The War After Armageddon (14 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay,” Harris continued. “That imagery the Marines downlinked makes Afula look tough. We’d all rather bypass it and come in from behind. Nobody’s crazy about doing a Charge of the Light Brigade down the Jezreel, with the Jihadis up on those heights around Narzareth. But we don’t have the time. And the Afula defense is just mobile systems for the meantime. They haven’t had time to prep the ground, to really dig in. They weren’t expecting customers that far back in the shop, so we’re facing a hasty defense with some pretty good anti-armor equipment. But I don’t see any serious revetments or any concrete being poured.”

“Sir . . . I understand the mission. But you saw the imagery. It’s like they’ve gathered up every antitank system in their inventory. And then you’ve got the killer-drone problem.”

“Understood, Mike.”

“And you saw the Deuce’s spreadsheet on the EM spectrum.”

The G-2 leapt back in. “Sir, when we plot all the jamming and counterjamming, wideband, pinpoint, you name it, and then layer on the digital predators and spoofers . . . The spread sheet’s almost all black.”

“It cuts both ways,” Harris said. “If we can’t talk or bring precision fires to bear, neither can they.”

“They’ll be defending. And they’ve got first-rate loophole technology on their antitank systems. Any gaps in our jamming or spoofing, and that’s all she wrote.”

“Mike, we’ve been through it. The mission stands. 1 ID gets all the supporting fires the corps can bring to bear.”

“Afula may still have a lot of civilians down in the cellars,” the G-2 said. “It looked like the Jihadis are forcing the locals to remain in place in the major population centers.”

“Got it. And I’m not looking for a bloodbath. That’s Sim Mont-fort’s line of work. But we can’t worry about collateral damage on this one. A quick win will save plenty of lives later. Afula’s the key to everything else—I’m not sending anybody through those high-radiation valleys to the north if there’s any way to avoid it. And if the Jihadis are going to fight from towns—well, that’s a course of action they’ve forced on us. Just give General Scott everything he wants. But, Mike,” Harris said to his operations officer, “before we get off this tub, make double-ass sure your people understand that the FRAGO goes out to the Big Red One by 1700, with the completed operations order to General Scott not later than 2100. Scottie’s going to need all the time we can give him to pull this together. To say nothing of the brigade and battalion staffs.”

Harris swept his forefinger across his nose, back and forth, once. “They’re still trying to get themselves unscrewed after getting ashore. I’d hate to be a battalion S-4 or BMO out there tonight. And Three? Chop Avi Dorn’s brigade to the Big Red One for this operation. Avi’s bitching about not getting into the fight. Tell General Scott to get Avi’s ass in it.” He thought for a moment. “But not as the main attack. Supporting attack or just a demonstration to the north. Avi’s not going to have a lot of time on the ground to get organized. And we’re not going to be accused of using the Israelis as cannon fodder.”

“Tempting, though,” the G-3 said.

“Mike . . . I don’t ever want to hear you say anything like that again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harris shook his head. “I
hate
this. Every action we take . . . we have to weigh the politics of it. Why go to Afula before those battalions even know what continent they’re on? Because if we don’t, not only do the Jihadis dig in and make it tougher—our MOBIC friends get on the first open link back to Washington and start wailing, ‘We took Jerusalem, and the Army and Marines haven’t done a damned thing . . . Give us their equipment now, and we’ll do the rest.’ I mean, Christ. I was talking to the commander of Quarter Cav yesterday, before he went ashore. He’s got M-1 hulls that date back almost fifty years. Past a certain point, all the upgrades just don’t help anymore. And the MOBIC boys, having utterly miscalled it by grabbing the hot, new gear only to find out it isn’t worth a monkey’s nuts, are going to go into gimme mode. The whole business makes me sick.” He sat back.

The G-2 looked at him, then looked at each of the others. “Sir . . . You know it’s more than that. More than just the equipment, I mean.”

Harris waved a paw at the problem. “I know, Val. I know. Look, this is a shitty war. There’s nothing between here and the Himalayas that’s worth a single American soldier’s life to me.” It was his turn to inspect the other faces in turn. “But we’re not fighting for all this crap about taking back the Holy Land. We’re fighting to save the United States Army. And the Marine Corps, for that matter. We’re all that stands between God’s little fascists and control of our country.” He swiveled toward his aide. “John, what’s the exact wording of the oath they take?”

