The War After Armageddon (28 page)

“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.”

NAZARETH

“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.”