The Coward's Way of War (33 page)

He shook his head, wincing at the pounding headache.  “I killed American citizens whose only crime was trying to get out of the city before Henderson’s Disease reached out to claim them,” he said, bitterly.  “That makes me a fucking traitor!  Back in training, back when we studied the past, we used to ask ourselves about illegal orders; we even used to discuss what our duty was if the federal government went mad or evil.  And I gunned down American citizens!  I don’t care any longer.”

“I think that there was no choice,” Little said, gently.

“You weren't there,” Doug hissed.  “I was there, ordering my men to fire on American citizens, just like the Taliban or Saddam’s fucking enforcers or the Nazis or...”

He reached for another bottle, but Nicolas removed it from his grasp.  “Damn it, sir,” Doug snapped.  “Just leave me here to die.”

“I’m afraid I can't do that, Doug,” Little said.  He didn't sound regretful.  “I'm not going to leave you here to drink yourself to death, not when your kids need you.”

“My kids will grow up without me, never knowing that their father was a traitor and their mother died through following orders,” Doug said.  Perhaps it was the drink, but it was hard to remember what his daughters actually looked like.  “They’ll grow up and...”

His CO counted to ten, loudly enough for Doug, even in his drunken state, to take notice.  “I know that your wife is very ill and may not survive,” Little said, sharply.  “I can't bring her back or heal her, but I can give you something else, perhaps even a chance at revenge.”

“The niggers are dead,” Doug reminded him.  “Can you bring them back from the grave?”

“Shut up and listen,” Little snapped.  “That
is
an order, by the way.

“Your performance at the hospital centre managed to impress Command Sergeant Herald, who filed a glowing report after transporting the prisoners to Washington.  The upshot of it is that your old unit, the 3
rd
Infantry Division, is being prepped for deployment to the Middle East and they want you to come back as a Sergeant.  They’re flying troops into Kuwait and mating them up with equipment already stored there.  You could be part of that, Doug.

“Or you could sober up, come back with me to the FOB and perhaps they’ll let you remain on duty there,” he continued, tartly, his voice showing just what he thought of that choice.  “The chain of command is all shot to hell in the chaos, so I could claim that you were indispensable and that I needed you with me.  You’d have to maintain the blockade and escort supplies into the cities, all operations that we have to do, in order to preserve as much of the country as we can.

“Or you could remain here, keep drinking yourself into the gutter and perhaps get shot as a deserter,” he concluded.  “I can't offer you any other choices, Sergeant, and I suggest that you sober up and report to the airport for transport to Kuwait.  God knows, they’re desperately short of decent NCOs to make commanding officers like myself look good.”

Doug chuckled, even though it hurt.  “I...why Kuwait?”

“Well, nothing has been said officially, but it doesn't take a genius to realise that the Rock of the Marne isn't going out there to pick daises,” Little said.  “The smart money is on Saudi or Iran being responsible for Henderson’s Disease and the 3
rd
ID will be part of the force teaching them the error of their ways.  Now, I suggest that you sober up and report to the airport, or back to the FOB.  The choice is yours.”

He walked out of the door, closing it behind him with an audible bang.  Doug watched him go blearily, reaching out for the bottle...before he pushed it over and watched the wine spilling out onto the carpet.  It felt as if he were spilling his own life blood, yet perhaps he was spilling, instead, his dependence on the bottle.  He hadn't gotten drunk since he’d joined the Army, many years ago.  Lindsey would never have let him drink himself into the gutter.

The thought of his wife pulled him to his feet and he staggered into the shower, praying that there was water in the tank.  Water services in New York had become erratic over the past week – a combination of terrorist attacks and workers terrified of catching Henderson’s Disease - but there was enough cold water in the tank to sober him up.  He tore off the sodden remains of his outfit and hosed himself down, before climbing out of the shower and towelling himself dry.  A new purpose was glimmering in his mind.  He would dress, report to the FOB, pick up his deployment orders and head out to Kuwait. 

