The War After Armageddon (38 page)

Cavanaugh inched closer to the physician’s assistant, speaking quietly. “Chief, it sounds like we’ve got an epidemic in the city.”

“You told me that, sir.” The physician’s assistant turned away from the battalion commander and the corpse to glare at the soldier Bratty had called on. “Prusinski, speak up. Unless you want everybody to know why you came crawling into my office last month.”

“We weren’t doing anything,” the specialist said. “Just washing up a little. He just washed his face and brushed his teeth. And I’m, like, washing my feet with this hose they got in there, and I look up, and he’s like somebody’s sticking a knife in him.”

“He brushed his teeth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“DeSantis brushed his fucking teeth? In rag water? From the tap?”

Specialist Prusinski nodded.

“Jesus Christ,” Chief Culver said. Then he turned to Cavanaugh. “It isn’t any kind of plague, sir. It’s worse. The water supply’s been poisoned.”

HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES

“Trouble in Nazareth, sir,” Mike Andretti told Harris as soon as the general walked in for the morning go-round.

That woke Harris up. Helped by the piercing smell of insecticide recently sprayed.

“What kind of trouble? Talk to me.”

“Looks like, before they left, the Jihadis poisoned the water supply. Big-time. The rags have been drinking it. And there’s a soldier down in 1-18.”

“Jesus.”

“General Scott’s got his PSYOP folks and the Civil Affairs straphangers running some loudspeakers into Nazareth. To warn the population. Meanwhile, Pat Cavanaugh’s using locals as town criers. We’re pushing up engineers to turn off the system.”

“How bad is it?”

“Still unclear, sir. Hundreds dead, at least. Cavanaugh believes there’s more of them in the houses. Corpses, I mean. Probably a lot more to come, before the word gets to everybody.”

“They poisoned the water supply. On their own people. They knew we wouldn’t drink it. And they did that to their own kind.” Harris shook his head in reluctant awe of the level of ferocity that took. Maybe old Sim was right: An enemy who would do that couldn’t just be defeated but had to be eradicated. Immediately, Harris crushed the thought. But he understood why Montfort’s arguments were so seductive.

“Sir . . . The Jihadis wanted those people dead.”

“Yeah, got it, Mike. But they wanted
us
to do it. Guess they were afraid we’d be unreliable, that the MOBIC boys wouldn’t get here in time. Pretty good assessment of the situation on their part. So . . . What’s the
good
news? Got any this morning?”

“Yes, sir. 1st Cav’s got Golani Junction. Raised the flag over the ruins of the old McDonald’s.”

“Blue casualties?”

“Don’t sound bad, sir. General Stramara’s fighting smart. And the J’s aren’t. They’re just throwing bodies into the mix now.
Tough fighting, but they don’t have quite the edge some of their units were showing last night. And we’re whacking them. General Stramara’s Deuce thinks al-Ghazi’s pulling his best units off line. Maybe forming a counterattack force.”

“Val?” Harris turned to his G-2.

“We’ve got some drone imagery. Pretty patchy, but it looks like al-Ghazi’s preparing a second line of defense. On the ridge just west of the Sea of Galilee. And running north.”

“Doesn’t make sense. If we—or the MOBIC forces—pushed them off that high ground above Tiberias, they’d have no line of retreat. Just that one road following the lake. It’d be a shooting gallery.”

“Yes, sir. But they’re digging in up there anyway.”

“Well, file that one under ‘What the fuck?’ See if your folks can figure out the logic behind it. Al-Ghazi’s just not that dumb.”

“Yes, sir. But al-Mahdi might have ordered him to do it.”

Harris folded his arms. Bucking himself up against the not-enough-sleep hangover. “Al-Mahdi’s not that stupid, either. There’s got to me more to it, Val.”

“We’ll stay on it, sir.”

“Any more
bad
news?” Harris looked around the briefing room. Tired faces. But plenty of energy, nonetheless.

