The War After Armageddon

Garcia crept back up behind the lieutenant. Making just enough noise not to spook him. The new platoon commander was bossy and jumpy, a combination platter that was all beans and no tacos, as far as Garcia was concerned.

And this wasn’t no training exercise. You didn’t get a re-do. “Ready to move out, sir.”

The lieutenant turned toward the long file of Marines, shadows in the night, and asked, too loudly, “Who’ll volunteer to take over point? I want somebody who knows he’s a Marine.”

Nobody responded. Larsen had been walking point, but the lieutenant had bitched him out for being too slow. Garcia hadn’t had a problem with Larsen, though. Larsen was country. Garcia didn’t want him on point down on the block, but he was the best Marine in the platoon in Mr. No-Shoulders’ territory.

“I know you’re all tired, men,” the lieutenant said. “But we’re Marines. And we’ve got a mission. If I don’t have any volun-teers—”

“I’ll take the point myself, sir,” Garcia said.

“No. The platoon sergeant doesn’t walk point. You. What’s your name?”

“Private Barrett.”

“You’ve got point. Move out.”

Garcia could feel the private’s I-am-seriously-unhappy vibes as he brushed past.

“Cropsey, Larsen. Close it up. You’re between the lieutenant and me now.”

The mood in the platoon needed fixing. And Garcia wasn’t sure how to fix it. He didn’t like the new lieutenant and realized he was carrying a grudge. He’d hoped to keep the platoon to himself. But the lieutenant was real as la migra at the kitchen door. You had to deal with it. Get along. One way or the other.

They moved down the trail, with Garcia certain that the platoon was headed almost ninety degrees off course. He’d done what he could. Now he concentrated on the darkness around him, the queerness of too much space. He was confident that he could work any block anywhere in the world. But operating in the Great Wide-Open still made him edgy.

The land mine that blew Barrett apart was only the start of it. The Marine rode a cushion of flames and came apart before their eyes. The night lit up with tracers: Jihadi stay-behinds.

“Charge!” the lieutenant screamed. “Charge into the ambush!”

That was what you’re supposed to do. But Garcia didn’t do it. The hillside was too steep to charge up. The manual didn’t talk about that. And it had taken him only an instant to realize that the Jihadis were overshooting, that they didn’t know how to lay their weapons. The platoon had time to get its shit together, to size things up.

Garcia watched the lieutenant’s silhouette stump up the steep grade. With no one following. Suddenly, the tall officer spun back-ward as heavy-caliber machine-gun slugs tore into him. He went down the slope like a one-man avalanche.

“Cropsey… You got a fix on them?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Larsen. You with us?”

“Here, Sergeant.”

“Go with Cropsey. Cropsey, go back up the line and work them from the top. Take your time. Do it right. We’ll keep them happy.”

“Mama! Oh, my mama!” It was the lieutenant. “I can’t find my leg, Mama! Mama, I can’t find none of my legs…”

“Fuck him,” Crospey said.

“Shut up. Move out.”

Garcia moved along behind them, checking on the Marines. Who were firing up the hillside. Nobody else down.

“Corporal Gallotti. I want aimed fire from your squad. Keep them busy. And spread your men out, for the love of Jesus.”

The J’s were firing madly, their rounds plunging into the opposite hillside, igniting small brushfires. Garcia made it one crew-served heavy weapon and two men out on security.

“Mama, I can’t find my legs, I can’t find my legs…”

“Sergeant, you want—”

“No. Shit. I’ll get him.”

Garcia scrambled back down the trail, hoping there were no mines short of where Barrett had taken his last steps. With half a mind to let the lieutenant lie and bleed.

He found Barrett first. Or what was left of him. It was the Night of the Missing Legs. And almost everything else from the waist down. Whatever kind of mine it had been had done its job. The blast had sounded like a heavy mortar round.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mama… Mama, I’m so sorry…”

Dude, shut up, Garcia thought. Stop begging them to lower their aim.

Behind him, Gallotti’s squad was laying down good fire. The machine gun had shifted its aim in their direction, but the tracers were still streaking high over the trail. If the lieutenant had just paused to get his bearings, he would’ve been okay. Instead of jumping up like the teacher’s pet and running right into the line of fire.

Goddamned asshole, Garcia thought.

“Oh, Mama, don’t let them take my legs away…”

Garcia followed the voice into a notch just below the trail. After being hit and going down, the lieutenant had rolled. Garcia scrambled down beside him. Praying there were no more mines.

“I’m with you, sir,” Garcia said.

“You tell my mama, you tell her I’m all right…”

“Yes, sir. She knows. Where are you hit?”