The War After Armageddon

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:

CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS SLAIN BY NUKES

General Harris Betrays MOBIC to Muslims

OFFICE OF THE EMIR OF AL-QUDS AND DAMASKUS,

FORMER PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, DAMASCUS

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?”