obscenities that could not be recalled. He felt sorry for the general, who was a fighter. It all might have been so different. Dorn wished it had been different. But he would’ve made a deal with the dev il if it resurrected Israel from the dust. Even a shrunken, new-beginning Israel.

He had made a deal with the dev il, Dorn decided. What else could you call it?

When the general’s voice returned, it was measured and cold with harnessed fury: “Avi, I’m giving you a direct order to resume the attack. Now.”

“Acknowledged,” Dorn said. “My brigade will resume the attack. As soon as we clear any minefields between our current positions and Miqdal.”

Harris hung up.

Harris turned to his G-3. “Mike, get a FRAGO out to the 1st Cav. I want their lead brigade moving within two hours to assume Avi Dorn’s sector and continue the attack.”

“Sir, they’re still unloading their—”

“I don’t care if they have to move out with two Bradleys, one tank, and a three-legged goat, I want them moving. General Stramara’s had it easy up to now. It’s time for the 1st Cav to pick up the pace.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned to the officer and the two NCOs babysitting the primary command-channel comms. “Get me Major General Stramara. On the land line, if it’s up.”

A staff sergeant straightened his back and said, “Yes, sir.” Without meeting Harris’s eyes.

Val Danczuk walked back into the room. His gait struck Harris as odd. Almost as if it wasn’t really the G-2, but a robot or a zombie got up as the Deuce. And it was the first time in his life that Harris had literally seen a human being’s face go white.

“What is it, Val?”

The G-2 stepped close enough for Harris to see that the man’s eyes were lost.

“Talk to me, Deuce.”

“Sir… We’ve got… I’ve just got in two reports. One from Jerusalem. The other’s from Nazareth. From our man on the ground.”

“Jerusalem can wait. I’ve got a fight going on right here. What’s happening in Nazareth?”

Harris was startled to see tears well in the G-2’s eyes.

“Sir…” Col o nel Danczuk told him, “…we need to speak in private.”

Major Nasr wet himself. He couldn’t even rise from the bed to stagger to the cabin in the yard. He struggled to rise, at least to a sitting position. But it was a no-go. The effort of the night before had drained him of all the juice he had left.

He had slept. Hard. But the penalty was that his body had locked up. As if it were encased in a hard, jointless shell. The lobster man. Through the slits of his swollen eyes, his smashed hand with its broken finger really did look like a claw.

When he coughed and spit up blood, it hurt his entire torso, his neck, his head. Kidneys, groin, ribs, indefinite organs that had never complained before. The sheet was raw with sweat and lumped with clots of maroon blood.

He could hear, though. With at least one ear. The sounds of battle had come much closer. Not just artillery, either. He believed he could hear the crack of main-gun rounds.

“Pussy,” he told himself. “You cunt. Get up. Get up. You gonna lay here and piss your pants all day?”

Yes, he was going to lie there and piss his pants all day. And all night. As long as he continued to live.

The owner of the house hadn’t dared look in on him. At least, the owner hadn’t done so while Nasr was awake.

Was he awake? He wasn’t even certain if he was conscious with any consistency.

The bastards who had beaten him were artists, he decided. How else could they have done so much damage without killing him?

He tried to straighten his leg, to free it briefly of the cooling piss-wet and grime. But he couldn’t even do that.

I’m not going to cry, he insisted. Yesterday, I was weak. But nothing can make me cry. I’m not afraid. Not anymore.

Lies, lies, lies. A spasm wracked his lungs, and he barked up a clot of dark blood. Bright red blood chased it. Despite all the will he could muster, tears came to his eyes.

Get a new body at Ranger Joe’s. Next time I get down to Benning. One size larger, please.

Benning. The all-you-can-eat chicken at Country’s Barbecue. Goodbye to all that. Iron Mike was made of flesh and blood, after all.

He tried to think rationally, asking himself if he had left any part of his mission undone that he might still accomplish.

Nasr laughed at himself. Hurting his jaw, his smashed lips, his rib cage again.

You can’t even get up to piss. Who’re you trying to fool?

Me. Just me. Please help me, Jesus. I’m sorry for all the wrong things that I’ve done. I need your help now. Here. In Nazareth. I’m out of juice, and I need your touch to bring me back…

He was afraid to pray properly. Afraid that it would be a prelude to death.

With an effort that stole energy from elsewhere in the universe, he cocked himself up from the bed. Halfway. Just far enough to notice that he’d pissed blood.

There were people he would’ve liked to have seen a last time. Most of them women. It hadn’t been a bad ride, after all.

Jesus, I need you now. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Help me.

The door opened. Instead of spirits, Nasr saw a compact man in a perfectly pressed uniform. A col o nel. In the Jihadi regulars, the Blessed Army of the Great Jihad. The col o nel wrinkled his nose.

