The War After Armageddon

THIRTEEN

Flintlock Harris tried to look into each face crowded into the ad-hoc briefing room. All of the assembled staff officers and subordinate commanders were overdue for showers, and the closed space stank like a gym during a janitors’ strike. Weary hands brushed away flies. It had been impossible to control the news about the crucifixions in Nazareth. Harris could feel the danger, as palpable as sweat, that the behavior of his soldiers would degenerate into savagery.

Which was, Harris figured, what more than one party involved wanted.

The murmurings had quieted the instant Harris got to his feet. Now the loudest sound in the room was the pop-back of a plastic water bottle squeezed too hard. Beyond the walls of the shabby house, spikes of noise reported the commotion attendent to jumping the command post to a new location. More disruption, at a bad time. But staying in one place too long made the headquarters an easy target.

Harris had stripped his field headquarters by almost two-thirds of its personnel from the old, fat days in Saudi or Nigeria. But moving it still reminded him of a circus leaving town.

Time to speak. He’d wasted enough time already. Harris wished he were better with words.

“All right,” he said abruptly. “Listen up. We are not going to do anything stupid, and we’re not going to do anything immoral. Or illegal under present laws and conventions.” He stared fiercely into the faces before him. “And I don’t give a damn what anyone else does. The units under the control of this corps inherited two hundred and fifty years of U.S. Army and Marine Corps traditions. We are not going to shit on those traditions.” He scanned the room again. Not everyone was a happy camper. “Everybody got that?”

Harris took a deep breath, aware that not every head had nodded enthusiastically. “I’m as revolted and disgusted and angry as anybody by what those sonsofbitches did in Nazareth. But we’re dealing with an enemy who wants us to respond in kind. They’re praying for it. And we are not going to do it. We will not answer crimes against humanity with our own war crimes.” A fly nearly the size of an attack drone flirted past his face. “The soldiers and Marines under my command are going to fight ferociously to destroy our enemies. I don’t want anyone who takes up arms against us to have a second chance to do so. But once an enemy is our prisoner, he will be treated with decency. With appropriate rigor, but with human decency. And we will not kill or otherwise harm civilians, if it can be helped. We’re soldiers and Marines, not a lynch mob.”

Harris reared up, making his back as rigid as if standing on a parade ground. “I will not accept bogus reports of collateral damage. You know what’s legitimate and what’s not. And I know it. We aren’t going to pull any punches on the battlefield. But when the shooting stops, our soldiers and Marines are going to behave with discipline… and decency.” He wished he could find another word, a stronger word than “decency.” But his mental arsenal was empty. “Questions?”

The 1st Infantry Division commander’s liaison officer raised his hand.

“Jim?”

“Sir… putting Nazareth off-limits… Sir, that makes it tough for us to support the 1st Cav in the Golani Junction push. It leaves a gaping hole in the road network.”

Harris nodded at Mike Andretti, his G-3.

The Three stood up and faced the liaison officer. “Orders are coming down on that. Units can conduct movement through Nazareth on the primary road and its northern branches. But no stopping in the city, unless it’s a legit breakdown. 1-18 Infantry has been placed directly under corps command, and for now, Pat Cavanaugh’s the sheriff of Nazareth. When any other unit’s inside the city limits, Pat Cavanaugh’s the boss. Rank immaterial.” Andretti shifted his eyes back to the corps commander.

“Problem solved, Jim?” Harris asked.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Harris shifted his attention to his G-2. The intelligence officer looked as neatly pressed and well-scrubbed as ever. Maybe even taller and handsomer than the day before. Ready for a magazine cover. Except for the dark circles. Harris tried to enforce a sleep regimen, but it never worked.

“Talk to me, Val. Short and sweet, so everybody can get back to work.”

Colonel Val Danczuk cleared his throat. As if about to deliver a sermon to a multitude. “Sir, the Third Jihadi Corps has its A-Team in the fight. Re sis tance has stiffened markedly, with the J’s committed to a defense along the line of Highway 65 north of Mount Tabor.”

“So they gave us Afula and Nazareth. So to speak,” Harris interrupted.

“Yes, sir. General al-Ghazi sacrificed a good twenty percent of his best antitank systems, but the troops in Afula were reservists. Stiffened by one commando battalion.”

