The War After Armageddon

As the twilight darkened, so did the mood in the headquarters. No end of tasks remained to be carried out: Units had to be resupplied, convoy routes deconflicted, communications shortfalls remedied, plans written, and orders issued. Yet, as the MOBIC forces passed through the corps’ lines to take over the offensive, the air went out of the balloon. And as the reports of impossibly swift progress by the MOBIC lead elements mounted, officers responsible for directing the actions of divisions sank into their chairs, newly aware of their accumulated weariness. The NCOs who made things happen found they had nothing more pressing to do than make a fresh pot of coffee or take an extended trip to the latrine. Radios still crackled, and field phones rang. Printers sawed, and screens glowed. But the network of commandeered buildings and camouflaged tents breathed in the sourness of mourning, as if an unexpected death had occurred and could not be explained. Taking down another report from the front, a captain summed up the collective mood when he put down his headset and demanded of the universe, “What the fuck is going on?”

Flintlock Harris wanted to know, too. As soon as the briefing room door shut on his inner circle — G-2, G-3, and his aide — he said, “Talk to me. Explain how Montfort’s doing this. And let’s go reverse order: Blue situation first, then Val can brief what little the J’s seem to be doing.”

Colonel Mike Andretti swept his pointer up over the wall map, settling the tip just north of the Sea of Galilee, then tracing a jagged line down over the western ridge that protected the body of water.

“Sir, the MOBIC forces are advancing all across the front. It’s as if they’re just out for a Sunday drive. We’ve got unconfirmed reports that their advance-guard elements have already seized several points along the crest of the ridge — they’re already looking down into the Sea of Galilee.”

“And ready to walk on water,” Harris grunted. “Mike, the Jihadis were giving it all they had to hold the line against us. Now they’re just folding their tents and running at the first sight of the MOBIC. Which is the opposite of what you’d expect — they should be fighting to the death against Sim Montfort’s crowd after Jerusalem.” He looked at each of the three other men, then asked, half rhetorically, “Are they that scared of the black-cross boys, or what?”

“Sir,” the operations officer continued, “all I can tell you is that the MOBIC nets we’re monitoring report light resistance. At most. They’re practically road-marching into Upper Galilee. Our own forward elements report MOBIC vehicles lined up nose-to-asshole as far as they can see. No tactical intervals, no march discipline. Just piling on.”

Harris shook his head. Vehemently. “This just makes no sense. It stinks. But I don’t know what the hell I’m smelling.”

“Maybe we just wore them out,” the Three said. “Maybe Montfort just got lucky on the timing. Could be they were ready to crack just when the lead MOBIC units hit them.” The Colonel’s stance remained aggressive from sheer habit, but his eyes were unsteady and frazzled.

“I don’t believe that,” Harris said. “Even Sim Montfort isn’t that lucky. The J’s are up to something. And I wish I knew what it was. Val?” He turned to the G-2. “You’re up. Give us the enemy situation. If there still is one.”

“Sir, as I briefed earlier, it appears they’ve transitioned into an operational retreat. If not a strategic one. The intel’s far from perfect, but we’ve got indicators that units that were slugging it out with us at dawn are already on the highway to Damascus. With some elite elements possibly located east

of Damascus — but that’s based on intercepts only. As far as imagery goes, we’ve got some limited satellite coverage and some drone shots from the Golan and points east that just make no sense at all — the Third Jihadi Corps has units dispersed by individual vehicle, just spread all over the place. No sense of defensive perimeters. It looks like they just blindfolded the drivers and sent them off in different directions. It doesn’t match alGhazi’s command template.”

Something quickened in Harris. Something down deep. But he couldn’t yet put a name on it.”

“And?”