The aide, whose purpose it was to sit, listen, and have things ready before the general knew he wanted them, leaned toward the table. “The part about ‘allegiance to the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ in service to the United States of America,’ sir?”

Harris cocked his fingers like a pistol. “Bingo. You all got that, gentlemen?
We
pledge ourselves ‘to support and defend the
Constitution
of the United States.’ They pledge to the MOBIC ‘in service’ to the United States. The dumbest lawyer in Lubbock could drive a herd of longhorns through that one. Call me paranoid, but I believe
that Sim Montfort and his crowd see us as every bit as much their enemies as the Jihadis are. They’re just taking on their enemies in order.”

“Yes, sir. That’s why we’re working STARK YANKEE.”

“And I wish the hell we didn’t have to. Disgusts me. Everybody spying on everybody. It just goddamned makes me sick. That we’ve all come to this.”

The G-3 said, “Well, the Jihadis—”

“Mike, that’s just an excuse. We’ve done this to ourselves. And I don’t know how we’re all going to get through it.”

“By supporting and defending the Constitution of the United States,” the G-3 said.

“Until they change the Constitution. Which they mean to do. Or maybe they’ll just manage to change our oath. Listen up, all of you. The Army and Marines have to come out of this looking pure, efficient, effective, and indispensible. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but my gut instincts tell me that Sim Montfort’s going to make a big mistake at some point. And we’re going to save the day when he does. Go Army, and Semper Fi.”

The G-3 smiled. “The ‘fog of war’ might have something to say about that, sir.”

“To hell with the fog of war. War’s clear. It’s peace that’s foggy. And one more thing, Mike. Before I get back to Val and we wrap things up: Make sure the MPs understand that their number-one mission is protecting the landlines we lay. We haven’t seen a flurry of roadside bombs yet. Largely due to the element of surprise, I suspect. But, frankly, I’m not that worried about their stay-behinds planting shaped charges and the like. Oh, it’ll happen. But I want the MPs focused on preserving our communications. The Jihadis are smart enough to realize that our wires and cables are more important to us than a handful of vehicles. And—just by the way—I’d be wary of booby traps if I were an MP inspecting a break in a fiber-optic line. Did they get all their Signal Corps attachments, by the way?”

“Yes, sir. The MPs are fully task-organized.”

“Okay, Mike. Val, you’re on again. Talk to me. Anything new from your man in Nazareth?”

“No, sir. I would’ve reported it to you. Nothing since last night. I was expecting an update today, but his channel’s been quiet.”

“One brave sonofabitch. Not a job I’d want. SF?”

“Yes, sir. And a Foreign Area Officer.”

“Well, let’s hope we get to pin a medal on him. While he’s still breathing. But listen up. If his reporting’s accurate . . . if they’re pushing refugees
into
Nazareth from the rear area . . . there’s obviously a purpose. Only the purpose isn’t obvious. What do you think, Two?”

“Sir . . . I can’t be sure. It strikes me that they may be planning to hold on to the city by generating images of suffering refugees . . . getting the world involved. We’ve got the media ban in effect on our side—except for the MOBIC-approved correspondents—but the Jihadis have been working the media for fifty years. And the world media love them. When L.A. and Vegas went down, a couple million people may have died, but a thousand journalists made their bones off the hysteria. And you saw how quickly they bought into the idea that we’d nuked our own cities.”

“It wouldn’t have surprised me if Sim Montfort and his crowd
had
nuked Las Vegas. ‘Sin City’ and all that.” Harris smiled. “I didn’t say that, of course. All right. So what indicators should we be watching, Val? In addition to anything we hear from your man in the sacred carpentry shop?”

“I’d watch the rations, sir. We should be seeing supply trucks going in with those buses. If they mean to feed those refugees and not just stage-manage a humanitarian disaster.”

“Three? Any ideas?”

“Val may be right. Or they may be planning to just kill them—and blame us. Humanitarian disaster, plus. Great images for America-haters everywhere.”

Harris turned to his aide, something he found himself doing more often these days. Probably the damned loneliness, he told himself. The only human being he could really talk to was his wife. And she was far away and a low priority on the comms account.

“John, how about you? Any ideas why they’d be packing Nazareth with their brethren from deep in the heart of wherever?”

