The War After Armageddon

No more time for reveries, he told himself abruptly. But he thought, again, about the fate awaiting him in five years. Perhaps sooner. It was already too painful for him to read the history books he loved. He’d never had time for frivolous scribbling, for novels and that sort of thing. But all his life he’d studied his profession, past campaigns, leaders, international affairs, economics, religion…

Harris had never been one for golf or tennis or season tickets. Or for extramarital affairs. Or for much of anything beyond the Army, his family, daily five-mile runs, and the ramparts of books that filled “his” room at home.

Now the books were already lost to him. Although he took pains that no one but his aide knew that his sight was failing. And he believed he could trust young Willing, the son of a retired general who had mentored Harris early in his career. The Army was a small tribe, in the end.

Major Willing knocked on the office door. His knock was always recognizable. Respectful, just a bit timid. Young Willing’s fault, if he had one, was a lack of self-confidence. General’s sons were like that. Either they thought themselves entitled to every deference, or they feared not living up to a father’s standards. Or both.

Harris rose from the cot and told the younger man to come in.

“Sir? I’ve got the global INTSUM from the Two shop.”

Harris just wanted to take off his boots and sleep. But he said, “Good. Hold here, John. I want to make a last stop by Plans.” He pulled on his body armor and picked up his helmet to walk down to the building where the planners had set up.

The planning-cell officers had not bothered to take down the Druze posters and framed photographs on the walls of the house allotted to them by the headquarters commandant. They were a good team, Harris knew, oblivious to anything but their work.

“We’re moving right along, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Marty Rose said, by way of greeting.

“Give me the condensed version, Marty.”

“Sir… if you’ll step over to the map… It’s easier to see this than it is on the monitor…”

“I know the map. Talk to me.”

Marty Rose never needed a second invitation to talk. Harris saw his lead planner as brilliant but uneven, the intellectual equivalent of a manic-depressive. Once, Harris had taken the lieutenant colonel aside to tell him, “Please, Marty… a little less Clausewitz and a little more common sense.”

The other thing that both Harris and his G-3 both recognized was that Marty Rose tended to put more effort into his own vision of future operations. It was a constant struggle to get him to devote equal energy to the potential courses of action raised by others. Even when the “other” was the corps commander.

But the care-and-feeding was worth it. Rose delivered.

Midway through the briefing, Harris said, “Good work, Marty. But I also want you to give me an option where the main effort’s a wide swing to the north. Left-flank Schwerpunkt. In case we can’t get there from here. And I want you to start thinking beyond the Golan Heights. You need to be thinking ‘Damascus’.”

“Yes, sir,” Rose said, disappointed that his cell’s efforts hadn’t satisfied the boss. Harris realized that the planners were weary and frazzled, running on nerves. But they were going to have to keep producing. Harris needed someone thinking seriously while the rest of the corps was fighting.

“Sir… your instructions about avoiding contaminated zones… If we shift north, we’ll come up against—”

“Work it out. If we have to pass through any of the dead zones — if we have no choice — we’ll move fast. My point, Marty, was that I didn’t want anybody lingering where there’s residual radiation. But we’re going to do whatever it takes to win.”

“Yes, sir. As for Damascus… I understand the mission. But do you really think the MOBIC corps is going to let us make the grand entry?”

“Marty, just draw up the plans. I’ll worry about Sim Montfort and his gang.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And stay in bed with the Four. And with the Marines. If we do swing north, we may have to do more over-the-beach log. And when we get to Damascus, whether it’s a week from now or a year from now, I want every subordinate command to know exactly which areas of the city remain habitable and which ones are still glowing. No mistakes.”

Rose looked at him. “You know, sir… I never figured out why the Israelis didn’t just wipe Damascus off the map, why they just went small-yield on the government sites. After they erased just about every city in Iran.”