The War After Armageddon

The chaplain looked at Cavanaugh. “And with your permission, sir — given that I’m the only one of us who’s actually been to the place — I thought I’d tag along. After all, it’s my job to help our soldiers find the way.”

Cavanaugh’s first impulse was to say “Absolutely not.” But it occurred to him that, apart from possibly incurring the brigade commander’s wrath, there was no practical reason why the chaplain shouldn’t go. Just might save a number of lives to have him along, given that he’d actually been on the ground.

“Well, the Lord works in mysterious ways,” Cavanaugh said.

“That He does, Colonel. That He does. Now, I’ve briefed Jerry here about the ins and outs, literally speaking. He can explain things to Major Gascoigne. And I’d appreciate a private word with you.”

Cavanaugh didn’t have time for private words. Not now. With so much to do, now that he had an idea what he was doing. But he felt he couldn’t deny the chaplain’s request. Given the gift the man had delivered.

Grudgingly, Cavanaugh nodded toward a grove that had been designated as a sleeping area. Soldiers were stringing concertina wire just out of grenade range.

“Pat,” Father Powers said, changing his tone and even his posture, “I’ve been thinking about our last conversation.”

“I’ve been meaning to come to Mass, but—”

“This isn’t about attending Mass. Now, would you just listen to me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“You told me that you’d never marry again.”

“I can’t. Can I? In the eyes of the Church—”

“Pat, it’s in times such as these that a man thinks hard about his beliefs. If he’s any kind of man and any kind of believer. Yes, in the eyes of the Church, Mary Margaret’s still your wife, will be, and shall be. But you know, I begin to suspect that the eyes of the Church and the eyes of God may not always see identical visions.” He gestured toward the sounds of war beyond their little sphere. “In the middle of all this, we have to remember that we serve a loving, forgiving Savior. Christ’s mercy is endless. Pat, you’ve got to let go of her. She’s not coming back to you, and not all the cardinals in the Vatican can bring her back. Live your life, be a good man. And if you meet the right lady… Well, trust your conscience, and don’t hide behind doctrine. Cowards do that. Trust me, I know. And you’re no coward. Well, that’s all I had to say, then. We’d best go back and serve the God of Battles.”

As they walked back toward the command post, Cavanaugh said, “And you really don’t mind us blowing up that tunnel? It must be a Biblical site, thousands of—”

“Sir, if I could, I’d destroy every stone that men have ever fought over in His name. He wants us to look Heavenward. And we revel in our shit and call it holy. Speaking of which — have you designated a latrine area yet?”

SEVEN

MEGIDDO

“Shit,” First Lieutenant Tom Kosinski said. Then, with a sense that his mother hovered at his shoulder, he added, “Sorry, Chaplain.”

The priest didn’t seem to hear any of it. He gazed in the direction of the mound. Although he was staring into dirt and couldn’t see a damned thing from the shell crater.

Still listening. Hoping. Praying. Expecting a miracle.

But there wasn’t going to be one. There had been no explosion. That meant McGinley was dead or shot up too badly to get the job done. And McGinley had carried the last satchel charge the engineers had brought with them.

Suicide mission, anyway. Chances of getting close enough to the hole, dropping off the charge, and getting away were about zero. The engineer major, dead as dogshit after tripping a mine, had made it clear that he’d brought down the good stuff. Which was also the bad stuff.

“We don’t talk about it much,” the major had briefed, “but these charges were developed for just this kind of target. After the blast itself, they throw off enough gas to kill anything within twenty meters in the open air — or down a hundred-meter tunnel. You don’t want to hang around. The existence of CV-11 is classified, by the way.”

The combat engineer squad the major had brought along was supposed to do the dirty work. Now the engineers were dead, wounded, or scattered out of Kosinski’s control radius. And that radius kept shrinking.

Whatever the hell else the Jihadis had in that tunnel, they had some powerful general-purpose jammers. Strong enough to deflect any precision-guided rounds that might still work. And dumb rounds, which the arty boys had dropped in multitudes, just didn’t do the trick. It reminded Kosinski of what he’d read about the Japa — nese dug in on Pacific islands.

The Jihadis fired a volley of smoke canisters. They were nervous-in-the-service, too. He had to remember that. When the waves of doubt came over him.

The jammers wiped out everything. His headset was worthless. And only five of his soldiers were within visual range — two of them in the same crater as Kosinski and the chaplain. Which made a nice target.