Yeah, I stink, Nasr thought. Come and have a lick, you cock-sucker.

When the col o nel spoke, without advancing from the doorway, his English accent was plummy. Oxbridge, Knightsbridge, and contract bridge.

“Dear me, Major Nasr, you’re looking the worse for wear. Would it be a great bother for you to get up now, do you think?”

No bother at all. I was just relaxing.

When Nasr didn’t move, the col o nel said, “You’re really looking rather peaked. We’ll see about some assistance, shall we?”

The col o nel clapped his hands and made way. Two underlings, also uniformed as regulars, excused their way past him and made for Nasr.

He couldn’t put up any re sis tance. The best he could do was not to break down in tears when they lifted him. It felt as though his every bone and sinew were coming apart.

The officer spoke in Arabic. Telling his subordinates to go gently, that they would suffer themselves if they did Nasr any further damage.

“I suppose,” the col o nel told Nasr, “I should have brought a nurse along. Thoughtless of me.”

As the men carried Nasr down the corridor, only one of his feet dragged. The other leg curled back, as if in an elbow cast.

Outside, the bright sun shut the slits of his eyes. The enlisted Jihadis really did try to be gentle with him. It didn’t help much. When they put him in the back seat of the sedan, he imagined himself imploding, collapsing into a mound of gristle and bone fragments.

“Your forces are doing rather well,” the col o nel told him, once he had settled himself on the seat beside Nasr. “We Arabs never do seem to get the knack of this sort of warfare. Of course, we have our own repertoire.” He tapped the back of the front seat with a swagger stick, and the car proceeded to grind down the broken alley.

“We haven’t much time,” the col o nel told him. “I expect your forces to arrive in Nazareth in a matter of hours. Perhaps sooner. And it would hardly do for me to be here.”

Nasr was so crumpled that he barely saw over the ledge of the car door, giving him a child’s view. The houses were shut up tight.

“The refugees,” Nasr said. He had to repeat it several times before he could make himself understood.

“Oh, they’re still here,” the col o nel told him, once he’d deciphered Nasr’s mumbling. “Down in the old city. I’m afraid we’ve had to shoot a few, to make them understand they’re not to leave.”

“Why?”

“Just riff-raff, really. The ‘intelligentsia’ of the Middle East. No feeling for Islam. No sense of faith, of purity. We see them as something of a fifth column. Impossible to reform.” The col o nel half-turned toward Nasr. “They’re our gift to you. Perhaps you can build your new Middle East with them. As your president wished to do, when I was a lad. One must never give up hope—isn’t that so?”

As the car threaded its way through the labyrinth of Nazareth, Nasr glimpsed crowds of civilians crammed together in the lower streets.

The noise of war ruled the world beyond.

The car turned south. On the main road.

“I really must apologize to you,” the col o nel said. “In advance. In war time, one finds oneself compelled to do things that don’t really square with the old conscience. Allah will forgive me, of course. Nonetheless, I find it embarrassing.”

Nasr didn’t find it embarrassing. Nor did he have another word for what he saw when they pulled up to a stretch of the road where empty lots on either side had become the site of an artificial forest.

“Get him out of the car,” the col o nel told his subordinates.

They came around and drew Nasr into the warm sunlight.

This? Was this the way it would end? Would there be a special dispensation for this?

They held him up in a mockery of standing. Before him, Nasr saw dozens of crucifixes. Each bore an American soldier or Marine.

“Deplorable, I know,” the col o nel told him. “But we feel we need to make a point. Not least, given what your MOBIC fellows have gotten up to in Jerusalem.” He brought his face close to Nasr’s, braving the stench. Nasr saw a youngish man, handsome, with skin the color of coffee with milk.

“The message is that there will be no quarter. From this day forward. This is a war of extermination. Do you think this display sufficient to drive that home?” He backed away. Slightly. “We’re not complete barbarians, you understand. Unlike your ‘Military Order of the Brothers in Christ.’ Is it really Christ’s message they carry? I’m surprised, really. But what I wanted to say was only that we’re not animals. We killed these men before we nailed them up. No need to gild the lily.”

Nasr let his head sink. He could bear the sight no longer. The crows were already at some of the crosses. Crows and flies.

“I suppose I should’ve mentioned it earlier,” the col o nel resumed. “Bad form on my part. You have nothing to fear. Nothing more, I should say. You’re not going to share the fate of your comrades. We need you to do us a last favor. If you don’t mind.”

The colonel clapped his hands. Nasr heard a car door slam behind his back. A moment later, an NCO stepped up, snapped to, and saluted. After which he handed the col o nel Nasr’s transmitter.

“It seemed unjust,” the col o nel said, “to make you climb those streets again. Frankly, you don’t quite look up to it.” He switched to Arabic and told his men to place Nasr on the far side of the road. They dragged him across the asphalt but sat him down almost tenderly on the curb.