“And Nazareth was undefended.” Harris looked around the room again. “You all get the point. Took me until this afternoon to figure it out for certain, but it’s evident that the Jihadis are counting on us to give them an atrocity, to turn Nazareth into a butcher shop. That’s why they’ve crammed it full of professors and engineers and so forth. Figure it out: We slaughter their intelligentsia, getting rid of a noisy problem for the Muslim hardliners. And they then use our action to rally the Arab world against us. Just in case Arabs needed any more rallying, after what’s happened in Jerusalem. Okay, go ahead, Val.”

Danczuk traced his light-pencil over the map. “Al-Ghazi only has a division-minus as his corps reserve, dispersed across the Golan and curving around to the Metulla pocket. They’re out of artillery range but positioned for a counterattack. Intercept—what there is of it—suggests they’ve got a looming fuel shortage. They’re marshaling their supplies… to the extent that only the most gravely wounded are being evacuated beyond Quneitra. By the way, we’re increasingly certain Quneitra is their corps headquarters. If we had fixed-wing air support, we—”

“We don’t have it,” Harris snapped. “And we’ll discuss that later. Bring everybody up to date on the MOBIC situation down south.”

“Yes, sir.” The light-pencil went into action again. “The remnants of the Second Jihadi Corps, directly subordinate to General-Emir al-Mahdi, have abandoned Jericho. Al Mahdi appears to have split the corps, sending his 99th and 156th divisions east across the Jordan. We believe they’ll set up hasty blocking positions on the east bank after dropping the fixed and temporary bridges, but their primary mission will be the defense of Amman. Meanwhile…” the tiny spot of light traced northward on the wall map, “… al-Mahdi’s ‘September 11th’ Armored Division and the 40th Jihadi Commando Brigade have been withdrawing up Highway 90, paralleling the Jordan River, as you see here. Al-Mahdi’s reportedly with that force.”

“A fighting withdrawal?”

“Only when they have to fight. They seem intent on moving northward fast, with the apparent intent to consolidate forces with the Third Jihadi Corps in our area of operations. And the limited road network in the vicinity of the Sea of Galilee would explain why the Third is now so determined to hold onto Highway 65—or at least keep us off it.”

“Treatment of civilians?”

“By which side, sir?”

“Both.”

“Bad. The J’s have attempted to put refugee streams from Jericho between them and the advancing MOBIC elements. Buying time with lives.”

“MOBIC?”

“Sir, they’re killing everything in sight. Their engineers have been ordered to level Jericho.”

Harris grunted. “More work than it was in Joshua’s day.” He felt the silent gasps. But Harris was sick of pretending. He was furious and disgusted by the behavior of his fellow Americans and their “God wills it” rampage. To the extent that he had flashes of fantasy about turning his corps against the MOBIC corps, to put a stop to the bloodbath.

What had his country come to?

Harris turned back to his operations officer. “Mike, how’s the MOBIC corps responding to al-Mahdi splitting his force?”

“Sir, the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ units are pursuing the Jihadis northward along the Jordan as their primary mission. General of the Order Montfort’s positioning one division torn up in the Jerusalem fight and a fresh follow-on division to secure the Jordan crossing sites vicinity Jericho and protect the MOBIC lines of communication.”

Harris nodded. “Anybody needs the latest enemy order-of-battle info, get with the Deuce’s number two after this meeting. Now… Let me just think out loud, gentlemen. The worst-kept secret in the world is that our campaign objective is Damascus. And the best approach to Damascus from Jerusalem just now is via Amman. The obvious choice for al-Mahdi would’ve been to pull his entire Second Corps back to the east bank of the Jordan. But he didn’t. Anybody care to guess why? Go ahead, Monk. Speak up. Your eyes are popping.”

The Marine general didn’t leave his chair. “The Jihadi withdrawal up the west bank of the Jordan is bait. To draw off the MOBIC forces. Keep them from pushing straight for Amman.”

“Okay, Monk. That’s the bait. What’s the trap? How do they spring it?”

“That one… I can’t figure out yet.”