“Ship got hit last night by stealth drones. Crew got off, but it was a catastrophic loss. Lot of 155 mike-mike ammunition on board. And some haulers.”

“Shit. What else?”

“Two electromagnetic-pulse mines confirmed down in General Scott’s First Brigade sector.”

“So the Jihadis did have some, after all.” Harris glanced at his G-2, then returned his attention to the G-3. “Which units got hit?”

“2-34 Armor took both mines.”

“How bad?”

“Two combined-arms companies without any working electronics.”

“The shielding didn’t work at all?”

“Powerful mines, sir.”

“I want to know, immediately, if we run into any more of them. It’s hard enough to communicate as it is.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What else?”

“The MOBIC elements pushing up the west bank of the Jordan linked up with General Scott’s forward Cav elements at 0445. They’re flowing in behind our front lines now. Preparing for the forward passage of lines and reentry into battle. At which point they assume responsibility for the attack in sector.”

“Got it. Any more static from HOLCOM?”

“No, sir.”

“The MOBIC outfits have an LD time yet?”

“The forward passage of lines is set to commence at 1800.”

“Going to be some tired
hombres
. We refueling them?”

“They’ve requested it.”

Harris pivoted toward his G-4. “Real-Deal? Can we top ’em off?”

“Yes, sir. Although I hate to do it.”

“Well, they’re on our side. And we all need to remember it. But I suspect some of those boys are going to be falling asleep at the wheel by the time they go into action.” He shrugged. “We have enough back-up comms gear to fix those two companies down in 2-34 Armor? Get them back into the net?”

“We’re checking it out now, sir. Lot of that stuff still hasn’t come over the beach.”

“Cannibalize any vehicles deadlined for major components or significant battle damage.”

The G-4 raised his eyebrows. “Going to be a property-book nightmare. And the tactical units will fight it. But I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“Write off any systems you lift as combat losses. Blame me. Just get 2-34 talking again.”

“Roger, sir.”

“Okay, Real-Deal. Now for the major-league question: How do we keep an entire city that’s crowded with refugees and has a poisoned water supply from dying of thirst?”

“Sir, depending on the level and kind of poison, there’s a chance we can use water-purification units—”

“Assume the worst. That the water can’t be processed.”

“Jesus, sir . . . There just isn’t enough bottled water. Even if we stopped bringing everything else ashore, there’s not enough loaded on the ships.”

“How many water-purification sites do we have up and running?”

“I don’t have a current number, sir. But we don’t have the spare tankers, anyway.”

“Solve it, Sean. Make it personal.”

Colonel Sean “Real-Deal” McCoy gave Harris the polar-bear salute. “Sir, I honestly don’t know—”

“Solve it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harris turned back to his operations officer. “Mike, what about General Morris’s Marines? When do we get road clearance down to them?”

“Already done, sir. At zero-six. The Marines are road-marching north as we speak, with lead elements putting the pedal down east of Haifa. We’re moving them over the lowest-threat roads, and we’ve got the hot stretches marked to get their attention and keep them moving. Got some potential bottlenecks, though.”

“Vehicle decon? The Marines don’t have much capacity in-theater.”

“Our chem folks have three hasty-decon sites waiting for them up north. Best we can do. Overall, I’d say Marty Rose’s planners did a first-rate job.”

“Just keep ’em moving. Double intervals between the serials, as we discussed. Keep the Mike-Papas on them about maintaining distance. His Marines won’t like it, but Monk Morris will understand. We don’t want units backing up while they’re in the hot zones.”

“Yes, sir.”

A captain slipped into the room and made his way between chairbacks and a parapet of knees to hand a scrap of paper to the G-2.

“Val? Anything hot?” Harris asked his intelligence officer.

Val Danczuk began his answers by saying to himself, in a low but audible tone, “The motherfuckers.”

“That covers a wide array of characters these days,” Harris said. “Exactly which Mike-Foxtrots are we talking about this time?”

