The War After Armageddon

TWENTY-THREE

“Stop them,” Montfort said.

An unexpected tremor in his hand startled Harris, but he kept the earpiece locked against his head. “Sim, we can do this with conventional means. Al-Ghazi and al-Mahdi have their forces scattered between the Golan and Damascus. I can roll them up. We need to give this a chance.”

“Stop them,” Montfort said. “That’s an order.”

“You can’t give me orders, Sim.”

The distant voice had been waiting for that response, setting him up. “Oh, but I can, Gary. I’ve been given command of your corps. As of one hour ago. I’m only going through you as a courtesy, to save you embarrassment. You’ve been relieved. But we both want to avoid a spectacle, a needless humiliation…”

“I don’t believe you. By whose authority?”

“By order of the president.”

“The president wouldn’t do that. I would’ve heard something.”

“President Gui?”

“Gui’s not president. He’s the vice president.”

The distant voice tut-tutted him. “Gary, your staff isn’t keeping you abreast of things. Didn’t they tell you about the tragedy? While you’re impeding my efforts to win this war, our nation’s in mourning. And not just for those brave souls sacrificed to Muslim bloodthirst.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The president’s helicopter malfunctioned. On the way to Camp David. He’ll be greatly missed.”

“You bastards.”

“Don’t say anything you’ll regret, Gary. You need to join the team now.”

“You bastards.”

“President Gui has already been sworn in. And he’s decided to make some urgent changes. You can either obey the orders of your president, or not.”

“Don’t do this, Sim.”

“We have to avenge what they did to us. To teach them a lesson Islam will never forget.”

“Give me a day. Just one day.”

“And how would that benefit the Lord’s work? An eye for an eye…”

“We don’t have to go nuclear. Not against cities.”

“Nuclear release has already been granted. Theater-wide. And delegated. To me.”

“Don’t do this, Sim. I beg you.”

“We have to finish this, Gary. You must see that. Or will you continue defending Lucifer’s legions to the bitter end?”

“I’m not defending them.”

“Oh, really? What about Nazareth?”

“There are no legions in Nazareth. Lucifer’s, or anybody else’s. Just scared, pathetic civilians shoved into the line of fire. They don’t even have enough water to drink, for God’s sake. They’re not guilty of anything but being alive. They didn’t nuke your troops, Sim.”

“Didn’t they? Gary, you simply refuse to understand. I’ve been praying for you to see the light, but you still talk to me as if I’m a fool. Of course they’re guilty. This is the great battle foretold in Revelation. All the signs are there.”

“You can’t believe that nonsense.”

“All the signs are there.” Montfort hesitated, but Harris sensed that his old acquaintance hadn’t finished speaking. Then Montfort said, “I’ve been chosen. To finish this. By the Lord, my God. I don’t expect you to understand. Any more than the infidels and devil-worshippers in Nazareth could understand.”

“Sim, you sound like a madman.”

“To a man of no faith. But be that as it may. I’ve given you my order. To halt the movement of all forces subordinate to Third Corps headquarters. Immediately. If any of those Marines have crossed the old Syrian border to the north, they’re to disengage and withdraw immediately. Or they’ll be regarded as traitors. And I will not be responsible for what happens to them. You will.”

“You mean you’ll use nuclear weapons… even if our own troops are killed?”

“Your choice. Not mine.”

“Don’t do this.”

Montfort paused again. Then he said, “You have adequate time to warn the Marines. And anyone else in the proximity of our enemies. Of God’s enemies. You know the drill, Gary. Warheads have to be armed, flight times aren’t instantaneous. You have a few hours.”

“When? When do you intend to finish destroying your godfor-saken Holy Land?”

“The first strikes should hit at 1600,” General of the Order Simon Montfort said calmly. “I’ll be at your headquarters before then. To assume command.”

Lieutenant General Gary “Flintlock” Harris summoned his key officers to his briefing room. He told them what Montfort had said.

“I don’t believe him,” Mike Andretti, the G-3, snorted. “It’s all bluff. More of Montfort’s holy-roller bullshit.”

But Val Danczuk, the G-2, had come in with a stoned-by-something look even before Harris laid things out.