“Anybody? No? Well, I can’t crack the code yet, either. Deuce, watch that one. If ever I smelled a setup, al-Mahdi’s putting one together. They’re playing chess, while we’re playing checkers.” He looked around the room. “Three? Anything critical you haven’t briefed earlier?”

Mike Andretti rose again. “Sir, the 1st Cavalry Division has one brigade ashore, with its lead elements conducting a forward passage of lines with Avi Dorn’s brigade. The IEF is still just sitting there west of Nazareth. Another 1st Cav brigade’s about 50 percent ashore, as of 1800. General Stramara believes he’ll be in position to execute a divisional attack by 1200 tomorrow. General Morris’s Marines—”

“We’ll go through that later. Drone problems?”

“Sir, they’re still coming hot and heavy. Killer number one of our armored vehicles. And they’re still a bitch on the beachhead.”

“Jamming.”

“Like a sky full of mud. The J’s don’t want anybody talking. They’re blanketing the spectrum so heavily they can’t talk, either. And 1st ID reports that a broadcast e-cancer has penetrated their logistics network.”

“Four? You got your firewalls up?”

Colonel McCoy nodded. “Corps is clean so far, sir.”

“Anything else for the assembled multitude?”

The G-4 looked tired but didn’t sound it. “The Haifa pipeline should be partially operational by tomorrow. Full flow in forty-eight hours. God bless the SeaBees. Other than that, sir, everybody needs to understand that the bottled water’s for drinking. No washing in it. Or dehydration’s going to be a bigger problem than those drones.”

“Thanks, Real-Deal. All right, you all heard him. Make sure you’ve got good water discipline. And good discipline in every other respect. All right, gentlemen. Boots and saddles. Monk, you hang on here. Deuce, Three. You, too.” He looked at the plans officer. “And you, Marty.”

The other officers cleared the room. Usually, after a briefing, one or two would approach Harris with a problem they didn’t want aired too widely. But each man sensed that this was not a day when the corps commander was feeling charitable.

When the last straphanger was gone, Harris turned to his aide and said, “Close the door, John.”

Then he turned to the remaining officers, making no further attempt to hide his anger.

“Now, what the fuck is going on?” he demanded.

“Three,” the corps commander snapped. “Have your people laid hands on that goddamned zoomie yet?”

Colonel Andretti looked down at the tabletop. It was never good news when the G-3 did that.

“Sir, he flew up to Cyprus this afternoon. To Holy Land Command. He told my deputy—”

“I hope he took his beach towel and flip-flops. Where’s his deputy?”

“He went with him to HOLCOM.”

Harris shook his head. Then he looked at Monk Morris. “Okay, run the scenario by me one more time.”

The Marine said, “Dawg Daniels was locked and cocked to run the full series of missions today. Then the Air Force shut down the field.”

“I thought it was a Marine airfield.”

“The HOLCOM commander backed the Air Force.”

“Same rationale from the zoomies?”

“Yes, sir. ‘Too dangerous to fly. High threat environment. Can’t risk irreplaceable aircraft.’ ”

“But the MOBIC air arm can fly down south. And carpet-bomb villages.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next thing, they’ll ground our rotary-wing assets. This stinks like a baboon’s ass.”

“Yes, sir.”

A pure-vinegar smirk twisted Harris’s face. It was an expression he never would’ve permitted himself beyond this small circle. “The Air Force thinks Sim Montfort’s going to leave them unmolested. When this is over. Because they helped screw the Army and Marines.”

The Marine two-star shrugged. “Divide and conquer. Montfort’s read his Sun-Tzu.”

Harris’s grimace deepened. He looked around. At his G-3, his G-2. At his plans officer and his aide.

“You know one of the reasons Sim Montfort’s taking that bait and chasing the J’s up the Jordan Valley? Other than the fact that he wants his MOBIC troops to have credit for liberating every possible Christian site? What do you think, gents? Any takers?”

“Because,” Monk Morris said calmly, “once he’s up here, he’ll argue for ‘unity of command.’ Under his command.”

“Bingo!” Harris said, cocking his fingers to imitate a pistol. “And then he’s got what’s left of the U.S. Army under his thumb.”

“And the Marines. Sir, I figure he’s going to try to subordinate us to the MOBIC Corps. Replacement cannon fodder.”

