The War After Armageddon

TWENTY-TWO

They arrived all through the night. Some still crewed their vehicles, but most stumbled in on foot. Shocked, panicked. A few maintained a fragile haughtiness, outraged by what had been done to them. But the surprise of their defeat, of their catastrophe, left the MOBIC troops undone. Howling Scripture, a captain stood in the middle of a trail, threatening to shoot the enlisted men passing him by if they refused to fall in and resist imaginary pursuers. The soldiers sensed he was talking to himself, stunned by God’s unpredictability, and they kept walking. The captain did not shoot, and his arm grew weary. At last, he stopped waving his pistol at Heaven and slumped into the general retreat. Men who had bragged the day before of their invincibility begged water or food from Maxwell’s soldiers. Not all responses were courteous, even when rations were shared. And in the terror that had gripped them, the MOBIC troops had forgotten how to pray, but not how to curse.

Lieutenant Colonel Monty Maxwell had stayed busy through another sleepless night. The first problem had been blue-on-blue shootings. His own men had quick trigger fingers after the infiltrations and close combat of the previous night. Even withdrawn to a tactical assembly area well behind the battle, the bleary-eyed tankers of 2-34 alerted at every unexpected sound. Grudges influenced decisions.

For his part, Maxwell did what he could to support the MOBIC officers attempting to impose order on the situation. Not only didn’t he want the fleeing MOBIC troops to spread the contagion of panic, he also remembered his training from bygone years: Troops exposed to significant doses of radiation, as the front-line fighters had been, had to limit their exertions drastically, to let their systems concentrate on fighting the intrusion on their bodies. Those wild men running down roads and trails in search of impossible safety were killing themselves. As little as he liked anybody or anything affiliated with the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ, Maxwell didn’t want them dead of radiation sickness. He hated what they stood for, but they still were his own kind.

Craving sleep, Maxwell had clamored over the land line for dosimeters to measure the exposure of his own soldiers. But his voice had been only one among dozens of commanders, and most of the division’s slight nuclear-defense resources had been sent north in support of the Marines road-marching through dead zones.

In the early morning hours, an order had come down from brigade to organize a demi-battalion from 2-34 Armor’s functional vehicles—those that still had working electronics.

“Be prepared to move, on order, not later than 0700.”

Maxwell yearned for a few hours of sleep. And his men were as tired as he was. Or wearier. But as soon as his operations officer tracked him down and relayed the order, Maxwell rallied to the task, enlivened by the prospect of getting back in the fight. He gave up trying to persuade stray MOBIC troops to halt where they were and rest and started ruthlessly sorting through his battalion’s companies, culling the systems and soldiers he judged capable of fighting on. No one wanted to be left behind, but Maxwell understood the order on a visceral, warrior’s level: There wouldn’t be time to communicate from tank to tank with hand signals and handkerchiefs. The task force that rolled out of the assembly area had to be lean, mean, and ready.

Where would they be heading? The FRAGO hadn’t included routes or objectives or other control measures: just “Be prepared to move.” Maxwell couldn’t believe they’d be ordered up through the nuked dirt the MOBIC survivors had fled. So that meant road-marching north, or maybe south, for a wide flanking attack.

What was happening in the great world beyond the range of his thermal sights? And where was the fuel going to come from? The reduced battalion could get through one good fight with the ammo on board, but Maxwell worried about water and chow resupply, given that his tankers had been handing out their rations, however reluctantly, to the MOBIC survivors.

A pair of his mechanics opened fire on MOBIC troops attempting to steal a vehicle, killing one man and wounding three. Then word came up that the Bravo Company first sergeant had died of an apparent heart attack. The Bravo Company and Charlie Company commanders got into a pissing contest over four replacement radios that had been delivered and dumped by a signals team from division. The spat had grown so acrimonious by the time Maxwell arrived that he threatened to relieve both men—and gave all four of the radios to Alpha Company.

It occurred to him that he should be grateful that the situation wasn’t worse. Worn down as they were, his soldiers just needed an enemy to fight. He wouldn’t have wanted to be the Jihadi outfit that got in their way.

As the first skirmish line of light attacked the horizon, Maxwell wondered where he and his men would be at sunset.

“We’re rolling,” Monk Morris said over the land line. “We look like the raggle-taggle gypsies, but we’re driving east with everything we’ve got.”

“Good work, Monk. Just don’t stop. Bypass resistance whenever possible. We’ll clean up behind you. I need your Marines to get deep into the J’s before al-Ghazi can pull his units back together and put up another real fight. We need to keep them off balance now.”