Lindsey’s face – his final sight of his wife of nineteen years – seemed to shimmer in front of him, pockmarked by the deadly traces of Henderson’s Disease.  The inhuman swine who had unleashed it on America, unleashed it on the entire world, were going to pay, whatever it took.  Doug silently swore a vow to the shade of his wife and all of the others who had died, before taking one last look around his home.  Somehow, he was sure that he would never see it again.

***

“
Mister Policeman, it hurts!”

Al gripped Cami’s hand tightly as she shivered, lying in bed.  It had been sheer luck that he and his new partner had been patrolling in the area – and had heard her desperate cries – but it had been the luck of the devil, for there was nothing they could do for her.  Cami was a pretty young girl, around eight years old by Al’s reckoning, yet she would never grow up into an adult.  Her face, what parts of it weren't covered with evil red pustules, held hints of a mature beauty to come...

He shook his head bitterly.  Cami would never become a teenager, never discover the wonderful world of boyfriends and girlfriends and never share a first kiss.  She would never fall in love or have her heart broken, never find a partner and get married, never have children or see them grow up into adulthood.  Her sweating palm was proof enough that she was deathly ill, yet her family had abandoned her in the house.  They’d just fled, leaving their daughter behind.  It had probably been too late to save them from Henderson’s Disease.  By the time their daughter manifested overt symptoms, she would have been contagious for several days.

“I know,” he said, cursing his own helplessness.  “You just have to be brave.”

Cami whimpered.  The sound tore at his heart.  If the city had been normal, they could have called for an ambulance and medical personnel, but no one would come now if they called.  Even if they did, there would be nothing they could do for Cami, apart from prolonging her agony.  He reached out and felt the girl’s forehead, only to recoil when he felt her temperature.  She was burning up from the inside.

“Mom always used to tell me to be brave,” Cami said.  Her voice was weak, failing.  “I never used to listen.”

“I never listened either,” Al said, hoping that it would amuse her.  He’d seen death before, the savage death that comes from battle and the sudden death of senseless training accidents, but this was worse.  He had never seen a small girl fade away in front of him.  Cami shifted uncomfortably and her blanket fell away, revealing a semi-transparent nightgown and dark marks on her skin.  Al examined one of them and swore.  Her body was becoming a terrifying mass of Henderson’s Disease.  She had very little unblemished skin left.  “My Drill Sergeant used to shout at me for not obeying orders.”

He grinned.  “And when we graduated from Boot Camp, a few of us went to stay in Alaska for a week,” he added.  “We built a snowman, placed a Smoky the Bear hat on it and named it after the DI.  And then we threw snowballs at it.”

Cami giggled.  It had been a puerile joke by young men who had survived the worst that the DI’s had thrown at them, unaware – or unbelieving – why they’d been trained so hard and or why so many had been allowed to drop out and return to civilian life.  In the years that had followed, Al had served in a dozen countries, each one populated by people who hated Westerners, Americans in particular.  His training had saved his life, yet others hadn't been so lucky...or perhaps they had been the lucky ones.  They were up guarding the gates of Heaven, while he was watching a small girl die in front of him.

Her giggles broke off suddenly into gasps of pain, great hacking coughs that spewed a bloody mass across the bed.  Al stared at her for a long moment and made up his mind.  “Pray with me,” he urged, pulling Cami into a hug.  She felt so tiny against his greater bulk.  “As I lay me down to sleep...”

“I pray the Lord, my soul to keep,” Cami echoed.  “And if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul to take.”

Al snapped her neck.  Her body lolled back against his and he vomited, almost unwilling to believe what he had done.  There had been no choice, or so he told himself, yet it felt as if he had crossed a line.  Gently, he placed her down on her bed and closed her eyes with his fingers.  Somewhere, he hoped her soul would find peace; if such a young child had committed any real sins in her life, the pain she'd suffered at the end of her days would pay for them.  Or so he told himself.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered to the girl’s shade.  He thought, briefly, of drawing his pistol and following her into death, but he had his duty.  The NYPD was critically undermanned as it was, even without officers committing suicide at will.  “I’m so sorry.”

