The War After Armageddon

“You’re not listening. I want you to go on receive now. And this is strictly between us. You’ve got a great career ahead of you in MI. If you don’t fall into the trap that’s taken down more intel officers than straight-ahead bad calls ever did. Don’t get on a hobby horse. Don’t go into target-lock mode.” He gestured toward another man whom they both could envision beyond the room’s mottled walls. “We’ve got to protect General Harris on this one. Nukes are turning into his hobby horse. And every damned agency in D.C. agrees that the Jihadis have no nukes left. Based on the codeword evidence, I agree with the National Intelligence Estimate on this one.”

Exhausted, Danczuk sat back, looking at his subordinate again but not quite seeing him this time. Thinking. About the boss he’d served since he’d been a brigade S-2. Best commander he’d ever seen. Normally.

“General Harris is under a lot of pressure,” the G-2 said. “Not because he’s been wrong about anything, but because he’s been right about so many things. And it’s not just the MOBIC crowd we have to protect him against. Even in the Army, there’s plenty of jealousy toward Flintlock Harris, the general everybody laughed at because he made his lieutenants read maps without the benefit of GPS. Plenty of folks wouldn’t mind seeing him make a fool out of himself now, after he was so damned right.” Danczuk scratched a sudden itch on his scalp. “Even if that meant Sim Montfort becoming the hero of the day.”

“Yes, sir. But couldn’t we just hit the site? It’s obvious that it isn’t a field hospital.”

“Tempting,” the G-2 said. “It’s tempting. Have you considered that it might be their forward command post, by the way?”

Stubborn, Major Kim shook his head. “Not enough vehicular traffic, sir. It’s not a command post.”

“Well, find out what it is, then. I don’t want you on a nuke trea — sure hunt, but if we can confirm that it’s not a field hospital — and I mean ‘confirm’—we can go after it. But I know Flintlock Harris well enough to be as certain as bedbugs in Baghdad that he won’t green-light attacking a Red Crescent site unless we have confirmation from multiple sources that it isn’t what it claims to be.”

“But… If it is a nuke site—”

“But… If it is a nuke site—”

“It’s not. “It’s not. Didn’t you hear one goddamned word I said?”

5TH MARINES, SECTOR EAST

“Sir,” Garcia whispered to the new lieutenant, “we’re on the wrong side of the ridge.”

Garcia could barely see the other man’s eyes in the darkness. But he registered their flash.

“You telling me I can’t read a map, Sergeant?”

“Lieutenant… All I said is that we’re on the wrong side of the ridge. Please keep your voice down, sir. The men don’t need to hear this. Or the J’s.”

“Sergeant Garcia, I’ve been appointed platoon commander. Because somebody at battalion happens to believe this platoon needs one. You don’t have to like it. But I expect you to obey orders. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be. This draw leads straight down to our objective. The only reason you can’t see the village is that it’s blacked out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get the men ready to move out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Garcia scuttled back along the trail. He would’ve preferred bushwhacking to the objective, but the lieutenant said he’d had a complete briefing from the S-2 and the trails were clean in the entire southern sector. The Jihadis had been surprised and hadn’t had time to lay mines or booby traps before they pulled back.

Second Lieutenant DeWayne Jefferson. East Coast. Probably D.C. or Philly, Garcia calculated. Whatever the Marines may have taught him at Quantico, they hadn’t taught him how to read a map.

Garcia couldn’t say why, but maps had always seemed clear to him. They just made sense. Like math. The counselor at Monte-bello had pushed him to apply for a scholarship, but Garcia wasn’t having any of that shit. Enough to get through high school and not be jerking off for a GED when you were thirty. He just wanted to be a Marine. Later, the Anglos at the community college he’d dipped into had given him a similar line: Get an education and dump the Marine Corps. But Garcia just wanted their piece of paper so he could make his ratings.

One thing he didn’t need some lecturer with a cheap tie and the whisky shakes to tell him: The lieutenant couldn’t connect a compass and map to his brain.

“Okay,” Garcia hissed. “Let’s go, Dev il Dogs. We’re moving out.”

“Hey, Sergeant. That lieutenant have any idea where the fuck we are?”

“Shut up, Cropsey. You’ve used up your shit ration for the day. Let’s go.”

They were all tired. And blistered. An hour of sleep here and there wasn’t enough. And when there were no gunshots, there was no adrenaline. Once they’d gotten off that mountain road, they hadn’t even heard a drone overhead.

“Maintain combat interval,” Garcia told them. They’d been stumbling into one another for the last two hours.