The officer stood over him. The man’s shadow dulled his polished brown shoes.

The col o nel set the transmitter down in front of Nasr, then dropped to his haunches to look Nasr in the face a last time.

“You’re a brave fellow,” he told Nasr. “One respects that. Even in an enemy. Now, I think I shall be going. Might get sticky, were I to stay. Peace be unto you, Major.”

And he walked off. Car doors slammed. Engines gunned. Nasr closed his eyes and listened as the vehicles turned around and sped off.

When he thought he could bear it again, he took another look at the forest of crosses. And he began to count them. When he was done, he managed to pick up the transmitter with his good hand and cradle it in his lap.

Harris strode back into the command cell. Before he got a good look at the general’s face, the ops sergeant working command comms said, “Sir, I’ve got General Stramara on—”

“Three,” Harris snapped. “Take it. Just tell Stramara to get moving.” He turned to the comms crew again. “Get me General Scott. Now.”

The general hovered. It didn’t make things go faster. But he didn’t want anyone to get a dead-on look at his face. It might betray too much.

After a flurry of attempts, a captain told him, “Sir, General Scott’s on a latrine break. He’ll be—”

“Get him off the can. No. Give me the handset. General Harris here. Listen. I need to speak to General Scott. I don’t care if you have to run wire out to the shitter. Get him on the line.”

The routine noise of the ops center had faded to hospital-ward-at-night level. They’d all worked together long enough to read the ruling mood.

After a reasonable wait that pushed Harris to the brink of fury, the 1st Infantry Division commander came on the line. Harris cut the other man’s apology short.

“Scottie. Fire mission. Which unit of yours is closest to Nazareth, to the road into town from the south?”

“That’s in the Fourth BCT sector. I’ve got 1-18 covering—”

“Pat Cavanaugh’s unit. Is he the closest to the road?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got Quarter Cav screening and holding on to the India-Echoes, with—”

“Jump the chain. Get on the horn with Cavanaugh yourself. Tell him to get on that road and get into Nazareth. Fast. I have reason to believe the road’s not mined. I need him to accept maximum risk.” Harris paused to choose his words. “And tell Pat he’s absolutely got to keep his men under positive control. Weapons tight.”

“The Jihadis may still have—”

“Trust me on this one. I want 1-18 going into town with their weapons on safe. The line doggies are going to be tempted to shoot things up. The officers, too. 1-18’s mission is to penetrate the city until… until they reach the scene of a reported war crime. They’ll know it when they see it. That’s all I can say about it for now. Just tell Pat Cavanaugh to secure the scene of any suspected war crime, to push out his perimeter and send patrols into the city. With restrictive rules of engagement.”

“But, sir, we’re in—”

“Just follow my orders, Scottie. And tell Cavanaugh to report directly to you. Get him on your net, and keep everybody else off it. You’ll understand soon enough. And frankly, you’ll wish you didn’t.” Harris took a deep breath. “Maximum risk, weapons tight. Get Cavanaugh moving.”

1-18 Infantry had spent much of the day taking stray Jihadis prisoner and shooting up vehicles fleeing the main battle. Pat Cavanaugh had lost one Bradley to an antitank missile, with four KIA and the rest of the squad and crew burned and busted up, but breakdowns had been a worse headache than battle damage. He’d been living vicariously by listening in on 1st Brigade’s net during the attack on Afula.

Now things were getting surreal. With a tank platoon leading Jake Walker’s Charlie Company up the Nazareth highway in a hedgehog formation that straddled the median strip, Cavanaugh had positioned his own track as the ninth vehicle. Standing up in the commander’s hatch, he watched the M-1s in the lead traverse their turrets as they scanned for targets. Although they knew—and hated—the order that they weren’t to fire unless fired upon.

Had the Jihadis just quit? War crime? What was that about? No details. Just the Scotsman himself on the other end, telling him to move out like the wrath of God was on his ass. Accept maximum risk. Weapons tight. A few hours before, the valley had been a slaughter house. Jihadi combat vehicles and supply trucks were still smoldering in the road. The M-1s had to slow and push them aside.

They rolled past an intersection where a ruined rest stop and service station looked like relics of a lost civilization. Which they were, Cavanaugh figured. Ahead, the road rose up through a saddle crowned with once-white buildings.

Nazareth. He wondered if he’d feel anything special, any hint of the sacred, when he actually entered the city. Word was that the place was a pit, an Arab town spared by the Ira ni ans in the great nuke duel because of its Muslim population. And its lack of importance.

He lifted the visor of his vehicle commander’s helmet. The brighter world and the rush of air stung his eyes for a moment. But the wind of movement soothed his skin.

Almost as good as a shower. Or maybe not quite.