“Got it, sir. How much time do you think we’ve got?”

Harris paused, then said, “I honestly don’t know. But we’re running against two clocks. As you know. As far as the J’s go, my hunch is that al-Ghazi—and, for that matter, al-Mahdi—will expect us to respond in kind. With nukes, not a ground offensive. And don’t discount the psychological effect of their own nuke use on the Jihadi forces. The prospect of a nuclear battlefield focuses any man’s attention. Even the guy who was first to yank the lanyard. They’ll all be nervous-in-the-service, expecting retaliatory strikes. I don’t think al-Ghazi will rescind his dispersal order until he’s got solid confirmation that we’re all over them. Nukes are his big worry now. And even after he gives the order to establish defensive positions, they won’t just snap to attention. Given the age and condition of some of their gear, I’d bet those nukes did more damage to their comms than to ours.”

“Guesstimate, though? On how much time we’ve got, sir?”

“I’d say you’ve got all day today. Into the early-morning hours. Before even their best units can transition to a coherent defense. I don’t expect to see much more than local efforts for the next twenty-four hours. If your recon elements push hard, you should be able to drive right through the gaps. Beat them piecemeal.”

Morris laughed. “Now you’re telling me how to suck eggs, sir. When do you expect to have 1st Cav falling in behind me?”

“One brigade’s already moving. Should be a divison-minus on your six by 1500. Everything the road net can support. We’ll lay down a division boundary once we get east of the Golan—my planners are working it right now. Which follow-on mission do you want, Monk? Turn south to block and envelop? Or keep pushing straight for Damascus?”

“Might as well keep pushing. I’ll have the momentum. If you don’t mind 1st Cav doing the cleanup duty. Anybody else behind me, after 1st Cav turns?”

“I’m building a reinforced brigade out of 1st ID to follow on as a corps reserve. If you need them, I’ll chop them to you as soon as you say the word.”

“God bless you. But I gotta ask you, sir. Between the two of us and God.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in God, Monk.”

“I don’t, as a rule. But under the present circumstances, I can see where He might come in handy. And I’d say there’s pretty potent evidence that the Big Guy ain’t happy with your old pal Montfort. So I’m taking a more positive attitude toward Christianity this morning.”

“What’s your question?”

Harris listened to the Marine two-star breathing on the other end of the line. Then Morris said, “You really think we’ll get to Damascus? Before that other time line kicks in?”

“Got to try, Monk. The MOBIC chain of command all the way back to Washington has to be struggling right now. They didn’t see this one coming. And the president’s going to need some serious convincing before he green-lights nuking cities. Which is what the vice president’s going to push for, I guarantee you. Gui won’t settle for a simple tit-for-tat after this. The MOBIC’s his private army. And al-Mahdi just broke it, at least temporarily. I’m praying we’ll have enough time—and I do mean ‘praying.’ Not a good enough answer, but there it is.”

“Montfort dead? By any lovely chance?”

Harris paused again. “I’ve got an unconfirmed report that he’s alive. Supposedly he was still in the rear area when they popped the nukes.”

“Achilles sulking in his tent? Not polite to say it, but I wish that sonofabitch had been on the lead tank and fried like a potato chip. And I don’t care if the MOBIC Gestapo is tapping this line and listening. He’ll push for immediate and general nuke-release.”

“Yup,” Harris agreed. “Sim Montfort’s going to turn this around and use it as an excuse to kill every living thing from here to Baghdad. For a start.”

“And our mission is to prove that we can still win without an all-out nuclear response. Before the first red-white-and-blue mushroom cloud.”

“Roger. At least, without nuking cities full of civilians.”

“Folks back home are going to be a heap of angry, sir. Especially after the MOBIC spin doctors get to work. Not sure mom and pop would mind, say, twenty or thirty million dead Muslims along with their super-saver seniors’ breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Would you mind, Monk?”

“Contrary to the Hollywood myths of my youth, Marines don’t much care for slaughtering old men, women, and children. But to tell you the truth, Gary—Christ, that sounds funny, but I guess we’re in this one together now—to tell you the truth, I’d say the odds are against us getting to Damascus before Sim Montfort gets his finger on a whole row of nuclear triggers. I am determined, but not entirely confident.”

“But those odds don’t bother you. Right?”

Morris chuckled. “Old Marines like me have trouble with sophisticated math. And I regard it as my personal duty to the Corps to get to Damascus before the U.S. Army shows up. Not that we Devil Dogs are glory hounds, of course.”

