The War After Armageddon (44 page)

“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.”

MONTEZUMA FIELD, CYPRUS

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.

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

“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.”