The War After Armageddon

He also had mixed feelings when he looked at the MOBIC war machines queuing to take on fuel, then ammunition. The unit sucking tanker-tit just then had been reduced to half strength, with its remaining vehicles battered and crusted with dust. From the apparent casualty count and the visible damage, it was clear that the NexGen tanks and infantry fighting vehicles had been a huge disappointment, their electronic armor next to worthless. Maxwell realized full well that his battalion had been lucky by default when it had been condemned to go to war with its ancient M-1 tanks instead of the “wonder weapons” that had devoured the Army budget and enriched defense contractors for the past two decades. Yet, for all that, a part of him couldn’t help feeling spiteful at the way the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ had been able to commandeer all of the latest and, in theory, best equipment the Army had held in its inventory.

The MOBIC soldiers were unbearably arrogant, with their black crosses and their taunts. Maxwell had no difficulty understanding why more than a few of his tankers felt compelled to land a punch as the afternoon heat thickened toward evening.

But it wasn’t an acceptable situation. Maxwell pulled half his staff from the TOC to troop the line and help keep his Dreadnaughts in order. The MOBIC officers made little effort on their side. Maxwell got splashed by a half-full can of chili that struck his body armor from behind. The MOBIC officers lolling nearby claimed to have seen nothing.

“We’re preparing to fight the infidel,” a captain told him, “and you’re worried about table manners.” Without adding “sir.”

For Maxwell, the series of confrontations culminated in an exchange with a MOBIC battalion commander, a young-looking lieutenant colonel with a thick black beard and bloodshot eyes.

“I’m trying to keep my men under control, for Christ’s sake,” Maxwell told the officer after tracking him down. “I need you to get your guys to knock off the bullshit. We’re supposed to be fighting the J’s, not each other.”

The MOBIC officer looked at him dismissively. From head to foot, then back up again. As if a down-market first wife had walked into a society wedding. “When you address me, you will not blaspheme. And as near as I can tell, you and your men haven’t been fighting much of anybody.”

Maxwell wanted to deck him. Instead, he said, “I’m not looking for love, brother. I just want your soldiers to stop the heckling.”

“They want to fight. That’s all it is. And soon they will. Again. We’re going to finish the job you couldn’t do. Perhaps you should humble yourself and learn.” He touched the side of his face, where his beard began. “God has been with us. The evidence is before men’s eyes. Who’s been with you, Colonel?”

Maxwell walked away. Wondering if there was any difference left between the fanatics on either side.

But there was a difference, he realized: the age-old difference of my-kind-against-yours, the closing of ranks against those who prayed differently or had gotten different shades of prehistoric suntans. The thought didn’t appall him or even irritate him. That was, he realized, just the way humanity did things. What bothered him was the immediate behavior of the MOBIC Mujjies toward his troops — who he wanted to protect and spank at the same time.

When he and his adjutant broke up another incipient brawl, Maxwell ignored the MOBIC troops involved, turning his back to tell his men, “Knock it off. We’re better than that. We’re soldiers. Now get back to your own vehicles.”

As they walked away, a MOBIC soldier transgressed against his faith long enough to shout after them, “Cunts!”

Now the sounds of war had resumed. The MOBIC forces had, indeed, plunged back into battle. They certainly weren’t cowards. Maxwell was willing to credit them with that much. The Muslim fanatics had finally conjured men who were their equal in their distaste for mercy.

As the dust faded and the light turned gold between the olive trees, a great roar of battle rose in the east. As much as Maxwell disdained the MOBIC forces, he couldn’t help feeling left behind. And wronged.

TWENTY-ONE

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