“Thank you, Monk. See you in Damascus.”

“Semper Fi, sir.”

“Well, how does it feel to be mayor of Nazareth?” the colonel from corps asked.

Lieutenant Colonel Pat Cavanaugh would have rolled his eyes, if his eyes hadn’t been too damned tired.

“It’s cured me of any latent ambitions I might’ve had to run for public office,” Cavanaugh said. Glancing past the full bird with the “McCoy” name patch to the last pallets of bottled water being un-loaded, he got back to business. “Sir, I hate to be a whiner, but that isn’t going to be enough for this whole city. Not by a long shot.”

“I know that,” the colonel said. He carried himself like a former athlete who had gone into sales. “We’re doing the best we can. First priority has to be keeping the troops hydrated.”

“I’ve got somewhere between fifty and eighty thousand people who need water.”

“And I’ve got a war to support. And the old man’s got every vehicle that’s still banging on at least two cylinders joining the biggest road rally in history. I don’t have enough trucks, I don’t have enough fuel, I don’t have enough water, and I should’ve fixed it all to a state of immaculate perfection half an hour ago. Look, I’m told you and the old man go back a long way.” The bird colonel nodded toward the heart of the now-quiet city. “Not that he seems to have done you any favors lately. Anyway, if you know him half as well as I do, you know he expects miracles. And gets them. But I’m just about out of tricks. I can’t turn water into wine, and I can’t turn thin air into water. Or diesel, for that matter. I’ll push all the water I can down to you. The old man trusts you to handle this mess down here, and that obligates me to you, and you’ll just have to trust me.” The colonel lowered his eyes for a moment. “Colonel Cavanaugh, I’m not crazy about infants dying of thirst on my watch, either.” He looked back up, suddenly fierce. “But don’t get too soft. That won’t help. Cut back too far on the water rations for your troops, and it ain’t going to help anybody over the long run. Now, can you give my guys an escort back out of this little plot of Paradise? We took some sniper fire coming in.”

“I’ve got a Ranger platoon combing that section right now. We’ve weeded out a lot of the stay-behinds, but there’s still some unfinished business.”

“I heard it got ugly yesterday.”

Cavanaugh swept a fat black fly off his forearm. “Snipers seeded in a crowd opened up on some Marines I’ve got OPCON. The Marines let them have it. All I can say is that the marksmanship training at Lejeune’s pretty good.”

“That’s when it got out of hand?”

“It was already out of hand. That just made it worse.”

“You’ve got things back under control, looks like.”

Cavanaugh shrugged, tired of the work, tired of the stench, just plain tired. He wanted a shower, and he wished he could turn himself inside out to get at that dirt, too.

“The nukes did it. I’m not sure how they knew what was going on, but they figured it out fast enough. Jungle telegraph. I’ve still got some sullen types squatting down in the town square and giving us the hairy eyeball, but most of the rags are staying behind closed doors.”

“Figuring we’ll be out for revenge?”

“Won’t we be?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Not if old Flintlock can help it. Not revenge against civilians.” The colonel met Cavanaugh’s eyes dead-on. “God knows, I love the old man. But sometimes I wonder if he’s trying to piss up a rope.”

“We can’t just kill them.”

“Or let them be killed? By our little MOBIC brothers? I figure Montfort’s prayer-book posse still has the wherewithal to execute that particular mission. And they’ll be angry enough.” The colonel pulled off his helmet and scratched his brushcut. “Speaking for myself, I just don’t know anymore. I’m not sure it’s not a losing battle. After the J’s popped those nukes.”

“I can’t let myself think like that, sir.”

“No, I suppose not. Mission first. Sorry. We’re all tired.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tired and sick of the shit sandwich we’re in. Between the J’s and the MOBIC, and not sure who’s worse.” He reset his helmet and sniffed the air. “Christ, this place stinks.”

“When we cut the water supply, it killed the sewage system. Not that it smelled great before, sir.”

The colonel twisted his mouth. “I’ll never understand what we wanted in this pit. All right. Looks like my boys are empty and itching to go. I’d appreciate that escort.”

“Yes, sir. And any more water you can send…”

The colonel held up his hand: Cease. “You don’t even have to say it.”

“Sir? How’s General Harris doing? With everything that’s happened?”

The colonel from corps grinned, as if too tired to laugh out loud. “He doesn’t know how not to do the right goddamned thing. And he doesn’t know how to stop fighting.” The grin disappeared. “It’s a shitty combination these days.”

