The War After Armageddon

Well, at least the Marines had fought to build the boats, as shoddy as they were. Cavanaugh gave the Corps, the Army’s eternal rival, credit for figuring out fast that the old days of exploiting existing port facilities had ended when Israel’s coastal cities vanished under a dozen mushroom clouds.

Two GABs bearing old Marine M-1 tanks had taken on water and sunk when the pumps failed. Without any help from the attack drones or blind missiles. But without the landing craft, crappy as they were, the entire operation would’ve been impossible.

Thus far, all of 1-18’s allotted GABs had stayed on top of the water, where they belonged. With only Delta Company and the ash-and-trash from HHC still waiting to come ashore.

At the moment, there was no place to put them.

Out in the haze, the closest Navy ships were distant smudges, but the near waters roiled with GABs, fast boats, picket boats, beachmaster craft, and oceangoing tugs dragging barges loaded with God-knew-what or towing floats to be rigged as temporary docks. Buoys ringed the spots where GABs had gone down under drone attack, and enough debris bobbed on the mild waves to start a cargo cult.

But the real pandemonium had broken loose on the narrow shingle between the water’s edge and the elevated road where Cavanaugh stood. With even local comms heavily jammed and erratic, petty officers, Marine loggies, and Army engineers trotted about with megaphones, snarling tinny commands. Vehicles splashed ashore through shallow water, churning the pebbled seabed into mud that sucked at their tracks until one vehicle in every four or five had to be winched onto the beach. Stevedores worked mobile cranes or manhandled supplies into little mountains waiting to be hauled forward. As Cavanaugh watched, a burdened forklift listed in the sand and toppled onto its side. Then there were the burned-out vehicles not yet cleared away and, near the beachmaster’s op center, four long rows of dead Marines in body bags, laid out reverently at perfect intervals. More and more casualties were coming down from the hills, evacuated along firebreaks by all-terrain vehicles.

Thousands of people were doing their best, he knew that. But Cavanaugh still wanted to punch something. A commander had to appear stoic, to control his emotions, to set the example. At times, that seemed the hardest part of his job.

Why wasn’t anything moving? The beach was getting as crowded as a stadium lot on homecoming weekend. Soon even the blind missiles wouldn’t be able to miss.

He’d sent his XO forward, on foot, to find out what had blocked the road. But for all they knew, the stoppage might be a dozen clicks up the line, on the high ground. The XO could be walking for a while.

And then what? Cavanaugh could talk intermittently to his companies lined up ducks-in-a-row and to those still afloat, but brigade forward had disappeared into the hills and the electromagnetic spectrum.

Old Flintlock Harris had trained them for this, for the day the make-it-easy technologies would fail them. But no amount of training could lessen the sheer frustration. You grew up in a force accustomed to talking secure to anyone, anytime, and now, the inability to reach over a ridge for information made you want to break things.

Well, they’d get to breaking things soon enough.

He wished he’d marched up the road himself, instead of sending the XO. Just to have the illusion of accomplishing something. But Cavanaugh knew his place in the great scheme of things: The commander had to remain where he could exercise maximum control over his unit.

To the extent he controlled anything.

His earpiece crackled and made him jump.

“Bayonet Six, this is Five.” The XO.

“Whatcha got?”

“Tank retriever lost its brakes. Not one of ours. Went over the side dragging an M-1. Then a drone hit the goat-rope on the road. Big ammo fry. They’re clearing it now.”

“Estimated time to movement?”

“Christ if I know. It’s a mess up here. I’d guess at least thirty mikes.”

“Roger. Stay there and hitch a ride with Bravo as they pass. Break, break. Bravo, you copy?”

“Good copy. We’ll watch for him.”

“All right. Break. Net call, net call, this is Bayonet Six. When we get this unscrewed, I want march discipline back in force. Keep your distance from your buddies, no snuggling up, no matter how slow you’re moving. If the drones come again, I don’t want any sympathy detonations. Out.”

Cavanaugh saw two GABs that had been holding a thousand meters out begin to head toward the beach. Others appeared to be jockeying for a place in line behind them.

The beachmaster had to be crazy. There was no room for the rest of his battalion until the road opened. He wasn’t going to have them lined up hub to hub on the beach as if it were inspection day in the motor pool.