The aide choose his words carefully. As he always did. “Well, sir . . . while you all were talking . . . I was thinking, ‘What if the Jihadis want
us
to kill them? What if they’re counting on it?’ I mean, Col o nel Danczuk’s source said he thought they were all from the Arab intelligentsia. What if the Jihadis want us to solve a problem for them?”

Harris’s eyebrows tightened toward his nose. Which happened only on the rare occasions when he was truly surprised.

The aide slipped back in his chair, as if retreating. “Just a thought, sir.”

TACTICAL COMMAND POST, 1-18 INFANTRY,
WESTERN APPROACHES TO THE JEZREEL VALLEY

Lieutenant Col o nel Pat Cavanaugh was tired of sitting on his ass trying to make sense of broken transmissions while two of his companies were in the fight, another was getting ready to go in, and a fourth was licking its wounds.

“Give me a yell if anything comes in,” he told his operations officer. And he stepped outside his command track. The enlisted men assigned to the battalion’s tactical command post had almost finished erecting the ghost netting over the vehicles. Cavanaugh pitched in. It wasn’t the kind of work a battalion commander was supposed to do, but he needed to use his muscles. Just for a few minutes.

The Jihadis were recovering from their initial surprise. He could feel it. No matter what the S-2 said. Despite the artillery barrage from Hell, antitank snipers were still popping up around Megiddo, appearing amid the rubble just long enough to launch a vampire ATGM and keep the highway intersection closed. Alpha Company had taken a nasty hit when it went in too fast, and now Jake Walker and Charlie Company had the lead, with Bravo in support. Trying to root out the Jihadi “martyrs,” so the corps could move forward.

Jake had been the big surprise of the day. Cavanaugh had worried about him back on the beach, when the captain seemed all nerves.
But as soon as they came under fire, Jake Walker had turned into the alpha dog among the company commanders. Now Cavanaugh worried that the captain would employ Charlie Company too aggressively.

And Cavanaugh didn’t want any unnecessary losses. The battalion was already down three M-1s, four Bradleys, and a half-dozen support vehicles, just from drone attacks and the Megiddo sniping. And those were just the combat losses. Maintenance problems had caused vehicles to grind to a halt in the middle of an attack. They were just too damned old.

He had to remind himself, yet again, that he was the battalion commander, not a company commander. His instinct was to go forward and take charge of the direct-fire fight. But he wasn’t going to let himself do that.

Anyway, he was going to give Charlie and Bravo another hour to clean out the Megiddo rubble. Then maybe . . .

A V-hull carrier pulled off the trail just short of the tac’s perimeter. Cavanaugh went on with his work, walking a pole up to a steep angle as a buck sergeant made sure the netting didn’t bunch. Cavanaugh was anxious to get the netting plugged into the generator so it could go “full ghost” overhead. They’d already had to jump once, after a Jihadi artillery barrage came danger-close.

Had to clear Megiddo. Before the Jihadis really got their shit together. But there was no easy tactical solution. At least, none that wouldn’t be a bloody mess.

From the corner of his eye, Cavanaugh glimpsed two figures walking from the V-hull toward the tac. Behind them, a squad of soldiers dismounted and spread out in a tactical array.

Only when one of the approaching figures took off his helmet did Cavanaugh recognize the brigade chaplain.

The other officer was the brigade engineer.

Odd pair, Cavanaugh thought. He stopped fussing with the camouflage net. He couldn’t imagine what Father Powers was up to. But he felt a stab of deep pain the instant he recognized him.

The priest made him think of Mary Margaret. His wife who was not longer his wife. Except in the eyes of the Church. And his own.

He’d gone to the chaplain to talk when, after so many months, Mary Margaret would not leave his thoughts. Her and the kids. And the fuck-stick, double-promotion, live-in boyfriend the law said was her husband now. After crying his eyes out in front of the priest, Cavanaugh had been so embarrassed that he hadn’t been back to Mass for three months.

Surely, it wasn’t about that? Not now?

When the two men were within conversational distance, Cavanaugh said, “Put your helmet on, Chaplain.”

The chaplain smiled, but did as ordered. “I understand that war’s a horrible thing, Col o nel Cavanaugh. But I don’t know why it has to be so damned uncomfortable. Got a minute?”