Leaving a red flag to mark the house as a infected building, one that would have to be sterilised once the body was removed, he stepped outside and, waving to his partner, set off towards the nearest decontamination centre.   His uniform was covered with Henderson’s Disease and he had to be decontaminated before he approached anyone who wasn't vaccinated.  And then, he knew, he would have to report to his superior and admit what he had done.  Who knew what would happen then?

The important thing to bear in mind about the Arabs is that they are the single most arrogant, the single most convinced
of their own superiority, people on Earth.  Forget the French, forget the Germans, forget the Colonial British...the Arabs are convinced that they are the greatest.  They even consider themselves vastly superior to their fellow non-Arab Muslims, who are barely even considered Muslim.  Part of this is that an Arab – particularly an Arab leader – can never admit fault or accept blame.  It would be seen as a sign of weakness.

-Ambassador Andrew C. Madsen

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Day 30

Ambassador Andrew C. Madsen heard the chanting as the ambassadorial car drove from the American Embassy towards the Saudi Foreign Ministry.  The capital city of Saudi Arabia was no stranger to protests – all seemingly random, in fact organised by the regime and its clerical allies – and most of them were directed against the United States or Israel.  There were Ambassadors in Saudi Arabia who had been known to quip that a country wasn't really important until the Arabs had held protest marches against it, a joke that had grown increasingly less amusing as everything Islamic opinion found offensive led to violence across the Arab world, directed at people who had had nothing to do with the so-called offence.

“Death to America; God is Great!  Death to Israel; God is Great!”

The car turned the corner and passed the shouting protesters, some of whom recognised the American flag and took a moment to hurl their shoes towards the vehicle.  Andrew didn't show any reaction; the car had been carefully built to be almost as heavily armoured as a light tank and it would have required grenades or high explosive to inflict any serious damage on the vehicle.  The protesters temper tantrum didn't seem as if it was going to abate any time soon; the chaos in the United States and Europe had brought the radical fringe onto the streets in force.  The nervous-looking policemen eyed the crowd, clearly wondering if this was the day when they would turn violent and lash out at the House of Saud.

Andrew smiled bitterly at the thought.  People had been predicting the demise of the House of Saud for decades, yet the Princes had shown remarkable resilience.  They played the different tribes off against one another, supported a clerical establishment that imposed their version of Islamic Law on the civilian population and had an alliance with the United States that protected them against their hostile and envious neighbours.  Even now, prior to Henderson’s Disease, there had been understandings between the United States and Saudi Arabia, a state that was an offence against everything America stood for.  Now, he knew, all such understandings were deader than the dodo. 

He caught sight of a young bearded man shouting abuse towards the American vehicle and smiled again, knowing that the protesters would barely be able to see his face through the tinted glass.  The young man would have grown up subjected to a barrage of propaganda and perhaps studied Islam at the local universities, only to discover that it was no help when it came to finding a job.  He would have had nothing to do, but sit on his backside and study the finer points of Islam – and consider, as so many others had, just how carefully the House of Saud followed Islamic Law.  In public, the House of Saud was the most religious body in the world; in private, they acted more like the American oilmen they’d come to know, over fifty years ago.  The Saudis imported more Scotch and French Wines than almost any other country, even the United States.  The younger princes would cross the causeway to Bahrain and indulge themselves with drink and women; the princesses would travel to Europe and America – where they did not have to be veiled – and purchase millions of dollars worth of clothes and jewels.  Some of the greedier princesses were reputed to own vast collections of cars, even though Saudi women were not allowed to drive.  It was no wonder that their subjects grew increasingly restive under their yoke, watching eagerly for any shift in the balance of power.