After the colonel and his trucks had gone, Cavanaugh rounded up his command sergeant major. They walked downtown, with a dismounted fire team out front and a Bradley infantry fighting vehicle moving behind them in overwatch. Except for the grind of the tracks and the engine whine, the near world remained so quiet you could hear the rustle of scrap paper in the street when the hot day breathed. Even in the distance, the sounds of war had been reduced to the distant throb of vehicles and intermittent shots. The big guns were silent, and the sky was clear. But Cavanaugh didn’t trust any of it.

He knew the war would go on. He wished he were going with it. He couldn’t beat down the forebodings he felt about the city cowering and waiting on every side of him: Nothing good was going to happen here. He knew it in his bones.

Maybe, he told himself, his wife had been right to bail out on him. He was a walking bad-luck charm.

“You can just feel them in there,” Command Sergeant Major Bratty said, gesturing with his carbine toward the shut-up houses. “Wondering when we’re going to lower the boom.”

“Well, it’s better than it was yesterday. For what it’s worth.”

“Not much, if you ask my opinion, sir.” As if reading his battalion commander’s mind, he added, “I can’t see any happy ending to this story.”

They walked on in silence, entering the valley where a child bride had been startled by the Angel of the Lord, where Jesus played childhood games—did the bully next door beat him up?—and where generations of souvenir vendors fed their families off the insatiable faithful.

“I figure,” Cavanaugh said, “that the next riot won’t need a sniper to start it. I’m thinking about handing the Rangers the water-distribution mission.”

“Don’t do it, sir. We need those bad boys with rifles in their hands. Maybe break ’em out by platoon to provide security for our people? While we work the distro?”

“Sounds like a plan, Sergeant Major. I wasn’t thinking. How’s the hand, by the way?”

“Still pissing me off. I just bought me a sixty-year-old Gibson Hummingbird in mint condition. You drinking enough water, sir?”

“Plenty,” Cavanaugh said. But he reached back for his canteen.

Ahead of them, the rumps of two Bradleys framed a crowd. Most of its members were males who had decided to sit down and scratch their beards. They filled the concrete-and-asphalt amphitheater where the web of roads converged in the center of town. The sit-in had the feel of a protest waiting for something specific to bitch about.

“I’m thinking,” Cavanaugh said, “that maybe we should only hand over the water rations to the women.”

The sergeant major pondered the idea, then said, “The men would only take it away from them, anyway. And probably beat the shit out of them, on principle.”

“You’re right. Again.”

“Let them figure it out, sir. I wouldn’t be surprised if they push the women forward on their own. Playing the sympathy card. They just wouldn’t like it if we did it.”

“I wonder what became of that poor sonofabitch we found sitting by the crosses.”

“The guy we almost shot? The SF type? Or FAO, or whatever he was?”

“Yeah, him. The guy who looked like Mr. Shit.”

Bratty sighed. “I don’t think you have to worry about him, sir. Bunch of docs drawing pro-pay are going to have fun patching him up. At least his ass is out of here. Unlike some other posteriors I know.”

As Dawg Daniels rolled his F-18 from the apron onto the runway, flight control in Akrotiri came back up on the net.

“Flight Leader, this is Base Alpha… You are not cleared for take-off. I say again, you are not cleared for takeoff… Any combat aircraft leaving your location will be regarded as hostile and will not be allowed to return to base… I say again, any Marine combat aircraft taking off will be regarded as hostile… You will not be permitted to land upon your return. Acknowledge, Flight Leader.”

Dawg Daniels glanced over his shoulder at the line of fighter-bombers moving in a conga line behind him, curling back along the apron, each carrying a maximum load of ordnance. Monk Morris hadn’t ordered him to fly, but had laid out the situation and let Daniels make his own decision.

For the first time in his life, Daniels had asked for volunteers—reversing the presentation and giving his aviators the option of staying behind. Only two crews had refused to fly in support of the drive on Damascus. Daniels had the four men locked up. Until the mission was over water. He didn’t need tattletales running to the Air Force cell up at HOLCOM.

Word had gotten out nonetheless. Now there was no time to delay. Given another ten minutes, HOLCOM could scramble enough Air Force fighters to hold them on the ground. Maybe even bomb the runway.

And Dawg Daniels intended to fly. He was not going to let Monk Morris, or one single ground-pounder Marine, down. Come what may.

“Flight Leader, acknowledge… Upon takeoff, you will be regarded as hostile… Do you read my transmission, Flight Leader?”

After making sure he was on the right comms channel, Daniels answered:

“Fuck you.”

His plane shot down the runway.