“It’s true, Mike,” Danczuk said. “About the president, anyway. We just got the word. I was going to tell General Harris first, then let him—”

“Fuck, goddamnit,” the G-3 said. “I won’t work for that phony, sanctimonious, cocksucking sonofabitch. I just won’t do it.”

“Easy, pardner,” Harris told him. “When I’m gone, it’s going to be up to you and the rest of the old team to do whatever damage control you can. To maintain the Army’s honor. And keep it alive. As long as there’s an Army and they don’t change our oath, the country we grew up in is still there, just taking a little nap.”

“Where are you going, sir?” Harris’s aide, Major John Willing, asked.

“To Nazareth.”

“I’ll go with you,” the aide said. Then the others began to speak.

Harris cut them off. “I’m going alone. It’s better. All of you are going to be needed here. All of you.”

“Stay with us, sir,” the G-3 said. “We’ll all stand together. He won’t be able to command the corps.”

“A mutiny won’t help,” Harris said. “We’d just play into old Sim’s hands. I need you to stay here and obey his orders. The legal ones.”

“Then at least don’t go to Nazareth, sir. There’s nothing you can do down there. And you know it. He’s just going to rub your face in it.”

“No, Mike. You’re wrong. I don’t know that there’s nothing I can do. On the contrary, I’m going to do everything I can. To see that the United States Army isn’t stained with the blood of tens of thousands of innocent men, women, and children. If Sim wants his massacre, it’ll be over my dead body.”

After an embarrassed silence, Val Danczuk said, “I hope that’s just a figure of speech, sir.”

Harris smiled. “Me, too.” Then he turned to his aide. “John, have them get my helicopter ready.” Addressing all of them again, he said, “Thank you. For everything. Now leave me alone for a few minutes.”

When his subordinates had gone, Harris got down on his knees and prayed. For the mercy of Christ. For strength. For forgiveness of his sins. Then he asked the Lord to protect his wife and daughters. And his country.

After that, he wrote his wife a letter. It was shorter than he would have liked. There was so much to say. But there was little time now. And words were inadequate messengers.

He packed some essentials into a rucksack, leaving his kit bag behind. Just before he stepped through the door to head for his helicopter, he paused and said, “Forgive me.”

He wasn’t sure for whom the words were meant.

When Sarah Colmer-Harris saw the banner headline on the day of her daughter’s funeral, she vomited on her bathrobe:

General Abdul al-Ghazi led his officers down the ornamented hall-way, shoving aside the functionaries hastily packing files for evacuation. After disarming the final set of guards, he and his trusted subordinates burst into the ceremonial office of the emir.

“In the name of the caliph and sultan, I place you, Suleiman al-Mahdi, under arrest.”

To al-Ghazi’s surprise, the emir-general displayed little concern.

He merely looked up from the document on his desk and asked, “What are the charges?”

“Unauthorized use of the sultanate’s final reserve of nuclear weapons. And consorting with the enemy.”

Al-Ghazi thought he saw a smile alight on the emir-general’s lips. Then it flew away again.

“Those sound like contradictory charges, General. Let’s begin with the second. What do you mean by ‘consorting with the enemy’?”

Beyond the filigreed windows and their treasures of stained glass, a bright sun cooked the world. The huge room was cool and shad-owed. It made al-Ghazi feel awkward. And unexpectedly small.

“You’ve communicated and even met personally with General of the Order Montfort, the chief of the Crusaders, the man responsible for the massacre of the Faithful at Jerusalem.”

“But I’d hardly deny that! Really, General al-Ghazi, I should be praised, don’t you think? I met with that infidel dog only to trick him. And see how it worked! The Crusaders have been shattered. Montfort himself is dead somewhere on the battlefield to which I lured him. Burned, as if by the fires of Hell.” This time, al-Mahdi smiled unmistakably. “If I led the infidels into false negotiations that brought them to their destruction, shouldn’t that count as the highest art of generalship?”

Unsure of himself, al-Ghazi raised his voice. “You had no right to use nuclear weapons, no authority. Only the caliph and sultan can give that permission. You’ve handed the Crusaders the excuse they wanted to destroy our cities. Their arsenal is huge, and ours is empty now. Millions of the Faithful will die.”