“God bless us one and all. Monk, you and I are looking at the same target array.” Harris pivoted sharply toward his plans officer. Every officer in the room was marked with sweat up and down his uniform. And yearning for fresh air. “Marty, show General Morris what you’ve got. Lay it out. Monk, here’s what I propose. I’ve got to get the rest of 1st Cav ashore tonight. But I want you to be prepared to start marching, on order, tomorrow morning. As soon as we can clear the junctions on the north-south roads. Your division, plus all attachments, will pull off line—we’ll get a Cav screen down there in front of you. You’ll road-march from the south of sector, where you’re an obvious grab for the MOBIC corps, and head north. Primarly on Route 70, going fast through the hot zones. You will then position your Marines on the corps’ northern flank. Marty, point out the—”

“I can see it, sir. I get it,” the Marine said.

“You’ll be positioned to attack east, on order, to envelop retreating Jihadi forces. On either or both of those axes. Right through what used to be southern Lebanon. Or, if we see a Jihadi counterattack first, you’ll be prepared to attack into its northern flank.”

Morris said, “We’ll need to space the convoy serials more widely than the tables call for. In case somebody gets bogged down where the radiation count’s still high.”

“Yes, sir,” the plans officer, Lieutenant Colonel Marty Rose, put in. “We’ve already rejiggered the movement tables.”

The Marine looked back to the corps commander. “Radio silence, I take it? Full electronic deception efforts?”

The plans officer answered for Harris again. A bit too eagerly. “We’re almost finished with the deception plan. Full spoofer support. We’re going to make you disappear.”

Monk Morris nodded, keeping his eyes on the corps commander. “Sir, if you can, give me one day to refit and rearm once I’m up there in those valleys. Then we’ll be ready to go anywhere you want to point us.”

“We’ll do what we can down here. Part of it depends on the Jihadis, part on whatever shenanigans Sim Montfort and the MOBIC crowd get up to.” Shifting his attention to his operations officer, Harris changed the subject. “Mike, can we provide 1-18 Infantry with an MP company? To beef them up in Nazareth? I’m concerned about things getting messy. Agents provocateur. From any number of sources.” A pair of flies conducted a dogfight in front of his face.

“Sir, we just can’t do that. Not for twenty-four hours, anyway. The Mike-Papas have all they can handle with traffic control, patrolling the LOCs, and handling POWs. They’re asking for additional support themselves. We’re running them ragged.”

Harris punched at the flies pestering him. “All right. Mike, scratch the raid those Rangers had scheduled for tonight. Yeah, I know. Got it. Hate to blow off the target. But Nazareth is going to become a strategic issue. I’d bet my retirement pay on it. And Pat Cavanaugh just won’t have enough boots on the ground to cope if it turns into a goat-rope. He’s going to need the toughest, most-disciplined hombres we’ve got. Send him a full Ranger company.”

“Yes, sir.” The Three, a former Ranger battalion commander, smirked. “They won’t much like serving under a mech-head, though.”

“They’ll suck it up, Mike. Just like you suck it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Suddenly, Harris smiled. But there was no trace of joy in it. “When I was a ju nior officer in Iraq, we talked on and on about how there were no front lines in the war. We didn’t have a clue.” Then he dropped his dead-man’s smile and turned to his aide. “John, I want one of those old Black Hawks with the extended-range tanks ready to go. I’m flying to Cyprus. Immediately.”

Except for Monk Morris, each of the other officers alerted. Surprised. Monk never let anything surprise him much, and Harris loved the old Marine for it.

After a few seconds, the G-3 asked, “Sir… You really think you’ll get us fixed-wing support? I mean, do you believe there’s any chance at all? I’d love to whack Quneitra. And those reserve units.”

“I’m going to try, Mike. But I’m also going to try to do a preemptive strike on the command-relationship issue. To keep Sim Montfort’s hands off this corps.” The sweat-polished skin on the general’s face tightened. “We’ve already got enough blood on our hands.”

“Maybe I should try drinking the local water, sir,” Command Sergeant Major Bratty told his battalion commander, gesturing with his bandaged hand. “I haven’t taken a dump in four days.”

