The War After Armageddon

“Sir… The fact is that I don’t have the guts to make a decision. Without running it by you.”

“Doesn’t sound like the leash-snapper we all know and love. Talk to me.”

“My deputy electronic-warfare officer came up with something. Sir, I need you to hear me out before you decide I’m crazy.”

“I’m on receive, Scottie.”

“It’s this: Yes, we’ve got all the corps’ fire support tomorrow. Layered obscurants. Smart rounds, dumb rounds. And enough jamming to melt circuits in Japan. But it still feels a little like being on the wrong side at Cold Harbor. We’re set to take serious losses.”

“I know that, Scottie. But we need Afula. And it isn’t going to get easier if we wait.”

“No, sir. Understood. But this kid… a major, so I guess I shouldn’t call him a kid — Christ, they look so young — pointed out the obvious to start: The two killers we face are the drones, which we can try to jam the shit out of, and the seventh-gen ATGMs. Mostly loophole systems, Russian designs. Explorer and Hunter knockoffs built in China before the Rising and bought in bulk. This kid — Major Sanger — pointed out that, given the intensity of the jamming and spoofing, the Jihadis are going to have their antitank missiles set to take advantage of any windows in the electronic spectrum, any holes in our jamming. You know the drill — the setting takes the man out of the loop completely, and the missile launches automatically when it senses a clear path through the electronic spectrum.”

“Remember you’re talking to an Infantryman, Scottie.”

“I’m Infantry, too, sir.”

“I know that. But at West Point, they actually made you learn things. Go on.”

“Well, it’s a long ride down the Jezreel.”

“Got it. ‘Charge of the Light Brigade.’ I’m as worried as you are.”

“Here’s the thing. The max range of the Explorer is eight-point-five clicks, but they usually fail at eight. Propulsion issue. But the auto-lock-on goes out an extra kilometer. It’s a flaw in the system. Max for the Hunter is six clicks. Auto lock-on at six-and-a-half clicks, but that’s integrated with flight times.”

“And?”

“Major Sanger suggested that, exactly when our lead formations hit nine clicks out — we’ll use an old-fashioned phase line, call it ‘Phase Line Hollywood’—we turn off every jamming system in the division and every corps asset in sector. Air and ground.”

Harris got it. “How long would they need to be down?”

“He estimates forty seconds.”

“The Jihadis could lock onto a lot of targets in forty seconds. And not just in your division.”

“Yes, sir. But they’re going to be as focused on the Jezreel as we are. And if it works out… They launch three or four hundred antitank missiles down the valley and just splash dirt on our glacis plates.”

“If it works out.”

“Yes, sir. And here’s the rest of it: We’ll have every target acquisition system we’ve got tuned in, and we’ll activate every artillery spotter and amateur bird watcher in the corps. We’ll get tech readings, live imagery, and visuals on all those points of light around Afula when the launchers go hot. And you know their tactics, sir. They always pair up their Explorers and Hunters, long-range and mid-range systems. Hit the Explorers, you kill the Hunters as a bonus. The plan would be to dump every round the corps can shoot right smack on the bad guys.”

Harris could feel his subordinate watching him through the darkness. He sensed how badly the man wanted reassurance, approval, a blessing.

“What percentage does your Red Leg figure we could take out?”

“At least thirty. Forty, if we’re lucky. We’d get disruption of the others, as well. As soon as the arty hits, we’ll go pedal to the metal.”

“Hell of a risk, Scottie. Leaving the entire corps buck naked for almost a minute.”

“Yes, sir. But I’m looking at the difference between twenty percent blue casualties and maybe getting it down to ten percent.”

“Guess this is why I get paid the big bucks. Okay. Let’s go inside and work it out with the gun-bunnies and Mike Andretti.” As they walked, he drew his forefinger back and forth across his nose a single time. “God help us if it doesn’t work. And God help you if you’re not in Afula by noon, Scottie.”

Harris smiled in the darkness. He liked the boldness of the idea. Major Sanger. Have to remember the name, if it worked. Sometimes, fortune really did favor the bold.

Thinking out loud, Harris said, “You’d damned well better make sure your boys hit that phase line right on the money. Or that valley’s going to be a junkyard.”

“Sir, I have considered that possibility.”

“By the way, tell Pat Cavanaugh he did a good job clearing Megiddo. I understand it got ugly.”

“Yes, sir. We’re still sorting it out. 1-18 took some hits.”

Harris put a hand on the taller man’s shoulder but felt only body armor.

“And one more thing, Scottie: It’s not going to be Phase Line Hollywood. To be honest, I never felt a great deal of sympathy for those folks. Let’s call it Phase Line Watts.”

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