“This is Bayonet Six,” he said into his helmet mike. “Perfect ambush site as we get up into that saddle. Make sure everybody stays alert.”

But no rounds challenged them as they growled up the highway. Crazy war. Last night, they were fighting to the death. Now it’s won’t-you-please-come-in. Cavanaugh didn’t trust it one bit.

There was no sign of life from the building as they approached. Either deserted, or the locals were down in the basements holding their breath. Cavanaugh’s first sight of the city of Christ’s youth was of grubby sprawl speckled with litter.

He listened while Jake Walker ordered the lead platoon to slow down as the building density increased. Heads and weapons popped up through the hatches of the Bradleys, scanning upper-story windows and rooflines.

As the column approached a small plateau beyond the crest of the saddle, Jake ordered the tanks to go into overwatch. The infantry tracks would lead into the city. Maximum risk, all right.

Cavanaugh let Walker run his company. The captain was making the right calls. So far. Pedal-to-the-metal was fine out in the great wide-open, but you had to throttle back when the road started turning through a maze of high-rises, shops, and residential compounds.

Cavanaugh’s track was the fifth vehicle in column now. The Bradleys nosed down the far slope, torturing their brakes.

The lead track stopped. Lurching heavily. The ramp dropped, and the squad scrambled out. Cavanaugh didn’t hear any firing. He could just see a break in the line of buildings. Beyond a row of worse-for-wear apartment houses.

Jake Walker came up on the battalion net. He skipped the call signs. “Sir, you need to get up here. Double-quick.”

The company commander’s voice trembled.

Cavanaugh got on the intercom. “Ryder. Move us out. Forward. Get around those tracks.”

The driver released the brakes, and the Bradley groaned down the road, biting into curbs that looked like they’d been bitten by bigger dogs in the past.

The sight that waited was the worst of his life.

Standing in the road and staring, Cavanaugh knew he needed to get on the net and call in his unit’s discovery. But he couldn’t quite tear himself away. Beside him, Jake Walker fidgeted. The captain’s confidence had deserted him.

When Cavanaugh believed he had his voice under control, he told the company commander, “Push out a security perimeter.”

“Shall I start getting them down, sir? The bodies?”

Yes. Get them down. Get them down as fast as you can. And get those goddamned flies off them.

“No,” Cavanaugh said. “This has to be documented. Find out if any of your men packed their cameras. Start taking pictures. As many as you can.” He turned to go back to his vehicle and make his report. Hoping he could keep his voice steady. “And keep everybody off the net. No comms beyond this company. Tell the cannon-cockers and the medics what I said. And wipe your face. It’s all right, Jake. But it doesn’t help for the troops to see you like that.”

“Yes, sir. Got it.”

As Cavanaugh walked back toward his track, he saw an infantryman break loose and stride toward a beggar huddled into a ball on the far side of the road, the only sign of local life in evidence. The pathetic creature in Arab rags hadn’t said a word, hadn’t looked up.

Rocking himself faintly and trembling, the beggar looked to be just about the filthiest human being Cavanaugh had ever seen.

The soldier raised his weapon as he walked. Cavanaugh saw a thumb click off the safety.

“Freeze, soldier,” Cavanaugh said. “You pull that trigger and I’ll drop you myself.” He found himself holding his pistol out at arm’s length.

The soldier stopped. And looked at Cavanaugh. In disgust. His expression warned that he just might shoot anyway.

Cavanaugh understood. But he couldn’t tell them that. He would’ve been glad to go back to the track, get his own carbine, and empty a magazine into the beggar himself.

Just for the satisfaction of hurting something, anything, from their world.

But he wasn’t going to do it. And the soldier wasn’t going to do it.

Cavanaugh remembered the soldier’s name. DeSantis.

“PFC DeSantis. Lower that weapon. Put it on safe.”

Addressed by his rank and name, the soldier obeyed. But he continued to stare at the battalion commander. As if he hated him as much as he now hated the Jihadis. And every Arab.

The soldier’s squad leader walked up, spoke to DeSantis, and shooed him away. Cavanaugh sensed that the NCO had let the scene play out before he intervened.

It was going to be hard to keep them under control. Maybe impossible.

Even with his back turned to the field of crosses, Cavanaugh saw them. And the goddamned flies on their faces.

No. It wouldn’t be impossible to control the troops. Because he wasn’t going to let it be impossible. That was why he drew his 0-5 pay.

Cavanaugh walked over to the beggar hunched on the curb. Up close, the man looked badly beaten, damaged. Infirm.

The Arab stank. He was bloody. And he reeked of urine.

Then Pat Cavanaugh noticed what looked like a compact transmitter by the man’s side. The device looked like military hardware.

Cavanaugh nudged the beggar with the barrel of his pistol. Unwilling to touch cloth or flesh.

“You,” he said. “Do you speak any English?”