The War After Armageddon

Garcia just didn’t want to come out of this with any kind of injury that would put him out of the Corps. Instinctively, he lifted his forearm to kiss the Virgin of Guadalupe tattoo underneath his sleeve. But he caught himself. And just made like he was wiping the sweat from his face and resetting his helmet. Dying would be okay. He could handle that. He had what the skinny redhead instructor bitch at the community college called “Latin fatalism.” Like the name of some perfume you paid five bucks for off a street vendor. To give to some chica so new to the hood she still thought in pesos and didn’t know perfumes were all about serious labels.

Yeah, Latin fatalism. Splash it on me, dude. Just don’t let me end up a geek crapping himself in a VA hospital.

He knew now that he didn’t ever want to leave the Corps. Since the nukes came down, the Corps was his only home. He sure wasn’t going to take off his boots for very long down at his grandmother’s. If anybody else wanted to be a full-time Mexican for a living, let them. He was an Angeleno. Even without his city.

And he was a Marine.

He saw the firelit face of the Jihadi he’d shot. Clear as any photograph. Clearer. And he just wanted to pull the trigger again.

Garcia wondered if he was some kind of psycho. Were you supposed to get this buzzed?

Hand signals relayed back from the head of the column. Take ten. Garcia passed it on. But he didn’t want to stop. He was exhausted. Beat. But he didn’t want to stop.

He walked back to check on each of his Marines and told Barrett to change his socks. Barrett got blisters just looking at a combat boot. And Garcia made sure everybody had water.

Dodging back between two Abrams tanks that would’ve qualified for antique-vehicle plates, Garcia dropped to the ground. And as soon as his ass hit the grass, he knew he’d made a mistake. The weariness came over him like a drug. First, he’d been riding the cosmic meth; now, the downers had him.

He made himself breathe deeply. And got just fumes. The column of vehicles had come to a halt. A tank idled in front of him.

The crew had given the big boy a name, painted down the gun tube: “Compton’s Revenge.”

Garcia looked up at the turret. The tank commander was a black dude. Couldn’t see his rank. But he looked right off the block.

Probably a lieutenant, Garcia figured. The Army didn’t have standards like the Marines.

Garcia threw the TC a home-boy sign. Just to check him out.

The TC hesitated. Then he grinned big and threw it back.

Garcia smiled and nodded. They understood each other. Let bygones be bygones. Compton, Watts, they were all gone now.

Garcia gestured toward the fighting below and signed again: We’re going to give them a fucking they’ll remember.

The TC signed back: Righ teous.

The column of vehicles began to move again. The Marines up ahead rose from their spots by the roadside, rolling to their feet, top-heavy, readjusting packs and straps before gripping their rifles at the ready again.

There was no alarm, no warning. Nobody heard the drones coming in. Until they shrieked as they plunged into the column. Garcia watched the tank with the TC from Compton get hit and explode.

Two Bradleys got it farther down the slope. A burning soldier leapt from one, then fell. Marines rushed to roll him over. But he was a crisp.

The Army didn’t screw around. Say that for them. They pushed the burning vehicles out of the way and kept on moving.

All in all, Garcia decided he’d rather walk.

OFFSHORE

“For God’s sake, Avi,” Harris said, “you’ll get your chance.” He snorted to himself. “You’re going to get more chances than you want.”

“I still protest. As commander of the 10th Israeli Armored Brigade, I had the right to lead the first assault.”

Harris had to discipline himself. He needed sleep, and his temper was on a short fuse.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. We needed an infantry-heavy force to get up on the heights. Tanks wouldn’t have gotten off the beach. The road wouldn’t—”

“And now? My brigade is still in your ships. And the battle has moved into the Jezreel.”

“First of all, they’re not my goddamned ships. Second, you know you’re scheduled to go ashore tonight. There’ll be plenty of Jihadis left for you and your men. What’s this really about, Avi?”

“I protest.” The brigadier from the Israeli Exile Force pointed at the letter he had laid on Harris’s desk. “My brigade had a moral and military right to take precedence. We’ve been treated with prejudice.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harris said, instantly wishing he’d chosen different words, “your brigade would’ve been shot to bits going up that single goddamned road. The operation would’ve been a disaster. And I would’ve been accused of using your brigade as cannon fodder. Along with sixteen kinds of anti-Semitism. And you damned well know it. Now, to hell with rank. Man to man, I want you to tell me what this is all about.”

“You have my letter.”