Pat Cavanaugh couldn’t help smiling. Despite standing just down the street from two lines of body bags awaiting transport. After documenting the atrocity, he and his men had taken down their cruci-fied comrades. At one point or another, every man had wept. Except the sergeant major. Who insisted on treating everything as just another day at the war.

The sergeant major may have lost his trigger finger, but he was still rock-solid. Cavanaugh envied the sergeant major’s strength.

“Stop eating the cheese in the ration packs,” Cavanaugh told the other man. “And stop playing with that ban dage, Sergeant Major.”

The sergeant major shook his head. “I almost envy the XO. Dysentery sounds pretty good right now.”

Cavanaugh grew serious again. The evening air had the weight of wet sand on his shoulders. “What do you think, Sergeant Major? Can we keep them under control?”

“There’s a few of them I’d keep an eye on. I’ll pull the hard cases in close. But I don’t think any of our men are going to start anything. I’ve given the NCOs the full fire-and-brimstone. I’m just worried about some dumb-fuck Arab doing something stupid.” The sergeant major opened his hands as if freeing a bird. Cavanaugh noted a spot of blood on the ban dage where one of the finger stumps poked up. “It wouldn’t take much.”

Cavanaugh looked at the line of body bags. Where were the god-damned trucks? “Christ, Sergeant Major. I’d rather be fighting. Bare knuckles against razor blades.”

“Come on, sir. No self-pity at the top. Old Flintlock knew what he was doing when he dumped this shit on your shoulders.”

“Roger on the first. We’ll see about the second. Any word from the rear on Sergeant Brodsky?”

“Comms are still down, sir. Last I heard, they thought he’d lose the second leg, too.”

Cavanaugh shook his head. Staring off toward the body bags again, unable to keep his eyes under his command. But the sergeant major wasn’t having any of it.

“Come on, sir. This is what we signed up for. You need to eat some chow. Hell, I’ll give you my cheese pack…”

A shot. Followed by an echo. It punctured the odd stillness of terrified human beings, hiding behind closed doors in their thousands. Framed by the groans of military vehicles in the far streets and the relentless sounds of war beyond the ridges.

“That was downtown,” the sergeant major said. His even tone still managed to communicate that it wasn’t good news.

“You stay here, Sergeant Major,” Cavanaugh called. Already running for his track. “Let’s go, Hotel-1. Boots and saddles.”

Bratty barked, “Sergeant Rodriguez. Back up Bayonet Six with your squad. Move.”

Two Bradleys snorted down the hill, deeper into the unkempt city. Cavanaugh had already paid a quick visit to the old center, with its Biblical memories, while positioning his companies and refining their sectors. A wretched place, it didn’t excite any feelings of piety in him. Only repulsion.

In the dead heart of the old town, Cavanaugh spotted a new-model light armored truck. There were none in his battalion’s inventory.

“Specialist Quandt,” he told his driver over the intercom. “Butt-fuck that guy. I don’t want him going anyplace until I find out who he is.”

“Roger, sir.” The driver pivoted the big armored vehicle to the left, closing off the narrow street.

Cavanaugh saw two more of the brand-new vehicles. And a V-hull truck.

A pair of soldiers popped out of a doorway, weapons up. Not his men.

Cavanaugh had to get very close—snuggled right up behind the line of vehicles—before he could see the black crosses in the fading light. Black crosses, on the left breast of the uniform tunics.

Sonofabitch, he thought to himself. Then he warned himself to keep his temper. But he jumped down from the Bradley’s deck like a paratrooper landing ready to fight.

Both MOBIC troops were ju nior enlisted men. Cavanaugh had no intention of wasting time on them.

“Where’s your commanding officer?”

The two soldiers looked at him sullenly. Insolently. Then the corporal said, “Major Brown’s reclaiming the site of the Annunciation. For our Lord, Jesus Christ. And Christians everywhere.”

“Post one fire team here,” Cavanaugh told Sergeant Rodriguez, who had just come up behind him. “Then cover my six.”

“You got it, sir.”

Cavanaugh plunged ahead. Striding up the lane. Toward the site where the Church of St. Gabriel once stood. He’d stopped by earlier. Briefly. The rubbled lot had been turned into an open-air latrine, and the below-ground cavity where Mary’s well lay hidden was a cesspit.