“The Jihadis,” Colonel Danczuk said. “They didn’t waste any time. This is an intercept from a radio station in Baghdad, a big regional sender. They’re telling the world that we’re poisoning all of our ‘captives’ in Nazareth.”

Harris whistled. In disgust mixed with admiration. It was the same emotional mix he felt toward Sim Montfort.

REAR HEADQUARTERS, I MOBIC CORPS, COMMANDER’S SANCTUM

General of the Order Simon Montfort focused on the only officer seated at the planning table who didn’t wear the black cross of the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ or the red Jerusalem Cross of his Guardians.

“Forty-eight hours,” Montfort told the Air Force three-star. “You have forty-eight hours. Then you need to be in complete readiness to smite the Jihadi forces with every manned aircraft and drone you have in this theater or capable of flying into this theater. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant General Micah said. “You realize, of course, that there are airspace deconfliction issues, and we need to do our weaponeering based upon specific target pa ram e ters to maximize—”

“The targets will be al-Mahdi’s forces. Wherever they are when I give you the order. Stationary and on the move. We believe that a wide array of high-value targets will be strung out along the highways and secondary routes leading east to Damascus and beyond to the old Iraqi border. Focus your planning on the road network. Use your intelligence resources to identify possible assembly and staging areas. We’ll provide whatever intelligence we develop ourselves. Just be ready to fly. When I tell you to.”

“They’ll be in retreat, you mean?”

“They’ll be marching east. They won’t expect you.”

“How can you be sure?”

Montfort, who was fighting twinges of nausea, straightened his back and turned a practiced gaze on the Air Force officer. “The Lord granted me a vision. Is that sufficient? Be prepared to fly. To do the Lord’s work. Be ready to fly at a moment’s notice, forty-eight hours from now.”

“I can’t keep aircrews on alert indefinitely, you realize. We have crew-rest requirements and—”

“If my men can fight for days without sleep, driven only by their commitment to our faith, surely you can do your part, General Micah.” Montfort offered the man a friendly smile that did not quite mask the warning behind it. “After all, I need to return to Washington with strong reasons why the Air Force should maintain its independence. When I testify before God and the United States Congress on the conduct of this war.”

“The Air Force will do its part. Of course.”

“And your part will consist of destroying al-Mahdi’s forces as thoroughly as possible. Your mission is to annihilate them. Their equipment must be destroyed, and no Jihadi should be spared. No target will be off-limits, including their field hospitals—which we believe are being used for military purporses. Read the Book of Joshua, if you have any questions.”

“Yes, sir. The Air Force is here to help you. You can count on us.”

Montfort subdued a grimace before it could weaken his expression. The belly pang faded into queasiness. “And one other thing. My targeting cell will give you the coordinates of a compound a short flight east of the Jordan River. We’ve identified it as the personal property of Emir-General al-Mahdi. It’s a refuge of his, a hide-out. I want the compound destroyed, with not one trace left of it on this Earth. It will be on your initial target list.”

The Air Force officer seemed relieved. “That one’s easy.”

“Good. Go with God, General Micah.”

The Air Force officer rose and saluted. No one returned his salute.

When the outsider had left the room, Montfort hunched over, grimacing. Through much of the meeting, he’d warred against
bursting pains that worsened by the minute, unwilling to display any kind of weakness in front of the Air Force general. Now he groaned aloud.

“Get my doctor,” he barked.
“Get him. Now.”

“No, sir. You haven’t been poisoned. Put your mind at rest on that count. I’ll run some stool tests to be one hundred percent certain, but I’ll tell you right now you’ve got viral gastroenteritis.”

“Dates. I ate dates.”

“Local? That was a mistake.”

“The person I was with . . . I have reason to believe . . . that he . . . Lord! Can you give me something for these cramps? And to clear my head?”

“I’ll do what I can. But we’re just going to have to keep you hydrated and let this run its course. Antibiotics can only do so much.”

“Maybe poison . . . be sure . . . the person I was with . . . I don’t think he got sick . . .”