“General al-Ghazi, is your faith so weak? Do you really believe the Christian god is stronger than Allah? Or worse, that He is the same? Do you believe that old heresy, that we’re all ‘People of the Book,’ that the Revelation of the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, counts for nothing? Allah is the only god. And He has turned from the Christians, given them up to Shaitan. Look at them! They worship hollow statues and crosses! What kind of worshipper drinks the blood of his Lord?”

“You didn’t answer the charge. They’ll destroy our cities. This city.”

“And what are a few cities, or a hundred cities, if the True Faith triumphs in the end? You know the verse from the Holy Koran: ‘This world is but a sport and a pasttime.’ The weak must be purged, by fire. And then the faithful will rise up, from Dakar to Djakarta, and the sword of Islam shall rise with them.”

“You betrayed the sultan.”

Al-Mahdi sat back in his great leather chair. “You weary me. How could I betray myself?”

“What?”

“You haven’t heard? Oh, my dear General al-Ghazi! Our beloved caliph and sultan, Hamid III, was called to Paradise and his eternal reward. During the night. An unexpected, but, I am told, a peaceful, merciful death, Allah be praised! Humble creature that I am—the least of Allah’s creations—I’ve been acclaimed his replacement.”

“By who?”

“By the army.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Really? Perhaps you should ask these loyal officers who brought you to me!”

Unsettled—alarmed now—al-Ghazi looked around the room. His deputy had a pistol trained on him. The other officers, his officers, did nothing.

“It’s always an error,” al-Mahdi said, “for soldiers to mix them-selves up in politics. And when they do, there must be consequences.” He reached for a buzzer on his desk and pressed it. “I want you to hear something.”

The room fell silent, opening its ears to the uproar of the terrified city beyond the compound’s walls. Panic was contagious.

Then the scream began. Resounding from another room, somewhere along the hallway. It was a scream of unearthly power, pausing only to gasp for air. It was a muezzin’s call from Hell.

Al-Ghazi swallowed hard.

“Your cousin,” the emir-general said, “Colonel al-Tikriti, has been a poor secret policeman. And in war time, failure must be punished. I’m having him flayed alive.” Al-Mahdi looked al-Ghazi in the eyes. “Of course, worse things can happen to a man.”

Al-Ghazi reached for his holster and snapped it open. Before he could extract his pistol, his deputy shot him. Other bullets punched his flesh as he toppled, and he struck the marble with an astounded smile: He hadn’t intended to shoot al-Mahdi. It was too late for that. He had hoped to kill himself.

Fallen and bleeding and unable to move, he could only hope that he had been mortally wounded.

For the first time in his career, Major General Monk Morris felt he had lost irretrievably. He even caught himself gnawing his finger-nails, a child’s habit broken at the Naval Academy.

He stepped back into the communications shelter.

“Have you reached them?”

The captain on the radio set shook his head. “No, sir. We’re trying, but the jamming’s back full blast.”

“Keep trying. No Marine gets left behind. We have confirmed receipt of the withdrawal order from everybody else?”

“Yes, sir. Everybody. They’re moving.”

“Keep trying to reach Maguire. Those are good Marines.”

“Yes, sir.”

The deputy operations officer approached Morris. “Sir, we’ve got to break this thing down and move ourselves.”

Morris flicked two fingers at the man, his personal gesture of approval. It looked like the blessing of a lazy priest.

“And sir?”

“Yes, Jack?”

“Sir, Dawg Daniels went down over Quneitra. A drone got him. His wingman called it in.”

Morris closed his eyes. But only for a moment. “His exec’s got the throttle?”

“Yes, sir. We’re bringing all the returning aircraft into the field outside Tyre. The SeaBees patched up the runway. Enough to get them down.”

Morris nodded. “All right, Jack. Boots and saddles.”

His subordinate looked at the general in astonishment. Then he smiled. Tentatively.

“Sir, you’re talking Army.”

Morris smiled back. “I know. It’s just a phrase I picked up from someone I admire. Think I’ll keep it.”

“I guess we did have Horse Marines. Back when.”

“A little before my time. I’m going to step outside for a few minutes.”

The day was hot and clear, with sudden dust devils playing pranks on the stillness. The ruins of the old Crusader fortress rose above the mobile headquarters, dwarfing it. The fanatics were in charge on both sides now. Again.

“It just never fucking ends,” Morris said out loud, to no one.