A short block up the hillside, Cavanaugh found a squad of MOBIC soldiers unspooling white tape printed with black crosses, cordoning off the area.

None of them paid the least attention to the corpse lying in the center of the plaza. The dark blood on the paving slabs shone fresh. The dead man was an elderly Arab.

Cavanaugh tightened his grip on his carbine.

Two MOBIC troops glanced up at his approach. Then they dropped their spool of tape and rushed toward him, holding up their hands like old-fashioned traffic cops.

“Stay where you are. Don’t enter this site.”

“Get out of my fucking way.”

The scattered MOBIC soldiers alerted. They began to close toward the center of the plaza. Slipping their rifles from their shoulders. An officer hurried toward Cavanaugh.

Cavanaugh heard Sergeant Rodriguez and his men entering the plaza behind him.

As the officer approached in the weakening light, Cavanaugh read his rank: a major.

“What do you think you’re doing here, Major? No one’s authorized to enter this—”

“I’m in charge here, Colonel. This is now a reclaimed Christian Heritage site, praise the Lord. You’re violating a sacred area.”

“It’s a fucking latrine. Who the fuck are you?”

“Major Josiah Makepeace Brown. The commander of CHART 55. And you have no further authority here.”

“How’d you get here.”

“The Lord showed us the way.”

“He tell you to shoot that old man?”

“The heathen?”

“Yeah, the heathen. The old man. Him. Which one of you shot him?”

“I did.”

“Why? Jesus Christ, he was probably just coming to take a leak.”

“You don’t believe that those who profane this holy ground, who sow filth amid the lilies of the field, need to be punished?”

“You shot an old man. And I don’t see any goddamned lilies. You have no right to be here.”

The MOBIC officer maintained an infuriatingly calm voice. As if speaking to a child. But there was an unmistakable threat in his tone, too.

“Colonel, you and your men will have to leave. Immediately. Or I’ll be forced to arrest you. In the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord, and the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ.”

Cavanaugh broke the major’s jaw. It was an awkward punch, with the fist forming only after it left the handgrip and trigger-well of the carbine. But Cavanaugh was comfortable doing a dozen reps on the bench with 280 pounds. He didn’t aim with great precision, but the blow landed perfectly, and the jaw snapped with the sound of a broomstick broken over a thigh.

The MOBIC troops weren’t well-trained. When the major fell, a few began to point their weapons, but Cavanaugh’s men, outnum bered three to one, quickly disarmed them. So roughly that Cavanaugh had to tell them to ease up. He even began to worry that one of his men would pull a trigger. All of the day’s anger, the rage at the sight of the crucified soldiers, had transferred onto the MOBIC troops, who were hated by the rank-and-file for their priviliges and the preference they got in equipment and promotions.

“Hey, sir,” Sergeant Rodriguez said. “What do you want us to do with these shitbirds?”

Cavanaugh turned to the next-ranking MOBIC officer, a first lieutenant. “You. Get that body out of the square. Put him over on that bench.”

The lieutenant turned to give orders to two of his soldiers.

“I said ‘you’,” Cavanaugh told him. “Take one man to help you, Lieutenant.” He looked down at the major, who lay on the ground moaning. Cavanaugh wondered if he’d screwed up. But it had felt good. Almost as good as decking his wife’s new, smite-the-Moabites, bullshit husband might have felt. And his orders covered him.

No. That was bullshit. He wasn’t going to hide behind orders. He’d called it, and he’d stand by his call.

Cavanaugh faced the distinctly unhappy group of MOBIC soldiers. He was tempted to have them tied up and to leave them just where they said they wanted to be. In the middle of the mounds of shit that covered the site of the old church.

“Treat that body with respect,” Cavanaugh snapped at the lieutenant and the MOBIC soldier helping him. “Then I’m going to give you fifteen minutes to get out of Dodge.”

The lieutenant turned his face toward Cavanaugh, features vivid with fear. “Sir… Can we wait until daylight? Please, sir? It’s getting dark, and we might not be able to find our way back now… We could get shot in the dark by mistake.”

Cavanaugh extended his wrist and looked at his watch.

“Fourteen minutes,” he said. “The Lord will show you the way.”